Zaidee: a romance

Chapter I

A NEW HOME. The mysterious ocean-tide has sent its impulse into the full-flooded Thames far above the sea; the low branches dip into the stream, and the Avidows stand up to their knees in it, waving their long tresses upon the dark water which mocks at the sunshine. From one side to another the river swells full with a great throb of life and vigour in its expanded heart. So deep these depths look under the rounded curve of this overfloAving surface, which the sunshine vainly tries to penetrate — so cool with the green shadow of those waving widows on them, and the tender quiver of those slanting rays which shine from the west ! The sky has but a speck or two of white upon it, to break the pale and luminous blue of the great arch ; but over ZAIDEE. the other bank you can see a glimpse of how the clouds have gathered to that grand ceremonial of sunset which is about to be accomplished yonder.

In the mean time, however, a fingering tender smile of fight is on the river and its trees. Though he -will see them ad to-morrow, the sun is loth to part with these com panions whom he loves so wed to embellish and caress ; and the glory with which he touches this broad water ere he leaves it, is like the smile of a full heart. It is evening on the Thames ; there is scarcely a breath astir to flutter the willow-leaves, but there is a musical hum of home-coming and rest, in the sweet fragrant air, which is fud of this pensive and tender smiling of the sun. From these beautiful Enofish lawns and gardens which stretch to the water's edge, you can hear the voices of home enjoyment, young tones and sweet ; and the wide country beyond, which is not visible from this charmed river, throws in a far-away cadence — a tribute of sound to the stream that blesses it, since of beauty he has no need Wherries now and then, slim and SAvift like grey hounds, shoot up or doAvn along the olive-coin plexioned current ; and by-and-by there Avdl come a river steamer fud of pleasure-seekers, which will do no harm to the landscape.

If it is your hap to be in this common conveyance, take heed that you do not envy these pretty houses coyly withdrawing among their ZAIDEE. 5 trees — those fortunate people who dwell beside the quiet waters, and see the willows dipping in the river AAdth every tkie that rises — or you may chance to break the peace of the subject of our story, at present looking out, and unconscious of envy, upon this noble stream. The lawn reaches down to a sheltered nook, a little bay, beyond Avhich the bank projects, protecting this sunny corner. Two great wdlow-trees, throwingtheir branches together in an arch, stand a little way into the water, making, with their twisted trunks and forest of pale leaves overhead, and -with great branches sweep ing on the river, supplementary arches on either side — as noble a AVatergate as nature ever made with trees.

The water ripples past these living pillars, and Avith a playful hand salutes the smooth green turf Avhich creeps to its very edge. This turf is broken Avith nothing but daisies ; there are no intrusive geo metrical figures cut into its velvet sward, and you pass nothing but one beautiful youthful acacia tdl you come to the house. The house does not pretend much in its own person ; it is nothing but a spectator of the scene, looking out night and day -with its many eyes on the sunlight and the moonlight, and all the changes of the river, and is sober-suited and modest as a spectator should be, doing nothing to break the harmony of nature, though not much increasing its beauty. At ZAIDEE. 6 one side is a great bow-window, from which, by a single marble step, you can descend to the grassy terrace which forms the upper lawn, and within this bow--window you catch glimpses of white muslin go-wns and ribbons.

There are other spectators than the house itself, looking out upon the river ; and the great "window is open, and the sweet air flows in Avithout let or hindrance, where we too fodow, invisible as the air. The room is large, and full of softened fight. We are looking at the sunset smile upon the river, but we ourselves have lost it here — and the sky looking in at the Avindows behind grows paler and paler toward the risine of the moon. There is a laro;e mirror on the wall reflecting everything ; and its background of white curtains and waAdng branches, the pretty furniture standing about in its shadoAvy world, and the figures that come and go upon it, make the great shining surface more interesting than any picture. Looking into it, you can see the river with its bending Avillows, its boats and its sunbeams ; you can see the white petals of the acacia-blossom flutter down upon the grass.

The world without and the world within live in its calm reflection ; and you think of the lady of the ballad and her charmed existence, the mystic towers of Camelot burning in the sunshine, and the little boat swaying on the stream, when you look into the mirror on the Avail. ZAIDEE. 7 It is so large, and hangs so low upon the wad, that this mirror is the great feature of the apartment, which for the rest is only a handsome draAving-room, furnished as it is a necessity for handsome drawing-rooms to be. Wealth and profusion, a taste slightly foreign, and a good deal of fanciful embellishment, are visible every where. The room is almost as full as Mrs Jane Wil liams' little room was at Ulm, and evidences of modern dilettantism are crowded within its walls. There is a cabinet of antiquities at one corner, a case of brilliant insects in another.

