CHAPTER III.
Oh, she was like a fawn, chased to the plain,Half blind with grief and mad with sudden painThat plunges wildly in its first despair,To any copse that offers shelter there.
Oh, she was like a fawn, chased to the plain,Half blind with grief and mad with sudden painThat plunges wildly in its first despair,To any copse that offers shelter there.
Oh, she was like a fawn, chased to the plain,Half blind with grief and mad with sudden painThat plunges wildly in its first despair,To any copse that offers shelter there.
Oh, she was like a fawn, chased to the plain,
Half blind with grief and mad with sudden pain
That plunges wildly in its first despair,
To any copse that offers shelter there.
It was near midsummer when one of the city postmen of Philadelphia entered a large warehouse in the business part of that city. He approached the principal desk with a bundle of papers and letters on one arm, from which he drew a single letter bearing the New Orleans post-mark. A young man who stood at the desk writing what appeared to be business notes, of which a pile, damp with ink, lay at his elbow, took the letter, and thrusting his pen back of one ear, prepared to open it. There was an appearance of great and even slovenly haste about this letter. The paper was folded unevenly. The wax had been dropped upon it in a rude mass, and was roughly stamped with a blurred impression which it would have been difficult to make out. The address was blotted, and every thing about it bore marks of rough haste. The young merchant broke open the seal with some trepidation, for the singular appearance of the letter surprised him not a little. He read half a dozen of the first lines, then looking over his shoulder as if afraid some one might see that which he had read, he turned his back to the desk and was soon wholly absorbed in the contents of the epistle. As he turned over the page, you would have seen the color gradually deepen upon his cheeks, and even flush up to the forehead, as if there was something in the epistle which did not altogether please him. After a little he folded the letter, compressing his lips the while, and fell into deep thought. The service which this letter required of him was one against which every honest feeling of his heart revolted; but his worldly prospects, his hopes of advancement in life, all depended upon the writer. Ross had been his friend; had placed him in the Philadelphia branchof a great commercial house; and to thwart one of his wishes might prove absolute ruin.
Ross had omitted in that epistle nothing that could persuade or reason into wrong. It was doubtful, he said, even if Clark ever had been married to Zulima; or, being so, if he would not deem it a good service in his friends to relieve him of the obligations imposed by that union. Bitter and cruel were the accusations urged against that poor young wife; and with his interests all with her enemies, joined to a lively desire to think ill of her, in order to justify his conduct to his own heart, this weak and cruel man yielded himself to become the tool of a deeper and far more unprincipled villain than himself. Again and again he perused that letter, and at length put it carefully away in his breast-pocket, close to a heart which its evil folds were doomed to harden against the secret whisperings of a conscience that would not be entirely hushed.
Perhaps, had James Smith been given time for after reflection, he might have become shocked with the part that he was called upon to perform; but the letter which opened this wicked scheme to him had been delayed and carried in a wrong direction by the mail, and nearly two weeks had been thus lost after the time when it should have reached him.
Smith had scarcely turned from his desk with the evil letter in his bosom, when another man entered the warehouse and placed a little rose-tinted note in his hand. A vague idea that this note had some connection with the slovenly epistle that he had just read took possession of him, before he broke the drop of pale-green wax that sealed it.
The conjecture proved real—Zulima had written that note. She was in Philadelphia, and hoped through her husband’sprotegeto hear some news of him. Smith had no time for reflection; he was called upon to act at once. He went to the hotel where Zulima was staying. Smith entered the hotel hurriedly, as one who has a painful task to accomplish and wishes it over. He was not villain enough to act with deliberation, or with that crafty coldness which fitted Ross so singularly for a domestic conspirator. When he found himself in the presence of this helpless young mother; when he gazed upon her beauty, dimmed—it is true, by all that she had suffered, but obtaining thereby a soft melancholy that was farmore touching than the glow of youth in its full joy can ever be,—his heart smote him for the wrong it had meditated against her. He sat down by her side, trembling and almost as anxious as she was.
“My husband,” said Zulima, turning her eloquent eyes upon his downcast face; “you know him, sir—he is your friend; tell me where he is to be found.”
“Your husband, madam! of whom do you speak?”
“Of Mr. Clark—Daniel Clark—your benefactor and my husband,” said Zulima.
“Daniel Clark, lady?”
“I wish to see him—Imustsee him—tell me where he is to be found.” Zulima was breathless with impatience; her large eyes brightened, her cheeks took a faint color. She was determined that nothing should keep her from the presence of her husband.
