She was the daughter of a portrait painter in Richmond, and this was what Captain Archer Clifton, in his arrogance, called humble parentage. Mr. Clifton had met her under the following circumstances: On finally withdrawing his eldest daughter from school, he wished, before carrying her home, to have her portrait taken, and went for that purpose to the studio of Mr. Fuller, portrait and miniature painter, where he chanced to see her for the first time, the artist’s beautiful child, Georgia. He took so strong a fancy to this bewitching creature, that he delayed his departure—prolonging his stay in the city for three weeks, at the end of which, besides the accomplished Miss Clifton, with her elegant wardrobe, splendid jewels, costly presents, and finished portrait—he took home the artist’s daughter as the fourth Mrs. Clifton, of Clifton much to the indignation of the haughty Carolyn, who never ceased to treat her beautiful young stepmother with scorn and contempt.
Supper was announced, and the old gentleman, rising, requested his nephew to lead in his wife, while he himself, took the arm of his eldest daughter, and left Zuleime to Mr. Fairfax. They crossed the hall and entered a large and pleasant dining-room, where stood an elegant table, laid with a damask table-cloth, set out with silver plate, and Sevres porcelain, and laden “with all the luxuries of the season.” Waiters of perfect dress and address were in attendance.
“I assure you, Miss Zuleime, that contrast is all the seasoning of existence—and this is a high seasoning. For yesterday we sat down to eat supper off of pewter plates, on a bare board, in a mean hut, in company with rude mountaineers, and to-night we sit at the elegant tea-table of Clifton, surrounded with beautiful, refined, and accomplished ladies,” said Frank, as he handed his lively companion into her chair, and took the seat by her side.
The sprightly Zuleime laughed, and said she doubted whether he would find more substantial or savory fare here than he got at the mountain hut.
After all were seated, and all served, the conversation became general and vivacious—old Mr. Clifton being evidently “the life of the company.” He chatted, jested, laughed, told anecdotes, and finally, inspired Frank, who gave a laughable description of their adventures on the Alleghanies; of being upset in the stage coach, and pitched into Wolf’s Lick; of being lost in the fog, and near going down the Devil’s Staircase; finally, of being caught in the tempest, and shut up in a mountain hut with a raving maniac. At this the old gentleman began to rally his proud daughter on her gratuitous ill-humour of the preceding evening, at the said delay, and then to scold the young men for their effeminacy and want of gallantry, courage, in suffering themselves to be deluged by the storm. Now, to be charged, all at once, with effeminacy, and want of gallantry, and courage, even in jest, was too much, and in Frank’s case, too near the truth to go without reply. So he began vehemently to clear his fame, assuring the assembled company that it was not altogether effeminacy, for that they had been hospitably sheltered in the cabin of a beautiful shepherdess.
“Yes,” said Frank, maliciously, “so beautiful that Clifton there couldn’t keep his eyes off her, and while I sat and played checkers with her brother, he sat and studied her face, ‘and it were a book’—for hours. I wish you had seen him, Miss Clifton—
“‘Never gazed the moon
Upon the water as he sat and read
As ’twere her eyes.’
Fact, my dear lady, and I should be guilty of misprision of treason, to conceal it!” laughed Frank, shaking his head at his friend.