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      Love’s Labor Won, by Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth—Project Gutenberg eBook
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 68610 ***</div>

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<div style="padding-top:2em">
<div class="transnote">
<h2 style="margin-top: 0em">Transcriber’s Notes:</h2>

<p>The Table of Contents was created by the transcriber and placed
in the public domain.</p>

<p><a href="#TN_end">Additional Transcriber’s Notes</a> are at the
end.</p>
</div></div>

<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<div class="boxcontents">
<p class="xlargefont center boldfont">CONTENTS</p>
<p class="pcontents"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">Chapter I. The Improvvisatrice.</a></p>
<p class="pcontents"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">Chapter II. “The Love Chase.”</a></p>
<p class="pcontents"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">Chapter III. The Fugitive Belle.</a></p>
<p class="pcontents"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">Chapter IV. Love.</a></p>
<p class="pcontents"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">Chapter V. The Excess of Glory Obscured.</a></p>
<p class="pcontents"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">Chapter VI. The Wife’s Return.</a></p>
<p class="pcontents"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">Chapter VII. The Visitor.</a></p>
<p class="pcontents"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">Chapter VIII. Love, War and Betrothal.</a></p>
<p class="pcontents"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">Chapter IX. Falling Asleep.</a></p>
<p class="pcontents"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">Chapter X. The Orphan Bride.</a></p>
<p class="pcontents"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">Chapter XI. The Mysterious Correspondent.</a></p>
<p class="pcontents"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">Chapter XII. The Daughter’s Fidelity.</a></p>
<p class="pcontents"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">Chapter XIII. Persecution.</a></p>
<p class="pcontents"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">Chapter XIV. Martyrdom.</a></p>
<p class="pcontents"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">Chapter XV. Night and Its One Star.</a></p>
</div></div>


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<div class="chapter">
<p class="center largefont sansseriffont boldfont" style="color:#D4AC0D"><em>No. 81</em></p>

<p class="center largefont sansseriffont boldfont" style="color:#D4AC0D"><em>NEW SOUTHWORTH LIBRARY</em></p>

<p class="center xxlargefont pminus1 boldfont" style="color:#D4AC0D"><span class="smcap">Love’s Labor Won</span></p>

<div class="figcenter illowp66" style="max-width: 37.5em;">
  <img class="w100" src="images/cover_illo.jpg" alt="Cover illustration." />
</div>

<p class="center p1 boldfont" style="color:#D4AC0D"><span class="smcap xxlargefont"><em>by Mrs. E.D.E.N.<br />
Southworth</em></span></p>

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  <img class="w100" src="images/i003.jpg" alt="Title page." />
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<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<h1 class="nobreak">Love’s Labor Won</h1>
</div>


<p class="center p2"><span class="smallfont">BY</span><br />
<span class="center xlargefont">MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH</span></p>

<p class="center smallfont">AUTHOR OF</p>

<p class="center" style="margin-bottom:2em">“Retribution,” “Ishmael,” “Self-Raised,” “India,” “The Missing<br />
Bride,” “The Curse of Clifton,” “Vivia,” “The Discarded<br />
Daughter,” “The Lost Heiress,” “The Mother-in-Law,”<br />
“The Deserted Wife.”</p>

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<p class="center p2" style="line-height:1.75"><span class="largefont">STREET &amp; SMITH CORPORATION</span><br />
PUBLISHERS<br />
<span class="largefont">79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York</span>
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<p class="center">(Printed In the United States of America)</p>


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<div class="chapter">

<p class="center xxlargefont nobreak" style="margin-bottom:1em" id="CHAPTER_I">LOVE’S LABOR WON.</p>


<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER I.
<br /><span class="cheaderfont">THE IMPROVVISATRICE.</span></h2>
</div>


<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“Hers was the spell o’er hearts</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">That only genius gives;</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">The mother of the sister Arts,</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">Where all their beauty lives.”</div>
    <div class="verse indent6">—<span class="smcap">Varied from Campbell.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>“Beautiful.”</p>

<p>“Glorious.”</p>

<p>“Celestial!”</p>

<p>Such were the exclamations murmured through the
room, in low but earnest tones.</p>

<p>“So fair and dark a creature I have never seen,” said
the French ambassador.</p>

<p>“The rarest and finest features of the blonde and the
brunette combined; look at her hair and brow! It is as
if the purple lustre of Italia’s vines lay upon the snow
of Switzerland’s Alps,” said a young English gentleman,
of some twenty years of age, and from whom the air of
the university had scarcely fallen.</p>

<p>“You are too enthusiastic, Lord William,” gravely observed
an elderly man, in the dress of a clergyman of the
Church of England.</p>

<p>“Too enthusiastic, sir! Ah, now! do but see for yourself,
if it be not profane to gaze at her. Is she not now—what
is she? Queenly? Pshaw! I was, when a boy, at
Versailles with my father; I saw Marie Antoinette and
the beautiful princesses of her train; but never, no, never,
have I seen beauty and dignity and grace like this. You
have the honor of knowing the lady, sir?” he concluded,
turning abruptly to a member of the French legation,
standing near him.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[6]</span></p>

<p>“Oh, yes, monsieur, I have that distinction,” said the
affable Parisian, with a bow and smile.</p>

<p>“And her name is——”</p>

<p>“Ah, pardon me, monsieur—Mademoiselle Marguerite
De Lancie.”</p>

<p>“Oh! a countrywoman of your own?”</p>

<p>“Excuse, monsieur—a Virginie.”</p>

<p>“Ah, ha! Miss De Lancie, of Virginia,” said the young
Englishman, who, having thus ascertained all that he
wished to know for the present, now, with the characteristic
and irresponsible bluntness of his nature, turned his
back upon the small Frenchman, and gave himself up to
the contemplation of the lady seated at the harp.</p>

<p>This conversation occurred in a scene and upon an
occasion long to be remembered. The scene was the
saloon of the old Presidential mansion at Philadelphia.
The occasion was that of Mrs. Washington’s last reception,
previous to the final retirement of General Washington
from office. The beauty, talent, fashion and
celebrity of the “Republican Court” were present—heroes
of the Revolutionary struggle—warriors, whose mighty
swords had cleft asunder the yoke of foreign despotism;
sages, whose gigantic minds had framed the Constitution
of the young Republic; men whose names were
then, as now, of world-wide glory and time-enduring
fame; foreign ministers and ambassadors, with their
suites, all enthusiastic admirers, or politic flatterers of the
glorious New Power that had arisen among the nations;
wealthy, aristocratic or otherwise distinguished tourists,
whom the fame of the young Commonwealth and the
glory of her Father had attracted to her shores; women,
also, whose beauty, grace and genius so dazzled the perceptions
of even these late <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">habitues</i> of European courts
that they avowed themselves unable to decide whether
were the sons of Columbia the braver or her daughters
the fairer!</p>

<p>And through them all, but greater than all, moved the
Chief, arrayed simply, as a private gentleman, but wearing
on his noble brow that royalty no crown could give.</p>

<p>But who is she, that even in this company of splendid
magnificence, upon this occasion of supreme interest, can
for an hour become the magnet of all eyes and ears!</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[7]</span></p>

<p>Marguerite De Lancie was the only child of a Provençal
gentleman and a Virginia lady, and combined in her person
and in her character all the strongest attributes of
the Northern and the Southern races; blending the passions,
genius and enthusiasm of the one with the intellectual
power, pride and independence of the other; and
contrasting in her person the luxuriant purplish-black
hair and glorious eyes of the Romaic nations, with the
fair, clear complexion and roseate bloom of the Saxon. Gifted
above most women by nature, she was also favored
beyond most ladies by fortune. Having lost her
mother in the tender age of childhood, she was reared
and educated by her father, a gentleman of the most accomplished
cultivation. He imbued the mind of Marguerite
with all the purest and loftiest sentiments of liberty
and humanity, that in his country somewhat redeemed
the wickedness of the French Revolution. Monsieur
De Lancie, dying when his daughter was but
eighteen years of age, made her his sole heiress, and also,
in accordance with his own liberal and independent principles,
and his confidence in Marguerite’s character and
strength of mind, he left her the irresponsible mistress of
her own property and person. Marguerite was not free
from grave faults. A beautiful, gifted and idolized girl,
left with the unrestrained disposal of her time and her
ample fortune, it was impossible but that she must have
become somewhat spoiled. Her defects exhibited themselves
in excessive personal pride and extreme freedom
of thought and speech, and some irradicable prejudices
which she took no trouble to conceal. The worshiped
of many suitors, she had remained, up to the age of
twenty-two, with her hand unengaged and her heart untouched.
Several American women had about this time
married foreign noblemen; and those who envied this
superb woman averred that the splendid Marguerite only
waited for a coronet.</p>

<p>When at home, Miss De Lancie resided either at her
elegant town house in the old city of Winchester, or upon
one of her two plantations, situate, the upper among the
wildest and most beautiful hills of the Blue Ridge, and
the lower upon the banks of the broad Potomac, where<span class="pagenum">[8]</span>
she reigned mistress of her land and people, “queen o’er
herself.”</p>

<p>Marguerite was at present in Philadelphia, on a visit
to her friend, Miss Compton, whose father occupied a
“high official station” in the Administration. This was
Miss De Lancie’s first appearance in Philadelphia society.
And now that she was there, Marguerite, with the constitutional
enthusiasm of her nature, forgot herself in
the deep interest of this assembly, where the father of his
country met for the last time, socially, her sons and
daughters.</p>

<p>In accordance with the elegant ease that characterized
Mrs. Washington’s drawing-rooms, several ladies of distinguished
musical taste and talent had varied the entertainment
of the evening by singing, to the accompaniment
of the harp, or piano, the national odes and popular
songs of that day.</p>

<p>Then ensued a short interval, at the close of which
Miss De Lancie permitted herself to be led to the harp
by Colonel Compton. She was a stranger to most persons
in that saloon, and it was simply her appearance as
she passed and took her place at the harp that had elicited
that restrained burst of admiration with which this
chapter opens.</p>

<p>She was, indeed, a woman of superb beauty, which
never shone with richer lustre than upon this occasion
that I present her to the reader.</p>

<p>Her figure was rather above the medium height, but
elegantly proportioned. The stately head arose from a
smoothly-rounded neck, whose every curve and bend was
the very perfection of grace and dignity; lustrous black
hair, with brilliant purple lights like the sheen on the
wing of some Oriental bird, was rolled back from a
queenly forehead, and turned over a jeweled comb in a
luxuriant fall of ringlets at the back of her head; black
eyebrows distinctly drawn, and delicately tapering toward
the points, were arched above rich, deep eyes of purplish
black, that languished or glowed, rocked or flashed, from
beneath their long lashes with every change of mood; and
all harmonized beautifully with a pure, rich complexion,
where the clear crimson of the cheeks blended softly into
the pearly whiteness of the blue-veined temples and broad<span class="pagenum">[9]</span>
forehead, while the full, curved lips glowed with the deepest,
brightest flush of the ruby. She was arrayed in a
royal purple velvet robe, open over a richly-embroidered
white satin skirt; her neck and arms were veiled with fine
point lace; and a single diamond star lighted up the midnight
of her hair.</p>

<p>Having seated herself at the harp and essayed its
strings, she paused, and seemingly unconscious of the
many eyes riveted upon her, she raised her head, and gazing
into the far-off distance, threw her white arm across
the instrument, and swept its chords in a deep, soul-thrilling
prelude—not to a national ode or popular song,
but to a spirit-stirring, glorious improvisation! This prelude
seemed a musical paraphrase of the great national
struggle and victory. She struck a few deep, solitary
notes, and then swept the harp in a low, mournful strain,
like the first strokes of tyranny, followed by the earliest
murmurs of discontent; then the music, with intervals of
monotone, arose in fitful gusts like the occasional skirmishes
that heralded the Revolution; then the calm was
lost in general storm and devastation—the report of musketry,
the tramp of steeds, the clashing of swords, the
thunder of artillery, the fall of walls, the cries of the
wounded, the groans of the dying, and the shouts of victory,
were not only heard, but seen and felt in that magnificent
tempest of harmony.</p>

<p>Then the voice of the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">improvvisatrice</i> arose. Her subject
was the retiring chief. I cannot hope to give any
idea of the splendor of that improvisation—as easily
might I catch and fix with pen, or pencil, the magnificent
life of an equinoctial storm, the reverberation of its thunder,
the conflagration of its lightning! Possessed of
Apollo, the light glowed upon her cheeks, irradiated her
brow, and streamed, as it were, in visible, living rays from
her glorious eyes! The whole power of the god was
upon the woman, and the whole soul of the woman in her
theme. There was not a word spoken, there was scarcely
a breath drawn in that room. She finished amid a
charmed silence that lasted until Colonel Compton appeared
and broke the spell by leading her from the harp.</p>

<p>Then arose low murmurs of enthusiastic admiration,<span class="pagenum">[10]</span>
restrained only by the deep respect due to the chief personage
in that assembly.</p>

<p>“<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">La Marguerite des Marguerites!</i>” said the gallant
French <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">attaché</i>.</p>

<p>“A Corinne! I must know her, sir. Will you do me
the honor to present me?” inquired the English student,
turning again to the Frenchman.</p>

<p>“Lord William!” interrupted the clerical companion,
with an air of caution and admonition.</p>

<p>“Well, Mr. Murray! well! did not my father desire
that I should make the acquaintance of all distinguished
Americans?—and surely this lady must be one of their
number.”</p>

<p>“Humph,” said the clergyman, stroking his chin, “the
marquis did not, probably, include distinguished actresses,
Lord William.”</p>

<p>“Actresses! have you judgment, Mr. Murray? Do
but look with what majesty she speaks and moves!”</p>

<p>“So I have heard does Mrs. Siddons. Let us withdraw,
Lord William.”</p>

<p>“Not yet, if you please, sir! I must first pay my respects
to this lady. Will you favor me, monsieur?”</p>

<p>“Pardon! I will make you known to Colonel Compton,
who will present you to the lady under his charge,”
said the Frenchman, bowing, and leading the way, while
the clergyman left behind only vented his dissatisfaction
in a few emphatic grunts.</p>

<p>“Miss De Lancie, permit me to present to you Lord
William Daw, of England,” said Colonel Compton, leading
the youthful foreigner before the lady.</p>

<p>Miss De Lancie bowed and half arose. She received
the young gentleman coldly, or rather absently, and to all
that he advanced she replied abstractedly; for she had not
yet freed herself from the trance that had lately bound
her.</p>

<p>Nevertheless, Lord William found “grace and favor”
in everything the enchantress said or did. He lingered
near her until at last, with a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">congé</i> of dismissal to her
boyish admirer, she arose and signified her wish to retire
from the saloon.</p>

<p>The next day but one was a memorable day in Philadelphia.
It was the occasion of the public and final farewell<span class="pagenum">[11]</span>
of George Washington and the inauguration of his
successor. From an early hour the city was thronged
with visitors, who came, not so much to witness the installment
of the new, as to take a tearful last look at the
deeply-venerated, retiring President.</p>

<p>The profound public interest, however, did not prevent
Lord William Daw from pursuing a quite private
one. At an hour as early as the laxest etiquette would
permit, he paid his respects to Miss De Lancie at the
house of Colonel Compton, and procured himself to be invited
by his host to join their party in witnessing the interesting
ceremonies at the Hall of Representation.</p>

<p>The family, consisting of the colonel and Mrs. Compton
and their daughter Cornelia, went in a handsome landeau,
or open carriage.</p>

<p>Miss De Lancie rode a magnificent black charger, that
she managed with the ease of a cavalry officer, and with
a grace that was only her own.</p>

<p>Lord William, on a horse placed at his service by Colonel
Compton, rode ever at her bridle rein; and if he admired
her as a gifted <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">improvvisatrice</i>, he adored her as
an accomplished <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">equestrienne</i>, an excellence that of the
two his young lordship was the best fitted to appreciate.</p>

<p>Afterward, in the Hall of Representation, he was ever
at her side; nor could the august ceremonies and the supreme
interest of the scene passing before them, where
the first President of the United States offered his valedictory,
and the second President took his oath of office,
win him for a moment from the contemplation of the
queenly form and resplendent face of Marguerite De
Lancie.</p>

<p>When the rites were all over, and their party had extricated
themselves from the outrushing crowd, who were
crushing each other nearly to death in their eagerness to
behold the last of the retiring chief; when they had seen
Washington enter his carriage and drive homeward; in
fine, when at last they reached their own door, Lord William
Daw manifested so little inclination to take leave,
and even betrayed so great a desire to remain, that
nothing was left Colonel Compton but to invite the enamored
boy to stay and dine, an invitation that was unhesitatingly
accepted.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[12]</span></p>

<p>Dinner over, and lights brought into the drawing-room,
and Lord William Daw still lingering.</p>

<p>“Unquestionably, this young man, though a scion of
nobility, is ignorant or regardless of the usages of good
society,” said Colonel Compton to himself. Then addressing
the visitor, he said: “The ladies, sir, are going,
this evening, to the new theatre, to see Fennel and Mrs.
Whitlock in Romeo and Juliet. Will it please you to accompany
us?”</p>

<p>“Most happy to do so,” replied the youth, with an ingenuous
blush and smile at what he must have considered
a slight departure from the formal manners of the day,
even while unable to resist the temptation and tear himself
away.</p>

<p>In a few moments, the carriage was at the door, and
the ladies ready.</p>

<p>Miss Compton and Miss De Lancie, Colonel Compton
and Lord William Daw, filled the carriage, as well as they
afterward filled the box at the theatre.</p>

<p>The play had already commenced when they entered,
and the scene in progress was that of the ball at old
Capulet’s house. It seemed to confine the attention of
the audience, but as for Lord William Daw, the mimic
life upon the stage had no more power than had had the
real drama of the morning to draw his attention from the
magnificent Marguerite. He spoke but little; spellbound,
his eyes never left her, except when, in turning
her regal head, her eyes encountered his—when, blushing
like a detected schoolboy, he would avert his face. So,
for him; the play passed like a dream; nor did he know
it was over until the general rising of the company informed
him.</p>

<p>Every one was enthusiastic. Colonel Compton, who
had been in London in an official capacity, and had seen
Mrs. Siddons, averred it as his opinion that her sister,
Mrs. Whitlock, was in every respect the equal of the
great <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">tragedienne</i>. All seemed delighted with the performance
they had just witnessed, excepting only Lord
William Daw, who had seen nothing of it, and Marguerite
De Lancie, who seemed perfectly indifferent.</p>

<p>“What is your opinion, Miss De Lancie?” inquired<span class="pagenum">[13]</span>
the youth, by way of relieving the awkwardness of his
own silence.</p>

<p>“About what?” asked Marguerite, abstractedly.</p>

<p>“Ahem!—about—Shakespeare and—this performance.”</p>

<p>“Oh! Can I be interested in anything of this kind,
after what we have witnessed in the State House to-day?
Least of all in this thing?”</p>

<p>“This thing?—what, Marguerite, do you not worship
Shakespeare and Mrs. Whitlock, then?” exclaimed Cornelia
Compton.</p>

<p>“Mrs. Whitlock? I do not know yet; let me see her
in some other character. Shakespeare? Yes! but not
traditionally, imitatively, blindly, wholly, as most of you
worship, or profess to worship him; I admire his
tragedies of Lear, Richard the Third, Macbeth, and perhaps
one or two others; but this Romeo and Juliet, this
lovesick boy and puling girl—bah! bah! let’s go home.”</p>

<p>“That’s the way with Marguerite! Now I should not
have dared to risk my reputation for intelligence by uttering
that sentiment,” said Cornelia Compton.</p>

<p>“Never fear, child; naught is never in danger,” observed
Colonel Compton, with good-humored, though
severe raillery.</p>

<p>While Lord William Daw, with the morbid and sensitive
egotism of a lover, inquired of himself: Does she intend
that remark for me? Does she look upon me only
in the light of a lovesick boy? Do I only disgust her,
then? Thus tormenting himself until their party had entered
the carriage, and driven back once more to Colonel
Compton’s hospitable mansion, and where his host, inwardly
laughing, pressed him to come in and take a bed
and breakfast.</p>

<p>But the youth, doubtful of the colonel’s seriousness,
piqued at his inamorata’s scornfulness, and ashamed of
his own devotedness, declined the invitation, bowed his
adieus, and was about to retire, when Colonel Compton
placed his carriage and servants at Lord William’s disposal,
and besought him to permit them to set him down
at his own hotel, a service that the young gentleman, with
some hesitation, accepted.</p>

<p>In a few days from this, General Washington left
Philadelphia for Mount Vernon. And Colonel Compton,<span class="pagenum">[14]</span>
who went out of office with his chief, broke up his establishment
in Philadelphia, and, with his family, set out
for his home in Virginia.</p>


<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.
<br /><span class="cheaderfont">“THE LOVE CHASE.”</span></h2>
</div>


<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“——When shines the sun aslant,</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">The sun may shine and we be cold;</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">Oh, listen, loving hearts and bold,</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">Unto my wild romaunt,</div>
    <div class="verse indent5">Margaret, Margaret!”</div>
    <div class="verse indent6">—<span class="smcap">E. B. Browning.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Colonel Compton and family, traveling at leisure in
their private carriage, reached the Blue Ridge on the fifth,
and Winchester on the seventh day of their journey, and
went immediately to the fine old family mansion on the
suburbs of the old town, which was comfortably prepared
for the occupancy of the proprietor.</p>

<p>Miss De Lancie’s elegant house on Loudoun street,
under the charge of an exemplary matron, was also ready
for the reception of its mistress; but Marguerite yielded
to the solicitations of her friend Cornelia, and remained
her guest for the present.</p>

<p>Compton Lodge was somewhat older than the town;
it was a substantial building of gray sandstone, situated
in a fine park, shaded with great forest trees, and inclosed
by a stone wall; it had once been a famous hunting seat,
where Lord Fairfax, General Morgan, Major Helphinstine
and other votaries of St. Hubert, “most did congregate;”
and even now it was rather noted for its superior
breed of hounds and horses; and for the great foxhunts
that were there got up.</p>

<p>Marguerite De Lancie liked the old place upon all these
accounts, and sometimes, when the hunting company was
very select, she did not hesitate to join their sylvan
sports; and scarcely a hunter there, even old Lord Fairfax
himself, who still, in his age, pursued with every
youthful enthusiasm the pleasures of the chase—acquitted
himself better than did this Diana.</p>

<p>But now, in March, the hunting season was over, and
if Marguerite De Lancie preferred Compton Lodge to her<span class="pagenum">[15]</span>
own house, it was because, after a long winter in Philadelphia—with
the monotony of straight streets and red
brick walls, and the weariness of crowded rooms—the
umbrageous shade of forest trees, the silence and the solitude
of nature, with the company of her sole bosom
friend, was most welcome.</p>

<p>The second morning after their settlement at home,
Colonel Compton’s family were seated around the breakfast
table, discussing their coffee, buckwheat cakes and
broiled venison.</p>

<p>Marguerite’s attention was divided between the conversation
at the table, and the view from the two open
windows before her, where rolling waves of green hills,
dappled over with the white and pink blossoms of peach
and cherry trees, now in full bloom, wooed and refreshed
the eye.</p>

<p>Colonel Compton was sipping his coffee and looking
over the Winchester <cite>Republican</cite>, when suddenly he set
down his cup and broke into a loud laugh.</p>

<p>All looked up.</p>

<p>“Well, what is the matter?” inquired the comfortable,
motherly Mrs. Compton, without ceasing to butter her
buckwheat.</p>

<p>“Oh! ha, ha, ha, ha,” laughed the colonel.</p>

<p>“That is a very satisfactory reply, upon my word,”
commented the good woman, covering her cakes with
honey.</p>

<p>“Don’t—don’t—that fellow will be the death of me!”</p>

<p>“Pleasant prospect to laugh at—that!” said his wife,
twisting a luscious segment of her now well-sauced buckwheat
around the fork, preparatory to lifting it to her
lips.</p>

<p>“Oh! do let us have the joke, if there is a joke, papa,”
pleaded Cornelia.</p>

<p>“Hem! well, listen, then!” said Colonel Compton,
reading:</p>

<p>“Distinguished arrival at McGuire’s Hotel. Lord
William Daw, the second son of the most noble, the
Marquis of Eaglecliff, arrived at this place last evening.
His lordship, accompanied by his tutor, the Rev. Henry
Murray, is now on a tour of the United States, and visits<span class="pagenum">[16]</span>
Winchester for the purpose of becoming acquainted with
the history and antiquities of the town!”</p>

<p>“That is exceedingly rich! that will quite do!” commented
the colonel, laying down his newspaper, and turning
with a comic expression toward Marguerite.</p>

<p>She was looking, by the by, in high beauty, though
her morning costume was more picturesque than elegant,
and more careless than either, and consisted simply of a
dark chintz wrapper, over which, drawn closely around
her shoulders, was a scarlet crape shawl, in fine contrast
with the lustrous purple sheen of her black hair, one-half
of which was rolled in a careless mass at the nape of her
neck, and the other dropped in rich ringlets down each
side of her glowing, brilliant face.</p>

<p>“Hem! the antiquities of Winchester. I rather suspect
it is the juvenilities that our young antiquarian is in
chase of. Pray, Miss De Lancie, are you one of the antiquities?”</p>

<p>Marguerite curled her proud lip, erected her head and
deigned no other reply.</p>

<p>“Unquestionably you also have conquered a title, Marguerite;
when you are married, will you place me on your
visiting list, Lady William Daw?” asked Cornelia Compton,
with an arch glance.</p>

<p>“Cease,” said Marguerite, peremptorily, “if I were to
be married, which is utterly out of the question, it would
not be to a schoolboy, let me assure you!”</p>

<p>“If you ‘were to be married, which is utterly out of the
question’—why, you don’t mean to tell us that you have
forsworn matrimony, Marguerite? What do you intend
to do? go into a cloister? Nonsense! in nine
month you will marry,” said Colonel Compton.</p>

<p>“I marry? ha! ha! ha! there must be a great improvement
in the stock of men! Where is the unmarried son
of Adam that I would deliberately vow to love, honor
and obey? Why I should forswear myself at the altar!
Of all the single men I meet, the refined ones are weak
and effeminate, and the strong ones are coarse and brutal!
I’ll none of them!” said Marguerite, with a shrug
of her shoulders.</p>

<p>“Thank you for making my husband a sort of presumptive
exception,” said Mrs. Compton.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[17]</span></p>

<p>“Will you call upon Lord William, this morning,
papa?” inquired Miss Compton.</p>

<p>“My dear, believe me, the opportunity will scarcely
be allowed. His lordship will not stand upon ceremony,
I assure you. I expect to hear his name announced
every moment.”</p>

<p>And then, as in confirmation of Colonel Compton’s
predictions, a servant entered and handed a card.</p>

<p>“Humph! where have you shown the gentleman,
John?”</p>

<p>“Into the front drawing-room, sir.”</p>

<p>“Nonsense—bring him in here.”</p>

<p>The servant bowed and left the room.</p>

<p>“Such a free and easy visitor is not to be treated with
formality. It is as I foresaw, ladies! Lord William
Daw waits to pay his respects.”</p>

<p>At that moment the door was once more opened, and
the visitor announced.</p>

<p>Lord William Daw was a pleasing, wholesome, rather
than a handsome or distinguished-looking youth—with
a short, stout figure, dark eyes and dark hair, a round
rosy face, and white teeth, and an expression full of
good-humor, frank and easy among his friends, and
disembarrassed among strangers to whom he was indifferent,
he was yet timid and bashful as a girl in
presence of those whom he admired and honored; how
much more so in the society of her—the beautiful and
regal woman who had won his young heart’s first and
deepest worship. With all this the youngster possessed
an indomitable will and power of perseverance, which,
when aroused, few men, or things, could withstand, and
which his messmates at Oxford denominated (your pardon,
super-refined reader) an “English bull-dogish—hold-on-a-tiveness.”</p>

<p>Lord William entered the breakfast-room, smiling
and blushing between pleasure and embarrassment.</p>

<p>Colonel Compton arose and advanced, with a cordial
smile and extended hand, to welcome him. “Heartily
glad to see you, sir! And here are Mrs. Compton, and
my daughter Cornelia, and my sweetheart, Marguerite,
all waiting to shake hands with you.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[18]</span></p>

<p>The ladies arose, and Lord William, set at ease by
this friendly greeting, paid his respects quite pleasingly.</p>

<p>“And now here is a chair and plate ready for you,
for we hope that you have not breakfasted?” said the
host.</p>

<p>Lord William had breakfasted; but would do so again.
So he sat down at the table and spoiled a cup of coffee
and a couple of buckwheat cakes without deriving much
benefit from either. A lively conversation ensued.</p>

<p>“The history and antiquities of Winchester, sir,” said
Colonel Compton, with a half-suppressed smile, in reply
to a question of the young tourist. “The history is
scarcely a hundred years old, and the antiquities consist
mainly of some vestiges of the Shawanee’s occupancy,
and of Washington’s march in the old French
and Indian War; but the society, sir—the society representing
the old respectability of the State may not be
unworthy of your attention.”</p>

<p>Lord William was sure that the society was most
worthy of cultivation, nevertheless, he would like to see
those “vestiges” of which his host spoke.</p>

<p>“The ladies will take their usual morning ride within
an hour or two, sir, and if you would like to attend them,
they will take pleasure in showing you these monuments.”</p>

<p>Lord William was again “most happy.” And Colonel
Compton rang and ordered “Ali,” to be brought
out saddled for his lordship’s use.</p>

<p>Within an hour after rising from the table, the riding
party, consisting of Miss Compton, Miss De Lancie,
Lord William Daw, and a groom in attendance, set forth.
The lions of Winchester and its environs were soon exhausted,
and the party returned to Compton Lodge in
time for an early dinner.</p>

<p>Lord William Daw sojourned at Winchester, and became
a daily visitor at Compton Lodge. Colonel Compton,
to break the exclusiveness of his visits to one house,
introduced him at large among the gentry of the neighborhood.
And numerous were the tea, card, and cotillion
parties got up for the sole purpose of entertaining
the young scion of nobility, where it was only necessary
to secure Miss De Lancie’s presence in order to<span class="pagenum">[19]</span>
ensure his lordship’s dutiful attendance. Mr. Murray
chafed and fretted at what he called his pupil’s consummate
infatuation, and talked of writing home to his
father, “the marquis.” Marguerite scorned, or seemed
to scorn, his lordship’s pretensions, until one morning
at breakfast, Colonel Compton, half seriously, half jestingly,
said:</p>

<p>“Sweetheart, you do not appear to join in the respect
universally shown to this young stranger.”</p>

<p>“If,” said Marguerite, “the young man had any distinguished
personal excellence, I should not be backward
in recognizing it; but he is at best—Lord William
Daw! Now who is Lord William Daw that I should
bow down and worship him?”</p>

<p>“Lord William Daw, my dear, is the second son of the
most noble, the Marquis of Eaglecliff, as you have already
seen announced with a flourish of editorial trumpets,
by our title-despising and very consistent democratic
newspapers! He is heir presumptive, and as I
learn from Mr. Murray, rather more than heir presumptive
to his father’s titles and estates; for it appears that
the marquis has been twice married, and that his eldest
son, by his first marchioness, derives a very feeble constitution
from his mother; and it is not supposed that he
will ever marry, or that he will survive his father; ergo,
the hopes of the marquis for re-union rest with his
second son, Lord William Daw; finis, that young nobleman’s
devoirs are not quite beneath the consideration
even of a young lady of ‘one of the first families of
Virginia,’ who is besides a belle, a blue, and a freeholder.”</p>

<p>“Marguerite, future marchioness of Eaglecliff, when
you are married will your ladyship please to remember
one poor Cornelia Compton, who lived in an old
country house near Winchester, and once enjoyed your
favor?” said Miss Compton.</p>

<p>Marguerite shrugged her shoulders with an expression
to the effect that the future succession of the
Marquisate of Eaglecliff was a matter of no moment to
her.</p>

<p>But from this time, Marguerite’s friends accused her,
with uncertain justice, of showing somewhat more favor<span class="pagenum">[20]</span>
to the boyish lover, who might one day set the coronet
of a marchioness upon her brow. When rallied upon
this point, she would reply:</p>

<p>“There are certainly qualities which I do like in the
young man; he is frank, simple and intelligent, and
above all, is perfectly free from affectation, or pretension
of any sort. Upon individual worth alone he is entitled
to polite consideration.”</p>

<p>There was, perhaps, a slight discrepancy between this
opinion and one formerly delivered by Miss De Lancie;
but let that pass; the last-uttered judgment was probably
the most righteous, as growing out of a longer acquaintance,
and longer experience in the merits of the
subject.</p>

<p>Thus—while Lord William Daw prolonged his stay,
and Mr. Murray fumed and fretted, the months of April,
May, and June went by. The first of July the family
of Compton Lodge prepared to commence their summer
tour among the watering, and other places of resort.
They left Winchester about the seventh of the month.</p>

<p>Lord William Daw had not been invited to join their
party, nor had he manifested inclination to obtrude himself
upon their company, nor did he immediately follow
in their train.</p>

<p>Nevertheless, a few days after their establishment at
Berkeley Springs, Colonel Compton read in the list of
arrivals the names of “Lord William Daw, Rev. Henry
Murray, and two servants.”</p>

<p>Enough! The intimacy between the young nobleman
and the Comptons was renewed at Berkeley. And
soon the devotion of his youthful lordship to the beautiful
and gifted Marguerite De Lancie was the theme of
every tongue. To escape this notice, Marguerite withdrew
from her party, and attended by her maid and
footman, proceeded to join some acquaintances at Saratoga.</p>

<p>In vain! for unluckily Saratoga was as free to one
traveler as to another, provided he could pay. And
within the same week of Marguerite’s settlement at her
lodgings, all the manœuvring mammas and marriageable
daughters at the Springs were thrown into a state
of excitement and speculation by the appearance among<span class="pagenum">[21]</span>
them of a young English nobleman, the heir presumptive
of a marquisate.</p>

<p>But alas! it was soon perceived that Lord William had
eyes and ears and heart for none other than the dazzling
Miss De Lancie, “la Marguerite des Marguerites,”
as the French minister had called her.</p>

<p>Miss De Lancie’s manner to her boyish worshiper
was rather restraining and modifying than repulsing or
discouraging. And there were those who did not hesitate
to accuse the proud and queenly Marguerite of finished
coquetry.</p>

<p>To avoid this, the lady next joined a party of friends
who were going to Niagara.</p>

<p>And of course it was obvious to all that the young
English tourist, traveling only for improvement, must
see the great Falls. Consequently, upon the day after
Miss De Lancie’s arrival at the Niagara Hotel, Lord
William Daw led her in to dinner. And once more the
“infatuation,” as they chose to call it, of that young gentleman,
became the favorite subject of gossip.</p>

<p>A few weeks spent at the Falls brought the last of
September, and Marguerite had promised, upon the
first of October, to join her friends, the Comptons, in
New York.</p>

<p>When Lord William Daw learned that she was soon
to leave, half ashamed, perhaps, of forever following in
the train of this disdainful beauty, he terminated his visit
and preceded her eastward.</p>

<p>But when the stagecoach containing Miss De Lancie
and her party drew up before the city hotel, Lord William,
perhaps “to treat resolution,” was the first person to
step from the piazza and welcome her back.</p>

<p>Colonel Compton and his family were only waiting for
Marguerite’s arrival to proceed southward. The next day
but one was fixed for their departure. But the intervening
morning, while the family were alone in their private
parlor, Lord William Daw entered, looking grave
and troubled.</p>

<p>Colonel Compton arose in some anxiety to welcome
him. When he had greeted the ladies and taken a seat,
he said:</p>

<p>“I have come only to bid you good-by, friends.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[22]</span></p>

<p>“I am sorry to hear that! but—you are not going far,
or to remain long, I hope,” said Colonel Compton.</p>

<p>“I am going back to England, sir,” replied the young
man, with a sorrowful glance at Miss De Lancie, who
seemed not quite unmoved.</p>

<p>“You astonish us, Lord William! Is this not a sudden
resolution?” inquired Mrs. Compton.</p>

<p>“It is a sudden misfortune, my dear madam! Only
this morning have I received a letter from my father, announcing
the dangerous illness of my dear mother, and
urging my instant return by the first homeward-bound
vessel. The <em>Venture</em>, Captain Parke, sails for Liverpool
at twelve to-day. I must be on board within two hours,”
replied the young man, in a mournful voice, turning the
same deeply-appealing glance toward Marguerite, whose
color slightly paled.</p>

<p>“We are very sorry to lose you, Lord William, and
still sorrier for the occasion of your leaving us,” said Cornelia
Compton. And so said all the party except—Miss
De Lancie.</p>

<p>Lord William then arose to shake hands with his
friends.</p>

<p>“I wish you a pleasant voyage and a pleasant arrival,”
said the colonel.</p>

<p>“And that you may find your dear mother quite restored
to health,” added Mrs. Compton.</p>

<p>“Oh, yes, indeed! I hope you will, and that you will
soon visit us again,” said Cornelia.</p>

<p>Marguerite said nothing.</p>

<p>“Have you no parting word for me, Miss De Lancie?”
inquired the young man, approaching her, and speaking
in a low tone, and with a beseeching look.</p>

<p>Marguerite waved her hand. “A good voyage, my
lord,” she said.</p>

<p>He caught that hand and pressed it to his lips and
heart, and after a long, deep gaze into her eyes, he recollected
himself, snatched his hat, bowed to the party, and
left the room.</p>

<p>Colonel Compton, in the true spirit of kindness, arose
and followed with the purpose of attending him to his
ship.</p>

<p>“There’s a coronet slipped through your fingers! Oh,<span class="pagenum">[23]</span>
Marguerite! Marguerite! if I had been in your place I
should have secured that match! For, once married,
they couldn’t unmarry us, or bar the succession, either,
and so, in spite of all the reverend tutors and most noble
papas in existence, I should, in time, have worn the coronet
of a marchioness,” said Miss Compton.</p>

<p>“And you would have done a very unprincipled thing,
Cornelia,” replied her mother, very gravely.</p>

<p>The blood rushed to Miss De Lancie’s brow and crimsoned
her face, as she arose in haste and withdrew to her
own chamber.</p>

<p>“But, mamma, what do you suppose to have been the
cause of Marguerite’s rejection of Lord William’s addresses?”</p>

