WOMAN’S PRIDE.
The bird when she pineth may hush her song,
Till the hour when her heart shall again be strong;
But thou—canst thou turn in thy woe aside,
And weep midst thy sisters? No, not for pride.
May the fiery word from thy lip find way,
When the thoughts burning in thee shall spring to-day?
May the grief that sits in thy weary breast,
Look forth from thine aspect, the revel’s guest?
No! with the shaft in thy bosom born,
Thou must hide the wound in thy fear of scorn!
Thou must fold thy mantle, that none may see,
And mask thee with laughter, and say thou art free!
MRS. HEMANS
All the forenoon, Carolyn Clifton sat in the same place and in the same
attitude in which we left her, affecting to read, but really watching
the mountain-path with heart-sickening anxiety. Every distant sound of a
horse’s hoofs that struck upon her ear, sent an electric shock to her
heart, causing her to start violently, tremble, and turn deadly sick and
faint, with accelerated hope and fear, until its nearer approach
revealed some neighbor going on his way, or some negro coming from the
mill or the village, to her despairing sight. Even the sound of carriage
wheels, as they occasionally rolled by, made her heart pause in its
pulsations until it passed, and proved to be some family going on a
visit or a shopping errand.—For still she hoped that if he did not come
down the mountain-path on horseback, he might come round the road with
his mother in her carriage. He came not. And oh, the wedding-day was
almost over! No one saw the strife of hope and fear, like the struggle
of life and death, going on silently in her bosom. Mrs. Georgia Clifton
spent the whole forenoon in her own apartment, professing to be engaged
with many elegant preparations for the evening; but really full of
triumph for the success of her wicked scheming, and anxiety and wonder
for the events of the evening, and dark regret also for the absence of
him who, if lost to Carolyn forever, was lost to herself for a time at
least. With all these passions and emotions striving in her bosom, she
dared not show herself, lest her conscious heart and conscious face
should betray her—for Georgia was yet young in wickedness.
The Misses Cabell were in their own chamber, putting a few finishing
touches to their dresses for the evening, for they, with Zuleime, were
to be the bridesmaids.
Zuleime herself had not yet returned, although it was near noon.
Old Mr. Clifton had been out, as was his daily habit of a forenoon,
riding around his plantation.
He came in to-day a little earlier than usual, and finding his daughter
exactly where he left her, but looking still more pale, haggard and
anxious than in the morning, he sat down by her side, put his arm
tenderly around her waist, and gazed lovingly into her whitened and
sharpened countenance, before he said interrogatively—
“Not come yet, Carolyn?”
“No, sir!” answered the young lady rising and putting off her father’s
caressing arm, and her own humiliating despondency, with a proud and
queenly air.
“Well!” said the old man, with sudden energy, “I WILL certainly now ride
up to Hardbargain and know the reason. DANDY!—my horse, there! Bring him
back!—I’ve not done with him!”
“Father!” said Carolyn, seizing his hand, and detaining him, while she
raised her head and looked and spoke in a manner that reminded him more
strongly than ever of her arrogant mother, “Father, _no_, you will not
go! No, no, father, if you have any love for _me_, any respect for the
memory of my dead mother, _do not_ subject her daughter and yours to
such a mortification! No, father, if he _never_ comes, never go after
him!”
“You’re a fool, girl!” cried the old man, breaking away from her, “a
palpable fool!—You were a fool for quarreling with him and sending him
away, and now you are a greater fool for persisting in the quarrel.
‘Mortification,’ indeed! Who’ll be the most mortified this evening, I
wonder, ‘if he never comes?’ What the deuce are we to say to the people
who will come here this evening to see you married? Tell me that?”
Before she could say another word, a large family carriage rolled down
the road, and turned and entered the lawn.
Carolyn sank back in her seat, nearly swooning with the swift hope and
fear that strove almost to agony as she gazed.
It looked so like Mrs. Clifton’s carriage.
It was not, however. It contained the very earliest of the wedding
guests, who, coming from a distance of thirty miles, had set out early
enough to arrive in time to secure a whole afternoon’s rest and
refreshment before dressing for the evening. This was customary with
those coming from afar.
Old Mr. Clifton went down the steps, to receive his guests.
Carolyn arose and withdrew into the house, fortunately before she had
been recognized by the visitors; for it would have been shockingly out
of all etiquette for a bride to be visible on her wedding-day before the
wedding-hour.
