The next morning when Catherine entered the room she sat down by the side of the bed, and told her that she had good news to tell, that they had received a letter from Major Clifton, that Carolyn’s health was improving, and that they had embarked, or had purposed to embark upon the first of May, and expected to reach home as soon as the middle of June. Zuleime clasped her hands in fervent thanksgiving while she listened, and when her friend ceased to speak, she exclaimed—
“In two weeks she will be here—oh! that I may live to see it!”
Kate bade her be of good cheer and hope; and when Catherine told any one to hope, her words and looks and manner all inspired the feeling. Zuleime was so recovered and enlivened as to be able to be lifted from her bed and placed in the easy-chair by the open window, that looked out upon the mountain scenery, all glorious in the light of summer morning. Old Mrs. Fairfax, and Mrs. Clifton of Hardbargain, came in to pay her a visit, bringing her little girl with them. As for Captain Fairfax, he seldom left her side. All congratulated the invalid upon her improved health and spirits, and hoped and foretold great results from her residence in the country, and projected many pleasant drives, when she should be a little rested from the fatigue of her journey. Then they talked of Major Clifton and Carolyn’s expected arrival, and laid out extensive plans of amusement to be put in execution when they should come, by which time Zuleime also would be considerably restored. Thus cheerfully, hopefully they talked. And the dying one listened sweetly; but when she found herself alone again with Kate, she said—
“I let them talk, Catherine, for if they really have any hopes of my recovery, I do not wish to destroy those hopes by telling what I know, and if they only talk so to cheer me, why even then I do not like to make them sad by not seeming to believe them. And yet, and yet, perhaps I ought to tell Frank; perhaps I will!”
Catherine devoted herself to the service of the invalid, laboring zealously for her spiritual as for her bodily good, indeed, the girl glided into the performance of such duties as naturally as if she felt herself especially called to the work, born for the work. The selfish wish for her own comfort and pleasure had never been very strong in the heart of Catherine; and within the last two years it seemed to have expired. She lived only for the good of others. She had grown to believe that there was no individual happiness for herself, except in the service of others. Young hope had died out in her heart, she was resigned. She adopted the submissive words of Mary and her Son, and said, within her heart, in deepest sincerity—
“Behold, the handmaid of the Lord.” “Not my will, but Thine, oh God.”
Zuleime was lifted from the bed to the easy-chair every morning, and calmly and profoundly the invalid enjoyed those glorious summer mornings. But she was failing very fast. She grew very anxious for the coming of her sister; but, unwilling to disturb any one by her anxiety, she confided it only to Kate. They had not heard from Major Clifton since the letter announcing his expected embarkation. They justly supposed him to be on his voyage home, accompanied by Carolyn, and were now daily looking for a letter announcing their landing, and their speedy arrival home. The middle of June passed, and no letter had come. The first of July arrived, but brought no news of the voyagers.
“Oh, if they had come when they promised, they might have seen me before I died—but I cannot hold out much longer, Kate. I feel as if the longing to meet Carolyn again had kept me up as by the excitement of expectation, but, Kate, I feel very weary, very much inclined to droop, yet know if I should give way I should drop into the arms of Death. I wish they would come. I want to see Carolyn. I want to see her happiness with my own eyes. And then it is not for myself—for if I die before she comes, Carolyn will take it very much to heart to know that her poor little sister had been found and had died—so inopportunely, just before she had got home. I wish they would come.”
The second week in July arrived—with three days of cloud, and rain, and gloom. Zuleime could not leave her bed for her favorite seat at the window, but Catherine served her with more love and zeal than ever. The family had as yet received no news of the travelers, and though they daily grew more anxious, there was no foreboding in their anxiety. Sea-voyages at that day were of such uncertain length. All was no doubt well.
But on the evening of the second rainy day, while Captain Fairfax and Catherine sat with Zuleime, and all the other members of the family were assembled in the summer saloon, the door of the latter was quietly opened, and Major Clifton stood before the astonished circle. His mother advanced to meet and welcome him. Then she noticed—and they all noticed, that he was clothed in deep mourning. That told the tale! They welcomed him with affectionate sympathy, but no one asked a question. Nor did he as yet volunteer a word of his sorrow’s history. It was only the next day that his mother learned from him how deceptive was the seeming convalescence of his wife—how from the day of their embarkation her strength declined—how for weeks their hearts fluctuated between hope and fear, as with the changes of her flattering disease she seemed better or worse—how when all thought of life was gone, but one earthly hope possessed her soul—to die at home;—of the waning of that last hope—of the death at sea—and, finally, of the lone grave in the ocean isle, where slept the mortal remains of the haughtiest beauty that ever trod the halls of a palace.