That afternoon, unprophetic of doom as any of the others, Zuleime and her friend were preparing to go on the stage. Zuleime had no part to perform—she was as yet only an attaché—and was to appear but in one scene, as one of a group of villagers. She was engaged in fixing up a peasant dress, consisting of a straw hat, black spencer, short gray skirt, and striped stockings. Mrs. Knight was, as usual, doing two things at once—arranging her costume and studying her part. But the eyes of Ida often wandered towards Zuleime, as she heard that hacking, racking cough, and she noticed with pain the waning face. Yes! within a few days even, the thin face had become perceptibly thinner, and the flushed cheek burned with a darker crimson. “And she will make a sorry looking peasant,” thought Ida; “a very sorry peasant, with that delicate, spiritual, almost ærial face and form of hers. How absurdly inappropriate are most of the affairs we get up! Truly, our art is in the rear of all others. Now, this evening, all go on as villagers—vulgar and refined—all reduced to one level. Those coarse, brawny Miss Butchers, and this fragile, delicate Zuleime, all peasants—very well for the Miss Butchers, but for Zuleime! To-morrow evening all go on as faries; excellent well for this ærial Zuleime, but for the Miss Butchers! Well, our notions are fanciful as arbitrary—and there may be peasants who have delicate, white, semi-transparent fingers, and there may be faries with large, flat feet, and great red hands, for aught we know.” While Mrs. Knight silently cogitated, and covered her white satin shoes anew, and studied her part, Zuleime worked on also in silence, but too despairing, too exhausted, even to think of the wayward fate which had brought her to this pass.
At about sunset their preparations were completed. Ida, as usual, rang for her cup of coffee and her errand boy, and packed up and sent away the costume for the evening. Then she put her own little girl and Zuleime’s child to sleep together in her bed, and got Bertha to promise to look in, in the course of the evening, and see that all was safe. And then poor Ida carefully wrapped Zuleime up in her own mantilla, and wound her own furs around her neck, saying, in answer to all expostulation—
“Never mind me, my dear! I’ve got no cough. Haggard as I look, I’m whit-leather! You must take care of your poor little self.”
And then they left the house, walking briskly through the biting air, and crunching the crusted snow under their quick footsteps. Though but little after sunset, owing to the heavy clouds, it was almost dark when they hurried along the streets. There was the usual number of foot-passengers abroad, and once, as the slight figure of a man in a military cloak swiftly hurried past, Mrs. Knight felt her arm suddenly grasped with spasmodic force by her companion, and turning around, she saw the face of Zuleime deadly pale.
“Why, what is the matter, my dear child?”
“Nothing, nothing!” said Zuleime; “let us hurry on.”
“But you are trembling like an aspen leaf! You have walked too far—you are not strong enough for this evening’s work; let me take you home again.”
“No, no, no, no! let’s go on!”
“Why, Zuleime—”
“Oh, it is nothing—nothing when you hear it! I—I felt the presence of one long dead! It was weak nerves, or fancy, or perhaps the prescience of one on the confines of the unseen world. Let us hasten on.”