“IN PALACE CHAMBERS.”
She sleeps: her breathings are not heard
In palace chambers far apart,
The fragrant tresses are not stirred
That lie upon her charmed heart.
She sleeps: on either side upswells
The downy pillow lightly prest;
She sleeps, nor dreams, but only dwells
A perfect form in perfect rest.—TENNYSON
The spell that bound Captain Fairfax, when he recognized his wife upon
the stage, was broken by the fall of the drop-curtain. He instantly left
the boxes and hastened around behind the scenes. After many baffled
inquiries, and many misdirections, he prosecuted his search alone, and
at length found her prostrate form. The wind had blown the smoke and
flame in another direction, and she lay there uninjured, though
insensible, and in extremity of danger. He raised her, threw his cloak
around her, ran with her into the fresh air, called a hackney coach,
placed her in it, jumped in and took his seat by her side, drew her
insensible form within his arms, upon his bosom, and directed the
coachman to drive rapidly to Fairview House. As they passed swiftly
through the streets, the cry of “Fire! fire! fire!” rung through the
air, but he scarcely heard it. The rushing of crowds of people in the
opposite direction to that in which they were driving, frequently
impeded the progress of the carriage, but he scarcely knew it. All his
senses, all his thoughts, all his emotions were absorbed in the gentle
form that lay swooning on his bosom. And “Oh! how _thin_ she is! how
_thin_, good Heaven!” he groaned many times, as he held his arm around
the fragile waist, or felt the emaciated arm and hand, or pressed his
cheek against the wan face. “How thin she is, good Heaven, how thin! Is
this illness? Illness unto death, perhaps! Drive fast, coachman! Fast!”
He longed to lay her at rest upon her bed, that he might perchance
silence his anxiety. And—“Faster, coachman! Faster!” he continued to
cry, whenever the thickening crowd arrested the progress of the
carriage.
At length they reached Fairview House. He lifted her out and bore her
into the hall. His mother had retired to rest long since; but he rang
the bell violently, and said, to the astonished servants, who came at
the summons—
“Go instantly and prepare a room for my wife. I have but just saved her
from the burning theatre!” The wonder-struck maids hurried to obey.
“Stop! Don’t disturb your mistress, on your lives,” he said, and with
this warning, dismissed them. To one of the men present, he exclaimed,
“Run instantly to Doctor Cummings, and ask him to hurry hither.”
The man disappeared to obey. And during the issuing of these orders,
Frank Fairfax was sitting on the sofa, sustaining the fainting form of
his wife with one arm, while with the other hand he unlaced the velvet
boddice. Presently one of the maids returned and announced that the room
was ready. And Frank raised and carried his precious burden up stairs,
into a pleasant front chamber, and laid her on a bed. Then, with the
assistance of one of the women, he got off the stage dress, and supplied
its place with one of his mother’s white wrappers, brought for the
purpose by one of the maids.
He had scarcely done this, when the chamber door opened, and old Mrs.
Fairfax entered, roused up by the noise in and outside the house. She
came in, wrapped in a flannel dressing-gown, and saying, anxiously—
“My dear Frank! they tell me that the Richmond Theatre is on fire. I am
so grateful that you are not there. Ah what is this? Who is that?” she
asked, perceiving the form of Zuleime upon the bed, and advancing
towards it. “Some sufferer you have saved from the fire, my dear Frank?
God bless your brave, kind heart, my dear boy. But you should not have
brought her in here—or you should not be here yourself. Retire, and
leave the lady to the care of myself and my women,” concluded the lady,
gravely.
“My dearest mother, yes! She is a sufferer I have saved from the fire! a
most beloved sufferer! my wife! my wife! Dearest mother, I cannot leave
her! I have a _right_ to stay here.”
Here followed a wild, hasty disclosure of his imprudent marriage, kept
secret up to that moment. And then amid the grief and surprise of Mrs.
Fairfax, he also learned the fact of Mr. Clifton’s death, and of
Zuleime’s disappearance and suspected suicide. In bitter self-reproach,
Frank had made his confession—in deepest sorrow, he heard his mother’s
revelations.
“How much she must have suffered! Good Heaven! how much she must have
suffered!” he exclaimed. Then almost madly he cried, “Mother! look at
her! Look at her! Oh, tell me, do you think she can live?”
Mrs. Fairfax had been all this time chafing her temples with cologne,
while the two maids rubbed her hands and feet. But up to this instant
she had given no signs of recovery, or of consciousness. And the old
lady shook her head mournfully, and plunged Frank into deeper despair.
