THE WIDOWED BRIDE.
Her look composed, and steady eye,
Bespoke a matchless constancy,
And there she sat, so calm and pale,
That but her breathing did not fail,
And motion slight of eye and head,
And of her bosom warranted
That neither sense nor pulse she lacks,
You might have thought a form of wax,
Wrought to the very life was there,
So still she was, so pale, so fair.—SCOTT.
A few days after the incidents recorded in the last chapter, Mrs.
Georgia Clifton entered Zuleime’s room. The poor girl was sitting in an
arm-chair near the window, idle, as was never her habit before, with her
hands lying languidly one over the other, and her eyes fixed upon
vacancy.
The beauty went to her with her soft, winning way, and took her hand,
and stole her arm over her shoulder, and said, tenderly—
“Zuleime, my love, do not sit here by this open window. Let me close it,
and lead you to the sofa.”
There is nothing so quiet as despair, except death. There is nothing so
docile as despair often is. The beauty knew this by a satanic
inspiration, and calculated on it. Zuleime suffered herself to be led to
the sofa, which was wheeled up near the fire, as she would have
permitted herself to be led any where else. Georgia sat down by her
side, and passed her arm around her waist, and said—
“My dear, I think you love your old father—do you not?”
The poor girl raised her eyes mournfully to the lady’s face, as if she
did not understand.
“You love your father. You would not be willing to see him ruined in
fortune, and degraded in honor, would you?”
Still Zuleime kept her eyes fixed upon the speaker, with an expression
of hopeless imbecility.
“My dear child, let me be explicit. And try to understand me, Zuleime.
It is of vital necessity to your father that you should. Will you listen
to me, Zuleime?”
“Yes,” said the mourner, mechanically, without removing her gaze.
“Well, then, you know your grandmother left you thirty thousand dollars?
Well. Your father owes debts amounting to twenty-five thousand dollars,
and is in danger of an execution or a prison, every day! You would
willingly give him your fortune to pay his debts with, we know. But,
unfortunately, you cannot do it, because you are not of age. Neither can
your father appropriate it, of course. But if you were to marry, then
your husband would be in legal possession of that property, and could
dispose of it. Now, Major Cabell has bought up your father’s notes to
the amount of eighteen thousand dollars, using all his available funds,
for the purpose of saving him from great distress, and in the
expectation of marrying _you_, his daughter, and obtaining your little
fortune, which would replenish his coffers again. Now, Zuleime, Major
Cabell is himself pressed for money. He would not, of course, come down
upon your father with an execution, but he will be compelled to sell
those notes again for whatever he can get for them. And then of course
the purchaser—some Jew or broker, would have no such scruples, but would
levy on all the personal property of his debtor, and most likely throw
him into prison, where he might languish for years—where he might die!
Zuleime! you will not suffer this, if you can prevent it, will you?
Speak to me, my love! I do not believe you understand me now! Why don’t
you answer me, Zuleime?”
“I—I don’t know. Yes I do. It was about a—about a—about somebody’s going
to prison. Was it the murderer? Alas, that will not bring him back.
Neither do I wish it. Not even _I_, who loved him so. I would not make
any body suffer, for the world. Oh, no.”
The beauty looked at the pale girl in deep perplexity a moment, and then
said—
“Zuleime, your _father_ is suffering! Let’s see if that will rouse you!”
“My father? Oh, no, he mustn’t. Tell him not to mind it. _I_ do not,
much, now. I know he is at rest. And we shall be, soon. Tell him not to
mind it.”
“Zuleime! Awake! Arouse yourself! Your father is in _danger_, I tell
you!”
“In danger—in danger. Tell me about it.”
“Listen to me, then! Rouse your mind! and fix it upon what I am going to
tell you about your father’s peril.”
