CHAPTER VIII.LOST AFFECTION.
“Oh! cast not thouAffection from thee! In this bitter worldHold to thy heart that only treasure fast;Watch—guard it—suffer not a breath to dimThat bright gem’s purity.”—Mrs. Hemans.
“Oh! cast not thouAffection from thee! In this bitter worldHold to thy heart that only treasure fast;Watch—guard it—suffer not a breath to dimThat bright gem’s purity.”—Mrs. Hemans.
“Oh! cast not thouAffection from thee! In this bitter worldHold to thy heart that only treasure fast;Watch—guard it—suffer not a breath to dimThat bright gem’s purity.”—Mrs. Hemans.
“Oh! cast not thou
Affection from thee! In this bitter world
Hold to thy heart that only treasure fast;
Watch—guard it—suffer not a breath to dim
That bright gem’s purity.”—Mrs. Hemans.
Morning came at length. Carolyn Clifton arose unrefreshed, weak, dizzy and sick. This was the first night’s rest she had ever lost in her life. And on looking in the glass—habitually the first thing the beauty ever did after rising—she was shocked to see what havoc one night’s evil passions had made in her appearance. What a fright she had become! How pale her cheeks, how dragged the muscles, how red, dim, and sunken her eyes! And this upon her wedding-day—and when she had a quarrel to make up with her intended husband, too! When, in fine, every circumstance pressingly demanded that she should appear in the highest beauty. Would Archer Clifton—would that fastidious, artistic worshiper of the beautiful—feel inclined to a reconciliation with such a spectre as herself, she mentally inquired, as she gazed wonderingly, deploringly, upon her haggard face? Carolyn was vain and proud and scornful—so vain and proud and scornful that she did not know—could not imagine that that very haggard face—haggard with sorrow for the estrangement and the separation, would be a stronger appeal, make a deeper impression upon the heart of her lover, than all the glory of her beauty had ever done. And thus vanity, pride and scorn punish their subject, not only by depriving her of very much respect and affection she would otherwise have, but by making her insensible of that love and esteem that really does surround her.
Carolyn at length rang for her woman. And after some little delay she came in, evidently just aroused up out of hersleep, and wondering that her young mistress should summon her before sunrise. But as soon as she saw her lady, her wonder gave way to alarm, and she exclaimed—
“My good gracious alive, Miss Carolyn! What’s der matter, honey?”
“Has——any onearrived this morning, Aunt Darky?” inquired Miss Clifton, without noticing the old woman’s alarm.
“No, chile, sure not! Who should ribe at dis onlikely hour ob de mornin? Ledst it war de doctor. Has you sent for de doctor, honey? But Lord, indeed, chile, you better lay down agin. Don’t keep on standin’ dere holdin’ up your hair, weak as you looks, an’ I’ll run an’ see!”
“Aunt Darky, I am not ill. I have had a bad night’s rest—that’s all. Go—and—”
“A bad night’s res’, an’ like enough, honey! I had aberrybad night’s res’ de night afore, me an’ Old Nick took up ’long o’ each oder! ’Deed chile, I was sort o’ scared an’ sorter happy, ’cause Iwasscared! An’ deed, chile, ‘tween so many contrydictions, I could’n onderstan’ myself and kept awake all night! Lord, honey, it’s nat’ral! We’s all alike, ’cept ’tis de collor, an’ dat’s only outside show, skin deep. But bless you, honey, that wan’t nothin’ to the night ’resses I’se lost since dat, with long o’ cryin’ babies an’ teethin’ babies, an’ sick chillun, an’ ole man Nick comin’ home drunk ebery time ole Marse give him any holyday money to spen’ on hisself! Now praise be de Lor’, de chillun’s all raise’ an’ married an’ settle’ off, an’ I’m a free ‘oman! An’ I tell my galls how I ain’ gwine be bother’ long o’derchillun, now in my ole days!”
“Aunt Darky,” said Miss Clifton, feeling in no way flattered by the parallel, “go and get my bath ready, and have a cup of strong coffee brought the instant I leave it.”
“Yes, honey—an’ hadn’t de baff’s water better have de air tuk off o’ it, as you’se not so strong dis mornin’?”
“Yes, yes—what makes you trouble me by questions? You ought to know what is proper to be done.”
“An’ so I allus does know, honey—ony when I does my mos’ properess’, you doesn’n alluz’ see it into dat light an you fines fau’rt long o’ me,” said the old body, as she left the room.
When Miss Clifton had left her warm bath, and had partaken of the rich strong coffee—strong as the essence of coffee, and made rich and thick by being half cream and sugar, and brought to her in a tiny porcelain cup, she felt sufficiently refreshed to be able, with the assistance of her woman, to make her morning toilet.
When she had finished dressing it was still very early, and two hours remained before breakfast—but she left her room, and met her father, who was an early riser, in the upper hall.
He came forward and kissed her. Then held both her hands, and looked in her face, exclaiming—“What! pale, my child? Oh, tut! tut! tut! tut! tut! That’sallwrong! All wrong!”
“Father! has he come yet?”
“No, no—it’s quite early yet! He’ll be here anon! You should not have risen these two hours!”
“Father, I could not sleep! I could not even lie in bed!”
“Oh, pooh! pooh! pooh! All folly! All nonsense! Go back and rest.”
“Father, I cannot! My words to him were so wrong! so bitter! so insulting! I feel them to have been such, and I can never rest until I have told him so!” said Carolyn, dropping her head upon the only bosom to which her haughty heart could bear to confide its sorrow and its repentance.
“Well, so you were wrong, very wrong! It will teach you a lesson that will benefit you for the future. And for the present it will blow over. There, there, there—if you can’t be still, go and amuse yourself by making me a nice mint-julep! I want it before I go out in the fields—the morning air on my empty stomach isn’t good for me.”
He then kissed Carolyn and let her go. As she left him, he saw to his surprise Frank Fairfax emerge from his chamber, with a portmanteau in his hand. Frank immediately set it down, and advancing, said—
“Ah, sir! I was just about to seek you, to let you know that, to my infinite regret, I must leave you to-day.”
“To-day? You astound me! What is up now? You mustn’t go—you shan’t!”
“Sir, I have received an order to join my regiment without delay!”