They persevered in their efforts for half an hour longer, and then she
sighed and opened her eyes. Her husband was bending over her. She met
his eyes, and smiled faintly in recognition, without astonishment, and
without joy—indeed she was too feeble for either—and murmuring, “Dearest
Frank,” she sank away again, fainting, they supposed, until her low
breathing revealed that she slept the sleep of utter prostration. And
how changed was now that countenance. The look of weariness, care and
sorrow had vanished, and the sweet, wan face wore the easy, confiding
air of infancy; and even in sleep, she must have felt the shelter of
protecting love around her, for often with closed eyes she smiled, as in
delighted visions! All night they watched beside her bed while she
slept. In the morning the doctor arrived. He had been absent all night,
by the couch of one who had been severely burned at the theatre, and
that accounted for his failure to come before morning; now, however, he
stood beside the patient with grave and thoughtful brow.
“Doctor, for Heaven’s sake give me some hope of her. Tell me something
about her, at least! Is she ill?”
“She is very ill,” replied the physician.
“I cannot believe it! I will not believe it! See how sweetly she sleeps!
how comfortably! how free from suffering!”
“Yes—but, my dear Captain Fairfax, there would be more hope if there
were more suffering—however, the case may be much more favorable than it
appears to me now; I cannot fully judge of it until she wakes.”
“Allow me to arouse her, then! Nay, I wish to do it! I have not spoken
to her yet! Let me wake her now!”
“By no means! It might prove fatal. Indeed, you must be very careful.
Her life hangs by a thread. Sleep will do her more good now than
anything else. When she awakes naturally, you may send for me at once.”
And so saying, the doctor took leave, without even writing a
prescription.
Soon after he left the house she opened her eyes again, and seeing
Frank, smiled faintly, and murmured—
“My own—my dearest—dearest husband.” And in an instant her senses seemed
swallowed up again in sleep, which lasted half an hour, at the end of
which she awoke again, and looked around in uneasiness, and breathed,
half aloud,—“My child—my baby—my little Fan—” and then sank away again,
as if she were too feeble to retain her hold on consciousness.
“What is she talking about, dear mother?” inquired Frank, in the
extremity of anxiety, when he heard her words.
Mrs. Fairfax shook her head, and said she did not know. But the woman
who waited in the chamber came forward, and said that if her mistress
would excuse her interfering, _she_ would tell them what the young lady
meant.
“Speak on, then, at once, in the name of the Lord!” exclaimed Frank,
impatiently.
Mrs. Fairfax endorsed his order. And then the woman informed her
mistress that she had known the sick young lady all the winter by
sight—that she had been there at the house to ask for sewing—that she
took in sewing for a living—that she lodged at the cabinet-maker’s, over
the way—and that she had a little girl almost two years old, who was no
doubt at the cabinet-maker’s now, which she supposed was what had made
the mother look around, and inquire so anxiously.
The woman’s story was scarcely over before Captain Fairfax seized his
hat, and hurried from the room. As soon as he was gone, Mrs. Fairfax
called the woman up before her, and said—
“Nelly, you heard your master tell me of his marriage with this young
lady?”
“Yes, madam.”
“I need not tell you that it is my will that there be no kitchen gossip
about this matter. This young lady—once Miss Zuleime Clifton, is now,
and has been for nearly three years past, Mrs. Francis Fairfax, the wife
of my son, and is also your own young mistress. You understand?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Then let there be no idle conversation about this marriage, if you
would avoid my severest displeasure.”
Farther colloquy was arrested by the hurried entrance of Captain
Fairfax, bringing his little wee girl in his arms. Mrs. Fairfax
immediately arose to take her from him, but the child’s quick eyes had
recognized her mother lying on the bed, and she began to clap her hands
and call—
“Mamma! mamma!”
Frank held her closely, and tried to still her joyful, eager cries, but
the magical sound of her child’s voice had already awakened the sleeper,
and she opened her eyes, and seeing the babe in its father’s arms,
smiled a feeble smile of content, and fell away again into oblivion.
Mrs. Fairfax had the doctor summoned again, and told him that if he
wished to see her daughter-in-law awake, he must remain at her bedside,
for that she only awoke to relapse instantly into slumber.
The physician then took his seat by the bedside of his patient, and
requested all except a maid-servant to leave the chamber.
Mrs. Fairfax and Frank went out, taking the little girl with them, and
leaving the doctor with the invalid.
After the lapse of an hour, the physician came out and went down stairs.
Captain Fairfax was waiting for him in the hall, and drew him into the
parlor, anxiously requesting to know his opinion. Perhaps he was really
sanguine, and hoped the doctor’s verdict might set his fears at rest. At
any rate he insisted upon knowing the precise state of the case. The
doctor gravely motioned him to sit down, and then took a seat himself.
