MRS. FAIRFAX AND MAJOR CABELL.
A father suffering, and a step-dame false,
A foolish suitor to a wedded lady.
SHAKSPEARE—CYMBELINE.
Zuleime went into the parlor and found her father alone. He was sitting
in an easy-chair, doing nothing, but apparently waiting for her.
“Come hither, Zuleime,” he said.
And when she went up to him, he drew her upon his knee, and passed his
left arm around her waist, while, with his right hand, he smoothed her
black hair.
And he gazed fondly in her face. He noticed that her cheek was pale, and
her countenance pensive, but hoped that it was from the excitement of
the night before. He could not bear to think of its being regret for
Frank. He feared to ask her the cause of her seriousness. He disliked to
recall Frank in any manner to her recollection. He wished her to forget
him, if possible. At least, _he_ would do so.
“Zuleime,” he said, after he had stroked her hair some time, “you know,
my love, that your aunt Cabell, and your cousins, are going back to
Richmond to-day.”
“Are they, sir? I did not know it,” said Zuleime, turning paler, with
apprehension of something that might be coming.
“Yes, my dear, they are. And, Zuleime—” here he paused—then he went on,
“you have been thinking, I suppose, that you should have to return with
them, to enter upon your school duties again, as the first of September
is so near.”
“I had not thought of it, sir! So many things happening, put it out of
my head. But I am quite willing to go, and can be ready in half an
hour.”
“Thank you, my dear child. I am very glad to see you so prompt to oblige
me; but, my dear Zuleime, I have good news for you.”
“Good news, sir?”
“Yes, girl! the best news! the _very_ best news! news that young ladies
always rejoice to hear!”
“What news, sir?” she asked, fearfully.
“Don’t whine, girl! it is not your sentence of death! It is your deed of
emancipation! Your ‘free papers,’ as the niggers would say. You are not
to return to school any more! Are you not surprised? Are you not
rejoiced now?”
Zuleime was not. She was anxious, foreboding.
“Why don’t you speak, my dear? Ain’t you glad you’re not going back to
school, to leather shoulder braces and back boards, and square and
compass rules and regulations, that mean nothing, unless they mean
persecution and torture! Say, ain’t you glad?”
“I think I had rather go back to school for the present, sir.”
“Nonsense, now, my dear! Ah! I see how it is! You want to return with
your dear aunt Cabell, and the dear city cousins—especially cousin
Charley! Eh, you monkey! You grow tired of the country and your old
father, as soon as ever your aunt and cousins talk about returning to
the city! Ah! you rogue,” said the old man, chucking her under the chin,
and devoutly praying that he might be right in his conjecture—for, oh!
that child’s happiness! It lay nearer his heart than anything else on
earth or in heaven.
“Dear father!” she said, embracing him, “I do not wish to leave you,
indeed I do not. I prefer the country. And I had rather _never_ leave
you, or my home.”
“Dear little rogue, now don’t tell me that! I know better you know! And
it is quite natural, and nobody blames you. The young bird must leave
its nest, and the young girl her home, when she becomes a wife. Your
mother left her parents and came home here with her husband. So do not
think, my love, that your old father will charge you with selfishness
for wishing to leave him—no, not wishing to _leave him_, but wishing to
go with one who is to be your husband.”
Zuleime dropped her head, to conceal the deadly pallor that crept over
her face.
“Yes, dear Zuleime, you will soon return to Richmond, though it will be
not as a school-girl—but as a happy bride—as Mrs. Major Cabell! What a
sonorous name and title for my little, romping Zuleime! Here, Charley
Cabell! I have broken the ice, now come and speak for yourself!”
exclaimed Mr. Clifton to Major Cabell, who was going by the door. Major
Cabell came in, passing the old gentleman, who had seized his hat, and
not trusting himself to look at his daughter, rushed out of the room.
Zuleime remained standing where he had placed her, when he put her off
his knee—panic struck—stupid—until Major Cabell took her hand, and
attempted to lead her to a seat, then snatching her hand away with a
shudder, she asked almost wildly—
“Cousin Charles, when does father want this marriage to come off?”
“As soon as my dearest Zuleime will consent to make me the happiest of
men!” replied the common-place wooer, attempting to re-capture her hand,
but she retreated shuddering, and asking, in a frantic tone and manner,
in great contrast to her calm words—
“Cousin Charles, do me a favor! Do not press this matter for a week or
so.”
