THE YOUNG MOURNER.
Mine after life? What is mine after life?
My day is closed. The gloom of night comes on,
A hopeless darkness settles o’er my fate.—JOANNA BAILLIE.
There is no state of mind so calm as that of hopelessness. And,
therefore, there is none so often mistaken for resignation. Zuleime’s
cheeks were pale and hollow, her eyes heavy and sunken, and surrounded
by a dark, livid circle—and she had contracted an unconscious habit of
pressing her hand tightly over her heart, while a look of pain
corrugated her brow. Yet, withal, she moved through the house very
quietly—without a sigh or a tear—yea, even with a _smile_ for whom she
chanced to meet—a wan smile of tenderness, fellow-feeling. For the grief
that had come to her own young heart, had revealed to her the secret of
a general sorrow, and awakened a deep human sympathy. Yet perhaps it was
a morbid excess of this feeling that made her see, in every one she met,
a fellow-sufferer. Her father misunderstood her serenity and her sweet
smile. And his wife led him into that misunderstanding.
“It is a merciful provision of Heaven, that young people of her tender
age, can feel no lasting grief. At first, over any misfortune they
lament excessively. But it is very soon forgotten,” said Georgia.
“Ah, yes! Charley Cabell said something like the same thing, and,
indeed, it seems to be true,” replied Mr. Clifton.
We are easily persuaded to believe that which we wish to credit. And so
the old gentleman believed in the correctness of his wife’s judgment,
and in the reality of his daughter’s peace.
Major Cabell was baffled and perplexed. “Jealousy is as cruel as the
grave,” and so, also, is that base passion which often goes by the holy
name of Love. It had been under the influence of both of these that
Charles Cabell had sworn to punish Zuleime severely for what he called
her faithlessness. But for the present, at least, he was completely
frustrated. There was nothing to complain of in her conduct to him. She
was very kind and gentle—not with the gentleness of meekness and
humility, but with that of a compassionate toleration—such as an angel
might feel in looking down upon a determined sinner—seeing his moral
insanity, and foreseeing his consequent wretchedness. Major Cabell had
frequently heard of mourners who could not bear to hear the names of
their beloved, lamented dead, spoken before them. And he thought to
torture her bosom by frequently reverting to “that horrible massacre,”
and “poor Frank.” But he could not add one pang to those she had already
endured. Her sorrow was too deep to be probed—to be _touched_ by a
superficial hand like his. She could bear to listen and reply when he
talked of her massacred love. For like a stationary panorama of the past
and the present, his life and death were ever before her mind. She could
converse, without new emotion, of him over whose fate, in its deepest,
darkest horrors, she was ever brooding. If any mourners cannot brook to
hear the name of the lost mentioned in their presence, it is because
they are already blessed with long seasons of forgetfulness, and shrink
from the pain of remembrance. She had no such pang of sudden
recollection to dread. His memory—her sorrow—was ever present with her.
Catherine watched her with deep and painful interest. She sought an
opportunity, and once more had a serious conversation with her.
“Zuleime, _don’t_ marry under present circumstances. If, as you say,
your father is in the power of Major Cabell, it is bad. But if you marry
him to deliver your father, it will be worse, and will not eventuate in
any good. And two wrongs never make a right, Zuleime. Do no wrong,
dearest, but trust in God for deliverance,” said Catherine, earnestly.
“It seems to me that I am doing right. It will please Cousin Charles,
and save father. And as for myself—it _can’t_ matter much, you know,”
replied the despairing girl. And to this view of the case she adhered,
with all the tenacity of a morbid resolution.
A few days after this Catherine returned to her brother’s
cabin, wondering what new misfortune would—against her fixed
determination—throw her back among the Cliftons.
Major Cabell had written to Richmond for his mother and sisters to come
down and be present at his marriage. And one day, near the last of the
week, the carriage of Mrs. Cabell rolled up to the door. Knowing nothing
whatsoever of Zuleime’s attachment to the young soldier, and consequent
deep grief at his fate, they were very much shocked to see her looking
so ill, but quietly ascribed it to fatigue and anxiety in nursing
Carolyn. And Mrs. Cabell was emphatic in demonstrations of motherly
kindness, which the gentle girl acknowledged with grateful smiles, and
by such attentions as she had the power to bestow. The city ladies had
made a short stage that day, and were but little wearied, so that after
a little slumber, and the refreshment of the bath, and of tea, they felt
well enough to spend the evening in the parlor.
The family were all around the evening fire, when Mrs. Cabell and her
daughters entered.
Major Cabell—who was as usual sitting by Zuleime, with his arm over the
back of her chair in a property-holding sort of manner—arose, and
handing his mother to a seat, received from her hand a roll of papers.
“It is some new music, my son, for the dear girls. There are some
beautiful songs of Moore’s just published. Carolyn, love, I have
thirsted to hear your sweet voice again. Will you sing?”
