LOST AFFECTION.
“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 her sleep, 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 one_ arrived 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 a _berry_ bad 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 I _was_ scared! An’
deed, chile, ‘tween so many con_try_dictions, 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’ _der_ chillun,
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’s _all_ wrong! 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! You _mustn’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! _One_ day 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 do _you_ love best in the world, Zuleime?” he asked.
“How can you ask? Whom does _everybody_ love best?—‘her nain sell,’ as
the Welchman says, of course!” exclaimed the merry maiden.
“Humph! Well, whom do you love the _next_ best 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 mean _that_!”
“Pooh!”
“I _don’t_ know that the naval trouble with Great Britain is settled, if
you mean _that_!”
“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 so prostituted, 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
likes _you_ so 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 seemed _too_ wicked 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 I
was, 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
sort _free_—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?—_that_ would 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, (I _do_ think, sometimes,
young and volatile as I am,) I think that every one whom God redeems has
_some_ sorrow, 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 not _hate_ me, 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
I _wonder_ how 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 how _shall_
I ever put life through in that packed up city! Sometimes I think—for I
_must_ have 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. One _must_ do _something_ to fill up the long, long days; one
_must_ live _somehow_, 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 whole cloud 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 my _dear_ sir! my business is urgent!”
“My _very_ dear 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
really _is_ on my _heart_.”
“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 walk up the path towards Hardbargain.
Perhaps we may meet Archer, and bring him back with us to breakfast. He
is not at the _house_, 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—my _dear_ fellow, 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 never
_have_ been. I never _shall_ be, 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 all _folly_, all _nonsense_, 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 all _tom-foolery_, I tell you! You get yourself shut up
in a country house with a pretty girl, and _of course_ you 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—
“Now _don’t_, Frank! _Do_ be a good boy! _Don’t! Do!_ It’s all _folly_
now! _Indeed_ it 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 too _young_, 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 actually _married_ girls of fifteen. _I_ only ask an
engagement!”
“You mean _me_, 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
that _I_ committed 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 are _you_ not about to commit a more
grievous wrong to your own lovely, gentle child? Have you not? Pardon
me! Pardon me! But _have_ you 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,
“I _hope_—I _trust in God_ you haven’t entrapped her affections! Frank!
Frank! She _is_ engaged 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—she _is_ engaged to Major Cabell,
and—and for many reasons—family reasons—it is necessary that the
engagement should be fulfilled! Unless—unless—some inevitable,
_insurmountable obstacle_ was to arise and prevent it! Frank! Frank! I
am in a great strait! a dire, doleful strait! but—but—sooner than make
my girl _un_happy, or stand in the way of her perfect happiness, I
would—I would—I would _die 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—you _haven’t_ entrapped my dear child’s heart?” again inquired
the old gentleman, trembling with excess of feeling.
“_Entrapped_ is 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 met _Major Cabell
himself_ coming 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 the room,
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, “_really_ happy—nay,
_overjoyed, intoxicated_, with the prospect of an uninterrupted,
farewell _tête à tête_ with 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 to cherish a misgiving. And yet
he _had_ misgivings, nor could he banish them—the utmost extent of his
self-control was—not to _act_ upon 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 will _soon_ do so! I know you _must_!”
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 be _sure_ to be back by dinner
time, do you hear?”
“Certainly, sir!”
“_Promise_ me.”
“Of course I do.”
“Upon your _honor_!” 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, that he 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 they _could_ be married. Poor things. If they
_do_ love each other so much, or if they _think_ they 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—_why_ was 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!
Whenever HE chooses 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 I _do_ know
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 you _un_happy, or stand in the way
of your _perfect_ happiness!”
“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 neither _shall_ I 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 certain _family_ reasons,
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 the _spirit_ of a promise any more than he would break
the _words_!”
“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 of _me_, of _Frank_, 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 take _no_ step 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, and _preaches_ there 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 that _you_, 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 refuse NOW, I will throw up my
commission in the army, and live there in that hut with the old parson,
until you _do_ consent!”
“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 you no 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 regular _bona fide_
license, 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 punctilious you 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, _all_ these 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,
reproach _me_ for 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 is _I_ who am _your_ debtor! If
I were not _particularly_ your debtor for all the education—mental, and
moral, and religious, that I have ever received, up to the time of my
coming to Hardbargain—still I should be _generally_ your 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 are _always_ serious, are
_now_ positively 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 possibly be 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
accused _him_, 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 me farther 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 least _one_ of them is not—above your sphere of sympathy
and emotion. _His_ sorrow affects _you_ with 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.