“Heaven forbid that I should hurry a lady, though that lady be my own
little cousin and betrothed—only fix the day and I will rest content—so
that it is not a far distant day,” he said, re-capturing her hand,
throwing his arm around her waist, and drawing her towards him.
“Please, don’t! Let me go, cousin Charles!” exclaimed the girl, in great
distress, struggling to free herself.
“‘Please, don’t let me go, cousin Charles!’ I don’t intend to, pretty
cousin, until you tell me when you will give yourself to me!” replied
Major Cabell, kissing her all the more heartily because she strove to
escape.
“You know what I meant! Let me alone! It is unmanly to behave so! Don’t
make me hate you!” was on her quivering lips and in her flashing eyes,
as by a sudden effort she threw his arms off and sat down; but then she
recollected her father, and the cruel power Major Cabell seemed to
possess over him, and she choked down the indignant words, and said
instead—
“Please, don’t hurry and worry me, cousin Charles!—this is so very
sudden! I am sure I never dreamed you would ask for poor me for years to
come yet. I am so young.”
“‘So young!’ Ah, Zuleime, that is a piece of pretty little womanish
hypocrisy—a little finesse that belongs to your character, and is
inherited from your French mother! ‘So young!’ Now, my pretty childish
cousin, you know you have received an offer of marriage this very week!
And that, indeed, has accelerated my proposal. Fair Zuleime, a man does
not care to see his young betrothed bride courted by another!”
“_I know that!_” replied Zuleime, in a peculiarly sad voice, moving to
the other end of the room.
The slightest gesture of avoidance of him by the girl, seemed to act as
a provocative on him, so he followed her, and clasped her in his arms,
and laughing, almost rudely kissed her, begging her between the kisses
not to set his heart on fire by her charming prudery and petulance, but
to fix the day, like a good, sensible girl as she was. Almost frantic
with rage and shame at being so freely handled, the Clifton blood rushed
to her brain, and forgetting her father’s interest and everything else,
she dashed her hand violently into his face, and before he recovered
from his astonishment, broke from him and escaped—her heart beating with
one thought—one sudden, joyous thought—that come what might, she never
could be either forced or persuaded into a marriage with Major Cabell,
because she was already a wedded wife—no set of circumstances, whatever,
could make it her duty, or make it even possible for her to marry Major
Cabell. In all her sorrows, that was one blessed truth to sit down and
rest upon. All her duty was now due to her husband. And with a youthful
wife’s enthusiasm firing and strengthening her heart, she thought she
should stand as upon a rock, secure against a sea of troubles. Poor
child, she had yet to learn that no position founded on a fault is for a
moment safe. Several things soon forced themselves upon her memory and
grieved her heart;—her father’s unknown but certain danger, her own
promise of secrecy in regard to her marriage, the necessity of giving
some definite answer to Major Cabell, and the obligation pressing upon
her to prevent, by all and any means, the highly improper and extremely
offensive demonstrations of passion from her suitor. She determined to
write to Frank, tell him all that had occurred, and ask his advice and
direction; and to do this it was necessary to gain time, and to give no
false promise in the interim. Already was Zuleime beginning to taste the
bitter fruits of her stolen marriage, and might have exclaimed, in the
perplexity of her distracted heart and brain—
Oh, what a tangled web we weave,
When first we venture to deceive.
While Zuleime’s heart was beating so fast with many emotions, her father
sauntered into the parlor, where he found Major Cabell caressing and
soothing his afflicted face.
“Well, Charley, boy! How is it with you, eh? Could you win a hearing
from my little girl, eh? Give her time, you know, eh?” said the old
gentleman, affecting a lightness of heart which he was very far from
feeling.
To his surprise, Major Cabell laughed heartily, still coaxing his
ill-used phiz.
“What’s the matter, Charley? What’s amused you, eh?”
“Your girl! By my soul, Governor, I shall end in falling seriously in
love with that girl! I didn’t fancy her much at first to tell you the
truth! She was entirely too good humored—always laughing. And I had a
fancy for marrying a shrew, just for the spicy fun of taming one! The
same instinct, Governor, that makes me like to spring upon the back of
the most vicious horse I can find, and ride and lash and spur and
fatigue the soul out of his body, until I break his back or his temper,
one—eh, Governor?”