<p>“I think that she had two reasons, either of which
would have been all sufficient to govern her in declining
the alliance. The first was, that Marguerite could never
yield her affections to a man who has no other personal
claims upon her esteem than the possession of a good
heart and a fair share of intelligence; the second was,
that Miss De Lancie had too high a sense of honor to bestow
her hand on a young gentleman whose addresses
were unsanctioned by his family.”</p>

<p>The next day Colonel Compton and his party set out
for Philadelphia, where, upon his arrival, he received
from Mr. Adams an official appointment that required his
residence in the city of Richmond. And thither, in the
course of the month, he proceeded with his wife and
daughter.</p>

<p>Miss De Lancie went down to pass the autumn at her
own house in Winchester, where she remained until the
first of December, when, according to promise, she went
to Richmond to spend the winter with her friend Cornelia.</p>

<p>The Comptons had taken a very commodious house in
a fashionable quarter of the city, and were in the habit of
seeing a great deal of company. It was altogether a very
brilliant winter in the new capital of Virginia. Quite a
constellation of beauties and celebrities were there assembled,
but the star of the ascendant was the splendid Marguerite
De Lancie. She was even more beautiful and
dazzling than ever; and she entered with spirit into all<span class="pagenum">[24]</span>
the gayeties of the season. Tea and card parties, dances
and masked balls followed each other in quick succession.</p>

<p>It was just before Christmas that the belles of the
metropolis were thrown into a state of delightful excitement
by the issue of tickets from the gubernatorial mansion,
to a grand ball to be given on the ensuing New
Year’s Eve. Great was the flutter of preparation, and
great the accession of business that flowed in upon the
milliners, mantua-makers and jewelers.</p>

<p>Miss De Lancie and Miss Compton went out together
to select their dresses for the occasion. I mention this
expedition merely to give you a clew to what I sometimes
suspected to be the true motive that inspired Cornelia
Compton’s rather selfish nature, with that caressing affection
she displayed for Marguerite De Lancie. As for
Marguerite’s devotion to Cornelia, it was one of those
mysteries, or prophecies of the human heart, that only
the future can explain. Upon this occasion, when Miss
De Lancie ordered a rich, white brocade for her own
dress, she selected a superb pink satin for her friend’s;
and when from the jeweler’s Marguerite’s hereditary diamonds
came, set in a new form, they were accompanied by
a pretty set of pearls to adorn the arms and bosom of Cornelia.
Colonel Compton knew nothing of his guest’s
costly presents to his daughter. With a gentleman’s inexperience
in such matters, he supposed that the hundred
dollars he had given “Nellie” for her outfit had covered
all the expenses. And when Mrs. Compton, who better
knew the cost of pearls and brocade, made any objection,
Marguerite silenced her by delicately intimating the possibility,
that, under some circumstances, for instance, that
of her being treated as a stranger, she might be capable
of withdrawing to a boarding-house.</p>

<p>The eventful evening of the governor’s ball arrived.
The entertainment was by all conceded to be, what it
should have been, the most splendid affair of the kind that
had come off that season. A suite of four spacious rooms,
superbly furnished and adorned, and brilliantly lighted,
were thrown open. In the first, or dressing-room, the
ladies left their cloaks and mantles, and rearranged their
toilets. In the second, Governor Wood stood, surrounded
by the most distinguished civil and military officers of the<span class="pagenum">[25]</span>
State, and with his unequaled, dignified courtesy received
his guests. In the third, and most spacious saloon, where
the floor was covered with canvas for dancing, the walls
were lined with mirrors, and festooned with flowers that
enriched the atmosphere with odoriferous perfumes, while
from a vine-covered balcony a military band filled all the
air with music. Beyond the saloon, the last, or supper-room,
was elegantly set out. The supper table was quite
a marvel of taste in that department; just above it hung
an immensely large chandelier, with quite a forest of pendant
brilliants; its light fell and was flashed back from a
sheet mirror laid upon the center of a table, and surrounded
by a wreath of box-vines and violets, like a fairy
lake within its banks of flowers; on the outer edge of this
ring was a circle of grapes with their leaves and tendrils;
while filling up the other space were exotic flowers and
tropical fruits, and every variety of delicate refreshment
in the most beautiful designs.</p>

<p>The rooms were filled before the late arrival of Colonel
Compton and his party. The ladies paused but a few
minutes in the dressing-room to compose their toilets and
draw on their gloves, and then they joined their escort at
the inner door, went in, and were presented to Governor
Wood, and then passed onward to the dancing-saloon,
where the music was sounding and the waltz moving with
great vivacity.</p>

<p>The <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entrée</i> of our young ladies made quite a sensation.
Both were dressed with exquisite taste.</p>

<p>Miss Compton wore a rich rose-colored satin robe, the
short sleeves and low corsage of which were trimmed
with fine lace, and the skirt open in front and looped
away, with lilies of the valley, from a white sarsenet petticoat;
a wreath of lilies crowned her brown hair, and a
necklace and bracelet of pearls adorned her fair bosom
and arms.</p>

<p>And as for Miss De Lancie, if ever her beauty, elegance
and fascination reached a culminating point, it was
upon this occasion. Though her dress was always perfect,
it was not so much what she wore as her manner of
wearing, that made her toilets so generally admired.
Upon this evening her costume was as simple as it was
elegant—a rich, white brocade robe open over a skirt of<span class="pagenum">[26]</span>
embroidered white satin, delicate falls of lace from the
low bodice and flowing sleeves, and a light tiara of diamonds
spanning like a rainbow the blackness of her hair.</p>

<p>As soon as the young ladies were seated, they were
surrounded. Miss Compton accepted an invitation to
join the waltzers.</p>

<p>Miss De Lancie, who never waltzed, remained the center
of a charmed circle, formed of the most distinguished
men present, until the waltzing was over, and the quadrilles
were called, where she accepted the hand of Colonel
Randolph for the first set, and yielded her seat to the
wearied Cornelia, who was led thither by her partner to
rest.</p>

<p>It chanced that Miss De Lancie was conducted to the
head of the set, then forming, and that she stood at some
little distance, immediately in front of, and facing the
spot where Cornelia sat, so that the latter, while resting,
could witness Marguerite. Now Cornelia very much admired
Miss De Lancie, and thought it appeared graceful
and disinterested to laud the excellencies of her friend, at
she would not have done those of her sister, had she
possessed one. So now she tapped her partner’s hand
with her fan, and said:</p>

<p>“Oh, do but look at Miss De Lancie! Is she not the
most beautiful woman in the room?”</p>

<p>The gentleman followed the direction of her glance,
where Marguerite was moving like a queen through the
dance, and said:</p>

<p>“Miss De Lancie is certainly the most beautiful woman
in the world—except one,” with a glance, that the vanity
of Nellie readily interpreted.</p>

<p>The eyes of both turned again upon Marguerite, who
was now standing still in her place waiting for the next
quadrille to be called. While they thus contemplated her
in all her splendid beauty, set off by a toilet the most
elegant in the room, Marguerite suddenly gave a violent
start, shivered through all her frame and bent anxiously
to listen to something that was passing between two
gentlemen, who were conversing in a low tone, near her.
She grew paler and paler as she listened, and then with a
stifled shriek, she fell to the floor, ere any one could
spring to save her.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[27]</span></p>

<p>Cornelia flew to her friend’s relief. She was already
raised in the arms of Colonel Randolph, and surrounded
by ladies anxiously proffering vinaigrettes and fans,
while their partners rushed after glasses of water.</p>

<p>“Bring her into the dressing-room, at once, Randolph,”
said Colonel Compton, as he joined the group.</p>

<p>Accordingly Miss De Lancie was conveyed thither,
and laid upon a lounge, where every restorative at hand
was used in succession, and in vain. More than an hour
passed, while she lay in that deathlike swoon; and when
at last the efforts of an experienced physician were
crowned with thus much success, that she opened her
dimmed eyes and unclosed her blanched lips, it was only
to utter one word—“Lost”—and to relapse into insensibility.</p>

<p>She was put into the carriage and conveyed home, accompanied
by her wondering friends and attended by the
perplexed physician. She was immediately undressed
and placed in bed, where she lay all night, vibrating
between stupor and a low muttering delirium, in which
some irreparable misfortune was indicated without being
revealed—was it all delirium?</p>

<p>Next, a low, nervous fever supervened, and for six
weeks Marguerite De Lancie swayed with a slow, pendulous
uncertainty between life and death. The cause of
her sudden indisposition remained a mystery. The few
cautious inquiries made by Colonel Compton resulted in
nothing satisfactory. The two gentlemen whose conversation
was supposed by Miss Compton to have occasioned
Miss De Lancie’s swoon could not be identified—among
the crowd then assembled at the governor’s
reception, and now dispersed all over the city—without
urging investigation to an indiscreet extent.</p>

<p>“This is an inquiry that we cannot with propriety
push, Nellie. We must await the issue of Miss De Lancie’s
illness. If she recovers she will doubtless explain,”
said Colonel Compton.</p>

<p>With the opening of the spring, Marguerite De Lancie’s
life-powers rallied and convalescence declared itself.
In the first stages of her recovery, while yet body and
mind were in that feeble state which sometimes leaves
the spiritual vision so clear, she lay one day, contemplating<span class="pagenum">[28]</span>
her friend, who sat by her pillow, when suddenly
she threw her arms around Cornelia’s neck, lifted her
eyes in an agony of supplication to her face, and cried:</p>

<p>“Oh, Nellie! do you truly love me? Oh, Nellie! love
me! love me! lest I go mad!”</p>

<p>In reply, Cornelia half smothered the invalid with caresses
and kisses, and assurances of unchanging affection.</p>

<p>“Oh, Nellie, Nellie! there was one who on the eve of
the bitterest trial, said to his chosen friends, ‘All ye shall
be offended because of me.’ And his chief friend said,
‘Although all should be offended yet will not I,’ and
furthermore declared, ‘if I should die with thee, I will
not deny thee in any wise.’ Oh! failing human strength!
Oh! feeble human love! Nellie! you know how it ended.
‘They all forsook him and fled.’”</p>

<p>“But I will be truer to my friend than Peter to his
master,” replied Cornelia.</p>

<p>Marguerite drew the girl’s face down closer to her
own, gazed wistfully, not into but upon those brilliant,
superficial brown eyes, that because they had no depth
repelled her confidence, and then with a deep groan and
a mournful shake of the head, she released Nellie, and
turned her own face to the wall. Did she deem Miss
Compton’s friendship less profound than pretentious? I
do not know; but from that time Miss De Lancie maintained,
upon one subject at least, a stern reserve. And
when, at last, directly, though most kindly and respectfully,
questioned as to the origin of her agitation and
swoon in the ball-room, she declared it to have been a
symptom of approaching illness, and discouraged further
interrogation.</p>

<p>Slowly Marguerite De Lancie regained her strength.
It was the middle of March before she left her bed, and
the first of April before she went out of the house.</p>

<p>One day about this time, as the two friends were sitting
together in Marguerite’s chamber, Cornelia said:</p>

<p>“There is a circumstance that I think I ought to have
told you before now, Marguerite. But we read of it only
a few days after you were taken ill, and when you were
not in a condition to be told of it.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[29]</span></p>

<p>“Well, what circumstance was that?” asked Miss De
Lancie, indifferently.</p>

<p>“It was a fatal accident that happened to one of our
friends. No, now! don’t get alarmed—it was to no particular
friend,” said Cornelia, interrupting herself upon
seeing Marguerite’s very lips grow white.</p>

<p>“Well! what was it?” questioned the latter.</p>

<p>“Why, then, you must know that the <em>Venture</em>, in
which Lord William Daw sailed, was wrecked off the
coast of Cornwall, and Lord William and Mr. Murray
were among the lost. We read the whole account of it,
copied from an English paper into the Richmond <cite>Standard</cite>.
Lord William’s body was washed ashore, the same
night of the wreck.”</p>

<p>“Poor young man, he deserved a better fate,” said
Marguerite.</p>

<p>Miss De Lancie went no more into society that season;
indeed, the season was well over before she was
able to go out. She announced her intention, as soon
as the state of her health should permit her to travel, to
terminate her visit to Richmond, and go down to her
plantation on the banks of the Potomac. Cornelia
would gladly have attended her friend, and only waited
permission to do so; but the waited invitation was not
extended, and Marguerite prepared to set out alone.</p>

<p>“We shall meet you at Berkeley or at Saratoga, this
summer?” said Cornelia.</p>

<p>“Perhaps—I do not yet know—my plans for the summer
are not arranged,” said Marguerite.</p>

<p>“But you will write as soon as you reach home?”</p>

<p>“Yes—certainly,” pressing her parting kiss upon the
lips of her friend.</p>

<p>The promised letter, announcing Marguerite’s safe
arrival at Plover’s Point, was received; but it was the
last that came thence; for though Cornelia promptly replied
to it, she received no second one. And though
Cornelia wrote again and again, her letters remained unanswered.
Weeks passed into months and brought midsummer.
Colonel Compton with his family went to
Saratoga, but without meeting Miss De Lancie. About
the middle of August they came to Berkeley; but failed
to see, or to hear any tidings of their friend.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[30]</span></p>

<p>“Indeed, I am very much afraid that Marguerite may
be lying ill at Plover’s Point, surrounded only by ignorant
servants who cannot write to inform us,” said Cornelia,
advancing a probability so striking and so alarming,
that Colonel Compton, immediately after taking his
family back to Richmond, set out for Plover’s Point to
ascertain the state of the case in question. But when he
arrived at the plantation, great was his surprise to learn
that Miss De Lancie had left home for New York, as
early as the middle of April, and had not since been
heard from. And this was the last of September. With
this information, Colonel Compton returned to Richmond.
Extreme was the astonishment of the family
upon hearing this; and when month after month passed,
and no tidings of the missing one arrived, and no clew
to her retreat, or to her fate was gained, the grief and
dismay of her friends could only be equaled by the wonder
and conjecture of society at large, upon the strange
subject of Marguerite De Lancie’s disappearance.</p>


<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.
<br /><span class="cheaderfont">THE FUGITIVE BELLE.</span></h2>
</div>


<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“What’s become of ‘Marguerite’</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">Since she gave us all the slip—</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">Chose land travel, or sea faring,</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">Box and trunk, or staff and scrip,</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">Rather than pace up and down</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">Any longer this old town?</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">Who’d have guessed it from her lip,</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">Or her brow’s accustomed bearing,</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">On the night she thus took ship,</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">Or started landward, little caring?”</div>
    <div class="verse indent6">—<span class="smcap">Browning.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Christmas approached, and the gay belles of Richmond
were preparing for the festivities of that season.</p>

<p>Colonel Compton with his family and a few chosen
friends went down to Compton Lodge to spend the holidays
in country hospitalities, hunting, etc.</p>

<p>The party had been there but a few days, when, on
Christmas morning, while the family and their guests
were assembled in the old, oak-paneled, front parlor,<span class="pagenum">[31]</span>
before breakfast, and Colonel Compton was standing at
a side table, presiding over an immense old family
punch bowl, from which he ladled out goblets of frothy
eggnog to the company, the door was quietly opened,
and without announcement Marguerite De Lancie entered,
saying, “A merry Christmas! friends.”</p>

<p>“Marguerite! Marguerite!” exclaimed—first Cornelia,
and then all the young ladies that were present, pressing
forward to meet her, while the matrons and the gentlemen
of the party, with less vehemence but equal cordiality,
waited to welcome her.</p>

<p>“My lost sweetheart, by all that’s amazing!” cried
Colonel Compton, who, in his engrossment, was the
very last to discover the arrival.</p>

<p>“Why, where upon the face of the earth did you come
from?” inquired Cornelia, scarcely restrained by the presence
of others from seizing and covering her friend with
caresses.</p>

<p>“From Loudoun street,” answered Miss De Lancie
gayly, as she shook hands right and left.</p>

<p>“From Loudoun street? that will do! How long have
you been in Loudoun street, sweetheart? You were
not there when we passed through the town in coming
hither.” said Colonel Compton.</p>

<p>“I arrived only the day before yesterday, rested a day,
and hearing that you were at the Lodge, came hither,
this morning, to breakfast with you.”</p>

<p>“Enchanted to see you, my dear! truly so! But—you
arrived the day before yesterday—whence?”</p>

<p>“I may be mistaken, yet it seems to me that Colonel
Compton’s asking questions,” said Marguerite, with
good-humored sarcasm.</p>

<p>“Oh! ah! I beg pardon, ten thousand pardons, as the
French say,” replied Colonel Compton, bowing with
much deprecation, and then raising a bumper of eggnog.
“To our reconciliation, Miss De Lancie,” he continued,
offering to her the first, and filling for himself a
second goblet.</p>

<p>“<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Paix à vous</i>,” said Marguerite, pledging him.</p>

<p>“And now to breakfast—<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">sortez, sortez</i>!” exclaimed
the Colonel, leading the way to the dining-room.</p>

<p>Cornelia was, to use her own expression, “dying” to<span class="pagenum">[32]</span>
be alone with Marguerite, to hear the history of the last
seven months absence. Never before was she more impatient
over the progress of a meal, never before seemed
the epicureanism of old folks so tedious, or the appetites
of young people so unbecoming; notwithstanding which
the coffee, tea and chocolate, the waffles, rolls and corn
pone, the fresh venison, ham, and partridges were enjoyed
by the company with equal gusto and deliberation.</p>

<p>“At last!” exclaimed Cornelia, as rising from the
table, she took Marguerite’s hand and drew her stealthily
away through the crowd, and up the back stairs to
her own little bedchamber, where a cheerful fire was
burning.</p>

<p>“Now, then, tell me all about it, Marguerite,” she said,
putting her friend into her easy-chair of state before the
fire, and seating herself on a stool at her feet. “Where
have you been?”</p>

<p>“Gypsying,” answered Miss De Lancie.</p>

<p>“Gypsying; oh, nonsense, that is no answer. What
have you been about?”</p>

<p>“Gypsying,” repeated Marguerite.</p>

<p>“Gypsying!” exclaimed Cornelia, now in wonder.</p>

<p>“Aye! Did you never—or have you too little life ever
to feel like spreading your wings and flying away, away
from all human ken—to feel the perfect liberty of loneliness,
as only an irresponsible stranger in a strange place
can feel it!”</p>

<p>“No, no! I never did,” said Cornelia, amazed; “but,
tell me then where did you go from Plover’s Point.”</p>

<p>“To Tierra-del-Fuego, or the Land of Fire,” said Marguerite,
with a deep flush.</p>

<p>“Fiddlesticks! Where did you come from last to
Winchester?”</p>

<p>“From Iceland,” said Marguerite, with a shiver.</p>

<p>“Oh, pshaw! you are making fun of me, Marguerite!”</p>

<p>“My dear, if I felt obliged to give an account of my
wanderings, their wild liberty would not seem half so
sweet. Even my property agent shall not always know
where to find me; it is enough that I know where to
find him when he is wanted,” said Miss De Lancie, with
such a dash of hauteur that Cornelia dropped the subject.<span class="pagenum">[33]</span>
And then Marguerite, to compensate for her passing
severity, tenderly embraced Nellie.</p>

<p>The Christmas party at Compton Lodge lasted until
after New Year, and then the family and their friends
returned to Richmond.</p>

<p>Miss De Lancie, yielding to a pressing invitation, accompanied
them. And in town, Marguerite had again
to run the gantlet of questions from her acquaintances,
such as:</p>

<p>“Where have you been so long, Marguerite?” To
which she would answer:</p>

<p>“To Obdorskoi on the sea of Obe,” or some such absurdity,
until at last all inquiry ceased.</p>

<p>Miss De Lancie resumed her high position in society,
and was once more the bright, particular star of every
saloon. Those who envied, or disliked her, thought the
dazzling Marguerite somewhat changed; that the fine,
oval face was thinned and sharpened; the brilliant and
changeful complexion fixed and deepened with a flush
that looked like fever; and the ever-varying graceful,
glowing vivacity rather fitful and eccentric. However,
envious criticism did not prevent the most desirable
<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">partis</i> in the city becoming suitors for the hand of the
belle, muse and heiress, as she was still called. But
Marguerite, in her old spirit of sarcasm, laughed all
these overtures to scorn, and remained faithful to her
sole attachment, her inexplicable love for Cornelia.</p>

<p>“I am twenty-four, I shall never marry, Nellie. I
wish I were sure that you would never do so either, that
we might be sisters for life, and that when your dear
parents are gathered to their fathers, you might come
and live with me, and we might be all in all to each
other, forever,” said Marguerite, one day, to her friend.</p>

<p>“Oh, Marguerite, if that will make you happy, I will
promise you faithfully never, never to marry, but to be
your own dear, little Nellie forever and ever; for indeed
why should I not? I love no one in the world but my
parents and you!”</p>

<p>Will it be credited (even although we know that such
compacts are sometimes made and always broken) that
these two girls entered into a solemn engagement never
to marry; but to live for each other only?</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[34]</span></p>

<p>From the day of this singular treaty, Marguerite De
Lancie grew fonder than ever of her friend, lavished endearments
upon her, calling Cornelia her Consolation,
her Hope, her Star, and many other pet or poetic names
besides. Nevertheless, when the fashionable season was
over, Miss De Lancie left town without taking her “Consolation”
with her. And again for a few months Marguerite
was among the missing. She was not one to
disappear with impunity or without inquiry. Where was
she? Not at either of her own seats, nor at either of the
watering places, not, as far as her most intimate friends
and acquaintances knew, at New York, Philadelphia or
Richmond, for her arrival at either of these places would
have been chronicled by some one interested. Where
was she, then? No one could answer; even her bosom
friend, Cornelia Compton, could only reply, “Gone gypsying,
I suppose.”</p>

<p>Again seven months rolled by, while the brightest star
of fashion remained in eclipse.</p>

<p>Again a Christmas party was assembled at Compton
Lodge, when the news of Miss De Lancie’s arrival at her
house on Loudoun street reached them.</p>

<p>Colonel and Mrs. Compton waited some days for her
call, and then not having received it, they went to visit
her at her home. They found Marguerite, as ever, gay,
witty and sarcastic. She told them in answer to their
friendly inquiries that she had been “at Seringapatam,”
and gave them no further satisfaction. She accepted the
invitation to join the Christmas party at Compton
Lodge, went thither the same day, and as always before,
distinguished herself as the most brilliant conversationalist,
the most accomplished musician, the most graceful
dancer, and the most fearless rider of the set. At the
breaking up of the company, however, though invited
and pressed to return with the Comptons to Richmond,
she steadily declined doing so, alleging the necessity of
visiting her plantation.</p>

<p>Therefore the Comptons returned to Richmond without
their usual guest, and Cornelia, for the first time in
many years, spent the whole winter in town without
Marguerite. But if Miss Compton was bereaved of her
friend, she was also freed from her mistress, and entered<span class="pagenum">[35]</span>
with much more levity into all the gayeties of the season
than she ever had done in the restraining companionship
of Marguerite De Lancie.</p>

<p>Meantime Marguerite, in her wild and lonely home on
the wooded banks of the great Potomac, lived a strange
and dreamy life, taking long, solitary rides through the
deep forests, and among the rocky hills and glens that
rolled ruggedly westward of the river; or taking long
walks up and down the lonely beach; wiled away to
double some distant headland, or explore some unfrequented
creek—or pausing lazily, dreamily to watch the
flash and dip of the fish in the river, the dusky flight
of the water fowl, or the course of a distant sail; getting
home late in the afternoon to meet a respectful remonstrance
from the elderly gentlewoman who officiated as
her housekeeper, and a downright motherly scolding
from her old black nurse, aunt Hapzibah, who never
saw in the world’s magnificent Marguerite any other
than the beautiful, wayward child she had tended from
babyhood; or giving audience to the overseer, who,
spreading the farm book before her, would enter into
long details of the purchase or sale of stock, crops, etc.,
not one word of which Marguerite heard or understood,
yet which she would at the close of the interview indorse
by saying, “All right, Mr. Hayhurst, you are an
admirable manager”—leaving her friends only to hope
that he might be an honest man.</p>

<p>But one circumstance seemed to have power to arouse
Miss De Lancie’s interest—the arrival of the weekly mail
at Seaview, the nearest village. All day, from the moment
the messenger departed in the morning until he
came back at night, Marguerite lingered in the house, or
mounted her horse and rode in the direction from which
the messenger was expected—or returned if it were
dark, and waited with ill-concealed anxiety for his arrival.
Upon one occasion, the mail seemed to have
brought her news as terrible as it was mysterious. Upon
opening a certain letter she grew deathly pale, struggled
visibly to sustain herself against an inclination to swoon,
read the contents to the close, threw the letter into the
fire, rang and ordered horses and a servant to attend
her, and the same night set out from home, and never<span class="pagenum">[36]</span>
drew rein until she reached Bellevue, when sending her
horses back by her servant, she took a packet for New
York.</p>

<p>She was absent six weeks, at the end of which time
she returned home, looking worn and exhausted, yet
relieved and cheerful. She found two letters from Cornelia
awaiting her; the first one, after much preface,
apology and explanation, announced the fact that a
suitor, Colonel Houston, of Northumberland, in all respects
very acceptable to her parents, had presented himself
to Cornelia, and that, but for the mutual pledge
existing between herself and Marguerite, she might be
induced to please her parents by listening to his addresses.
Marguerite De Lancie pondered long and
gravely over this letter; re-read it, and looked graver
than before. Then she opened the second letter, which
was dated three weeks later, and seemed to have been
written under the impression that the first one, remaining
unanswered, had been received, and had given offense
to Marguerite. This last was a long, sentimental
epistle, declaring firstly, that she, Cornelia, would not
break her “rash” promise to Marguerite, but pleading
the wishes of her parents, the approbation of her
friends, the merits of her suitor, and in short everything
except the true and governing motive, her own
inclinations.</p>

<p>Miss De Lancie read this second letter with impatience;
at the close threw it into the fire; drew her writing-desk
toward her, took pen and paper, and answered
both long epistles in one—a miracle of brevity—thus,
“dear Nellie—tut—Marguerite,” and sealed and sent it
off.</p>

<p>Apparently, Cornelia did not find this answer as clear
as it was brief. She wrote in reply a long, heroic epistle
of eight pages, announcing her willingness to sacrifice
her parents’ wishes, her friends’ approval, her lover’s
happiness, and her own peace of mind, all to fidelity
and Marguerite, if the latter required the offering!</p>

<p>Marguerite read this letter with more impatience than
the others, and drawing a sheet of paper before her,
wrote, “Nellie! Do as you like, else I’ll make you—Marguerite.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[37]</span></p>

<p>In two weeks back came the answer, a pleading, crying
letter, of twelve pages, the pith of which was that
Nellie would do only as Marguerite liked, and that she
wanted more explicit directions.</p>

<p>“Pish! tush! pshaw!” exclaimed Miss De Lancie, tapping
her foot with impatience, as she read page after
page of all this twaddle, and finally casting the whole
into the fire, she took her pen and wrote, “Cornelia!
marry Colonel Houston forthwith before I compel you—Marguerite.”</p>

<p>A few days from the dispatch of this letter arrived
the answer, brought by an express-mounted messenger
in advance of the mail. It was a thick packet of many
closely-written pages, the concentrated essence of which
was that Nellie would follow the advice of Marguerite,
whom she loved and honored more than any one else in
the world, yes, more than mother and father and lover
together; that Marguerite must never wrong her by
doubting this, or above all, by being jealous of the colonel,
for indeed, after all, Nellie did not like him inordinately;
how could she when he was a widower past
thirty with two children? And finally, that she would
not venture to ask Miss De Lancie to be her bridesmaid,
for that would be like requesting a queen to attend
her maid of honor in such a capacity; but would
Marguerite, her dear Lady Marguerite, come and preside
over the marriage of her poor little Nellie?</p>

<p>Miss De Lancie sat, for a long time, holding this letter
open in her hand, moralizing upon its contents.
“The little simpleton—is she only timid, or is she insincere?
which after all means—is she weak or wicked?
foolish or knavish? And above all, why am I fond of
her? why have her brown eyes and her cut of countenance
such power to draw and knit my heart to hers?—for
indeed though to superficial eyes, hers may be
a countenance resplendent with feeling, strong in
thought, yet it is a cheat, without depth, without earnestness—let
it be said!—without soul. Ay, truly! seeing
all this, why do I love her? Because of the ‘strong necessity
of loving’ somebody, or something, I suppose,”
thought Marguerite, sinking deeper into reverie. These
sparks of light elicited by the strokes of Cornelia’s<span class="pagenum">[38]</span>
steel-like policy upon the flint of Marguerite’s sound
integrity, thus revealed, by flashes, the true character
of the former to the latter; but the effect was always
transient, passing away with the cause.</p>

<p>Miss De Lancie took up the letter and re-read it,
with comments as—“I jealous of her lover! truly! I
preside over her marriage! Come, I must answer
that!” And drawing writing materials before her, she
wrote, briefly as before.</p>

<p>“I would see you in Gehenna first, you little imbecile.
Marguerite.”</p>

<p>And sealed and dispatched the letter.</p>

<p>This brought Nellie down in person to Plover’s
Point, where by dint of caressing, and coaxing, and
weeping, she prevailed with Marguerite, who at last exclaimed:</p>

<p>“Well, well! go home and prepare for your wedding,
Nellie! I’ll come and assist at the farce.”</p>


<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.
<br /><span class="cheaderfont">LOVE.</span></h2>
</div>


<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“——The soul that moment caught</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">A something it through life had sought.”</div>
    <div class="verse indent6">—<span class="smcap">Moore.</span></div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“Forbear that dream! My lips are sworn apart</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">From tender words; mine ears from lover’s vows;</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">Mine eyes from sights God made so beautiful;</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">My very heart from feelings which move soft.”</div>
    <div class="verse indent6">—<span class="smcap">E. B. Browning.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>The bridal of the only daughter of the Comptons was
naturally an event of great importance, and consequently
of much parade. The bride-elect was in favor of being
married in the most approved modern style, having the
ceremony performed at ten in the morning, and starting
immediately upon a wedding tour. But Colonel and Mrs.
Compton had some strong, old-fashioned predilections,
and decided to have the time-honored, old style of marriage
party in the evening. And accordingly preparations
were made upon the grandest scale to do honor to the
nuptials of their only child.</p>

<p>Marguerite De Lancie arrived upon the evening previous<span class="pagenum">[39]</span>
to the wedding, and was most cordially welcomed
by the family. She was carried off immediately by Cornelia
to her chamber for a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">tête-à-tête</i>.</p>

<p>“Well, my little incapable!” Marguerite said, as soon
as she was seated, “now tell me about your bridegroom!
Long ago, you know, we divided the present generation
of men into two classes—monsters and imbeciles; to
which does your <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">fiancé</i> belong?”</p>

<p>“You shall see and judge for yourself, Marguerite!
To neither, I think!”</p>

<p>“Oh! of course, you think! Well! who are to be your
bridesmaids?”</p>

<p>“The Misses Davidge and—yourself, dear Marguerite,
since you were so kind as to promise.”</p>

<p>“So weak, you mean! And who are to be groomsmen?”</p>

<p>“Steve and Peyton Rutlidge are to lead out the Davidges.”</p>

<p>“And who is to be my cavalier for the occasion?”</p>

<p>“There! that’s just what I wanted to talk to you about,
Marguerite! because you have the privilege of rejecting
him as your proposed escort, and I hope you will. I am
afraid of him; I always was! I cannot endure him; I
never could! I hate him, and I always did! But the
colonel proposed him, and papa and mamma would not
permit me to object.”</p>

<p>“But you have not yet told me who he is.”</p>

<p>“Oh, you would not know if I were to tell you! though
if you ever see him, you will never fail to know him
thenceforth!”</p>

<p>“His name? You’ve raised my curiosity.”</p>

<p>“Philip Helmstedt, my cousin! He is of those fierce
and haughty Helmstedts of the Eastern Shore, whose
forefathers, you know, claimed a prior right to the coast
and the Isles of the Bay, from having made the place a
sort of freebooting depot, long before the king’s patent
endowed Lord Baltimore with it, and who headed so
many rebellions and caused so much bloodshed among
the early colonists.”</p>

<p>“Well, nearly two hundred years have rolled by. This
fierce, arrogant nature must have been greatly modified
by time and intermarriage.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[40]</span></p>

<p>“Must it. Well, now, it is my opinion that no one
who knows the history can look upon Philip Helmstedt’s
bird-of-prey profile without remembering the fierce fights
by sea and land of his freebooting forefathers.”</p>

<p>“It is doubtless true that a strong and powerful race of
men may have so impressed upon their descendants as to
leave their own peculiar traits unmodified and predominant
to the latest generations,” said Marguerite, musing;
and then, suddenly recollecting herself, she exclaimed:
“Philip Helmstedt! surely I have heard that name in
honorable association before, though I have never met
the owner. Oh! by the way, is he not that gallant
nephew, of whom I have heard your father speak, and
who, though but thirteen years of age, followed him in
the battle of Yorktown and performed such prodigies of
youthful valor?”</p>

<p>“Oh, yes! he’s fire-eater enough, and a terror in general,
at least to me.”</p>

<p>“But where has he been that I have never met him in
society?”</p>

<p>“Oh! he has been for a number of years studying at
Heidelburg, and traveling all over the Eastern Continent.
I was sufficiently afraid of him before he went away, and
I am twice as much in awe of him since he came back;
so I want you to veto him, Marguerite; for you may do
so, and then the colonel will get somebody else to stand up
in his stead. Will you?”</p>

<p>“Certainly not. It would be a very great rudeness to
all concerned,” said Miss De Lancie.</p>

<p>The preparations for the marriage were, as I said, upon
a magnificent scale. The <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">élite</i> of the city and county
were invited to be present. Upon the important evening
the house was illuminated and thrown open. At a comparatively
early hour the company began to assemble.</p>

<p>At a quarter to eight o’clock precisely, the bride and
her maids were ready to go down.</p>

<p>Nellie looked, as all brides are expected to look, “never
before so lovely.” A robe of embroidered white crape
over white satin, a point lace veil, and a light wreath of
orange blossoms, were the principal items of her costume.</p>

<p>The two younger bridesmaids were attired in harmony<span class="pagenum">[41]</span>
in white gauze over white silk, with wreaths of snowdrops
around their hair.</p>

<p>The queenly form of Marguerite De Lancie was arrayed
in a robe of the richest lace over white brocade;
her superb black hair was crowned with a wreath of lilies,
deep falls of the finest lace veiled her noble bust and arms,
and the purest Oriental pearls adorned her neck and
wrists; she looked as ever, a royal beauty.</p>

<p>Scarcely was the last fold of Cornelia’s veil gracefully
arranged by Marguerite, before the little bride, with a
mixture of childish petulance and envy and genuine admiration,
raised her eyes to the beautiful brow of her
patroness, and said:</p>

<p>“Ah! how stately, how radiant you are, Marguerite!
But how shall I look, poor, insignificant, little, fady
pigmy! my very bridegroom will be ashamed of his choice,
seen by the side of the magnificent Miss De Lancie!”</p>

<p>“Be silent! How dare you humble yourself, or flatter
me so shamefully!” exclaimed Marguerite, flushing with
indignation. “As for the ‘magnificent,’ that can be easily
transferred; ‘fine feathers make fine birds,’ and queenly
jewels go very far toward making queenly women,” she
continued, proceeding to unclasp the pearls from her own
neck and arms, and to fasten them upon those of Cornelia.</p>

<p>“No, no, dear Marguerite, desist! I cannot, indeed. I
cannot consent to shine in borrowed jewels,” said Miss
Compton, opposing this ornamental addition to her costume.</p>

<p>“They are your own; wear them for my sake, sweet
Nellie,” replied Miss De Lancie; clasping the necklace
and kissing the bride with renewed tenderness.</p>

<p>“But your matchless set of pearls! a dower, a fortune
in themselves! I cannot, Marguerite! Indeed, indeed,
I dare not! Such a transfer would look as if you were
not quite sane, nor myself quite honest,” said Cornelia,
with sincere earnestness.</p>

<p>“Ridiculous! I care not for them, or, I assure you, I
should not give them away. Hush! don’t put me to the
trouble of pressing them upon you, for really I do not
consider them worth the expenditure of so much breath.
Stop! don’t thank me, either, for I have no patience to<span class="pagenum">[42]</span>
listen. We are all ready, I believe? What are we waiting for?”</p>

<p>While she spoke, there came a gentle rap at the connecting
door between Cornelia’s and her parents’ bedchambers.
It was Colonel and Mrs. Compton, who were
waiting there to embrace and bless their child before giving
her up to the possession of another. Cornelia went
in to them, and after a stay of five minutes, returned with
her eyes suffused with tears, evanescent tears that quickly
evaporated. And in another moment Colonel Compton
came to the passage door and announced to the bevy of
bridesmaids that the bishop had arrived, and that the
bridegroom and his attendants were waiting downstairs.</p>

<p>“We are ready. But remember, colonel, that I have
never met Mr. Helmstedt.”</p>

<p>“I shall not fail to present him, Marguerite,” replied
the old gentleman, turning to go downstairs. The bride’s
party followed in due order; the third bridesmaid, leading
the way, received the arm of her appointed escort, and advanced
toward the saloon; the second did likewise; then
Marguerite, in her turn, descended. She had never before
seen the distinguished-looking personage, then waiting
at the foot of the stairs to offer his arm and lead her
on; but Colonel Compton stood ready to present him
and all was well. Marguerite reached the last step,
paused, and raised her eyes to look at the stranger, whom
Cornelia’s description had invested with a certain interest.</p>

<p>A tall, thin, muscular form, large, clearly cut aquiline
features, raven-black hair, strongly marked black eyebrows,
deep and piercing dark grey eyes, a stern and
somewhat melancholy countenance, a stately, not to say
haughty, carriage, a style of dress careful even to nicety,
<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">a tout ensemble</i> indicating a forcible, fiery, high-toned,
somewhat arrogant character, were the features impressed
by first sight upon Marguerite’s perceptions. She had
scarcely made these observations and withdrawn her
glance, when Colonel Compton, taking the stranger’s
hand and turning to her, said:</p>

<p>“Miss De Lancie, permit me to present to you Mr.
Helmstedt, of Northumberland County.”</p>

<p>Again Marguerite lifted her eyes.</p>

<p>A stately bow, a gracious smile, a mellifluous voice in<span class="pagenum">[43]</span>
addressing her, threw a charm, a warm, bright glow, like
a sudden sunburst over those stern, dark features, clothing
them with an indescribable beauty as fascinating as it
was unexpected.</p>