And the lady took her hands and looked into her eyes, watching their
expression, and bringing back her wandering ideas every time they showed
the least sign of flying, and rousing up her flagging intellect every
time it betrayed a disposition to sink—and so repeated the whole history
of the difficulty over again. But the distracted mind of the poor girl
was scarcely able to follow the pains-taking narrator through the facts
of the case. Passing her hand once or twice across her corrugated brow,
she said—
“What—what is it you say about father, and prisons, and Major Cabell?
I—I am afraid my memory isn’t as good as it used to be—please tell me
over again.”
The beauty, with a shrug of her shoulders, reiterated the story, placing
it in the fewest, simplest, and most direct words she could find. But
the stricken girl only looked sorely distressed and perplexed, and said,
plaintively—
“Please forgive me, and tell me what it is that threatens father!”
“An execution—that will sweep off all the furniture from the house, and
all the negroes from the plantation; parting husbands and wives, and
parents and children, and brothers and sisters, among those poor,
faithful creatures who love you so well. And for your father’s person, a
jail, where he may be for years, or until he dies.”
“Oh, pray don’t talk to me any more, my head is so wild, so wandering,
_it wants to go back to something_,” said the poor thing, pressing her
temples, and strongly attracted to her one great wo.
“But your father!”
“Yes! Oh, only tell me what you want me to do!”
“To marry Major Cabell, who will then have the disposal of your fortune,
and can cover those notes and save your father.”
“But—oh, yes! Now I remember. Father said there was no necessity! I
needn’t do it!” said the girl, pressing her finger hard upon the centre
of her forehead, and looking keen and old with the mental effort to
bring memory, attention and understanding to bear upon the subject.
“Yes, yes, yes, yes,—he said I should weep in peace.”
“Yes, your poor old father loves you better than himself. And he said
that sooner than you should marry a man you did not love, he would die
in jail.”
“Did he? My dear good father! Oh, yes! now I think of it, it _was_
something like that, sure enough! Only my head is _so_ queer! He must
not go to jail—oh, never!”
“He _must_, unless you marry Major Cabell, and save him.”
“Well, I can marry Major Cabell—it don’t matter much—do you think it
does? Spirits up in Heaven know _nothing_ of what is going on on earth,
or they know _all_ about it, and either is better than our deceptive
half-knowledge. If spirits know anything, they will know _our_ spirit.
Dear Frank will know—will know my spirit—nay, he does! I feel sure of it
at this moment. I will marry Major Cabell.”
“But, Zuleime, if your father thinks you dislike Major Cabell, he will
not permit you to marry him.”
“But I don’t dislike Major Cabell. I don’t dislike any one. I could not
now. It seems to me that I feel sorry for every one. I pity every one.
Every one has so much trouble, mamma! Mamma, I feel sorry for _you_. I
do not know how it is, but I _do_ feel _very_ sorry for you. Have you
any trouble?—You must have. Well, let God do as He pleases with you,
because He knows best. Besides, it is only for a little while. And it
will all come right. Kiss me, mamma. I don’t think I loved you well
enough when you first came here a stranger. Never mind, I will try to
love you more in the future.”
Georgia let the poor girl kiss her, and then arose and made an excuse to
go. Zuleime was weakening all her purposes. And she was obliged to
escape as people fly sometimes from a sermon.
“Please send Kate to me, mamma,” said Zuleime.
And very soon Catherine entered.
“Dear Kate! please come and comb and curl my hair, and put on my crimson
dress, and make me decent and pretty to go down into the parlor to see
Cousin Charles. It don’t matter, you know, Kate. Frank knows all about
it. He thinks so, _too_. Because he sees my heart is breaking all the
faster for it, and that I shall the sooner be with him. You see, Kate,
it is the heart-strings that hold the soul down to the body, and when
they snap—there! It is off—it is gone like a balloon,—when the cord is
cut it ascends to Heaven. _I_ feel light like that, sometimes, as if
only one little thread kept my soul down, and if it were to snap, I
could go.”
