THE BLACK SEAL.
Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide,
Not once had turned to either side—
Nor once did those sweet eyelids close,
Or shade the glance on which they rose;
But round their orbs of darkest hue,
The circling white dilated grew—
And there with glassy gaze she stood,
As ice were in her curdled blood.—BYRON.
The evening was chilly—just chilly enough to make the novelty of the
first fire of the season a luxury. And so Zuleime had ordered a bright
little fire kindled in the parlor, and the tea-table set out there. And
she had changed her white muslin dress for a fine crimson poplin one,
and began to think of the pleasant autumn evenings, when all the family
would gather around the hearth, with needle-work and books and social
chat. And, like a child, she was forgetting the threatening dangers that
lay before her, and those she loved—her father’s trouble, Major Cabell’s
expected arrival, Frank’s peril in distant warfare, the difficulties of
her own position—all were for awhile forgotten, in the dream of cheerful
fireside affection and comfort, as she moved about the room, closing
blinds, dropping curtains, and wheeling easy-chairs up near the fire,
and thinking with what a fine smile of genial satisfaction her father
would come in and look around upon the change before he dropped himself
into that largest easy-chair. Mr. Clifton had ridden to the village, but
was expected back to tea. And there sat the tea-table, a little aside,
to be clear of the chair, near the fire-place, and radiant with snowy
damask and shining silver.
Carolyn came in, pacing softly, slowly, and turning her eyes around the
room with a look of languid approval, she sank into an arm-chair.
Zuleime went to her immediately, and relieved her of the large shawl she
had worn through the chilly passages, and closed her dressing-gown, and
settled the lace border of the delicate little cap, and placed the
softest cushion under her feet, and then kissed her forehead, but did
not speak. Carolyn repaid her with a silent look of affection. Since the
departure of Catherine, Carolyn had sunk into a sort of mute
despondency, in spite of all the care and affection of her sister, for
it was her moral nature that needed help, and the young Zuleime could
not
“Minister to a mind diseased”
Mrs. Georgia Clifton entered, and silently glided to her seat.
Unconsciously, Georgia became a dark and terrible picture. She sat upon
a low ottoman, at the corner of the fire-place, her head supported by
her hand, and all her glittering ringlets falling like a glory down each
side of her darkly splendid face. And through that strong light and
shadow her form palpitated, her bosom heaved and fell, her moist lips
dropped apart, and her eyes gleamed with a set, steady fire, as though
some passionate trance wrapt and spell-bound her soul.
Zuleime was moving about the room, and giving directions to a servant,
who had brought in cakes and preserves. Finally she sat down, and took
out her knitting—it was a pair of white lamb’s wool socks, for her
father—and knitted while she waited. She had not long to wait.
The door swung open silently, and Mr. Clifton entered, with a newspaper
in his hand, but looking so shocked and troubled, that all, with one
accord, raised their eyes in silent inquiry.
“Poor Frank! poor Frank!” exclaimed the old man, as if he was ready to
burst into a passion of tears.
“What!—what of Frank?” asked a faltering, gasping voice, which he could
not recognize as belonging to either of the three young women
present—yet answered, mechanically—
“Those bloody Redskins! Those ghastly, horrible Savages!” he cried,
throwing himself into a chair.
“There—there has been some fighting! Is——Tell me!—tell me! You know what
I want to know. _Is Archer safe?_” exclaimed Carolyn, bending forward.
While sallow and fierce, the eyes of Georgia gleamed the terror and
anxiety she dared not express!
“Archer is safe!” said Mr. Clifton.
And the light of a sudden joy flitted across Georgia’s dark face,—and
Carolyn sank back, with a look of grateful relief. And no one noticed
Zuleime. And no one knew that she had spoken.
“Yes! Archer is safe! Thank God! And a thousand times _thank God_, that
Archer is safe! But Frank!—poor Frank! My God what a fate! Who shall
tell his mother?”
“For Heaven’s sake!—what has happened to Mr. Fairfax?” asked Georgia.
“There! There! Read for yourself,” replied the old man, getting up, and
handing her the paper. He did not mean that she should read aloud,
perhaps—but he forgot—he was confused with trouble.
And she took the paper, and read:—“FROM THE INDIAN FRONTIER; HORRIBLE
MASSACRE NEAR FORT PROTECTION.—Dispatches from our Western frontier
bring the most painful account of a horrible massacre of a part of our
troops by the Indians, in the vicinity of Fort Protection. On Monday,
the 15th ultimo, a small reconnoitering party left the Fort, under the
command of Lieutenant Fairfax. They had proceeded about a mile on their
way, when they fell into an ambuscade of Indians, and were cut to pieces
in the most shocking manner. The body of Lieutenant Fairfax, in
particular, was so horribly mutilated as to be scarcely recognizable.
