SUSPENSE.
Uncertainty!
Fell demon of our fears! The human soul
That can sustain _despair_—endures not _thee_.—ANON.
A weary week passed away. Zuleime had written to Frank, and Carolyn, we
already know, had despatched a letter to Archer. But the week had passed
away, and no answer to either had come from Winchester. Had the sisters
confided in each other, such mutual confidence might have soothed the
soul-sickening anxiety of _one_ at least. Carolyn would have known that
some accident _must_ have prevented Frank Fairfax from receiving or
answering the momentous letter of his youthful wife, and she would have
felt that the same cause had probably operated in the case of Archer
Clifton. But the sisters did not entrust their secrets to each other.
Zuleime was withheld by her sacred promise. Carolyn by her pride. But
the wife bore the pain of suspense far better than the maiden. The wife
had perfect faith in her young husband, and knew that some adverse
chance had hindered his getting or replying to her letter. The maiden
knew that she had unjustly banished her lover. And she had no faith in
the love that endureth all things. Carolyn had never suspected the depth
of that calm, secure, habitual affection—which had from childhood
grown—until now. While life and love and hope had flowed smoothly on,
her emotions were serene and moderate. But now that the quiet stream had
been stemmed by rocks and breakers, it was lashed into fury and roared
in whirlpools. The calm sentiment rose to turbulent, maddening passion.
Her days were restless, her nights sleepless, until, as the week wore
away, her nerves were wrought to such severity of tension, that you
might know that at the end of uncertainty, whether that were joy or
sorrow, they must alike suddenly give way. Towards the last of the week,
she had privately besought her father to ride to Winchester, and see the
detachment off, and bring her the last news of it. The request had been
confidential—yet do you feel all that it had cost her haughty heart?
During the absence of Mr. Clifton, suspense was wrought up to agony. Her
days and nights were feverish, delirious, and so confused into each
other, that she scarcely knew the fitful, disturbed visions of the
night, from the wild and anxious broodings of the day. The day upon
which her father was expected back, was the acme, the crisis of her
suffering. Oblivious of pride and caution, careless of exposing herself
to the malign sneers of Georgia, or the rude comments of the servants,
she sat in the piazza, watching the road by which the carriage should
come—one wild, anxious, despairing hope possessing her. “The drowning
catch at straws”—and she, in her despair, had clutched one mad
possibility, and clung to it, until to her weakened, confused, insane
soul, it seemed a probability, and then almost a certainty. It was the
hope that Clifton might return with her father! Oh, yes! That Clifton
might resign his commission and come back to her. Oh! if indeed he loved
her, as he had a thousand times sworn, if he sorrowed over their
estrangement only half as much as she did, no hope of glory, no fear of
disgrace would keep him back. The more she brooded over this, the more
likely, the more certain it appeared to be. And she sat and gazed up the
dim forest road.
The sun sank to the edge of the horizon, and lit up all the mountain
tops with fire, and then went down. And when she could no longer see,
she still sat and strained her ear to catch the distant sound of wheels.
The moon arose, and flooded all the mountain scenery with silver light,
and flashed upon that distant bend of the river, until it seemed a
silver lake, lying among the dark hills, and pointed the peaks of White
Cliffs, until they stood up and glittered, like an enormous row of
spears, against the deep blue sky.
At last, at last the very distant sound of wheels came faintly like a
doubt to her ear, and faded away again. Then it came more distinctly,
nearer, and a moving object appeared upon the road. And she knew indeed
it was her father’s carriage. She saw and recognized it in the moon
light. It turned into the lawn gate, rolled rapidly around the circular
drive, and swept swiftly up to the entrance, where it stopped. The steps
were let down, the door opened, and old Mr. Clifton got out, followed
by—no one.
Carolyn had bent eagerly, unconsciously forward; now she started up and
caught her father’s hand, and gazed silently, imploringly into his face,
for the news she could not ask for.