“And you—you are the young lady that went South with him the last time he was here?” said Smith, bending his eyes to the floor and faltering in his speech.
“Yes, I went with him—I was his wife!”
Smith shook his head; a faint smile crept over his mouth; he seemed to doubt her assertion.
Zulima saw it, and her face kindled with indignant passion. “Iamhis wife!” she said.
“The marriage—was it not secret? was it not almost without witness?”
“Secret? yes; but not entirely without witnesses. I can prove my marriage.”
“You can prove that some ceremony took place; but can you prove that it was a real marriage ceremony? Indeed, have you never had reason to doubt that it was such?”
“Never, sir,” replied Zulima, turning pale, “never!”
“You were very young, very confiding,” replied Smith. “Yet you had some experience in the perfidy of man: this should have made you cautious.”
“Oh, my experience! it had been bitter—terrible!” murmured Zulima, clasping her hands, and gazing on the face of her visitor with a look of wild excitement.
“And yet you trusted again!”
Zulima stood up; her face grew white as death. “Do youmean to say, sir, that my husband—that Daniel Clark deceived me like the other?”
“I mean to say nothing,” replied Smith; “nothing, save that from my heart I pity you, sweet lady. So much beauty, so trusting; who could help pitying you?”
“You pity me? Oh, Father of mercies!” cried the excited young creature, bending like a reed and raising her locked hands to her eyes; “if this thing should be true!” She fell upon a chair; her slight figure waved to and fro in the agony of her doubts.
“Has he written—did he send for you?” questioned Smith, steeling himself against her grief.
“No, no!”
“Is he aware of your coming?”
“No; I shall surprise him; I wished to surprise him!” cried the wretched young creature, dropping her hands.
“I am afraid youwillsurprise him, and unpleasantly, too!” said Smith.
Zulima turned her dry eyes upon him; her lips parted, but she had no power to utter the questions that arose in her heart. A thousand black doubts possessed her. “Why—why—?” It was all she could say.
Smith hesitated; he was reluctant to consummate the last act of villainy required of him. It seemed like striking down a lamb, while its soft, trusting eyes were fixed upon his. But he had gone too far, he could not recede now.
“It is rumored,” he said—“it is rumored that Mr. Clark is soon to be married!”
A sort of spasmodic smile parted Zulima’s pale lips, till her white teeth shone through. She did not attempt to speak, but sat perfectly still gazing upon her visitor.
“Had your marriage been real, Mr. Clark would not thus openly commit himself.”
“WhereisMr. Clark?” said Zulima, sharply, and starting, as if from a dream.
“He is in Baltimore now.”
“And—and the lady?”
“She, too, is in Baltimore.”
“And I—I will go there also!”
“You! and after that which you know?”
“If these things are true, I will have them from the lips of my—of Daniel Clark. If they are not true—Oh, Father of heaven! then will his wife lie down and die at his feet—die of sorrow that she has ever doubted him.”
Smith was startled; he had not anticipated this resolute strength in a creature so young and child-like. Did she see Daniel Clark, he knew that all was lost to those whose interest it was to keep the husband and wife asunder. He attempted to dissuade Zulima from her plan, but this he saw only excited her suspicion without in the slightest degree changing her. All the answer that she made to his arguments was, “I will see my husband; I must have proof of these things!”
Smith would have urged his objections further, but they were interrupted. The room in which they sat was a parlor to which others might claim admission. Just then the door opened, and a young gentleman entered with the easy and confidential air of an old acquaintance. He cast a glance at Zulima, seemed surprised by the terrible agitation so visible in her face, and then fixed his penetrating eyes searchingly upon Smith.
“You do not seem well,” he said, approaching Zulima, and Smith could detect that in his voice which ought to have startled Zulima long before. “Has any thing gone amiss?” and he cast a stern look on Smith.
“I am not well!” said Zulima, and tears came into her eyes.
“But you seem worse than ill—you look troubled.”
Zulima lifted her eyes up with a painful smile, but made no answer.
The young man looked distressed; he stood a moment before Zulima, and then walking toward a window, began to drum on the panes with his fingers, now and then casting furtive glances toward the sofa where Zulima and Smith were sitting.
Smith arose to go. A new gleam of light had broken upon him—he saw and understood more than that fated young creature had even guessed at.
“Then you are determined to undertake this journey?” he said, in a low voice.