The full particulars of the massacre, given below, are copied from the
‘National Sentinel.’”
Then followed a long account of the catastrophe, with every revolting
circumstance detailed with horrid distinctness. The old man heard and
groaned at intervals. Carolyn shuddered and wept by turns. And even
Georgia’s voice broke down for pity and horror. But _she_—the wife—the
widow—she—the fearfully bereaved—she sat and listened to all the
murderous story. She heard all—all. How he had been set upon by six or
seven—how he had singly battled with them, when all his party were lying
dead around him—how then he tried to escape such fearful odds—how he was
felled, and dragged down from his horse—the young, warm beating heart
was cloven through—the fair hair torn from the bleeding skull—the
fingers chopped off for the sake of the ring—Frank wore but one—a simple
gold ring, with a coral set, that she had taken from her slender fore
finger, and contrived to squeeze past the joint, and get it comfortably
upon his little finger. And they had cut it off in their haste to get
it. How real that trifle made the whole horror, that might else have
seemed like a nightmare! She sat and heard it all—all. And no motion, no
tear, no cry escaped her.
At last, when the reading was over, and they were released from the
spell of horror, old Mr. Clifton thought of Zuleime, and feared its
effect on her. He turned to look at her. At first he saw nothing amiss.
She sat so naturally, though still, with her knitting in her hands, as
though only stopped for an instant, and her face turned in a listening
attitude toward Georgia, who had ceased to read.
“It is all over—there is no more to hear, Zuleime, my darling,” said the
old man.
But she did not move or speak. She seemed to look and listen intently.
“Zuleime,” said her father gently.
She remained perfectly still.
“_Zuleime!_” he exclaimed, in a louder tone. She did not hear.
“ZULEIME!!” he cried, a third time, going towards her, to seize her
shoulder.
But he started back in affright. They were all gazing at her now.
“My God! she is DEAD!” ejaculated the father.
“She is MAD!” exclaimed Georgia.
They gathered around her. She knew it not. She sat there as if frozen
into that attitude—her face white and hard—her lips bloodless and stiff,
and her eyes still fixed towards the spot from which Georgia had been
reading, but beyond it—beyond it—into the far distance, as if fascinated
by some spectacle there of unutterable horror!
“Zuleime! what are you looking at? Speak to me, my child!” cried her
father, in great distress.
He might as well have expected a statue to speak.
Carolyn took the knitting away, which, through all this, had dangled
between her stiff, unconscious fingers. Georgia rubbed her hands.
Carolyn bathed her face. The old man cried to her—all in vain! They
might as well have performed these offices for the dead.
They lifted her up, and laid her on a sofa—her limbs hanging helplessly,
like those of a dead or swooning girl. But she was neither dead nor
swooning. Wherever they moved her, her eyes were still fixed, in that
bright, burning, horrible stare, upon the distance, as though the vision
of the ghastly spectacle that had been conjured up before her
imagination, followed her wherever she was turned.
They took her up stairs, undressed and put her to bed. All night long
she lay in the same state.
In the morning there was no change, except that the muscles of the face
had fallen, the cheeks sunken, the chin dropped, and that concentrated,
intense gaze into vacancy, was more burning bright than ever. It was as
though a burning soul was consuming the unconscious flesh to death. Or
as if a body were turning to dust and ashes with the spirit still
imprisoned in it.
“She is sinking, and must die, unless she can be moved to tears,” said
the doctor.
But what should move her to tears? Was there anything on earth that she
could weep for now? Her old gray father had knelt, weeping, by her
bedside, and torn his silver hair in anguish, without causing a single
eyelash to quiver over that fixed, burning eye! What should make her
weep? Plaintive music? She could not be made to hear it! The very songs
that she and Frank had sung together? The sound was drowned in the
groans from that scene of blood!
Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, had come over, but though she was a woman
of great skill and experience, all her efforts failed to rouse the girl
from that fearful trance, which seemed likely to end in death.
“Send for Catherine! If any one in the world can do her good now, it
will be Catherine. There is, besides, a Free-Masonry between girls of
the same age, that makes them instinctively understand each other. If a
child were in a stupor, I should certainly send its favorite
playmate—another child—as the most likely being to rouse it,” said Mrs.
Clifton.
“Ah! My Lord!—this is worse than any stupor! I wish to Heaven she would
fall into a stupor,” replied the father.
“I know it! For her mind is not dulled, but seems wrought up to the
highest pitch, and intent upon some imaginary vision of horror. She must
be brought out of it. She must be subdued. Send for Catherine.”
