THE SISTERS.
Sister! since I met thee last,
O’er thy brow a change hath past;
In the softness of thine eyes,
Deep and still a shadow lies;
From thy voice there thrills a tone,
Never to thy childhood known;
Through thy soul a storm hath moved,
——Gentle sister, thou hath loved.
Overtasked, weary and exhausted by her long efforts, Carolyn Clifton
sought her own chamber, and threw herself, all splendidly arrayed as she
was, upon her bed. She had no fear of interruption, for it was not yet
daybreak, and her woman would not be up for several hours. So she was
surprised, and not at all pleased when a gentle rap came to the door.
She would not answer or move to let the rapper know that she was awake.
She was weary, weary with acting for one night, and needed rest. But
after the unknown had rapped two or three times, the door was gently
opened, and the sweet voice of Zuleime was heard to say—
“Sister, I know you are not asleep—will you let me come in?” And without
waiting for an answer, she entered, and softly closed the door, and came
to the bedside, saying—“I heard you when you came up and threw yourself
down on the bed, and I knew you were not asleep—let me stay with you,
dear sister, won’t you?”
“No, no, Zuleime, I wish to sleep,” said Carolyn, still pressing both
hands to her throbbing temples.
“Well, then, dear Carolyn, let me undress you, you can never compose
yourself in that dress;” and the affectionate girl began to take off her
slippers and stockings, saying—“I can take off all the small articles,
and unlace your stomacher without disturbing you, sister, and then you
need not stand up more than a minute to disrobe.”
In indifference or abstraction, Miss Clifton permitted the gentle girl
to unclasp all her jewels, and loosen her dress, without ever removing
her hands, clasped tightly upon her temples, till Zuleime, wishing to
take down the elaborate _coiffure_, gently withdrew them, and unwound
the strings of pearls, and unfastened the plume of feathers. When the
affectionate girl had laid aside all these glittering gewgaws, and freed
her long, fair hair, and relieved her oppressed and fevered head, the
proud and scornful Carolyn, subdued by the gentleness of her sweet, only
sister, looked in her face, read there a strange sympathy, delicate as
it was deep, and suddenly put her arms around her neck, drew her head
down to her own, and kissed her fondly, murmuring—
“Oh, Zuleime! my child, my child! if you knew—”
“I _do_ know, dearest Carolyn! Dearest sister, I _do_ know it all! all!
and feel it—feel it from the bottom of my heart! That is the reason I
came in, Carolyn! But I did not come in to disturb you, even by my
sympathy. I came in to put you to sleep. Stand up, dearest Carolyn, and
drop these heavy robes, and I will throw this light wrapper around you,
and then you can lie down again—there!”
“Oh! sleep!—when shall I sleep again?” bitterly asked Carolyn, as
Zuleime laid her head tenderly back upon the freshened pillow.
“Well, don’t talk, dear Carolyn, and you will see that God will send
sleep.” And Zuleime cooled her brow by passing over it several times a
lump of ice in a napkin, and laid down by her side, and fanned her, in
that measured, monotonous time, so inducive to slumber. So slowly she
fanned her, resisting all her attempts to enter into conversation, until
wearied nature yielded, and Carolyn was asleep. Then, as it was morning,
Zuleime hoisted the windows, to admit a fresh current of air, but left
the blinds closed, to exclude the light. Next, she put all Carolyn’s
things carefully away, and silently restored the room to order. Then she
laid a folded napkin, dipped in ice water, over the still burning brow,
and cautiously left the room, to go and order tea and toast to be ready
for Carolyn as soon as she should awake. She found the house below
stairs in a great but comparatively silent bustle. The servants, who had
scarcely retired the night previous, were engaged in clearing away the
disorder of the saloon, parlor and dining-room, and in laying the cloth
for breakfast for the numerous visitors who had remained over night.
Zuleime passed on to the kitchen, and gave her orders, and then silently
stole up stairs again to her sister’s room.
Carolyn slept long and heavily. Several hours passed before she awoke.
When she opened her eyes, and fixed them gratefully upon Zuleime, she
raised her arms, again embraced her, saying—
“You have comforted me, dear Zuleime.”
“And I will comfort you more, dear sister. I know how to do it. How do
you feel, Carolyn?”
“Better—my head clearer—my nerves steadier—but a weary weight at my
heart.”
“It shall go away, Carolyn. I know how to drive it away. But first you
must take something.”
And Zuleime rang the bell, and told the servant who appeared, to bring
Miss Carolyn some _fresh_ tea and toast.