<p>“I esteem myself most happy in meeting Miss De
Lancie,” he said.</p>

<p>Marguerite dropped her eyes, and blushed deeply beneath
his fixed, though deferential gaze, curtseyed in silence,
received his offered arm and followed the others,
who were waiting at the door. The bride and groom
brought up the rear. And the party entered the saloon.</p>

<p>The rooms were superbly adorned, brilliantly illuminated,
and densely crowded by a splendid company.</p>

<p>The white-gowned bishop stood upon the rug in front
of the fireplace, facing the assembly. A space had been
left clear before him, upon which the bridal party formed.
A hushed silence filled the room; the book was opened;
the rites commenced, and in ten minutes after little Nellie
Compton was transmogrified into Mrs. Colonel Houston.</p>

<p>When the congratulations were all over, and the bridal
party seated, and the little embarrassments attendant
upon all these movements well over, the programme for
the remainder of the evening proceeded according to all
the “rules and regulations in such cases made and provided”—with
one memorable exception.</p>

<p>When the bride’s cake (which was quite a miraculous
<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">chef-d’œuvre</i> of the confectioner’s art, being made in the
form of the temple of Hymen, highly ornate, and containing
besides a costly diamond ring, which it was supposed,
according to the popular superstition, would indicate
the happy finder as the next to be wedded of the
party), was cut and served to all the single ladies present,
it was soon discovered that none of them had drawn
the token. Colonel Compton then declared that the unmarried
gentlemen should try their fortune. And when
they were all served, Mr. Helmstedt proved to be the fortunate
possessor of the costly talisman.</p>

<p>When, with a courtly dignity, he had arrested the storm
of badinage that was ready to burst upon him, he deliberately
crossed the room to the quarter where the bride
and her attendants remained seated, and pausing before
Marguerite, said:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[44]</span></p>

<p>“Miss De Lancie, permit me,” and offered the ring.</p>

<p>“Yes, yes, Marguerite! relieve him of it! He cannot
wear it himself, you know, and to whom here could he
properly offer it but to yourself,” hastily whispered
Cornelia.</p>

<p>Miss De Lancie hesitated, but unwilling to draw attention
by making a scene out of such an apparent trifle,
she smiled, drew off her glove, and held up her hand, saying,</p>

<p>“If Mr. Helmstedt will put it on.”</p>

<p>Philip Helmstedt slipped the ring on her finger, turned
and adjusted it with a slight pressure, when Marguerite,
with a half-suppressed cry, snatched away her hand and
applied her handkerchief to it.</p>

<p>“Have I been so awkward and unhappy as to hurt you,
Miss De Lancie?” inquired Mr. Helmstedt.</p>

<p>“Oh, no, not at all! it is nothing to speak of; a sharp
flaw in the setting of the stones pierced my finger; I
think that is all,” answered Marguerite, drawing off the
ring that was stained with blood.</p>

<p>Mr. Helmstedt took the jewel, walked up to the fireplace,
and threw it into the glowing coals.</p>

<p>“Well! if that is not the most wanton piece of destructiveness
I ever saw in my life,” said Cornelia, indignantly;
“you know, Marguerite, when I saw Mr. Helmstedt draw
the ring and come and put it on your finger, I thought it
was a happy sign; but now see how it is? everything that
man touches, turns—not to gold, but to blood or tears,
that he thinks only can be dried in the fire!”</p>

<p>“Don’t use such fearful words here on your bridal
evening, dear Nellie, they are ill-omened. You are, besides,
unjust to Mr. Helmstedt, I think,” said Marguerite,
who had now quite recovered her composure.</p>

<p>“They were false diamonds after all, Miss De Lancie,”
said Mr. Helmstedt, rejoining the ladies.</p>

<p>The bishop had retired from the room; the musicians
had entered and taken their places, and were now playing
a lively prelude to the quadrilles; partners were engaged,
and were only waiting for the bride and groom to open
the ball, as was then the custom. Nellie gave her hand
to her colonel, and suffered herself to be led to the head
of the set.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[45]</span></p>

<p>“Miss De Lancie, will you honor me?” inquired Mr.
Helmstedt, and receiving a gracious inclination of the
head in acquiescence, he conducted Marguerite to a position
<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">vis-à-vis</i> with the bridal pair. Other couples immediately
followed their example, and the dancing commenced
in earnest. The lively quadrille was succeeded
by the stately minuet, and that by the graceful waltz, and
the time-honored and social Virginia reel. Then came
an interval of repose, preceding the sumptuous supper.
Then the outpouring of the whole company into the dining-room;
and the eating, drinking, toasting, and jesting;
then they adjourned to the saloon, when again
quadrilles, minuets, reels and waltzes alternated with
short-lived rest, refreshment, gossip, and flirtations, until
a late hour, when the discovered disappearance of the
bride and her attendants gave the usual warning for the
company to break up. At the covert invitation of Colonel
Compton, some of the gentlemen, who were without
ladies, lingered after the departure of the other
guests, and adjourned with himself and his son-in-law, to
the dining-room, where, after drinking the health of the
newly married pair, they took leave.</p>

<p>The next day Judge Houston, the uncle of the bridegroom,
entertained the wedding party and a large company
at dinner. And this was the signal for the commencement
of a series of dinners, tea and card parties,
and balls, given in honor of the bride, and which kept
her and her coterie in a whirl of social dissipation for
several weeks.</p>

<p>But from this brilliant entanglement let us draw out
clearly the sombre thread of our own narrative.</p>

<p>Everywhere the resplendent beauty of Marguerite De
Lancie was felt and celebrated. Every one declared that
the star of fashion had emerged from her late eclipse with
new and dazzling brilliancy. And ever, whether in repose
or action; whether reclined upon some divan, she
was the inspiration of a circle of conversationalists; or
whether she led the dance, or, seated at the harpsichord,
poured forth her soul in glorious song—she was ever the
queen of all hearts and minds, who recognized in her
magnificent personality a sovereignty no crown or sceptre
could confer. All, in proportion to their depth and<span class="pagenum">[46]</span>
strength of capacity for appreciation, felt this. But none
so much as one whose duty brought him ever to her side
in zealous service, or deferential waiting.</p>

<p>Philip Helmstedt, almost from the first hour of his
meeting with this imperial beauty, had felt her power.
He watched her with the most reserved and respectful
vigilance; he saw her ever the magnet of all hearts and
eyes, the life of all social intercourse, the inspiration of
poets, the model of painters, the worship of youth and
love; shining for, warming, lighting, and enlivening all
who approached her, yet with such impartiality that
none ventured to aspire to especial notice. There was
one exception, and not a favored one to his equanimity
and that was Mr. Helmstedt himself; her manner toward
him, at first affable, soon grew reserved, then
distant, and at length repelling. Colonel Compton, who
had taken it into his head that this haughty pair were
well adapted to each other, watched with interest the
progress of their acquaintance, noticed this, and despaired.</p>

<p>“It is useless,” he said, “and I warn you, Philip Helmstedt,
not to consume your heart in the blaze of Marguerite
De Lancie’s beauty! She is the invincible Diana
of modern times. For seven years has Marguerite
reigned in our saloons, with the absolute dominion of a
beauty and genius that ‘age cannot wither nor custom
stale,’ and her power remains undiminished as her
beauty is undimmed. Year after year the most distinguished
men of their time, men celebrated in the battles
and in the councils of their country, men of history, have
been suitors in her train, and have received their <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">congé</i>
from her imperial nod. Can you hope for more than an
Armstrong, a Bainbridge, a Cavendish?”</p>

<p>“I beseech you, sir, spare me the alphabetical list of
Miss De Lancie’s conquests! I can well believe their
name is legion,” interrupted Philip Helmstedt, with an
air of scorn and arrogance that seemed to add, “and if
it were so, I should enter the lists with full confidence
against them all.”</p>

<p>“I assure you it is sheer madness, Philip! A man
may as well hope to monopolize the sun to light his own
home as to win Marguerite De Lancie to his hearth!<span class="pagenum">[47]</span>
She belongs to society, I think, also, to history. She requires
a nation for her field of action. I have known her
from childhood and watched with wonder her development.
It is the friction of marvelous and undirected
energies that causes her to glow and radiate in society as
you see her. It is sheer frenzy, your pursuit of her! I
tell you, I have seen a love chase worth ten of yours—Lord
William Daw——”</p>

<p>“Lord—William—Daw!” interrupted Philip Helmstedt,
curling his lip with ineffable scorn.</p>

<p>“Well, now, I assure you, Philip, the heir presumptive
of a marquisate is not to be sneered at. He was besides
a good-looking and well-behaved young fellow, except
that he followed Miss De Lancie up and down the
country like a demented man, in direct opposition, both
to the clucking of an old hen of a tutor, and the coldness
of his Diana. He was drowned, poor youth! but I always
suspected that he threw himself overboard in desperation!”</p>

<p>“Lord—William—Daw,” said Mr. Helmstedt, with
the same deliberate and scornful intonation, “may not
have been personally the equal of the lady to whom he
aspired. Very young men frequently raise their hopes
to women ‘who are, or ought to be, unattainable’ by
them. Miss De Lancie is not one to permit herself to be
dazzled by the glitter of mere rank and title.”</p>

<p>Yes. Philip Helmstedt hoped, believed, in more success
for himself than had attended any among his predecessors
or temporary rivals. True, indeed, his recommendations,
personal as well as circumstantial, to the
favor of this “fourth Grace and tenth Muse,” were of the
first order. The last male representative of an ancient,
haughty, and wealthy family, their vast estates centered in
his possession—he chose to devote many years to study
and to travel. An accomplished scholar, he had read,
observed and reflected, and was prepared, at his own
pleasure, to confer the result upon the world. A tried
and proved soldier, he might claim military rank and
rapid promotion. Lastly, a pre-eminently fine looking
person, he might aspire to the hand of almost any beauty
in the city, with every probability of success. But Philip
Helmstedt was fastidious and proud to a degree of<span class="pagenum">[48]</span>
scornful arrogance—that was his one great, yes, terrible
sin. It was the bitter upas of his soul that poisoned
every one of the many virtues of his character. But for
scorn, truth, justice, prudence, temperance, generosity,
fortitude, would have flourished in his nature. It was
this trenchant arrogance that made him indifferent to accessory
honors—that made him as a profound student,
regardless of scholastic fame—as a brave soldier, careless
of military glory—as an accomplished gentleman,
negligent of beauty’s allurements. It was this arrogance
in fine, that entered very largely into his passion for the
magnificent Marguerite. For here at last, in her, he
found a princess quite worthy of his high devotion, and
he resolved to win her.</p>

<p>God have mercy on any soul self-cursed with scorn.</p>

<p>And Marguerite? Almost from the first moment of
their meeting, her eyes, her soul, had been strangely and
irresistibly magnetized. I do not know that this was
caused by the distinguished personal appearance of
Philip Helmstedt. After all, it is not the beauty, but the
peculiarity, individuality, uniqueness, in the beauty that
attracts its destined mate. And Philip Helmstedt’s presence
was pre-eminently characteristic, individual, unique.
At first Marguerite’s eyes were attracted by a certain
occult resemblance to his young cousin, her own beloved
friend, Cornelia Compton. It was not only such a family
likeness as might exist between brother and sister.
It was something deeper than a similitude of features,
complexion and expression. The same peculiar conformation
of brow and eye, the same proud lines in the
aquiline profile, the same disdainful curves in the expressive
lips, the same distinctly individualized characteristics,
that had long charmed and cheated her in
Nellie’s superficial face, was present, only more strongly
marked and deeply toned, and truly representative of
great force of character, in Philip Helmstedt’s imposing
countenance. But there was something more than this—there
was identity in the uniqueness of each—faint and
uncertain in the delicate face of Nellie, intense and ineffaceable
in the sculptured features of Philip. As Marguerite
studied this remarkable physiognomy, she felt
that her strange attraction to Nellie had been but a faint<span class="pagenum">[49]</span>
prelude, though a prophecy of this wondrous magnetism.</p>

<p>Alarmed at the spell that was growing around her
heart, she withdrew her eyes and thoughts, opposed to
the attentions of her lover a cold, repellant manner, and
treated his devotion with supreme disdain, which must
have banished any man less strong in confidence than
Philip Helmstedt, but which in his case only warded off
the day of fate. Perseveringly he attended her, earnestly
he sought an opportunity of explaining himself.
In vain; for neither at home nor abroad, in parlor, saloon,
thoroughfare or theatre, could he manage to secure
a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">tête-à-tête</i>. Whether sitting or standing, Miss De
Lancie was always the brilliant center of a circle; and if
she walked, like any other queen, she was attended by
her suite. Only when he mingled with this train, could
he speak to her. But then—the quick averting of that
regal hand, the swift fall of the sweeping, dark eyelashes,
the sudden, deep flush of the bright cheeks, the suppressed
heave of the beautiful bosom, the subdued
tremor of the thrilling voice, betrayed hidden emotions,
that only he had power to arouse, or insight to detect,
and read therein the confirmation of his dearest hopes.
The castle walls might show a forbidding aspect, but the
citadel was all his own, hence his determination, despite
her icy coldness of manner, to pass all false shows, and
come to an understanding with his Diana. Still Miss
De Lancie successfully evaded his pursuit and defeated
his object. What was the cause of her course of conduct,
he could not satisfactorily decide. Was pride
struggling with love in her bosom? If so, that pride
should succumb.</p>

<p>Having failed in every delicate endeavor to effect a
<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">tête-à-tête</i>, and the day of Marguerite’s departure being
near at hand, Mr. Helmstedt went one morning directly
to the house of Colonel Compton, sent up his card to
Miss De Lancie, and requested the favor of an interview.
He received an answer that Miss De Lancie was particularly
engaged and begged to be excused. Again and
again he tried the same plan with the same ill-success.
Miss De Lancie was never at leisure to receive Mr.
Helmstedt. At length this determined suitor sent a<span class="pagenum">[50]</span>
note, requesting the lady to name some hour when she
should be sufficiently disengaged to see him. The reply
to this was that Miss De Lancie regretted to say
that at no hour of her short remaining time should she
be at liberty to entertain Mr. Helmstedt. This flattering
message was delivered in the parlor, and in the
presence of Colonel Compton. As soon as the servant
had retired, the old gentleman raised his eyes to the
darkened brow of Philip Helmstedt, and said: “I see
how it is, Philip. Marguerite is a magnanimous creature.
She would spare you the humiliation of a refusal.
But you—you are resolved upon mortification. You
will not be content without a decided rejection. Very
well. You shall have an opportunity of receiving one.
Listen. Houston and Nellie are dining with the judge
to-day. Mrs. Compton is superintending the making
of calf’s-foot jelly; don’t huff and sneer, Philip. I cannot
help sometimes knowing the progress of such culinary
mysteries; but I am not going to assist at them
or to ask you to do so. I am going to ride. Thus, if
you will remain here to-day, you will have the house
to yourself, and Marguerite, who for some unaccountable
reason, fate perhaps, chooses to stay home. Go
into the library and wait. Miss De Lancie, according
to her usual custom, will probably visit that or the adjoining
music-room in the course of the forenoon, and
there you have her. Make the best use of your opportunity,
and the Lord speed you; for I, for my part,
heartily wish this lioness fairly mated. Come; let me
install you.”</p>

<p>“There appears to be no other chance, and I must
have an interview with her to-day,” said Mr. Helmstedt,
rising to accompany his host who led the way to the
library. It was on the opposite side of the hall.</p>

<p>“Now be patient,” said the colonel, as he took leave;
“you may have to wait one or more hours, but you
can find something here to read.”</p>

<p>“Read!” ejaculated Philip Helmstedt, with the tone
and energy of an oath; but the old gentleman was already
gone, and the younger one threw himself into a
chair to wait.</p>

<p>“‘Be patient!’ with the prospect of waiting here several<span class="pagenum">[51]</span>
hours, and the possibility of disappointment at the
end,” exclaimed Philip, rising, and walking in measured
steps up and down the room, trying to control the eagerness
of expectation that made moments seem like hours,
while he would have compressed hours into moments.</p>

<p>How long he waited ought scarcely to be computed by
the common measure of time. It might not have been;
an hour—to him it seemed an indefinite duration—a
considerable portion of eternity, when at length, while
almost despairing of the presence of Marguerite, he
heard from the adjoining music-room the notes of a
harp.</p>

<p>He paused, for the harpist might be—must be Miss
De Lancie.</p>

<p>He listened.</p>

<p>Soon the chords of the lyre were swept by a magic
hand that belonged only to one enchantress, and the
instrument responded in a low, deep moan, that presently
swelled in a wild and thrilling strain. And then
the voice of the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">improvvisatrice</i> stole upon the ear—that
wondrous voice, that ever, while it sounded, held captive
all ears, silent and breathless all lips, spellbound
all hearts!—it arose, first tremulous, melodious, liquid,
as from a sea of tears, then took wing in a wild, mournful,
despairing wail. It was a song of renunciation, in
which some consecrated maiden bids adieu to her lover,
renouncing happiness, bewailing fate, invoking death.
Philip Helmstedt listened, magnetized by the voice of
the sorceress, with its moans of sorrow, its sudden
gushes of passion or tenderness, and its wails of anguish
and despair. And when at last, like the receding
waves of the heart’s life tide, the thrilling notes ebbed
away into silence and death, he remained standing like
a statue. Then, with self-reflection and the returning
faculty of combination, came the question:</p>

<p>“What did this song of renunciation mean?” And
the next more practical inquiry, should he remain in the
library, awaiting the doubtful event of her coming, or
should he enter the music-room? A single moment of
reflection decided his course.</p>

<p>He advanced softly, and opened the listed and silently-turning<span class="pagenum">[52]</span>
doors, and paused an instant to gaze upon a
beautiful tableau!</p>

<p>Directly opposite to him, at the extremity of the
thickly carpeted room, was a deep bay window, richly
curtained with purple and gold, through which the noon-day
sun shone with a subdued glory. Within the glowing
shadows of this recess sat Marguerite beside the
harp. A morning robe of amber-hued India silk fell in
classic folds around her form. Her arms were still upon
the harp, her inspired face was pale and half averted.
Her rich, purplish tresses pushed off from her temples,
revealed the breadth of brow between them in a new
and royal aspect of beauty. Her eyes were raised and
fixed upon the distance, as if following in spirit the
muse that had just died from lips of fire. She was so
completely absorbed, that she did not heed the soft
and measured step of Philip Helmstedt, until he paused
before her, bowed and spoke.</p>

<p>Then she started to her feet with a brow crimsoned
by a sudden rush of emotion, and thrown completely
off her guard, for the moment, she confronted him with
a home question.</p>

<p>“Philip Helmstedt! what has brought you here?”</p>

<p>“My deep, my unconquerable, consuming love! It
has broken down all the barriers of etiquette, and given
me thus to your presence, Marguerite De Lancie,” he
replied, with a profound and deprecating inclination of
the head.</p>

<p>She had recovered a degree of self-possession; but the
tide of blood receding had left her brow cold and
clammy, and her frame tremulous and faint; she leaned
upon her harp for support, pushed the falling tresses
from her pale, damp forehead, and said, in faltering
tones:</p>

<p>“I would have saved you this! Why, in the name
of all that is manly, delicate, honorable!—why have you
in defiance of all opposition, ventured this?”</p>

<p>“Because I love you, Marguerite. Because I love
you for time and for eternity with a love that must
speak or slay.”</p>

<p>“Ungenerous! unjust!”</p>

<p>“Be it so, Marguerite. I do not ask you to forgive<span class="pagenum">[53]</span>
me, for that must presuppose repentance, and I do not
repent standing here, Miss De Lancie.”</p>

<p>“Still I must ask you, sir,” said Marguerite, who
was gradually recovering the full measure of her natural
dignity and self-possession, “what feature in all my conduct
that has come under your observation has given
you the courage to obtrude upon me a presence and a
suit that you must know to be unwelcome and repulsive?”</p>

<p>“Shall I tell you? I will, with the truthfulness of
spirit answering to spirit. I come because, despite all
your apparent hauteur, disdain, coldness, such a love as
this which burns within my heart for you, bears within
itself the evidence of reciprocity,” replied Philip Helmstedt,
laying his hand upon his heart, and atoning by a
profound reverence for the presumption of his words.
“And I appeal to your own soul, Marguerite De Lancie,
for the indorsement of my avowal.”</p>

<p>“You are mad!” said Marguerite, trembling.</p>

<p>“No—not mad, lady, because loving you as never
man loved woman yet, I also feel and know, with the
deepest respect be it said, that I do not love in vain,”
he replied, sinking for an instant upon his knee, and
bowing deeply over her hand that he pressed to his
lips.</p>

<p>“In vain! in vain! you do! you do!” she exclaimed,
almost distractedly, while trembling more than ever.</p>

<p>“Marguerite,” he said, rising, yet retaining his hold
upon her hand, “it may be that I love in vain, but I
do not love alone. This hand that I clasp within my
own throbs like a palpitating heart. I read, on your
brow, in your eyes, in your trembling lip and heaving
bosom, that my great love is not lost; that it is returned;
that you are mine, as I am yours. Marguerite
De Lancie, by a claim rooted in the deepest nature,
you are my wife for time and for eternity!”</p>

<p>“Never! never! you know not what you say or seek!”
she exclaimed, snatching her hand away and shuddering
through every nerve.</p>

<p>“Miss De Lancie, your words and manner are inexplicable,
are alarming! Tell me, for the love of<span class="pagenum">[54]</span>
Heaven, Marguerite, does any insurmountable obstacle
stand in the way of our union?”</p>

<p>“Obstacle!” repeated Miss De Lancie, starting violently,
and gazing with wild, dilated eyes upon the questioner,
while every vestige of color fled from her face.</p>

<p>“Yes, that was the word I used, dearest Marguerite!
Oh, if there be——”</p>

<p>“What obstacle should exist, except my own will? A
very sufficient one, I should say,” interrupted Marguerite,
struggling hard for self-control.</p>

<p>“Say your decision against your will.”</p>

<p>“What right have you to think so, sir?”</p>

<p>“Look in your own heart and read my right, Marguerite.”</p>

<p>“I never look into that abyss!”</p>

<p>“Marguerite, you fill me with a terrible anxiety. Marguerite,
for seven years you have reigned a queen over
society; your hand has been sought by the most distinguished
men of the country; you are as full of tenderness
and enthusiasm as a harp is of music; it seems
incredible that you have never married or betrothed
yourself, or even loved, or fancied that you loved! Tell
me, Marguerite, in the name of Heaven, tell me, have
any of these events occurred to you?” He waited for
an answer.</p>

<p>She remained silent, while a frightful pallor overspread
her face.</p>

<p>“Tell me! Oh! tell me, Marguerite, have you ever
before loved? Ah, pardon the question and answer it.”</p>

<p>She made a supreme effort, recovered her self-possession
and replied:</p>

<p>“No, not as you understand it.”</p>

<p>“How?—not as I understand it? Ah! forgive me
again, but your words increase my suffering.”</p>

<p>“Oh! I have loved Nellie as a sister, her father and
mother as parents, some acquaintances as friends, that
is all.”</p>

<p>She was answering these close questions! she was
yielding to the fascination. Amid all her agony of conflicting
emotions she was yielding.</p>

<p>“Marguerite! Marguerite! And this is true! You
have never loved before!”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[55]</span></p>

<p>“It is true—yet what of that? for I know not even
why I admit this! Oh! leave me, I am not myself.
Hope nothing from what I have told you. I can never,
never be your wife!” exclaimed Marguerite, with the
half-suppressed and wild affright of one yielding to a
terrible spell.</p>

<p>“But one word more. Is your hand free also, dearest
Marguerite?”</p>

<p>“Yes, it is free; but what then? I have told you——”</p>

<p>“Then it is free no longer; for by the splendor of the
heavens, it is mine. Marguerite, it is mine!” he exclaimed
as he caught and pressed that white hand in his
own.</p>

<p>Marguerite De Lancie’s previsions had been prophetic.
She had foreseen that an interview would be fatal
to her resolution, and it proved fatal. Philip Helmstedt
urged his suit with all the eloquence of passionate
love, seconded by the dangerous advocate in Marguerite’s
heart, and he won it; and in an hour after, the pair
that had met so inauspiciously, parted as betrothed
lovers. Mr. Helmstedt went away in deep joy, and
with a sense of triumph only held in check by his habitual
dignity and self-control. And Marguerite remained
in that scene of the betrothal, looking, not like a loving
and happy affianced bride, but rather like a demented
woman, with pale face and wild, affrighted eyes, strained
upward as for help, and cold hands wrung together as in
an appeal, and exclaiming under her breath:</p>

<p>“What have I done! Lord forgive me! Oh, Lord
have pity on me!” And yet Marguerite De Lancie
loved her betrothed with all her fiery soul. That love in
a little while brought her some comfort in her strange
distress.</p>

<p>“What’s done is done,” she said, in the tone of one
who would nerve her soul to some endurance, and then
she went to her room, smoothed her hair, dressed for
the afternoon, and through all the remainder of the
day moved about, the same brilliant, sparkling Marguerite
as before.</p>

<p>In the evening the accepted suitor presented himself.
And though he only mingled as before, in the train of
Miss De Lancie, and acted in all respects with the greatest<span class="pagenum">[56]</span>
discretion, yet those particularly interested could
read the subdued joy of his soul, and draw the proper
inference.</p>

<p>That night, when Marguerite retired to her chamber,
Nellie followed her, and casting herself at once into an
armchair, she broke the subject by suddenly exclaiming:
“Marguerite, I do believe you have been encouraging
Ironsides!”</p>

<p>“Why do you think so—if I understand what you
mean?”</p>

<p>“Oh, from his looks! He looks as bright as a candle
in a dark lantern, and as happy as if he had just slain
his enemy. I do fear you have given him hopes, Marguerite.”</p>

<p>“And why fear it?”</p>

<p>“Oh, because, Marguerite, dear, I don’t want you to
have him!” said Nellie, with a show of great tenderness.</p>

<p>“Nonsense!”</p>

<p>“I do not believe you will, you see, but still I fear.
Oh, Marguerite, he may be high-toned, magnanimous,
and all that, but he is not tender, not gentle, not loving!”</p>

<p>“In a word—not a good nurse.”</p>

<p>“No.”</p>

<p>“Good! I do not want a nurse!”</p>

<p>“Ah! Marguerite, I am afraid of Philip Helmstedt.
If you only knew how he treated his sister.”</p>

<p>“His sister! I did not even know he had one.”</p>

<p>“I dare say not; but he has. She is in the madhouse.”</p>

<p>“In the madhouse!”</p>

<p>“Yes; I’ll tell you all about it. It was before he went
away the last time. His sister Agnes was then eighteen;
they lived together. She was engaged to poor
Hertford, the son of the notorious defaulter, who was
no defaulter when that engagement was made. Agnes
and Hertford were within a few days of their marriage
when the father’s embezzlements were discovered.
Now poor young Hertford was not in the least implicated,
yet as soon as his father’s disgrace was made
manifest, Philip Helmstedt, as the guardian of his sister,
broke off the marriage.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[57]</span></p>

<p>“He could have done no otherwise,” said Marguerite.</p>

<p>“In spite of her pledged word? In spite of her
prayers and tears, and distracted grief?”</p>

<p>“He could have done no otherwise,” repeated Marguerite,
though her face grew very pale.</p>

<p>“That was not all. The lovers met, arranged a flight,
and were about to escape, when Philip Helmstedt discovered
them. He insulted the young man, struck him
with his riding whip across the face, and bore his fainting
sister home. The next day the two men met in a duel.”</p>

<p>“They could have done no otherwise. It was the
bloody code of honor!” reiterated Marguerite, yet her
very lips were white, as she leaned forward against the
top of Nellie’s chair.</p>

<p>“Hertford lost his right arm, and Agnes lost—her
reason!”</p>

<p>“My God!”</p>

<p>“Yes; ‘a plague o’ honor,’ I say.”</p>

<p>“Dear Nellie, leave me now; my head aches, and I am
tired.”</p>

<p>Nellie, accustomed to such abrupt dismissions, kissed
her friend and retired.</p>

<p>“Honor, honor, honor,” repeated Marguerite, when left
alone. “Oh, Moloch of civilization, when will you be
surfeited?”</p>

<p>The next morning Philip Helmstedt called, sent up his
card to Miss De Lancie, and was not denied her presence.</p>

<p>“Show the gentleman into the music-room, and say
that I will see him there, John,” was the direction given
by Miss De Lancie, who soon descended thither.</p>

<p>Mr. Helmstedt arose to meet her, and wondered at her
pale, worn look.</p>

<p>“I hope you are in good health this morning, dear
Marguerite,” he said, offering to salute her. But she
waved him off, saying:</p>

<p>“No! I am ill! And I come to you, this morning,
Philip Helmstedt, to implore you to restore the promise
wrenched from me yesterday,” she said, and sunk, pallid
and exhausted, upon the nearest chair.</p>

<p>A start and an attitude of astounded amazement was
his only reply. A pause of a moment ensued, and Marguerite
repeated:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[58]</span></p>

<p>“Will you be so generous as to give me back my
plighted faith, Philip Helmstedt?”</p>

<p>“Marguerite! has nature balanced her glorious gift to
you with a measure of insanity?” he inquired, at length,
but without abatement of his astonishment.</p>

<p>“I sometimes think so. I do mad things occasionally.
And the maddest thing I ever did, save one, was to give
you that pledge yesterday.”</p>

<p>“Thank you, fairest lady.”</p>

<p>“And I ask you now to give it back to me.”</p>

<p>“For what reason?”</p>

<p>“I can give you none!”</p>

<p>“No reason for your strange request?”</p>

<p>“None!”</p>

<p>“Then I assure you, my dearest Marguerite, that I am
not mad.”</p>

<p>“Indeed, you are upon one subject, if you did but know
it. Once more, will you enfranchise my hand?”</p>

<p>“Do I look as if I would, lady of mine?”</p>

<p>“No! no! you do not! You never will! very well! be
the consequences on your own head.”</p>

<p>“Amen. I pray for no better.”</p>

<p>“Heaven pity me!”</p>

<p>“My dearest, most capricious love! I do not know the
motive of your strangest conduct; it may be that you
only try the strength of my affection—try it, Marguerite!
you will find it bear the test—but I do know, that if I
doubted the truth of yours, I should disengage your hand
at once.”</p>

<p>There followed words of passionate entreaty on her
part, met by earnest deprecation and unshaken firmness
on his; but the spell was over her, and the scene ended
as it had done the day previous; Philip was the victor,
and the engagement was riveted, if possible, more firmly
than before. Again Philip departed rejoicing; Marguerite,
almost raving.</p>

<p>Yet Marguerite loved no less strongly and truly than
did Philip.</p>

<p>Later in that forenoon, before going out, Nellie went
into Marguerite’s chamber, where she found her friend
extended on her bed, so still and pale that she drew near<span class="pagenum">[59]</span>
in alarm and laid her hand upon her brow; it was beaded
with a cold sweat.</p>

<p>“Marguerite! Marguerite! what is the matter? You
are really ill.”</p>

<p>“I am blue,” said Marguerite.</p>

<p>“Blue! that you are literally—hands and face, too.”</p>

<p>“Yes, I have got an ague,” said Marguerite, shuddering,
“but I will not be coddled! There.”</p>

<p>In vain, Nellie, with a great show of solicitude, urged
her services. Marguerite would receive none of them,
and ended, as usual, by ordering Nellie out of the room.</p>

<p>In a few days the engagement between Mr. Helmstedt
and Miss De Lancie was made known to the intimate
friends of the parties. The marriage was appointed to
take place early in the ensuing winter. Then the Richmond
party dispersed—Colonel and Mrs. Houston went
down to their plantation in Northumberland County;
Philip Helmstedt proceeded to his island estates on the
coast, to prepare his long-deserted home for the reception
of his bride. And, lastly, Marguerite, after a hurried
visit of inspection to Plover’s Point, went “gypsying,” as
she called it, for the whole summer and autumn. Upon
this occasion, her mysterious absence was longer than
usual. And when at last she rejoined her friends, her
beautiful face betrayed the ravages of some strange, deep
bitter sorrow.</p>

<p>Upon the following Christmas, once more, and for the
last time, a merry party was assembled at Compton Hall.
Among the guests were Nellie and her husband, on a visit
to their parents. Marguerite De Lancie and Philip were
also present. And there, under the auspices of Colonel
and Mrs. Compton, they were united in marriage. By
Marguerite’s expressed will, the wedding was very quiet,
and almost private. And immediately afterward the
Christmas party broke up.</p>

<p>And Philip Helmstedt, instead of accompanying the
Comptons and Houstons to Richmond, or starting upon a
bridal tour, took his idolized wife to himself alone, and
conveyed her to his bleak and lonely sea-girt home, where
the wild waters lashed the shores both day and night, and
the roar of the waves was ever heard.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum">[60]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.
<br /><span class="cheaderfont">THE EXCESS OF GLORY OBSCURED.</span></h2>
</div>


<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“Muse, Grace, and Woman—in herself</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">All moods of mind contrasting—</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">The tenderest wail of human woe,</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">The scorn like lightning blasting;</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">Mirth sparkling like a diamond shower</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">From lips of lifelong sadness,</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">Clear picturings of majestic thought</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">Upon a ground of madness;</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">And over all romance and song</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">A magic lustre throwing,</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">And laureled Celie at her side</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">Her storied pages showing.”</div>
    <div class="verse indent6">—<span class="smcap">Varied From Whittier.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>How the wind raves, this bitter night, around that
bleak, sea-girt, snow-covered island! how the waters roar
as they break upon the beach! Not a star is out. Above,
black, scudding clouds sail, like ships, across the dark
ocean of ether—below, ships fly, like clouds, before the
wind, across the troubled waters; thus sky and ocean
seem to mingle in the fierce chaos of night and storm.</p>

<p>But that massive old stone mansion fronting the sea,
and looking so like a fortification on the island, recks
little of the storm that howls around it—a square, black
block against the sky—a denser, more defined shadow
in the midst of shadows, it looks, scarcely relieved by the
tall, stately, Lombardy poplars that wave before the
blast around it—a steady light, from a lower window
the center of the front, streams in a line far out
across garden, field, and beach, to the sea. Ay!
little recks the strong house, built to brave just such
weather, and little recks the beautiful woman, safely
sheltered in the warmest, most luxurious room, of the
wild wind and waves that rage so near its thick walls.</p>

<p>Let us leave the storm without and enter that nook.
Look! this room had been furnished with direct regard
to Marguerite’s comfort, and though showing nothing
like the splendor of modern parlors, it was comfortable
and luxurious, as comfort and luxury were understood
at that time and place; a costly French historic paper,<span class="pagenum">[61]</span>
representing the story of the Argonaunt sailors, adorned
the walls; a rich, deep-wooded, square Turkey carpet
covered the floor to within a foot of the chair-boards;
heavy, dark crimson damask curtains, upheld by a gilded
oar, fell in voluminous folds from the one deep bay window
in front of the room; high-backed, richly-carved
and crimson cushioned chairs were ranged against the
walls; a curiously wrought cabinet stood in the recess on
the right of the tall mantelpiece, and a grand piano in
that on the left; oddly shaped and highly polished mahogany
or black walnut stands and tables stood in corners
or at side walls under hanging mirrors and old
paintings; a fine sea view hung above the mantelpiece,
and a pair of bronze candelabras, in the shape of anchors,
adorned each end; choice books, vases, statuettes and
bijouterie were scattered about; but the charm of the
room was the crimson-curtained bay window, with its
semi-circular sofa, and the beautiful harp and the music-stand
that was a full-sized statue of St. Cecelia holding a
scroll, which served as a rest for the paper. This recess
had been fitted up by Philip Helmstedt in fond memory
of the draperied bay window in the music-room at Colonel
Compton’s town house, where he had first breathed
his love to Marguerite’s ear.</p>

<p>The bridal pair, whose honeymoon in three months
had not waned, were sitting on a short sofa, drawn up on
the right of the fire. They were a very handsome
couple and formed a fine picture as they sat—Philip,
with his grandly-proportioned and graceful form, perfect
Roman profile, stately head and short, curled, black
hair and beard and high-bred air—Marguerite, in her
superb beauty, which neither negligence nor overdress
could mar—Marguerite sometimes so disdainful of the
aid of ornament, was very simply clothed in a plain robe
of fine, soft, crimson cloth, about the close bodice of
which dropped here and there a stray ringlet from the
rich mass of her slightly disheveled, but most beautiful
hair. Her warm, inspiring face was glowing with life,
and her deep, dark eyes were full of light. Some little
graceful trifle of embroidery gave her slender, tapering
fingers a fair excuse to move, while she listened to the
voice of Philip reading “Childe Harold.” But after all<span class="pagenum">[62]</span>
there was little sewing and little reading done. Marguerite’s
soul-lit eyes were oftener raised to Philip’s face than
lowered over her work; and Philip better loved the
poetry in Marguerite’s smile than the beauty of the canto
before him. They had, in the very lavish redundance of
life and consciousness of mutual self-sufficiency, left the
gay and multitudinous city to retire to this secluded spot,
this outpost of the continent, to be for a while all in all
to each other; and three months of total isolation from
the world had passed, and as yet they had not begun to
be weary of each other’s exclusive society. In truth,
with their richly-endowed natures and boundless mutual
resources, they could not soon exhaust the novelty of
their wedded bliss. No lightest, softest cloud had as yet
passed over the face of their honeymoon. If Mr. Helmstedt’s
despotic character occasionally betrayed itself,
even toward his queenly bride, Marguerite, in her profound,
self-abnegating, devoted love, with almost a
saintly enthusiasm, quickly availed herself of the opportunity
to prove how much deep joy is felt in silently,
quietly, even secretly, laying our will at the feet of one
we most delight to honor. And if Marguerite’s beautiful
face sometimes darkened with a strange gloom and
terror, it was always in the few hours of Mr. Helmstedt’s
absence, and thus might easily be explained; for be it
known to the reader that there was no way of communication
between their island and the outside world except
by boats, and the waters this windy season were always
rough. If Mr. Helmstedt sometimes reflected upon the
scenes of their stormy courtship, and wondered at the
strange conduct of his beloved, he was half inclined to
ascribe it all to a sort of melodramatic coquetry or
caprice, or perhaps fanaticism in regard to the foolish
pledge of celibacy once made between Miss De Lancie
and Miss Compton, of which he had heard; it is true he
thought that Marguerite was not a woman to act from
either of these motives, but he was too happy in the possession
of his bride to consider the matter deeply now,
and it could be laid aside for future reference. Marguerite
never reviewed the subject. Their life was now as
profoundly still as it was deeply satisfied. They had no
neighbors and no company whatever. “Buzzard’s Bluff,”<span class="pagenum">[63]</span>
Colonel Houston’s place, was situated about five miles
from them, up the Northumberland coast, but the colonel
and his family were on a visit to the Comptons, in
Richmond, and were not expected home for a month to
come. Thus their days were very quiet.</p>