“Oh-h-h, that’s bad! That’s bad! Devil fly away with military life! That’s what was always hiking away Archer at the very time I wanted him most. But no frantic hurry! You needn’t go to-day! Youmustn’t. Why, this is the wedding-day, you rascal!”
“I know it, sir! But, to my everlasting regret, I must forego the pleasure of being present upon that occasion. My order is a peremptory one, to join my regiment instantly.”
“Well, well! To-morrow’ll do! To-morrow’ll do!Oneday cannot make so much difference!”
“My dear sir, I surely need not tell you that soldiers should be ‘minute men’ in their obedience. Besides, if I do not seize the opportunity of meeting the Staunton stage as it passes through L—— to-night, I shall have to wait three days for the next stage. So, you see—”
“Yes, yes; I see! I am always called upon to see something I don’t want to see! Ah! here comes the mint-julep! Did Miss Carolyn mix it?”
This was addressed to the colored boy who brought a pint tumbler on a little waiter.
“Yez, zur,” said the boy.
“Do you take julep in the morning, Frank? Try this. Another julep for me, Nace!”
“No, no, I thank you, sir! I never do. I wish you good-morning till breakfast time,” said Frank, taking up his portmanteau, and going down stairs.
Frank put his little burden down in the lower hall, and went into the summer saloon, where he was sure, by the precedent of the last thirty days, of finding Zuleime at the window, doing her sampler-work. Yes, there she was, in her white muslin and coral, with her jet black hair and damask cheeks! He went and sat down by her, (after saying “Good-morning,”) and sat for some minutes in perfect silence, watching Zuleime work the word Love, in crimson silk. At length—
“Whom doyoulove best in the world, Zuleime?” he asked.
“How can you ask? Whom doeseverybodylove best?—‘hernain sell,’ as the Welchman says, of course!” exclaimed the merry maiden.
“Humph! Well, whom do you love thenextbest to yourself?”
“Why, let me see,” said the girl, pausing thoughtfully, with her needle poised in her hand; “I think, that next to myself, I love—Zuleime Clifton best of all the world!”
“I thought so! And I can lay my hand upon my heart, and say, that you don’t love Zuleime Clifton a whit better than I do!—no, nor half so well! I’ll throw down my gage on that, and fight it out to extremity! Come!—What have you to say to that?” asked the young man, with all the earnestness in his face and manner that his light words wanted—“say, speak! What do you say to that?”
“Why, that you are as foolish as Zuleime herself, in loving such a little, out-of-the-way baggage, that is neither woman nor child, nor good nor bad, nor any thing else in particular.”
“Well, at any rate, we both agree in loving and worshiping Zuleime, however we may differ in our opinion of her—I, for instance, thinking her a beautiful, joyous, delightful girl. So, it’s settled, isn’t it?”
“What is settled?”
“Oh, you know, you tease!”
“I know the weather is settled, if you meanthat!”
“Pooh!”
“Idon’tknow that the naval trouble with Great Britain is settled, if you meanthat!”
“Pooh, pooh!”
“I know that the marriage dower of thirty thousand dollars is settled upon Carolyn, if you mean that!”
“Pooh, pooh, pooh!”
“Well, I shall not try to guess again, lest you should say, ‘Pooh, pooh, pooh,pooh!’—four times!”
“Zuleime!” said the young man, earnestly, “I think, without presumption, I may say that I know your disposition towards me. Zuleime, I wish that we should pass all our lives together, side by side! I would like to open my heart and bid you look into it and read for yourself. I hate to say, ‘I love you,’ (though if you could look into my heart!) Oh, that phrase, ‘I love you,’ Zuleime, is so fallen, is soprostituted, so degraded from its high meaning—‘I love you’ so often means ‘I need your wealth,’ ‘need your family influence,’ ‘I desire your delightful beauty!’ Oh, Zuleime, dearest girl, how then shall I express my true, sincere, earnest devotion to you?”
“You needn’t—I know you like me, Frank,” murmured Zuleime, very low. And then she added, lower still—“But I am nothing but a wild school-girl, and, seriously, I fear it isn’t right for me to listen to such words for years to come yet. And I fear father might not like it, only that he likesyouso very well.”
And Zuleime bent over her sampler, diligently, commencing the next word, hope, in azure silk.
“I know it, Zuleime! Dear, candid girl, I know it all—all the seeming error! But, Zuleime, I am going away to-day,” (she looked up in surprise,) “and I may be gone for several years. When I come back I shall certainly return a captain, if not probably a major, or possibly a colonel. Before I go, I wish to have a fair understanding with yourself and your father, so that I may go away with some feeling of security. I want you both to promise that when I return you will give me your hand.”
“You may speak to father, Frank. But I tell you frankly now, what I wish you had heard before. It is this:—that I have been promised to my grim cousin, Major Cabell, ever since I can remember anything. And till you came, I have always, whenever I have anticipated the future at all, looked forward to being his hum-drum wife, and living in a grim three-story red brick, in a row, and opposite another row of stiff, prison-like red brick houses, each one of which, taken singly, is more dreary than all the rest. I didn’t like the prospect, Frank; but I thought it was my fate, and the best father could do for me, and so I thought of no other possibility but the grim red brick house in the city and Major Cabell. Besides, father is so good a father, and so fond and indulgent, that it seemedtoowicked to think of disappointing his gentle wishes, that never take the form of commands. And so, Frank, although whenever I would think of the grim brick house, with tall dark chambers, and the narrow, stony, distracting street before it, and Major Cabell, my heart would sink very heavy, and I would think, young as Iwas, that there was scarcely any hope for me at all—yet, I would recollect my dear good father wished it, and I would pluck up my spirits and feel blithe as a bird again. It was all understood at the school where I am getting finished, as they call it. And father left word that Major Cabell should be admitted to visit me. So when I am there he comes to visit me frequently, and takes me out riding, or driving, and to concerts. And the girls whisper together, and say that I am engaged—”
“Stop—stop—stop—stop! Pardon me, Zuleime! Pardon me, dear girl! But, I am giddy—indeed, I am ill! Have you yourself promised to marry him?”