“The detachment has marched, my dear child! Marched the morning of the
day upon which I reached Winchester, and two days before it was expected
to have gone. So, you see, I could not get a sight of either Frank or
Archer. They were thirty miles on their road before I reached the city.
Can’t think what could have been the reason of the new order, to
anticipate their departure by two days. However! cheer up! No use
fretting, my dear! No use fretting! The family have supped long ago, of
course—have they kept my supper hot for me? I am as hungry as an old
wolf,” said the old man.
Carolyn did not hear him. Her hold relaxed upon his arm, her hands flew
up to her head, and she turned, as one struck with sudden blindness, and
tottered into the house. It was so dark in the shady piazza, screened
from the moonbeams by interlacing cypress vines, that the old man did
not see her state. He hastened into the house, where another awaited him
with equal anxiety.
Zuleime’s private hope had been that Frank would seize the opportunity
of Mr. Clifton’s visit, and confess his marriage, and invent some way of
delivering her father from the toils of Major Cabell.
“What news, father?” she asked, meeting him in the hall.
“‘What news?’ Why, I am as hungry as a bear, my pet! That’s the news! I
stopped to supper at L——. But, my life! They like to have poisoned me
with _fried_ beefsteaks and heavy biscuits and green coffee. Couldn’t
touch a morsel, child! And now I am starved up to a savage pitch! What
have you got for supper?”
“Turtle soup and old crusted port, among other things, father,” replied
Zuleime, waving her own anxiety for the sake of satisfying him.
“TURTLE SOUP! And OLD CRUSTED PORT;” exclaimed the old man, in an
ecstacy of delight. “Why, where on earth did they come from?”
“The turtle came from a ship at Norfolk, and was sent hither by Major
Cabell, who added a dozen of port of his own importation,” said Zuleime,
dying with anxiety to hear from Frank.
“Ah-h-h-h! _That_ was kind! _He’s_ a fellow! He’ll make a magnificent
husband and son-in-law, Zuleime! I hope you know how turtle soup should
be made?”
“Father, I know it should be eaten quite _hot_, and it is on the table
by this time. Come in.”
The old man needed no pressing, but went into the dining-room, and sat
down at the table, with a face radiant with delight. Zuleime waited on
him, although there was a servant in attendance. And when he had freely
partaken of turtle soup, devilled crabs, a roasted fowl, etc., washed
them down with port wine, she brought him a cup of fragrant Mocha coffee
and his case of cigars. And he sipped the coffee with an air of infinite
leisure, and then lit a cigar and puffed slowly away, as if eternity was
before him.
“Father, what news from Winchester?” again asked Zuleime, though her
hopes had fallen very low. “What news, dear father?”
“What’s that to you, my pet? Will you let me digest my supper in peace?”
Zuleime sat down, but looked so anxious, that her very _looks_ worried
the old gentleman, and he said—
“Don’t you know, girl, that indigestion is very dangerous to a man of my
time of life? It may bring on apoplexy! Don’t worry me!”
Zuleime veiled her anxious gaze, but even then the paleness of her
cheeks annoyed her father, and he testily inquired—
“Now, what is it to you? I can understand Carolyn’s anxiety. I cannot
comprehend yours at all! There, now. Go and send my wife to me!”
Zuleime arose to obey, but before she went, she threw her arms around
his neck, and asked—
“Dearest father, _only_ tell me! Were our friends well? Have they gone?
Did they send any message?”
“Only answer you three questions at a time! That is reasonable! However,
I can answer all in one. I have not seen our friends. Their detachment
left Winchester twelve hours before I reached there. And now I’ll tell
you what I did not like to tell Carolyn, poor girl! Namely, that the
detachment marched two days earlier than was intended, upon account of
dispatches received from Fort ——, praying for speedy succor in a
reinforcement. The savages have been massacreing and scalping there at a
most tremendous rate! It is really a very dangerous service, Indian
warfare! God grant that our young friends may return to us safe! Why
don’t you go along and tell Georgia to come to me?”