<p>How did they occupy their time? In reading, in writing,
in music, in walking, riding, sailing, and, most of all,
in endless conversations that permeated all other employments.
Their island of three hundred acres scarcely afforded
space enough for the long rides and drives they
liked to take together; but on such few halcyon days as
sometimes bless our winters, they would cross with their
horses by the ferryboat to the Northumberland coast,
and spend a day or half a day exploring the forest; sometimes,
while the birding season lasted, a mounted groom;
with fowling pieces and ammunition, would be ordered
to attend, and upon these occasions a gay emulation as
to which should bag the most game would engage their
minds; at other times, alone and unattended, they rode
long miles into the interior of the country, or down the
coast to Buzzard’s Bluff, to take a look at Nellie’s home,
or up the coast some twenty miles to spend a night at
Marguerite’s maiden home, Plover’s Point. From the
latter place Marguerite had brought her old nurse, Aunt
Hapzibah, whom she promoted to the post of housekeeper
at the island, and the daughter of the latter, Hildreth,
who had long been her confidential maid, and the
son, Forrest, whom she retained as her own especial
messenger. And frequently when</p>

<p class="center">
“The air was still and the water still,”<br />
</p>

<p>or nearly so, the wedded pair would enter a rowboat and
let it drift down the current, or guide it in and out among
the scattering clusters of inlets that diversified the coast,
where Mr. Helmstedt took a deep interest in pointing out
to Marguerite vestiges of the former occupancy or visitings
of those fierce buccaneers of the bay isles, that made
so hideous the days and nights of the early settlers of
Maryland, and from whom scandal said Philip Helmstedt
himself had descended. Returning from these expeditions,
they would pass the long, winter evenings as they
were passing this one when I present them again to the<span class="pagenum">[64]</span>
reader, that is, in reading, work, or its semblance, conversation
and music, when Marguerite would awaken the
sleeping spirit of her harp to accompany her own rich,
deep and soul-thrilling voice, in some sacred aria of
Handel, or love song of Mozart, or simple, touching
ballad of our own mother tongue. But Marguerite’s improvisations
were over. Upon this evening in question,
Philip Helmstedt threw aside his book, and after gazing
long and earnestly at his bride, as though he would absorb
into his being the whole beautiful creature at his side, he
said:</p>

<p>“Take your guitar, dear Marguerite, and give me some
music—invest yourself in music, it is your natural atmosphere,”
and rising, he went to a table and brought
thence the instrument, a rare and priceless one, imported
from Spain, and laid it upon Marguerite’s lap. She received
it smilingly, and after tuning its chords, commenced
and sung, in the original, one of Camoens’ exquisite
Portuguese romaunts. He thanked her with a
warm caress when she had finished, and, taking the guitar
from her hand, said:</p>

<p>“You never improvise now, my Corinne! You never
have done so since our union. Has inspiration fled?”</p>

<p>“I do not know—my gift of song was always an involuntary
power—coming suddenly, vanishing unexpectedly.
No, I never improvise now—the reason is, I
think, that the soul never can set strongly in but one direction
at a time.”</p>

<p>“And that direction?”</p>

<p>She turned to him with a glance and a smile that fully
answered his question.</p>

<p>“I am too happy to improvise, Philip,” she said, dropping
her beautiful head on his bosom, as he passed his
arm around her, bent down and buried his face on the
rich and fragrant tresses of her hair.</p>

<p>I present them to you in their wedded joy this evening,
because it was the very last happy evening of their united
lives. Even then a step was fast approaching, destined
to bring discord, doubt, suspicion, and all the wretched
catalogue of misery that follow in their train. While
Marguerite’s head still rested lovingly on Philip’s bosom,
and his fingers still threaded the lustrous black ringlets of<span class="pagenum">[65]</span>
her hair, while gazing down delightedly upon her perfect
face, a sound was heard through the wind, that peculiar,
heavy, swashing sound of a ferryboat striking the
beach, followed by a quick, crunching step, breaking into
the crusted snow and through the brushwood toward the
house.</p>

<p>“It is my messenger from the post office—now for
news of Nellie!” said Marguerite.</p>

<p>Philip looked slightly vexed.</p>

<p>“‘Nellie!’—how you love Mrs. Houston, Marguerite!
I do not understand such intimate female friendships.”</p>

<p>“Doubtless you don’t! It is owing to the slight circumstance
of your being a man,” said Marguerite, gayly,
compensating for her light words by the passionate kiss
she left on his brow as she went from his side to meet the
messenger—ah! the ill-omened messenger that had entered
the house and was hastening toward the parlor.</p>

<p>“Any letters, Forrest?” she eagerly inquired, as the
boy came in.</p>

<p>“Only one, madam, for you,” replied the man, delivering
the missive.</p>

<p>“From Nellie, I judge!” she exclaimed, confidently, as
she took it; but on seeing the postmark and superscription,
she suddenly caught her breath, suppressing a sharp
cry, and sank upon a chair.</p>

<p>Mr. Helmstedt, who had just turned and walked to the
window to look out upon the wild weather, did not see
this agitation.</p>

<p>Marguerite broke the seal and read; fear, grief and
cruel remorse storming in her darkened and convulsed
countenance.</p>

<p>Philip Helmstedt, having satisfied himself that the
wind was increasing in force, and that vessels would be
lost before morning, now turned and walked toward his
wife.</p>

<p>She heard his step, oh! what a supreme effort of the
soul was that—an effort in which years of life are lost—with
which she commanded her grief and terror to retire,
her heart to be still, her face to be calm, her tones to be
steady, and her whole aspect to be cheerful and disengaged
as her husband joined her.</p>

<p>“Your letter was not from Mrs. Houston, love? I am<span class="pagenum">[66]</span>
almost sorry—that is, I am sorry for your disappointment
as a man half jealous of ‘Nellie’s’ share in your
heart can be,” he said.</p>

<p>Marguerite smiled archly at this badinage, but did not
otherwise reply.</p>

<p>“Well, then, if not from Nellie, I hope you heard good
news from some other dear friend.”</p>

<p>“As if I had scores of other dear friends!—but be at
ease, thou jealous Spaniard, for Nellie is almost your only
rival.”</p>

<p>“I would not have even one,” replied Mr. Helmstedt;
but his eyes were fixed while he spoke upon the letter,
held lightly, carelessly in Marguerite’s hand, and that interested
him as everything connected with her always
did; and yet concerning which, that chivalrous regard to
courtesy that ever distinguished him, except in moments
of ungovernable passion, restrained him from inquiring.</p>

<p>Marguerite saw this, and, lightly wringing the paper
in her fingers, said:</p>

<p>“It is from an acquaintance—I have so many—perhaps
it would amuse you to look it over.”</p>

<p>“Thank you, dear Marguerite,” replied Mr. Helmstedt,
extending his hand to take it.</p>

<p>She had not expected this—she had offered believing
he would decline it, as he certainly would have done had
he been less deeply interested in all that concerned her.</p>

<p>“By the way, no! I fear I ought not to let you see it,
Philip! It is from an acquaintance who has made me
the depository of her confidence—I must not abuse it even
to you. You would not ask it, Philip?”</p>

<p>“Assuredly not, except, inasmuch as I wish to share
every thought and feeling of yours, my beloved! Do you
know that this desire makes me jealous even of your
silence and your reveries? And I would enter even into
them! Nothing less would content me.”</p>

<p>“Then be contented, Philip, for you are the soul of all
my reveries; you fill my heart, as I am sure I do yours.”
Then casting the letter into the fire, lightly, as a thing of
no account, she went and took up her guitar and began
strumming its strings and humming another Portuguese
song; then, laying that aside again, she rang the bell and
ordered tea.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[67]</span></p>

<p>“We will have it served here, Philip,” she said; “it is
so bleak in the dining-room.”</p>

<p>Forrest, who had meanwhile doffed his overcoat and
warmed himself, answered the summons and received the
necessary directions. He drew out a table, then went
and presently returned with Hildreth, bringing the service
of delicate white china, thin and transparent as the finest
shells, and richly-chased silver, more costly from its rare
workmanship than for its precious metal; and then the
light bread and tea cakes, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">chef-d’œuvres</i> of Aunt Hapsy’s
culinary skill; and the rich, West India sweetmeats with
which Philip, for want of a housekeeper to prepare
domestic ones before Marguerite’s arrival, had stocked
the closets. When the “hissing urn” was placed upon the
table, Forrest and Hildreth retired, leaving their mistress
and master alone; for Mr. Helmstedt loved with Marguerite
to linger over his elegant and luxurious little tea
table, toasting, idling, and conversing at ease with her,
free from the presence of others. And seldom had Marguerite
been more beautiful, brilliant, witty, and fascinating
than upon this evening, when she had but him to
please; and his occasional ringing laughter testified her
happy power to move to healthful mirth even that grave,
saturnine nature.</p>

<p>An hour of trifling with the delicate viands on the table,
amid jest and low-toned silvery laughter, and then the
bell was rung and the service removed.</p>

<p>“And now—the spirit comes, and I will give you a
song—an improvisation! Quick, give me the guitar—for
I must seize the fancy as it flies—for it is fading even
now like a vanishing sail on the horizon.”</p>

<p>“The guitar? The harp is your instrument of improvisation.”</p>

<p>“No! the guitar; I know what I am saying,” and, receiving
it from the hands of her husband, she sat down,
and while an arch smile hovered under the black fringes
of her half-closed eyelids, and about the corners of her
slightly parted lips, she began strumming a queer prelude,
and then, like a demented minstrel, struck up one of the
oddest inventions in the shape of a ballad that was ever
sung out of Bedlam.</p>

<p>Philip listened with undisguised astonishment and irrepressible<span class="pagenum">[68]</span>
mirth, which presently broke bounds in a ringing
peal of laughter. Marguerite paused and waited until
his cachinnations should be over, with a gravity that almost
provoked him to a fresh peal, but he restrained himself,
as he wished the ballad to go on, and Marguerite recommenced
and continued uninterrupted through about
twenty stanzas, each more extravagant than the other,
until the last one set Philip off again in a convulsion of
laughter.</p>

<p>“Thalia,” he said; “Thalia as well as Melpomene.”</p>

<p>“This is the very first comic piece I have ever attempted—the
first time that the laughing muse has visited
me,” said Marguerite, laying down her guitar, and approaching
the side of her husband.</p>

<p>“And I alone have heard it! So I would have it, Marguerite.
I almost detest that any other should enjoy your
gifts and accomplishments.”</p>

<p>“Egotist!” she exclaimed, but with the fond, worshiping
tone and manner, wherewith she might have said,
“Idol!”</p>

<p>“So you like my music, Philip?”</p>

<p>“How can you ask, my love? Your music delights me,
as all you ever say and do always must.”</p>

<p>“I have heard that ever when the lute and voice of an
<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">improvvisatrice</i> has chained her master, she has the dear
privilege of asking a boon that he may not deny her,”
said Marguerite, in the same light, jesting tone, under
which it was impossible to detect a substratum of deep,
terrible earnestness.</p>

<p>“How? What do you say, my love?”</p>

<p>“My voice and stringed instrument have pleased my
master, and I would crave of him a boon.”</p>

<p>“Dearest love! do not use such a phrase, even in the
wantonness of your sport.”</p>

<p>“What is, then, Mr. Helmstedt but Marguerite’s master?”</p>

<p>“Her own faithful lover, husband, servant, all in one;
and my lady knows she has but to speak and her will is
law,” said Philip, gallantly.</p>

<p>“Away with such tinsel flattery. In ‘grand gravity,’
as my dear father used to say, I am no longer my own,
but yours—I cannot come or go, change my residence,<span class="pagenum">[69]</span>
sell or purchase property, make a contract or prosecute
an offender, or do anything else that a free woman would
do, without your sanction. You are my master—my
owner.”</p>

<p>Was this possible? her master? the master of this proud
and gifted woman, who ever before had looked and
stepped, and spoken like a sovereign queen? Yes, it is
true; he knew it before, but now from her own glowing
lips it came, bringing a new, strong, thrilling, and most
delicious sense of possession and realization, and his eye
traveled delightedly over the enchanting face and form
of his beautiful wife, as his heart repeated, “She speaks
but truth—she, with all her wondrous dower of beauty
and genius and learning is solely mine—my own, own!
I wish the prerogative were even greater. I would have
the power of life and death over this glorious creature,
that were I about myself to die, I could slay her lest another
should ever possess her;” but his lips spoke otherwise.</p>

<p>“Dear love,” he said, drawing her up to him, “we all
know that the one-sided statute, a barbarous remnant of
the dark ages, invests a husband with certain very harsh
powers; but it is almost a dead letter. Who in this enlightened
age thinks of acting upon it? Never reproach
me with a bad law I had no hand in making, sweet love.”</p>

<p>“‘Reproach’ you, Philip!” she whispered, yielding herself
to his caress; “no! if the law were a hundredfold
stricter, investing you with power over your Marguerite
a hundredfold greater, she would not complain of it; for
it cannot give so much as her heart gives you ever and
ever! Should it clothe you with the power of life and
death over her, it would be no more than your power
now, for the sword could not kill more surely, Philip,
than your possible unkindness would. No! were the
statutes a thousand times more arbitrary, and your own
nature more despotic, they nor you could exact never so
much as my heart pours freely out to you, ever and ever.”</p>

<p>He answered only by folding her closer to his bosom,
and then said:</p>

<p>“But the boon, Marguerite; or rather the command,
my lady, what is it?”</p>

<p>“Philip,” she said, raising her head from his bosom,<span class="pagenum">[70]</span>
and fixing her eyes on his face, “Philip, I want—heavens!
how the storm raves!—do you hear it, Philip?”</p>

<p>“Yes, love, do not mind it; it cannot enter.”</p>

<p>“But the ships, the ships at sea.”</p>

<p>“Do not think of them, love; we cannot help them;
what is beyond remedy is beyond regret.”</p>

<p>“True, that is very true! what is beyond remedy is beyond
regret,” said Marguerite, meditatively.</p>

<p>“But the ‘boon,’ as you call it, the command, as I regard
it—what is it, Marguerite?”</p>

<p>“Philip, I am about to ask from you a great proof of
your confidence in me,” she said, fixing her eyes earnestly,
pleadingly upon his face.</p>

<p>“A proof of my confidence in you, Marguerite?” he
repeated, slowly, and then, after a thoughtful pause, he
added, “Does it need proof then? Marguerite, I know
not how much the humbling sense of dishonor would
crush me, could I cease for one single hour to confide in
you—in you, the sacred depository of my family honor,
and all my best and purest interests—you, whom it were
desecration, in any respect, to doubt. Lady, for the love
of heaven, consult your own dignity and mine before demanding
a proof of that which should be above proof
and immeasurably beyond the possibility of question.”</p>

<p>“You take this matter very seriously, Philip,” said Marguerite,
with a troubled brow.</p>

<p>“Because it is a very serious matter, love—but the
boon; what is it, lady? I am almost ready to promise
beforehand that it is granted, though I might suffer the
fate of Ninus for my rashness. Come, the boon, name
it! only for heaven’s sake ask it not as proof of confidence.”</p>

<p>“And yet it must necessarily be such, nor can you
help it, my lord,” said Marguerite, smiling with assumed
gayety.</p>

<p>“Well, well! let’s hear and judge of that.”</p>

<p>Marguerite still hesitated, then she spoke to the point.</p>

<p>“I beg you will permit me to leave you for a month.”</p>

<p>“To leave me for a month!” exclaimed Philip Helmstedt,
astonishment, vexation, and wonder struggling in
his face, “that is asking a boon with a bitter vengeance.<span class="pagenum">[71]</span>
In the name of heaven where do you wish to go? To
your friend Nellie, perchance?”</p>

<p>“I wish to go away unquestioned, unattended and unfollowed.”</p>

<p>“But, Marguerite,” he stammered, “but this is the
maddest proposition.”</p>

<p>“For one month—only for one month, Philip, of unfettered
action and unquestioned motives. I wish the
door of my delightsome cage opened, that I may fly
abroad and feel myself once more a free agent in God’s
boundless creation. One month of irresponsible liberty,
and then I render myself back to my sweet bondage and
my dear master. I love both too well, too well, to remain
away long,” said Marguerite, caressing him with a
fascinating blending of passion with playfulness, that at
another time must have wiled the will from his heart,
and the heart from his bosom. Now, to this proposition,
he was adamant.</p>

<p>“And when do you propose to start?” he asked.</p>

<p>“To-morrow, if you will permit me.”</p>

<p>“Had you not better defer it a week, or ten days—until
the first of April, for instance: all-fools’-day would be a
‘marvellous proper’ one for you to go, and me to speed
you on such an expedition.”</p>

<p>Marguerite laughed strangely.</p>

<p>“Will you allow me to ask you one question, my love?
Where do you wish to go?”</p>

<p>“Gipsying.”</p>

<p>“Gipsying?”</p>

<p>“‘Aye, my good lord.’”</p>

<p>“Oh, yes; I remember! Marguerite, let me tell you
seriously that I cannot consent to your wish.”</p>

<p>“You do not mean to say that you refuse to let me
go?” exclaimed Marguerite, all her assumed lightness
vanishing in fear.</p>

<p>“Let us understand each other. You desire my consent
that you shall leave home for one month, without
explaining whither or wherefore you go?”</p>

<p>“Yes.”</p>

<p>“Then most assuredly I cannot sanction any thing of
the sort.”</p>

<p>“Philip, I implore you.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[72]</span></p>

<p>“Marguerite, you reduce me to the alternative of
doubting your sincerity or your sanity!”</p>

<p>“Philip, I am sane, and I am deeply in earnest! Ah!
Philip, by our love, I do entreat you grant me this boon—to
leave your house for a month’s absence, unquestioned
by you! Extend the aegis of your sanction over
my absence that none other may dare to question it.”</p>

<p>“Assuredly none shall dare to question the conduct of
Mrs. Helmstedt, because I shall take care that her acts
are above criticism. As to my sanction of your absence,
Marguerite, you have had my answer,” said Mr. Helmstedt,
walking away in severe displeasure and throwing
himself into a chair.</p>

<p>There was silence in the room for a few minutes, during
which the howling of the storm without rose fearfully
on the ear. Then Marguerite, the proud and beautiful,
went and sank down at his feet, clasped his knees
and bowed her stately head upon them, crying:</p>

<p>“Philip, I pray you, look at me here!”</p>

<p>“Mrs. Helmstedt, for your own dignity, leave this attitude,”
he said, taking her hands and trying to force her
to rise.</p>

<p>“No, no, no, not until you listen to me, Philip! Oh,
Philip, look down and see who it is that kneels here!
petitioning for a span of freedom. One who three short
months ago was mistress of much land and many slaves,
‘queen o’er herself,’ could go unchecked and come unquestioned,
was accustomed to granting, not to asking
boons, until her marriage.”</p>

<p>“Do you regret the sacrifice?”</p>

<p>“Regret it! How can you ask the question? If my
possessions and privileges had been multiplied a thousand
fold, they should have been, as I am now, all your
own, to do your will with! No! I only referred to it to
move you to generosity!”</p>

<p>“Marguerite! I cannot tolerate to see you in that attitude
one instant longer,” said Mr. Helmstedt, taking
her hands and forcing her to rise and sit by his side,
“Now let us talk reasonably about this matter. Tell me,
your husband, who has the right to know, why and
where you wish to go, and I promise you that you shall
go unquestioned and unblamed of all.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[73]</span></p>

<p>“Oh, God, if I might!” escaped the lips of Marguerite,
but she speedily controlled herself and said, “Philip, if
you had secret business that concerned others, and that
peremptorily called you from home to attend to it, would
you not feel justified in leaving without even satisfying
your wife’s curiosity as to why and where you went, if
you could not do it without disclosing to her the affairs
of others!”</p>

<p>“No—decidedly no! from my wife I have no secrets.
I, who trusted her with my peace and honor, trust her
also with all lesser matters; and to leave home for a
month’s absence without informing her whither and
wherefore I should go—Why, Marguerite, I hope you
never really deemed me capable of offering you such an
offence.”</p>

<p>“Oh, God!—and yet you could do so, unquestioned
and unblamed, as many men do!”</p>

<p>“I could, but would not.”</p>

<p>“While I—would but cannot. Well, that is the difference
between us.”</p>

<p>“Certainly, Marguerite, there is a difference between
what would be fitting to—a profane man to a sacred
woman—there is a ‘divinity that hedges’ the latter,
through which she cannot break but to lose her glory.”</p>

<p>“But in my girlhood I had unmeasured, irresponsible
liberty. None dared to cavil at my actions.”</p>

<p>“Perhaps so, for maidens are all Dianas. Besides, she
who went ‘gypsying,’ year after year, could compromise
only herself; now her eccentricities, charming as they
are, might involve the honor of a most honorable family.”</p>

<p>“Descendants of a pirate at best,” said Marguerite’s
memory; but her heart rejected the change of her mind,
and replied instead, “My husband, my dear, dear husband,
my lord, idolized even now in his implacability;”
her lips spoke nothing.</p>

<p>“Much was permissible and even graceful in Miss De
Lancie, that could not be tolerated in Mrs. Helmstedt,”
continued Philip.</p>

<p>“A great accession of dignity and importance certainly,”
sneered Marguerite’s sarcastic intellect. “Away!<span class="pagenum">[74]</span>
I am his wife! his loving wife,” replied her worshiping
heart; but her lips spoke not.</p>

<p>“You do not answer me, Marguerite.”</p>

<p>“I was listening, beloved.”</p>

<p>“And you see this subject as I do?”</p>

<p>“Certainly, certainly, and the way you put it leaves me
no hope but in your generosity. Ah, Philip, be more
generous than ever man was before. Ask me no questions,
but let me go forth upon my errand, and cover my
absence with the shield of your authority that none may
venture to cavil.”</p>

<p>“Confide in me and I will do it. I promise you, in
advance, not knowing of what nature that confidence
may be.”</p>

<p>“Oh, Heaven, if—I cannot. Alas! Philip, I cannot!”</p>

<p>“Why?”</p>

<p>“The affair concerns others.”</p>

<p>“There are no others whose interest and claims can
conflict with those of your husband.”</p>

<p>“I—have a—friend—in deadly peril—I would go to—the
assistance of my friend.”</p>

<p>“How confused—nay, great Heaven, how guilty you
look! Marguerite, who is that friend? Where is he, or
she? What is the nature of the peril? What connection
have you with her or him? Why must you go secretly?
Answer these questions before asking my consent.”</p>

<p>“Ah, if I dared! if I dared!” she exclaimed, thrown
partly off her guard by agitation, and looking, gazing
intently in his face; “but no, I cannot—oh! I cannot!—that
sarcastic incredulity, that fierce, blazing scorn—I
cannot dare it! Guilty? You even now said I looked,
Philip! I am not guilty! The Lord knoweth it well—not
guilty, but most unfortunate—most wretched!
Philip, your unhappy wife is an honorable woman!”</p>

<p>“She thinks it necessary, however, to assure me of
that which should be above question. Unhappy? Why
are you unhappy? Marguerite, how you torture me.”</p>

<p>“Philip, for the last time I pray you, I beseech you,
grant my wish. Do not deny me, Philip; do not! Life,
more than life, sanity hangs upon your answer! Philip,
will you sanction my going?”</p>

<p>“Most assuredly not, Marguerite.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[75]</span></p>

<p>“Oh, Heaven! how can you be so inflexible, Philip? I
asked for a month—a fortnight might do—Philip; let
me go for a fortnight!”</p>

<p>“No.”</p>

<p>“For a week then, Philip; for a week! Oh, I do implore
you—I, who never asked a favor before! Let me
go but for a week!”</p>

<p>“Not for a week—not for a day! under the circumstances
in which you wish to go,” said Mr. Helmstedt,
with stern inflexibility.</p>

<p>Again Marguerite threw herself at her husband’s feet,
clasping his knees, and lifting a deathly brow bedewed
with the sweat of a great agony, and eyes strained outward
in mortal prayer, she pleaded as a mother might
plead for a child’s life. In vain, for Mr. Helmstedt grew
obdurate in proportion to the earnestness of her prayers,
and at last arose and strode away, and stood with folded
arms at the window, looking out upon the stormy
weather, while she remained writhing on the spot where
late she had kneeled.</p>

<p>So passed half an hour, during which no sound was
heard but the fierce moaning, wailing, and howling of
the wind, and the detonating roar and thunder of the
waves as they broke upon the beach; during which Marguerite
remained upon the carpet, with her face buried
in the cushions of the sofa, writhing silently, or occasionally
uttering a low moan like one in great pain; and
Philip Helmstedt stood reflecting bitterly upon what had
just passed. To have seen that proud, beautiful and
gifted creature, that regal woman, one of nature’s and
society’s queens, “le Marguerite des Marguerites!” His
wife, so bowed down, crushed, humiliated, was a bitter
experience to a man of his haughty, scornful, sarcastic
nature; passionately as he had loved her, proud as he
had been to possess her, now that she was discrowned
and fallen, her value was greatly lessened in his estimation.
For not her glorious beauty had fascinated his
senses, or her wonderful genius had charmed his mind,
or her high social position tempted his ambition, so
much as her native queenliness had flattered the inordinate
pride of his character. He did not care to possess
a woman who was only beautiful, amiable or intellectual,<span class="pagenum">[76]</span>
or even all these combined; but to conquer and possess
this grand creature with the signet of royalty impressed
upon brow and breast—this was a triumph of which
Lucifer himself might have been proud. But now this
queen was discrowned, fallen, fallen into a miserable,
weeping, pleading woman, no longer worthy of his rule,
for it could bring no delight to his arrogant temper to
subjugate weakness and humility, but only strength and
pride equal to his own. And what was it that had suddenly
stricken Marguerite down from her pride of place
and cast her quivering at his feet? What was it that she
concealed from him? While vexing himself with these
thoughts, he heard through all the roar of the storm a
low, shuddering sigh, a muffled rustling of drapery and
a soft step, and turned to see that his wife had risen
to leave the room.</p>

<p>“One moment, if you please, Marguerite,” he said, approaching
her. She looked around, still so beautiful,
but oh! how changed within a few hours. Was this
Richmond’s magnificent Marguerite, queen of beauty
and of song, whom he had proudly carried off from all
competitors? She, looking so subdued, so pale, with a
pallor heightened by the contrast of the crimson dress
she wore, and the lustrous purplish hair that fell, uncurled
and waving in disheveled locks, down each side
her white cheeks and over her bosom.</p>

<p>“I wish to talk with you, if you please, Marguerite.”</p>

<p>She bent her head and silently gave him her hand, and
suffered him to lead her back toward the fire, where
he placed her on the sofa, and then, standing at the opposite
corner of the hearth, and resting his elbow on the
mantelpiece, he spoke.</p>

<p>“Marguerite, there is much that must be cleared up
before there can ever more be peace between us.”</p>

<p>“Question me; it is your right, Philip,” she said, in
a subdued tone, steadying her trembling frame in a
sitting posture on the sofa.</p>

<p>“Recline, Marguerite; repose yourself while we converse,”
he said, for deeply displeased as he was, it moved
his heart to see her sitting there so white and gaunt.</p>

<p>She took him at his word and sank down with her
elbow on the piled-up cushions, and her fingers run up<span class="pagenum">[77]</span>
through her lustrous tresses supporting her head, and
repeated.</p>

<p>“Question me, Philip, it is your right!”</p>

<p>“I must go far back. The scene of this evening has
awakened other recollections, not important by themselves,
but foreboding, threatening, in connection with
what has occurred to-night. I allude in the first place to
those yearly migrations of yours that so puzzled your
friends; will you now explain them to me?”</p>

<p>“Philip, ask to take the living, beating heart from my
bosom and you shall do it—but I cannot give you the
explanation you desire,” she answered, in a mournful
tone.</p>

<p>“You cannot!” he repeated, growing white and speaking
through his closed teeth.</p>

<p>“I cannot, alas! Philip, it concerns another.”</p>

<p>“Another! Man or woman?”</p>

<p>“Neith—oh, Heaven, Philip, I cannot tell you!”</p>

<p>“Very well,” he said, but there was that in his tone
and manner that made his simple exclamation more
alarming than the bitterest reproaches and threats could
have been.</p>

<p>“Philip! Philip! these things occurred before our engagement,
and you heard of them. Forgive me for reminding
you that you might have requested an explanation
of them, and if refused, you might have withdrawn.”</p>

<p>“No, Marguerite! I am amazed to hear you say so.
I had no right then to question your course of conduct;
it would have been an unpardonable insult to you to
have done so; moreover, I thoroughly confided in the
honor of a woman whom I found at the head of the best
society, respected, flattered, followed, courted, as you
were. I never could have foreseen that such a woman
would bring into our married life an embarrassing mystery,
which I beg her now to elucidate.”</p>

<p>“Yet it is a pity, oh! what a pity that you had not
asked this elucidation a year since!” exclaimed Marguerite,
in a voice of anguish.</p>

<p>“Why? Would you then have given it to me?”</p>

<p>“Alas! no, for my power to do so was no greater then
than now. But then, at least, on my refusal to confide<span class="pagenum">[78]</span>
this affair (that concerns others, Philip) to you, you
might have withdrawn from me—now, alas! it is too
late.”</p>

<p>“Perhaps not,” remarked Mr. Helmstedt, in a calm,
but significant tone.</p>

<p>“My God! what mean you, Philip?” exclaimed his
wife, starting up from her recumbent position.</p>

<p>“To question you farther—that is all for the present.”</p>

<p>She sank down again and covered her face with her
hands. He continued.</p>

<p>“Recall, Marguerite, the day of our betrothal. There
was a fierce anguish, a terrible conflict in your mind before
you consented to become my wife; that scene has
recurred to me again and again. Taken as a link in
this chain of inexplicable circumstances connected with
you, it becomes of serious importance. Will you explain
the cause of your distress upon the occasion referred
to?”</p>

<p>A groan was her only answer, while her head remained
buried in the cushions of the sofa.</p>

<p>“So! you will not even clear up that matter?”</p>

<p>“Not ‘will not,’ but cannot, Philip, cannot!”</p>

<p>“Very well,” he said, again, in a tone that entered her
heart like a sword, and made her start up once more and
gaze upon him, exclaiming:</p>

<p>“Oh, Philip, be merciful! I mean be just! Remember,
on the day to which you allude, I warned you,
warned you faithfully of much misery that might result
from our union; and even before that—oh! remember,
Philip, how sedulously I avoided you—how I persevered
in trying to keep off the—I had nearly said—catastrophe
of our engagement.”</p>

<p>“Say it then! nay, you have said it! add that I followed
and persecuted you with my suit until I wrested
from you a reluctant consent, and that I must now bear
the consequences!”</p>

<p>“No, no, no, I say not that, nor anything like it. No,
Philip, my beloved, my idolized, I am not charging you;
Heaven forbid! I am put upon my defense, you know,
and earnestly desire to be clear before my judge. Listen
then, Philip, to this much of a confession. When I first
met you I felt your influence over me. Take this to your<span class="pagenum">[79]</span>
heart, Philip, as a shield against doubt of me—you are
the first and last and only man I ever loved, if love be
the word for that all-pervading power that gives me over
body, soul and spirit to your possession. As I said when
I first met you, I felt your influence. Day by day this
spell increased, and I knew that you were my fate! Yet
I tried to battle it off, but even at the great distance I
kept I still felt your power growing, Philip, and I knew,
I knew that that power would be irresistible! I had resolved
never to marry, because, yes! I confess I had a
secret (concerning others, you know, Philip), that I
could not confide to any other, even to you; therefore
I fled your presence—therefore when you overtook and
confronted me I warned you faithfully, you know with
how little effect! heart and soul I was yours, Philip!
you knew it and took possession. And now we are
united, Philip, God be thanked, for with all the misery
it may bring me, Philip, I am still less wretched than I
should be apart from you. And such, I believe, is the
case with you. You are happier now, even with the
cloud between us, than you would be if severed from
me! Ah, Philip, is there any misfortune so great as
separation to those whose lives are bound up in each
other? Is not the cloudiest union more endurable than
dreary severance?”</p>

<p>“That depends, Marguerite!—there is another link in
this dark chain that I would have explained—the letter
you received this evening.”</p>

<p>“The letter—oh, God! have mercy on me,” she cried,
in a half smothered voice.</p>

<p>“Yes, the letter!” repeated Mr. Helmstedt, coolly,
with his eyes still fixed steadily upon her pallid countenance
that could scarcely bear his gaze.</p>

<p>“Oh! I told you—that it—was from an acquaintance—who—confided
to me some of her troubles—which—was
intended for no other eye but mine. Yes! that was
what I told you, Philip,” said Marguerite, confused, yet
struggling almost successfully for self-control.</p>

<p>“Yes, I know you did, and doubtless told me truly so
far as you spoke; but your manner was not truthful,
Marguerite. You affected to treat that letter lightly,
yet you took care to destroy it; you talked, jested,<span class="pagenum">[80]</span>
laughed with unprecedented gayety; your manner completely
deceived me, though as I look at it from my
present view it was a little overdone. You sang and
played, and became Thalia, Allegra, ‘for this night only,’
and when the point toward which all this acting tended,
came, and you made your desire known to me, you
affected to put it as a playful test of my confidence, a
caprice; but when you found your bagatelle treated seriously,
and your desire steadily and gravely refused,
Marguerite, your acting all was over. And now I demand
an explanation of your conduct, for, Marguerite,
deception will be henceforth fruitless forever!”</p>

<p>“Deception!”</p>

<p>“Yes, madam, that was the word I used, purposely
and with a full appreciation of the meaning,” said Mr.
Helmstedt, sternly.</p>

<p>“Deception! Heaven and earth! deception charged
by you upon me!” she exclaimed, and then sank down,
covering her face with her hands and whispering to her
own heart, “I am right—I am right, he must never be
told—he would never be just.”</p>

<p>“I know that the charge I have made is a dishonoring
one, madam, but its dishonor consists in its truth. I requested
you to explain that letter; and I await your
reply.”</p>

<p>“Thus far, Philip, I will explain: that—yes!—that
letter was—a connecting link in the chain of circumstances
you spoke of—it brought me news of—that
one’s peril of which I told you, and made me, still leaves
me, how anxious to go to—that one’s help. Could you
but trust me?”</p>

<p>“Which I cannot now do, which I can never again entirely
do. The woman who could practice upon me as
you have done this evening, can never more be fully
trusted! Still, if you can satisfactorily account for your
strange conduct, we may yet go on together with some
measure of mutual regard and comfort; which is, I suppose,
all that, after the novelty of the honeymoon is past,
ordinarily falls to the lot of married people. The
glamour, dotage, infatuation, that deceived us into believing
that our wedded love was something richer,
rarer, diviner than that of other mortals like us, is forever<span class="pagenum">[81]</span>
gone! And the utmost that I venture to hope
now, Mrs. Helmstedt, is that your speedy explanation
may prove that, with this mystery, you have not brought
dishonor on the family you have entered.”</p>

<p>“Dishonor!” cried Marguerite, dropping her hands,
that until now had covered her face, and gazing wildly
at her husband.</p>

<p>“Aye, madam, dishonor!”</p>

<p>“Great Heaven! had another but yourself made that
charge!” she exclaimed, in a voice deep and smothered
with intense emotion.</p>

<p>“The deception of which you stand convicted is in
itself dishonor, and no very great way from deeper dishonor!
You need not look so shocked, madam, (though
that may be acting also.) Come, exculpate yourself!”
he said, fiercely, giving vent to the storm of jealous
fury that had been gathering for hours in his breast.</p>

<p>But his wife gazed upon him with the look of one
thunder-stricken, as she replied:</p>

<p>“Oh, doubtless, Mr. Helmstedt, you have the right to
do what you will with your own, even to the extremity
of thus degrading her.”</p>

<p>“No sarcasms, if you please, madam; they ill become
your present ambiguous position. Rather clear yourself.
Come, do it; for if I find that you have brought
shame——”</p>

<p>“Philip!”</p>

<p>Without regarding her indignant interruption, he
went on:</p>

<p>“Upon the honorable name you bear—by the living
Lord that hears me! I will take justice in my own hands
and—kill you!”</p>

<p>She had continued to gaze upon him with her great,
dark eyes, standing forth like burning stars until the last
terrible words fell from his lips—when, dropping her
eyelids, her face relaxed into a most dubious and mournful
smile, as she said:</p>

<p>“That were an easier feat than you imagine, Philip.
The heart burns too fiercely in this breast to burn long.
Your words add fuel to the flame. But in this implied
charge upon your wife, the injustice that you do her, is<span class="pagenum">[82]</span>
nothing compared to the great wrong you inflict upon
your own honor.”</p>

<p>“Once more—will you clear yourself before me?”</p>

<p>“No.”</p>

<p>“What! ‘No?’”</p>

<p>“No! Alas! why multiply words, when all is contained
in that monosyllable?”</p>

<p>“What is the meaning of this, madam?”</p>

<p>“That your three-months wife, even while acknowledging
your right to command her, disobeys you, because
she must, Philip! she must! but even in so doing,
she submits herself to you to meet uncomplainingly all
consequences—yes, to say short, they are natural and
just! Philip, you have my final answer. Do your will!
I am yours!”</p>

<p>And saying this, she arose, and with a manner full of
loving submission, went to his side, laid her hand lightly
upon his arm and looked up into his face.</p>

<p>But he shook that hand off as if it had been a viper;
and when she replaced it, and again looked pleadingly
up into his face, he took her by the arm and whirled
her off toward the sofa, where she dropped amid the
cushions, and then with a fierce, half-arrested oath, he
flung himself out of the room.</p>

