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.”