“No, surely not; and that is the reason why I consider myself in some sortfree—but of my duty to my good father. No, he has never even asked me. He considers my father’s promise quite sufficient, and our marriage quite a matter of course. And so I used to consider it, too. These things are often done, Frank. These betrothals, I mean. Any one might suppose the custom obsolete—having died in the dark ages. It is not. It prevails here to a considerable extent. It is done to keep family property together, or family interest closely cemented. And, Frank, he has never courted me yet. You see he considers me a child still. And so I am, compared to him, in years. And so I should be, in all things, a child, but that the shadow of that grim brick house is always falling on my heart!”
“And yet, with all this, you are a very, very merry maiden!”
“Yes, so I am. I try to be! I keep a din up in my head to prevent me hearing what my heart wants to say! Goodness! I can do nothing for the poor thing, you know, and what’s the use of stopping to listen to its cry?—thatwould only encourage it to complain the more. Don’t look so sorry, Frank! It is not all effort! It could not be, you know. I’m naturally of a glad, elastic temper; and but for this drawback, Heaven knows what I should be! the wildest, maddest, most harem-scarem, most heels-over-head, skip-over-the-moon madcap that ever turned a quiet home topsy-turvy, and drove a quiet family to distraction! The Bible says,—‘God loveth whom He chasteneth, and scourgeth every son (and daughter) whom He receiveth.’ Then I think,(Idothink, sometimes, young and volatile as I am,) I think that every one whom God redeems hassomesorrow, and that sorrow is always the precise one fitted to cure their besetting sin! As the proud are still kept down by poverty and oppression, the vain lose their charms, or the power of enhancing them, etc., etc., etc., among all the erring whom God designs to set right. And I, who am naturally so wild and thoughtless, must be sobered and made thoughtful by the prospect of that prison before me!”
“Zuleime, does this man love you?”
“Frank, if I say he does nothateme, it is the extent of all favorable things I can say about the state of his mind towards me. No, he does not love me. It is entirely a betrothal of convenience. Sometimes I look forward to my future life in that great unknown city, which I should dislike under any circumstances, and especially to pass my whole life in, with one I do not like, and who does not like me, and Iwonderhow I shall contrive to exist,—I, who love to be in the country, on this dear old homestead, with my fond old father and my tender old nurse, and the colored folks who love me so well,—and where I have so many occupations,—and, oh, my soul and body! I think howshallI ever put life through in that packed up city! Sometimes I think—for Imusthave something to occupy my whole soul with—that I will be very gay and worldly, and dress, and visit, and give balls, and go to balls, and theatres; but then again I reflect that it would be wicked to spend all one’s time and attention upon such things. And then I think I shall try to grow serious enough to join a church, and that I will be a leading member, and a Sunday School teacher, and a patroness of the Bible Society, and of the Missionary Society, and a getter-up of new kinds of benevolent associations, and Dorcas circles, and be a Committee woman, and a distributor of tracts, and a collector of subscriptions, etc. Onemustdosomethingto fill up the long, long days; onemustlivesomehow, and, upon the whole, I thought this latter plan might do, as it would occupy me entirely, and is not so wicked as the other.”
“Ah, I don’t know that, Zuleime! But, my dearest girl, cease all these troubled thoughts about the future, unnatural to your age, and unwholesome to yourself! This wholecloud must be swept away like a cobweb. He doesn’t love you. You don’t love him. He has never asked you to marry him. You have never promised to do so. It is a mere betrothal of convenience, made by the parents of both for the purpose of keeping family property together, and cementing family interests. Oh, it is all wrong! And there is nothing in it! I will speak to your father. I will enter the lists with this Major Cabell, as a competitor for your hand. In all worldly circumstances, which are ever of the greatest value in a Clifton’s estimation—in family, wealth and social position, I am his peer. Besides, I wear my lady’s favor, which he does not! I will go to your father now and tell him as much, shall I, Zuleime?”
The young lady was busy threading her needle with golden yellow silk, and did not answer. He repeated the question.
“Yes,” murmured Zuleime, beginning to embroider the last word of the trio,—Faith,—in sunbeam silk. No time was to be lost. He raised her hand to his lips, and darted out upon the lawn to meet old Mr. Clifton, whom he saw approaching the house.
“My dear sir!” exclaimed Mr. Fairfax, rather excitedly. “I have something of the utmost importance to say to you. Will you take a turn with me?”
“My dear sir!” repeated the old gentleman, smiling, “breakfast is ready! Let’s go on to the house!”
“But mydearsir! my business is urgent!”
“Myverydear sir! the coffee is getting cold!” said the old man, laughing at Frank’s excitement.
“Mr. Clifton,” said the young man, gravely and sadly, “immediately after breakfast I must leave here. This, then, is the only opportunity I have or shall have of communicating to you what is on my heart to say—and it reallyison myheart.”
“Say on then, my dear boy! say on!” exclaimed the benevolent old gentleman. But Frank, now that he had got leave to speak, was struck dumb. He thought it was perfectly easy and simple to ask for Zuleime, but now the request, like Macbeth’s amen, stuck in his throat. “Come,” said the old gentleman, running his fat arm through Frank’s slender one, “give me the support of your arm, for I am not so young and active as you are, and let us take a little walkup the path towards Hardbargain. Perhaps we may meet Archer, and bring him back with us to breakfast. He is not at thehouse, is he?”
“No, sir,” said Frank, glad to recover the use of his tongue.
“We expect him here to breakfast. We shall probably meet him. Come! Well, now! what is it?” he asked, as they turned their backs on the house.
Frank had plucked up his courage, and now spoke to the purpose.
“Mr. Clifton, as I am going away immediately after breakfast, and as I am to be absent for an indefinite length of time, I wish before I leave to tell you that which lies upon my heart—” here he paused a little time to collect his thoughts and fine words, while the old gentleman attended with an encouraging expression of countenance. Frank resumed—“Mr. Clifton, I love your daughter Zuleime. And I have come to beg your sanction to our engagement!” As the old man only said, “Whew-w-w-w!” Frank continued—“You know my rank in the army, and my prospect of promotion. You are acquainted with my family, and are aware of their interest and influence in the country. Allow me farther to add, that my own private fortune amounts to fifty thousand dollars. And I will settle thirty thousand on my bride. Besides which—”
“Stay, stay—mydearfellow, stay!” interrupted the old man, with a troubled look. “This is all nonsense, now! Zuleime is a child. And you have not known her more than six weeks. Love Zuleime! Pooh, pooh! You young men are so flighty and fickle in your fancies! You get frantic about every new face you see, and think yourselves in love! Pooh, pooh! Now, Frank, my boy, come! let’s hear no more of it! It’s all nonsense! You young officers are always in love, or fancying yourselves so! I dare say, you have been in love with all the daughters of all your commanders, and Heaven forefend, a little platonically smitten with all their wives, too! Come, I know you! Nonsense! Let’s hear no more of it!”