Miss Clifton’s eyes filled with tears, and she turned away her head.
Zuleime stole to her aunt’s side, and while seeming to examine the
music, whispered—
“Dear Aunt Cabell, Carolyn has entirely lost her voice!”
The lady was very much shocked to hear it, and grieved at her own
unfortunate proposition, but durst not trust herself to reply, lest
Carolyn should hear and understand the subject of their conversation.
Major Cabell, who was turning over the music, suddenly had his gaze
fixed by one particular piece. His eyes lighted up with a peculiar
satisfaction, and turning to Zuleime, he said—
“My own, you can read music at sight. Can you not?”
“Yes,” replied the girl.
“And you can sing and play at sight—can you not?”
“Yes, if it is not too difficult.”
“Is this difficult?” he asked, holding a page out to her.
“No, that is very simple,” said Zuleime, looking entirely at the
music—not at the words.
“It _is_ a ballad of Thomas Moore’s. I wish you to sing it for us. Will
you?”
“Certainly.”
“Come, then,” he said, and took her hand, and led her to the piano. He
seated her, and laid the song before her, saying to himself, “If she can
sing _that_ through without emotion—ay, or _with_ emotion—if she can get
through it at all—she can do, or suffer anything! She is a heroine.”
Zuleime was reading over the words, preparatory to singing them.
And he was watching her intently. But she read through the song, turning
the leaves calmly, her pale cheek never changing its hue. Then she
restored the first page to its place before her, and began to play the
prelude. The ladies and old Mr. Clifton drew near, and gathered around
her. Then her voice arose, soft, clear and plaintive, but unfaltering as
her cheek remained unchanging—though her father trembled for her as the
words of the song fell on his ear. That song was “The Broken Heart,” by
Thomas Moore. Zuleime sang—
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers around her are sighing,
But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.
She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,
Every note which he loved awaking:
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking.
Her voice faltered—she paused.
“Come! no miserable, maudlin, mawkish self-pity, I beseech you!”
whispered Major Cabell, stooping to her ear.
Whether Mr. Clifton heard the cruel whisper, or whether he only saw her
slight agitation, is uncertain—but he drew near and stood by her side.
She recovered, and continued—
He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life—
She paused again—again essayed to sing—her voice quavering, sunk into
silence like the rudely-swept strings of the harpsichord—the grayness of
death crept over her countenance, and she fell back into the arms of her
father, who angrily exclaimed—
“Charles! you are a brute! a demon! to ask her to sing that song.
Zuleime! Zuleime, my darling! speak to me!”
He sat down on the sofa, holding her in his arms. The ladies drew around
with fans, with cold water, with hartshorn. But she recovered very soon,
and sat up—and declined going up stairs to bed—and thanked them all for
their care, gently begging them not to take so much trouble on her
account.
“This is all very strange, madam,” said Mrs. Cabell, aside to Mrs.
Clifton.
“Zuleime is so nervous and sensitive ever since Carolyn’s illness, that
the news of that massacre, and the death of her old playmate and
companion, has quite overwhelmed her. I suppose this music awoke her
sensibilities,” said Georgia, composedly.
If Mrs. Cabell had any suspicion of the truth, she was too well bred to
express it then and there. And the matter ended for the moment.
But after this evening, Zuleime was never the same. Her fortitude seemed
entirely to have given away. Her calmness was utterly broken up. A
strange, wild terror and incertitude had come upon her.
The next day, Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, came over to call on the
visitors. Nevertheless, in the course of the call, Major Cabell found
the opportunity he sought, of taking Zuleime to task for what he called
her miserable weakness.
“You are unfaithful—false at heart—you cherish the image of this young
man secretly, while you pretend to be true to me! Pah! Well! why don’t
you answer me? Have you anything to say?”
“Cousin Charles, does not the grave sanctify any affection? Is it a
crime to remember a dead friend?”
“It is a miserable, druling weakness! a maudlin, mawkish, drivelling,
puling piece of unfaithfulness to duty—and leads you into the exhibition
of such scenes as that of last night. Such whining, whimpering,
contemptible _self-pity_! I protest you are the most false-hearted and
selfish woman I ever met with in my life. It is _your own_ griefs and
regrets and reverses, that occupy you all the time. And now! instead of
listening to me, and replying—you are falling away into thought again!
Come! answer me, now! Was it not self-pity, that caused you to faint
during the singing of that _à propos_ song—which, by the way, I gave you
as an ordeal! Come! say! Wasn’t it self-pity?”
“_No, nor was it the song._ If I pitied myself, should I not pity _you_
as much? It is not such a happy fate, Cousin Charles, to marry a
grief-stricken girl like me, I know.”
“_No!_ If I calculate upon your continued indulgence of that grief,
which I do not! _No!_ Trust me on the part of my wife, there must and
shall be no such exhibitions of feeling as that of last night.”
