And to be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness on the brain.
What ruin a single spark of fire may spread, if carelessly or designedly dropped amid combustible or inflammable material.
What desolation a single word may cause, if thoughtlessly or intentionally let fall into a passionate, impetuous heart.
The three scenes I am about to describe, took place very nearly as they are related.
But first a few words of explanation.
I feel that I have scarcely done justice to the character of Carolyn Clifton, in presenting her only by that cold and frosty crust of pride, which was but the superficial covering of a high-spirited, honorable nature. Her manners were cold and haughty—almost scornful and arrogant—it is but too true. And most people, her family included, supposed her to be destitute of sensibility. Perhaps she was lacking in warmth of affection for her immediate domestic circle. Her whole heart, with all its deep, profound, untold, unguessed devotion, was given to Archer Clifton. And while secretly bestowing upon him her entire, undivided love—she openly exacted a full, unshared return—an exclusive worship.
In truth, in her proud, secret heart, she was a little jealous of Clifton’s affection for his mother! She did not love her father so devotedly!—why should Clifton worship his mother so? To this jealousy she had never given breath, of course—indeed, to her own passionate love, she had never yet given word—preferring, in her high toned, maiden pride, to leave it to be inferred. She had never even looked her jealousy, yet Mrs. Clifton, with the fine instinct of a woman and a mother, guessed it, and in her presence, skillfully eluded all demonstrations of affection from her son. And so well was the proud, exacting spirit of Miss Clifton known in her own family, that even the sprightly and mischievous outlaw, Zuleime, dared take no childish liberty with her sister’s betrothed. Thus it happened that Frank Fairfax’s unlucky jest had deeply offended the arrogant lady, the more especially as in that day, and in that neighborhood, the term “mountain-girl,” was too often the mildest name for an evil woman.—This fact, of course, Frank was not acquainted with. And, therefore it was, that he could not understand Carl Kavanagh’s excessive anxiety to send his young sister off the mountain; and could not in the least comprehend the intense indignation of Miss Clifton, and the difficulty Archer Clifton had in restoring her good humor. Even now, Carolyn Clifton had not forgotten the circumstance. And truth to tell, she was not well pleased at the continued interest displayed by Captain Clifton for his protégé, in bringing her and her family upon his mother’s plantation. But she was too proud again to allude to the subject. Carolyn Clifton had never known a care or a contradiction in her life. Her heart was a sound, strong, high, proud thing, and therefore, very like to break itself without fear, full tilt against the first impediment that opposed it. She was, besides, like all women of her fair complexion and fine tempered nerves—“a discerner of spirits.” And this quick, delicate, and sure perception never failed her, except when she was agitated and blinded by inward passion. Thus, perhaps, quite unconsciously, she read the heart of her betrothed—and knew it better than he did himself—and thus, perhaps, involuntarily, she afterwards acted on that knowledge.
At all events, there was quite enough combustible material on hand for a single spark to ignite it and spread a conflagration.
And the spark—and many sparks were not wanting. A thoughtless jest of Frank’s—a slight word dropped by Georgia at exactly the right, or rather the wrong time and place—and the whole neighborhood of R—— County were agog with gossip. And Captain Clifton and his protégé, were the subjects. Some, right in the face of his well-known engagement to Miss Clifton, did not hesitate to say that she, his protégé, was a beautiful girl, whom he intended to educate and marry, and that his republican mother was highly in favor of the plan. Others told how tastefully the overseer’s house had been furnished and adorned, and—without the slightest foundation in truth—how many hours a day Captain Clifton now spent with his interesting pupil. The suspicious and malignant circulated a still darker tale, and wondered how long it would last, and how it would all end. And then they denounced Captain Clifton, blamed his mother, and pitied Miss Clifton! And all this time, while the whole county was ringing with various and contradictory reports, the persons most concerned knew nothing about it.