He said that his patient was not sinking so much under any local disease
as under a general atrophy, for which, considering _the circumstances_,
he could not possibly account—_for_, if he had met precisely such a case
in the very lowest walks of life, he should at once have declared that
the patient had been brought to this state by the want of proper and
sufficient food—that, in short, she was dying of a slow starvation. A
deep groan broke from the lips of Francis Fairfax, and he started up,
covered his face with his hands, and walked the floor in rapid strides.
Suddenly he stopped before the physician, with a countenance convulsed
with grief and remorse, with all pride and hesitation gone, and
exclaimed, in thrilling tones—
“Doctor! suppose her case—my wife’s case had been as you would have
surmised, finding it any where else!—suppose that for months past she
has been starving—Great God—_starving_!—Now that the cause of this utter
failure of the vital powers is removed—now that she has every thing that
wealth, that the most devoted affection can give her, may she not
recruit and live? Oh! tell me?”
The physician answered sternly—
“I do not know, sir! This tampering with the laws of life—this pursuing
it to the very edge of death is not safe. Is she inclined to take food
at all?”
“No—only a little gruel, and that mechanically, without appetite.”
“Exactly—a few days fasting makes one ravenous, but a long, partial
starvation so exhausts the victim, that he loses all inclination for
food, as well as all power to assimilate it.” The doctor spoke severely.
“Sir! I forgive your sternness and your evident suspicions, perhaps they
are partially just. If they were otherwise, God knows I am so stricken
that I have scarcely manhood enough left to resent them—but oh! tell
me—do not evade the question. Can she be restored? and how?”
“Captain Fairfax, I told you that she was sinking, not so much under any
local disorder as under general atrophy—and yet she _has_ a local
disease superinduced by this same slow starvation. Upon examination by
the stethoscope, I find tubercles forming upon the left lung. There is
also morbid action of the heart. You know how it is with phthisis! With
proper care, and under favorable circumstances, the patient may live for
years, perhaps for many years, and die at length in old age of something
else.”
“Oh, _no_ care, _no_ pains—nothing that money—nothing that love can do,
shall be wanting! There is hope?”
“I dare not say there is _much_ hope in this instance. This atrophy is a
very unfavorable thing—all our hope is in being able to save the
digestive functions. I have left a prescription, with written
directions, above stairs.” The doctor took his hat, and saying that he
would see the invalid again in the afternoon, departed.
“All alike! all alike! They sway from right to left, raising one’s
hopes, and then rousing their fears! He lies! he lies! It is not so! she
is in no danger! Great God she must not die! she shall not!” So
unjustly, wildly, sinfully Frank Fairfax talked, walking distractedly up
and down the floor, convulsed by grief, remorse and fear for her he
loved so strongly, and felt he had wronged so greatly. He dared not seek
her bedside now in his excited state—he rushed into his library, locked
the door, and gave himself up to all the power of remorse.
In the afternoon he sought the sick room again. And the deep, sweet
peace that pervaded the apartment fell like a soothing spell upon his
excited nerves. The front windows were open, for the day was very fine,
and the fresh air and the sunshine came in together, with the cheerful
view of the expanse of water, and the wooded hills across James River.
The coolness of the air was sufficiently tempered by a glowing coal fire
in the grate. Zuleime lay raised up with pillows on the bed, and upon
the counterpane by her sat her little girl. The face of the youthful
mother seemed as soft, as feeble, and as free of care and sorrow as that
of the infant herself. On seeing Frank enter, she smiled a gentle,
pleased, childish smile, and feebly moved her hand towards him. He went
to her, at first successfully repressing all his strong emotions, and
kissed her very gently, but then sank upon his knees, and dropping his
face upon her hand, burst into tears, and wept passionately. Her other
hand wandered playfully through his curls, and she said, gently—
“Don’t weep, Frank, please don’t—indeed I am happy—it is so nice to be
here—don’t weep.”
But when men weep and sob, it is no passing shower, like the easily shed
tears of women, but a great gust, shaking all the nature. So it was a
long time before Frank mastered his emotion. When he recovered his
composure, and arose and sat by her side and looked at her, he found
that the hectic fever burned crimson on her cheeks, and that her
brilliant eyes wandered about deliriously. And he knew that he had
harmed her again. And soon she began to talk at random, babbling
childishly, delightfully, about White Cliffs, and the forest walks, and
the garden. And she addressed her father and sister, as if they were
present. And very lovingly she spoke to Catherine; or, coming nearer to
the present moment, talked with Ida about her feminine shrinking from
appearing upon the stage. Frank listened in the deepest trouble, and in
the wandering of her mind he learned much that had transpired at White
Cliffs, a great deal that had occurred since her flight thence, and
_all_ that he ought to have known.