“I do not know why you wish to marry me!” she broke forth, with strange
wildness. “You do not love me! Perhaps you hate me, and marriage will
give you the same power to work out your hate as it would to act out
your love! Yes! I do suppose that is really the key to the riddle!”
“Perhaps it is,” he answered, sarcastically.
“One thing I beg of you,” she said; “while we stay here—in my father’s
presence—try to use me kindly—to spare his feelings—he is an old man.
Reserve your vengeance until I am your wife, until we get to Richmond,
when you will have full power, and ample time and space to work your
will.”
While she spoke so wildly, she pressed and rubbed her hand spasmodically
against her heart. And her pale brow was corrugated, and her intense
black eyes strained and sharpened as by mental and physical pain. She
gasped for breath, and began again.
“I do not know—I am sure—I cannot tell—whether, after all, we will ever
mar—”
What she was about to say was cut short by the entrance of Mrs. Clifton,
of Hardbargain, who came in, with her shawl and bonnet on, to take leave
of Zuleime and Major Cabell, and invite them to join the rest of the
family in coming to dine and spend the evening at Hardbargain the next
day. Major Cabell accepted the invitation for himself and Zuleime, and
the lady took her departure.
The next day was Saturday. The family set out on their visit at an early
hour of the day, as is the social custom of country neighbors. Old Mr.
Clifton, his wife, and his eldest daughter, rode in his carry-all. Mrs.
Cabell and her three daughters went in that lady’s carriage. Zuleime
rode on horseback, attended by Major Cabell.
It was a glorious Indian summer day, when the splendor of the autumnal
sunlight would be too dazzling, but for the soft, warm mist spread
veil-like over it. At another time, Zuleime, true worshiper of nature,
might have drawn deep draughts of pleasure from the beauty of the scene.
But now the gorgeous magnificence of the forests, in their many colored
foliage—the misty mountain steeps softening the glory—the fine
transparent neutral tint of the heavens leading the eye and mind up
through infinite heights of ether—the glowing clouds reposing along the
horizon—all were lost upon her.
An hour’s ride by the carriage road brought the party to Hardbargain.
Mrs. Clifton received them with her usual quiet cordiality. There was
something very composing in that calm, kind, self-possessed woman’s
manner. There was something very sedative also in the air of her home.
In her company and in her house the restless became quiet, the anxious
easy, the desponding cheerful, even the despairing mourners over some
great heart-wreck, grew languidly aware of how much good was left them
in the comforts of daily domestic life, and the amenities of social
intercourse.
She was strikingly like her son. One was inclined to wonder how they—so
nearly identical in features and complexion—should differ so widely in
many points of character and sentiment, and had to remember that all in
which he did not resemble her was inherited from the Cliftons. Kate felt
the likeness keenly. And when the lady turned those quiet, brilliant
eyes upon her, her heart thrilled to the glance with strange pain and
pleasure. And when once or twice—for the lady was never very
demonstrative in her affection—she had quietly drawn the maiden to her
bosom—it was such a heart-feeding comfort, that Kate felt there would be
no possibility of forgetting Archer Clifton, while thrown into daily
intercourse with his mother. Once when Mrs. Clifton had looked tenderly
into her eyes, and drawn and pressed her closely against her breast, the
girl, lost for an instant, had thrown her arms around the lady, and
buried her face in her bosom. And for some time after that, terrified at
her own impulse, she had been as shy of the mother, as she could have
been of the son. Kate had kept away from Hardbargain for many weeks, but
to-day, when the party from White Cliffs had arrived, Mrs. Clifton sent
for her, with the message that her friend Zuleime had come. That was no
sufficient lure to the resolute girl, however, who had once for all
determined that nothing but the absolute necessities of others should
draw her again into the dangerous association of the Cliftons. She
returned thanks to the lady, declining the visit. Mrs. Clifton was
disappointed in missing the society of her young favorite for that day.
Yet the time passed very pleasantly notwithstanding. There is scarcely
any such thing as a stiff dinner party in the country. And such a thing
was impossible at Hardbargain. The ladies had all brought their “parlor
work”—fine netting, knotting, knitting, or sewing—and they worked and
conversed in a quiet, pleasant way, while the gentlemen mingled in their
conversation, or talked with each other upon the two reigning subjects
of country discussion—agriculture and politics—or sauntered out upon the
lawn to enjoy the fine autumnal weather until dinner. After which, the
ladies in the cozy parlor lounged a little more lazily, and grew a great
deal more kindly in their interchange of thought and sentiment, and the
gentlemen enjoyed a promenade on the piazza, and the stolen luxury of
their cigars.
After an early tea the party took leave. They returned in the same
manner in which they had come. Zuleime on horseback, escorted by Major
Cabell; the others in carriages. Even the soothing influence of Mrs.
