CHAPTER XVII. ZEMIRA'S HISTORY CONTINUED.
—. My dearest husband,
I sometimes fear my father's wrath; but nothing
(Always reserved my holy duty) what
His rage can do on me. You must be gone;
And I shall here abide the hourly shot
Of angry eyes; not comforted to live,
But that there is this jewel in the world,
That I may see again.
Cymbeline.
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Mr. Atkinson received Mr. Lee with a profusion of
civilities; for the man who has just fallen out with one
friend is usually anxious to conciliate another, either to
strengthen himself against the enemy he has lately made,
or to demonstrate he has a heart capable of friendship
whenever he meets with a worthy object. Few persons
distrust compliments when paid to themselves, because
but few distrust their own merits; unless, like Mr. Lee,
they penetrate the motives of the speaker. But although
he suspected Mr. Atkinson's uncommon flow of kindness
proceeded from that revulsion of feeling from rage to
complaisance which he had just experienced, and expected,
should he mention the name of Stuart, to see a
return of the storm; yet he determined to brave the tempest
rather than betray the interest of the lover; and it
is what but few men would have done, to offend a rich
and powerful neighbor by appearing in behalf of a poor,
friendless stranger.
But Lee and Stuart were brother free masons.
After some conversation, Mr. Lee introduced the name
of Stuart by mentioning the proposed voyage, and inquired
of Mr. Atkinson if he thought he might safely
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trust the young gentleman with such a responsible situation.
“I can't answer for your business,” replied Mr. Atkinson,
his anger rekindling, “but Stuart has betrayed my
confidence most cursedly!”
He then proceeded to detail the matter as it appeared
in his eyes, breathing denunciations against Stuart,
and lamenting his own folly in employing him; “For,”
said he, “I might have known a Yankee pedagogue
would stick at no means to gain property. I don't
mean any reflections on you, Mr. Lee; you have been a
citizen here a long time, and are naturalized to our customs,
and have imbibed our generous spirit; and besides,
you are not a Yankee, only from New York; but I do
despise the people of the north that come like locusts to
devour whatever they can find. To better himself is the
first study of a Yankee; and heaven knows their situation
needs bettering; but I have no intention they shall
do it at my expense. My daughter shall never marry
one of that canting, hypocritical race who are forever
declaiming against slavery, and yet wish to reduce all
the world to a dependence on themselves.”
“But, Mr. Atkinson, I have often heard you speak in
terms of the highest praise of your daughter's tutor.”
“Ah! that was before I knew him. It takes a long
time to find out the cunning of the race. Yet I might,
if I had only had any thought, have found out Stuart
before now. Why he was always walking and looking
around my plantation, and inquiring about the management,
and the income, and suggesting plans by which
my estate might be improved; and I fancied it was all
done to gratify me by showing an interest in my affairs;—
fool that I was not to see that he was planning for himself!
And my daughter is so young, it is no wonder
she should be deceived. But his plans are blown now.
He never shall see Zemira again, even though I should
be compelled to confine her to her chamber till the day
of her death.”
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“You don't confine that sweet girl, I hope!” said Mr.
Lee, looking astonished.
“But I do, and I will, till that villain leaves this part
of the country. Oh! 'tis here the ingrate has wounded
me;” and he laid his hand on his heart. “He has stabbed
my peace by robbing me of the affection of my only
child, and I will never forgive him, even though I knew
my eternal salvation would be forfeited by refusing.”
“And did you not expect your daughter would love
some man besides her father? Did you mean she should
live in celibacy?”
“No, but I expected she would bestow her love on a
man I could approve; and then the gratification of her
wishes would fix another bond of obligation on her to
respect me for thus providing for the continuance of her
happiness. But now, Stuart has wheedled her out of
her senses, and she thinks she must marry him or be
wretched; and she regards me as a tyrant, and feels as
if I were depriving her of every enjoyment. O! we
shall never be happy again.”
In spite of the knowledge that this misery was the effect
of his own unyielding prejudices, Mr. Lee could not
help commiserating the grief of the father, and he exerted
all his ingenuity to convince him of his unjust accusations
of Stuart, and persuade him to accept him for a
son-in-law. But his arguments might as well have been
employed in teaching self-denial to a Sybarite. His
words, like oil poured on fire, increased the violence of
the old man's anger, till his extravagant and irreverent
language became too painful to Mr. Lee to endure, and
he suddenly made his exit.
“There is no hope of appeasing or convincing Mr.
Atkinson,” said Lee to Stuart, after he had detailed in
part the particulars of his interview. “He is in a more
terrible rage, I presume, than you ever saw any one indulge.
Your cool climate keeps your temperament cool;
and the perfect equality subsisting in your society makes
the controlling of the passions more indispensable than
with us, where the overflowings of wrath may be poured
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out on the heads, and bodies too, of unresisting menials.
