University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
ZULIEME IN CHARLESTON.

Zulieme was awake by daylight, but only to be disappointed.
She did not start for the city quite so soon as she expected.
Morning came, and no departure. And Calvert was absent, no
one knew in what quarter; in the woods somewhere; but whether
with or without an object, who could say?

Zulieme was in despair! But by noon he came — unexpectedly
as he went; and it was then understood that it was only after
night, availing himself of the tide, that he meant that the boats
should drop down the river.

To wait for hours! Oh, what a trial to the eager heart of
youth! But the night, with grateful cover, came at last. The
boats were manned, and Zulieme summoned. Her trunks were
already on board; and she herself had been ready, as we have
seen, some twelve hours before. She, too, passed on board. She
gave her hand cordially to Molyneaux, and Eckles too, as she left
the vessel — though the don, her husband, was at hand — and
spoke her farewell with all the freedom of a child.

“Good-by, Mr. Molyneaux — good-by, Mr. Eckles,” she cried
to them, with naïve accents — “good-by! Do n't you forget me!
I 'm going to town, you know, where we shall have dances a
plenty, but I sha' n't soon forget those funny ones we have had in
the woods.”

“That 's not very sentimental, Molyneaux,” muttered Eckles in

the ears of his brother-lieutenant. “She do n't break her heart at
parting with us, my boy!”

And Molyneaux seemed to be of the same opinion, for he answered
very churlishly to his brother-officer, and in rather saddish
accents to the senora. But there was still a scene in reserve, not
in the programme. Sylvia was about to step on board after her
mistress, when Calvert arrested her.

“Back, girl! we want none of you. You will remain here.”

“Oh, missis, they won't let me come!”

“Harry,” cried Zulieme, hearing the anguished cry of the Abigail,
“I must have Sylvia.”

“Impossible, Zulieme.”

“But I can 't do without her, Harry. Do n't tell me impossible!”

“You must try, Zulieme. I would n't have her long tongue
among the townspeople for half our cargo. Do you forget that
we have secrets there, Zulieme?”

“I can 't help it: Sylvia must go. Who is to dress me and
tend me?”

“She can not go, Zulieme.”

“Then I won't go! for I can 't do without her, Harry.”

“I 'm sorry for it; for you must stay, then! — Back the boats,
fellows.”

“But, Harry, why can 't Sylvia go? You are so cross always!”

“I have given you the reason already, Zulieme. The secrets
of the ship must not be blabbed about the town.”

“But she won't blab, Harry. I promise you!”

“You promise! Answer for yourself, Zulieme. You will have
enough to do! As for trusting anything to such a parrot, I can 't
think of it. Come, Zulieme, decide! Will you go, or stay?”

“And Sylvia is not to go?”

“No, as I 'm a living man!”

“You 're a monster! Never mind, Sylvia: I 'll bring you fine
things.”

“You are content to go without her?”

“I suppose I must be. You try all you can to make me miserable.
You 're such a brute Englishman, I wonder why I ever
married you!”

“So do I, Zulieme — very much, and very often. But, speak

quickly. The tide is running down fast. I do not compel you to
go, Zulieme. If you can 't do without Sylvia, do n't go — do n't
leave her.”

In a subdued, sobbing voice, Zulieme cried out:—

“Good-by, Sylvia! You see how it is! He won't let you
come.”

“O my missis! what I going to do without you?”

“Take your amusements, Sylvia. Dance all you can.”

“Oh! oh! oh!” sobbed the disconsolate Abigail, as the boats
swept away down-stream; while Zulieme repeated for the twentieth
time:—

“You try all you can to cross me, Harry Calvert, and make
me miserable. I 'm sure I wish I had never seen you!”

“It was, indeed, a great misfortune,” he responded, in very sober,
serious tones, and not reproachfully, only painfully.

“To me it was, Harry Calvert — to me, to me only!”

“Surely: who else? It was to you, Zulieme, I repeat, a very
great misfortune.”

“But it need not be, if you were not the great bear of an Englishman
that you are! If you 'd try, I 'm sure you could make
me happy.”

“I 'm afraid not, Zulieme. But, indeed, I do try as well as I
can, and as far as I think it proper. But how could you suppose
that I would suffer that wench to go with you to the city, where
you are to bear another name than mine, when you know that she
has the tongue of a jay, and the wriggling propensities of an eel?
She would never rest till she had blabbed everything. Be content!
You will have better 'tendance with Mrs. Anderson than
Sylvia could ever give you. She will find you half a dozen better
maid-servants, each worth a dozen of Sylvia.”

But we need not hearken further to this (however interesting)
domestic difficulty. Enough, that the decision of Calvert deranged
some of the plans of Molyneaux — for the moment. Of these,
hereafter.

The boats swept quietly down the placid, poetical river, now
veering to one and now to the other bank — each side presenting,
with pleasing alternations, some fairy-like glimpses of the shore,
crowned everywhere with green umbrage, and the headlands
sometimes overshadowing half the stream with the great branches

of their ancient oaks. At length, a blazing pile of pine-fagots,
raised upon a knoll of earth, drew the eyes of the party to the
western banks. In the rear of this pyre stood a dark, square
mass, which Calvert instantly recognised as the ancient “Blockhouse”
commanding the creek at “Oldtown.” This pyre was his
signal. He knew that Gowdey was on the watch, and that his
horse was in readiness. Franks had punctually fulfilled his orders.

Without a word, having the tiller in his grasp, our rover turned
the head of the boat directly for the ancient landing, with which
he was quite familiar. As the boat darted into the little creek,
Zulieme cried out:—

“Why, Harry, what 's this? Why do you come here?”