“Mr. Clifton, I am no trifler in matters of the affections. I neverhavebeen. I nevershallbe, I hope! And when I tell you, upon my sacred honor, that never in my life have I‘flirted,’ as it is called, with a woman—that never in my life have I either loved or addressed the language of love to a woman—except Zuleime—you will believe me!”
“Oh-h-h-h!” exclaimed the old gentleman, with an exceedingly bored look. “It’s allfolly, allnonsense, I tell you! A sudden fancy! Nothing more! Let’s drop the subject.”
“Mr. Clifton,” said the young man, gravely and sorrowfully, for he saw that the old gentleman rather evaded than denied or accepted his suit, “I have never, in my whole life, been addicted to taking sudden and evanescent fancies, as you might judge, from what I told you! And when I tell you that I love your daughter Zuleime, I mean that I love her sincerely and earnestly, with my whole heart and soul—and that I shall love her to the last hour of my life!”
“Bah! bah! It’s alltom-foolery, I tell you! You get yourself shut up in a country house with a pretty girl, andof courseyou fall in love with her!To be sure!What else could you do? It’s expected of you! You’d disappoint us if you didn’t! But it is such love as will not outlast your journey to your regiment.”
“It will outlast my life! I know it will! I feel it will!” said Frank, earnestly, vehemently.
“Tah! tah! tah!—you’ll fall desperately in love with the first pretty squaw of the friendly tribes who shall come to bring moccasins to your frontier fort!”
“Oh, God!” groaned the young man, bitterly, dropping his face into his hands. “There is no way of making a serious impression upon you, and I am going away in two hours!” His tone and manner so affected the really impressible and benevolent old gentleman, that he half embraced him with his fat arm, saying—
“Nowdon’t, Frank!Dobe a good boy!Don’t! Do!It’s allfollynow!Indeedit is!Do! Don’t!Now consider—how many pretty girls there are in the world!Don’t, Frank! A great deal prettier than my girl. Never fret about her.Do, Frank. Besides, she’s so young! A mere school-girl. Only fifteen last Monday. Pooh, pooh! Not to be thought of, you know! Far too young!”
“Sir, I can wait. I only wish your sanction to our engagement. I can wait three or four years, if necessary, or any length of time at all, if I may hope to get her at last!”
“She is tooyoung, I tell you, Frank! Too young to know her own mind. Only fifteen. Ridiculous!”
“But, sir, I have heard of gentlemen older and more settled than myself who have actuallymarriedgirls of fifteen.Ionly ask an engagement!”
“You meanme, you dog! I know you do! I see you do! But, Frank, seriously and solemnly, I wouldn’t do so again! And for the very reason thatIcommitted that egregious folly, that bitter wrong against a young girl, I will not suffer any one else to do the same wrong to my child, if I can help it!”
“No, Mr. Clifton—pardon me, but areyounot about to commit a more grievous wrong to your own lovely, gentle child? Have you not? Pardon me! Pardon me! Buthaveyou not promised her hand where she cannot give her heart?”
“No! Heaven forbid! I promised her to Charley Cabell. She used to like him very well. I did the best I could for her happiness. I have secured it—unless—unless—oh, my God, Frank!” suddenly exclaimed the old man, in his turn extremely agitated, and wiping the perspiration from his brow, “Ihope—Itrust in Godyou haven’t entrapped her affections! Frank! Frank! Sheisengaged to Major Cabell! I didn’t tell you so when you first asked me for her, because—because—for many reasons—” (wiping the streaming perspiration from his brow) “it is—it is—disagreeable to remember and to talk about it! But—but—sheisengaged to Major Cabell, and—and for many reasons—family reasons—it is necessary that the engagement should be fulfilled! Unless—unless—some inevitable,insurmountable obstaclewas to arise and prevent it! Frank! Frank! I am in a great strait! a dire, doleful strait! but—but—sooner than make my girlunhappy, or stand in the way of her perfect happiness, I would—I would—I woulddie in a jail! Where I may die! Where I may die!” Nothing could exceed the force of the emotion that agitated the old man, shaking his huge form, and choking up his utterance.
Mr. Fairfax looked at him with mingled astonishment, wonder and compassion.
“Boy—boy—youhaven’tentrapped my dear child’s heart?” again inquired the old gentleman, trembling with excess of feeling.
“Entrappedis not exactly the word, sir,” said Frank, proudly and mournfully. “I learned to love her, and I won her love without designing to do either!”
“Lost! Lost!” cried Mr. Clifton, dropping his head upon his bosom. He walked on in silence so desponding, that Fairfax could not bring himself to intrude upon it. They went on until they suddenly metMajor Cabell himselfcoming down the hill, apparently from Hardbargain.
The Major was walking slowly, with his head down, and twirling around his finger a topaz necklace. As soon as he perceived Messrs. Clifton and Fairfax, his forehead flushed, and he hastily crammed the necklace into his vest pocket. Frank thought the whole thing strange, but, but stranger still was the conduct—the metamorphosis—the transfiguration of Mr. Clifton, who, upon observing the Major, instantly put a violent constraint upon himself, and became the broadfaced, rosy, smiling, blue-eyed, debonnair old gentleman, so lavish in the display of his fine teeth, and hearty, cordial words and smiles. Frank was provoked that their conversation was so completely arrested.
“Ah, good-morning,” said Mr. Clifton, addressing the Major. “Been to Hardbargain this morning so early? How are all the folks up there? See, Archer? Why didn’t he walk with you? Eh? Expected him!”
“I have not been to Hardbargain, sir,” replied the Major, rather morosely.
“Been out taking a morning stroll then, eh? Fine appetite for breakfast, no doubt. And it is waiting for us, too. Come, Frank, let’s turn about.”
They did so. Frank now noticed for the first time that the manner of the old gentleman was conciliating, while that of the Major was surly.