<p>“I cannot blame him: no one could. Oh, God,” she
cried, sinking down and burying her head amid the
cushions. Quickly with sudden energy she arose, and
went to the window and looked out; the sky was still
darker with clouds than with night; but the wind had
ceased and the sea was quiet. She returned toward the
fireplace and rang the bell, which was speedily answered
by Forrest.</p>

<p>Forrest, the son of her old nurse, Aunt Hapsy, was a
tall, stalwart, jet-black negro of some fifty years of age,
faithfully and devotedly attached to his mistress, and
whose favorite vanity it was to boast that—Laws! niggers!
he had toted Miss Marget about in his arms, of’en
an’ of’en when she was no more’n so high, holding his
broad black palm about two feet from the ground.</p>

<p>“How is the weather, Forrest?” inquired Mrs. Helmstedt,
who was now at the cabinet, that I have mentioned<span class="pagenum">[83]</span>
as standing to the right of the fireplace, and writing
rapidly.</p>

<p>“Bad ’nough, Miss Marget, ma’am, I ’sures you.”</p>

<p>“The wind has stopped.”</p>

<p>“O’ny to catch his breaf, Miss Marget, ma’am. He’ll
’mence ’gain strong’n ever—you’ll hear—’cause ef he
didn’t stop at de tide comin’ in, dis ebenen, he ain’t
gwine stop till it do go out to-morrow morn’n.”</p>

<p>Mrs. Helmstedt had finished writing, folded, closed
and directed a letter, which she now brought to her messenger.</p>

<p>“Forrest, I don’t wish you to endanger your life by
venturing to cross to the shore in a gale, but I wish this
letter posted in time to go out in the mail at six o’clock
to-morrow morning, and so you may take charge of it
now; and if the wind should go down at any time to-night,
you can carry it to the post office.”</p>

<p>“Miss Marget, ma’am, it goes. I ain’t gwine to ask
no win’ no leave to take your letter to de pos’—when you
wants it go it goes,” said the faithful creature, putting
the letter carefully into his breast pocket.</p>

<p>“Any oder orders, Miss Marget, ma’am?”</p>

<p>“No, only take care of yourself.”</p>

<p>Forrest bowed reverently and went out, softly closing
the door behind him.</p>

<p>Marguerite went and sat down on the sofa, and drew a
little workstand toward her, on which she rested both
elbows, while she dropped her forehead upon the palms
of her hands. She had scarcely sat down, when Philip
Helmstedt, as from second thought, re-entered the room,
from which, indeed, he had scarcely been absent ten minutes.
Marguerite dropped her hands and looked up with
an expression of welcome in her face; Mr. Helmstedt did
not glance toward her, but went to the cabinet—the upper
portion of which was a bookcase—selected a volume, and
came and drew a chair to the corner of the fireplace opposite
to Marguerite’s sofa, sat down and seemed to read,
but really studied Marguerite’s countenance; and she felt
that influence, though now, while her head rested upon
one arm leaned on the stand, her eyes were never lifted
from the floor. So passed some twenty minutes.</p>

<p>Eleven o’clock struck. They were in the habit of taking<span class="pagenum">[84]</span>
some light refreshments at this hour, before retiring
for the night. And now the door opened and Hildreth
entered, bringing a waiter, upon which stood two silver
baskets, containing oranges and Malaga grapes, which
she brought and placed upon the stand before her mistress,
and then retired.</p>

<p>Mr. Helmstedt threw down his book, drew his chair to
the stand, and took up and peeled an orange, which he
placed upon a plate with a bunch of grapes, and offered
to Marguerite.</p>

<p>She looked up to see what promise there might be
in this act, ready, anxious to meet any advance half-way;
but she saw in his stern brow and averted eyes, no hope
of present reconciliation, and understood that this form
of courtesy sprang only from the habitual good breeding,
that ever, save when passion threw him off his guard,
governed all his actions. She received the plate with a
faint smile and a “thank you,” and made a pretense of
eating by shredding the orange and picking to pieces the
bunch of grapes; while Mr. Helmstedt, on his part, made
no pretense whatever, but having served Marguerite,
retired to his chair and book. She looked after him, her
heart full to breaking, and presently rising she rang for
her maid, and retired.</p>

<p>Hildreth, the confidential maid of Mrs. Helmstedt, was
a good-looking, comfortable, matronly woman, over
forty years of age, very much like her brother Forrest
in the largeness of her form, and the shining darkness
of her skin, as well as in her devoted attachment to her
mistress. She was a widow, and the mother of four stalwart
boys, who were engaged upon the fisheries belonging
to the island. For the rest, Hildreth was an uncharitable
moralist, and a strict disciplinarian, visiting the
sins of the fathers upon the children in her bitter intolerance
of mulattoes. Hildreth affected grave Quaker colors
for her gowns, and snow-white, cotton cloth for her
turbans, neck-handkerchiefs, and aprons. Can you see
her now? her large form clad in gray linsey, a white
handkerchief folded across her bosom and tied down
under the white apron, and her jet-black, self-satisfied
face surmounted by the white turban? Hildreth was not
the most refined and delicate of natures, and consequently<span class="pagenum">[85]</span>
her faithful affection for her mistress was sometimes
troublesome from its intrusiveness. This evening,
in attending Mrs. Helmstedt to her room, she saw at
once the signs of misery on her face, and became exacting
in her sympathy.</p>

<p>Was her mistress sick? had she a headache? would she
bathe her feet? would she have a cup of tea? what could
she do for her? And when Mrs. Helmstedt gave her to
understand that silence and darkness, solitude and rest
were all she required, Hildreth so conscientiously interpreted
her wishes that she closed every shutter, drew
down every blind, and lowered every curtain of the windows,
to keep out the sound of the wind and sea; turned
the damper to keep the stove from “roaring,” stopped
the clock to keep it from “ticking,” ejected a pet kitten
to keep it from “purring,” closed the curtains around
her lady’s bed, and having thus, as far as human power
could, secured profound silence and deep darkness, she
quietly withdrew, without even moving the air with a
“good-night.”</p>

<p>There is no fanaticism like the fanaticism of love,
whether it exists in the bosom of a cloistered nun, wrapped
in visions of her Divine Bridegroom, or in that of a
devoted wife, a faithful slave, or a poor dog who
stretches himself across the grave of his master and dies.
That love, that self-abnegating love, that even in this
busy, struggling, proud, sensual world, where a cool
heart, with a clear head and elastic conscience, are the elements
of success, still lives in obscure places and humble
bosoms; that love that, often misunderstood, neglected,
scorned, martyred, still burns till death, burns beyond—to
what does it tend? To that spirit world where all
good affections, all beautiful dreams, and divine aspirations
shall be proved to have been prophecies, shall be
abundantly realized.</p>

<p>Such thoughts as these did not pass through the simple
mind of Hildreth, any more than they would have passed
through the brain of poor Tray, looking wistfully in his
master’s thoughtful face, as she went down to the parlor,
and, curtseying respectfully, told her master that she
feared Mrs. Helmstedt was very ill. That gentleman<span class="pagenum">[86]</span>
gave Hildreth to understand that she might release herself
of responsibility, as he should attend to the matter.</p>

<p>No sleep visited the eyes of Marguerite that night. It
was after midnight when Philip entered her chamber,
and went to rest without speaking to her.</p>

<p>And from this evening, for many days, this pair, occupying
the same chamber, meeting at the same table,
scarcely exchanged a glance or word. Yet in every possible
manner, Marguerite studied the comfort and anticipated
the wishes of her husband, who, on his part, now
that the first frenzy of his anger was over, did not fail
in courtesy toward her, cold, freezing, as that courtesy
might be. Often Marguerite’s heart yearned to break
through this cold reserve; but it was impossible to do so.
Not the black armor of the Black Prince was blacker,
harder, colder, more impassable and repellent, than the
atmosphere of frozen self-retention in which Mr. Helmstedt
encased himself.</p>

<p>By her conduct, on that fatal evening, his love and
pride had been deeply, almost mortally wounded. A
storm of contending astonishment, indignation, wonder,
and conjecture had been raised in his bosom. The East,
West, North and South, as it were, of opposite passions
and emotions had been brought together in fierce conflict.
His glory in Marguerite’s queenly nature had been met
by humiliating doubt of her, and his passionate love by
anger that might settle into hate. And now that the first
chaotic violence of this tempest of warring thoughts and
feelings had subsided, he resumed his habitual self-control
and dignified courtesy, and determined to seek light upon
the dark subject that had occasioned the first estrangement
between himself and his beloved wife. He felt fully
justified, even by his own nice code of honor, in watching
Marguerite closely. Alas! all he discovered in her was
a deeply-seated sorrow, not to be consoled, an intense
anxiety difficult to conceal, an extreme restlessness impossible
to govern; and through all a tender solicitude and
affectionate deference toward himself, that was perhaps
the greatest trial to his dignity and firmness. For, notwithstanding
her fault, and his just anger, even he, with
his stern, uncompromising temper, found it difficult to
live side by side with that beautiful, impassioned, and<span class="pagenum">[87]</span>
fascinating woman, whom he ardently loved, without becoming
unconditionally reconciled to her.</p>

<p>She, with the fine instinct of her nature, saw this, and
knew that but for the pride and scorn that forbade him to
make the first advance, they might become reconciled.
She, proud as Juno toward all else, had no pride toward
those she loved, least of all toward him. Therefore, one
morning, when they had breakfasted as usual, without
exchanging a word, and Mr. Helmstedt had risen and
taken his hat to leave the room, Marguerite got up and
slowly, hesitatingly, even bashfully, followed him into
the passageway, and, stealing to his side, softly and
meekly laid her hand and dropped her face upon his arm,
and murmured:</p>

<p>“Philip! I cannot bear this longer, dearest! my heart
feels cold, and lone, and houseless; take me back to my
home in your heart, Philip.”</p>

<p>There could have been nothing more alluring to him
than this submission of that proud, beautiful woman, and
her whole action was so full of grace, tenderness, and
passion that his firmness gave way before it. His arms
glided around her waist, and his lips sought hers silently,
ere they murmured:</p>

<p>“Come, then to your home in this bosom, beloved,
where there is an aching void, until you fill it.”</p>

<p>And so a sweet, but superficial peace was sealed between
the husband and wife—so sweet that it was like a
new bridal, so superficial that the slightest friction might
break it. No more for them on earth would life be what
it had been. A secret lay between them that Marguerite
was determined to conceal, and Philip had resolved to
discover; and though he would not again compromise his
position toward her by demanding an explanation sure to
be refused, he did not for an hour relax his vigilance and
his endeavors to find a clew to her mystery. He attended
the post office, and left orders that letters for his family
should be delivered into no other hands but his own. He
watched Marguerite’s deportment, noting her fits of deep
and mournful abstraction, her sudden starts, her sleepless
nights and cheerless days, and failing health, and more
than all, her distracting, maddening manner toward himself,
alternating like sunshine and darkness, passionate<span class="pagenum">[88]</span>
love, and deep and fearful remorse as inexplicable as it
was irradicable.</p>

<p>Not another week of quiet domestic happiness, such as
other people have, was it henceforth their fate to know.
Yet why should this have been? Mutually loving and
loved as devotedly as ever was a wedded pair, blessed
with the full possession of every good that nature and
fortune can combine to bestow, with youth, health, beauty,
genius, riches, honor—why should their wedded life be
thus clouded? Why should she be moody, silent, fitful
often, all but wretched and despairing? Often even emitting
the wild gleam, like heat-lightning from her dark and
splendid eyes, of what might be incipient insanity?</p>

<p>One evening, like the night described in the beginning
of this chapter (for stormy nights were now frequent),
when the wind howled around the island and the waves
lashed its shores, Marguerite reclined upon the semi-circular
sofa within the recess of the bay window, and
looked out upon the night as she had often looked before.
No light gleamed from the window where the lady sat
alone, gazing out upon the dark and angry waste of
waters; that stormy scene without was in unison with
the fierce, tempestuous emotions within her own heart—that
friendly veil of darkness was a rest to her, who,
weary of her ill-worn mask of smiles, would lay it aside
for a while. Twice had Forrest entered to bring lights,
and twice had been directed to withdraw, the last dismissal
being accompanied with an injunction not to come
again until he should hear the bell. And so Marguerite
sat alone in darkness, her eyes and her soul roving out
into the wild night over the troubled bosom of the ever-complaining
sea. She sat until the sound of a boat pushed
up upon the sand, accompanied by the hearty tones and
outspringing steps of the oarsmen, and followed by one
resonant, commanding voice, and firm, authoritative tread,
caused her heart to leap, her cheek to flush, her eye to
glow and her whole dark countenance to light up as she
recognized the approach of her husband. She sprang up
and rang.</p>

<p>“Lamps and wood, Forrest,” she said. But before the
servant could obey the order, Philip Helmstedt’s eager
step crossed the threshold, and the next instant his arms<span class="pagenum">[89]</span>
were around her and her head on his bosom. They had
been separated only for a day, and yet, notwithstanding
all that had passed and all that yet remained unexplained
between them, theirs was a lover’s meeting. Is any one
surprised at this, or inclined to take it as a sign of returning
confidence and harmony, and a prognostic of
future happiness to this pair? Let them not be deceived!
It was but the warmth of a passion more uncertain than
the sunshine of an April day.</p>

<p>“Sitting in darkness again, my own Marguerite? Why
do you do so?” said Philip, with tender reproach.</p>

<p>“Why should I not?” returned Marguerite, smilingly.</p>

<p>“Because it will make you melancholy, this bleak and
dreary scene.”</p>

<p>“No, indeed, it will not. It is a grand scene. Come,
look out and see.”</p>

<p>“Thank you, love; I have had enough of it for one
evening; and I rather wonder at your taste for it.”</p>

<p>“Ah! it suits me—it suits me, this savage coast and
weather! Rave on, winds! thunder on, sea! my heart
beats time to the fierce music of your voices. ‘Deep
calleth unto deep’—deep soul to deep sea!”</p>

<p>“Marguerite!”</p>

<p>“Well?”</p>

<p>“What is the matter with you?”</p>

<p>“Nothing: only I like this howling chaos of wind and
water!”</p>

<p>“You are in one of your dark moods.”</p>

<p>“Could I be bright and you away?”</p>

<p>“Flatterer! I am here now. And here are the lights.
And now I have a letter for you.”</p>

<p>“A letter! Oh! give it quickly,” cried Marguerite,
thrown off her guard.</p>

<p>“Why, how hasty you are.”</p>

<p>“True; I am daily expecting a letter from Nellie, and
I do begin to think that I have nerves. And now, to discipline
these excitable nerves, I will not look at the letter
until after tea.”</p>

<p>“Pooh, my love, I should much rather you would read
it now and get it off your mind,” said Philip Helmstedt,
placing her in a chair beside the little stand, and setting a
lamp upon it, before he put the letter in her hand.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[90]</span></p>

<p>He watched her narrowly, and saw her lips grow white
as she read the postmark and superscription, saw the
trembling of her fingers as she broke the seal, and heard
the half-smothered exclamation of joy as she glanced at
the contents; and then she quickly folded the letter, and
was about to put it into her pocket when he spoke.</p>

<p>“Stay!”</p>

<p>“Well!”</p>

<p>“That letter was not from Mrs. Houston.”</p>

<p>“No; you were aware of that; you saw the postmark.”</p>

<p>“Yes, Marguerite; and I could have seen the contents
had I chosen it, and would, under all the circumstances,
have been justified in so doing; but I would not break
your seal, Marguerite. Now, however, that I have delivered
the letter, and you have read it, I claim the right
to know its contents.”</p>

<p>Marguerite held the letter close against her bosom,
while she gazed upon him in astonishment and expectation,
not to say dread.</p>

<p>“With your leave, my lady,” he said, approaching her;
and, throwing one arm around her shoulders, held her
fast, while he drew the letter from her relaxing fingers.
She watched him while he looked again at the postmark
“New York,” which told next to nothing, and then opened
and read the contents—three words, without either date
or signature, “All is well!” that was all.</p>

<p>He looked up at her. And her low, deep, melodious
laughter—that delicious laughter that charmed like music
all who heard it, but that now sounded wild and strange,
answered his look.</p>

<p>“Your correspondent has been well tutored, madam.”</p>

<p>“Why, of course,” she said, still laughing; but presently
growing serious, she added: “Philip, would to God I
could confide to you this matter. It is the one pain of
my life that I cannot. The time may come, Philip, when
I may be able to do so—but not now.”</p>

<p>“Marguerite, it is but fair to tell you that I shall take
every possible means to discover your secret; and if I
find that it reflects discredit on you, by Heaven——”</p>

<p>“Hush! for the sake of mercy, no rash vows. Why
should it reflect discredit upon any? Why should mystery<span class="pagenum">[91]</span>
be always in thought linked with guilt? Philip, I am free
from reproach!”</p>

<p>“But, great Heavens! that it should be necessary to
assure me of this! I wonder that your brow is not crimsoned
with the thought that it is so.”</p>

<p>“Ah, Philip Helmstedt, it is your own suspicious nature,
your want of charity and faith that makes it so,”
said Marguerite.</p>

<p>“Life has—the world has—deprived me of charity and
faith, and taught me suspicion—a lesson that I have not
unlearned in your company, Mrs. Helmstedt.”</p>

<p>“Philip, dear Philip, still hope and trust in me; it may
be that I shall not wholly disappoint you,” she replied.</p>

<p>But Mr. Helmstedt answered only by a scornful smile;
and, having too much pride to continue a controversy,
that for the present, at least, must only end in defeat,
fell into silent and resentful gloom and sullenness.</p>

<p>The harmony and happiness of their island home was
broken up; the seclusion once so delightful was now insufferable;
his presence on the estate was not essentially
necessary; and, therefore, after some reflection, Philip
Helmstedt determined to go to Richmond for a month or
six weeks.</p>

<p>When he announced this intention to his wife, requesting
her to be ready to accompany him in a week, Marguerite
received the news with indifference and promised
to comply.</p>

<p>It was near the first of April when they reached Richmond.
They had secured apartments at the —— House,
where they were quickly sought by Colonel Compton and
Mrs. Houston, who came to press upon them, for the term
of their stay in Richmond, the hospitalities of the colonel’s
mansion.</p>

<p>Marguerite would willingly have left the hotel for the
more genial atmosphere of her friend’s house; but she
waited the will of Mr. Helmstedt, who had an especial
aversion to become the recipient of private entertainment
for any length of time, and, therefore, on the part of himself
and wife, courteously declined that friendly invitation,
promising at the same time to dine with them at an
early day.</p>

<p>The colonel and his daughter finished their call and<span class="pagenum">[92]</span>
returned home disappointed; Nellie with her instinctive
dislike to Mr. Helmstedt much augmented.</p>

<p>The fashionable season was over, or so nearly so, that,
to electrify society into new life, it required just such an
event as the reappearance of its late idol as a bride, and
Mrs. De Lancie Helmstedt (for by the will of her father,
his sole child and heiress was obliged to retain her patronymic
with her married name).</p>

<p>Numerous calls were made upon the newly-wedded
pair, and many parties were given in their honor.</p>

<p>Marguerite was still the reigning queen of beauty,
song, and fashion, with a difference—there was a deeper
glow upon her cheeks and lips, a wilder fire in her eyes,
and in her songs a dashing recklessness alternating with
a depth of pathos that “from rival eyes unwilling tears
could summon.” Those who envied her wondrous charms
did not hesitate to apply to her such terms as “eccentric,”
and even “partially deranged.” While her very
best friends, including Nellie Houston, thought that, during
her three months’ retirement on Helmstedts Island,
Marguerite had</p>

<p class="center">“Suffered a sea change<br />
Into something wild and strange.”</p>

<p>No more of those mysterious letters had come to her,
at least among those forwarded from their home post
office, and nothing had transpired to revive the memory
of the exciting events on the island. But Mr. Helmstedt,
although he disdained to renew the topic, had not in the
least degree relaxed his vigilant watchfulness and persevering
endeavors to gain knowledge of Marguerite’s
secret; vainly, for not the slightest event occurred to
throw light upon that dark subject. Marguerite was not
less tender and devoted in private than brilliant and fascinating
in public; and, despite his bounded confidence,
he could not choose but passionately love the beautiful
and alluring woman, who, with one reservation, so amply
satisfied his love and pride.</p>

<p>Their month’s visit drew to a close, when Mr. Helmstedt
accepted an invitation to a dinner given to Thomas
Jefferson, in honor of his arrival at the capital. Upon
the day of the entertainment, he left Marguerite at four
o’clock. And as the wine-drinking, toasting, and speech-making<span class="pagenum">[93]</span>
continued long after the cloth was removed, it
was very late in the evening before the company broke
up and he was permitted to return to his hotel.</p>

<p>On entering first his private parlor, which was lighted
up, he missed Marguerite, who, with her sleepless temperament,
usually kept very late hours, and whom, upon
the rare occasions of his absence from her in the evening,
he usually, when he returned, found still sitting up reading
while she awaited him. Upon glancing round the
empty room, a vague anxiety seized him and he hurried
into the adjoining chamber, which he found dark, and
called in a low, distinct tone:</p>

<p>“Marguerite! Marguerite!”</p>

<p>But instead of her sweet voice in answer, came a silent,
dreary sense of vacancy and solitude. He hurried back into
the parlor, snatched up one of the two lighted lamps that
stood upon the mantelpiece, and hastened into the chamber,
to find it indeed void of the presence he sought. An
impulse to ring and inquire when Mrs. Helmstedt had
gone out was instantly arrested by his habitual caution.
A terrible presentiment, that he thought scarcely justified
by the circumstances, disturbed him. He remembered
that she could not have gone to any place of amusement,
for she never entered such scenes unaccompanied by himself;
besides, she had distinctly informed him that preparations
for departure would keep her busy in her room all
the evening. He looked narrowly around the chamber;
the bed had not been disturbed, the clothes closets and
bureaus were empty, and the trunks packed and strapped;
but one, a small trunk belonging to Marguerite, was
gone. The same moment that he discovered this fact, his
eyes fell upon a note lying on the dressing-bureau. He
snatched it up: it was directed in Marguerite’s hand to
himself. He tore it open, and with a deadly pale cheek
and darkly-lowering brow, read as follows:</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p class="ir2"><span class="smcap">Our Private Parlor, —— House, 6 P.M.</span></p>

<p><span class="smcap">My Beloved Husband</span>: A holy duty calls me from you for a
few days, but it is with a bleeding heart and foreboding mind
that I go. Well do I know, Philip, all that I dare in thus leaving
without your sanction. But equally well am I aware, from
what has already passed, that that sanction never could have been
obtained. I pray you to forgive the manner of my going, an
extremity to which your former inflexibility has driven me; and<span class="pagenum">[94]</span>
I even venture further to pray that, even now, you will extend
the shield of your authority over my absence, as your own excellent
judgment must convince you will be best. Philip, dearest,
you will make no stir, cause no talk—you will not even pursue
me, for, though you might follow me to New York, yet in
that great thoroughfare you would lose trace of me. But you
will, as I earnestly pray you to do, await, at home, the coming
of your most unhappy but devoted</p>

<p class="ir2 pminus1"><span class="smcap">Marguerite</span>.</p>
</div>

<p>It would be impossible to describe the storm of outraged
love and pride, of rage, grief, and jealousy that
warred in Philip Helmstedt’s bosom.</p>

<p>“Yes! by the eternal that hears me, I will wait her
coming—and then! then!” he muttered within himself
as he cast the letter into the fire. All night long, like a
chafed lion in his cell, he paced the narrow limits of his
lonely apartments, giving ill vent to the fierceness of his
passions in half-muttered threats and curses, the deeper
for suppression. But when morning broke, and the world
was astir, he realized that he had to meet it, and his
course was taken. His emotions were repressed and his
brow was cleared; he rang for his servant, made a careful
toilet, and at his usual hour, and with his usual appearance
and manner, descended to the breakfast table.</p>

<p>“I hope Mrs. Helmstedt is not indisposed this morning,”
said a lady opposite, when she observed the vacant
chair at his side.</p>

<p>“Thank you, madam; Mrs. Helmstedt is perfectly well.
She left for New York last evening,” replied Mr. Helmstedt,
with his habitual, dignified courtesy. And this
story went the rounds of the table, then of the hotel, and
then of the city, and though it excited surprise, proved in
the end satisfactory.</p>

<p>Later in the day he took leave of his friends. And by
the next morning’s packet he sailed for the island, which
he reached at the end of the week. And once in his own
little, isolated kingdom, he said:</p>

<p>“Yes, I will await you here, and then, Marguerite!
then!”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum">[95]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.
<br /><span class="cheaderfont">THE WIFE’S RETURN.</span></h2>
</div>


<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“She had moved to the echoing sounds of fame—</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">Silently, silently died her name;</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">Silently melted her life away</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">As ye have seen a rich flower decay,</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">Or a lamp that hath swiftly burned expire,</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">Or a bright stream shrink from a summer fire.”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Nearly maddened between the deeply suppressed, conflicting
passions of wounded love, outraged pride, gloomy
jealousy, fierce anger, and burning desire of revenge,
Philip Helmstedt’s impetuous spirit would have devoured
the time between his arrival at the island and Marguerite’s
expected return. Now feeling, through the
magic power of memory and imagination, the wondrous
magnetism of her personality, and praying for her arrival
only that all else might be forgotten in the rapture of
their meeting—then, with all the force of his excessive
pride and scorn, sternly spurning that desire as most unworthy.
Now torturing himself with sinister speculations
as to where she might be? what doing? with whom
tarrying? Then feeling intensely, as resentfully, his indubitable
right to know, and longing for her return that
he might make her feel the power of the man whose affection
and whose authority had been equally slighted
and despised. And through all these moods of love and
jealousy still invoking, ever invoking, with a breathless,
burning impatience that would have consumed and shriveled
up the intervening days—the hour of her return; for
still he doted on her with a fatuity that neither possession
nor time had power to sate, nor pride nor anger force
to destroy—nay, that these agencies only goaded into
frenzy. Strong man that he was, she possessed him like
a fever, a madness, a shrouding fire! he could not deliver
himself from the fascination of her individuality. Was
she a modern Lamia, a serpent woman who held him,
another Lexius, in her fatal toils? So it sometimes
seemed to him as he walked moodily up and down the
long piazza before the house, looking out upon the sea.<span class="pagenum">[96]</span>
At all events she held him! very well, let it be so, since
he held her so surely, and she should feel it! Oh! for
the hour of her return! All day he paced the long piazza
or walked down to the beach, spyglass in hand, to look
out for the packet that should bear her to the isle. But
packet after packet sailed by, and day succeeded day
until a month had passed, and still Marguerite came not.
And day by day Philip Helmstedt grew darker, thinner,
and gloomier. Sleep forsook his bed, and appetite his
board; it often happened that by night his pillow was not
pressed, and by day his meals were left untasted.</p>

<p>Speculation was rife among the servants of the household.
All understood that something was wrong in the
family. The Helmstedt servants took the part of their
master, while the De Lancie negroes advocated the cause
of their mistress. It was a very great trial to poor old
Aunt Hapzibah, the housekeeper, to find her best efforts
unavailing to make her master comfortable in the absence
of her mistress. Every one likes to be appreciated; and
no one more than an old family cook whose glory lies in
her art; and so it proved too much for the philosophy of
the old woman, who had taken much pride in letting
“Marse Fillup see that eberyting went on as riglar as
dough Miss Marget was home hersef”—to see her best
endeavors unnoticed and her most <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">recherché</i> dishes untasted.
And so—partly for her own relief, and partly for
the edification of her underlings in the kitchen, she frequently
held forth upon the state of affairs in something
like the following style:</p>

<p>“De Lord bress de day an’ hour as ever I toted mysef
inter dis here house! De Lord men’ it I pray! Wonner
what Marse Fillup Hempseed mean a-scornin’ my bes’
cook dishes? Better not keep on a-’spisin’ de Lord’s good
wittles—’deed hadn’ he if he is Marse Fillup Hempseed!
Come to want bread if he does—’deed will he! Set him
up! What he ’spect? Sen’ him young ducks an’ green
peas? down dey comes ontotch! Try him wid lily white
weal an’ spinnidge? down it come ontaste! Sen’ up
spring chicken an’ sparrowgrass? all de same! I gwine
stop of it now, I tell you good! ’deed is I. I ain’t gwine
be fool long o’ Marse Fillup Hemps’d’s funnelly nonsense<span class="pagenum">[97]</span>
no longer! I gwine sen’ him up middlin’ and greens, or
mutton an’ turnups—you hear me good, don’t you?”</p>

<p>“I wonder what does ail master?” remarked Hildreth.</p>

<p>“I know what ail him well ’nough! I know de reason
why he won’t eat his wittles!”</p>

<p>“What is it, den?”</p>

<p>“He can’t eat anyt’ing else case he’s—eatin’ his own
heart! An’ it makes men mad—that sort o’ eatin’ does!”</p>

<p>“My Lors!” ejaculated Hildreth, in real or affected
horror.</p>

<p>“Eatin’ his own heart,” continued old Hapzibah—“eatin’
his own heart, wid his black eagle head an’ hook
nose poke down in his buzzum a-chawin’ an’ a-chawin’!
Always a-chawin’ an’ a-chawin’! Walkin’ up an’ down
de peeazzy a-chawin’ an’ a-chawin’. Stan’in’ up to his
screwtaw, ’tendin’ to write, but only a-chawin’ an’
a-chawin’. Settin’ down at de table, a-chawin’ an’
a-chawin’—not my good wittles, mine you, but his own
heart—always his own heart. He better stop of it, too.
It won’t ’gest, nor likewise ’gree wid him, nor udderwise
fetch Miss Marget home one minit ’fore she thinks proper
for to come.”</p>

<p>“Well, den, ennyways, t’ink it ’pears mon’ous strange
your Miss Marget don’t come home ef our Marse Fillup
wants her to come,” here put in old Neptune, one of the
Helmstedt negroes.</p>

<p>“Set him up wid it,” indignantly broke in Aunt Hapzibah—“set
you an’ your marse bofe up wid it. Who de
sarpent! he? or you either? I reckon my Miss Marget
allers went an’ come when ebber she thought proper,
’fore ebber she saw de hook nose o’ Marse Fillup Hempseed,
of any his low-life saut water niggers either. Not
as I tends for to hurt your feelin’s, Nep; you can’t help
bein’ of an’ antibberous creetur like a lan’ tarrapin or a
water dog, as ’longs to nyther to’ther nor which, nor likewise
to hit you in de teef wid your marster, who is a right
’spectable, ’sponsible, ’greeable gemplemun, ef he’d leave
off a-hookin’ of his crook nose inter his buzzum an’
a-chawin’ his own heart; which he’d better, too, or it’ll
run him rampin’ mad!—you see, chillun, you see!”</p>

<p>One afternoon, during the last week in May, Philip
Helmstedt, as usual, walked up and down the beach in<span class="pagenum">[98]</span>
front of his mansion house. With his arms folded and
his head bowed upon his chest, in deep thought, he paced
with measured steps up and down the sands. Occasionally
he stopped, drew a small spyglass from his pocket,
placed it at his eye, and swept the sea to the horizon.</p>

<p>Before him, miles away to the westward, lay the western
shore of Maryland and Virginia, cloven and divided
by the broad and bay-like mouth of the Potomac—with
Point Lookout on the north and Point Rodgers on the
south. Beyond this cleft coast the western horizon was
black with storm clouds. A freshening gale was rising
and rushing over the surface of the water, rippling its
waves, and making a deep, low, thrilling murmur, as if Nature,
the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">improvvisatrice</i>, swept the chords of her grand
harp in a prelude to some sublime performance. Occasionally
flocks of sea fowl, sailing slowly, lighted upon the
island or the shores. All signs indicated an approaching
storm. Philip Helmstedt stood, telescope in hand, traversing
the now dark and angry waste of waters. Far, far
away up the distant Potomac, like a white speck upon the
black waters, came a vessel driven before the wind, reeling
against the tide, yet gallantly holding her course and
hugging the Maryland coast. Marguerite might be in
that packet (as, indeed, she might have been in any passing
packet for the last month), and Philip Helmstedt
watched its course with great interest. Nearing the
mouth of the river, the packet veered away to avoid the
strong current around Point Lookout, and, still struggling
between wind and tide, steered for the middle of the
channel. Soon she was clear of the eddies and out into
the open bay, with her head turned southward. Then it
was that Philip observed a boat put out from her side. A
convincing presentiment assured him that Marguerite
had arrived. The gale was now high and the sea rough;
and that little boat, in which he felt sure that she was
seated, would have but a doubtful chance between winds
and waves. Dread for Marguerite’s safety, with the eagle
instinct to swoop upon and seize his coveted prey, combined
to instigate Philip Helmstedt to speedy action. He
threw down the spyglass and hastened along the beach
until he came to the boathouse, where he unfastened a
skiff, threw himself into it and pushed off from the shore.<span class="pagenum">[99]</span>
A more skillful sailor than Philip Helmstedt never
handled an oar—a gift inherited from all his seafaring
forefathers and perfected by years of practice. He
pushed the boat on amid heaving waves and flashing
brine, heedless of the blinding spray dashed into his face,
until he drew sufficiently near the other boat to see that
it was manned by two oarsmen, and then to recognize
Marguerite as its passenger. And in another moment the
boats were side by side. Philip Helmstedt was standing
resting on his oar, and Marguerite had risen with one
low-toned exclamation of joy.</p>

<p>“Oh! Mr. Helmstedt, this is very kind; thank you—thank
you.”</p>

<p>He did not reply by word or look.</p>

<p>The wind was so high, the water so rough, and the
skiffs so light that they were every instant striking together,
rebounding off, and in imminent danger of being
whirled in the waves and lost.</p>

<p>“Quick, men; shift Mrs. Helmstedt’s baggage into this
boat,” commanded Mr. Helmstedt, as with averted eyes
he coldly took Marguerite’s hand and assisted her to enter
his skiff. The two men hastily transferred the little traveling
trunk that comprised Marguerite’s whole baggage—and
then, with a respectful leave-taking, laid to their oars
and pulled rapidly to overtake the vessel.</p>

<p>Philip and Marguerite were left alone. Without addressing
her, he turned the head of the skiff and rowed
for the island. The first flush of pleasure had died from
Marguerite’s face, leaving her very pale—with a pallor
that was heightened by the nunlike character of her costume,
which consisted simply of a gown, mantle and
hood, all of black silk. For some moments Marguerite
fixed her large, mournful eyes upon the face of her husband,
vainly trying to catch his eyes, that remained
smoldering under their heavy lids. Then she suddenly
spoke to him.</p>

<p>“Philip! will you not forgive me?”</p>

<p>The thrilling, passionate, tearful voice, for once, seemed
not to affect him. He made no answer. She gazed imploringly
upon his face—and saw, and shuddered to see
that an ashen paleness had overspread his cheek, while
his eyes remained rooted to the bottom of the boat.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[100]</span></p>

<p>“Philip! oh! Heaven—speak to me, Philip!” she cried,
in a voice of anguish, laying her hand and dropping her
sobbing face upon his knee.</p>

<p>The effect was terrible. Spurning her from him, he
sprang to his feet, nearly capsizing the skiff, that rocked
fearfully under them, and exclaimed:</p>

<p>“I do not know where you find courage to lift your
eyes to my face, madam, or address me! Where have
you been? Come, trifling is over between us! Explain,
exculpate yourself from suspicion! or these waters shall
engulf at once your sin and my dishonor!”</p>

<p>“Philip! Philip!” she cried, in a voice of thrilling
misery.</p>

<p>“Explain! explain! or in another moment God have
mercy on your soul!” he exclaimed, drawing in the oar,
planting its end heavily on the prow of the skiff, in such
a manner that by leaning <a id="Ref_100" href="#BRef_100">his</a> weight upon it he could capsize
the boat—standing there, glaring upon her.</p>

<p>“Philip! Philip! for the Saviour’s sake, sit down,” she
cried, wringing her pale fingers in an ecstasy of terror.</p>

<p>“Coward! coward! coward! you fear death, and do not
fear me nor shame!” said Philip Helmstedt, his eyes
burning upon her with a consuming scorn that seemed to
dry up her very heart’s blood. “Once more, and for the
last time, madam, will you explain?”</p>

<p>“Philip! mercy!”</p>

<p>“Commend yourself to the mercy of Heaven! I have
none!” cried Philip Helmstedt, about to throw his whole
weight upon the oar to upset the boat, when Marguerite,
with a shriek, sprung up and clasped his knees, exclaiming:</p>

<p>“Mercy! Philip! it is not my life I beg at your hands;
it were not worth the prayer! but another innocent life,
Philip, spare your child,” and fainted at his feet.</p>

<p>The boat, shaken by this violent scene, was rocking
fearfully, and he had much ado to steady it, while Marguerite
lay in a dead heap at his feet. The frenzy of his
anger was passing for the present. The announcement
that she had just made to him, her swoon and her perfect
helplessness, as well as that majestic beauty, against the
influence of which he had been struggling through all this
scene, combined to sway his frantic purpose. He stood<span class="pagenum">[101]</span>
like a man awakened from a nightmare, recovered from a
fever, come to himself. After cautiously trimming the
boat, and letting it drift until it had spent the violence of
the impetus, he took up the oar, turned its head, and
rowed swiftly toward the island. Pushing the skiff up
upon the sand, he got out and fastened it, and then went
to lift Marguerite, who, on being raised, sighed and
opened her eyes, and said, a little wildly and incoherently:</p>

<p>“You will never be troubled by any more letters,
Philip.”</p>

<p>“Ah?”</p>

<p>“No! and I will never leave you again, Philip.”</p>

<p>“I intend that you never shall have the opportunity,
my—Marguerite.”</p>

<p>She had, with his assistance, risen to her feet, and, leaning
on his arm, she suffered herself to be led up the slope
toward the house. The whole sky was now overcast and
blackened. The wind so buffeted them that Marguerite
could scarcely stand, much less walk against it. Philip
had to keep his arm around her shoulders, and busy himself
with her veil and mantle, that were continually blown
and flapped into her face and around her head. By the
time they had reached the house, and dispatched Forrest
to put the boat away and bring the trunk home, the storm
had burst.</p>

