“Do you find talking to yourself a very amusing pastime, Mr. Fairfax,” asked Zuleime, touching him on the elbow.
“No, my dear, delightful little girl, I don’t. What a delightful thing, in a country house, is a beautiful girl of fourteen, home for the holydays—a black-eyed, red-lipped girl, in a white muslin gown and a coral necklace!”
“Are your soliloquies as good natured as your conversation, Mr. Fairfax,” inquired the laughing Zuleime.
“Not quite, I’m afraid, my dear.”
“Do you know how to play chess, Mr. Fairfax?” she asked, opening the chess-board.
“I know how to play anything you wish me to play, my love—even the fool!”
“Oh! the latter is not so rare or difficult an accomplishment,” laughed the maiden, taking her seat, and beginning to arrange the chess-men. Frank sat down, and they commenced the game in earnest.
All this time the old gentleman, with his white head and rosy face, and kind smile and glance, had been walking leisurely up and down the floor slowly, rubbing his hands with an air of great enjoyment—pausing now by the work-table at which sat his beautiful wife, and gazing on her fondly while he toyed with the elegant trifles of her work-box—then sauntering off towards the chess-table, and patting the head of his “little black-headed darling”—as he called Zuleime—or passing a jest with Frank as he overlooked the game—until the boy came from the post-office somewhat late; when taking the paper he went and ensconced himself in an easy-chair on the opposite side of his wife’s work-table, and was soon busied in the perusal of the debate on Mr. Jefferson’s bill for cutting off entails. Frank felt very much pleased that the old boy, as he mentally called him, was quieted at last, and that he himself had at length an opportunity of initiating his charming companion into the mysteries of flirtation, while she imparted to him the secrets of chess.
The room was now very quiet. And Frank was soon deeply immersed in his game. Yes—the room was very quiet, it seemed the sanctuary of domestic love and happiness! At one extremity sat the betrothed lovers, conversing in a low tone, softer than the hum of far-off bees. At the other extremity sat the graceful young wife, placidly pursuing her quiet work, and seeming more like the darling spoiled child of the old man, her husband, who sat reading by her side, and whose kind eyes often wandered from the paper and rested fondly upon her. About midway of the room, sat Frank and his bright companion, too deeply interested in their chess to notice the happy lovers, or to observe the quiet contentment of the old man with his beautiful darling. Yes, this room seemed a temple of domestic truth and trust—of family peace and joy. At least so thought Frank, until raising his eyes from his game, his glance chanced to fall for an instant upon the face of Mrs. Clifton.
It might have been the darkness of her surroundings, which threw into such strong relief that fearful countenance, for the black dress and flowing black mantilla veiled all her form, while the clustering deep black curls darkly shaded her face. Her form was turned from the table and bent over the arm of the chair—her bosom was heaving, her lips apart and humid, her nostrils slightly distended, and her eyes, those dreadful eyes, fixed with a passionate, fierce, devouring gaze upon some distant object.