They would willingly have concealed the fact of her sister’s decease from the dying girl—no one ventured to tell her of the event—they fondly believed that she remained in ignorance of it. But she knew it all from what she saw and heard. She knew that Major Clifton had returned alone, and she surmised the rest from the sad and tearful faces of all around her. Yes, she knew it all, as well as any could have made her know it, and in the tender thoughtfulness of her soul, she would not distress any by asking them questions relating to the last moment. But from this hour she sank rapidly. She could no longer be lifted from her bed without fainting. In deep trouble, Captain Fairfax summoned the old family physician. When he came, and saw the patient, his opinion was decidedly formed, and truthfully given—he said that the Richmond physician had evidently abandoned the case as hopeless, when he sent her home to die—that her life had probably been prolonged by her residence in the country—but that nothing could have saved her—and that she had now not many days to live. Captain Fairfax was almost mad with grief—and all the self-possession and self-control that he had learned in the long attendance upon her sick bed well nigh deserted him. It was many hours before he was sufficiently composed to take his usual place by her bedside, and then his agonized countenance betrayed the extent of his suffering. Catherine was sitting by her when he entered. Zuleime raised her dying eyes, and looking at him, tenderly beckoned him to approach. Then she motioned Catherine to leave her. When they were alone—she laid her hand within his own, and looking at him with unutterable love, said—
“Dear Frank—dearest Frank—I see that you know it all at last. Dearest Frank, I have known it a long time. Now let us talk freely and confidentially about it—let there be no more of that painful mist between us as when you thought only of my restoration to health, and I knew I was sinking fast into the grave.” She paused a moment, and then said—“I want so much to comfort you. I have something to say to you.”
His fingers closed upon her hand convulsively. He choked down his strong, rising emotion, and said—
“Do not try to talk, love, the effort will exhaust your strength.”
“No—no, it will not. I am not so weak as I was when you came in. Dearest Frank, when you sit by me, and hold my hand, new life seems to run up my feeble veins, and I feel stronger. Let me talk, love. Ah! do not look so sad! It is better as it is, love. It is better I should go. I have spoiled my own life, and should spoil yours if I should live. Ah, it is a dreadful thing to occasion the death of any one! it is an awful thing to cause the death of a father. I caused the death of the most loving father that ever lived. And dearest Frank! though in the struggle, in the bitterness of poverty, in the pangs of hunger and of cold, and in the pain and debility of illness, the feeling of compunction has been diverted, yet—had health returned with prosperity—remorse would then have darkened all my life; and in ruining my happiness, would have marred yours. Yes! I have spoiled my own life. It is well that I should not live to spoil yours, dearest Frank! I talk not of expiation now. Nothing that I could do or suffer, would alter the irrevocable past. We have all one Redeemer—Jesus Christ the Righteous. So I talk not of expiating the past; though perhaps if any heart is hardened against me, my early death may soften it. But, let me speak of the future—your future, dearest Frank, and let me say it is better for all your coming years that I should die.”
“Oh, do not say so, Zuleime—you break my heart.”
“Dear Frank, you will grieve for me, I know you will, but be comforted. You are so young yet. This sorrow will pass like a morning cloud, and leave all your life a long bright day.” She paused abruptly—a gray shadow swept darkly over her face and vanished. He did not see it, his face was buried in his hands. Then she asked to have her child brought to her. Frank went out, but soon returned to say that little Fan had been put to bed; and to ask her if the child should be waked up. “No, do not wake the poor, little thing,” she said, and then added, “I am very, very sleepy, Frank; dearest Frank, kiss my eyelids down to slumber like you always do, and hold my hand till I fall asleep. Kiss my lips, too, this time; kiss them last of all—there—good-night, love.” Her voice sank away in a low, inaudible murmur, like a dying sound on the Eolian harp.
Her husband sat and held her hand, never moving, scarcely breathing, lest he should disturb her long, deep sleep. He sat there more than an hour. The room grew dark with the shades of evening; and when at length Catherine entered with the night lamp, he raised his hand with a sign of silence and caution, murmuring—
“She has fallen asleep.” Catherine approached quietly, shading the lamp with her hand, and looked upon the sleeper. “Hush, be very cautious—do not disturb her,” whispered Frank.
The sweet and solemn voice of Catherine gently arose, saying, “Come away, Captain Fairfax. Nothing will ever disturb her more. She has fallen asleep in Jesus.”