They soon reached the house, and the breakfast-room, where the ladies were awaiting their arrival.
As they entered, the countenance of Carolyn Clifton was flushed and eager. But when they had all got in, and were seated at the table, the color died out of her face, leaving her pale as marble. She merely trifled with her breakfast, pretending to eat, but no morsel passed her lips. When breakfast was over, and the company dispersed about theroom, Carolyn almost reeled past her father in going out, and muttered with pale lips—“Father! Not come yet?”
“Never mind! Never mind, my dear! I will ride up to Hardbargain and fetch him.”
“Not for the universe, father! if he never comes!” replied the determined girl, plucking up her spirit, and sweeping proudly past and going into the piazza, where she sat, by-the-bye, with her eyes strained up the mountain-path by which he ought to come.
Frank got no opportunity of speaking alone with Zuleime. Old Mr. Clifton met him, however, when he came in from looking after his horse, and said, kindly patting him on the shoulder—
“Indeed, my dear boy, I don’t see the least necessity for your leaving us until after dinner. The stage coach doesn’t pass through L—— till eight o’clock at night, and five or six hours is ample time in which to reach there!”
“Yes, sir! I grant it, but I have to go this morning to Hardbargain to take leave of Mrs. Clifton, and of my friend Archer, if, indeed, the latter is not ordered on the same duty as myself, which, upon Miss Clifton’s account, I am inclined to fear!”
“Oh! Are you going to ride to Hardbargain? Then, perhaps, you will be pleased to learn that Zuleime is going there this morning, also, to assist Mrs. Clifton in putting the last finishing touches to her dress for this evening. And you can escort her!” said Georgia, smoothly gliding between them, and laying her head and hand with child-like freedom and affection upon the old man’s shoulder.
“Oh! I shall be very happy!” said Frank, “reallyhappy—nay,overjoyed, intoxicated, with the prospect of an uninterrupted, farewelltête à têtewith Zuleime.”
Old Mr. Clifton looked rather disappointed, but he was not of a very combative disposition—especially had he no inclination to contradict Georgia. Besides, he at once reflected that there was really no danger. They couldn’t be married in the neighborhood, because they could get no license, and no clergyman dare marry them without one. And it was not probable, or even possible, that Frank would elope with his daughter on the very eve of joining his regiment for a distant and dangerous service. In truth, he felt it was folly tocherish a misgiving. And yet hehadmisgivings, nor could he banish them—the utmost extent of his self-control was—not toactupon them—not to forbid their riding together. While Zuleime was putting on her hat and riding habit, Frank got the ear of the old gentleman once more, and for the last time. The old man had sunk into his broadbottomed flag chair in the hall, with his thick gold-headed stick between his knees, and his two hands and his chin resting upon it, when Frank stood before him with folded arms and head dropped upon his breast, and said—
“Mr. Clifton—once more, and for the last time, I ask you, and I implore you to answer me candidly. Is there any possibility that, under any change of circumstances, at any future time, I may hope for your consent to my union with Zuleime?”
The earnestness, deepening almost into solemnity, of the young man’s manner and words, impressed Mr. Clifton very deeply, but he replied—“Mr. Fairfax, it is best to speak the plain, harsh, cutting truth, though that truth is the axe laid to the root of all your hopes of Zuleime. No. Yet I regret this, Frank! You do not know how much! But you must forget her! I hope you willsoondo so! I know youmust!”
Frank shook his head in despairing negation. And farther colloquy was arrested by the coming down of Zuleime equipped for her ride.
“Come here, my daughter! Now you must besureto be back by dinner time, do you hear?”
“Certainly, sir!”
“Promiseme.”
“Of course I do.”
“Upon yourhonor!” said the old man, seriously.
“Upon my honor, sir, I will return by dinner time! But what makes you so emphatic about it, dear father?”
“A notion of mine, my child! but I have your promise!”
“Of course you have, sir!” said Zuleime, drawing on her gloves.
Mr. Fairfax was taking leave of Mrs. Clifton. Presently he turned to bid adieu to Mr. Clifton.
The old gentleman shook his hand warmly, wishing him all the success he desired, and affecting to laugh and jest, while he exacted a like promise from Fairfax, namely, thathe should take his girl to Hardbargain, and leave her there to return by dinner time.
Frank gave his word very cheerfully. The young couple then mounted and rode away. The old man watched them from the piazza in sorrowful love, murmuring—
“God bless them. I wish theycouldbe married. Poor things. If theydolove each other so much, or if theythinkthey do, which is quite as bad while it lasts—why, it is but kind to let them have this last little parting comfort of a ride together! And it was well, too—” chuckled the old gentleman—“to tie them up with promises, so that they can’t run away, which they might else be tempted to do in their parting hour. But they will neither of them ever break their word, and I shall have her back safe by dinner time. For it is utterly impossible for them to get married without a license, and it is quite impracticable to get a license this side of L——, or to ride to L—— between this and noon, much less to ride thither and return here in time for dinner! Ah! I have them there! And yet, I am sorry for them, too. Poor things!”
All this time Carolyn Clifton had sat like one dead, only with her eyes strained up the mountain bridal-path.
In the meantime, Frank and Zuleime pursued their ride. As soon as they were out of sight and hearing of a band of field laborers, employed in cutting grass, and had entered the shady mountain-path, Frank said—
“Well, Zuleime, my dearest girl, I spoke to your father—”
—“And his answer—I almost dread to hear it—yet I know what it was, too.”
Frank nodded his head, and they rode on in silence for some minutes, broken at last by Frank, who suddenly exclaimed—
“Zuleime! you bear this so well!”
“Frank, you know this is no new thing to me; I have known it, and been prepared for it all along!” replied the girl, with a look of resignation.
“Oh, Zuleime! is there no way to prevent it?”
“None that I know of, Frank!”
“Zuleime! I was in every way his equal—why, when that is the case, and when I was supported by your voice, too—whywas I rejected?”
The maiden shook her head.
“Zuleime, when is this hideous marriage expected to come off—do you know?”
“Whenever Major Cabell chooses to demand my hand, I believe!”
“Really! Upon my word! He is a personage of tremendous importance! WheneverHEchooses to demand your hand!! Zuleime! that is passing strange! This affair seems then to rest entirely with Major Cabell!!!”
