University of Virginia Library

48. CHAPTER XLVII,I
ZULIEME'S FIRST SIGHT OF THE BARONY.

If we have properly considered the light, lively temperament
of Zulieme Calvert, and remember the child-life which she has
led, we shall probably be somewhat surprised at the quiet resignation
with which she gave up her abode with the fashionable
Mrs. Anderson. One would think, seeing her deportment, that
she had made no sacrifice. She had no tears. She seemed to
have danced herself out. She was subdued and pensive, but very
calm. There was a secret power at work in the bosom of the
little woman, unfelt before, which sustained her wonderfully.
Mrs. Anderson was quite astonished. She made many lamentations.
We could give a chapter of garrulous speech which she
poured forth to and at the council of the lords-proprietors, and
thrust specially into the ears of the cassique of Kiawah. But we
do not affect this sort of eloquence. Mrs. Anderson, judging from
Zulieme's seeming stolidity, thought her astonishingly cold. She
could find tears, as well as eloquence, at their enforced separation;
Zulieme neither. What she said was curt and unostentatious,
and she even appeared impatient to be gone.

“It do n't matter, Charlotte,” she said; “I do not fear what
they can do! They can only put me in chains! If they kill me,
what then? It 'll be just like your brute English. But I won't
beg them or pray to them, and they sha' n't see any tears of mine.
And I will take care how I talk. They sha' n't hear a word from
me which shall bring trouble to Harry. He shall find that I am
a woman now.”

Mrs. Anderson began to think that Harry Calvert knew his
ridiculous little wife better than herself. Certainly, she showed
her a new phase of her character.

It was only when, just before the carriage of the cassique came
to take her away, that Zulieme showed anything like tears or passion.
But, though her anger was roused, her firmness was not
shaken even then! The occasion was the sudden appearance of
Sylvia, the mulattress, who rushed out upon her, weeping and
shrieking, and imploring to be taken with her. Then the little
woman flushed up with something like fury:—

“Take her away! She shall never go with me again! Oh,
the brute! the liar! To tell everything! To try and bring
Harry to the gallows! Do, Charlotte, have her flung into the
sea! oh, do!”

“No, no! not that, Zulieme!”

“Do n't let her come nigh me!”

The mulattress flung herself at her feet, and renewed her cries
and protestations. The little woman seized a broomstick (what
a weapon for a heroine!) and, but for the interposition of Mrs.
Perkins Anderson, who was quite seandalized by such an unfeminine
demonstration, would, no doubt, have belabored the waiting-maid
soundly.

“Well, take her away — send her off — drown her in the sea —
give her away — take her yourself, Charlotte, if you will; but
never let her show herself to me again!”

And the matter was finally settled after this fashion. Mrs.
Anderson agreed, to oblige Zulieme, to accept the gift; and the
affair being thus understood, Sylvia promised to silence her affliction.
She was not unwilling. In all probability, had Zulieme
been anxious to take her, she would have shown herself a discontent.
Like her mistress, she preferred town to country life;
many people to few; smart company, on terra firma, to tary sailors
aboard ship; and she was already prepossessed with Mrs.
Perkins Anderson, and had learned to fancy that Charleston was
a very tolerable place, though her tender affections had been so
grievously mortified in it by the loose principles of Gideon Fairchild.

It was just as this affair was settled, that the stately carriage-and-four
of the cassique of Kiawah, bearing the family crest, with

its French motto, “Dieu avec nous,” drove up to the entrance —
the cassique the sole occupant. There were two outriders in
livery.

It was a pleasurable reflection to Mrs. Perkins Anderson that
the carriage of one of the local barons should stand at her door,
no matter what the occasion. She contrived to delay its waiting
as long as possible; and for long afterward it was her wont to
say, whenever the cassique was referred to —

“Ah! he was a fine gentleman. His coach was frequently at
my door. He was a favorite here; and when he came, he seemed
quite unwilling to depart: he made long visits.”