Catherine looked at the mourner in deep trouble. Then she began to take
down her hair and comb its long sable tresses out, because she knew that
in itself to be a soothing process. And she stood and combed and brushed
it a long time, and then put it up, and bathed her face and hands.
“Now, my crimson dress,” said Zuleime, quietly.
Catherine sat down by her side, and embracing her affectionately, said—
“Dear Zuleime, you are not quite well enough to go down into the parlor;
and, besides, Major Cabell is not here. He is gone with some gentlemen
upon the mountain to shoot birds.”
Zuleime sat silent for a long time, enveloped by Catherine’s arms, and
leaning upon her shoulder. At last Kate whispered—
“Dear Zuleime, confide in me, and relieve your overburdened bosom. A
secret is so hard to keep alone in a sorrowful breast. Lay yours on my
heart, Zuleime, and it shall be safer there than my own life. Tell
me—what tie is it that binds you to Frank?”
“Hush, oh, hush!”
“Tell me, darling—you know it is not from curiosity I ask—it is that I
wish you to relieve your heart.”
“Hush! I promised him not to tell.”
“Death absolves you from that promise. A painful secret is very hard to
keep alone. _I_ know it, dearest, for _I_, too, have a secret. Now will
you trust me?”
“Hush! hush! It was his last request—I must comply with it!” said the
girl, with wild eyes.
Catherine knelt down before her, clasped her arms around her, and partly
to win her confidence, and partly to draw her mind from dwelling upon
the wo that was crazing her, said:—
“Zuleime, look at me. I am going to tell you my secret, that which it
will pain and humble my heart to tell!—that which it makes my cheek burn
now only to think of! Zuleime, I love a man who never sought, and who
would despise my love! And with whom it is forever and forever
impossible that I should marry. Yet I love him so much—so much, that my
heart is ready to burst with its powerless longing to do him some good!
Zuleime, I would give him myself—(nay, never mind my cheek burning—I
will speak in spite of its protest)—or any dearest faculty or possession
of mine, if it only could increase his happiness. Zuleime, there is a
richness and fullness of joy in sacrificing one’s self for one we love
that passes all understanding.”
“I know there is,” breathed the mourner, looking down in her face
seriously.
“That is the joy that I long for. And oh, believe me, I would sacrifice
myself or any possession or faculty I have, if it would only add to his
happiness or power. Eyesight is a precious treasure, is it not? If I
could give mine to him, and endow him with perfect vision down to deep
old age, I would consent to be dark forever. The power of speech is a
great gift—if by the loss of mine I could endow him with irresistible
eloquence, I would be dumb forever. _He_ thinks, Zuleime, that I have
talent. And sometimes _I_ think—but I don’t know, either! Anyhow, if by
yielding _all_ mine I could add a mite to the treasures of his
intellect, I would be willing to be a fool for life. In a word—if by
abdicating all my being, I could add to the largeness of his life, I
would glow with joy to do it.”
“Do not love him so! He will die if you do! _I know it!_ Frank died!”
“And yet, Zuleime, it is not that I wish to _lose_ my being, but to
_add_ to it. I do not know why it is, but I feel—not like an individual,
independent existence, but like the complement of that other existence—a
half life—not full and complete of itself, waiting to be joined to the
other half.”
“He will love you. He will find you out,” said Zuleime. And her words,
and tone, and look thrilled like a prophecy to the heart of Catherine,
but she shook her head gravely, and answered—
“Never, Zuleime! It would be a sin even to hope it!——But, Zuleime, I
have laid my secret on your heart—_now_ will you confide in me?”
“Oh, Kate! I would do it. I _wish_ to do it! But I promised him!”
“Dear Zuleime, when he required that of you, he did not think what
might, what has happened. You must tell me, Zuleime. For if you have not
some one with whom you can talk freely, you—_I fear for you_. You cannot
bear your burden alone! Few human beings can! Tell me, darling?”
“Oh, Kate! It was the last thing he asked me! I must comply with his
wish!”