<p>All night the tempest raged. Marguerite, in the midst
of all her private trouble, was sleepless with anxiety for
the fate of the little vessel she had left. But for Philip, a
navy might have been engulfed, and he remained unconcerned
by anything aside from his own domestic wrong.
The next morning the terrible devastation of the storm
was revealed in the torn forests, prostrate fences and
ruined crops. Early Marguerite, with her spyglass, was
on the lookout at the balcony of her chamber window,
that was immediately over the bay window of the parlor,
and commanded a magnificent sea view. And soon she
had the relief of seeing the poor little bark safely sheltered
in Wicomia inlet. With a sigh of gratitude, Marguerite
turned from that instance of salvation to face her
own doubtful, if not dangerous, prospect. Philip Helmstedt,
since bringing her safely to the house, had not
noticed her by word or look. He remained silent, reserved,<span class="pagenum">[102]</span>
and gloomy—in a mood that she dreaded to interrupt,
lest she should again rouse him to some repetition
of his fury on the boat; but in every gentle and submissive
way she sought to soothe, accepting all his scornful repulses
with the patience of one offending where she loved,
yet unable to do otherwise, and solicitous to atone. It
was difficult to resist the pleading eyes and voice of this
magnetic woman, yet they were resisted.</p>

<p>In this constrained and painful manner a week passed,
and brought the first of June, when Colonel Houston and
his family came down to their seat at Buzzard’s Bluff.
Mr. and Mrs. Helmstedt were seated at their cold, <cite>tête-à-tête</cite>
breakfast table when Nellie’s messenger, Lemuel,
came in with a note announcing her arrival at home, and
begging her dearest Marguerite, as the sky was so beautiful
and the water so calm, to come at once and spend
the day with her.</p>

<p>The mournful face of Marguerite lighted up with a
transient smile; passing the note across the table to Mr.
Helmstedt, she said:</p>

<p>“I will go,” and then rang the bell and directed Forrest,
who answered it, to conduct the messenger into the
kitchen, give him breakfast, and then get the boat <em>Nereide</em>
ready to take her to Buzzard’s Bluff. The man bowed
and was about to leave the room, when Mr. Helmstedt
looked up from his note and said, “Stop!”</p>

<p>Forrest paused, hat in hand, waiting in respectful
silence for his master’s speech. After a moment, Mr.
Helmstedt said:</p>

<p>“No matter, another time will do; hasten to obey your
mistress now.”</p>

<p>The two men then withdrew, and Mr. Helmstedt turned
to his wife, and said:</p>

<p>“Upon second thoughts, I would not countermand your
order, madam, or humble you in the presence of your
servants. But you cannot leave this island, Mrs. Helmstedt.”</p>

<p>“Dear Philip—Mr. Helmstedt! what mean you?”</p>

<p>“That you are a prisoner! That you have been such
since your last landing! and that you shall remain such—if
it be for fifty years—do you hear?—until you choose to
clear up the doubt that rests upon your conduct!”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[103]</span></p>

<p>“Mr. Helmstedt, you do not mean this!” exclaimed the
lady, rising excitedly from her seat.</p>

<p>“Not?—look, Marguerite!” he replied, rising, and following
her to the window, where she stood with her large,
mournful eyes now wildly glancing from the bright, glad
waters without to the darkened room and the stern visaged
man within. “Look, Marguerite! This island is a
mile long, by a quarter of a mile wide—with many thousand
acres, with deep, shady woods and pleasant springs
and streams and breezy beaches—almost room, variety
and pleasure enough for a home. Your house is, besides,
comfortable, and your servants capable and attentive. I
say your house and servants, for here you shall be a queen
if you like——”</p>

<p>“A captive queen—less happy than a free scullion!”</p>

<p>“A captive by your own contumacy, lady. And, mark
me, I have shown you the limit of your range—this island—attempt
to pass it and your freedom of motion, now
bounded only by the sea, shall be contracted within the
walls of this house, and so the space shall narrow around
you, Marguerite, until——”</p>

<p>“Six feet by two will suffice me!”</p>

<p>“Aye! until then, if need be!”</p>

<p>“Mr. Helmstedt, you cannot mean this—you are a gentleman!”</p>

<p>“Or was; but never a fool, or a tool, lady! God knows—Satan
knows how strongly and exclusively I have
loved—still love! but you have placed me in a false and
humiliating position, where I must take care of your
honor and mine as best I may. You cannot imagine that
I can permit you to fly off, year after year, whither, with
whom, to whom, for what purpose I know not, and you
refuse to tell! You left me no other alternative, Marguerite
but to repudiate——”</p>

<p>“Oh! no, no! sweet Heaven, not that! You love me,
Philip Helmstedt! I know you do. You could kill, but
could not banish me! I could die, but could not leave
you, Philip!” interrupted his wife, with an outbreak of
agony that started cold drops of dew from her forehead.</p>

<p>“Compose yourself. I know that we are tied together
(not so much by church and state as by something inherent<span class="pagenum">[104]</span>
in the souls of both) for weal or woe, blessing or
cursing, heaven or hell—who can say? But assuredly
tied together for time and for eternity!”</p>

<p>“God be thanked for that, at worst!” exclaimed Marguerite,
fervently. “Anything—anything but the death
to live, of absence from you, Philip! Oh, why did you
use that murderous word?”</p>

<p>“You left me no other alternative than to repudiate——”</p>

<p>“Ah!” cried Marguerite, as if again the word had
pierced her heart.</p>

<p>“Or—I was about to say—restrain you. I cannot repudiate—I
must restrain you. You, yourself, must see
the propriety of the measure.”</p>

<p>“But, Philip, my husband, do you mean to say that I
may not even visit Mrs. Houston?”</p>

<p>“I mean to say that until you satisfactorily explain your
late escapade, you shall not leave the island for any purpose
whatever.”</p>

<p>“Not even to visit Nellie?”</p>

<p>“Not even to visit Mrs. Houston.”</p>

<p>“Philip, she will expect me; she will come and invite
me to her house; what shall I say to my bosom friend in
explanation? or, keeping silence, what shall I leave her
to think?”</p>

<p>“Say what you please to Mrs. Houston; tell her the
truth, or decline to explain the motives of your seclusion
to her—even as you have refused to exhibit the purpose
of your journeys to me. You can do these things, Mrs.
Helmstedt.”</p>

<p>“Oh, Heaven! but the retort is natural. What will
Colonel Compton think or say?”</p>

<p>“Refer Colonel Compton to me for an elucidation. I
am always ready, Marguerite, to answer for my course
of conduct, though I may seldom recognize the right of
any man to question it.”</p>

<p>“I could even plead for an exception in favor of my
little Nellie but that I know your inflexible will, Philip.”</p>

<p>“It is scarcely more so than your own; but now, do you
forget that there is an answer to be written to Mrs. Houston?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[105]</span></p>

<p>“Ah, yes,” said Marguerite, going to the escritoire that
we have already named, and hastily writing a few words.</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p>“<span class="smcap">Dearest Nellie</span>:—I am not well and cannot go to you; waive
ceremony, beloved, and come to your Marguerite.”</p>
</div>

<p>Meanwhile Mr. Helmstedt rang for Mrs. Houston’s
messenger, who, he was informed, had gone down to the
beach to assist Forrest in rigging the <em>Nereide</em>.</p>

<p>“We will walk down to the beach and send him home,”
said Mr. Helmstedt, taking his straw hat and turning toward
Marguerite. She arose to join him, and they walked
out together across the front piazza, down the steps, and
down the terraced garden, through the orchard and the
timothy field, and, finally, to the sanded beach, where they
found the two negroes rigging the boat.</p>

<p>“Mrs. Helmstedt will not go, Forrest, so that you may
leave the bark. Lemuel, you will take this note to your
mistress, and say that we shall be glad to see the family
here.”</p>

<p>Marguerite had not been down on the sands since the
stormy evening of her arrival, and now she noticed, with
astonishment, that of all the little fleet of some half-dozen
boats of all sizes that were usually moored within the
boathouse but a single one, the little <em>Nereide</em>, remained;
and she saw that drawn into the house, the door of which
was chained and locked and the key delivered up to Mr.
Helmstedt. When this was done and the men had gone,
Marguerite turned to her husband for an explanation.</p>

<p>“Why, where are all the boats, Mr. Helmstedt?”</p>

<p>“Sold, given away, broken up, dispersed—all except
this one, which will serve the necessities of myself and
men.”</p>

<p>“But why, Philip?”</p>

<p>“Can you not surmise? You are a prisoner—it is no
jest, Marguerite—a prisoner! and we do not leave the
means of escape near such. I am not playing with you,
Marguerite! You fled me once, and maddened me almost
to the verge of murder and suicide.”</p>

<p>“I know it. Oh, Heaven forgive me!”</p>

<p>“And you must have no opportunity for repeating that
experiment. Your restraint is a real one, as you will
find.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[106]</span></p>

<p>She turned upon him a look so full of love, resignation
and devotion, as she held out both her hands and said:</p>

<p>“Well, I accept the restraint, Philip. I accept it. Oh,
my dear husband, how much more merciful than that
other alternative of separation! for your Marguerite tells
you, Philip, that, would it come without sin, she would
rather take death from your hands than banishment. The
one great terror of her life, Philip, is of losing you by
death or separation; she could not survive the loss, Philip,
for her very life lives in your bosom. How can a widow
live? Your Marguerite could not breathe without you;
while with you, from you she could accept anything—anything.
Since you do not banish her, do your will
with her; you have the right; she is your own.”</p>

<p>A few more words sighed out upon his bosom, to which
he at last had drawn her, and then, lifting her head, she
murmured:</p>

<p>“And listen, dearest husband; give yourself no care or
anxiety for the safe custody of your prisoner, for she will
not try to escape. It is your command, dearest Philip,
that binds me to the narrow limits of this island, as no
other earthly power could do. You know me, Philip;
you know that, were I in duress against my will, I would
free myself; I would escape, were it only to heaven or to
hades! Your bond, Philip, is not on this mortal frame,
but on my heart, soul, spirit, and I should feel its restricting
power were all nature else beckoning me over
the limits you have prescribed, and all opportunities favorable
to the transgression.”</p>

<p>“You love me so; you say your life lives within mine,
and I believe it does, for you inhabit me, you possess me,
nor can I unhouse you, incendiary as you are—and yet
you will not give me your confidence—will not justify
yourself before me—while I, on my part, may not abate
one jot or tittle of your restraint until you do.”</p>

<p>“I do not arraign you even in my thoughts, love; so
far from that, I accept you for my judge; I submit to
your sentence. There is this dark cloud settled on my
bowed head, love (would it rested only on my own), and
some day it may be lifted. In the meantime, since you
do not exile me, do your royal will unquestioned with
your own, my king. Ah, Philip! we are not angels, you<span class="pagenum">[107]</span>
and I; and we may never find heaven in this world or
the next; but, such as we are, even with this cloud between
us, we love each other; on this earth we cannot
part; and even in the next we must be saved or lost—together.”</p>

<p>“Marguerite, tell me, is there a hope that, one day,
this mystery may be cleared up?”</p>

<p>“Philip, dearest, yes; a faint hope that I scarcely dare
to entertain.”</p>

<p>During all this time she had been standing within his
circling arm, with her face upon his shoulder, and her
soft, fragrant ringlets flowing past his cheek. Now, as
she lifted her head, her wild, mournful eyes fell upon a
distant sail skimming rapidly over the surface of the
sparkling water, from the direction of Buzzard’s Bluff.</p>

<p>“Nellie is coming, dear husband,” she said, “but she
shall know that it is my own pleasure to stay home, as it
truly is since you will it.”</p>

<p>“No concealment for my sake, Marguerite. I tell you,
I will answer for what I do. Kiss me now, thou cleaving
madness, before that boat comes.”</p>

<p>On bounded the little sailboat over the flashing water,
and presently drew so near that Nellie, in her green hood,
could be recognized. And in a few more minutes the little
boat touched the beach, and Nellie, with her two boys,
as she called her stepsons, jumped ashore and ran to
greet Marguerite and Mr. Helmstedt.</p>

<p>“And here are my boys, whom you have never seen
before, Marguerite. Ralph, speak to Mrs. Helmstedt.
Franky, that’s not the way to make a bow, sir, pulling a
lock of your hair; you must have learned that from Black
Lem. Ralph does not do so; he’s a gentleman,” said the
young stepmother.</p>

<p>Marguerite, who had embraced Nellie with great affection,
received her stepsons with kindness. And Mr.
Helmstedt, who had welcomed the party with much cordiality,
now led the way up to the house.</p>

<p>This was Mrs. Houston’s first visit to Mrs. De Lancie
Helmstedt’s new home, and she was full of curiosity and
observation.</p>

<p>“How rich the land is, Marguerite! I declare the isle
is green down to the very water’s edge in most places—and<span class="pagenum">[108]</span>
so well timbered. And the house, too; how substantial
and comfortable its strong, gray walls look. I
like that bay window with the round balcony over it, to
the right of the entrance; such an unusual thing in this
part of the country.”</p>

<p>“Yes, my husband had it built just before he brought
me home; the bay window abuts from my own parlor,
and is arranged in memory of that ‘celebrated’ bay window
of your father’s library and music-room. The round
balcony above it opens from my chamber, which is just
over the parlor; both the window below and the balcony
above command a magnificent western view of the bay and
the opposite shore of Maryland and Virginia, divided by
the mouth of the Potomac; you shall see for yourself to-day.”</p>

<p>“And yet it must be lonesome here for you, Marguerite.
I do not understand how one like you, who have
led so brilliant a life in the midst of the world, can bear
to live here. Why, I can scarcely endure Buzzard’s Bluff,
although it is a fine old place, on the mainland, with
neighbors all around.”</p>

<div class="poetry-container" style="margin-top:0em">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“‘My mind to me a kingdom is:</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Such perfect joy I find therein,’”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>murmured Marguerite, with an ambiguous smile.</p>

<p>The day passed agreeably to all. Mrs. Houston had a
budget of city news and gossip to open and deliver; and,
by the time this was done, dinner was announced; and,
when that meal was over, Mrs. Houston reminded her
hostess of her promise to show her through the house.</p>

<p>Nellie was unhesitating in her commendations of Marguerite’s
chamber.</p>

<p>“Rose-colored window curtains and bed hangings and
lounge covers, by all that’s delightful. Why, Marguerite,
you have everything in civilized style in this savage part
of the world!” Then they passed out of the chamber
upon the balcony, and stood admiring the wide expanse
of blue water, dotted here and there with islets, and the
far distant coast, split just opposite by the river, and
varied up and down by frequent headlands and inlets.
Marguerite placed a spyglass in her friend’s hand.</p>

<p>“I declare, Marguerite, this island lies along due east<span class="pagenum">[109]</span>
of the mouth of the Potomac. Why, I can see the pines
on Point Lookout and Point Rogers with the naked eye—and,
with the aid of the glass, I do think I can see so far
up the river as your place, Plover’s Point.”</p>

<p>“That is fancy, my dear; Plover’s Point is fifteen miles
up the river.”</p>

<p>As the air was calm and the water smooth, with the
promise of continuing so for the night at least, and as
there was a full moon, Mrs. Houston felt safe in remaining
to tea.</p>

<p>When she was ready to go home, and before she left
the chamber, where she had put on her outer garments,
she tried to persuade Marguerite not only to come very
soon to Buzzard’s Bluff, but to fix the day when she
might expect her.</p>

<p>“You will excuse me for some time yet, dearest Nellie.
The truth is that I arrived at home the day of the last
storm; in crossing in a boat from the schooner to the
island, the wind was high and the water very rough, and
I received a terrible fright—was within an inch of being
lost, in fact; I have not entered a boat since—have not
the least idea that I shall be able to do so for a long
time,” said Mrs. Helmstedt, evasively.</p>

<p>“Why, not even when the sea is as calm as it is this
beautiful night?”</p>

<p>“I fear not—the sea is proverbially treacherous.”</p>

<p>“Why, you do not mean to say that, rather than venture
on the water, you will confine yourself to this island
all your life?”</p>

<p>“I know not, indeed; life is uncertain—mine may be
very short.”</p>

<p>“Why, Marguerite, how unlike yourself you are at this
moment. What! Marguerite—my heroic Marguerite—she
who ‘held the blast in scorn,’ growing nervous, fearing
storms, doubting still water even, thinking of death?
Whew! there must be some noteworthy reason for this
metamorphosis! Say, is it so, my dearest Mrs. Helmstedt?”
inquired Nellie, with a smile, half archness, half
love.</p>

<p>For an answer Marguerite kissed her tenderly, when
Nellie said:</p>

<p>“Well, well! I shall visit you frequently, Marguerite,<span class="pagenum">[110]</span>
whether you come to see me or not, for no change has
come over your little Nellie, whom you know you can treat
as you please—slight her, flout her, affront her, and she
is still your little Nellie. Now, please to lend me a shawl,
for the air on the bay is too cool at night to make my
black silk scarf comfortable, and I’ll go.”</p>

<p>Mr. and Mrs. Helmstedt walked down to the beach
with Nellie and her boys, saw them enter the boat, which
quickly left the beach, and, with the dipping oars raising
sparkles of light in its course, glided buoyantly over the
moonlit water toward the distant point of Buzzard’s
Bluff.</p>

<p>Philip Helmstedt and Marguerite were left alone on
the beach.</p>

<p>Philip stood with folded arms and moody brow, gloomily
watching the vanishing boat.</p>

<p>But Marguerite was watching him.</p>

<p>He turned and looked at her, saying, in a troubled
voice:</p>

<p>“Marguerite, you are the warden of your own liberty.
You can speak, if you choose, the words that will free
you from restraint. Why will you not do it? You punish
me even more than yourself by the obstinate silence
that makes you a prisoner.”</p>

<p>“Philip, it is not as you think. I cannot speak those
words to which you allude; but, Philip, beloved, I can
and do accept your fiat. Let it rest so, dearest, until, perhaps,
a day may come when I may be clear before you.”</p>

<p>“The air is too chill for you; come to the house,” said
Mr. Helmstedt, and, without making any comment upon
her words, he gave Marguerite his arm and led her home.</p>

<p>From that day forward, by tacit consent, they never
alluded to the subject that gave both so much uneasiness.
And life passed calmly and monotonously at the island.</p>

<p>Mrs. Houston made herself merry in talking to her
mother, who was on a visit to Buzzard’s Bluff, of Marguerite’s
nervousness and its probable cause. And both
mother and daughter waived ceremony and often visited
the island, where they were always received with warm
welcome both by Mr. and Mrs. Helmstedt. And not the
faintest suspicion that there was any cause of disagreement
between their friends ever approached the minds of<span class="pagenum">[111]</span>
either the Houstons or the Comptons. They saw the
deep attachment that existed between Philip and Marguerite,
and believed them to be very happy. It is true
that Mrs. Helmstedt’s palpable ill-health was a subject
of frequent comment on the part of Mrs. Houston, as
well as of serious anxiety to Mrs. Compton.</p>

<p>“I fear that Marguerite will not live; I fear that she
will die as her mother died,” said the elder lady.</p>

<p>“I can scarcely believe that such a glorious creature
should die; nor do I believe it. But she does remind me
of that rich, bright, tropical flower that I bought at the
conservatory in Richmond and brought down to Buzzard’s
Bluff. It did not fade or bleach in our bleak air
but dropped its head, wilted and died, as brilliant in death
as in life. Marguerite lived out her glorious life in
Richmond among worshiping friends—but now! And
yet Philip Helmstedt loves her devotedly, loves her almost
to death, as my little stepson, Franky, vows he loves
me,” said Nellie.</p>

<p>“‘To death!’ there is some love like the blessed vivifying
sunshine, such as the colonel’s affection for you, Nellie;
and some love like the destroying fire, such as Philip
Helmstedt’s passion for Marguerite. And I do not know
that she is one whit behind him in the infatuation,” replied
her mother.</p>

<p>One morning Mrs. Houston brought a new visitor to
see the beautiful recluse of Helmstedt’s Island, the Rev.
Mr. Wellworth, the pastor of Rockbridge parish, on the
Northumberland shore, a gentleman who, from his elevated
moral and intellectual character, was an invaluable
acquisition to their limited circle.</p>

<p>Mr. Wellworth expressed a hope that Mrs. Helmstedt
would come to church, and also that she would call on
Mrs. Wellworth, who would be very happy to see her.</p>

<p>But Marguerite excused herself by saying that her
health and spirits were fluctuating and uncertain, and
that she never left home, although she would, at all times,
be very much pleased to receive Mr. and Mrs. Wellworth,
who, she hoped, would do her the signal favor to waive
etiquette and come as often as they could make it convenient
or agreeable.</p>

<p>Readily admitting the validity of these excuses, the<span class="pagenum">[112]</span>
pastor took the lady at her word, and soon brought his
wife to visit her.</p>

<p>And, excepting the family at Buzzard’s Bluff, this
amiable pair were the only acquaintances Mrs. Helmstedt
possessed in the neighborhood.</p>

<p>Thus calmly and monotonously passed life on and
around the island; its passage marked that year by only
two important events.</p>

<p>The first was the retirement of Colonel Compton from
political life (dismissed the public service by the new
President, Thomas Jefferson), followed by the breaking
up of his establishment at Richmond and the removal to
Northumberland County, where the colonel and his wife
took up their abode with their daughter and son-in-law
at Buzzard’s Bluff. This event broke off the intimate
connection between them and the bustling world they had
left, though for a few weeks of every winter Nellie went
to visit her friends in the city, and for a month or two,
every summer, received and entertained them at Buzzard’s
Bluff. Nellie declared that without this variety she
should go melancholy mad; and at the same time wondered
how Marguerite—the beautiful and brilliant Marguerite—would
endure the isolation and monotony of her
life on the island.</p>

<p>The other important occurrence was the accouchement
of Mrs. Helmstedt, that took place early in October, when
she became the mother of a lovely little girl. The sex of
this child was a serious disappointment to Mr. Helmstedt,
who had quite set his heart upon a son and heir,
and who could scarcely conceal his vexation from the
penetrating, beseeching eyes of his unhappy wife.</p>

<p>Mrs. Compton came and passed six weeks with the invalid,
nursing her with the same maternal care that, in
like circumstances, she would have bestowed upon her
own daughter Nellie, and often repeating, cheerfully:</p>

<p>“When Marguerite gets well we shall have her out
among us again,” or other hopeful words to the same
effect.</p>

<p>But Marguerite was never again quite well. Brighter
and brighter, month after month, burned in her sunken
cheeks and mournful eyes the secret fire that was consuming
her frame.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum">[113]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.
<br /><span class="cheaderfont">THE VISITOR.</span></h2>
</div>


<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“Speak, speak, thou fearful guest!”</div>
    <div class="verse indent6">—<span class="smcap">Longfellow.</span></div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“I could a tale unfold whose lightest word</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">Would harrow up thy blood!”</div>
    <div class="verse indent6">—<span class="smcap">Shakespeare.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Spiritually speaking, there is no such thing as time or
space, as measured by numbers. For often moments in
our experience drag themselves painfully on into indefinitely
protracted duration, and sometimes years pass in a
dream, “as a tale that is told.”</p>

<p>Life passed monotonously to all on Helmstedt’s Island;
but most monotonously to her who might not leave its
shores. Every one else among its inhabitants often varied
the scene by going upon the mainland on either side of
the bay. Mr. Helmstedt went off almost every morning,
not infrequently remaining out all day to dine at Colonel
Houston’s, Mr. Wellworth’s, or some other friend’s
house. The domestic and out-servants relieved each
other in turn, that they might go to church on Sundays
or visit their friends on the shore. Only Marguerite
never upon any account left the island. The Houstons
and the Comptons would expostulate with her, and talk
to Mr. Helmstedt, alike in vain.</p>

<p>“Indeed I cannot leave the island, dear friends,” would
Marguerite say, without assigning any reason why she
would not.</p>

<p>“Mrs. Helmstedt does not choose to leave home; it is
her will to confine herself to the island, and her will is a
very dominant one, as you know,” would be Mr. Helmstedt’s
explanation.</p>

<p>“I declare it is a monomania! Marguerite is a riddle.
Here some years ago she used to run away from us
all, and be absent six or seven months, without deigning
to inform us either where or why she went; now she
chooses to confine herself within the limits of her island
home, without giving us any reason for the eccentricity.
But I suppose, indeed, that it is all occasioned by the
state of her nerves,” would be Nellie’s comment upon
all this.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[114]</span></p>

<p>Meanwhile Mrs. Helmstedt passed her time in superintending
her house and servants, all of which was faultlessly
managed; in rearing her child; and in attending,
as only a devoted wife can attend, to the personal comforts
of her husband during the day, and in entertaining
him and any chance visitor with her harp or voice or
varied conversation in the evening. Those days upon
which Mr. Helmstedt was absent were the longest and
heaviest of all to the recluse—but her greatest comforts
were her child, her occupations and the contemplation
of the glorious scenery around her.</p>

<p>She could never weary of the “infinite variety” of the
sea. Some days, in fine, weather, when the sky was clear,
the air calm and the water smooth, the bay spread out a
vast level mirror, framed far away by green shores and
reflecting the firmament from a bosom pure and peaceable
as heaven. Other days, when the winds were rising
and the waves heaving, the whole sky lowered down upon
the sea, the wild waters leaped to meet it, and clouds and
waves were mingled together in dreadful chaos, like two
opposing armies in mortal conflict. Some nights the
whole grand expanse of the bay was changed into an
ocean of fluid silver, with shores of diamond light, by
the shining of the full moon down upon the clear water
and glittering, white sandy beach. Other nights, when
there was no moon, the dark, transparent waters reflected
clearly the deep blue firmament, brilliantly studded
with stars. And between these extreme phases, under
foul or fair days, or dark or bright nights, there was
every variety and shade of change.</p>

<p>When the weather and her engagements permitted,
Mrs. Helmstedt, attended only by her faithful Newfoundlander,
Fidelle, passed much time in walking up and
down the sandy beach, looking far out upon the free
waters, or using her spyglass to observe some distant
passing ship and its crew. She made the most of the
space allotted to her. The isle, a mile long by a quarter
broad, was about two miles and a half round. Often, to
afford herself the longest walk, she started from some
given spot, and, following the beach, made the circuit of
the island—a long and varied walk for a stranger, but
monotonous to her who had no other, and who from her<span class="pagenum">[115]</span>
earliest infancy had been a natural rambler. She who
through childhood and youth had delighted to wander out
among the wild scenes of nature, and lose herself amid the
pathless woods, or to spring upon her favorite steed and
fly over hill and vale, miles and miles away; or jump into
a boat propelled by her own single hand, and explore the
coast, with its frequent points and headlands, creeks and
inlets, felt most severely and bitterly this constraint upon
her motions. She never complained, in word, or even in
look; she accepted the suffering and hid it deep in her
heart with her secret sorrow. Both preyed upon her
health of mind and body. Daily her form grew thinner
and the fire in her cheeks and eye brighter and fiercer.</p>

<p>Philip Helmstedt observed all this with pain and dread.
Yet his pride and firmness would not permit him to yield
one tittle.</p>

<p>“This is a conflict between our wills, Marguerite,” he
said, “and one in which you should at once, as you must
sooner or later, yield.”</p>

<p>“I will when I can, Philip.”</p>

<p>“You must, for you are very weary of this island.”</p>

<p>“I have not said so.”</p>

<p>“You are very obstinate, Mrs. Helmstedt.”</p>

<p>“I am very unhappy in offending you—that is a greater
sorrow to me than my restraint.”</p>

<p>“They are the same in fact. Remember, Marguerite,
that you are your own custodian, and know how to get
your liberty. Speak and you are free!”</p>

<p>“Would, indeed, that I might utter the words you wish
to hear, Philip Helmstedt. Alas, I cannot!”</p>

<p>“Will not, you mean. Very well, Marguerite, then
remember that you choose this confinement to the island.”</p>

<p>She bowed her head in proud though sad acquiescence,
saying:</p>

<p>“Be it so! I accept your version of the affair, Philip.
I choose this confinement on the island.”</p>

<p>Mrs. Helmstedt’s immense wealth was for the present
not only of no use, but of vexation to her; it was troublesome
to manage, on account of her various estates being
in places distant, or of difficult access, and some four or
five times in the course of each year it became necessary<span class="pagenum">[116]</span>
for Mr. Helmstedt to make a journey of three or four
weeks for the settlement of accounts.</p>

<p>These absences were so trying to the secluded woman,
who had no companion but her husband, and could
scarcely bear to lose him for a day, that she suggested
to Mr. Helmstedt that they should avail themselves of the
first favorable opportunity to dispose of Eagle Flight, her
mountain farm, and of her house on Loudoun street, in
Winchester. Whereupon Mr. Helmstedt, who desired
nothing better, immediately advertised the property for
sale, and soon found purchasers. When the transfer was
made and price paid, Mr. Helmstedt consulted his wife in
regard to the disposition of the purchase money.</p>

<p>“Invest it in your own name, and in any way you see
fit, dear Philip,” she said.</p>

<p>And he probably took her at her word, for the subject
was never renewed between them.</p>

<p>Plover’s Point, her most valuable estate, being but
fifteen miles up the river, on the Virginia side, was so
readily accessible that it had been permitted to remain
under cultivation, in the hands of an overseer, subject to
the occasional supervision of the master. But at last an
opportunity was presented of selling the place for a very
liberal price, and Mr. Helmstedt made known the fact
to his wife. But Marguerite declined to dispose of
Plover’s Point upon any terms whatever.</p>

<p>“It was my mother’s ancestral home, and my own birthplace,
dearest Philip. As my mother left it to me, I wish
to leave it to my daughter.”</p>

<p>“As you please,” said her husband, and dropped the
subject.</p>

<p>A few days after that he came to her with an inquiry
whether she would be willing to give a lease of the property
for a term of years, and, glad to be able to meet
his wishes at any point, Mrs. Helmstedt at once agreed
to the proposition.</p>

<p>The new tenant of Plover’s Point was Dr. Hartley,
with his wife, son and daughter. They were a great
accession to the neighborhood, for, though fifteen miles
up the river, they were, in that spacious district, considered
neighbors. The Houstons, Comptons and Wellworths
called upon them, as also did Mr. Helmstedt, who<span class="pagenum">[117]</span>
apologized for the non-appearance of his wife, saying
that Mrs. Helmstedt suffered in health and spirits and
never left her home, and expressed a hope that they
would dispense with form and visit her there. And this,
at last, Dr. and Mrs. Hartley decided to do, and, after
having once made the acquaintance of Marguerite, they
felt powerfully attracted to pursue it.</p>

<p>About this time, five years from the birth of her daughter,
Marguerite became the mother of an infant son, who
merely opened his eyes upon this world to close them immediately
in death.</p>

<p>The loss of the babe was a severe disappointment to
Mr. Helmstedt, and, for that reason, a heavier sorrow to
Marguerite. Her health was now so enfeebled that her
physician, Dr. Hartley, earnestly advised a change of air
and scene, and his advice was warmly seconded by her
friends at Buzzard’s Bluff.</p>

<p>This consultation took place in the presence of Marguerite,
who smiled proudly and mournfully.</p>

<p>Her husband answered:</p>

<p>“It shall be just as Mrs. Helmstedt decides; but as
she has confined herself exclusively to her home, against
the wishes and advice of all her friends, for more than
five years, I greatly fear that she will not be induced, by
anybody, to leave it.”</p>

<p>Mrs. Houston replied:</p>

<p>“Think of it, Dr. Hartley. Mrs. Helmstedt has not
set foot off this island for nearly six years! Enough in
itself to ruin her health and spirits.”</p>

<p>“Quite enough, indeed,” said the kind-hearted physician,
adding, “I hope, Mr. Helmstedt, that you will be
able to persuade your wife to leave here for a time.”</p>

<p>“I shall endeavor to do so,” gravely answered that
gentleman.</p>

<p>And when the visitors had all departed, and Mr. Helmstedt
was alone with his wife, he took her white, transparent
hand, and gazing mournfully into her emaciated,
but still brilliantly beautiful face, said:</p>

<p>“Marguerite, will you have mercy on yourself? Will
you save your life? Will you, in a word, make the revelation
I require as your only possible ransom, so that<span class="pagenum">[118]</span>
I may take you where you may recover your health?
Will you, Marguerite?”</p>

<p>She shook her head in sorrowful pride.</p>

<p>“Have you so mistaken me after all these years, Philip?
And do you think that the revelation I could not make
for your dear sake six years ago I can make now for my
own? No, Philip, no.”</p>

<p>And again, for a time, the harassing subject was
dropped.</p>

<p>Mrs. Helmstedt had one dear consolation; a lone angel
was ever at her side, her little daughter “Margaret,” as
her Anglo-Saxon father preferred to write the name.
As the lady’s health temporarily rallied, her sweetest employment
was that of educating this child.</p>

<p>Margaret had inherited little of her mother’s transcendent
beauty and genius; but the shadow of that
mother’s woe lay lingering in her eyes—those large, soft,
dark eyes, so full of earnest tenderness. Through the
dreariest seasons in all the long and dreary years of her
confinement—those desolate seasons when Mr. Helmstedt
was varying the scene of his life at Baltimore, Annapolis,
or some other point to which business or inclination
called him; and Nellie was enjoying the society of her
friends in Richmond, and Marguerite was left for weary
weeks and months, companionless on the island, this
loving child was her sweetest comforter. And little
Margaret, with her premature and thoughtful sympathy,
better liked to linger near her sad-browed mother, than
even to leave the isle; but sweet as was this companionship,
Mrs. Helmstedt, with a mother’s unselfish affection,
was solicitous that Margaret should enjoy the company
of friends of her own age, and frequently sent her, under
the charge of Ralph or Franky Houston, to pass a day
at Rockbridge parsonage with Grace Wellworth, the
clergyman’s child, or a week at Plover’s Point with Clare
Hartley, the doctor’s daughter; and still more frequently
she invited one or both of those little girls to spend a
few days on the island.</p>

<p>But at length there came a time, when Margaret was
about twelve years of age, that she lost the society of her
young friends. Grace Wellworth and Clare Hartley were
sent up together to Richmond, under the charge of Colonel<span class="pagenum">[119]</span>
and Mrs. Houston, who were going thither on a visit,
to enter a first-class boarding school, and thus Margaret
was left companionless; and for a little while suffered a
depression of spirits, strange and sad in one so young.</p>

<p>Mrs. Helmstedt saw this with alarm, and dreaded the
farther effect of isolation and solitude upon her loving
and sensitive child.</p>

<p>“She must not suffer through my fate. Dear as she is,
she must leave me. The sins of her parents shall not be
visited upon her innocent head,” said Marguerite to herself.
(Alas! Mrs. Helmstedt, how could you prevent the
action of that natural and certain consequence?) And
that same day, being in her own special parlor, of the
bay window, with Mr. Helmstedt, she said:</p>

<p>“Do you not think, Philip, that it would be best to
send our daughter to Richmond, to be educated with her
friends, Grace and Clare?”</p>

<p>“By no means, Marguerite; the plan is not to be
thought of for a moment,” answered Mr. Helmstedt,
who did not love his child with one tithe of the affection
he bestowed upon his wife—notwithstanding that through
pride and obstinacy he still kept the latter a sort of prisoner
of honor—and who, knowing how dear to her was
the society of her little girl, would not let the interest of
Margaret conflict for an instant with the happiness of her
mother.</p>

<p>“But our child has attained an age now when she
needs the companionship of her equals, as much as she
wants teachers.”</p>

<p>“Marguerite! there is not in this wide world a
teacher, man or woman, so, in all respects, and for all
reasons, competent to educate your daughter as yourself.
You delight, also, in the occupation of instructing her;
therefore, she shall not leave you.”</p>

<p>“But her isolation—her loneliness? Her evident depression
of spirits?”</p>

<p>“She feels the loss of her companions, as she must feel
it for some days, after which she will get over it. For
the rest, a child abroad with nature as she is, cannot
suffer from loneliness; and even if she did, her sufferings
would be less than nothing compared with what you
would feel in losing her for years.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[120]</span></p>

<p>“I pray you do not consider me in this affair.”</p>

<p>“Cease, dear Marguerite; the child is better with you,
and shall not leave you,” said Mr. Helmstedt.</p>

<p>And as little Margaret entered at the same moment to
take her music lesson, the subject was dropped, and Mr.
Helmstedt left the room.</p>

<p>But Marguerite did not yield the point. After giving
her young daughter her lesson on the harp, and while
sitting exhausted on her sofa, she suddenly said:</p>

<p>“My dear, you miss Grace and Clare very much, don’t
you?”</p>

<p>“Yes, dear mother.”</p>

<p>“Wouldn’t you like to go to Richmond and enter the
same school they are in?” she inquired, pushing aside
the dark clustering curls from the child’s fair forehead,
and looking wistfully into her face, which was suddenly
shadowed by a cloud of grief or fear. “Say, would you
not, my Margaret?”</p>

<p>The little red lip quivered, and the dark eyes melted
into tears; but she answered by asking, softly:</p>

<p>“Do you want me to go, mamma?”</p>

<p>“I think, perhaps, it might be best that you should do
so, my love.”</p>

<p>“Well, then, I will go,” she said, meekly, struggling
to govern her feelings, and then, losing all self-control,
she burst into a fit of irrepressible weeping; in the midst
of which her father re-entered the room, and learning
the cause of her emotion, said:</p>

<p>“Cease crying this moment, Madge. You shall not
leave your mother.”</p>

<p>“But—sir, mamma prefers that I should go,” said
the little girl, quickly swallowing her sobs and wiping
her eyes, for she feared even more than she loved her
father, though she loved him very much.</p>

<p>“Your mother prefers that you should go, only because
she sees you look sad, and fears that you feel lonesome
here without companions of your own age.”</p>

<p>“Oh, but—I should be more lonesome at Richmond,
away from my dear mamma,” said the little maiden, with
a look of amazement, that her mother should, for a moment,
think otherwise.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[121]</span></p>

<p>“Of course you would; so then let the matter rest.
Mrs. Helmstedt, are you at length satisfied?”</p>

<p>Marguerite bowed and smiled to her husband, and
then turned upon her daughter a look of ineffable tenderness,
while forming the secret resolution that her own
devoted love and care should compensate to the maiden
for the absence alike of teachers and companions.</p>

<p>And well she kept her silent promise. No princess
ever had an instructress at once so accomplished, so
competent and zealous as this little island rustic possessed
in her gifted and devoted mother. And from this
day also, whether for her beloved mother’s sake, she
shook off her sadness, or whether a happy reaction had
taken place, Margaret did not appear to suffer in the
least degree from the loneliness so dreaded for her. As
other more favored children learn to walk by nature, so
this lonely island maiden learned to ride on horseback,
to row a skiff, and to work a little sailboat. And daily,
after her lessons were over, she would, in her free, unquestioned
way, run down to the beach, get into her
little boat and row around the isle, or if the wind was
fresh and not too high plant her slender mast and hoist
her sail.</p>