But you will also find our virtues are proportionally
more warm and ardent; this you will willingly concede,
if you are a lover of Zemira, as no doubt you invest
your charmer with every perfection under the sun.”
“No,” replied Stuart, “I only think her more free
from the foibles which usually blemish such perfections
and advantages as she possesses. She is beautiful, and
yet neither affected, insolent, nor vain; she is rich, without
being proud, arrogant, or extravagant; and she has
always been indulged, and yet is neither petulant, wilful,
or selfish.”
“So you make her a paragon at last. I knew it would
end there; and indeed I think she is well worthy
your love. But now the only question is how to obtain
her. I can contrive but two methods—either to elude
the eyes of her Argus, and steal her away, or wait till
they are closed in everlasting sleep.”
“And before that event his cruelty will either have
broken her heart or her spirit; she will be in her grave
or in the arms of a rival.”
“You are for expediting matters,” said Lee, smiling.
“Then suppose you contrive to steal her away? A
clandestine marriage would be an affair of some celebrity
in your history, as it is an event so seldom occurring in
our country. Who knows but it might furnish a good
plot for some dramatist? But it is uncertain yet whether
the tragic or comic muse must be invoked; pray heaven
it be not Melpomene. Yet we have some excellent characters
for a tragedy. There's Mr. Atkinson very much
resembles old Capulet; and if your fate should end like
Romeo's—but I always thought his might have been
avoided. He was too precipitate; you have his example
before you, and would doubtless avoid his errors.”
“And when was a lover ever made wiser by the mistakes
or misfortunes of his ill-starred fellows?”
“O! never. You lovers are just like the girl in the
Arabian Nights, who was in search of the talking bird,
golden water, and singing tree; and would not turn back
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for warning, threat, or expostulation. She stopped her
ears against the din; you are more courageous; you hear
it, and yet go on.”
“And she obtained the prize which a cowardly retreat
would have forfeited. And true lovers always expect to
obtain one. I am so confident of the worth of her I am
seeking, that no hazard to myself would stay my pursuit.
I only pause, fearing rashness on my part might involve
her in distress. Could I only see her!”
“You can write to her,” observed Mr. Lee.
“And how shall my letter be conveyed?”
“Easily enough. You know Tom; well, that fellow I
purchased soon after I came here. He was such a faithful
servant that about eight years ago I gave him his liberty.
He afterwards continued with me some time, till
Mr. Atkinson, hearing of his faithfulness, and always,
by some means, being troubled to obtain good overseers,
offered him such enormous wages, I advised him to accept.
He has since resided there;—but still gratitude
to me will prompt him to any service or sacrifice I
require. He can carry your letters to Zemira, and return
her answers: for he is cunning and dexterous as a
juggler, and would outwit —”
The offer was accepted, the letter written and despatched.
It is due, however, to the good sense and real passion
of Stuart to record, that his love-letter was not an
unmeaning rhapsody—alternately fire and frost; now
breathing out his affections, and now lamenting his destiny.
He addressed Zemira as his friend, and therefore entitled
to his confidence—as a reasoning being, and therefore
able to understand his situation, and assist him with
her counsel. He explained his intentions and hopes,
stated the offer of Mr. Lee, and asked her whether, in the
event of his acceptance, she would still continue her faith,
and at his return, allow him to claim her for his own.
Early next morning her answer arrived. It was so
characteristic of the writer, so devoid of dissimulation or
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artifice, that it may be worthy of inserting as a unique of
its kind.
It was written in pencil on a blank leaf torn from a
book—(she was not allowed pen, ink, or paper)—and
had been begun with “Dear Sir.” This address she
thought, possibly, too formal, and she substituted
“Charles.” But “Dear Charles” was too familiar, so
she had tried to efface it, and wrote on it—
Dear Mr. Stuart:
Your letter was the first consolation I have received
since we parted. You have not then forgotten me; you
will not then forget me, though my father has treated
you so angrily. But he is my father, and has always
been so kind, I must bear with his severity now without
murmuring. He says I am too young and inexperienced
to know what will most conduce to my own happiness;
but I know my own heart, and feel that my affections
can never be altered or divided. By your letter I perceive
you judge it best to accept the proposal of Mr.
Lee, and perhaps it is so. O! these cruel prejudices of
my father, that make such a sacrifice necessary. Why
should riches be thought so indispensable to happiness?
I would rather live in poverty all my life, than have
you exposed to the dangers of the seas to acquire wealth.
Yet, if you think it best to accept your friend's offer, I
will not urge your stay; only do not let time or distance
blot Zemira from your memory or your heart. You
need not bid me be faithful: I cannot be otherwise, for
the idea of you is blended with every thought, every
sentiment, and lesson you have taught me. And when
I read over those passages in my books your pencil
marked, I almost fancy I can hear your voice. I shall
read them constantly during your absence; but what
will remind you of
Zemira?