We need scarcely mention that, in removing Zulieme, the cassique
“did his spiriting” with all courtesy and gentleness. He
could not altogether prevent her from feeling that she was something
of a prisoner. The fact was patent in that of her removal.
But, neither in look, nor word, nor action, did he suffer her to feel
that she was likely to be annoyed in her duresse, or that it would
be other than was quite consistent with her claims as a wife, a
woman, and a lady. He was tender and solicitous; awaited her
moods with patience; and, when he lifted her into the carriage, it
was with the studious observances of the nicest preux chevalier
of the time of Philip Sidney.

It is true that Zulieme was somewhat awed by this treatment,
and by the sad looks and dignified grace of the cassique. She
had been at first a little terrified, when brought before the council.
It was only when she was taught how unwittingly her tongue
had committed her husband, that she recovered her composure,
and became lifted into resolution. Still she felt an involuntary
disquiet, under the eye of the cassique, which was accorded rather
to his individual than his official character. But this feeling had
no kin to fear. Having persuaded herself that she was a hostage
for Harry, and possibly might be a sacrifice, she rose to a sense
of dignity with the sense of danger, which changed, for the time,
her whole demeanor. Levity had given place to pride; and it
was rather amusing than impressive, in the eyes of Mrs. Anderson,
to see the stateliness and dignity which now, in the bearing
of the little woman, took the place of her former kitten-playfulness.
It was really comical to behold such resolved looks, such a
lofty carriage, so much reserve and dignity, in the conduct of one

so very petite, and whom she had been accustomed to see only in
the character of the ballet-girl. She could scarcely keep from
laughter as she saw it. She laughed at it a thousand times after.

But the parting took place after many delays. Tears and many
words constituted the demonstration of the fashionable Mrs. Charlotte.
Zulieme had no tears, and but few words; but these were
proper, simple, graceful, and dignified. She thanked her hostess
gratefully for her care and kindness, and promised to remember
all. As the two embraced, Mrs. Anderson whispered —

“Oh! what shall I say from you to Craven and Cavendish?
They will be so wretched!”

“Say? Nothing! What have I to say to them, Charlotte?”

“Ah, Zulieme, they were both so very fond of you!”

“They are both very foolish fellows, then; for I have no fondness
for them! Tell them nothing!”

And when she said this, her little, pulpy lips put on the smallest
possible curl of contempt, while her eye looked as coldly and indifferently
into that of Charlotte as if she scarcely remembered
the parties spoken of. The amiable hostess sighed gently. She
felt that some of her calculations had been made in vain. Altogether,
the little child-wife was a little problem. But the two
parted, tenderly enough. Zulieme had absolutely shared her
wardrobe with her hostess, who, whatever her weaknesses, whatever
the wickedness of her designs — of which Zulieme knew
nothing — had treated her with great and affectionate consideration
of manner. They parted, and the cassique lifted Zulieme
into the carriage; and, at a wave of the hand, the coachman
smacked his whip, postillion-fashion, and the carriage whirled
away in a cloud of dust — the two outriders putting their horses
into a canter to keep up with the vehicle.

That night Mrs. Anderson received no company. Mrs. Calder
Carpenter did. But neither Cavendish nor Craven was present.
Of course, there was any amount of scandal and conjecture
touching the wonderful events of the previous night and day;
but the result of all was favorable to the Anderson. She had
certainly caused a sensation — which is always the ne plus ultra
of the fashionable world — for good or evil matters little! And,
by-the-way, public opinion in Charleston was hardly so unfavorable
to Calvert, “the don-destroyer,” as to suffer his little wife to

be disparaged. Zulieme had won upon the circles which she had
penetrated.

Poor Zulieme! she sat back in the cassique's carriage, perched
proudly on her dignity! Was she not doing penance for her husband?
Was she not a martyr — likely to be sacrificed for him?
The fancy made her very proud! She was no longer a kitten!
Let us add that there was another reason — which must remain a
secret a little longer — which added to her strength and dignity,
and which rendered her so indifferent, if not contemptuous, when
Charlotte Anderson reminded her of those two popinjays, Craven
and Cavendish. She brooded over this secret of her own — she
never breathed it to her hostess even — with no little satisfaction.
Briefly, she had made a long stride, in a single moment, from
girlhood to womanhood. But of all this, hereafter. It is a secret
that will keep. Zulieme will tell it to but one!