“Here I leave the boat, Zulieme.”

“But you must n't leave me. You must carry me yourself to
Mrs. Anderson, Harry.”

“Impossible! But I have arranged everything. Have no fear.”

“Oh! do n't you tell me to have no fear. I will have fear; I
will be afraid. You send me among strange people, Harry Calvert,
and who ought to introduce me but you?”

“My dear Zulieme, you are already introduced, and Mrs. Perkins
Anderson awaits you. She knows you, and I have tried my
best to make you know her. I have told you that she 's a fine,
fashionable woman, and gives balls and parties, the very finest in
Charleston; that she 's sentimental, and flirts with perfect grace;
that she 's very sweet-tempered, being young, rich, and surrounded
by admirers. So much for her. You will find that all I 've told
you is true, and that she eagerly expects you, and will know you
at a glance. I 've told her that you dance to perfection; that you
like nothing so well in the world as dancing; that you will dance
all night; dream all day of dancing all night; awaken only to
work out your dreams; and that you would not give a fig for life
itself, unless with the privilege of using your legs to the sound of
the tambourine; that you are disappointed in your husband only
as he is not content to be a dancing-machine for your exercise.”

“That 's as much as to say you 've told her I 'm a fool, you
great English cayman! But I 'll not go to her house — I won't
go a step — unless you go along with me; that 's flat!”

“As you please, Zulieme. It is impossible that I should go
with you to-night. That, too, is flat! You will at least accompany

the boat, and either land in Charleston, and go to Mrs. Anderson,
or keep quiet in the boat till its return, when you can go
back to the ship.”

“No! I 'll do neither, since you won't go with me. I 'll go
with you. I 'll see where you go to-night. I 'm too great a fool
to go to Mrs. Anderson's! I 'll show you that I can do without
dancing. I love dancing! when I care nothing about it in the
world, except when I 've got nothing else to amuse me.”

To this determined speech Calvert gave no attention. It probably
entered his ears and passed through them. With the tiller
in his grasp, he kept the boat in the narrow passage up the creek,
through green tracts of marsh on either hand; and, as she reached
the landing, he adroitly brought her round, so that he leaped with
an easy spring upon the shore, sending the vessel off fully ten feet
with the effort.

“Why, Harry — Harry, I say! — do you really mean to leave
me, you brute monster? Oh, I wish I had never, never, never
seen you!”

“Good-night, Zulieme,” he cried, as he disappeared in the thickets;
“go to Mrs. Anderson's, and fear nothing. Do n't be foolish.
Good-night!”

She screamed after him, but he made no answer. He was
gone. She fairly sobbed out her afflictions. But the case was
past remedy, and she was soon reconciled. Before the boat had
quite emerged from the creek into the river, she had got up her
guitar, and, what with tuning and tinkling, for the benefit of the
oarsmen — one of whom had taken the tiller on the captain's departure
— she contrived to forget her trials long before the little
vessel reached her destination. Calvert knew her resources.

In little more than an hour after he had left the boat, she had
entered the lagune, and passed on to the obscure landing-place, in
the rear of the courthouse of the present city. Here Franks and
Jack Belcher were both in waiting. They both received the fair
Zulieme with the deference becoming the wife of their superior.
Franks she had never seen before. They escorted her promptly
to the dwelling of the fashionable lady, who was in waiting to welcome
her. This she did with the ease, grace, and gayety, of a
woman of fashion.

“I 'm so happy to see you!” and she embraced and kissed her,

and drew her into the brilliantly-lighted parlor, and hurriedly
devoured her with all her eyes.

“Bless me, Zulieme,” she cried, in a sort of rapture, “you are
the prettiest little creature — quite a fairy! Why, you look like
a mere girl — a child: nobody would ever take you to be a wife.”

“Oh, do n't call me a child!” said Zulieme impatiently. “Harry
calls me a child and a baby, and treats me just as if I was a doll.
Do n't you do so. I do n't like it.”

“Oh, I speak only of your size and looks, my dear. It 's no
discredit to be thought young, my dear. Everybody knows that
we grow older as we grow, fast enough; and, for a woman, it 's a
great thing to keep young as long as possible. For my part, you
could not please me better than by fancying and calling me a
girl.”

Zulieme's eyes opened wide.

“The great, fat chunk of a creature!” was her unuttered meditation.
But Mrs. Perkins Anderson, with the natural facility of
a fashionable woman, allowed her companion no chance to speak.

“What a sweet face is this of yours, Zulieme — so very delicate
and feminine! And those eyes — how black, and how they dilate!
And your hands how small, and your feet! You are, I insist, a
little fairy, and look nothing like a wife. And, by-the-way, you
are not a wife here. Remember that! Of course, Calvert has
told you? You are to be the Senorita Zulieme de Montano, of
Florida. You will make a great sensation. Our young dandies
and macaronies are very fond of Spanish beauties; and you will
be a belle, and they will suppose you a fortune! Nobody can
think you a married woman. How long have you been married,
my dear?”

“Oh, a long time — more than a year!”

“That is a very long time. Alas! Zulieme, I have been married
ten; and ten years of married life is an eternity. But, come;
we must have supper, and then to sleep. You must be tired.”

And she wrapped her arms around the unresisting stranger, and
drew her into the supper-room, exclaiming as she went:—

“What a fairy! what a creature for the dance! Oh, what
dances we shall have!”

“And I so love dancing!” murmured Zulieme.