When the physician arrived in the evening, he instituted strict
inquiries, and discovered the cause of her high fever. Then he rebuked
the indiscretion of her friends, and leaving fresh prescriptions, with
peremptory orders that the deepest quiet should be preserved, departed.
Her fever unabated raged all night. In the morning it went off.
Captain Fairfax would not permit himself to enter her room again until
he had obtained the power of perfect self-control. At about eleven
o’clock he went in. The crimson curtains of the windows were drawn
aside, and the room was light and cheerful. The white muslin drapery of
the bedstead was festooned, and revealed the fair invalid reclining
there, wan, placid, child-like as ever. She welcomed her husband with
the same soft, faint smile. And he went and sat by her side, and
crushing down all strong emotions, took her hand, and spoke to her
calmly and pleasantly, inquiring how she felt.
“So well—it is so nice to be here,” she answered simply. And she lay
there looking at him contentedly, smiling softly, answering vaguely when
he spoke to her; but never asking any question; or making any comment;
or volunteering any speech whatever. This pained him more than all—for
he knew that mind as well as body was sinking—lapsing away into a sort
of dreamy, happy fatuity. And all attempts to rouse her from that state
only threw her into fever, and often into delirium.
One day, with a view to interest without exciting her, he inquired—
“Dearest, is there any one you would like to see?”
“Yes—Ida,” she said.
“And who is Ida, love?” asked Frank, very cautiously and gently, for he
felt as if he were running the risk of hurting her again.
“Ida! La! don’t you know? She was so good to me,” she replied, with a
pitying smile.
Captain Fairfax left the room, and at a venture went over to inquire at
the cabinet-maker’s. And he soon returned, accompanied by Mrs. Knight.
Zuleime received her visitor without any emotion whatever; smiling
gently, and holding out her hand, and afterwards lying and silently and
pleasantly watching her as she sat by the bed. And when she arose to
leave, she put up her lips for a kiss. Poor Ida pressed those lips very
gently, and then quietly left the room: but as soon as she had passed
the door, burst into tears.
Every day Zuleime’s mind flowed away. Every day she became more
infantile in weakness and simplicity. One day she made known a wish—the
only one she had ever voluntarily expressed. It was affecting from its
utter childishness.
“Dear Frank, you and your mother are rich. I want you to bring Ida and
her child home to live here, so that she may not have to go on the stage
any more.” She reverted to this subject so frequently, repeating this,
the only wish she had ever expressed, so often and earnestly, that her
husband felt strongly inclined to gratify her desire, strange as it
really was. He consulted his mother, and they concluded that it might be
done, in a measure. Then they told her that it should be as she wished;
that Ida and her child should come and live with them, if she would.
Captain Fairfax went again to the cabinet-maker’s, saw the poor actress,
and told her that his wife needed a female companion to sit with her a
portion of the day, and that she would hear of no one for the post but
her old friend, Mrs. Knight, if Mrs. Knight would come and name her own
salary. And when he had let slip that last word, he turned away his face
with his forehead burning under the astonished, indignant gaze of those
proud, dark eyes of Ida’s, as she said—
“Captain Fairfax, I receive a ‘salary’ in the regular line of my
profession, when I am engaged in it; as Captain Fairfax also receives
pay for his military services—but as he would spurn all offers of
pecuniary remuneration for attentions to a wounded comrade, so should I
decline all compensation for attentions to a sick neighbor; and I am
most surprised that you should have made such a proposal to me.”
So was Captain Fairfax himself really surprised that he should have been
betrayed into such an error, as to forget that the very profession of
the poor tragic actress really fostered a morbid pride. Her phrases
might have been a little stilted after the manner of the stage, but the
sentiments were really true and high, and worthy of all consideration.
So Captain Fairfax apologized, as he best could, and arose to take his
leave. Then she said—
“Do not quite misunderstand me. I am very anxious to do all in my power
to serve Mrs. Fairfax, for I love her dearly! I am willing to devote all
my time, night and day, to her service, for the affection I bear her.
And I can do it now; for since the burning of the theatre I have been
disengaged.”
Captain Fairfax replied by expressing his grateful acknowledgments of
her kindness, and begging her to come over frequently to see his wife.
Then he took leave indeed and returned home, with the determination to
ask his mother to go and invite Mrs. Knight to come and spend a few
weeks with her friend at Fairview House. Old Mrs. Fairfax had quite a
struggle with her Virginian pride and prejudices, before she could make
up her mind to ask an actress to become her guest, but benevolence
conquered, and as whatever she once resolved upon doing she did
graciously and gracefully, she called upon Mrs. Knight, and gave her the
invitation in a manner that insured its acceptance. Ida, with her little
girl, came over the next day. And the old lady felt fully rewarded for
her self-conquest, when she saw the smile of childish delight with which
the gentle patient greeted her poor friend.