“Yes!”
“When will you set out?”
“To-morrow!”
“Alone?”
Zulima unconsciously glanced toward the young man; he had been very kind to her, and it seemed hard to start off utterly alone.
“I don’t know,” she faltered; “yes, I shall take the journey alone.”
“Your health seems delicate, you are so young,” urged Smith, reading her thoughts and hoping that she would be guided by the first imprudent impulse.
“I am young—I am not well—but I shall go alone,” she answered, with gentle firmness.
The young man at the window seemed restless. He walked toward a table, and taking up two or three books, cast them back again with an air of impatience. Smith observed this, and smiled quietly within himself, as he went out. Zulima saw nothing: she only knew that she was very, very wretched, and casting her arms over the back of the sofa, buried her face upon them and groaned in bitter anguish.
Zulima was so lost in the agony of her feelings, that she did not know when the young man placed himself by her side. She was quite unconscious of his approach till her hand was in his, and his voice uttered her name in tones that made her nerves thrill from head to foot. Tenderness had given to that voice an intonation startlingly like the low tones of Daniel Clark when love most softened his proud nature.
She started and looked wildly at the young man, her hand trembling in his—her lips parted in a half smile—the delusion had not quite left her.
“Zulima, what is it that troubles you? Oh, if you only knew, if you could but guess, how—how it wrings my heart to see you thus! What has the man been saying to wound you?”
“To wound me?” repeated Zulima, recovering from the sort of dream into which his voice had cast her, and drawing her hand away. “Oh, everybody says things to wound me, I think!”
“But I never have.”
“No, I believe not,” replied Zulima, listlessly; “I believe not.”
“And never will,” urged the young man, regarding her with a look of deep tenderness.
“I don’t know,” was the faint reply, and Zulima’s face fell back on her folded arms again.
The young man arose and began to pace up and down the room; many a change passed over his features meanwhile, and he cast his eye from time to time upon the motionless figure of Zulima, with an expression that revealed all the hidden love, the wild devotion with which he regarded her. He sat down again and took her passive hand. She did not attempt to withdraw it. She did not even seem to know that it was in his.
“Do you know how I love you—how, with my whole life and strength, I worship you, Zulima?” he said. “There is nothing on earth that I would not do, could it give you a moment’s happiness.”
Zulima slowly unfolded her arms, and lifting her head, looked earnestly in his face with her eyes. She did not seem to understand him.
“Oh, you must have seen how I love you,” he said passionately.
Zulima smiled—oh, what a mocking smile! how full of wild anguish it was! “Another!” she said; “so now another loves me.”
“No human being ever loved as I love you, Zulima,” said the young man, in that pure, sweet voice, which had so affected her before.
“That is a marvel,” said Zulima, with a bitter smile. “Others have loved me so well. You do not know how others have loved me.”
“I do not wish to know any thing except how I can make you happier than you are, Zulima.”
“If you wish to make me happy, do not even mention love to me again. The very word makes me faint,” said Zulima. “I am ill—I suffer. Do not, I pray you, talk this way to me. I can not bear it.”
“I will say nothing that can distress you,” replied the young man gently, but with a look of grief.
Zulima reached forth her hand. It was cold and trembling. “Farewell!” she said, very kindly; “I shall go away to-morrow. Farewell!”
He would not release her hand.
“You are not going far—you will return in a few days? Promise me that you are not saying farewell forever.”
“I do not know—the Father in heaven only knows what will become of me; but you have been kind to me—very. You have respected my unprotected lot. You did not know how wrong it was to love me. I can not blame you. When I say farewell thus, I much fear that it is to the only true friend that I have in the world. You could not wish me to feel more regret than I do. Is it not casting away all the unselfish kindness—all the real friendship that I have known for a long, long time?”
“But this love—this idolatry, rather?” persisted the young man; “must it be forever hopeless? Shall I never see you again?”
“It is wrong, therefore should be hopeless,” replied Zulima. “You do not know what trouble it would bring upon you.”
“Why wrong?—why should it bring trouble upon me?”
“Should we ever meet again, you will know. Everybody will know why it is wrong for you to love me. Now I must go.”
Zulima drew away her hand, using a little gentle force; and while the young man was striving to fathom the meaning of her words, she opened the door and disappeared.