When Mr. Clifton had ushered his guests into the drawing-room, he
returned to the piazza to give some directions concerning the stabling
of the horses, for where so many animals were expected to be provided
for, it required some extra thought and care in their bestowal. While
still giving his orders, he saw his younger daughter riding slowly up to
the house. Pleased to see her return in safety, in spite of his evil
forebodings of the morning, and thinking besides that she could give him
some news of the laggard bridegroom, he hastened to meet her and lift
her from the saddle, with a joyous—
“Well, my darling! well, my damask rose-bud! Back in time, according to
promise, eh?”
But at the sight of her father, the girl’s face flushed and paled so
swiftly, her bosom rose and fell so rapidly, her whole frame was so
agitated, her manner so confused, that the old man was seized with alarm
and exclaimed, hurriedly—
“In the name of Heaven, my dearest child, what is the matter?”
But Zuleime, incapable of reply, looked as if she would sink into the
ground.
Mr. Clifton’s first definite thought was that some accident or
catastrophe had befallen the bridegroom.
“Good Heaven, Zuleime, what has happened? Where is Archer Clifton?
Speak—has he come to any harm?”
Much relieved that her father’s suspicions had fallen out of the true
track—yet still considerably shaken, Zuleime replied, in a faltering
voice, that Captain Clifton had received orders, and had departed that
morning with Lieutenant Fairfax for Winchester, where their regiment was
quartered, and that Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, desired to see Mr.
Clifton as soon as possible. Without another word—totally unsuspicious
that Mrs. Fairfax stood before him—the old man threw himself on
horseback, and rode furiously toward Hardbargain.
Mrs. Frank Fairfax, our runaway daughter, and widowed bride, stole to
her own little room to weep in secret, a little over her fault, but a
great deal over the absence of and the danger about to befall her
husband.
Dinner was served without Mr. Clifton, Miss Clifton, Zuleime, and the
Misses Cabell. Mrs. Georgia Clifton alone entertained the newly arrived
company. This did not occasion remark. Mr. Clifton was known to be
absent, and it was customary, as I said before, for the bride and her
attendants to be invisible.
In the meantime, Carolyn Clifton sat in her chamber—pride, love, regret,
anger, hope, fear—all good and evil passions striving in her soul, or in
turn holding the mastery over it. It was drawing near the hour when she
should commence her bridal toilet, if indeed any bridal array was to be
assumed that evening. Amidst all her keen anxiety, she dreaded lest some
one should come in and tell her it was time to dress. What should her
proud heart permit her to explain to such a one. She need not have
feared interruption, however.
The Misses Cabell, her bridesmaids, it is true, sat together in their
chamber very impatiently awaiting a message from the bride—very
impatiently, indeed, for after her ceremonious dressing, they had their
own very elaborate toilet to make. But they would not enter her
dressing-room unsummoned, or at least until they should receive from
some member of the family a suggestion that it was now proper to do so.
And no one thought or remembered to give them the hint.
Mrs. Georgia Clifton—self-convicted of being the originator of all the
great trouble that had befallen, and the greater that was about to
befall the house—kept herself as much as possible aloof.
And Zuleime was as yet too deeply absorbed in the contemplation of her
own recent bridehood, and the sorrow of her widowhood, to think of
anything else.
Meanwhile old Mr. Clifton had ridden as for life up to Hardbargain,
thrown himself from his horse, flung the bridle upon his neck and let
him go loose, while he himself rushed up the stairs and into the hall,
and without the ceremony of a rap, burst into the quiet presence of Mrs.
Clifton as she sat sewing in her shady parlor. She arose calmly to
receive him; and the very quietness of the lady threw the excited old
gentleman off his guard, and out of his politeness, and into a rage.
“Well, madam!” he exclaimed, throwing his hat down with a thump into a
chair, and tramping up and down the floor. “_Here’s_ a pretty state of
affairs!”
“Mr. Clifton, you are excited.”
“Yes, madam, I AM excited!” interrupted the old man—“very _much_
excited, madam! Very much excited, _indeed_, madam! Where is Archer
Clifton? tell me that!”
“Mr. Clifton, sit down and compose yourself!”
“Compose myself! Compose myself with a prospect of three hundred people
pouring into my house to-night, each one of them agape to see a wedding,
and to have to tell them there will be no wedding!”
“Mr. Clifton, you can’t regret this circumstance more than I do!”