“Yes, it does entirely.”
“Bless his Majesty. Zuleime,what hold has that man on your father?”
Zuleime shook her black ringlets mournfully, but did not reply.
“Do you know, my dear girl, that I am impressed with the idea that your father does not at heart wish to give you to Major Cabell, but rather yields to a strange power the man holds over him?”
“At times I have thought so, too. But then my dear father at other times really seems so set upon the marriage, that the thought has been driven out of my head again! I do not know what to think! But what Idoknow is, that I will never willingly do anything to give my dear father pain!”
“My dearest girl, do you know that I believe, from my soul, that your marriage with Major Cabell will give your father more pain than any other circumstance could?”
The young girl looked up in surprise.
“Zuleime! he told me to-day, that though he had promised you to Major Cabell, he would rather die than see youunhappy, or stand in the way of yourperfecthappiness!”
“My dear father! My dear, gentle father! My fond, old father!” exclaimed Zuleime, with the bright tears rolling on her damask cheeks, like dew on the red rose. “My kind, generous father! He shall never know that I am unhappy! And neithershallI be unhappy when pleasing him!”
“My dear, excellent girl! listen to me! You shall not be unhappy any way! Do you suppose, Zuleime, that I could ride by your side so cheerfully, if I thought you were going to marry that man, on whom your father no more wishes to bestow you, than he wishes to send you to perdition? Listen,my darling girl! When your father told me what I have repeated to you, he went on to say, that for certainfamilyreasons, it was incumbent on him to fulfill his promise, and to bestow your hand upon Major Cabell,unless some insurmountable obstacle should interpose to arrest the union! Zuleime! a flood of light broke on me then! and I felt and knew that the old man would yield his darling daughter to the mysterious power exercised over him by Major Cabell, rather than bestow her with esteem and affection! Zuleime! without vanity, I think that he loves me better, and would prefer me for a son-in-law, if he were free to choose. I think, indeed I do, that he would hail with secret joy “an insurmountable obstacle,” which would prevent the marriage, and not implicate him in any manner. I think that was what he meant when he said what he did. Still, I am convinced that the words slipped from him unintentionally. I am certain he did not mean to give me the hint, which nevertheless, I take, for he is a man of strict honor, I know, and would never tamper with thespiritof a promise any more than he would break thewords!”
“Oh! no, he never would, indeed!”
“And again, my dearest girl, when I asked him just before we came away, whether, at any future time, under any possible contingency, I might hope to obtain his consent to our union, he assured me that I might not, and earnestly entreated me to forget you! That further convinced me that he had no design in giving me the hint upon which I am about to act—do you hear me, dearest Zuleime?”
Zuleime did not, or at least did not appear to.
“Zuleime, my darling, my love,” said Frank, dismounting in the path, and lifting her from her saddle. “I am about to raise ’an insurmountable obstacle’ to your marriage with the Major!”
Zuleime turned deadly pale with surprise and terror, and glanced wildly around, while she fell upon his arm and seemed about to faint.
“Why, Zuleime! Come, come. What is the matter? Don’t be afraid! What, afraid ofme, ofFrank, your playmate? Why, look up in my face and see! Come lift up your head! I want to talk to you! There! there! Why,what are you afraid of? I will takenostep without your consent, sweet Zuleime!”
The infinite tenderness of his words, tones and manner, reassured the frightened girl, and she raised her face, now suffused with blushes. He supported her with his arm around her waist, while he pointed down into a narrow glen to the right, and said—
“There! Look there, Zuleime. Do you see that little stone house—there in the bottom of the glen—there by the spring—but so much like the rocks, near it, and so deep in the shade, as hardly to be distinguishable! Do you see it?”
“Yes,” breathed the maiden, very low.
“Do you know who lives there?”
“No.”
“A good old man! A saintly old man! A poor Baptist missionary preacher, who lives in that hut quite alone, andpreachesthere every Sunday to an humble congregation, composed of poor mountaineers and negroes. He has devoted his life to labor among the mountain people, and has done wonders in reforming them! Is it possible thatyou, living in the neighborhood, knew nothing of him?”
“Oh, yes! I have heard a great deal about Mr. Saunders, only I did not know where exactly his hut was. There are so many of them, you know!” said the girl, somewhat recovered, and much interested.
“My dearest Zuleime! we will go down to that hut! ‘I see by the smoke, that so gracefully curls,’ that the old man is at home. We will tell him the whole story, as far as we know it, and get him to raise that required insurmountable obstacle!”
“Oh! Frank!” exclaimed Zuleime, shocked, delighted, terrified, overjoyed.
“But, my dearest Zuleime! my dearest love! I have recorded an oath in Heaven, to save you from that marriage with Cabell! And I will never leave you until you are my wife. If you refuseNOW, I will throw up my commission in the army, and live there in that hut with the old parson, until youdoconsent!”
“But, my father, Frank! My dear father!”
“Dearest girl, he will be glad!” Here Frank went over the whole story again, and added—“And Zuleime, have youno love, no pity left from your father to bestow upon the poor soldier who loves you so, and who is going out to the Indian frontier, where he may lose his scalp, or be burned alive, or eaten raw within a month by the red-skins? Will you refuse his last prayer?” etc., etc., etc. Over and over again, fervently, earnestly, imploringly, despairingly he repeated the argument and the prayer, while he held the maiden “half willing, half afraid.” “She who hesitates is lost,” it is said.
Zuleime hesitated a long time, and, consequently, was lost to all eternity. What could she oppose, indeed, to what seemed so right and reasonable? With a deep sigh she yielded at last. There was no path that way down into the glen, and the descent was deep and precipitous, and overgrown with stunted cedar, pine and thorn bushes. So, Romeo and Juliet began to clamber down, by foot-holds of jagged rocks, and fist-holds of thorn bushes, to the great risk of wounded hands and torn pants and petticoats. And so it was in rather a disordered state of attire, as well as in an excited state of mind, that they at last arrived before the door of Father Lawrence’s cell, and rapped. While they waited for the old man to appear, Frank, very much to the surprise of Zuleime, drew from his vest pocket a license—a regularbona fidelicense, signed by the clerk of R—— county, and sealed with the county seal. Resting his foot upon the door-step, he took off his hat, turned it down on his knee, laid the license upon its top, and drawing from his other pocket a travelling pen and ink case, proceeded to write the names of Francis Rutland Fairfax and Zuleime Dovilliers Clifton in the blank spaces.