One table is laden to overflo-wing Avith photographs and daguerreotypes, all more or less defective, and all taken by the active master of this house in his oavu person ; whde another table, solemnly standing apart, and encumbered -with no ornaments, is a table by which the same inquiring mind anxiously endeavours to establish a correspondence -with the in visible world. It performs a little waltz now and then at the behest of its master, this gifted piece of rose wood, but cannot be persuaded to make any coherent communications, earnestly though it is solicited. There are phrenological heads, too, adorning little brackets and pedestals ; there are casts of notorious villains and philosophers, murderers and kings ; there are models of aerial machines and diabolical projectdes — ad, you Avdl say, very unsuitable for a draAving-room.

It is very true, but Mr Cumberland is a famdy man, and ZAIDEE. does not love the seclusion of his library, which in consequence is sacred only to wrecked and discarded relics of fancies past. He has been a botanist and a geologist, has set up a mammoth on his grounds, and budt a palace for a Victoria Eegia since he came to England ; but these were rational diversions, and did not satisfy Air Cumberland. An infinite quantity of bubbles have risen and burst to the eyes of our phflo sopher since we left him. At this present period he is deeply engaged Avith the extremely mystical subject of " spiritual manifestations," which promises to outlive its predecessors, since success does not seem disposed to come, to weary the experimenter with his new toy. A windowed recess at the other end of the room, where the morning sun comes in, is fided Avith an em broidery frame, -with a pretty footstool, and the easiest of easy-chairs.

It is here Aunt Burtonshaw loves to sit, commanding all the room, and brightening it Avith the face which is older, but no less cheerful than when Ave saw it last. But the embroidery is coA'ered up at this moment, and the corner is vacant. There are only tAvo youthful personages in possession of the apartment, and both of them are close by the great bow- Avindow, Avatching the sunshine gliding off the full river, and disappearing ray by ray into the glowing Avest. The soft white muslin draperies press together, and ZAIDEE. 9 the hand of one rests upon the other's shoulder ; but this one is standing with a book in her hand, and smding as she reads. It is not a very weighty volume which weighs down the hand of Mary Cumberland ; it is a slim brochure, whether in a green or yellow cover deponent saith not, but you may be sure it is one or other, our -wicked Avit or our gentler genius, whose pages beguile one of those friends out of the twilight talk which is so pleasant to both.

Alary has not grown very tad in these seven years ; they have made her a woman, two-and-twenty years old — a pretty woman — a Hebe of young bloom and healthful spirit ; but they have made no great change in Alary, further than in gathering up her thick curls behind after a more womanly fashion, and making her natural self-dependence more seemly and more natural. Her well-formed features, her beautiful English complexion, her well-opened blue eyes, which have stdl some deri sion in them, and a great deal of good sense and shrewd intelligence, are as they were — and the hand that rests on her companion's shoulder is white and dimpled and delicate, and Mary's red lips open in their sweet laugh ter on the whitest pearly little teeth in the world In the fulness of her womanhood, yet still with the freedom of a girl, Mary Cumberland stands before the open Avindow reading, Avith her head slightly bent, her hand leaning on her friend, and you can see her pretty ZAIDEE. figure in its white robes, and its unconscious ease and grace of attitude, reflected full in the mirror on the wad.

It is easy to identify Alary, but it is not so easy to make out who this is who sits within the open window — the companion on whom she leans ; also a woman, yet a little younger in actual life, with a heart at once younger and older, full of knowledge which Alary knows not of, yet of a simplicity and universal faith, which Alary was never chdd enough to know, looking through those wonderful dark eyes. This is not Zaidee Vivian, bro-wn and angular ; this is not Elizabeth Francis, forlorn and dependent — but a magnificent beauty of the loftiest order — a natural-born princess and lady, born to a dominion greater than the Grange. Her Avhite robes mingle in their soft folds Avith her friend's ; her beautiful hair, half fallen out of its braid, droops upon Alary 's hand ; her own hands are clasped together, and she leans upon them this soft fair cheek, -with its faint blush of colour, and watches with eyes full of sweet thoughts how the tender light recedes upon the stream.

You wid say she is thinking per haps, but she is not thinking; it is the idlest of reveries which wraps its mist about the mind of Zaidee. She is only tracing the parting light from point to point — how it glides from the edge of a bough, and steals aAvay from those wooing ripples in the river; how, ZAIDEE. finding a crevice in the foliage, it throws down a stealthy smile of kindness within the gateway of those willows ; and how the pliant branches stretch along the stream to catch the latest farewed of this lingering light. Zaidee fodows the ray with her eyes, as it mounts from the surface of the water in a longer and longer slant of departing glory. She is not thinking ; neither words nor cad would be an interruption to her ; her mind is only -winding its fancies playfully about the waning light.