“I _don’t_ regret it at all, ma’am! I rejoice at it, ma’am! I
congratulate myself and my daughter, ma’am! But I’ll have satisfaction,
ma’am! I’ll have satisfaction, ma’am!” said the old man, wiping the
perspiration from his red face.
“Satisfaction for what you _rejoice_ at, Mr. Clifton?” inquired the
lady, smiling at his unreasonable anger with herself.
“I’ll—_yes_—I’ll have satisfaction, ma’am!”
“From whom? From me? Do you intend to call me out as my son’s
representative? Do you wish to compel me to fight a duel; or to make an
apology—which?” inquired the lady, coolly.
“Dem it, mem, I’ll—I’ll have satisfaction,” exclaimed the old man,
growing shorter and shorter in his syllables. “I’ll—I’ll write to the
Colonel of the regiment! I’ll—I’ll make the matter known to the
Major-General of the Army! I’ll—yes, dem-me! I’ll go to Washington and
tell the President! I’ll have that young rascal cashiered, and broken
and dismissed from the service!”
“What! _all three_! Why, that is passing cruel! Quite as bad as being
killed and murdered, and mortally wounded!” said the lady, smiling at
his insane vehemence.
“Dem it, mem! don’t take my words up!” he exclaimed, stamping up and
down the floor, and then breaking out into vituperative abuse of Archer
Clifton, all addressed to Mrs. Clifton, who, though becoming very much
agitated, now preserved a dignified silence.
“Mr. Clifton forgets that he is a man, and that he speaks to a woman!”
said a stern, but low-toned voice.
And the old gentleman turned to see Kate Kavanagh, ‘severe in youthful
beauty,’ standing within the door; yes, in _beauty_, for her slight
figure was drawn gracefully up—her bosom heaving, her fine head erected,
her cheeks crimson, and her eyes intensely brilliant with the just
indignation that moved her soul, as she walked straight up to Mrs.
Clifton, and said—
“Dearest lady, allow me—_do_ allow me to attend you to your own room,
and be your substitute here, in waiting upon Mr. Clifton.”
“No, Kate—no, my dear girl. I have to talk rationally to the man as soon
as he comes to his senses,” replied the lady.
“_Who is_ that girl?” inquired the old gentleman, not recognizing Kate
under the new aspect—or affecting not to do so. “Who _is_ that girl,
Mrs. Clifton?” he repeated, while the lady gazed fondly on her protégé.
“Miss Kavanagh; my son’s ward, and my own adopted daughter,” replied
Mrs. Clifton, without withdrawing her fond gaze from the face of Kate,
who was blushing under it.
“Miss Kavanagh, your son’s ward, and your own adopted daughter! A
promising relationship all around, that is—up—on—my—word—it—is!” said
Mr. Clifton, very deliberately. “However,” he added, “she has brought me
to reflection, for which I thank her. And Mrs. Clifton, I feel sorry and
mortified that I have been betrayed into some violence of speech and
manner; it is a family failing, you know. Pray pardon me.”
“Mr. Clifton, please to sit down near me. My voice is not strong. It may
be disquietude, but I find a difficulty in raising it, or in keeping up
a running conversation.”
“My dear sister, I am afraid your lungs grow weak. I am indeed! I have
noticed it before. I have said the same to Georgia and to Carolyn!
Indeed, my dear sister Clifton, I wish you would take care of yourself.
I was a brute to throw myself into a passion in your presence. I was,
indeed! I see it has overcome you! Kate Kavanagh, my dear, you were
perfectly right. I _did_ forget myself. And you were a fine girl to
recall me. Give me your hand, my dear.”
Blushing deeply, as was her wont when praised, Kate gave her hand,
saying—half apologetically, half appealingly—
“Mrs. Clifton is not strong, sir. She should not be agitated, especially
so soon after her son has left her.”
“I know she is not strong! My dear sister, I wish you’d be careful of
yourself! I do, indeed! You’re not strong.”
“After fifty, we do not grow strong as we grow old,” said the lady,
pointing to a chair by her side, and indicating that he should take it!
He did so. And then Mrs. Clifton turned to Kate, and said—
“Now Catherine, my dear, I wish you to go up into my chamber and amuse
yourself with a book, while I have a confidential talk with Mr.
Clifton.”
Kate immediately arose, curtsied, and left the room.
Mrs. Clifton turned to her brother-in-law, and said, inquiringly, “You
know the cause of this lovers’ quarrel?”