The cassique of Kiawah is already known to us, and we may
well conceive that he bore himself toward the little wife of the
famous corsair with all proper kindliness. But it was only when
he felt the necessity of soothing her mind, and reconciling her to
her condition of captivity, that he began to perceive how awkward
his situation was as custodian. What sort of custodian
could he be, with a household in such a condition as was his?
His wife — it was agony to think of her! Her mother — it was
with anger that he thought of her! How could he make his captive
comfortable in such condition of his household? He had not
thought of this before. Born to wealth — accustomed to have his
will, and command the service, even as he wished it — he suddenly
felt that he had no service, no resources, to meet his present
requisition. His prisoner — a woman, young, seemingly artless,
and of peculiar characteristics — would almost be companionless.
He had spoken, in council, from a natural impulse, and without
due reflection. His instincts had moved him. He had been
touched by the child-simplicity of the young wife of the corsair,
and had undertaken to reconcile two objects: to keep her in security,
from the possible attempts of the corsair himself — who, it
was thought, would scarcely venture to penetrate the country;
and to keep her from the humiliations of a common dungeon. He
was worried, in no small degree, at the task he had undertaken,
and the more he thought of it; but, like a true knight, sans peur

et sans reproche, he prepared to do his devoir, and leave the rest
to God's favor and the chapter of chances.

As a matter of course, he endeavored to beguile the route for
his companion, by gentle and courteous conversation. The region
through which they had to pass was not suggestive of agreeable
topics. As we know, however beautiful to the eye which is “to
the manner born,” it was lacking in all salient essentials of the
picturesque. It was without form, though far from void. There
were no great heights; no striking inequalities; only vast tracts
of forest, with brief stretches of road, so closed in on every hand,
that there was no beyond. True, the season was one of flowers
and fruits. There are green leaves, a glorious foliage; blossoms
that were sweet upon the air; colossal trees, that made cathedral-shadows
all around; dense masses of leaf and flower; vines and
shrubs: but the eye naturally grew weary of the dead levels and
the uniformity, which finally showed as one great waste! Yet
had he little else of which to speak; and Zulieme, he soon found,
had no eye for scenery. Besides, she had seen the great mountains
which divide the seas, Pacific and Atlantic. And he quickly
discovered that she had not the soul for that beauty which abounds
in the instincts of art. She had had no cultivation, and the original
soil of mind had received no seeds from Nature which a genial
care could make to grow, as under the mere waving of the wand
of Thought. There was no possible point of contact between the
souls of the two. Zulieme had no thoughts, no imagination, hardly
any fancies; scarcely more than the little bush-bird which hops
from twig to twig, and never feels an aspiration to soar. Curious
enough in respect to her husband, the corsair, our cassique was
yet too much of the gentleman to touch upon this subject. But,
as a gentleman, he wearied himself, sore and sick at heart as he
was, in the effort to amuse her. But all in vain. She looked
kindly into his eyes — almost reverentially. Her own instincts
taught her that he was striving to please and amuse; but she
could make no response; and he asked himself—

“How is it that education fails us, even when we aim to please,
and in the case of those who are evidently so far below us in endowment
and acquisition?”

He did not remember that his own heart was ill at ease, and
that his labors were those only of the mind. He did not forget,

it is true, that there was another reason for his failure. He did
not dare to approach the very topics upon which her own mind
and heart were brooding. There is a point of contact for all humanity,
which will, at some moments, bring together the loftiest
and lowest; but this can only be found where the relations between
the parties are such as leave both in comparative freedom.
Here, and now, both were under constraint, and from a variety of
causes. At length the cassique gave up the effort, and sank back
in the carriage, silent and forgetful. In his forgetfulness he
sighed, and such a sigh! No sigh that Zulieme ever heard was
more deep, more expressive of mortal anguish. She watched
him obliquely, with a growing sympathy; and, with every glance,
she thought —

“How like to Harry!”

