“Zuleime, does this man love you?”
“Frank, if I say he does not hate me, it is the extent of all favorable things I can say about the state of his mind towards me. No, he does not love me. It is entirely a betrothal of convenience. Sometimes I look forward to my future life in that great unknown city, which I should dislike under any circumstances, and especially to pass my whole life in, with one I do not like, and who does not like me, and I wonder how I shall contrive to exist,—I, who love to be in the country, on this dear old homestead, with my fond old father and my tender old nurse, and the colored folks who love me so well,—and where I have so many occupations,—and, oh, my soul and body! I think how shall I ever put life through in that packed up city! Sometimes I think—for I must have something to occupy my whole soul with—that I will be very gay and worldly, and dress, and visit, and give balls, and go to balls, and theatres; but then again I reflect that it would be wicked to spend all one’s time and attention upon such things. And then I think I shall try to grow serious enough to join a church, and that I will be a leading member, and a Sunday School teacher, and a patroness of the Bible Society, and of the Missionary Society, and a getter-up of new kinds of benevolent associations, and Dorcas circles, and be a Committee woman, and a distributor of tracts, and a collector of subscriptions, etc. One must do something to fill up the long, long days; one must live somehow, and, upon the whole, I thought this latter plan might do, as it would occupy me entirely, and is not so wicked as the other.”
“Ah, I don’t know that, Zuleime! But, my dearest girl, cease all these troubled thoughts about the future, unnatural to your age, and unwholesome to yourself! This whole cloud must be swept away like a cobweb. He doesn’t love you. You don’t love him. He has never asked you to marry him. You have never promised to do so. It is a mere betrothal of convenience, made by the parents of both for the purpose of keeping family property together, and cementing family interests. Oh, it is all wrong! And there is nothing in it! I will speak to your father. I will enter the lists with this Major Cabell, as a competitor for your hand. In all worldly circumstances, which are ever of the greatest value in a Clifton’s estimation—in family, wealth and social position, I am his peer. Besides, I wear my lady’s favor, which he does not! I will go to your father now and tell him as much, shall I, Zuleime?”
The young lady was busy threading her needle with golden yellow silk, and did not answer. He repeated the question.
“Yes,” murmured Zuleime, beginning to embroider the last word of the trio,—Faith,—in sunbeam silk. No time was to be lost. He raised her hand to his lips, and darted out upon the lawn to meet old Mr. Clifton, whom he saw approaching the house.
“My dear sir!” exclaimed Mr. Fairfax, rather excitedly. “I have something of the utmost importance to say to you. Will you take a turn with me?”
“My dear sir!” repeated the old gentleman, smiling, “breakfast is ready! Let’s go on to the house!”
“But my dear sir! my business is urgent!”
“My very dear sir! the coffee is getting cold!” said the old man, laughing at Frank’s excitement.
“Mr. Clifton,” said the young man, gravely and sadly, “immediately after breakfast I must leave here. This, then, is the only opportunity I have or shall have of communicating to you what is on my heart to say—and it really is on my heart.”