Postscript.—My father confines me closely to my
chamber, yet allows me every indulgence I wish, except
my liberty, and the means of corresponding with you.
I suppose I am foolish to weep so much, and I
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endeavor to recollect all you have urged on the necessity of
self-command; but thinking of your advice always
makes me weep more. I wish I had more fortitude.
When do you leave Savannah? Z. A.
Tuesday night, 12 o'clock.
The simple and pathetic letter of Zemira overcame
Stuart's resolution, and he told Mr. Lee he could not
embark in an enterprise that would take him so far, and
detain him so long from that lovely and innocent girl;
certainly not, if he must leave her thus exposed to the
tyranny of her father, who would probably confine her
till he could find a match which gratified his ambition,
and then compel her to marry. “I cannot,” continued
he, “endure such uncertainty.”
“Then why not marry her yourself—before you go?”
said Mr. Lee.
“Marry her! How?”
“Why, as lovers of the olden time were in the habit
of doing. Steal her away from the dragon that guards
her. I will engage the parson. You may bring the
fair lady here, and Mrs. Lee will protect her—with my
assistance in times of imminent peril—till you return.”
A spasm passed over the face of Stuart, as though he
struggled with some deep agony of mind, some feeling
he dared not entertain. After a few moments he raised
his head, and said, hesitatingly—
“It may be the only way to save Zemira from being
sacrificed to her father's hatred of me. And yet, how
can I, as a man of honor, propose to this child—she is a
child in her timid, clinging nature—to disobey her father,
and desert him? I have no means of supporting
her—and must leave her to the kindness of my friends.
I don't doubt your friendship, Mr. Lee, but I fear your
advice is wrong.”
“Then don't follow it,” said Mr. Lee, dryly. “You
can go on this voyage; she says in her letter she will
be faithful. You may return in two or three years—”
“And find Zemira lost to me!” exclaimed Stuart.
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“Her father's threats, notwithstanding the sincerity of
her affection for me, will overcome her resistance, or he
will use artifice to persuade her I am inconstant—and
when I return she will be lost to me.”
The workings of his spirit displayed their power, and
even his stern self-command could hardly restrain the
violence of his emotion.
“If Zemira loves you as your merits deserve, and as
her father's anger would imply, her happiness ought to
weigh something in your decision,” said Mr. Lee, earnestly.
“I do not approve of elopements, nor would I counsel
you to this course, only I know Mr. Atkinson, and
know that your case is a desperate one. He would rather
see his daughter in her coffin, than at the altar with you,
even if you gain wealth, because he has sworn she shall
not marry you. Now, you can live without her—men
don't often die for love;—but poor Zemira will have a
pitiful lot. She has never been disappointed; she has a
very tender, loving heart; and I am sorry for her.”
“What would you advise me to do?”
“To leave this place at once. Go to Augusta, and remain
there two or three weeks. When Mr. Atkinson
finds you gone, he will release his daughter. Mrs. Lee
shall visit her then. My wife loves Zemira, and has her
confidence.”
“And then?”
“We shall see how this little Juliet, as my wife often
calls her, because she has such an exuberance of love in
her young heart, we shall see how she bears separation
from her Romeo. Should she droop like a broken
lily—”
“Oh! let me know it at once!”
The suggestion was acted on, and came very near proving
a real tragedy. Mr. Atkinson, finding Stuart had
actually left Savannah, was so overjoyed that he burst
into his daughter's prison-chamber, told her she was free,
for the villain had fled, never to return!
She heard the announcement calmly, as her father
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thought; before the next morning she was in the delirium
of a fever.
Mrs. Lee was sent for; Zemira loved her well, and Mr.
Atkinson had no female relation in the city. At the first
lucid interval, Mrs. Lee told the poor, broken-hearted
child, that her lover had not forsaken her—he was then
returned, privately, and waiting to see her as soon as she
recovered.
It was wonderful, the effect of this simple assurance,
and how suddenly Zemira's health improved!
Then Mrs. Lee tried her rhetoric on the father; but
she found him in no melting mood. To all she could
urge of the danger Zemira had just escaped, and how
deeply her happiness was concerned in her union with
Mr. Stuart, the father was utterly unmoved. He met
every attempt to gain his consent, by a stern refusal, declaring
that “Zemira might die! but she should never
marry Charles Stuart!”
To reason was hopeless;—so the trio at Mr. Lee's resorted
to stratagem,—Mrs. Lee justifying her course by
her belief that it was the only way to prevent Mr. Atkinson
from becoming accessory to the death of his daughter.