“Of course I do, madam! Satan fly away with them both! I know all about
it! It was about _her_—up stairs!” he replied, indicating Kate Kavanagh
by a crook of his thumb.
“Yes; it was about Kate. But it was very absurd!”
“Now, I don’t know that ma’am!”
“But it certainly _was_—ridiculous! Mr. Clifton! _she_, Catherine, knows
nothing about it! Does not even dream that _she herself_ had the
remotest connection with the quarrel, and I do hope and trust, that she
never may suspect it. What I wish to say to you, is plainly this: That I
know enough of human nature generally, and of young people particularly,
and of Archer and Carolyn individually, to feel sure that this very
absurd and extremely inconvenient quarrel and separation—”
“Yes, _very_ extremely inconvenient, indeed!” emphatically interrupted
the old man.
“Is only temporary—”
“Yes, ma’am, but that don’t make it the less embarrassing—the less
inconvenient!”
“I know it! Hear me out!”
“What the deuce, ma’am, are we to do with the people who are coming to
the wedding even now?”
“I am about to tell you, if you will quietly listen to me.”
“Well! well! Yes, ma’am! I beg your pardon—I am all attention.”
“Carolyn, I am sure, already regrets her hasty violence of temper.”
“Yes! that she does! It’s easy to see that!”
“And Archer, who is slower to anger and slower to repentance—though
deeper and stronger in both for being slow—Archer, in a very few days,
will bitterly repent the step he has taken, more especially as being on
his Western march, it will be impossible to retrace it. Under these
circumstances, this is what you must say to the assembled company
to-night:—You must tell them, that last night a peremptory order arrived
for Captain Clifton to join his regiment immediately; and that the
marriage is deferred for the present. Let the company then enjoy
themselves as at a ball. And all will go off well, and without scandal.
I will be present myself, as the representative of our side of the
house. I sent for you, Mr. Clifton, to give you this advice, and to
suggest this plan of action in meeting the embarrassing difficulties of
this evening. I should not propose this, if I were not sure that the
marriage _is_ only deferred—that if the parties live, it will assuredly
take place. I am _certain_ it will, Mr. Clifton! I am willing to pledge
my own truth and honor on it, and become responsible for it! The plan I
propose to you for meeting the guests this evening, is truest, wisest
and best—think of it!”
“I do not think of it at all! I see its excellence at a glance. I spring
to meet it! I embrace it! I hug it to my heart! Oh, Mrs. Clifton, you
are our deliverer! Oh, Mrs. Clifton! you are the great-grand-daughter of
Oliver Cromwell, the general, the conqueror, the deliverer, the
statesman, the politician, the diplomatist, the everything at an
emergency!—You’ll see how gloriously I’ll execute your orders! You’ll
make me Lieutenant-General when you are Lady Protector of the
Commonwealth!” exclaimed the old man, starting up and clapping his hat
upon his head, and joking like a boy, for very joy that his difficulty
was smoothed. He shook hands with Mrs. Clifton, begging her not to be
late, as he should want the encouragement of her presence in order to
enable him to make his speech. Then he mounted his horse, and rode
rapidly away down the mountain-path to Clifton. When he arrived at home,
he found the lawn already covered with carriages, horses and servants,
and the piazza, halls, and all the first floor rooms, thronged with
company. He passed through them all, bowing right and left and hastened
to his daughter’s room. Mr. Clifton had some doubts about getting his
proud daughter to consent to the wise plan suggested by his
sister-in-law. But he meant to carry his consent by a coup-de-main. So
he pushed open her door, burst into her chamber, and threw himself,
puffing, blowing, and perspiring, into the nearest chair, exclaiming—
“He’s gone, Carolyn! He’s clear gone, confound him!”
Carolyn drew nearer her father, and gazed into his face, to read there
the confirmation of what she scarcely could believe. The old man wiped
his streaming face with his handkerchief, and stuffed it again into his
pocket, exclaiming—
“Yes! he’s gone! gone! gone! gone!” Then opening wide his arms, he
murmured, “But never mind, my dear child! you’ve got your old father
left to love you, and to avenge you, too, if needful! Don’t grieve! Come
to my bosom! Don’t grieve!”
“‘_Grieve_,’ sir!” exclaimed the imperious girl, elevating her queenly
head, “we do not _grieve_ for a traitor! We pronounce sentence on him,
and execute it!”