Zuleime kissed her father, settled the cushion under his feet, and went
on her errand. That dispatched, she sought her own chamber, and lay down
to collect her thoughts. No letter or message from her husband, and her
promise of secrecy in regard to her marriage, binding on her as ever.
And next week she must give an answer to her father for Major Cabell.
She was confident that one of two things had happened. Either her letter
had never reached Frank, or else his answer had been lost. And by the
transaction only one week’s respite had she gained for her father—for
next week her refusal must be decided and final, and then—what might not
the consequence be to him? These thoughts excited her mind, and kept her
awake. And despite her determination to sleep, and her efforts to do so,
she heard every passing hour strike. It was soon after one o’clock that
she had fallen into a fitful slumber, when she was awakened by the sound
of a gay, high voice, intermingling merry words and joyous laughter.
Indeed, there seemed to be not only one, but many voices, talking and
laughing in the most jocund manner. And strange—passing strange! it
seemed to come from her sister’s room, which adjoined hers! She listened
awhile; the words became fewer, but the laughter grew wilder! And then
it struck upon her frightened senses that Carolyn was a maniac, talking,
laughing to herself! Springing from her bed, and without even waiting to
slip on a gown, she ran into the passage and knocked at her sister’s
door, and attempted to push it open. It was locked on the inside, and
all her efforts to force an entrance were vain, and all her entreaties
for admission were answered by peals of unconscious laughter. At last
she ran to her father’s door, and rapped loudly, exclaiming—
“Father, father! Get up! get up! Something, I am sure, has happened to
Carolyn! Something dreadful! Get up! get up!”
The old man was hard to awaken, even by the efforts of Georgia, who was
aroused at once, and came and opened the door for Zuleime! And all this
time the sound of loud talk, high laughter, and wild snatches of song,
as from several excited people, rather than from one, issued from
Carolyn’s chamber. At length, by the united exertions of his wife and
daughter, the fatigued and drowsy old gentleman was aroused and placed
upon his feet, and made to
“Understand a horror in their words—
If not the words.”
He threw on his shawl gown and hastened to Carolyn’s door, which was
instantly forced open.
And what a sight met their eyes!
There stood Miss Clifton arrayed in her gorgeous bridal costume, looking
gloriously beautiful, though certainly as no bride ever looked before!
The raging fever had given the brightness and richness of the carnation
rose to her complexion, and imparted a supernatural light to her eyes,
that burned and flashed, and seemed to strike fire as they sprang from
one to the other of the intruders, with a mad, joyous, defiant glance!
The alarm of her father was unlimited, unspeakable! He darted from the
room, and almost precipitated himself down the stairs in his haste to
mount and dispatch a servant for the family physician. And while he was
gone, Georgia and Zuleime, by coaxing and humoring the phantasy of the
poor girl, succeeded in undressing her and putting her to bed—she still
raving about her marriage, and sometimes breaking out into a wild laugh,
and once telling Georgia that _she_, being a married woman, had no right
or business to be officiating as bridesmaid.
It was near morning when the doctor came. After examining the state of
the patient, he pronounced her disease to be brain fever, brought on by
over-excitement of the nervous system. He wrote prescriptions, and
remained with her until they were administered. And then he departed
with a promise to return early in the forenoon.
Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, was summoned, and lost no time in
hastening to the sick room of her daughter-in-law, as she chose to call
Carolyn.
For many days the struggle between life and death went on, and no one,
not even the medical attendant, was able to form an opinion as to which
power would eventually conquer.
Mrs. Clifton had taken her station by the bedside of the patient as
permanent nurse, and she constantly refused to yield her post to any
other person. And it was to her vigilant attention, quick perceptions,
and intelligent treatment, that all the family ascribed the recovery of
the girl. For the crisis came and passed, and Carolyn Clifton lived.
But no sooner was the patient pronounced out of danger, and the
excitement of anxiety over, than the nurse herself fell ill. And Mrs.
Clifton, exhausted, prostrated, entered her carriage, and was driven to
Hardbargain.