“You look surprised, my dearest girl,” said he, as he returned the pen and ink case to his pocket. “You wonder how I came by this license? I will tell you. I have it by a stroke of the rarest good fortune. You know, being groomsman, I was entrusted with the duty of riding to L——, and procuring the marriage license for Archer and your sister. Well! when I arrived at the clerk’s office, by the strangest caprice of memory, I entirely forgot Miss Clifton’s middle name; so I got the clerk to give me one license filled out with the names of Carolyn Clifton and Archer Clifton, and then knowing how extremely punctiliousyou all are here, in this county, I procured another license regularly signed and sealed, but leaving blank spaces for the proper names of the parties! There, darling! that is the manner in which I came by it! Now, this blank one I fill up with our names, which I really think look quite as pretty as the others would! As for Clifton and your sister, if they want a license, they will have to put up with the first, which I will hand to Archer as soon as we get to Hardbargain. Bless my soul! what has become of that old man?” he exclaimed, rapping loudly, then trying the door and pushing it open. The house was empty. Frank looked dismally disappointed, but Zuleime plucked him by the sleeve, and whispered, hurriedly—
“Here he comes—behind you!”
And he turned to see the old preacher coming from the spring, bending under the light weight of a small pail of water. Frank immediately went to him, greeted him respectfully, and took from his hand the pail, and carrying it, walked by his side, till they reached the house. Lieutenant Fairfax then introduced himself by name and station, and presented Miss Zuleime Clifton. The old man bowed and offered his hand, with a courtly grace, in strange contrast to his rude garb and rough habitation. He invited them to come in and sit down. And when they had entered, and Zuleime was seated, Frank took the old man aside, communicated the object of their call, and produced his license. The old man glanced from the earnest countenance of Frank to the blushing, downcast face of Zuleime, shook his bald head, and looked very grave.
Frank drew him off to the farthest corner of the little hut, made him sit down on the foot of his bed, seated himself by his side, and in a fervid, earnest, eloquent manner, told him their little story.
Many times the old man shook his thin, gray locks. They were not good things—these secret marriages—they never prospered. Marriage should be open as day—with the blessing of God—with the blessing of parents—with the sympathy of friends—with the good wishes of acquaintances to hallow and prosper the union.
“Oh!” said Frank, but this was an extraordinary occasion, the father was really at heart not opposed to this marriage,but circumstances compelled him to withhold his open consent—he himself, (Frank,) was about to depart on a long journey, and merely wished to secure his bride against a forced marriage of convenience during his absence. In short, Frank recommenced the argument, and told it all over from beginning to end.
Still the old man shook his bald head and demurred.
Frank began the story over again, recited the whole of it, with many additions and improvements.
To no purpose—the old man was obdurate. Frank, then half angrily, arose and said—
“Come Zuleime! We must go on to the frontier together, and find somebody to marry us on the route, and let Mr. Saunders here be responsible for all trouble that may ensue, since with the license before him, he refuses to unite us.” At this, Zuleime burst into tears and wept heartily.
The old preacher dropped his head upon his breast in troubled thought for some moments, and, whether the arguments of Frank had after all produced some effect, or whether he feared to encounter the responsibility of sending this wild young couple on their way unmarried, or whether he was moved to pity by the tears of Zuleime, or whether, as is more probable,allthese considerations actuated him, I know not; but he slowly rose to his feet, uncovered his head, and lifted up his eyes in silent prayer awhile, then bade the young pair stand up, for that he would marry them.
Frank clasped the hand of Zuleime, and led her forward. And in less than fifteen minutes more, by the magic of a few words, the youth and maiden were man and wife. And while Mrs. Fairfax, with trembling white fingers, was tying her hat, Mr. Fairfax would have emptied the whole contents of his purse in the minister’s hands,—but, though that money might have supplied the poor old preacher with many necessaries for which he really suffered, and made him very comfortable for a long time, yet he turned away his head, and put it away from him, saying—
“No, young man, I cannot take your gold; I may have erred in what I have done, but I did not do it for money.”
“But you always take a fee, do you not?”
“From others I do—not from you. It would not be blessed.”
The boyish brow of Frank clouded and darkened, but it cleared again instantly as he turned towards his bride.
They were about to bid the old minister adieu, when he took a hand of each, and joining them again, held them in his own, while he said—
“Children, if this thoughtless act bring you into much trouble, in the long, weary years of trial and suffering that may result from it, reproachmefor my share in the rash deed as much as you please, but,—” he paused and looked solemnly from one to the other,—“never, as you value love, and fidelity, and peace,—never, as you value the favor of Heaven, never reproach each other with it! So may God forgive, and bless, and prosper you! Good-bye!”
The young bride and groom had bowed their heads during this benediction, and at its close responded with a silent, heartfelt amen. They then left the cabin.
If the minister of God grievously erred in performing this secret marriage ceremony, he was soon called to account for it; the old man died that night.
As Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax left the cabin, they perceived Kate Kavanagh, on her little rough-coated mountain pony, coming straight down into the glen—her sure-footed little animal treading with perfect security the precipitous descent down which they had been obliged to clamber. Kate was looking very pale and care-worn, so that her ponderous abutting forehead, in its pallor, reminded Frank of a barebleached cliff. And, indeed, he thought that Kate’s face looked more like that of an anxious politician, with the affairs of a nation on his shoulders, than of a grieved girl. But this was the fault of her marked features. But little time or thought had Mr. Fairfax to bestow upon the mountain-girl; so as soon as he caught sight of her, he turned in another direction, to avoid being recognized, saying—
“By all that’s fatal, my dearest love, we were near being detected! And by all that’s fortunate, we have escaped! Come, this way, we will take a stroll down the glen and into the forest for a little while, until this girl is clear of the way.”
“Oh, but it will delay us so much, I shall not have time to go to Hardbargain, and assist Aunt Clifton, and get back home to dinner, as I promised!”
“My dear!” said Frank, reproachfully, “do you grudge me these last few hours of your society, when we are about to be separated so far and so long? Besides, you know you are my own dear wife now. Will you refuse?”