“See, Ida,” murmured Zuleime, as her visitor seated herself at the
bedside, “see, Ida, we are both now in the nice house we used to look at
so longingly from our poor, back windows.” She paused from weakness, and
then said, “I used to call it my _Heaven_, you know! Ah, I did not know
it was really _my_ Heaven. I did not know Frank had ever lived here—how
strange!” She paused again, but this time from thought, as well as from
exhaustion, and then she took breath and said again, “I never could make
it out clearly and it makes my head ache to try. But see, dear Ida. Look
at the crimson window-curtains—don’t you know they are the very same
crimson curtains that used to throw the warm, red glow across the snow,
when we used to sit at the back window and watch them, and almost envy
the people that lived here?”
“Yes, I know, but do not talk too much, darling.”
“I won’t—but it is so strange. There, look through the windows, you can
see our little, narrow, pinched, back windows, with their check
curtains, as plainly from here, as we used to see these from there. We
did not think we should ever get here to live, did we?—how strange!”
Her talk, rambling as it was, revealed one hopeful fact—that her mind
was at length waking up. Frank saw it with joy. Day by day, from this
time, her intellect seemed to clear and strengthen. Frank spoke of this
to the doctor, who heard him with great gravity, and without comment.
As winter advanced towards spring, her mind “brightened more and more
towards the perfect day.” She had gleaned, partly from scraps of speech
carelessly dropped, and partly by inquiry, the history of Frank’s
captivity among the Shoshonowas, that first originated the report of his
death—and she was very gradually brought to understand the true position
of affairs—so gradually through so many weeks, that the knowledge may be
said rather to have slowly grown upon her. But as her mind cleared and
strengthened, her heart became saddened and depressed. She understood
too much now for her happiness. She no longer lay and watched her
husband with a delighted smile as he sat beside her bed—no, but rather
with a look of earnest, mournful love. Well she might. Frank was sad
enough—he thought his heart was breaking.
One day, while lying propped up by pillows, she heard the name of Mrs.
Georgia Clifton mentioned.
“Is she in the city?” inquired she.
“Yes, love,” replied her husband.
“Send for her to come and see me—I _must_ see her.”
Captain Fairfax arose and left the room immediately, and instead of
sending a servant, went himself to bring Mrs. Georgia. For so great was
his desire to gratify promptly every wish of his loved one’s heart, that
he seldom trusted the execution of them to any but himself, lest they
should fail or be delayed. It was well in this instance, at least, that
he went in person. A servant could not have effected the purpose. The
conscience-stricken Georgia would not have ventured to come. Even when
unannounced, by reason of his haste, Captain Fairfax entered her parlor,
the beauty turned deadly pale, under the fear of detected guilt. But
when she saw his calm, kind manner, and heard him entreat, as a favor,
that she would put on her bonnet immediately, and return with him to see
his wife, who was extremely ill at Fairview, the sorceress was
reassured, and with her usual bewitching grace consented to accompany
him.
When they arrived at Fairview House, and were shown up into the sick
chamber, the patient smiled and held out her hands. Georgia hastened
towards her, and seized both hands, covering them with kisses, and
making a show of great emotion. Zuleime raised her feeble voice, and
begged all to go out of the room, and leave her alone with her visitor.
And when every one had departed, and the door was closed, she said—
“Sit down, please, here by my bedside.” Mrs. Georgia took the nurse’s
arm-chair. “Dear Georgia,” she said, gently taking both her hands, and
looking kindly in her face, “I sent for you, because I thought you must
be so unhappy about what you have unintentionally caused me to suffer.
And I wished to tell you not to remember it in bitterness any more. Oh!
I grieve so much at the memory of what I have made my dear father
suffer, that I can feel for others who are tortured by remorse, and I
would not, for the whole world, that any one should mourn for what they
have caused me to suffer. So, dear Georgia, I acquit you of all blame,
from the bottom of my heart, indeed I do—and I pray that God may make
you happier than _I_ have ever been. And I will never, never drop a
hint, by which any one shall suspect—I mean I will never let fall a word
to any one, that shall injure you, Georgia. I would not die and bequeath
you so bitter a legacy as an enemy. Though I knew you would not come and
ask me, I sent for you to assure you of this, Georgia, and to reconcile
myself with you, that we might be friends before I die. And now, God
bless you! Kiss me, and say good-bye, for my fever is rising.”
And she held up her lips. Georgia was weeping.
“Zuleime, my dear child, why don’t you call me mamma, as heretofore?”
she asked.
“Oh, don’t you know long ago you told me not to do it. But I will, if
you wish it, now. Kiss me, dear mamma. There, now, go and be at peace.”
Georgia hurried from the room. They never met again.