Chapter II. The Way Before Us

" Now, away with you, you romancer," said Alary Cum berland, tossing the book upon the table. " What are you thinking of, Elizabeth ? I feel as if I could not be glad enough that we have got a home at last." " And by the river, Alary," said her companion. " And by the river ; but perhaps I do not care so much for the river as you do. I do care for home ; and since we left Ulm — I shad always have a kind heart to Ulm, Lizzy, it was there we met each other first — we have wandered so long. I like to take a firm hold of what is mine. I do not care to go into raptures over other people's pleasures ; and papa has ready bought this house, and it is ours — really ours ; but I should rather it was to be your house, Elizabeth, than mine." " It can never be my house, though," said Zaidee, looking up -with a smde. •' Why not ?

I am sure they like you quite as well ZAIDEE. 13 as they like me ; indeed, to ted the truth, you have been a better daughter to them," said Mary Cumber land, -with a blush. " Papa must leave it to you ; I Avill ted him so. I should not care for it so much as you would." "AVhy should he leave it to any one?" said Zaidee. " We all have it together ; we five in it, and it belongs to us all. You are not to think of any change." "No," said Mary dubiously. "No," she repeated, after a pause ; " but you know it would be foolish not to confess that there may be changes," continued Mary, with a slight and momentary embarrassment. " I suppose we are not to be at home ad our lives. I suppose people are obliged to get houses of their own, you know, sometimes, and cannot always be living Avith a papa and a mamma."

Zaidee turned unmoved towards her companion, and it was evident she was not the person referred to. She looked up to Mary with a little anxiety. " I want you to ted me," said Zaidee. " They speak of Sylvo so often. Wid you — -will you marry Sylvo, Mary ? " Mary turned on her heel abruptly, but after a moment came back again. " AVid it be something very dreadful if I do ? " said Mary, shaking her curls about her ears to hide a burning colour, which was not the blush of happy maidenly shame. " No," said Zaidee, and it was now her turn to ZAIDEE. 14 hesitate—" no, indeed ; I like him very well," was the final conclusion she made, after a long pause. " But—" said Alary Cumberland " Oh, I know very wed what but you would say, Lizzy," cried her friend, suddenly kneeling do-wn beside her ; " he is not like me, and I do not care for him, and a hundred other things.

How can I help it, then ? I suppose he is just as good as other men. They are all like the trees in a wood. You know an oak from a birch, for you were brought up among them, but I can never ted any difference. I do not care for any one out of this house. I am afraid I do not love any one very much, but Aunt Burtonshaw and you. If it must be, why should it not be Sylvo ? I cannot help myself." There was a little sdence after that, and they sat looking out, the two heads close together, on the full stream, which began to glimmer darkly in the wan ing evening light. After a long pause Alary spoke again. " It used to be an old Utopia of mine, when I was quite a girl," said Alary, drawing close to her friend, and speaking very low — " after all the trials I have had, Elizabeth, with my own mind, and with other people, I used to think, if ever I was married, it should oidy be to a -wise man — a wise man, a true man, Lizzy — some one that might be respected to the ZAIDEE. 15 very heart.

I don't know all your rubbish about love ; I don't understand it, you know ; but I should like to honour him — that is what I want to do. Am I not very foolish ? I say what I want to do, yet I knoAv I shad never do it all my life." " I would if I were you," said Zaidee quickly. " Would you ? " cried Mary ; and Mary clapped her hands, springing up Avith sudden mirth and delight. " Marry Sylvo, then, Lizzy ! do ! I will thank you ad my life. He is a very good fedow, and he Avdl be very glad, I am sure ; and if you would honour him, why, you might be very happy, and set everything right." But Zaidee oidy smded as she raised her stooping head in its unconscious grace. " He is very good and very kind, poor Sylvo," cried Zaidee ; " he ought to have some one who cares for him, Mary — not you nor me."

"He ought ! " cried Sylvo's elected bride. " I think he would be very wed off, begging your pardon, princess. I confess I was only thinking of myself," said Mary ruefully, after another little pause. " I Avish you would let me be content, Elizabeth ; I am quite content. He is as good as any one else : everybody wishes it ; and then I am groAving too old for Utopias. I might be thinking of obedience, perhaps — who knows — if I came so far as honour, and that would ZAIDEE. not ansAver me ; and after I have accomplished my sacrifice, Lizzy, then it -will be your turn." " My turn ? " Zaidee's smde ran into a little quiet laugh. " It will be time enough when somebody asks me, Alary." So it Avould — that was undeniable, and both the girls marveded over this a little sdently within them selves. Zaidee was no longer Aliss Francis, Mary's companion, but Miss Elizabeth Cumberland, the adopted daughter of the house.