Mr. Clifton went himself in the gig, to bring the kind girl.
When Catherine arrived, and while she stood by the side of the stricken,
insensible girl, Mr. Clifton said to her—
“You see, my dear child Zuleime seems to have been very much attached to
this poor young man. And the news of his horrid death was broken to her
suddenly, and it has just thrown her into this state! Look at her eyes!
What do you think they see—in imagination, I mean?”
“They see that scene of massacre—they see the death of her lover,” said
Kate, looking piteously at her friend—(for Zuleime _was_ her friend)—and
brooding deeply over some idea.
“The doctor says she must die if she cannot be made to weep! Oh, Katey,
my dear, _dear_ girl! If you can _only_ make her weep! I will give you—I
was going to say—I would give you half of all I have in the world! Come,
try! That’s a good girl! You girls all know each other’s little
fool-secrets and love nonsenses. Come, try. Do you want to be left alone
with her?”
Kate shook her head in that quick way usual to her when strong feeling
kept her silent—but she added—
“Give me her keys.”
The old man seemed surprised, but looked about and discovered the
required articles in her little work-basket, and handed them to Kate.
“I only want to search and see if I cannot find something that was
his—some little token or keepsake, you know.”
The old man took his station at the foot of the bed, while Kate pursued
her search. She knew what she was looking for, it was a curl of fair
hair. She had caught a glimpse of it once—when Zuleime had opened a box
in her drawer, and had immediately shut it again with a deep blush. And
now she knew whose hair it was; and that the sight of it would bring
tears to those burning eye-balls, and consciousness to that frenzied
brain. She found it. She could have wept herself as she raised it from
its little hiding place. She took it to the bedside—put her hand gently
over those glaring eyes to darken them, and break the spell if possible,
and then lifting her hand off again, she held up the lock of hair by the
end, letting it drop into a fair shining ringlet before the eyes of the
girl, as she said—
“Zuleime, do you know whose hair this is?”
The poor scathed eye-balls fixed upon it—softened—melted from their
searching glare—a change came over her face—she extended her hand, and
caught the tress as if fearing to lose it, and pressed it with both
hands to her heart. Then her bosom began to heave convulsively, as with
a great coming agony. Catherine caught her up, for she seemed about to
suffocate. It was only the coming of the flood of tears—yes, the
_flood_, for she fell upon Catherine’s sustaining bosom, and sobbed and
wept—such a deluge of tears, that the girl’s dress was dripping wet, and
it grew a wonder where so much came from. And Catherine’s heart was
smitten, and she wept, too—wept till she grew so weak she could scarcely
sustain her burthen. And then old Mr. Clifton came around and relieved
her, taking Zuleime into his arms and laying her head against his
shoulder, saying—
“There, cry! Cry on its father’s neck, as much as it wants to! It shall
cry its fill, poor thing! poor little heart-broken thing!”
And she _did_, abundantly!—but pressed and kissed her father’s neck the
while for his tender words. This melted down the old man’s heart so that
he said—
“They shan’t plague you! None of them shall! Charley Cabell shan’t come
here to trouble you! _That_ he shan’t. _Come what will_, you shan’t be
forced to marry him! No, no, my darling—my poor little heart-broken
darling, you shan’t! I’ll see him in perdition first! And myself, too!
There, don’t stop! Cry it all out on father’s neck! Don’t stop! Catch
your breath and begin again! That’s right! That’s a good girl! Oh,
she’ll cry a plenty this bout. Once I couldn’t bear to hear women cry!
It was because I did not know that if the grief was not cried out, it
would stay in the heart and burst it! I will never try to stop a woman
from crying again. Cry on, my poor little thing!” And so most tenderly,
but half-childishly, the old man talked, and petted, and cooed over her.
Catherine slipped down stairs to prepare tea and toast.
When she came back, she found Zuleime lying back upon the pillow
exhausted, but composed, and still pressing the little lock of hair.
Catherine set down the little waiter, and took a bowl and napkin and
washed her face with cologne and water, and then brought the cup of tea.
Zuleime shook her head mournfully.
Catherine stooped and whispered.
“For your father’s sake, dear. Look at him.”
Zuleime raised her eyes to the old man’s grief-worn, anxious face, and
then extended her hand for the cup, and drank the tea.
While Zuleime was resting in Catherine’s arms and drinking the tea, a
knock was heard at the door, and when Mr. Clifton opened it, a servant
appeared and told him that Major Cabell had arrived, and wished to speak
with him.
And the old gentleman set his teeth, and immediately went below.