Clifton’s home and society had almost failed to quiet the miserable
girl. Her manner, all day long, had been erratic in the extreme—now
depressed into gloom—sunken nearly to the depth of stupidity—now full of
“starts and flows” as the crime-burthened Macbeth. As she rode home, in
perfect silence, the evil eye of her companion watched her stealthily.
Her cheek was pale and hollow, and her eye sunken and heavy. Yet
sometimes her eyes would lighten as with sudden terror, like those of a
startled hare, and her cheek would flush and fade. The road was broad,
yet shadowy, from the meeting of the branches of the huge trees
overhead. And so soon as the sun went down it became too dusky to permit
him to see the flickering and sinking of the fire in her eye and cheek,
but he watched her closely, nevertheless. Suddenly he saw her sway to
and fro in the saddle, like a reed blown by the wind. Then, ere he could
spring to her aid, the reins dropped from her hands, and she fell from
the horse, her foot catching in the stirrup. The well-trained palfrey
stopped, and stood without so much as lifting a hoof. With a deep curse,
Major Cabell threw himself from his steed, and raised her, disengaging
her foot from the stirrup. He sat down on a bank, with her on his knees,
and took off her hat, and began to feel her head, neck and arms, for
injuries. It seemed impossible to tell whether, or how she was hurt. The
carriages were some yards behind, and concealed by a turn of the road.
He dipped his hand in a run, at the foot of the bank, and sprinkled her
face; and before the carriages arrived, she had opened her eyes, and sat
up. She said that she was not hurt—that it was only a fainting spell,
such as she had had at the piano. But her voice was very weak, and her
frame trembling, and her general manner frightened. She placed her hand
against Major Cabell’s chest, partly to assist herself in rising, partly
to push him away, and stood alone upon her feet, until her father’s
carriage drew up. Then she said she was tired, and wished to get in.
Old Mr. Clifton sent a glance of impotent rage at Major Cabell, as he
lifted his child in—placing her in the vacant fourth seat—the other
three being occupied by his wife, eldest daughter, and himself.
Zuleime sat next to her sister, and opposite Georgia; and the last
mentioned lady studied her _vis-a-vis_, with as much interest, and with
far more curiosity and comprehension, than Major Cabell had exercised.
The girl sat perfectly still, and quite lost to all around her. But
Georgia saw that it was the fearful stillness of self-restrained frenzy.
They reached home at last. Georgia was handed out first, she waited for
Zuleime, who followed. She wished to draw the girl’s arm within her own.
But Zuleime, turning on her a dilated, strained, fiery gaze, fled past
her into the house. And then the lady saw, with a shudder, that it was
indeed the fires of incipient madness that kindled the lambent flame in
the girl’s eyes!
When they were all assembled in the parlor, around the evening fire,
with books, and music, and light needle-work—
“Where is Zuleime?” asked her father.
“She has retired to her room, very much fatigued,” replied his wife, and
the subject dropped.
The next morning, when the family gathered around the breakfast-table,
the youngest daughter was still missing.
“Where is Zuleime? Why doesn’t Zuleime come? Carolyn, have you seen your
sister this morning? How is she?” asked old Mr. Clifton.
Carolyn replied that she had not seen her since the preceding evening.
“Send some one, then, to her chamber, to see how she is, and whether she
will join us at breakfast, or have anything sent up to her room.
Or—stay! Carolyn, don’t send—go yourself, my love, to your sister, it
will be only kind.”
Carolyn left the table, and went up stairs, and after an absence of
fifteen or twenty minutes, returned, and announced, with a pale cheek,
that Zuleime’s chamber had not been occupied during the night—that she
herself was no where to be found in the house—and that no one of the
servants had seen her since the evening before!
A dreadful suspicion instantly seized upon all who remembered her wild
and moody looks and manners of the preceding few days; and they
simultaneously arose from the table, and with looks of alarm, dispersed
in various directions, in quest of the missing girl.
The house, kitchen, out-buildings, negro quarters, garden, vineyard,
orchard, the plantation and the woods were successively and vainly
searched.
Messengers were dispatched to Hardbargain and to the neighboring
plantations, with inquiries that proved fruitless.
Old Mr. Clifton ran up and down the house and grounds like one
distracted.
At last, near night, traces were discovered of the lost one. Upon the
edge of the stream, where the banks were soft and deep, small
foot-prints were seen—and half-way down the bank her little slipper was
found, with its toe deep in the mud, and the heel sticking up, as if
lost there in the downward run of its owner—and from the branch of a
sapling near, a shred of her crimson dress fluttered, as if caught and
torn off in the same swift descent.
Old Mr. Clifton walked down there, to see the spot; but he was _carried_
back.
And before the next sun arose, Mrs. Georgia Clifton had her heart’s
first desire.
She was a widow.