<p>Ralph Houston was at this time at Harvard University,
but Franky was at home, preparing for college, under the
direction of the Rev. Mr. Wellworth, whom he attended
in his library three times a week. And Franky came
often to the island to see his young neighbor, Margaret,
and in his affectionate zeal would have been Grace, Clare,
the city of Richmond and himself, all in one, for her sweet
sake. While at home in the evenings, he carved “cornelian”
rings and bodkins out of broken tortoiseshell
combs, and “ivory” needle-cases and paper-folders out of
boiled mutton bones for her; and she wore and used
them because they were Franky’s work. And if he had
pocket money, as he generally had, for he was a great
favorite with his stepmother, who liberally supplied him,
he was sure to send it by the first opportunity to the
city to buy the newest book, picture or music for Margaret,
who, whether the present were good, bad or indifferent
of its kind, read the book, framed the picture
or learned the music, because it was the gift of Franky.<span class="pagenum">[122]</span>
As time passed Mr. Houston observed this growing
friendship with delight, and prophesied the future union
of the youth and maiden—a provision at which Franky
would blush scarlet between boyish shame and joy.
Other interested parties took cognizance of this state of
affairs. Mr. Helmstedt, whenever he gave himself the
trouble to think of his daughter’s future, viewed this
prospect without dissatisfaction, which was, perhaps, the
highest degree of approbation of which his sombre nature
was now capable. And Mrs. Helmstedt also, conscious
of the precarious hold of her feverish spirit upon her
frail body, found great comfort in the contemplation of
Franky’s clear mind and affectionate heart, cheerful temper
and strong attachment to her child. But if Margaret
loved Franky it was “at second best,” and as much for
the sake of one far away as for his own. There is no
accounting for the waywardness of the passions and affections,
and if the truth must here be told, Margaret in her
secret heart better liked the dark, earnest, thoughtful
man, Ralph, who was twelve years her senior, and whom
she never saw more than twice a year, than this fair, gay,
gentle youth who was her almost daily companion. And
no one suspected this secret, which was but dimly revealed
to the young maiden’s self.</p>

<p>But at length the passage of time brought the day
when Margaret was to lose Franky also. Ralph Houston
had graduated at Harvard, and was coming home for a
visit previous to going out to make the grand tour. And
Franky, now fully prepared to enter college, was to take
his brother’s vacated rooms at the university. Nellie
Houston had appropriated all her available funds in
fitting out Franky for his new life, purchasing delicacies
and luxuries in the way of fine and costly wearing apparel
and elegant toilet apparatus, such as his father’s
prudence or economy would have denied him; for never
did a mother dote upon an only son with a fonder affection
than did Nellie on her fair stepson, her “pretty boy,”
as she called him, even after he was twenty years of age.
Many of the presents she had purchased for her “boy,”
such as a rich watch and chain, a costly seal ring, a
heavily chased gold pencil case with a ruby setting, richly
embroidered velvet fatigue cap and slippers, a handsome<span class="pagenum">[123]</span>
dressing gown, Paris kid gloves, linen cambric handkerchiefs,
perfumery, scented soaps, etc.—articles, some of
them, only fit for a lady’s toilet, she had smuggled into
his trunks, unknown to his father; but some things accidentally
fell under the observation of the colonel, who
stared in astonishment.</p>

<p>“Why, what upon the face of the earth, Nellie, do you
think Frank wants with this gimcrack?” he said, raising
the lid of an elegant inlaid dressing case.</p>

<p>“He will want it at his morning exercises,” said Nellie.</p>

<p>“Ah, it is you who are making a dandy of that boy!
I shall, by and by, expect to hear, as the highest praise
that can be bestowed upon him, that he is ‘ladylike.’”</p>

<p>“Well, sir, your gallantry will not deny that is very
high praise.”</p>

<p>“Humph! yes! about as high as it would be to call a
lady ‘manly.’”</p>

<p>“Well, why shouldn’t that be high praise also? Why
should not a man, with all his manliness, possess the
delicate tastes of a woman? And why should not a
woman, with all her womanliness, possess the courage
and fortitude of a man? My Franky shall have lace
shirt frills and collars and cuffs, if he likes; and I, if
there’s to be a war with England, as they say, will go
and ‘’list for a sojer,’ if I like,” said Nellie, petulantly.</p>

<p>“Ha, ha, ha! You will certainly have an opportunity,
my dear,” said the colonel; then, growing serious, “for a
war can no longer be staved off.”</p>

<p>In addition to her other efforts to please her “boy,”
Nellie determined upon giving him a farewell party, the
first party ever given in the neighborhood. It was difficult
in that sparse district to “drum up” enough young
people to form a single quadrille. Grace Wellworth and
Clare Hartley were at home for the Easter holidays.
Grace had brought a schoolmate with her, and Clare had
an elder brother, John; and these four were invited. Mr.
and Mrs. Helmstedt and their daughter were, of course,
bidden; Nellie herself carried the invitation, with the
view of teazing Marguerite into accepting it.</p>

<p>“Now, Marguerite, you must be sure to come, it will
do you good. You can come over early in the afternoon,
so as to get a good rest before it is time to dress, and<span class="pagenum">[124]</span>
when all is over you can stay all night, you know. Marguerite,
do come. Mr. Helmstedt, lay your commands
on her, make her come, bring her,” said Nellie, playfully
appealing to the master of the house.</p>

<p>“If Mrs. Helmstedt had placed the slightest value
upon her husband’s wishes, not to use so obnoxious a
word as commands, madam, she would not have confined
herself to the island thus long,” said that gentleman.</p>

<p>“You will please to excuse me, dear Nellie. Mr. Helmstedt
and Margaret will go with pleasure, but for myself,
I cannot leave home.”</p>

<p>“You only think so, Marguerite. I declare it is a
monomania that your friends ought not to put up with,”
said Nellie, impatiently. But her words were as vain
then as they had been for many years past.</p>

<p>She went home to make arrangements for her <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">fête</i>,
and Marguerite busied herself in preparing her daughter’s
costume for the occasion. Margaret was delighted at the
prospect of going to a party, a thing that she had heard
of and read of, but never witnessed. At length the all-important
day arrived. Mr. Helmstedt said that he
should attend his daughter to Buzzard’s Bluff, but that
afterward he should have to leave her there and go to a
political meeting at Heathville, so that she must prepare
herself to stay all night with her friends, as he should not
be able to return for her until morning.</p>

<p>“But then mamma will be alone all night,” said Margaret,
uneasily.</p>

<p>“Never think of me, sweet girl; I shall sleep,” replied
her mother.</p>

<p>Early in the afternoon Forrest received orders to get
the <em>Nereide</em> ready to take his master and young mistress
across to the Bluff. And Mrs. Helmstedt, with
affectionate care, dressed her daughter. Never had Margaret
been in full dress before. Her attire was rather
delicate than rich, and consisted of a lace robe over a
rose-colored silk skirt, and a wreath of white and red
rosebuds in her hair. Her white kid gloves and white
satin shoes were wrapped up to be put on when she
should reach the Bluff.</p>

<p>When all was ready Marguerite walked down with her
husband and daughter to the beach to see them off. As<span class="pagenum">[125]</span>
they reached the sands a pleasant object met their view.
It was a fairylike boat, of elegant form, artistically
painted, of a shaded gray on the outside and white,
flushed with rose-color, on the inside; and bore upon its
prow, in silver characters, <em>The Pearl Shell</em>.</p>

<p>“And here is the pearl,” said Franky Houston, who
had just leaped on shore, going to Margaret and taking
her hand, “will you allow me to put her in it, Mr. Helmstedt?”</p>

<p>“Certainly, Franky, since you were so kind as to come.
Your dainty ‘shell’ is also somewhat cleaner and more
suitable to her dress than our working-day boat.”</p>

<p>“How do you do, Mrs. Helmstedt? Come, Margaret,”
said the youth.</p>

<p>“Stop, Franky, I must bid mamma good-by first,”
replied the maiden, going up to her mother. “Sweet
mamma! you will not be lonesome?”</p>

<p>“No—no, my love, I shall go to sleep—good-evening,”
said Mrs. Helmstedt, throwing over her daughter’s head
and shoulders a fleecy white shawl, to protect her from
the sea breeze.</p>

<p>“Come, Margaret,” pleaded her companion.</p>

<p>“Yes, yes, I am coming, Franky. Mamma, dearest
mamma! I do so dislike to leave you alone to-night—it
seems so cruel. We are all going but you. Everybody
on the island, black and white, can go abroad but you.
Mamma, why is it? Why do you never leave the island,
dearest mamma?” inquired Margaret, fixing her earnest,
tender eyes wistfully upon her mother’s face.</p>

<p>“Because I do not will to do so, my dear; there, go
and enjoy yourself, love. See, your father and Forrest
are already in the other boat, and Franky is waiting to
put my pearl in his shell. Good-night, sweet!” said Mrs.
Helmstedt, kissing her daughter, with a smile so bright
that it cheered the maiden, and sent her tripping to join
her companion.</p>

<p>The <em>Nereide</em>, containing Mr. Helmstedt and his man,
had already left the shore. Franky handed Margaret into
the dainty boat, that was so perfectly clean as not to endanger
the spotless purity of her gala dress. When she
was seated, and Franky had taken his place at the oars
and pushed a little way from the shore, he said:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[126]</span></p>

<p>“This boat is yours, you know, dear Margaret; my
parting gift; I had it built on purpose, and painted it
myself, and named it for you. ‘Margaret,’ you know,
means ‘pearl,’ and this boat that carries you is a pearl
shell; I colored it as near like one as I could. I should
like to have the pleasure of rowing you about in it, but”—with
a deep sigh—“I can’t! However, you will not
want attention, Margaret, for my brother Ralph will be
home, where I am sure he will stay; for they say that
we are on the eve of war with England, in which case it
will not be expedient for him to go to Europe—so, of
course, he will stay home, and equally, of course, if he is
a great Don, he will supply my place to you, Margaret!
You have not answered one word that I have said to you—why,
what is the matter?”</p>

<p>Margaret, with her thoughts and affections still lingering
with her mother left behind, had turned to give her
a last look, and in doing so had started and grown pale
to see her still standing there, her black dress strongly
marked against the drear, white beach, alone, desolate, in
an attitude and with an expression of utter despair. Margaret
had never before surprised that look of heartbroken
hopelessness upon her mother’s well-guarded
countenance, and now having seen it, she never afterward
in life forgot it.</p>

<p>“You do not speak, Margaret; you do not like my
boat?”</p>

<p>“Oh, indeed I do, Franky! And you are very kind;
but I am thinking of mamma; I am afraid she will be
lonesome to-night, and, indeed, I wish to return to her.”</p>

<p>“Nonsense, my dear Margaret. She would send you
off again; besides, what would your father say?”</p>

<p>“But do, then, look at her, Franky, where she stands
alone.”</p>

<p>The youth turned around; but Mrs. Helmstedt saw
them watching her, smiled her bright, delusive smile,
waved them adieu, and turned away.</p>

<p>Margaret sighed.</p>

<p>And Franky pulled rapidly for the Bluff, which they
reached just after sunset.</p>

<p>“Is not that a fine sight, Margaret?” asked her companion,
as they left the boat and climbed the bluff, pointing<span class="pagenum">[127]</span>
to the illuminated front of the mansion that cast a
long stream of red light across the darkening water.</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Margaret, absently; for she saw in her
“mind’s eye,” not the twenty festive lights before her,
but her mother’s solitary figure left behind on the beach.</p>

<p>They soon arrived at the house, where the young girl
was met by Mrs. Houston, who conducted her to the
dressing-room, where Grace Wellworth, Clare Hartley,
and half a dozen other young ladies were arranging their
toilets. Very enthusiastic was the greeting between Margaret
and her young friends, whom she had not met
since their return.</p>

<p>“Why, what exquisite taste is displayed in your toilet,
Madge, you little rustic; one would think a city milliner
had arranged it—who dressed you?” inquired Clare
Hartley.</p>

<p>“A more delicate hand—my dearest mamma,” said
Margaret, her thoughts again reverting to the mournful
figure left standing alone on the beach.</p>

<p>When they were all ready, they descended to the
dancing-room—two large parlors thrown into one, brilliantly
lighted, and half filled with a company of young,
middle-aged and elderly persons, for there was not youth
enough in that neighborhood to make a considerable assembly
of themselves. A temporary platform at one end
of the room accommodated four sable musicians, with a
large and small violin, a tambourine and banjo, which
they were tuning up with great zeal.</p>

<p>Franky “opened the ball” by leading Margaret out;
other couples instantly followed, and the dancing commenced,
but through the liveliest strains of the music
Margaret heard only her lonely mother’s fond “good-night,”
and with flying feet and beaming smiles around
her, saw only her mother’s solitary figure and mournful
brow.</p>

<p>Ah! Marguerite Helmstedt! How could you presume
to say: “The sins of her parents shall not be visited
upon this child.”</p>

<p>About nine o’clock the supper was served, and, while
the company were crowding in to the supper table, Margaret
called Franky aside and said:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[128]</span></p>

<p>“Franky, the moonlight is bright upon the water; if
you love me, dear Franky, take me home to mamma.”</p>

<p>“Why, you do astound me, dear Margaret! What
would the company say? Mother would never let you
go.”</p>

<p>“I must steal away unobserved, for, Franky, I am
sick to return to mamma. Something draws me so
strongly that I must and will go, even, if need be, alone—do
you understand?”</p>

<p>“I understand, dear Madge, that you inherit firmness
from both sides of your house, and that it is of very little
use to oppose your will; therefore, Margaret, I am at
your orders.”</p>

<p>“Thank you, dear Franky—now go and see that the
boat is ready, while I run and put on my other shoes
and shawl. We can go away quite unobserved, and
when you return you can make my apologies and adieus
to Mrs. Houston.”</p>

<p>Franky obeyed her.</p>

<p>And ten minutes after the youth and maiden were in
<em>The Pearl Shell</em>, skimming over the moonlit waters
toward the isle.</p>

<p>Meanwhile Mrs. Helmstedt, when she had waved adieu
to the young people on their way to the party and turned
from them, did not go immediately home, but rambled up
toward the north end of the island, and here she walked
up and down the sands, watching absently the monotonous
in-coming of the tide, or the leap and dip of the
fish, or the slow sailing of some laggard water fowl
through the evening air. As far as her eye could reach
not a sail was visible in any direction; land and water
was a scene of unbroken solitude for hours while she
walked there. The sunset threw into deep shadow the
long line of the opposite western shore, the sky grew
dark, and still the sad recluse pursued her lonely monotonous
walk. After awhile the full moon rose and changed
the darkened bay into a sea of fluid silver, and shining
full against the blackened western shore, changed it into
a line of diamond light. Then Marguerite was aware of
a sail making down the bay and bearing full upon the
island. There was no reason for the feeling, but the
approach of this packet filled the lady’s mind with a<span class="pagenum">[129]</span>
strange anxiety, alike impossible to explain or expel.
The vessel anchored near the isle and sent out a boat,
manned by two sailors, and containing a third person, apparently
a passenger.</p>

<p>The boat rowed rapidly toward the very spot upon
which the lady stood watching. In five minutes it
touched the sands, and the passenger, a gentleman of
about fifty years of age, stepped ashore, and, walking up
to Marguerite, bowed respectfully and inquired:</p>

<p>“Will you be so good as to inform me, madam, whether
Mrs. Helmstedt is at present at home.”</p>

<p>But as the stranger approached, Marguerite had grown
pale, and now, leaning against a pine tree for support,
exclaimed in a faint tone:</p>

<p>“My God, has it come at last?”</p>

<p>“I fear, madam, that I have alarmed you by my sudden
approach; reassure yourself, dear lady!” said the visitor,
politely.</p>

<p>But Marguerite, dropping her hands from before her
agonized countenance, exclaimed:</p>

<p>“Braunton! am I so changed, then, that you do not
know me? I am Marguerite Helmstedt, whom you seek.
But in the name of Heaven, then, what fatality has
brought you here?”</p>

<p>“A fatality indeed, madam,” answered the stranger,
in a sad tone.</p>

<p>“Come up to the house! by a merciful chance I am
alone this evening,” said the lady, struggling to sustain
herself against the agony of mind that was written in
characters of iron on her corrugated brow. The stranger
gave her his arm as an indispensable support, and the two
proceeded toward the mansion.</p>


<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.
<br /><span class="cheaderfont">LOVE, WAR AND BETROTHAL.</span></h2>
</div>


<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“Her mother smiled upon her bed,</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">As at its side we knelt to wed,</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">And the bride rose from her knee;</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">And she kissed the lips of her mother dead</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">Or ever she kissed me.”</div>
    <div class="verse indent6">—<span class="smcap">E. B. Browning.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>None ever knew what passed between Mrs. Helmstedt
and the gray-haired stranger who was closeted with her,<span class="pagenum">[130]</span>
in her favorite parlor, for several hours, that evening.
No one was in the house, in fact, at the time, except the
lady, her venerable guest, and her two confidential servants,
Hildreth and Forrest, who had, of late years,
grown into the habit of silence in regard to everything
concerning their unhappy mistress. Once in the wane of
that evening, Forrest rapped at the door for orders, and
had caught a glimpse of his mistress’s blanched and haggard
face, as she directed him to retire and wait until he
should hear her bell. And after waiting in the dining-room
opposite, for some hours, Forrest heard the departure
of the visitor, but listened in vain for Mrs. Helmstedt’s
bell.</p>

<p>Meanwhile, <em>The Pearl Shell</em>, containing Margaret and
Franky, glided swiftly over the moonlit waters. As they
neared the island, they saw another boat, containing a
pair of oarsmen and a single passenger, push off from
the beach and row rapidly toward a schooner, anchored
some quarter of a mile off. But as it was not an unusual
occurrence for passing vessels to send out boats to
the isle for water, wood or provisions, purchased from
the negroes, the sight of this one leaving its shores occasioned
no remark.</p>

<p>“Now row swiftly home, dear Franky, or they will
wonder what has become of us,” said Margaret, as soon
as she had sprung upon the shore. But Franky refused
to leave her until at least he had seen her safely housed.
So he took her hand, and they ran on up the sandy
barren, through the long timothy field, through the
orchard, and through the garden, until they reached the
front piazza, where Margaret insisted upon dismissing
her boy lover, who reluctantly left her.</p>

<p>And Margaret ran into the hall door, and thence into
her mother’s favorite parlor, on the threshold of which
she stood appalled!</p>

<p>The two wax candles upon the mantelpiece were burning
dimly, and their pale light fell ominously upon the
figure of Mrs. Helmstedt, sitting on the short sofa, with
her hands clasped rigidly together on her lap, her eyes
fixed and strained outward, and her face blanched and
frozen as if the hand of death had just passed over it.</p>

<p>One instant Margaret stood panic-stricken, and the<span class="pagenum">[131]</span>
next she was at her mother’s side, speaking to her, kissing
her, stroking her forehead, and trying to unclasp and
rub her rigidly-locked hands. For some minutes these
efforts were all in vain; and then a deep shuddering sigh,
that shook her whole form like the passage of an inward
storm, dissolved the spell that had bound her, and she
grew conscious of the presence of her child.</p>

<p>“Mamma, what shall I bring you? I had better call
Hildreth,” said Margaret, softly stealing away. But the
hand that she had been rubbing now closed on hers with
a tight, restraining clasp, and a deep, hollow, cavernous
voice, that she scarcely recognized as her mother’s answered:</p>

<p>“No—no—call no one, my child—stay with me.”</p>

<p>Margaret dropped upon the sofa, beside her mother,
with a look of mute wonder and devoted love, and seemed
to await her further commands.</p>

<p>“My child,” spoke the same hollow, cavernous, awful
voice, “speak to no living soul of what you have seen
to-night.”</p>

<p>“I will not, dear mamma; but tell me what I can do
for you.”</p>

<p>“Nothing, nothing, Margaret.”</p>

<p>“Can I not help you somehow?”</p>

<p>“I am beyond help, Margaret.”</p>

<p>“Mother, mother, trust in your loving child, the child
of your heart, who would give you back her life if she
could give you happiness with it, mother,” murmured
Margaret, most tenderly, as she caressed and fondled the
rigid form of that dark, sorrowful woman—“trust in
your loving child, mother, your child that heard your
heart calling her to-night over the moonlit waters, and
through all the music and laughter came hurrying to
your side.”</p>

<p>“Ah! so you did, my love, so you did; and I, so absorbed
in my own thoughts, did not even ask you
whence you came, or how, or why.”</p>

<p>“Franky brought me at my earnest request. Now trust
in me, dear mother, trust in your faithful child.”</p>

<p>“If ever I be driven to lay the burden of my grief
upon any human heart, Margaret, it must be on yours—only
on yours! for little Margaret, in my life, I have<span class="pagenum">[132]</span>
loved many and worshiped one, but I fully trust only
you.”</p>

<p>“Trust me ever, mother! trust me fully, trust me even
unto death; for I would be faithful unto death,” said the
maiden, earnestly, fervently, solemnly.</p>

<p>“I know it, and I do trust you perfectly. Yet not
now, not just now, need I shift this weight from my
heart to yours—’tis enough that one living heart should
bear that burthen at a time. I may leave it to you as
a legacy, my Margaret.”</p>

<p>“A legacy—a legacy—oh! mother, what mean you?”
inquired the maiden, as the sudden paleness of a deadly
terror overspread her sweet face.</p>

<p>“Nothing, nothing, my dove, that should alarm you.
It is the order of nature, is it not, that parents should
die before their children? But who talks of dying now?
Your soft touches, my child, have given me new life and
strength. Lend me your arm; I will retire.”</p>

<p>“Let me sleep with you to-night, dear mother,” pleaded
the maiden, from whose earnest face the paleness of fear
had not yet vanished.</p>

<p>An affectionate pressure of the hand was her only
answer. And Margaret assisted Mrs. Helmstedt to gain
her chamber. That night, in her prayers, Margaret
earnestly thanked God that she had been led to come
home so opportunely to her lonely mother’s help.</p>

<p>And from that night the close union between the
mother and daughter seemed even more firmly cemented.</p>

<p>The next day Mr. Helmstedt returned. He had spent
the night at Heathville, and called in the morning at
Buzzard’s Bluff for Margaret, and hearing that she had
grown anxious upon account of her mother left alone on
the island, and had returned, he simply approved the step
and dropped the subject.</p>

<p>Later in the same week, Franky Houston, boy as he
was, took a tearful leave of Margaret, turning back
many times to assure her that Ralph, when he came,
would not leave her to mope in loneliness, but would
certainly, to the best of his ability, supply his (Franky’s)
place. And so the candid, open-hearted boy left.</p>

<p>And Margaret, who had grown to understand how
dear she was to Franky, felt her heart stricken with<span class="pagenum">[133]</span>
compunction to know how glad she was that his place
would soon be supplied by Ralph.</p>

<p>Grace Wellworth and Clare Hartley had also returned
to their city school. And “Island Mag” was left again
companionless.</p>

<p>Not for a long time.</p>

<p>With the warm days of early summer came Ralph
Houston, as he said, for a short visit home, before he
should sail for Europe to make the grand tour.</p>

<p>But this month of June, 1812, was a month big with
the fate of nations as well as of individuals. The bitter
disputes between the young Republic and the “Mother
Country,” like all family quarrels, did not tend toward
reconciliation, but on the contrary, month by month, and
year by year, had grown more acrid and exasperating,
until at length a war could no longer be warded off,
and thus, without the least preparation, either military or
naval, Congress on the eighteenth of June, 1812, declared
war against Great Britain. Never had Young America
before, and never since, taken so rash and impetuous a
step. Never had an unfortunate country plunged headlong
into an unequal and perilous war under more forbidding
circumstances; with two formidable antagonists, and
without either army or navy in readiness to meet them.
Yet no sooner had the tocsin sounded through the land,
than “the spirit of ’76” was aroused, and an army arose.
Simultaneously, all over the country, volunteer companies
were formed and marched toward the principal points of
gathering.</p>

<p>Among the first who started into action at the country’s
call, was Philip Helmstedt, who set about raising
a company of volunteers in his own neighborhood, and at
his own expense. This enterprise took him frequently
from home, and kept him absent for many days at a time.
At last, about the middle of July, he had formed and
equipped his troop of one hundred men, and was prepared
to march them to obtain his commission from Mr. Madison.</p>

<p>Mrs. Helmstedt had watched his preparations for departure
with the mournful resignation of one whom sorrow
had accustomed to submission. He was to join his<span class="pagenum">[134]</span>
men at Belleview, and take one of the larger packets
bound up the Potomac River to the capital.</p>

<p>On the morning of his departure, Mrs. Helmstedt had
risen early to superintend the final arrangements for his
comfort. And they breakfasted alone at an early hour.
Their child had not left her chamber, her father having
taken leave of her on the evening previous. When breakfast
was over, and the servants had withdrawn from the
room by their master’s order, Mr. Helmstedt approached
his wife, and seating himself beside her on the sofa,
said:</p>

<p>“Marguerite! we are about to part. God knows for
how long. It may be years before we meet, if, indeed,
we ever meet again, Marguerite!”</p>

<p>“I know how long it will be—until we meet in the
spirit world!” thought Mrs. Helmstedt; but she spoke
not, only looked lovingly, mournfully in the face of her
departing husband.</p>

<p>“Marguerite, shall not this painful feud of years come
to an end between us?”</p>

<p>“There is not, there never has been, there never can
be a feud between us, dearest Philip. It was my bitter
misfortune not to be able to comply with your just requirements.
In view of that, you fixed my fate and I
accepted it. There is no feud, dearest husband.”</p>

<p>“Marguerite, I cannot endure the thought of leaving
you for so long a time, restricted to the narrow confines
of this island, and yet I cannot do otherwise unless——”</p>

<p>“Dearest Philip, I have grown accustomed to confinement
on this island, and do not——” She paused abruptly.</p>

<p>“Marguerite, you were about to say that you do not
care about it; but you never uttered an untruth in your
life, and could not be betrayed into doing so now. Marguerite,
you do care; you care bitterly about the restraint
that is placed upon your motions. Dear Marguerite, you
know the conditions of peace and freedom. Will you
not, even at this late day, accept them?”</p>

<p>“Oh, Mr. Helmstedt, had it been possible for me to
have accepted these conditions, I should have done so, not
for my own advantage, but for your satisfaction, thirteen<span class="pagenum">[135]</span>
years ago! Since that time nothing has happened to
render the impossible possible.”</p>

<p>“Then I am to understand, Marguerite, that you still
hold out in your resistance?” said Mr. Helmstedt, more
gloomily than angrily.</p>

<p>She did not reply at first, except by a steady, mute,
appealing look from her dark, mournful eyes. But as
Mr. Helmstedt still looked for a reply, she said:</p>

<p>“Dear Philip, as you remarked, we are just about to
part, and Heaven only knows if ever we shall meet again
on earth. Let us not have hard feelings toward each
other.”</p>

<p>“Good-by Marguerite,” he said, suddenly rising and
taking his hat and gloves.</p>

<p>“Good-by—not yet. Philip turn: let me look at you!”
She clung tightly to the hand he had given her, and held
him fast while she fixed a long, deep gaze upon his face—a
gaze so strange, so wistful, so embarrassing, that
Mr. Helmstedt cut it short by saying, gently:</p>

<p>“Farewell, dearest! let me be gone.”</p>

<p>“Not yet! oh, not yet! a moment more!” her bosom
swelled and heaved, her lips quivered, but no tear
dimmed her brilliant, feverish eyes, that were still fixed
in a riveting gaze upon his face.</p>

<p>Mr. Helmstedt felt himself strongly moved.</p>

<p>“Marguerite, why Marguerite, dearest, this is not like
you! You are in soul a Spartan woman! You will receive
my parting kiss now and bid me go,” he said, and
opened his arms and pressed her to his heart a moment
and then with another whispered, “Farewell,” released
her.</p>

<p>“God bless you, Philip Helmstedt,” she said.</p>

<p>The next instant he was gone. She watched him from
the door, where he was joined by his groom and valet,
down to the beach and into the boat; and then she went
upstairs to the balcony over the bay window and watched
the boat out of sight.</p>

<p>“There! That is the last! I shall never see his face
again,” she murmured, in heartbroken tones, and might
have cast herself upon the ground in her desolation, but
that two gentle arms were wound about her, and a loving
voice said,</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[136]</span></p>

<p>“Dearest mother.”</p>

<p>No more than just that—so little, yet so much.</p>

<p>“He is gone, Margaret, your father is gone,” said
Mrs. Helmstedt, passing her arm over the head of the
maiden and drawing it down to her bosom—“he is gone—gone!”</p>

<p>“I know it, dear mother, I know it; but so also is
every good and true American gone, on the same path.”</p>

<p>“True, my dove, true,” said Mrs. Helmstedt; but she
did not say, what farther she felt to be true, namely, that
from her he had gone forever.</p>

<p>That afternoon following the departure, Ralph Houston,
with affectionate thoughtfulness, came over to cheer
the lonely ladies.</p>

<p>He had accompanied Mr. Helmstedt from the Bluff to
Belleview, and witnessed the embarkation of himself and
his company, on board the schooner <em>Kingfisher</em>, bound
for Alexandria and Washington, and after thus seeing
them off, he had ridden back as fast as possible, and
crossed to the isle. Mr. Houston spent the evening,
planned some amusement for the next afternoon, and
took leave.</p>

<p>Ten days of weary waiting passed, and then Mrs.
Helmstedt received a letter from her husband, announcing
that they had reached Washington; that he had received
a captain’s commission; had reported himself and
his company ready for service; and that they were then
waiting orders.</p>

<p>“Has my father any idea where he will be sent,
mamma?” inquired Margaret, after this letter had been
read aloud.</p>

<p>“No, my dear; at least he has hinted so; we must
wait to hear.”</p>

<p>Ten, fifteen, twenty more anxious days passed, heavily,
and then came a second letter from Mr., now Captain,
Helmstedt, postmarked New York, and bringing the intelligence
that upon the next day succeeding the writing
of the first letter, he had received orders to depart immediately
with his troops to join General Van Rennselaer on
the Canadian frontier; that the suddenness of the departure
and the rapidity of the journey had prevented him,
until now, from writing a line home; but that they were<span class="pagenum">[137]</span>
now delayed in New York, for a day or two, waiting for a
reinforcement from the State militia.</p>

<p>This was the last letter that Mrs. Helmstedt received
for many months; but she sent on and ordered the principal
Northern papers, that she might be kept advised of
the progress of the campaign.</p>

<p>Alas! little but continuous disaster signalized this
opening of the war; repeated rebuffs, varied by small successes,
and climaxing in the defeat of Hull, and the loss
of Detroit, with all Michigan territory. These calamities,
while they shocked, aroused the temperate blood of
all those laggards at home, who, until now, had looked
on philosophically, while others went forth to fight.</p>

<p>Colonel Houston applied for orders, and old Colonel
Compton sat in his leathern armchair, and swore at the
gouty limb that unfitted him for service. At length the
news of the disastrous defeat of Van Rennselaer, on the
fourth of October, followed by his resignation of the
command reached them. And when General Smythe, of
Virginia, was appointed to fill his post, Colonel Houston
received orders to join the latter, and proceed with him
to the Northern frontier.</p>

<p>Ralph Houston was most anxious to enter upon the
service; but at the earnest entreaty of his father, reluctantly
consented to remain, for awhile, at the Bluff, for
the protection of the family left behind.</p>

<p>Mrs. Houston accompanied her husband as far as Buffalo,
where she remained to be in easy reach of him.</p>

<p>At the Bluff were left old Colonel and Mrs. Compton
(“a comfortable couple,” who were always, and especially
now, in their quiet old age, company enough for each
other), and Ralph Houston as a caretaker.</p>

<p>At the lonely isle were left Mrs. Helmstedt and her
daughter. And very desolate would the lady have been,
only for the presence of her “dove.” Very monotonously
passed the winter days on the sea-girt isle. No visitors
came, and the mail, bringing newspapers and an occasional
letter from Captain Helmstedt, Mrs. Houston, or
Franky, arrived only once a week; and not always then.
But for the frequent society of Ralph Houston, who was
almost an inmate of the family, the dreary life would
have been almost insupportable to the mother and child.<span class="pagenum">[138]</span>
While they sat at needlework in Mrs. Helmstedt’s private
room, he read to them through all the forenoon; or, if the
sun was warm and the air balmy, as often happens in
our Southern winters, he invited them out to walk over
the isle; or when, in addition to warm sun and balmy
air, there was still water, he prepared the little <em>Pearl
Shell</em>, the gift of Franky to Margaret, and took the
maiden across to the Bluff to visit the old people there.
But as no persuasion would ever induce Mrs. Helmstedt
to join them in these water trips, they were at last relinquished,
or at least very seldom indulged in.</p>

<p>“Dear Margaret, I think your mother has a natural
antipathy to water, has she not?” asked Ralph Houston,
one day, of the girl.</p>

<p>“No, it is to leaving the isle; if my dear mamma was
a Catholic, I should think she had taken a vow never to
leave Helmstedt’s Isle. As it is, I am at a loss to know
why she ever remains here, Mr. Houston.”</p>

<p>“I never remember to have seen her off the isle, since
she came here. There must be a cause for her seclusion
greater than any that appears,” thought Ralph Houston,
as he handed Margaret into the little skiff, and threw
his glance up to the house, where from the balcony of
her chamber window Mrs. Helmstedt watched their departure
from the shore. For this was upon one of those
very rare occasions when they took a little water trip,
leaving the lady alone on the isle. As he glanced up,
Ralph thought Mrs. Helmstedt’s thin face more sunken,
and her eyes more brilliant, than he had ever noticed
them before; and for the first time the thought that
death, speedy death, was awaiting that once glorious
woman, smote him to the heart. They were not out
long; even Mr. Houston now no longer pleaded with
Margaret to remain out upon the water to see the wintry
sunset; but followed her first hint to return. The winter
evenings at the isle were pleasant with Ralph Houston
for a guest. He read to the mother and daughter, while
they sewed or sketched; and sometimes the three formed
a little concert among themselves, Mrs. Helmstedt playing
on the harp, Margaret on the piano, and Ralph Houston
on the flute; and sometimes, that is to say, once a
week, or seldomer, the mail came in, bringing its keen<span class="pagenum">[139]</span>
excitement; it always reached the isle on the evening of
Saturday, when Ralph Houston was sure to remain to
hear the latest news of the absent. Always there were
newspapers, bringing fresh and startling news from the
Canadian frontier, the Indian settlements, or from the
ocean, where our infant navy, like young Hercules in his
cradle, was strangling the serpents of wrong and oppression,
and winning more glorious laurels than were
lost upon the land. Sometimes, there came intelligence
of a disastrous loss on the Northern frontier—sometimes,
of a glorious victory at sea; but whether were the news
of triumph or defeat, it ever roused Ralph Houston’s
blood almost beyond the power of his control. He chafed
and fretted like Marmion in Tantallon Hold.</p>

<p>“A most unworthy task, dear Margaret, to be left at
home to take care of two old people, who do not need
either my company or protection, while the struggling
country cries aloud for every man capable of bearing
arms to come to her help! A most unworthy post is
mine!”</p>

<p>They were standing alone within the bay window of
the parlor, on Sunday morning, after having read in the
papers, that had come the evening before, of the repulse
of Smythe at Niagara.</p>

<p>Ralph spoke as bitterly as he felt, the enforced inaction
of his life.</p>

<p>“A most unmanly part to play!”</p>

<p>“‘They also serve who only stand and wait,’” said
Margaret, gently.</p>

<p>His stern face softened instantly, and he looked on her
with a smile, full of deep tenderness and beauty, as he
answered:</p>

<p>“True, sweet Margaret, yet, nevertheless, the only circumstance
that renders this standing and waiting endurable
is—do you know what, dear maiden? Your
sweet society, and the thought that I may be useful in
making the days pass less heavily to you and to her who
is dearer to you.”</p>

<p>A swift, burning blush crimsoned the neck and face of
the young girl. And just at this juncture Mrs. Helmstedt
entered the room. Always her first glance was
directed in search of her daughter; and now, she started<span class="pagenum">[140]</span>
and pressed her hand to her heart, at the tableau that was
presented to her. Within the crimson-draped recess of
the bay window the pair were standing. Ralph stood,
resting one elbow upon the frame of the harp, and clasping
Margaret’s hand, and bending over her half-averted
and deeply-blushing face. Both were too absorbed in
their own emotions to perceive her gentle entrance, and
she stood for a minute, unobserved, gazing upon them.
To Mrs. Helmstedt, her young daughter, had, up to this
hour, seemed an unconscious child, and now she stood
revealed to her a young maiden, awakening to the consciousness
of loving and being loved. Yet though this
revelation was unexpected, it was not quite unacceptable.
More than in any other man, Mrs. Helmstedt confided
in Ralph Houston for the wisdom, goodness and
power, inherent in his soul, and including in themselves
every other virtue. And, after a few years, should she
live to pass them, and should he have the patience and
constancy to wait—with less reluctance than to any other
man, would she entrust the life-happiness of her only and
cherished daughter, to the charge of Ralph Houston.
All this passed, in an instant, through the mind of the
mother, as she crossed the room and bade them “Good-morning.”</p>

<p>Margaret started; the blush deepened on her face. But
Mr. Houston, still holding her hand, and leading her
from the recess, greeted Mrs. Helmstedt affectionately,
and said, frankly, as one who would not conceal his disposition:</p>

<p>“I was just telling Margaret that nothing but her
sweet society, and the hope of being useful to herself and
her mother, could reconcile me, at this time, to the unworthy
inactivity of my life.”</p>

<p>“We should indeed be very badly off without you, Mr.
Houston; but I do not see what compensation for a dull
life you can find in the company of a little island rustic.”</p>

<p>“‘A little island rustic,’ my dear lady. I have lived in
the great world where there are more false jewels than
real ones, and I know how to prize a real pearl that I find
amid the sea!”</p>

<p>“Do not waste poetry on my little girl, Ralph Houston.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[141]</span></p>