Zuleime revived slightly when the spring opened. She had heard that her
sister Carolyn had nearly recovered her health, and was just about to
set out on her voyage home. And two secret wishes the poor girl
indulged: once more to visit White Cliffs, and to live to see her only
sister again. But she kept them to herself in the fear of giving Frank
trouble, for she knew that he would try to move Heaven and earth to
please her, and deeply grieve if he should fail. She concealed her
wants, but they were discovered by him who watched day and night to
anticipate her wishes. And Captain Fairfax called upon the family
physician, and consulted him upon the possibility of taking Zuleime to
White Cliffs, as soon as the spring weather should be permanently
settled. The physician’s opinion was highly favorable to his wishes. He
said that she might be removed by easy stages to the country, and that
if proper care and attention were bestowed, the journey and the change
of air would probably be found very beneficial to her health. Captain
Fairfax hastened home to cheer his wife with the news. And she was
gladdened by it. She caught both his hands and kissed them, and held
them to her face, and looking at him fondly, said—
“Dear Frank! dearest Frank! you try to perform miracles for me!”
The same night, Captain Fairfax wrote to Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain,
to go over to White Cliffs and prepare to receive the invalid. And from
that day Zuleime revived, and by the first of June was so much better,
as to be able to be placed in the comfortable family carriage, in which,
sometimes reclining upon downy cushions, sometimes resting upon the
bosom of her husband, and supported by his arms, she traveled by easy
stages to White Cliffs. They reached the end of their journey upon the
afternoon of the third day. Mrs. Clifton and Catherine were there to
receive them. Zuleime was lifted out of the carriage, very much
exhausted. Yet, as she was gently carried through the yard, her eyes
roved gladly over all the dear familiar scene—over mountains, fields and
forests, clothed now in the luxuriant foliage of June—and all her
countenance lighted up with joy, and she exclaimed many times in tones
of profound gratitude—
“Thank God! oh, thank God!”
She was carried up stairs, and put to bed at once. And Catherine was
stationed to watch her slumbers, while Mrs. Clifton remained below to
attend to the comfort of the tired travelers. But Zuleime frequently
awoke with a joyful start and recollection; and once she put her hand in
that of Kate, and said—
“Dear Kate! blessed Kate! I am so glad to see you again! And so very
glad to be _home_ again! Sweet Sister of Mercy! will you stay and nurse
_me_ also? I think you could almost cure me! Sweet, unprofessed nun,
will you stay and nurse me, too?”
“Yes, dear Zuleime, I will stay as long as you want me. But shut those
tired eyes, love, and go to sleep.”
“Yes, seal each eyelid down with a kiss, dear Kate, and then they will
stay closed. And hold my hand as I go to sleep—I feel so safe when some
one I love holds my hand while I slumber. I feel as if they could keep
me in life while I slept, for you must know, dear Kate, that my heart
has a morbid action, and some of these days I shall fall asleep lightly
as now, but never awake again.”
“Dear Zuleime, you must not indulge such fancies.”
“They are not fancies, they are realities. I do not deceive myself and
trifle with you, Kate. Do not you deceive me or trifle with me, either.
There are secrets of life and death known only to the dying. Such a
secret is mine. I know that I shall lightly drop asleep some day, and
never wake again—that is the reason I wish some one I love to kiss my
eyelids down, and to hold my hand while I slumber.” The words, the
manner of the dying girl carried deep conviction to the heart of
Catherine, and—
“Oh! Zuleime,” she said, “lean upon the failing arm of flesh if you
will, but, oh, seek! seek the support of that Almighty arm that can
sustain you in life and in death! Seek that!”
“I will—I wish to do it, or rather you, the handmaid of the Lord, shall
bear me up in your faithful hands, and lay me within that Arm of
Strength. I wished this long ago, but, oh, my dear husband and his good
mother! they thought only of restoring me to health, and I could think
of nothing but of trying to live for them, until very lately, when it
was revealed to me that I should surely die. I have never yet told Frank
anything about this. I feared it would distress him too much; but the
lone knowledge troubled me. I needed to tell some one of it, some dear
one with whom I could converse confidentially, and who should be wise
enough to counsel me, patient enough to bear with me, courageous enough
to face the result, and who, besides, would not be too greatly
distressed, as my dear husband would. And so, sweet Kate, I have told
you. Will you now stay with me and nurse me?”
“Yes, dear Zuleime, as long as you wish me to do so; but now, darling,
if I am to be your nurse, you must mind what I have to say to you, and
go to sleep.” Catherine bent over her, and kissed her eyelids down upon
the weary eyes, and held her hand until she fell asleep. At night,
Captain Fairfax relieved her watch.
