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.