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.