The next morning when Catherine entered the room she sat down by the
side of the bed, and told her that she had good news to tell, that they
had received a letter from Major Clifton, that Carolyn’s health was
improving, and that they had embarked, or had purposed to embark upon
the first of May, and expected to reach home as soon as the middle of
June. Zuleime clasped her hands in fervent thanksgiving while she
listened, and when her friend ceased to speak, she exclaimed—
“In two weeks she will be here—oh! that I may live to see it!”
Kate bade her be of good cheer and hope; and when Catherine told any one
to hope, her words and looks and manner all inspired the feeling.
Zuleime was so recovered and enlivened as to be able to be lifted from
her bed and placed in the easy-chair by the open window, that looked out
upon the mountain scenery, all glorious in the light of summer morning.
Old Mrs. Fairfax, and Mrs. Clifton of Hardbargain, came in to pay her a
visit, bringing her little girl with them. As for Captain Fairfax, he
seldom left her side. All congratulated the invalid upon her improved
health and spirits, and hoped and foretold great results from her
residence in the country, and projected many pleasant drives, when she
should be a little rested from the fatigue of her journey. Then they
talked of Major Clifton and Carolyn’s expected arrival, and laid out
extensive plans of amusement to be put in execution when they should
come, by which time Zuleime also would be considerably restored. Thus
cheerfully, hopefully they talked. And the dying one listened sweetly;
but when she found herself alone again with Kate, she said—
“I let them talk, Catherine, for if they _really_ have any hopes of my
recovery, I do not wish to destroy those hopes by telling what I know,
and if they only talk so to cheer me, why even then I do not like to
make them sad by not seeming to believe them. And yet, and yet, perhaps
I ought to tell Frank; perhaps I will!”
Catherine devoted herself to the service of the invalid, laboring
zealously for her spiritual as for her bodily good, indeed, the girl
glided into the performance of such duties as naturally as if she felt
herself especially called to the work, born for the work. The selfish
wish for her own comfort and pleasure had never been very strong in the
heart of Catherine; and within the last two years it seemed to have
expired. She lived only for the good of others. She had grown to believe
that there was no individual happiness for herself, except in the
service of others. Young hope had died out in her heart, she was
resigned. She adopted the submissive words of Mary and her Son, and
said, within her heart, in deepest sincerity—
“Behold, the handmaid of the Lord.” “Not my will, but Thine, oh God.”
Zuleime was lifted from the bed to the easy-chair every morning, and
calmly and profoundly the invalid enjoyed those glorious summer
mornings. But she was failing very fast. She grew very anxious for the
coming of her sister; but, unwilling to disturb any one by her anxiety,
she confided it only to Kate. They had not heard from Major Clifton
since the letter announcing his expected embarkation. They justly
supposed him to be on his voyage home, accompanied by Carolyn, and were
now daily looking for a letter announcing their landing, and their
speedy arrival home. The middle of June passed, and no letter had come.
The first of July arrived, but brought no news of the voyagers.
“Oh, if they had come when they promised, they might have seen me before
I died—but I cannot hold out much longer, Kate. I feel as if the longing
to meet Carolyn again had kept me up as by the excitement of
expectation, but, Kate, I feel very weary, very much inclined to droop,
yet know if I should give way I should drop into the arms of Death. I
wish they would come. I want to see Carolyn. I want to see her happiness
with my own eyes. And then it is not for myself—for if I die before she
comes, Carolyn will take it very much to heart to know that her poor
little sister had been found and had died—so inopportunely, just before
she had got home. I wish they would come.”
The second week in July arrived—with three days of cloud, and rain, and
gloom. Zuleime could not leave her bed for her favorite seat at the
window, but Catherine served her with more love and zeal than ever. The
family had as yet received no news of the travelers, and though they
daily grew more anxious, there was no foreboding in their anxiety.
Sea-voyages at that day were of such uncertain length. All was no doubt
well.
But on the evening of the second rainy day, while Captain Fairfax and
Catherine sat with Zuleime, and all the other members of the family were
assembled in the summer saloon, the door of the latter was quietly
opened, and Major Clifton stood before the astonished circle. His mother
advanced to meet and welcome him. Then she noticed—and they all noticed,
that he was clothed in deep mourning. That told the tale! They welcomed
him with affectionate sympathy, but no one asked a question. Nor did he
as yet volunteer a word of his sorrow’s history. It was only the next
day that his mother learned from him how deceptive was the seeming
convalescence of his wife—how from the day of their embarkation her
strength declined—how for weeks their hearts fluctuated between hope and
fear, as with the changes of her flattering disease she seemed better or
worse—how when all thought of life was gone, but one earthly hope
possessed her soul—to die _at home_;—of the waning of that last hope—of
the death at sea—and, finally, of the lone grave in the ocean isle,
where slept the mortal remains of the haughtiest beauty that ever trod
the halls of a palace.