This honour had been procured for her by the inadvertent compliment of a stranger, who, ignorant that one of the two young ladies he saw was not the child of the family, had complimented Airs Cumberland on her beautiful daughter's resemblance to herself. Airs Cumberland was greatly complimented by this, for Zaidee's growing beauty was already the pride of the household, and it was but a small trial to the young exile to part a second time -with her name. Thus her position was greatly changed in every way, and indeed it was only the friends of the family who were aware that she was not in reality the daughter of those kind and whim sical people. But in spite of this, and in spite of her unusual beauty, it was certain that Zaidee had not yet met, in her oavti person, -with the usual romance of youth.

Airs Cumberland's experience in woman's heart had deceived her, as it happened. Zaidee had neither ZAIDEE. 17 loved nor grieved after the fashion which her patroness predicted for her : her " fate " had not appeared yet out of the heavens ; and whde Mary's suitors had been many, Zaidee, one-and-twenty years old, had none. She was slightly surprised at this herself, it must be confessed : she had no thought of her own beauty, but stdl wondered a little at her exemption from the universal lot. She was fancy-free, in the widest sense of the word ; she had only her own SAveet pure thoughts for her companions, as she went and came in her daily course, and never yet had approached in the most distant way the great question of young life. " We are to meet some very distinguished people, Lizzy," cried Mary Cumberland, " where we are going to-morrow — not people of rank, you know, but people who are very fatiguing, notAvithstanding, — authors and artists and people of science, and I am not sure that there is not a patriot.

You ought to go rather than me ; it pleases you, and I am so weary of papa's nonsense — I mean of papa's phdosophy ; I don't mean anything undutiful — it is quite the same." " But it does not please me very much," said Zaidee, Avith a reservation. " I do not think I care for philo sophy either ; but you -will like it when you go." " AVell, now, when Sylvo talks, he talks of things," said Mary Cumberland, musingly ; " it is not of this vol. in. B ZAIDEE. one's poem or that one's sonnet. I Like gossip better. I like to hear of who is born, and who is married, rather than of verses which are 'nice,' and stories which are not appreciated Nobody sends Sylvo a poem to criticise, nobody thinks of asking his opinion on a work of art. AVlien Sylvo is excited, it must be about something that has happened — it is sure not to be about a new book ; and that is far best for me, Elizabeth.

It is, indeed, I can ted you. I like every thing to be true." Do you see the moon . " said Zaidee, " Do I see the moon ? But that is not answering me. The moon is behind the house yonder, shining upon papa's table that he keeps for the spirits. Sup pose it should dance along to us now, it woidd con vert me, I think. But I am speaking of Sylvo, Elizabeth, and you speak of the moon." " Because I see her yonder glimmering on the river," said Zaidee. " I think there is many a thing true besides being born and being married. Dying, too, that is truest of ad ; but stories are made of these things, Mary, as Avell as fife." " I cannot help it. I am hopeless, I suppose," said Alary, shrugging her shoulders. " ATou can listen yet, by the hour, to Jane and her tales. I can bear Jane. I hike gossip A-ery much — it is a great refreshment to me — and so do you ; but I cannot bear to hear a ZAIDEE. 19 parcel of stupid verses gravely discussed, as if they were things far more important than common life.

Aunt Burtonshaw is worth ad the authors in the world ; they think their invention is quite an im provement on Providence. I can tolerate Sylvo, Elizabeth. I can put up with him ; he is just as good as any other : but if mamma, by chance, had lighted on some famous author for me — some dis tinguished person, some genius ! I ought to be very thankful — I could never have tolerated that ! " And Mary, shrugging her shoulders once more, complained of the cold, and left the window, to ring the bell for lights. A low night-wind had crept upon the river, crisping its flooded surface into rippling waves, and the moonlight shone and glistened upon it, clearing a little circle of silvery light and motion from the dark surface of the stream. The breeze sighed through the gateAvay of those Avillow trees, the hush of night came do-wn upon land and water.

Specks of light came glittering into the windows of the scattered houses on the banks. Zaidee was content to sit there at her post, while Mary wandered about the room, singing as she went, waitingfor light to take her book again. Zaidee was idle in her calm of heart. Sun and moon went over her as they went over the river ; she lost her time, as a mind at ease is glad to lose it, watching ad those slow gradations, those changes so ZAIDEE. softly blended into each other which passed upon the sky : it was but a confined bit of sky Avith ad those branches throAving across it their pleasant interruption ; but it Avas doubled on the river, and it was quite enough for the tranquillity of Zaidee's dream.