While he was gone after it, Zuleime bathed her sister’s face and hands,
and combed out her hair, and by the time she was made comfortable, the
servant re-appeared with the refreshments.
After Carolyn had breakfasted lightly, (and this was the first food she
had taken for thirty-six hours,) she fell exhausted back upon her
pillow, and said—
“I cannot appear this morning, Zuleime! I am tired of acting a part!”
“You need not do it, dear Carolyn! The people have breakfasted, and are
almost all gone—and the others are going. Carolyn, dear, I saw _Archer_
when he went away—”
Miss Clifton was still too proud to make a comment.
“Carolyn, he looked broken-hearted, despairing—indeed he did! Oh,
Carolyn! I think if he could have hoped that you would have made up with
him, he would have let his regiment go to perdition rather than not
hastened to your feet!”
“Why did he not try, then?”
“Oh, sister, you banished him, and men have some pride. He waited for
your relenting, I feel sure!”
Carolyn remembered, with bitter regret, her refusal to let her father go
and recall him.
“Carolyn, write to him. The detachment under his command does not march
from Winchester for nine days yet. Write, Carolyn—there is abundant time
for him to get your letter and answer it before he goes. Then you will
be reconciled and happy. Everything will be restored, and you will
comfort yourself by remembering that he would have had to have gone, any
way, and that he is gone reconciled!”
Miss Clifton shook her head.
“No, Zuleime! I cannot! I should not know _how_ to write such a letter!
What could I say to him?”
“Say! _I_ should know what to say! If you have banished him, revoke your
sentence of exile. If you have ascertained that you have done him
injustice, tell him so. If you are sorry that you parted in anger, let
him know it. If you wish to hear from him before he goes, ask him to
write to you.”
“I could not!—I could not! I never could write such a letter! My
heart-strings would crack in the attempt.”
“And are you _so_ proud? And will you let him go forth to that ghastly
Indian war—oh, God! my flesh creeps only to think of it!” said Zuleime,
shuddering. “And will you not retract your false accusation, and revoke
your cruel sentence of banishment, and express kind feelings and kind
wishes for him about to be exposed to such horrors?”
“I can’t! I can’t! I _cannot_! My heart-strings would snap with the
effort! I can bear sorrow, but not humiliation! I can die, but I cannot
be humbled!”
“You cannot be humbled by an act of justice, sister. That letter would
be only an act of justice. And, oh! it would give him such happiness,
and bring you such sweet peace, in place of all this heart-burning.
Think of it, dear Carolyn!”
While Zuleime spoke, a rap was heard at the door, and a servant
appeared, and said that “Marster wished to see Miss Zuleime in the
parlor.”
“Think of it, dear Carolyn,” said Zuleime, in a cheerful voice, kissing
her sister’s forehead, and then hastening out of the room.
Carolyn _did_ think of it! The idea once presented, she could not banish
it again;—the hope of a reconciliation once raised, could not be
suppressed! She could think of nothing else. “It was but an act of
common justice—it was a duty,” she repeated to herself, many times, to
answer the objections of her pride, which argued, “It is undignified,
unwomanly, to make this overture.” Then her love, her benevolence, her
fears for him, pleaded, “It will make him so happy—it will fill his
heart with courage, and his arm with strength for the battle! And
suppose he should be killed?—what intolerable remorse will be added to
your sorrow for him when you reflect that he died without a relenting
word from you, who have been so cruelly unjust to him! That he died
under your own sentence of exile! Besides, if none of these things
happen, can _you_ bear these weary, weary days of estrangement, absence,
and suspense?—weary, weary days, that will slowly, slowly drag
themselves through weeks, and months, and years of time?” Oh, no! No,
no! She cannot bear that prospect! She will be just—she will do her
duty, and satisfy her affection at the same time. _Down, pride!_ for she
will write that letter. She did write it. She did not read it over
again, lest scorn should rise and compel her to hurl it down and set her
heel upon it. She set her teeth almost grimly in her determination to
protect that gentle, loving missive of sorrow and affection from an
assault of her besetting sin, as she sealed and directed it. She then
slipped on her dressing-gown, and stole down the back stairs, where she
found a boy lounging. She ordered him to saddle a horse immediately, and
take that letter to the post-office. Nay, she waited till she saw the
boy off, and was sure that none had seen him or the letter he carried.
Then she returned to her own room, determining that no soul—not her
father—not even Zuleime, should share her confidence and know her
condescension.