“True! true! my noble girl! There spoke your mother’s daughter! Yet—”
suddenly cried the old gentleman, as by a quick recollection and
revulsion of feeling, “what a devil of a kettle of fish this is, my
dear! Blame the fellow, what are we to do? Deuce take the man—what are
we to say to the people down stairs? _Say_, Carolyn! Woman’s wit is
quick! Can you think of anything?”
Carolyn stood in proud and bitter thought for some minutes, and then she
smiled, with a scornful smile, and said—
“Do nothing, sir! Let all go on as was planned! Let the band of music
take its place in the saloon! Let the wedding guests come, and be
received! And _then_ leave all the rest to me! And now, my dear father,
pray excuse me, as it is time to dress.”
“To dress! Why, Carolyn, what do you mean? Are you mad? Dress for what?”
asked the old gentleman, anxious to know if perchance _her_ idea in any
way resembled the plan adopted by himself, from Mrs. Clifton’s
suggestion.
“No, sir! I am not mad. ‘My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep
time,’” said the young lady, extending her hand to the bell-rope, and
ringing a peal that presently brought her woman hurrying up stairs and
into her presence.
“Darky!” said she addressing her attendant, “go to Miss Zuleime, and to
the Misses Cabell, and let them know that I have waited for them some
time.” The old handmaid went out, and Carolyn turned to her father, and
said, “My dearest father! when I am dressed I will send for you, and we
will have a conversation, in which I will tell you my simple plan for
getting through the evening. I have not quite matured it yet! Ah! here
are the girls! Good evening for a couple of hours, father!”
She opened the door for her father, who just escaped the young
bridesmaids, who were coming in.
He went out muttering—
“I don’t know what she means. I suppose I can have confidence in her. At
least I must for the _present_, and then, there is Mrs. Clifton’s plan.”
He went into his own room and arrayed himself in festive garments for
the occasion, and then went below stairs to groan inwardly over the
numerous arrivals of guests, whose carriages thronged the lawn, and
whose servants crowded the piazza, hall and entries. Presently a servant
approached him, and said, respectfully, in a low voice—
“Miss Clifton’s compliments, sir, and will see you in her own room.”
The old gentleman hastened thither. He found his daughter ready dressed,
and quite alone. Her bridesmaids had gone to make their own toilets.
“Father!” she said, “I will not wear the willow for a recreant lover! I
have determined that the festivities shall go on to-night. I will go
down and lead off the first dance myself. You, my father, may explain,
as you please, that the marriage is broken off, but that the music,
dancing, and feasting are not arrested for that reason.”
The old man had determined within himself what to speak but he answered—
“My dear child, are you _equal_ to it?”
“_Equal sir?_ Try me!”
“Very well, my dear. Come! And I will say—what is proper upon the
occasion.”
In the meanwhile the splendid company assembled in the brilliantly
lighted saloon, awaited with great impatience the entree of the bridal
train.
Made conspicuous in that gorgeous assembly by his black gown and bands,
sat the clergyman who was to perform the ceremony.
Georgia—darkly, resplendently beautiful as ever, moved gracefully
through the crowd—full of gracious courtesy, yet flushed, anxious,
feverish—half fearing that the bridegroom would appear at this last
moment. This fear was aroused by the presence, and the calm, cheerful,
self-possessed looks of Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain. At length light
steps were heard in the hall. The doors of the saloon where thrown open.
And all eyes were turned to see the wedding procession enter. But
instead of a bridal train, came old Mr. Clifton, leading in his daughter
Carolyn. The surprise, the wonder of the company was at first silent and
breathless as it was profound. But soon a low whisper arose, and like a
low breeze in the leaves, passed from one to another, until the room was
in a general buzz.
Mr. Clifton led his daughter into the centre of the saloon, and with her
still hanging on his arm, turned and faced the company, waiting until
they should be silent before he would speak. The father and daughter, as
they stood there, presented a fine, imposing appearance. Both were
arrayed with the gorgeous splendor that prevailed at that day.
The old gentleman had his snow-white hair turned back off his forehead,
and carried all down to the nape of his neck, where it was plaited into
a queue, and adorned with a large white satin bow, both snowy plait and
bow in pleasant relief against the back of the dark crimson velvet
coat—his vest and small clothes were of white satin, and his long hose
of white silk were fastened to the small clothes below the knee with
white satin bows and gold buckles—his slippers were of crimson morocco,
with high heels, large bows, and gold buckles. His dress was rather
antiquated even for that day. And he stood there waiting for silence
with the suave and stately courtesy of the old school gentleman.