She was awed by him, no doubt. A noble earnestness of character,
coupled with an evident sorrow, borne with manliness, must
always compel the respectful sympathies of the pure and ingenuous.
She could give the cassique credit as a noble gentleman,
even while she remembered that he was her jailer; and, in some
degree, she conjectured the truth — that he had become her jailer
only to save and spare her those humiliations which must have
followed her detention in the town. She watched and studied her
companion in silence, but with a momently-growing sympathy.
He was so sad; his looks were so grand, yet so gentle; and he
was “so like Harry!” And, even as she watched and mused, the
cassique forgot that she was present — that he had any companion,
any auditor; and the deep sigh became a deeper groan, and
the bosom of the strong man heaved with convulsive emotions,
that distended his broad breast and shook his powerful frame;
and, in his anguish and oblivion, the big tears gushed from his
eyes, and he moaned aloud in syllables that startled the keen,
quick consciousness of his companion:—

“Olive! Olive! Would to God I could die for thee, Olive!”

“Olive!” murmured Zulieme to herself, looking more earnestly
into his eyes; “that name!”

Another big groan from the laboring breast; and the child-woman
forgot her curiosity in her sympathies, and laid her little
hand upon the cassique's arm, while she said, in her softest manner
—

“Ah! señor, my lord — I am sorry that you so suffer!”

He started wildly at the touch and voice.

“Me, child! Suffer! I suffer?”

And he tried to smile; and, in the effort, he became conscious
of the big tears still rolling down his cheek; and then his cheek
was flushed with shame.

“I have forgotten myself, my dear young lady. Pray, pardon
me. My thoughts wandered far away.”

“Ah, sir, you groaned so bitterly!”

“It was not well to groan — not wise, nor courteous, my dear
young lady; and I feel ashamed that I could so entirely forget
your presence. Yet it is, perhaps, just as well that I should
do so. It enables me to prepare you for a sad household. I
have taken you with me, my child, not to a pleasant abiding-place,
but to a safe one — one where you will find little to please
or to amuse you; nay, where you may see things which shall
sadden your young heart: but you will find protection, and a tender
care, which shall not wound or vex you, until such time as
the council shall choose to set you entirely free. I wish to be
kind to you, young lady, and to hold you under guardianship,
rather than in bonds.”

“I think I know what you mean, señor, my lord,” was the reply,
in rather more broken English than usual, “and I thank you,
señor, and Harry will thank you too; but tell me how long you
mean that I should stay with you.”

“Ah! that I can not yet say; for it does not lie with me
wholly: but I will do my best, so that you shall be free as soon
as it is possible. The trouble lies in this: if free, whither would
you go? Your husband is under ban of outlawry. He will
hardly come hither. He knows not where you are. He will
scarcely venture again to visit Charleston, for the danger awaits
him there. Your case is one of great difficulty, unless he can
procure the king's pardon, which, for your sake, and somewhat for
his own, I shall strive to get for him.”

“Harry will not wait for a king's pardon. He will come for
me anywhere. Harry does not love me much, but he will fight
for me. He is not afraid to come to Charleston. Why, if Harry
was so minded, he would bring his ship and fight all the town!”

The cassique mused at the little wife's confidence in her husband's

courage and prowess; but the more he mused, the more
sure he felt that the corsair would not find it hard to pelt the walls
of Charleston about the ears of its people. But of this he said
nothing. Only, being something curious, he asked —

“But why do you say that your husband does not love you
much?”

“Oh! I suppose he loves me as much as he loves anybody” —
then a pause — “except one, perhaps.”

“And who is she? For it is a lady, I suppose.”

“Yes!” — and, this said, the little wife looked into the eyes of
the cassique earnestly and sadly, then added — “but I must not
tell her name to you.”

She had almost told it.

“And why not to me?”

“Nay, I must tell it to nobody. It is Harry's secret.”

“I would I knew your husband, young lady. Though outlawed,
I like what I have heard of him. I like him for his
deeds.”

“Oh! I am glad to hear you say so. You would like him better
if you knew him, though he is so grand and proud, and so
cold! And then, he looks so very much like you, señor!”

“Like me! Ah! I would I knew him. I will try to get his
pardon, at all events.”