Every way was poor Zulima beset. The false position in which the concealment of her marriage had placed her, made itself cruelly felt at all times. She had taken a long journey, alone and entirely unprotected. Young and beautiful—to all appearance single—she was naturally exposed to all those attentions that a creature so lovely and unprotected was sure to receive, even against her will. In the young man whom she had just left, those attentions gradually took a degree of tender interest which, but for her state of anxious preoccupation, she must have observed long before, as others less interested had not failed to do. But she had literally given the devotion, so apparent to others, no thought. Knowing herself to be bound by the most solemn ties to the man who seemed to have forgotten her, she never reflected that others knew nothing of this, or that she might become the object of affectionate, nay, passionate regard, such as the man had just declared.
Now it only served to add another pang to the bitterness of her grief; heart-wounded, neglected as she had been, it was not in human nature to be otherwise than flattered and very grateful for devotion which soothed her pride, and which in its possessor was innocent and honorable. But even these feelings gained but a momentary hold upon her; they were followed by regret and that shrinking dread which every new source of excitement is sure to occasion where the heart has been long and deeply agitated. She went away then with a new cause of grief added to those that had so fatally oppressed her.
Zulima reached Baltimore in the night. Weary with travel and faint with anxiety, she took a coach at the stage-house and went in search of the hotel where she learned that her husband was lodged. As she drove up to the hotel a private carriage stood at the entrance; a negro in livery was in the seat, and another stood with the carriage door in his hand, watching for some one to come down the steps; the door opened, and by the light that streamed through, Zulima saw her husband richly dressed as if for some assembly. One white glove was held loose in his hand with an embroidered opera-cap, which he put upon his head as he came quickly down the steps.
Zulima was breathless; she leaned from the window of her hackney-coach, and would have called to him aloud, but her tongue clove to her mouth; she could only gaze wildly on him, as just touching the step of his carriage with one foot he sprung lightly in. The door closed with a noise that went through Zulima’s heart like an arrow. She saw the negro spring up behind the carriage; the lamps flashed by her eyes, and while every thing reeled before her, the coachman of her own humble hack had opened the door.
“No, no, I do not wish to get out,” she said, pointing toward the receding lamps with her finger. “Mount again and follow that carriage.”
The man hastily closed the door, and mounting his seat, drove rapidly after Mr. Clark’s carriage. Zulima was now wild with excitement; the blood seemed to leap through her heart—her cheeks burned like fire. She gasped for breath,when a turn in the streets took those carriage-lamps an instant from her sight.
They came in sight of a fine old mansion house, standing back from the street and surrounded by tall trees; an aristocratic and noble dwelling it was, with the lights gleaming through its windows, and those rare old trees curtaining its walls with their black branches, now gilded and glowing with the golden flashes of light that came through all the windows. The house was evidently illuminated for a party—one of those pleasant summer-parties that are half given in the open air. A few lamps hung like stars along the thick branches that curtained the house, and glowed here and there through a honeysuckle arbor, or in a clump of bushes, just lightly enough to reveal the dewy green of the foliage, without breaking up the quiet evening shadows that lay around them. Mr. Clark’s carriage stopped before this noble mansion, and Zulima saw him pass lightly into the deep old-fashioned portico while her vehicle was yet half a block off.
“Do you wish to get out here?” said the coachman, going again to the door; “the carriage that you ordered me to follow does not seem to be going any farther.”
“I know, I see,” said Zulima; “not now, I will wait. Draw off to the opposite side of the street, and then we shall be in nobody’s way.”
The man expressed no surprise at her strange orders, but drove back to the shadowy side of the street and waited, standing by the door a moment, to learn if she had any further directions to give. Zulima bent from the window; she was terribly agitated and her voice trembled.
“Whose house is this?” she said, hurriedly.
The man told the owner’s name. It was one celebrated in the history of our country; and Zulima remembered with a pang that the daughters of that house were among the most lovely and beautiful women of America. Smith had told her that her husband was about to be married. Was it in that stately old mansion house that she must search for a rival? How her cheek burned, how her lip trembled, as she asked herself the question!
“Did you know,” she said, addressing the man; “did you know the gentleman who just went in yonder?”
“Oh yes, everybody here knows Mr. Clark,” said the man. “I guessed well enough where his carriage was driving to, when it started from the hotel. He is going to marry one of the young ladies; at least the papers say so.”
Zulima drew back into the carriage; it seemed as if she would never breathe again; she sat like a famished bird, gazing on the house without the wish or power to move.