“Zuleime! I am about to cast away all reserve! I am about to tell you
the name of him I love so madly. It is Archer Clifton, your cousin—your
sister’s betrothed! There! I have thrown open the very sanctuary of my
heart to you. I have shown its secret sin and shame! Now, will you
confide in me!”
“Dear Kate! Dearest Kate! My own secret’s without reserve, but not
another’s.”
Catherine arose and took the seat by the mourner’s side. Well would it
have been for Zuleime in after life, if she could now have made a
confidant as well as friend of the excellent girl. But at least
Catherine’s efforts had not been all in vain. The mind of the mourner
was a little more rational—her part in conversation not quite so
_distrait_. Presently Zuleime said—
“It is getting towards evening. Cousin Charles will be back to supper.
Curl my hair, Kate! and put on my crimson dress, I _must_ go down and
spend the evening with them in the parlor! I must, Kate. It is for my
dear father’s sake! You do not know, Kate, else _you_ would also advise
it.”
Catherine essayed to prevent her, but finding her quite determined,
yielded the point, and assisted her to dress. When her toilet was
complete, she sat down again upon the sofa, and put her hand to her head
in troubled thought. Then at last she spoke, saying—
“Kate! I am afraid. It seems to me that—that my head has not been quite
right. And—and my speech has not been quite to the point. Kate, I want
you to tell me—can I trust myself to talk, do you think? or had I better
not try this evening? They might think me crazy if I should not talk
straight! But I am not! I am not crazy—only—Tell me how I am, and what I
had better do, dear Kate?”
“Try to attend and be interested in what is going on, dearest, and talk
when occasion presents itself. And do not be afraid. Every one will
understand it is only nervousness, darling.”
“You encourage me, Catherine,” said the poor girl, “and now just give me
your arm down stairs.”
Kate complied with her request.
The parlor was empty when they entered, and Zuleime had an opportunity
of settling herself in a large arm-chair, and composing herself, before
any one came in. Mr. Clifton, Major Cabell, and several other gentlemen
returned from the shooting excursion and entered the parlor together.
Mr. Clifton looked surprised and pleased to see Zuleime, “clothed and in
her right mind;” and Major Cabell seemed interested and curious. Zuleime
arose, and supported herself by resting one hand upon the arm of the
chair, while she received the greetings of her father’s guests. And
thanks to the shadowing of the black lustrous curls, and the reflection
of the crimson dress, none could see the wanness of her face. Mrs.
Clifton and Miss Clifton entered soon after, and in the general
conversation that ensued, poor Zuleime escaped particular notice. Once
Major Cabell contrived, without drawing attention upon himself, to find
his way to her side, and enter into conversation with her. And he was
surprised, perplexed, nonplussed at the gentleness and almost tenderness
of her manner. Before leaving her he asked—
“When can I have an interview with you, Zuleime?”
“Whenever you please, Cousin Charles,” she answered, gently.
At parting, he pressed her hand, and to his surprise, the pressure was
softly returned. And he left her, thinking “the sex” more of a riddle
than he ever thought it before.
The next day, about noon, Major Cabell and Zuleime met in the saloon,
and had an interview of nearly an hour’s length.
When Zuleime left him and came out, she met her father in the hall.
Taking his hands in hers, she looked up in his troubled face and said—
“Dear father! you remember many weeks ago, you asked me to fix the day
when I should be married to Cousin Charles?”
“Never mind, never mind, my dear! That is all over now! You shall not be
troubled, my love!”
“Dear father, I have just told Cousin Charles that I will give him my
hand on Tuesday fortnight,” said Zuleime, and pressing both the old
man’s hands to her lips, she turned and left him standing there in
speechless astonishment, while she went up stairs—and throwing herself
upon her knees by her bed, buried her face in the clothes, and
breathed—“It won’t be for long, Frank! Oh! Frank, you _know_ it won’t be
for long!”