Very much like a queen looked the beautiful Carolyn, but very little
like a bride, either in her dignified self-possession, or in her
magnificent array. Her fair hair was carried up above her forehead, and
dressed high, in the regal style of that day. Its rich waves and bands
were wreathed with pearls, and adorned with a plume of white ostrich
feathers, powdered with minute silver spangles. Her neck and arms were
bare, but adorned with pearls, and softly shaded with the finest lace at
the edge of the boddice and sleeves. Her dress was of rich blue satin
brocade, made with long waist, sharp pointed stomacher, and flowing
sleeves and flowing skirt—the edges of the skirt finished with a very
deep border of silver embroidery; a lighter border of the same running
around the sleeves; the stomacher was embroidered with silver and
pearls. Over her skirt she wore a train of splendid lace, lightly
embroidered with a running vine of silver. She toyed with an elegant fan
of carved mother-of-pearl and marabout feathers. She stood there, as I
said, not at all like a bride, either in her gorgeous apparel, or her
self-asserting manner. She stood there with a gay, proud air, beneath
which none could have discerned the deeply humiliated spirit of the
arrogant woman, or suspected the wounded and breaking heart of the
forsaken bride.—When the murmur of voices which had greeted their
entrance had subsided, and silence was restored, Mr. Clifton bowed
deeply, and—in the somewhat high-flown grandiloquence of style he had
once seen exhibited by a manager of a city theatre, when apologising for
the non-appearance of the evening’s star—spoke as follows: “Ladies and
gentlemen, the distinction of your presence here this evening, has been
prayed that you might give the honor of your countenance to the
espousals of my nephew and daughter. You have graciously accorded us the
dignity of your society here for that purpose.” (An embarrassed pause,
while the assembly listened in breathless curiosity and expectation, and
he continued,) “Ladies and gentlemen, ‘man _pro_poses, but God
_dis_poses.’ The great Arbiter of destiny has ordained the issue of
events otherwise than as we had hoped, planned, and expected. Even last
night suddenly came a peremptory order from head-quarters, to Captain
Clifton, to join his regiment instantly for the purpose of taking the
command of a detachment of cavalry, to march immediately to the Indian
frontier to put down an irruption of the Shoshowanawas! Ladies and
gentlemen!” (continued the old gentleman, warming up with his subject,)
“you know the stern, uncompromising duty of the soldier at such a
crisis. One syllable—one single syllable comprehends his insupportable
obligation—‘Go.’ The man, the lover, the bridegroom must give place to
the soldier. As our greatest poet, Walter Scott, has it,—the soldier at
the sound of the trumpet must
“‘Leave untended the herd,
The flock without shelter,
The dead uninterred,
The bride at the altar.’
“Ladies and gentlemen, our gallant Captain Clifton has literally left
his ‘bride at the altar.’ But soldier’s love may not mourn bridegroom’s
loss. Nor may we deny ourselves the distinction and joy of your presence
for the whole night—nor,” (the old man was unconsciously sliding from
his lofty magniloquence down to the plain vernacular,) “nor must I
disappoint these young men and maidens of their dance to-night. Ho!
music there! Strike up the liveliest quadrille air upon your list. Let
them dance to the briskest music while they are fresh. Charley Cabell,
my boy, come here and lead out your cousin Carolyn!”
Major Cabell advanced, and with much grace and dignity led Miss Clifton
to the head of the quadrille, as the music pealed forth.
“Young gentlemen, select your partners!” exclaimed the old man, adding
example to precept, by choosing the youngest and prettiest girl in the
room, and leading her to the place right opposite his nephew and
daughter. Soon all the surprise and disappointment were forgotten in
enjoyment. The evening was spent in the gayest hilarity—Carolyn Clifton,
the forsaken bride, apparently the gayest of the gay. So gay, indeed,
was Miss Clifton, that she drew upon herself the severe animadversions
of several ladies present, who affirmed that her conduct was heartless
in the extreme; to laugh and sing and dance and jest with such thorough
abandonment to pleasure, just after the departure of her lover to brave
the ghastly horrors of Indian warfare. Much more did they approve of the
pensive manners of Zuleime. Poor Zuleime was all unskilled in
self-control—her heart was “exceeding sorrowful,” and so she let it
appear. The company separated at a very late hour that night, or rather
a very early hour of the next morning. Those in the neighborhood
departing, those from a distance retiring to the chambers to take some
sleep before breakfast, after which they were to set out for their
homes.