There seemed to be a large party assembled; gayly-dressed people were constantly gliding before the window, and she could see the gleam of rich wines and trays of fruit, as they were borne to and fro by the attendants. Sometimes a couple would saunter out into the deep old portico, where she could see more distinctly by the wreath of colored lamps, festooned with trumpet-flowers, roses, and honeysuckles that fell like a curtain overhead. Zulima saw one couple after another glide into the flowery recess, and away again, as if the music that came pouring through doors and windows were too exciting for a prolongedtête-à-tête. Still she kept her eyes fixed upon the spot; she was certain that Mr. Clark would be among those who haunted that flower nook, so like a cloud of butterflies. She knew his tastes well. Sure enough, while her eyes were fixed on the open doors, through which the background of the portico was flooded with golden light, she saw Mr. Clark come slowly down the hall, not alone—oh, how she had hoped for that—but with a beautiful woman leaning on his arm—leaning heavily with that air of languid dependence which so often marks the first development of passion. His head was bent, and he seemed to be addressing her in a low voice; and though he smiled while speaking, Zulima could see that in repose his face was grave, almost sad. It only lighted up when those large blue eyes were lifted toward him. They sat down in the portico, and seemed to converse earnestly—ten minutes—half an hour, and hours—thus long did the two sit side by side under that canopy of lighted blossoms, and then Zulima could watch them no longer; a heavy faintness crept over her, and in a dull, low voice she asked the coachman to drive her back to the hotel.
Poor Zulima! she hoped to see her husband alone in that portico, if it was only for one minute. How long, how patiently had she waited, and that beautiful woman never left his side for a moment. It was very cruel.
When Zulima left her room early the next morning, she found Mr. Smith, who seemed to have just left the stage-coach. She knew him at once, and he recognized her with great cordiality.
“I have come,” he said, in a low, friendly voice—“I have come in hopes of seeing you with Mr. Clark. He is in the hotel, I hear.”
“He is,” said Zulima. “I saw him last night!”
Mr. Smith turned pale; but there was a deep depression in Zulima’s voice and manner, that re-assured him the interview could not have been a happy one, to leave that cheek so hueless, the eyes so heavy—he was not yet too late.
“I saw him,” said Zulima, “but he did not know it; to-day, within another hour, I shall know why he has treated me thus; tell me how I can get a message conveyed to him.”
“I will convey it; I will urge your cause.”
“Only tell him I am here; I want no one to plead for me withhim. Only do that, and I will thank you much.”
“I will do that, and more,” said Smith, bowing.
What influence was it that kept Mr. Clark so wakeful on the night when Zulima, his young wife, slept beneath the same roof with himself? He knew nothing of her presence—he felt not the bitter tears that almost blistered her pale cheek, as she tried to stop thinking of him—the sobs that shook her frame till the bed trembled under it—none of them reached his ear. It was not any remembrance of the lovely young being who had hung upon his arm, and sat beside him in that flower-lit portico but a short time before: her beauty had pleased him, her conversation had wiled away a little of that time which was often spent in bitter thoughts, since he had begun to receive the letters of Ross and to yield credence to the reports regularly sent him of the estrangement and faithlessness of his young wife.
She had fled now—fled from his friend’s roof, and come northward no doubt to obtain greater freedom, and escape the vigilance of those he had placed about her. Thus ran the last letter that Clark had received from his friend.
Clark read the letter over, after he returned home that night, for something seemed constantly whispering of Zulima; he could not drive her from his mind. It seemed to him asif some great mistake had arisen, as if he had not read the letters of his friend aright. No; when he perused this letter again, it was clearly written; nothing ambiguous was there, nothing hinted; his wife had ceased to love him; she had fled. Still there was something at his heart that would not be thus appeased; the mysterious presence of this young creature seemed to haunt his room, haunt the innermost chambers of his heart; he thought of the letter she had written him, and which he had burned while under the terrible influence of his friend’s epistle. He began to regret now, to wish that he had at least seen the contents of that letter; still his friend was dispassionate, just—why should this calm report be doubted? a report evidently wrung from him by a strong sense of duty.
Mr. Clark slept little that night; his better angel was abroad. Zulima, too, was weeping beneath the same roof; he knew it not, but still he could not sleep!
In the morning Smith came to the chamber where Mr. Clark was sitting at breakfast. His face was sad; he seemed ill at ease.
“I thought it best to come and bring this news to you first; it might save you from great embarrassment.”
