“No, it is enough.” Mr. Clark rang the bell—a man entered. “Have my carriage brought up at once; I shall set out for Washington. Mr. Smith, you know how to act. Save me from a repetition of this: you see how it tortures me. I loved that young creature—I thought, fool, madman, that I was—but she seemed to love me.”
Mr. Clark went into another room; he could not endure that other eyes should witness his emotion. The coachman now came up; his proud master understood that every thing was ready, and without speaking a word, left his apartments. He stepped into his carriage; he was gone—gone without hearing the wild shriek that broke from the lips of that poor young wife, who had caught one glimpse of him from her window. She shook the sash—she strove to call after him; but her arms trembled—her voice was choked; with all her effort she made but little noise; those in the next room heard nothing of it, till she fell heavily on the floor. Mr. Smith found her there, lying like a corpse rigid and insensible. Then his heart smote him—then would he have given worlds that the falsehoods which brought all this misery had not been uttered. He had tried to think ill of his victim, to believe that between her and her husband there was neither love nor sympathy; how had the last hour undeceived him. Maddened by doubt and jealousy, his benefactor had not even attempted to conceal the anguish occasioned by what he deemed the perfidy of his wife; and she—was she not there, cold as marble, white as death, prostrate at his feet?
But he could not go back—his evil work must be fully accomplished; now to shrink or waver, would be to expose himself; that he could not contemplate for a moment. Zulima became sensible, at last. It was a long time, but finally she opened her eyes and sat up. “He is gone,” she said lifting her heavy eyes to Smith, “he is gone without a word of explanation.”
“What could he explain, but that which he would not wish to say face to face with his victim? He has deceived you with a mock marriage. I knew that it would prove so. You are free, you are wealthy, if you choose. Be resigned; there is no redress.”
“No redress!” Zulima repeated the word over and over again. “No redress! I thought myself his wife; I am the mother of his child; O God! Myra, Myra, my poor, poor child—” * * * *
They were parted—Zulima solemnly believed that she had never been the wife of Daniel Clark, that she was free—oh, how cruelly free—and another loved her. Wounded in her pride, broken in spirit, outraged, humiliated, utterly alone; was it strange that the poor torn heart of that young creature at length became grateful for the affection that her grief and her desolation had excited? She told him all, and still that young man loved her, still he besought her to become his wife; and she, unhappy woman—consented.
There was to be no secresy—no private marriage now; in the full blaze of day—robed in satin, glossy and white as the leaves of a magnolia, her magnificent tresses bound with white roses, her bridal vail looped to the curls upon her temple with a snowy blossom, and falling over her, wave after wave, like a cloud of summer mist. Thus went Zulima Clark forth to her last bridal. It was a mournful sight; that young girl so beautiful, so fated, standing before the altar, her large eyes surcharged with sorrowful remembrances of the past, and her poor heart heaving with a wild presentiment of coming evil, till the rose upon her bosom, and the pearls upon her throat, trembled as if a wind were passing over them. It was a mournful, mournful wedding; for there, Zulima, the wife of Daniel Clark, sealed the perfidy of her enemies. Beautiful bride, innocent woman, thine was a hard destiny!
CHAPTER IV.
Once again they met,
And then they saw, each in the other’s heart,