They would willingly have concealed the fact of her sister’s decease
from the dying girl—no one ventured to tell her of the event—they fondly
believed that she remained in ignorance of it. But she knew it all from
what she saw and heard. She knew that Major Clifton had returned alone,
and she surmised the rest from the sad and tearful faces of all around
her. Yes, she knew it all, as well as any could have made her know it,
and in the tender thoughtfulness of her soul, she would not distress any
by asking them questions relating to the last moment. But from this hour
she sank rapidly. She could no longer be lifted from her bed without
fainting. In deep trouble, Captain Fairfax summoned the old family
physician. When he came, and saw the patient, his opinion was decidedly
formed, and truthfully given—he said that the Richmond physician had
evidently abandoned the case as hopeless, when he sent her home to
die—that her life had probably been prolonged by her residence in the
country—but that nothing could have saved her—and that she had now not
many days to live. Captain Fairfax was almost mad with grief—and all the
self-possession and self-control that he had learned in the long
attendance upon her sick bed well nigh deserted him. It was many hours
before he was sufficiently composed to take his usual place by her
bedside, and then his agonized countenance betrayed the extent of his
suffering. Catherine was sitting by her when he entered. Zuleime raised
her dying eyes, and looking at him, tenderly beckoned him to approach.
Then she motioned Catherine to leave her. When they were alone—she laid
her hand within his own, and looking at him with unutterable love, said—
“Dear Frank—dearest Frank—I see that you know it all at last. Dearest
Frank, I have known it a long time. Now let us talk freely and
confidentially about it—let there be no more of that painful mist
between us as when you thought only of my restoration to health, and I
knew I was sinking fast into the grave.” She paused a moment, and then
said—“I want so much to comfort you. I have something to say to you.”
His fingers closed upon her hand convulsively. He choked down his
strong, rising emotion, and said—
“Do not try to talk, love, the effort will exhaust your strength.”
“No—no, it will not. I am not so weak as I was when you came in. Dearest
Frank, when you sit by me, and hold my hand, new life seems to run up my
feeble veins, and I feel stronger. Let me talk, love. Ah! do not look so
sad! It is better as it is, love. It is better I should go. I have
spoiled my own life, and should spoil yours if I should live. Ah, it is
a dreadful thing to occasion the death of any one! it is an awful thing
to cause the death of a father. I caused the death of the most loving
father that ever lived. And dearest Frank! though in the struggle, in
the bitterness of poverty, in the pangs of hunger and of cold, and in
the pain and debility of illness, the feeling of compunction has been
diverted, yet—had health returned with prosperity—remorse would then
have darkened all my life; and in ruining my happiness, would have
marred yours. Yes! I have spoiled my own life. It is well that I should
not live to spoil yours, dearest Frank! I talk not of expiation _now_.
Nothing that I could do or suffer, would alter the irrevocable past. We
have all one Redeemer—Jesus Christ the Righteous. So I talk not of
expiating the past; though perhaps if any heart is hardened against me,
my early death may soften it. But, let me speak of the future—_your_
future, dearest Frank, and let me say it is better for all your coming
years that I should die.”
“Oh, do not say so, Zuleime—you break my heart.”
“Dear Frank, you will grieve for me, I know you will, but be comforted.
You are so young yet. This sorrow will pass like a morning cloud, and
leave all your life a long bright day.” She paused abruptly—a gray
shadow swept darkly over her face and vanished. _He_ did not see it, his
face was buried in his hands. Then she asked to have her child brought
to her. Frank went out, but soon returned to say that little Fan had
been put to bed; and to ask her if the child should be waked up. “No, do
not wake the poor, little thing,” she said, and then added, “I am very,
very sleepy, Frank; dearest Frank, kiss my eyelids down to slumber like
you always do, and hold my hand till I fall asleep. Kiss my lips, too,
this time; kiss them last of all—there—good-night, love.” Her voice sank
away in a low, inaudible murmur, like a dying sound on the Eolian harp.
Her husband sat and held her hand, never moving, scarcely breathing,
lest he should disturb her long, deep sleep. He sat there more than an
hour. The room grew dark with the shades of evening; and when at length
Catherine entered with the night lamp, he raised his hand with a sign of
silence and caution, murmuring—
“She has fallen asleep.” Catherine approached quietly, shading the lamp
with her hand, and looked upon the sleeper. “Hush, be very cautious—do
not disturb her,” whispered Frank.
The sweet and solemn voice of Catherine gently arose, saying, “Come
away, Captain Fairfax. Nothing will ever disturb her more. She has
fallen asleep in Jesus.”