“What news?—what embarrassment?” said Clark, who had no idea that Smith knew any thing of Zulima, or her connection with him. “Surely nothing has gone wrong in the business?”
“No; but the young lady who says she knew you in New Orleans—that she has claims upon you!”
Mr. Clark turned deathly white; this sudden mention of his wife unnerved him.
“And is she in Philadelphia?—where is she?—how came she to find you out?”
“I do not know; she sent me a note, and I went to her hotel.”
“Was she alone—was she alone?” questioned Mr. Clark, starting up.
“No, not quite alone,” replied Mr. Smith, with a meaning smile; “I saw only one person with her, a young and remarkably handsome man.”
Mr. Clark sunk to his chair as if a bullet had passed throughhis heart. “Go on,” he said, after a moment; “go on, I am listening.”
“This lady, sir, seemed determined to see you; she came on here—she is now in Baltimore.”
“And her companion?” said Mr. Clark, with a ghastly smile.
“No,” replied Smith; “I think she would not do that. She wishes to see you; I do not know what her object is,”
“I will not see her; I will never see her again,” said Mr. Clark, and his face looked like marble. “If she needs any thing, supply her; she is, sir, the mother of my child; she is—but I will not talk of it; let her want for nothing—she is my wife.”
“You will not see her then?”
“No, it is enough.” Mr. Clark rang the bell—a man entered. “Have my carriage brought up at once; I shall set out for Washington. Mr. Smith, you know how to act. Save me from a repetition of this: you see how it tortures me. I loved that young creature—I thought, fool, madman, that I was—but she seemed to love me.”
Mr. Clark went into another room; he could not endure that other eyes should witness his emotion. The coachman now came up; his proud master understood that every thing was ready, and without speaking a word, left his apartments. He stepped into his carriage; he was gone—gone without hearing the wild shriek that broke from the lips of that poor young wife, who had caught one glimpse of him from her window. She shook the sash—she strove to call after him; but her arms trembled—her voice was choked; with all her effort she made but little noise; those in the next room heard nothing of it, till she fell heavily on the floor. Mr. Smith found her there, lying like a corpse rigid and insensible. Then his heart smote him—then would he have given worlds that the falsehoods which brought all this misery had not been uttered. He had tried to think ill of his victim, to believe that between her and her husband there was neither love nor sympathy; how had the last hour undeceived him. Maddened by doubt and jealousy, his benefactor had not even attempted to conceal the anguish occasioned by what he deemed the perfidy of his wife; and she—was she not there, cold as marble, white as death, prostrate at his feet?
But he could not go back—his evil work must be fully accomplished; now to shrink or waver, would be to expose himself; that he could not contemplate for a moment. Zulima became sensible, at last. It was a long time, but finally she opened her eyes and sat up. “He is gone,” she said lifting her heavy eyes to Smith, “he is gone without a word of explanation.”
“What could he explain, but that which he would not wish to say face to face with his victim? He has deceived you with a mock marriage. I knew that it would prove so. You are free, you are wealthy, if you choose. Be resigned; there is no redress.”
“No redress!” Zulima repeated the word over and over again. “No redress! I thought myself his wife; I am the mother of his child; O God! Myra, Myra, my poor, poor child—” * * * *
They were parted—Zulima solemnly believed that she had never been the wife of Daniel Clark, that she was free—oh, how cruelly free—and another loved her. Wounded in her pride, broken in spirit, outraged, humiliated, utterly alone; was it strange that the poor torn heart of that young creature at length became grateful for the affection that her grief and her desolation had excited? She told him all, and still that young man loved her, still he besought her to become his wife; and she, unhappy woman—consented.
There was to be no secresy—no private marriage now; in the full blaze of day—robed in satin, glossy and white as the leaves of a magnolia, her magnificent tresses bound with white roses, her bridal vail looped to the curls upon her temple with a snowy blossom, and falling over her, wave after wave, like a cloud of summer mist. Thus went Zulima Clark forth to her last bridal. It was a mournful sight; that young girl so beautiful, so fated, standing before the altar, her large eyes surcharged with sorrowful remembrances of the past, and her poor heart heaving with a wild presentiment of coming evil, till the rose upon her bosom, and the pearls upon her throat, trembled as if a wind were passing over them. It was a mournful, mournful wedding; for there, Zulima, the wife of Daniel Clark, sealed the perfidy of her enemies. Beautiful bride, innocent woman, thine was a hard destiny!