The love of Charles Stuart overmastered his scruples of
honor—yet his own passion was not so predominant as
his terror lest Zemira, unless tranquilized by the assurance
that she was his wife, should, on his actual departure,
sink into a state of hopeless despondency.
Zemira's assent to the secret marriage was easily obtained—
but not to the residence at Mr. Lee's. She would
remain with her father. He might be ill and need her
care; he always needed her caresses. In one of her letters
to her lover, she wrote,—
“Do not, dearest Charles, ask me to leave my father.
I will marry you; but while you are gone, let me stay
with him. Perhaps he will relent. Perhaps, in some
blessed moment, he will say,—`Zemira, when Stuart returns,
you shall be his!' Oh! how such a permission
from his revered lips would confirm my happiness. But
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should he retain his prejudices against you, and endeavor
to compel me to marry another, and I find no other resource
of escape, I will then confess my marriage, fly to
your friends for protection, and there await your return.”
So it was arranged. And when Zemira had recovered
sufficiently to go abroad, her father permitted her to pass
a week with Mrs. Lee. An easy opportunity was thus
presented for the marriage; and she and Stuart pledged
their faith at the house of Mr. Lee, in his presence, his
wife's, and a lady, the particular friend of Zemira, whose
affection and secrecy admitted not of suspicion.
A few days after his marriage, Stuart was obliged to
take leave of his young bride, and actually depart. It
was a moment that called for the exertion of more fortitude
than he had ever before practiced, when, with her
soft arm encircling his neck, she wept on his bosom her
last adieu—it was one of those partings that “press the
life from out young hearts.” He was obliged to suppress
his own emotion to soothe and encourage her; and he
promised a speedy return, and faithful remembrance, and
constant correspondence. His letters were to be directed
to Mr. Lee, enclosing Zemira's, who could convey them
to her without being discovered.
And thus they parted; he on a foreign destination,
and she to weep his absence in her father's splendid but,
to her, lonely halls.
The sorrow and desolation of such partings are not
felt in their full bitterness by man. He plunges in business
or resorts to amusements; new scenes attract his notice,
new friends solicit his favor, and the smile he at first
only affects, soon images the real gayety of his heart.
But woman, sad and secluded, sits alone and muses on
joys that are past. In every dream of her fancy is
blended the image of her lover; and every tear she
sheds, hallows the remembrance of his friendship. She
must be faithful—“she cannot choose but weep.”
Zemira wept almost continually, though her father,
more fond, if possible, than ever, tried every art to
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console and divert her. But her melancholy continued;
her color fled, and her health seemed fast declining.
Mr. Atkinson, convinced it was the loss of her lover
which thus affected her, thought the best method of dissipating
her grief was to give her another; and he renewed
his correspondence with his friend Brainard, of
whose nephew and heir he had heard much, and on
whom he had fixed as the future husband of Zemira.
To accomplish their union with the least delay, was his
constant study. The feeble state of his own health forbade
him to expect a long continuance of life, and he
fancied he could die happy if he saw his daughter the
wife of Sidney Romilly.
So fondly does the world cling around the hearts of
men! And when they can no longer enjoy it themselves,
they labor to direct its enjoyments for others.
In pursuance of his plan, Mr. Atkinson informed Zemira
she must make preparations to visit South Carolina,
and spend the winter in Charleston. His health required
journeying and change of scene, and he had many friends
in that city to whom he was anxious his child should be
introduced.
Zemira heard this declaration with dismay. She could
not think of an introduction to the notice of strangers.
She could not leave the place where she often fancied
she heard the voice of her beloved Stuart; and she
should be deprived of the dearest happiness she now
enjoyed—the perusal of his letters, which arrived almost
daily; for how could she receive them at Charleston
where she knew no one to whom they might safely be
directed? But her entreaties to relinquish or defer the
journey, by making her father suspect she intended corresponding
with Stuart, only made him hasten her departure,
and she was compelled to obey.
She had just received a letter from her husband, detailing
an account of his success in prosecuting the business
entrusted to his care, and flattering his hopes with
a fortunate voyage when he might return with wealth to
support his sweet wife, claim her, and be happy.
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“It will never, never be,” thought she often during
her journey, and after her arrival at Charleston. “I
shall not live to see him again.” But when she was introduced
to Sidney, and discovered she was, by her
father, destined to be his wife, fear and grief did indeed
nearly deprive her of existence. She was separated from
every friend on whom she had any claim for assistance.
But one ray of hope yet remained—Sidney Romilly had
a kind heart; he could sympathize in the sorrows of
others, and more, he had the power to relieve them.
She determined, whenever he declared his passion, to
tell him the whole of her story, and rely on his generosity
to forgive, pity, and assist her.
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Hale, Sarah Josepha Buell, 1788-1879 [1852], Northwood, or, Life North and South, showing the true character of both. (H. Long & Brother, New York) [word count] [eaf561T].