“No, no, I cannot! But, oh, let me return to father—my dear, fond, confiding father,—as soon as I promised! Let me keep the word of promise to his ear, if I have broken it to his hope!” cried Zuleime, bursting into a passion of tears.
Safe tears, and unobserved but by him who kissed them away, for already they had entered the thicket, and were veiled from the sight of Kate Kavanagh, who now dismounted before the door of the hut, and taking from the horns of the saddle a basket and a bundle, entered the poor preacher’s humble habitation. We will turn from the erring pair and enter with her. None but God knew how much disinterested good the poor mountain-girl did in this world. Even the minister, who loved and respected her, knew little beyond the good she did for him. He knew that she knit new stockings and darned old ones for him—that she took his scanty clothing every week, and mended, and washed, and ironed it for him—and that when she brought it back, she would always bring him butter, cream and cheese of her own making, and a fresh loaf of rising bread of her own baking, and often some little rural luxury besides, as a jar of honey or a piece of venison. And that she would stay and clean up his house before she left. He knew that she was his good spirit.
As Kate entered the room, the old man came and met her, and took the basket and the bundle from her hands and set them down, and set a chair for her, and made her sit down in it, while he said—
“My dear child! my excellent child, you do too much for me! You hurt yourself, Catherine, and make me too deeply your debtor!”
Kate waved her hand in that quick, short way peculiar to herself, silently beseeching him to stop.
“But it is the truth, Catherine, my child! I shall never be able to repay you!”
“Oh, sir! you have reversed the case! It isIwho amyourdebtor! If I were notparticularlyyour debtor for allthe education—mental, and moral, and religious, that I have ever received, up to the time of my coming to Hardbargain—still I should begenerallyyour debtor, as youth is the general debtor of age—owing it all the service it can give.” Then, to change the subject, the girl laid off her straw hat, drew off her sheep-skin home-made mittens, and arose and uncovered her basket, saying—“Instead of a loaf of rising bread, Mr. Saunders, I have brought you some fresh biscuits; I thought they might be an agreeable change. There is also a fresh print of butter, and a bottle of cream, and a beef’s tongue, boiled—I thought the last would give you an appetite—I think you have not had a good appetite, lately!” And without more ado Catherine put the things away in the cupboard, setting the bottle of cream in a bowl of water, to keep cool, and wishing to herself that she had a lump of ice to put on the old man’s print of butter. Next, she unrolled the bundle, took the old man’s nicely washed and mended clothes, and put them neatly away in the chest of drawers. Then she set the empty basket aside, rolled up her sleeves, stooped down upon the hearth, and began to make the fire, saying—“You know I have come to dine with you to-day, Mr. Saunders!”
“I know you have come to bring me many comforts, and to cook my dinner, and clean up my house, and make me very comfortable, you good girl, my dear little Brownie!”
Catherine moved about, in her quick and quiet way—filled and put on the kettle—for the old man would always have his cup of tea—and set the table, placing all the little rarities she had brought upon it. When all was ready, and they sat down, the old man found leisure to observe that Kate ate nothing, and looked pale and thoughtful.
“What is the matter, my dear Kate?—you who arealwaysserious, arenowpositively sorrowful! What is it?”
Kate, who was truth itself whenever she spoke, chose for that reason to give no answer.
The old man looked more and more disturbed, and laying down his knife and fork, said—
“Nay, but Catherine, my dear child, there is something the matter! I do not wish to intrude on your confidence, but if you have any trouble that you think I may possiblybe able to soothe—confide in me, as if I were your own father, my child.”
“Dear Mr. Saunders, don’t trouble your good heart about my cloudy face. Sure and hasn’t a poor girl the same right to her smoke that a wealthy young lady has to her vapors?” said Kate, smiling.
The old minister did not press his question, but resumed his knife and fork with a look of mortification that worried Catherine, so that she said—
“I will tell you, then, what troubles me. My dearest, best friend and patron, Captain Clifton, has bidden me good-bye, and departed for the frontier! That is bad—oh, yes!—very bad. But that is not the worst. He has gone away very unhappy. I might as well tell you what everybody will soon know:—his marriage is broken off! He has gone away in anger with his promised bride. He has gone away so wretched! Mr. Saunders, when I saw him last night, looking so pale, and stern, and proud—and knew the haughtiness and the anguish of his heart, I thought I could have died to have restored peace and joy between him and her he loved so strongly.”
“Merciful Heaven!—those Cliftons! This is another instance of their fatal subjection to passion! Do you know, my dear child, what caused this quarrel?”
“I know nothing but this—the marriage is broken off for the present! I do not know wherefore.”
“Some jealous suspicion of one party or the other! Those Cliftons all have Spanish blood in them, and the Spanish character is uppermost in their nature. They are all haughty, reserved, jealous, suspicious.”
“Ah, but they are full of courage, magnanimity and benevolence,” said Catherine.
“Archer Clifton is of a very jealous and suspicious nature—was his betrothed inclined to coquetry?”
“Oh, I do not know, sir, but the misunderstanding did not originate in any charge against Miss Clifton. It was something of which Miss Clifton accusedhim, but of what, I do not know!—he did not say. My dear Mr. Saunders, I told you what troubled me, to satisfy your kind heart, and allay your benevolent anxiety on my account. And now please forgive me, for beseeching you not to question mefarther upon the subject. They—the parties, I mean—are far removed above my sphere of thought and action—and the investigation of their motives of action, by me, seems to involve a certain indelicacy—I fear even impertinence of interference,” said Catherine, gently.
“Yet, far above your sphere of thought and action as you say they are, they are not—at leastoneof them is not—above your sphere of sympathy and emotion.Hissorrow affectsyouwith sorrow!”
The blood rushed to Kate’s brow, and she remained silent.
The old man and the maiden soon after arose from the table. She washed up the dishes, tidied up the house, and collected the poor preacher’s soiled and broken clothes, and tied them in a bundle to take away with her to wash and mend. Then she tied on her hat, and took leave of him; the old man calling her back, again and again, with vague, prophetic meaning, to repeat over and over—“God bless you, my child! God bless you!” It was his dying benediction.
A poor mountaineer, that called early the next morning to get the poor minister to the poor to come and bury his wife—found the old man dead.