“Thank you, señor; but Harry will not wait for that! He
will have me, I know it, as soon as he can find me. He will take
me out of your deepest dungeons.”

“Oh! you must not speak of dungeons at Kiawah, my child.
It is full of sorrow, and death hangs over it like a thunder-cloud
ready to burst: but there are no bonds; and you shall find nothing
but tenderness, even if there be no love.... Ha! look there!
There is one of our dear little ones of Kiawah. That is my
wife's sister and mine — our dear little pet, Grace Masterton.
She is a sweet child, but a child only.”

And he pointed to a group — Grace Masterton, and the Indian
hunter, Iswattee, with a fawn that they were taming by the roadside,
within one of the first enclosures of the barony.

“A child! you call that a child?” said Zulieme. “Why, she
is as big as me!”

The cassique smiled sadly.

“Yes, but a child nevertheless.”

“Let me get out and play with her! She 's a beautiful creature;
and the red Indian boy; and the little deer; oh! they all
together look like a picture I have seen.”

“It is, indeed, a picture,” said the cassique; and, at his command,
the carriage stopped. By this time, the rolling of the
wheels had reached the ears of the group; and Grace had leaped
the fence, and darted toward it, crying —

“Is it you, brother!” Then, seeing the strange lady, she hung
back, abashed. The young Indian did not move from his place,
but appeared to busy himself with his fawn. He did not even
look out toward the carriage, preserving well that stolidity of demeanor
— that show of incuriousness — which is the usual characteristic
of the red man. But, from the corner of his eye, he had
already, at a single glance, taken in the whole party; and even
before Grace had leaped the fence, he had seen that there was a
strange lady in the carriage.

For the first few moments, Zulieme had become a child again.
She had forgotten her dignity — forgotten the pride which had reminded
her, ever and anon throughout the journey, that she was a
prisoner — a hostage for her husband. The sight of Grace, a tall,
fair English girl, with bright eye and tresses floating free; the half-tamed
fawn; the Indian boy, in his picturesque costume — fringed
hunting-shirt, mockasons, leggins, baldric over the shoulders, fur
cap and white eagle-feather, and the long, black, straight hair,
which hung down over his neck — this group suggested to Zulieme
the idea of play and sport. It was, at least, a relief to
escape from the close carriage, and feel herself on the greensward,
and under embowering trees; and she cried out —

“Oh! let me get out, if you please.”

Then Grace seconded the entreaty, saying —

“Oh! yes, do, dear brother; let the little girl get out and come
with me. I 'm so glad you 've brought her!”

The cassique good-naturedly ordered the door to be opened.
But Zulieme had changed her mind. She had resumed her dignities
— had been reminded of them all by the one little sentence
spoken by Grace.

“Little girl!” quoth she to herself, looking proudly. “Ah! if
they but knew!”

“Will you alight, my dear young lady,” said the cassique, musing
upon the sudden change in all her features.

“No, thank you, señor; I will go on.”

“If you will alight,” said he, “the carriage will remain, and
bring you up with my little sister, when you are prepared to
come. It is now but a short distance to the settlement, and I
would walk among my workmen. I prefer to walk.”

“Do so, señor; but, if you please, I will not now get out.”

Then, finding it of no avail to press her, the cassique alighted
himself, and lifted Grace into the vehicle, and bade her be good
friends of the young lady, who, he added impressively, “is the
wife of Captain Calvert.”

“Wife!” murmured Grace; and with a curious eye she regarded
Zulieme as she took her seat beside her. And thus, the two
together, the carriage drove away. Then, as they rode, Grace
gently took the hand of Zulieme, and pressed it, and said:—

“I am so glad that my good brother has brought you here; for
I am so lonesome! We will be so happy together!”

But, for a part of the ride, Zulieme would not look her willingness
to be happy, and Grace began to think her strangely churlish.
But the little wife thawed after awhile; and, before the carriage
reached the dwelling, she and Grace had become very tolerable
companions: albeit Zulieme had sundry returns of her
pride and dignity, especially when she thought of her nice little
secret; and when she remembered that she was at the barony on
compulsion, and as the hostage for her husband!