Chapter III. Maiden Meditations

The sim has risen again upon a cloudless summer-day, and has shone unweariecdy ad the morning and through the noon upon the glowing Thames. Boats have been passing upon the river, and a continual flush and glory of sunbeams has given animation to all the scene. The -willows throw their shadows upon the water ; the water, which since last night has somewhat retreated, makes playful rushes at their uncovered feet ; under the acacia the wind blows cool and fresh, dropping the blossoms upon Zaidee's hair. Mary has just gone with her father and mother to the party of " distinguished people," for it is a summer daylight party, a dejeuner, which last night she anticipated so ruefully, and Zaidee has been left at home to receive Aunt Burton shaw, who is to return with her son from Sylvo's " place " to-day.

All by herself under the acacia, Avith the white blossoms dropping on her hair, Zaidee sits in her idle ZAIDEE. mood, her calm of heart and thought ; behind her the great bow-window is open, and Alary's pretty bouquet lies on the marble step, where Alary dropped it in her haste. The room is vacant Avithin, and the great sdent mirror takes cognisance of every movement of that beautiful figure on the laAvn, of every waving bend of the foliage above her, and every petal it sheds upon her head. Zaidee's mind is like the mirror, sdent, open, calm, reflecting everything about her -with a passive observation. The river flows through her dream, the sun shines in it, the willows rustle on the sdver wave. Through the arch of those long drooping boughs glimpses of the opposite bank and of the sky come in, to connect the populated earth and the great heaven Avith this fairy scene.

She is not doing anything. She wants her eyes, but she does not want her mind, in this SAveet qiuet of hers. There is a book upon the grass, but Alary, and not Zaidee, has brought it there. The running of the great river is music and story together to this girl. She wants no further occupation ; if any far-sighted neighbour ventures to criticise, she wots not of it in her pleasant self-for getting. Zaidee is qiute alone — so much alone, that neither the past nor the future are -with her. She is pausing on the present moment, idle, acquiescent, solitary, in a sweet reverie of musing, without thought. For Zaidee's young life has outworn the past. ZAIDEE. 23 Fresh in her recollection, a succession of strange scenes, in which she can hardly believe herself the principal actor, are those days and months of struggle and suffering -with which the poor child accomplished her innocent sacrifice.

Now it is so long accomplished, that all that flush of girlish heroism which carried her through the trouble of the time, has fallen back to a shadow in her memory. Only one thing is warm in her heart — an unknown and pent-up force, which wid never get issue, as she believes — her love for her old home, and ad who are in it. Zaidee's heart beats high when she hears the name of Vivian ; her cheek flushes when she reads her father's and his father's name — sdent Avitnesses to her relinquished right to bear her OAvn ; and her busy imagination Avdl some times stdl exhaust itself with wonders and schemes to make herself Zaidee Vivian once more. Sometimes, too, she dreams of meeting Avith her OAvn friends in her disguised name and strange position, and wonders if any shadow of recognition would come to them when they saw her.

But she has heard nothing of them since she left the Grange ; they have been dead to her, as she has been dead to them, for ad these years. She knows none of the great changes which have come upon the household, nor could believe how they take account of her in all their famdy doings, nor what a marvellous revolution that -will of Grandfather ZAIDEE. Vivian's, which in her simple heart she believes to have rendered harmless, has -wrought in the ancient family home. The secresy Avith which she has been obliged to surround her private history has giA'en a strong and vivid force to the leading features of her life. As dearly as ever, and Avith a pensive visionary tenderness as we love the dead, does Zaidee love her lost friends ; and with a proud thrill, every time she uncovers her Bible, she feels the inheritance which father and grandfather have left to her.

But Zaidee's memory has retained only these leading principles ; it has not retained its first dread of discovery, its first agony of sorrow : her young fair life is freed of its bondage — she has not reliquished all human possibili ties and hopes, as she thought she had done, and intended to do. It is an inalienable possession this fresh spring of existence ; it -wid not yield to any resolution of youthful despair : but one thing she has certainly succeeded in doing ; her journey abroad, and her adoption by this kind family, have certainly been as good for her purpose as if she had died. And thus sits Zaidee, conscious of the past, unaware and uninvestigating what the future may bring to her, though the touch of this very next to-morrow, which she anticipates without fear, may give the electric thrill of life once more to ad her difficulties and dangers — though she may discover an hour hence how bootless ZAIDEE. 25 all her sacrifice has been, and may be thro-wn again into utter perplexity how to do justice, how to hinder wrong.