The old man’s florid cheeks became pale with rage, and he felt an
impulse to kick the puppy out, but a terrible necessity tied his tongue
and hands, and Charles Cabell went on laughing and talking to this
effect:—
“Now, then, having a fancy to marry and tame a shrew—real live, vicious,
beautiful vixen—I did not want the spiciest part of the sport taken out
of my hands by fathers and mothers and pastors and masters. I shouldn’t
have thanked any of you for presenting me with a model wife, already
smoothed down and polished to my hand. D—n your pretty pieces of
perfection! I’ll none of them—flat, insipid nonentities!—formed and
_re_-formed, and modelled, and _re_-modelled, and rubbed down and
polished until they all look as much alike as beads on a string! No,
none of your polished gems for Charles Cabell!—the bright, pure, rough,
sharp ore! Now, of Zuleime, I thought her far too much educated—too good
humored, too polite, too docile, too much of the young ‘lady,’ too
little of the wild young animal—and flat and insipid in consequence; so
I cared very little about her. But, ha, ha, ha! I never was more
mistaken in my life! She’s a prize, I tell you! A prize of the first
class! Look you! I coveted a shrew! I’ve found a virago! full of blood
and fire! strong and vicious, I tell you! ha, ha, ha! Think of her
dashing her little hand in my face when I went to kiss her, and before I
recovered my eyesight and senses, throwing me off as if I had been a
child, and escaping! Ha, ha, ha! I under-estimated her strength!—Never
mind! let the little tigress look out for the next time I get her in my
arms!”
The old man’s bosom was filled to bursting with suppressed passion, but
he answered, calmly—
“Oh! she’s young—she’s young, a spoiled child—a spoiled child; be
patient with her—she means well—give her time—be patient with her.”
“‘Patient, with her!’ Why, uncle, I wouldn’t have her a bit different
from what she is! She’s charming, delightful, piquant, spicy! ‘Patient
with her!’ Why, Gov’, I shall end in falling desperately in love with
her! But I say, nunc! make the little virago fix our marriage day, will
you? I have got to go out now and have Spitfire saddled; those fellows
never draw the girth tight enough, or fix the bit firm enough—and I have
to pull her head off to stop her sometimes, for she is the foul fiend
incarnate when she gets to running. I’ll make Zule ride her sometime, to
see which will get the better of the other. Say, Gov’, let me have my
answer when I get back—do you hear.” And seizing up his riding-whip and
cracking it against his boots, he went out.
The old man boiled over—he clenched his teeth, and shook his fist—nay,
shook his whole person, as he turned livid with rage; then his arms fell
helplessly by his side—he sank into a chair—dropped his face upon his
hands, and groaned aloud. He felt a pair of arms encircling his neck,
and a sweet voice murmuring in his ear—and he raised his head to see
Zuleime, and to hear her ask in loving tones—
“Father, what is it?”
He put his hand tenderly around her waist, and drew her gently to his
knee, and said, while he gazed remorsefully into her face—
“I am a villain, Zuleime! A hoary-headed villain!”
Zuleime placed her hand upon his mouth to stop the dreadful words, and
pressed her lips to his brow, with a look and manner of the profoundest
love and veneration.
“Yes, a hardened, persevering sinner, Zuleime! For I intend to
persevere! I intend to give you to Charley Cabell, my child,” he said,
gently removing her hand, and still gazing on her. He continued—“I love
you so much, Zuleime! I love you so much! But, dear child. He’s coming!
Dear child, tell me when you will marry Charley—Tuesday three weeks or
four weeks? Don’t let it be longer than four weeks, my girl!”
“Father! will you tell me _why_ you wish me to marry cousin Charles?”
“I cannot! I cannot! _My child_, I cannot. It is for your good, I hope!
Some day I will, perhaps. Tell me now, _that’s_ a good girl. What day
will you give this little hand to cousin Charley?”
“Father, I can’t possibly give an answer for a week yet, indeed, father,
I cannot!”
“Come, now, nonsense, my child; why can’t you? Here is Charley now!
come!”
“I cannot, father!”
The old gentleman kissed, and coaxed, and almost wept; a manner of
attack so hard to be resisted, that had Zuleime been really free, she
would have sacrificed her own and Frank’s hopes, and yielded. But
Zuleime was not free, and therefore was as firmly proof against
persuasion, as she would have been against force. Two powerful motives
operated in preventing her from confessing her marriage—first her
promise to keep it secret, and then the fear of precipitating some
violent scene between her father and cousin, or some fatal catastrophe
to the household. To end the conflict, and to gain time to consult
Frank, by writing, was what she most wished now. Finally, she promised
to give Major Cabell his answer in a week, and to marry him—_if she
should ever marry anybody_.
With this promise, Major Cabell seemed satisfied—and with his mother and
sisters took leave of Clifton. And Zuleime retired to her own room, full
of self-reproach for her own deception.