<p>“Again! ‘little girl!’ Well, I suppose she is a little
girl, scarce fourteen years of age, just in her dawn of existence!
Yet the dawn is very beautiful! and we, who
are up early enough, love to watch it warm and brighten
to the perfect day,” he said, bending a grave, sweet look
upon the downcast face of Margaret.</p>

<p>To break up this conversation and relieve her little
daughter’s embarrassment, Mrs. Helmstedt touched the
bell and ordered breakfast to be served directly in that
parlor; and it was speedily brought thither.</p>

<p>Spring at length opened, and the recluse family of the
island were once more in communication with the outside
world.</p>

<p>Old Colonel and Mrs. Compton paid a visit of a day
and night to Mrs. Helmstedt, and again, although they
knew it to be a mere form, renewed their oft-repeated entreaties
that their hostess would return their visit.</p>

<p>The Wellworths came and spent a couple of days, and
carried off Margaret to pass a week at the parsonage.
And during the absence of the young girl, it should be
observed, that Ralph Houston did not slacken in the
least degree his visits to the island, and his friendly attentions
to the solitary lady there.</p>

<p>Soon after Margaret returned home, the doctor and
Mrs. Hartley came to the isle to spend a day, and when
they departed took the maiden with them to Plover’s
Point to spend a fortnight. Truth to tell, the young girl
did not like to leave her mother; but Mrs. Helmstedt,
ever fearful of the effect of too much isolation and solitude
upon the sensitive nature of her daughter, firmly
insisted upon her going.</p>

<p>Ralph Houston was ubiquitous. He did not fail in
daily visits to the island, and yet two or three times a
week he contrived to be twenty miles up the river at
Plover’s Point. There are no secrets in a country neighborhood.
The attachment of Ralph Houston, the heir of
Buzzard’s Bluff, to the little island maiden was no secret,
though a great mystery to all.</p>

<p>“What can a man of twenty-five see in a child of fourteen?”
asked one gossip.</p>

<p>“Money,” quoth the other—“money; Miss Helmstedt<span class="pagenum">[142]</span>
is the richest heiress in the whole South, as she will inherit
both her mother’s and her father’s large property.”</p>

<p>“Humph! I guess Mr. Houston will have to wait a
long time for that property; Mr. and Mrs. Helmstedt
look as if they might be the elder brother and sister,
rather than the parents of Miss Helmstedt.”</p>

<p>“It is true they are a very youthful-looking and handsome
pair; but at last their daughter will inherit their
property, if she lives; and meantime, when she marries,
no doubt her parents will dower her handsomely; and
that is what Mr. Houston knows. Ah! he sees what’s
what, and takes time by the forelock, and wins her heart
before any one else dreams of laying siege to it.”</p>

<p>“But her parents will never permit her to marry so
young.”</p>

<p>“Of course not; but what matter to Mr. Houston, if
he can secure her heart and her promise. He understands
perfectly well what he is doing.”</p>

<p>Thus, with their usual perspicacity and charity, the
<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">quidnuncs</i> of the county settled the matter.</p>

<p>Meantime the news from the Canadian frontier was of
the most disheartening character. The defeat and capture
of General Winchester, at Frenchtown, was followed
speedily by that of Generals Greene and Clay at Fort
Meigs, and Generals Winder and Chandler at Burlington
Heights.</p>

<p>Colonel Houston had been dangerously wounded, and
after lying ill two months in camp, was sent home to recuperate.
He arrived at the Bluff, in charge of Nellie,
who had grown to be quite a campaigner, and attended
by his faithful servant, Lemuel. Nellie could not leave
her wounded soldier, but she dispatched a note announcing
her arrival, and explaining her position to Mrs.
Helmstedt, and praying that lady to come to her at once
without ceremony.</p>

<p>This was perhaps the severest trial to which Mrs.
Helmstedt’s fidelity had been put. She did not hesitate
a moment, however; but wrote a reply, pleading to be
excused, upon the score of her shattered health. This
answer of course displeased little Mrs. Houston, who, in
a few days, just as soon as she could leave her invalid,
went over to the island with the intention of relieving her<span class="pagenum">[143]</span>
heart by upbraiding her cold friend. But as soon as she
met Mrs. Helmstedt and saw her changed face, Nellie
burst into tears, and cast her arms about Marguerite’s
neck, and had no word of reproach for the suffering
woman.</p>

<p>As Colonel Houston recovered from the fatigue of his
journey, and convalesced under the genial influences of
his quiet home and native air, Nellie often left him to
spend a day with Mrs. Helmstedt. And as often as otherwise
she found Ralph Houston there before her.</p>

<p>“That is right, Ralph,” she one day said, approvingly,
“I shall be sure to tell Franky, when I write, what care
you take of his little sweetheart.”</p>

<p>“Sweetheart?” repeated Ralph, with a grave, displeased
look.</p>

<p>“Yes, sweetheart, or ladylove, if you like it better.
Didn’t you know that my Franky and little Margaret
were cut out for each other?”</p>

<p>“Really, no, nor do I know it now.”</p>

<p>“Well, I inform you; so don’t go too far, my fine
fellow.”</p>

<p>Ralph was silent. These remarks affected him despite
his reason, and raised into importance many trifling incidents
until now unnoticed, such as the raillery of Margaret
upon the subject of Franky by Dr. Hartley; the
favorite keepsakes of Margaret, all gifts of Franky; and
finally, the frequent correspondence between the young
collegian and the island maiden. Then Frank was handsome,
gay, near the age of the young girl, and had been
her intimate companion for years. All this looked very
illy ominous to the hopes of Ralph, but he generously
resolved to investigate the case, and if he found an incipient
attachment existing between the youth and
maiden, to withdraw at once from the rivalship, at whatever
cost to his own feelings. This conversation with
Mrs. Houston had occurred one Saturday afternoon, as
he was taking that lady from Helmstedt’s Island to the
Bluff. So anxious became Ralph Houston upon this
subject, that after seeing his stepmother safe home, he
turned about and rowed swiftly to the island, and entered
the parlor just as Mrs. Helmstedt had received the
weekly mail.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[144]</span></p>

<p>“I felt sure you would return and join us in discussing
the news brought by this post; and it is glorious, at last.
This paper contains an account of the repulse of Proctor
from before Fort Stevenson, by the gallant Croghan!
Do read it,” said Mrs. Helmstedt, passing the paper to
Mr. Houston.</p>

<p>“And here I am yet!” impatiently exclaimed Ralph,
as he took the paper and sat down to assure himself of
the contents. But frequently, in the course of his perusal,
he glanced over the edge of the sheet at Margaret,
who sat absorbed in the letter she was reading—now
smiling, now looking grave, and anon with eyes swimming
in tears.</p>

<p>“Yes, it was a brilliant action, and Lieutenant Croghan
is a true hero,” he said, as he finished the perusal and laid
the paper aside. But his eyes were fixed on the maiden.
Mrs. Helmstedt noticed this and said:</p>

<p>“Margaret has a pleasant letter from Franky.” Ralph
visibly changed color.</p>

<p>“Read it, my child.”</p>

<p>“You read it, Mr. Houston; dear Franky!” exclaimed
the girl, half smiling, half weeping, as she gave the letter
to Ralph. Mr. Houston felt that he must peruse it. It
was a frank, gay, affectionate letter, written as freely as a
boy might write to his sister, yet much more warmly than
any boy would be apt so to write. Mr. Houston could
gather nothing definite from its contents. It certainly
was not the letter of a young, diffident, uncertain lover,
but it might mean either an intimate, youthful friendship
or an understood betrothal. Upon the whole, Ralph felt
disheartened; but resolved to see farther before resigning
his hopes. He arose to take leave, and declining the
friendly invitation of Mrs. Helmstedt, that he should
spend the night on the isle, departed.</p>

<p>The next morning Ralph had some conversation with
his father, the result of which was the consent of Colonel
Houston that he should depart, as a volunteer, to serve
under General Browne.</p>

<p>The same day Mr. Houston went over to the island to
apprise his friends there of his intended departure. Mrs.
Helmstedt was not surprised or displeased, but on the
contrary, cordially approved his resolution. But Margaret,<span class="pagenum">[145]</span>
no adept at concealment, betrayed so much deep
and keen distress, that Mr. Houston’s lately entertained
ideas of an attachment between herself and Frank were
all shaken. And he determined, ere the day should be
over, to satisfy himself upon that point. In the course
of his visit he contrived to say, aside to Mrs. Helmstedt:</p>

<p>“Pray, grant me a confidential interview of a few moments.”</p>

<p>“Margaret, my child, go down to the quarters and see
if Uncle Ben is any better to-day, and if he wants anything
from the house; and if he does, have it got and sent
to him. One of our gardeners is ill, Mr. Houston. Now
then, how can I serve you?” she asked, when her daughter
had left the room.</p>

<p>“Mrs. Helmstedt, what I have to say relates to the fair
creature who has just left us. You will place confidence
in me when I assure you that, with the exception of
those few impulsive words uttered the other morning,
and afterward repeated to you, I have never said anything
to your young daughter of the subject that lies
nearest my heart; because, in fact, it is an affair belonging
to the future, and I did not wish to be premature.”</p>

<p>“You were quite right, Ralph. It is time enough three
or four years hence for any one to think of addressing
Margaret.”</p>

<p>“Assuredly. But yet, as I deeply appreciate and devotedly
love this young maiden, it behooves me to have
some security that I am not freighting with my whole
life’s happiness some untenable bark in which it may
go to the bottom.”</p>

<p>“And what precisely do you mean by that, Mr. Houston?”</p>

<p>“In a word, I have gathered from the conversation of
my fair stepmother, and from other corroborating circumstances,
that there exists a sort of Paul and Virginia
affection between my younger brother Frank and Margaret
Helmstedt.”</p>

<p>“Permit me to assure you that testimony and circumstances
have deceived you. It is not so. Of Frank I cannot
speak advisedly; but, as far as her sentiments toward
him are concerned, Margaret is heart whole.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[146]</span></p>

<p>“Are you sure of this?” asked Ralph, with a deep joy
lighting up his dark and earnest countenance.</p>

<p>“Absolutely certain of it.”</p>

<p>“Then, Mrs. Helmstedt, since this is so, and as I am
about to depart for a long and dangerous service, will
you permit me to speak to your daughter upon this subject?”</p>

<p>The lady hesitated.</p>

<p>“Understand me, if you please Mrs. Helmstedt. I
know that, even under the most auspicious circumstances,
the marriage must be delayed for years, and
under any circumstances shall wait your fullest concurrence;
for my pearl once secured to my affections I can
wait. Nor do I wish now to bind her by any pledge to
me, but leaving her entirely free, I desire only to pledge
myself to her, that I may write to her as freely and confidentially
as to my betrothed. You can trust me to that
extent, Mrs. Helmstedt?”</p>

<p>“I can trust you fully to any extent, Ralph Houston.
It is not lack of confidence in you. But you understand
that I must not sanction your addresses to my daughter
without consulting her father. Taking for granted that
your inclinations are approved by your family, I advise
you to get Colonel Houston to write to Captain Helmstedt
upon this subject. That is the proper course to
pursue, and in the meantime I beg you to delay speaking
of this matter to Margaret until you have heard from
her father.”</p>

<p>“I will obey you, certainly, Mrs. Helmstedt, although——”</p>

<p>“The formality is a bore, you mean. Well, I know
you think so, and yet it must be borne.”</p>

<p>Mr. Houston arose to leave.</p>

<p>“Will you not wait to see Margaret?”</p>

<p>“I think not now, Mrs. Helmstedt, for if she should
wear the sweet, pale face she wore just now, I should
have some trouble to keep my promise. Good-morning,
madam.”</p>

<p>The “inclinations” of Ralph Houston were highly approved
by his father, who sat down the same day and
wrote to Captain Helmstedt, asking the hand of Margaret
in betrothal to his son, and stating that a mere betrothal<span class="pagenum">[147]</span>
was all that was necessary to satisfy the young
people for some years.</p>

<p>A weary fortnight passed before there could arrive any
answer to this letter. At last, however, it came. Captain
Helmstedt, with the stately politeness of his nature, acknowledged
the compliment paid to his daughter; expressed
the highest consideration for the suitor and his
family; did not as a general thing approve of early betrothals
or long engagements; thought this, however, to
be an exceptional case; and concluded by referring the
matter exclusively to the maiden’s mother, in whose excellent
judgment and maternal affection he expressed the
highest confidence.</p>

<p>“There, you may look upon this as the sanction of
your addresses; for, of course, I suppose there will be no
difficulty raised by Mrs. Helmstedt,” said Colonel Houston,
as he placed the letter in the hands of son.</p>

<p>“Oh, no, sir! in fact, Mrs. Helmstedt has given me to
understand as much.”</p>

<p>“What is all that about?” inquired Nellie, who did not
happen to be <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">au fait</i> to these transactions.</p>

<p>Colonel Houston explained.</p>

<p>“And Margaret will engage herself to you, Ralph, who
are ten or twelve years older than she is? And Mrs.
Helmstedt will sanction that engagement? Well, well,
well.”</p>

<p>“Why, what is the matter?” asked Colonel Houston.</p>

<p>“This world! this world! I did not think that Margaret
was so light and fickle, or that her mother was so—governed
by worldly motives.”</p>

<p>“Pray tell me what you mean?” asked Ralph Houston,
uneasily.</p>

<p>“Why, the whole county knew Margaret and my
Franky were like a pair of young turtle doves. Everybody
remarked it, and said they were born for each
other! Shame on you, Ralph Houston, to offer to supplant
your younger brother in his absence; and shame on
that wanton girl and her worldly mother to allow you
to do it!”</p>

<p>“Nellie, come, come, this will not do,” said Colonel
Houston.</p>

<p>“But I know what it means,” Nellie continued impetuously,<span class="pagenum">[148]</span>
“they know you are the eldest son and heir
according to our barbarous law of primogeniture, which,
I thank Heaven, Mr. Jefferson is about to get repealed,
and they think that you will have nearly all your father’s
estate, while poor Franky will have little or nothing; but
I’ll see! All that I have any control over shall go to
swell the portion of my Franky, until we shall see if he
shall not be a little richer than his fortunate elder brother.
Oh, the unprincipled creatures.”</p>

<p>“Cornelia!” exclaimed Colonel Houston, severely.</p>

<p>Ralph’s face flushed for an instant, and then, controlling
himself, he answered, with his usual moderation:</p>

<p>“You are in error, fair little mother; I neither could,
nor would supplant any man, least of all my brother; no
such attachment as that to which you allude exists, or
has existed; I have ascertained that fact.”</p>

<p>But Nellie angrily averted her head without deigning
to reply. And Ralph, although he had so positively repudiated
all belief in the groundless assertions of his
stepmother, nevertheless felt a deep uneasiness impossible
to dislodge. A single seed of distrust had been
sown in his heart, where it was destined to germinate and
to be fostered into strong and bitter growth.</p>

<p>In the midst of this conversation the family were interrupted
by the entrance of Jessie Bell—as she was
familiarly and jocosely called, Jezebel—Mrs. Houston’s
maid, who reported a messenger from the island waiting
without.</p>

<p>“Let him come in here,” said Colonel Houston; and
the next moment Uncle Ben entered with a face so gray
and corrugated that Mrs. Houston and Ralph became
alarmed, and simultaneously exclaimed:</p>

<p>“Why, old man! what is the matter?”</p>

<p>“Marster in heaven knows, ma’am! but I think my
mistess is dying!”</p>

<p>“Dying!”</p>

<p>Every member of the family were now upon their feet,
exclaiming and questioning in a chaos of surprise, grief,
and dismay.</p>

<p>“Yes, ma’am, very suddint! No, sir, dere was no good
come of it, as we dem knew. Yes, Marse Ralph, sir, Miss
Marget is with her ma, an’ very much ’stress,” said the<span class="pagenum">[149]</span>
old man, answering right and left to the storm of questions
that was hailed upon him.</p>

<p>“I’ll tell you all I know ’bout it, Marse Colonel Houston,
sir, if de ladies’ll hush an’ listen a minute. See, las’
night I fotch de mail home ’s usual. Der was a letter
from our marster as pleased our mistress very much. I
never seen her in sitch sperrits—she, nor Miss Marget!
We sarvints, we all noticed it, and said how something
was gwine happen. Same way dis mornin’, Miss Marget
and her mother both in sitch sperrits at the breakfas’
table. After breakfas’ dey went out long o’ me in de garden,
to ’rect me ’bout transplantin’ some late flowers, and
we were all busy, when all of a suddint mistess give a
short, low scream, and when we all looked up, there stood
mistress as white as a lily, pressing her hand to her heart
and staring straight before her. We glanced roun’ to see
what scared she; and it was a little, old, leaky boat with
one oar, and a young man in a shabby uniform, like a
runaway sojer, just stepping from it onto the beach. He
came up while mistess stood there pale as death and
pressing her hand on her heart; and he tetched his cap
sort o’ half impident and half sorrowful. Mistess raised
her hand for a minit as if to check him, and then she
beckoned him to follow her, and went on to the house.
Miss Marget looked oneasy, an’ I didn’t know what to
make of it. More’n two hours passed, and then the
young man came out, walking fast, with his head down,
and passed right by without seeing us, and got into his
leaky boat, and pushed off as if the old inemy was arter
him.</p>

<p>“Miss Marget ran in the house to her mother. But
in two minutes we heard her screaming like she was mad,
and we all about the place rushed into the house, and up
the stairs, into mistess’ chamber. And there we saw our
mistess, lying on the floor, like one stone dead, and Miss
Marget wringing her hands and crying, and trying to
raise her. We were all scared almost to death, for there,
besides, was the cabinet, where the plate and jewelry is
kept, all open; and we made sure that that ’serter had
robbed and frightened mistess into this swoon. Forrest
went arter the doctor; and Hildreth and Aunt Hapzibah
put her to bed, and tried every way to fetch her round.<span class="pagenum">[150]</span>
But when she come to herself, she fell into convulsions;
and when that was over, she sunk into the same swoon.
Then Aunt Hapsy sent me, pos’ haste, arter Miss Nellie
an’ Mr. Ralph. An’ here I is, an’ dat’s all.”</p>

<p>Nellie, who looked very pale and anxious, now
touched the bell, and summoned Jezebel to bring her
scarf, bonnet and gloves, while Mr. Houston went out to
order the boat got ready to take them to the island.</p>

<p>And in less than a quarter of an hour Mrs. Houston
and Ralph, forgetful of their late feud in their common
cause of anxiety, were seated side by side in the boat,
that, propelled by six stalwart negro oarsmen, glided
with directness and rapidity toward the island. As soon
as the boat touched the beach Nellie sprang out, and without
waiting an instant for Ralph, hurried to the house.</p>

<p>“In her own bedroom, Mrs. Houston,” was the mournful
reply of Hildreth to that lady’s hasty question.</p>

<p>Nellie hastened upstairs and entered the chamber of
sickness and death. Coming out of the brilliant light
into the half-darkened room, Nellie at first saw only Dr.
Hartley standing at the foot of the bed; as she advanced
she found Margaret, pale, but still and self-collected, at
the head. Nellie’s haste and anxiety sunk into awe as
she saw, extended on the bed, the ruin of the once beautiful
Marguerite De Lancie. All her late displeasure was
forgotten or repented as she gazed upon that form and
face so magnificent even in wreck. The pillows had been
withdrawn to give her easier breathing, and her superb
head lay low; the lace nightcap had been removed to
give coolness to her throbbing temples, and her rich,
purplish-black tresses, unbound, rolled in mournful
splendor down each side of her pallid, sunken face, and
flowed along upon the white counterpane; her eyes were
half closed in that fearful state that is not sleep or waking,
and that Nellie at first sight believed to be death.</p>

<p>Mrs. Houston turned an appealing glance to the physician,
who bent forward and murmured in an almost inaudible
tone:</p>

<p>“She is easier than she has been since her attack,
madam. She has been resting thus for” (the doctor took
out and consulted his watch) “twenty-five minutes.”</p>

<p>“But what, then, is the nature of her illness?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[151]</span></p>

<p>“An acute attack of her old disease, brought on apparently
by some great shock.”</p>

<p>“Is she in imminent danger?”</p>

<p>“Hush—sh!” said the physician, glancing toward his
patient. Nellie followed that glance, and saw that Mrs.
Helmstedt’s eyes were open, and that she was attending
to their conversation.</p>

<p>“Oh, Marguerite! dear Marguerite! what is this?”
cried Mrs. Houston, bending over her friend and dropping
tears and kisses on her deathlike brow.</p>

<p>“Nothing unusual, Nellie; only the ‘one event’ that
‘happeneth to all;’ only death. Though in truth, it is inconvenient
to die just now, Nellie; this morning I had
no reason to expect the messenger; and to say truth, I
was in no respect ready.”</p>

<p>“Marguerite! dear Marguerite! let me send for the
minister,” said Nellie, wringing her hands and dropping
fast tears.</p>

<p>“No; what good can the minister do me, think you?
No, Nellie; that is not what I meant. If I have lived all
my days for the pride of life and the affections of the
flesh, at least I will not mock God now with the offer of
a heart that these idols have ground to dust. As I have
lived, will I die, without adding fear and self-deception to
the catalogue of my follies.” Mrs. Helmstedt spoke
faintly and at intervals, and now she paused longer than
usual, and, gathering breath, resumed:</p>

<p>“But since this summons has found me unready, in
other respects which may be remedied, I must use the
hours left for action. Nellie, Nellie; this is no time for
useless tears,” she added, seeing Mrs. Houston weeping
vehemently; “you must aid me. Dr. Hartley, will you
grant me a few moments alone with my friend?”</p>

<p>“Not unless you both promise that your interview is
not to be exciting or exhausting.”</p>

<p>“We promise, doctor, that on the contrary, it shall be
soothing. Margaret, my child, attend the doctor down
into the parlor, and see that refreshments are placed before
him.”</p>

<p>Pale and still and self-governed, the young maiden followed
the physician from the chamber. And the friends
were left alone.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[152]</span></p>

<p>“Colonel Houston got a letter from my husband yesterday?”
inquired Mrs. Helmstedt.</p>

<p>“He got it this morning, dear Marguerite.”</p>

<p>“I received one from my husband last night; he spoke
of one mailed at the same time to Colonel Houston; he
consents to the betrothal of Margaret to Ralph, or rather,
he refers the matter to me, which amounts to the same
thing. Nellie, I have but a few hours to live; before I
die I wish to place the hand of my child in that of Ralph
in solemn betrothal; and, when I rest in the grave, you
will take my orphan child as your daughter home, and
comfort her until her father, to whom Dr. Hartley has
written, arrives. Oh, Nellie, be kind to my dove!”</p>

<p>“Indeed I will! Oh, indeed I will, though I was disappointed
for Franky! I will love her as tenderly as if
she were my own. Don’t doubt me. You know I have
always been a good stepmother?”</p>

<p>“An excellent one, dear Nellie.”</p>

<p>“And don’t you know, then, how tenderly I should
cherish your orphan child? I have two sons; but no
daughter; I should take Margaret to my heart as a much-desired
daughter,” said Nellie, earnestly, and at that moment,
in that mood, she sincerely meant all she said.</p>

<p>“Thank you, dear Nellie. Margaret will, at the age of
eighteen, inherit the greater portion of my patrimony, including
Plover’s Point, which has been secured to her.
This will make her independent. Upon the demise of her
father—long and happily may he yet live—she will come
into the possession of one of the largest fortunes in the
South. Ralph’s expectations, I know, are nearly equal;
therefore, deny her no indulgence, no wish of her heart
that wealth can satisfy; for Margaret is not selfish or exacting,
and will make no unreasonable demands. But
how I twaddle. Have the soul of kindness toward my
orphan girl, and that will teach you what to do.”</p>

<p>“Don’t doubt me, Marguerite. I will swear to you if
you require it,” said Nellie, who believed herself to be
as constant as she was fervent.</p>

<p>“It is enough! Is Ralph here?”</p>

<p>“Yes, dearest Marguerite.”</p>

<p>“Let him be called at once.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[153]</span></p>

<p>Nellie flew to do her friend’s bidding, and swiftly returned
with Mr. Houston.</p>

<p>“Draw near, dearest Ralph; look in my face; but do
not look so shocked; you read what is before me, and
what I wish you to do; you have seen my husband’s letter
to your father; there is another, which came yesterday
to me; Margaret will show it to you; go to her, dearest
Ralph; she has read her father’s letter, and is prepared
to hear what you have to say; go to her now, for I
would join your hands before sunset; do not leave her
again until I leave her; and then take her with you to
your parents’ home to await her father’s coming. And
oh! Ralph! as you hope for the blessing of God at your
greatest need, comfort your orphan bride, as only you
can comfort her.”</p>

<p>“As God hears me!” said Ralph Houston, reverently,
dropping upon one knee, and bending his noble head
over the wan hand the lady had extended to him.</p>

<p>“Go to her now, Ralph, for I would join your hands
before sunset.”</p>

<p>Ralph pressed the wasted fingers to his lips, arose and
went out, in search of Margaret.</p>

<p>He found the maiden alone in her mother’s favorite
parlor. Dr. Hartley had gone out to send messengers
for Mr. Wellworth and Colonel Houston to come immediately
to the island, if they wished to see Mrs. Helmstedt
once more in life. And Margaret had thrown herself
down upon the sofa in solitude, to give way to the
torrent of grief that she had so heroically suppressed in
the sickroom of her mother.</p>

<p>Ralph Houston entered the sacred precincts of her
filial grief as reverently as he had left the death-chamber
of her mother. He closed the door softly, advanced and
knelt an instant to press a pure kiss upon her tearful face;
then rising, he lifted her tenderly, from the sofa, and
gathered her to his bosom.</p>

<p>“Permit me, dearest,” he said, “for henceforth your
sorrows are also mine.”</p>

<p>What farther he said is sacred between those two
hearts.</p>

<p>The day waned—the shadows of evening gathered over
the earth, and the shadows of death over the chamber.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[154]</span></p>

<p>Mr. Wellworth and Colonel Houston arrived about the
same time.</p>

<p>The clergyman was immediately shown up into the
chamber of Mrs. Helmstedt. She was sinking rapidly.
He went gravely to her side, expressing sorrow for her
illness, and anxiety to hear how she felt. And finding
from her answers that she still retained full possession of
her brilliant intellect, he drew a chair, sat down, and entered
upon religious topics.</p>

<p>But Mrs. Helmstedt smiled mournfully, and stopped
him, saying:</p>

<p>“Too late, good friend, too late; I would that I had
had your Christian faith imprinted upon my heart while
it was soft enough to receive the impression—it might
have made me happier at this hour; but it is too late, and
it does not matter!”</p>

<p>“Not matter! that you have no faith! Oh! Mrs. Helmstedt,
my child, is it possible that with all your splendor
of intellectual endowments you lack faith!”</p>

<p>Marguerite smiled more mournfully than before. “I
believe in God, because I see Him in His glorious works;
I believe in Christ as a wonder that once existed on this
earth; but—as for a future state of rewards and punishments—as
for our immortality, I tell you, despite all the
gifts of intellect with which you credit me, and my extensive
reading, observation and experience, at this hour
I know not where in the next I shall be; or whether
with the stopping of this beating brain, and the cooling
of this burning heart, thought and affection will cease
to exist; or if they will be transferred to another form
and sphere. I know nothing.”</p>

<p>“God have mercy on you!” prayed the good minister,
who would then and there have sought to inspire the
“saving faith,” but that the dying woman silenced him.</p>

<p>“Too late, dear friend, too late; the short time left me
must be given, not to selfish thoughts on my own uncertain
future, but to the welfare of those I am about to
leave. Will you please to ring the bell?”</p>

<p>The minister complied.</p>

<p>Mrs. Houston forestalled every servant by hastening
to answer the summons.</p>

<p>“Dear Nellie, bring Ralph and Margaret to me, and<span class="pagenum">[155]</span>
ask your husband and the doctor to attend. And let
lights be brought, Nellie; it is growing dusky here, or
else my sight is failing, and I would see the face of my
child plainly.”</p>

<p>Nellie stopped an instant to press a kiss upon the
clammy brow of her friend, and then hastened to do her
bidding.</p>

<p>A few minutes after, the door opened, and Ralph
Houston entered, reverently supporting the pale but
self-controlled maiden on his arm, and accompanied by
his father, stepmother, and the doctor.</p>

<p>They approached the bed, and grouped themselves
around it. On the right side stood Ralph, Margaret,
and Mr. Wellworth; on the left, Colonel and Mrs. Houston
and Dr. Hartley.</p>

<p>The dying woman turned her dark eyes from one
group to the other, and then spoke.</p>

<p>“We sent for you, Mr. Wellworth, to join the hands
of this young pair—not in marriage, for which one of
them is much too youthful; but in a solemn betrothal,
that shall possess all the sanctity, if not the legal force
of marriage. Will you do this?”</p>

<p>“I will do everything in my power to serve Mrs.
Helmstedt or her family,” said the clergyman.</p>

<p>“Margaret, my love, draw this ring from my finger,
and hand it to Mr. Wellworth, who will give it to
Ralph,” said Mrs. Helmstedt, holding out her thin,
transparent hand, from the fourth finger of which Margaret
drew the plain gold circlet, her mother’s wedding
ring, and passed it to the minister, who put it in the
hand of Ralph Houston. Then the dying woman turned
her solemn eyes upon Mr. Houston, and in a voice
thrilling with the depth and strength of a mother’s
deathless love, said:</p>

<p>“Ralph Houston, you promise here, in the awful presence
of God—of the living, and of the dying—to love
and respect this maiden, as your destined wife, and to
wed her when she shall have attained a suitable age?”</p>

<p>Ralph passed his arm protectingly around the half-sinking
form of Margaret, and answered, slowly and
solemnly:</p>

<p>“In the presence of God, and of her mother, I promise<span class="pagenum">[156]</span>
to love, and honor and serve, my affianced bride, Margaret,
until such time as she shall bestow her hand in
full marriage on me, and thenceforth forever. So help
me God and all good angels.”</p>

<p>“Amen. Now place the ring upon her finger.”</p>

<p>Ralph Houston obeyed; and then Mrs. Helmstedt
beckoned them to draw nearer, and taking the hand of
Margaret, she placed it in that of Ralph, saying, solemnly:</p>

<p>“Ralph Houston, I bestow upon you my heart’s
precious child—my dove, as you have heard me call
her. Oh, be tender with her! And may God so love
and bless you, as you shall love and bless the dove that
is to nestle in your home.”</p>

<p>“Amen!” in turn said Ralph.</p>

<p>And still holding their hands together, Mrs. Helmstedt—skeptic
for herself, believer for her child—called
on Mr. Wellworth to seal and bless this betrothal with
prayer and benediction.</p>

<p>At the signal of the minister, all knelt. And while
Mrs. Helmstedt still held together the hands of the
young couple, Mr. Wellworth reverently lifted his voice
and prayed God’s blessing upon the living and the
dying.</p>

<p>They all arose from their knees, and Mrs. Helmstedt
pressed those joined hands to her lips before she released
them. She was very much exhausted, and turning
to the doctor, whispered, in a voice nearly extinct
through faintness:</p>

<p>“Doctor, I must live an hour longer—one hour
longer, doctor—is there no potential drug that will keep
life in this frame for an hour?”</p>

<p>“You may live many hours, or even days—nay, you
may even recover, dear lady—for while there is life there
is hope. Now, you are only exhausted, and this will
restore you,” said the physician, pouring out a cordial,
and placing it to her lips.</p>

<p>“Thank you; yes, this is reviving!” answered Mrs.
Helmstedt, drawing one deep, free breath.</p>

<p>“And now you must lie still and rest.”</p>

<p>“I will—soon. Dear friends,” she continued, addressing
the group around the bed, “you will please<span class="pagenum">[157]</span>
withdraw now and leave me alone with my child. Go
you also, dear Ralph, and leave Margaret with me. You
will have her all to yourself soon. Well, then, kiss me
before you go,” she added, seeing Ralph Houston hesitated.
He bent down and pressed a reverential kiss
upon her cold forehead, and a loving one upon her
fading lips, and then arose and silently followed the
others from the room.</p>

<p>And the mother and child were left alone.</p>

<p>The room seemed changed and darkened. The
shadow of some “coming event” other than death hung
over them.</p>

<p>Mrs. Helmstedt lay with her hands folded in what
seemed prayer; but was only deep thought.</p>

<p>Margaret stood affectionately waiting her wishes.</p>

<p>Neither spoke for a few minutes.</p>

<p>Then Mrs. Helmstedt said, in a changed and solemn
voice, whose sound caused Margaret’s heart to thrill
with strange dread:</p>

<p>“Come hither, my dove.”</p>

<p>“I am here, sweet, dear mother,” replied the girl,
striving to repress her grief.</p>

<p>The lady opened her eyes.</p>

<p>“Come sit upon the bed beside me—sit so that I can
see your face—give me your hand.”</p>

<p>Margaret obeyed, silently praying to God to give her
strength to repress the flood of tears that were ready to
gush forth.</p>

<p>“Little Margaret, for, though you are an affianced
bride, you are still my little Margaret,” said the lady,
closing her fingers upon the soft hand and gazing fondly
into the dark, true, tender eyes of the maiden, “little
Margaret, some time ago, when your loving heart led
you to leave a festive scene to rejoin your lonely mother,
and you surprised me prostrated with grief and dismay,
you implored me to confide my sorrows to your
faithful heart; and I told you that if ever I was driven
to trust the terrible secret of my life to mortal man or
woman, it should be to my loving, loyal child—only to
her. You remember?”</p>

<p>“Oh, yes—yes, mamma!”</p>

<p>“That time has come, my dove! I have a precious<span class="pagenum">[158]</span>
trust to bequeath as a legacy to some one; it is a secret
that has been the grief and bane and terror of my life; a
secret that lies as yet between my soul and God; yet
must I not go hence and leave no clew to its discovery.</p>

<p>“Little daughter—as I said once before—I love
many; I worship one; I trust only you; for of all the
people I have known, loved, and respected, you are the
most true-hearted, I think also the wisest. Dear child,
I will not bind you by any promise to keep the secret
about to be entrusted to your charge, for I feel sure
that for my sake you will keep it.”</p>

<p>“Through life and unto death, mamma; the rack
should not wring it from me; may God so keep my soul
as I shall keep your secret, mother.”</p>

<p>“Nay, nay, there is a contingency, my child, under
which you might reveal it; and it is to provide for this
possible contingency that I feel constrained to leave this
secret with you.”</p>

<p>“I will be faithful, dearest mother.”</p>

<p>“I know it, my dove!—sit closer now and listen. But
stop—first go and see if the door is closed.”</p>

<p>“It is closed, dear mother.”</p>

<p>“Ah, but go and lock it, my child.”</p>

<p>Margaret complied.</p>

<p>“It is fast now, dear mother.”</p>

<p>“Come then and sit upon the bed where you were
before, so that I can see your sweet face; give me your
dear hand again—there!—now listen.”</p>


<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.
<br /><span class="cheaderfont">FALLING ASLEEP.</span></h2>
</div>


<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“Oh, Mother Earth, upon thy lap</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">Thy weary ones receiving,</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">And o’er them, silent as a dream,</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">Thy grassy mantle weaving,</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">Fold softly in thy long embrace,</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">That heart so worn and broken,</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">And cool its pulse of fire beneath</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">Thy shadows old and oaken!”</div>
    <div class="verse indent6">—<span class="smcap">Whittier.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Meanwhile, the friends assembled downstairs, in Mrs.
Helmstedt’s parlor, waited anxiously for her summons.</p>

<p>Presently, the bell rang, and Nellie Houston sprang<span class="pagenum">[159]</span>
up quickly to answer it. And soon after she left, Margaret
appeared, but with a face so changed, so aghast,
that all who beheld it were stricken with fear and wonder.
It wore no expression of grief, or terror, or anxiety—it
looked as if all these emotions were impossible
to it, henceforth—it looked awed and appalled, as
though some tremendous revelation of sin or suffering,
or both, had fallen like a thunderbolt upon that young
brow, and stricken childhood from it at once and forever.</p>

<p>Ralph Houston, who was waiting for her appearance,
sprang up to meet her, and, alarmed at her expression
of countenance, hastened toward her, exclaiming:</p>

<p>“Margaret, Margaret! what is it?”</p>

<p>But, with a gesture of almost awful solemnity, she
waved him away, and, silent as a visitant from the
grave, passed through and left the room.</p>

<p>Ralph gazed after her in consternation, and then
turned upon his father a look of mute inquiry.</p>

<p>The colonel gravely shook his head, and remained
silent.</p>

<p>Margaret did not return.</p>

<p>Some hours subsequent to this, near midnight, were
assembled, in the chamber of death, old Colonel and
Mrs. Compton, the Houstons, Dr. Hartley and Mr.
Wellworth—all the family and friends, in fact, except
Margaret. She had not made her appearance since.
With that look of annihilated youth, she had passed
through the parlor, and gone out. All wondered at her
absence from the dying bed of her idolized mother; but
none expressed an opinion upon the subject.</p>

<p>The chamber was dimly lighted by a shaded lamp that
stood upon the hearth, and, reversing the natural course
of light, threw the shadows, in strange, fantastic shapes,
to the ceiling. It projected the shadow of Mr. Wellworth,
who stood at Mrs. Helmstedt’s feet, up over the
bed, until it looked like the form of some dark spirit,
swooping down to snatch the soul of the dying.</p>

<p>Mrs. Helmstedt lay on her back, with her head quite
low, and her hands wandering gently over the white
quilt, as if in search of some other clasping hands—sometimes
murmuring softly to herself in calm delirium,<span class="pagenum">[160]</span>
and occasionally opening her eyes and looking around
cognizantly, as though recognizing all who were present,
and missing one who was not.</p>

<p>Nellie stood at her right hand, often bending anxiously
over her.</p>

<p>Another hour passed; and still Marguerite Helmstedt
lay in a state of gentle, whispering delirium, varied with
brief lucid intervals. Was it in the former or the latter
of these conditions that she breathed the name of her
mother, then of her father, then of Nellie?</p>

<p>At the sound of her own name, Mrs. Houston bent
to listen to her words.</p>

<p>“Nellie, dearest,” she murmured, very softly, “when
prisoners die, their bodies are given up to their friends,
are they not?”</p>

<p>“Yes, surely, dearest Marguerite, when they have
friends to claim their bodies,” answered the lady, greatly
wondering at the strange direction the dying woman’s
delirium had now taken.</p>

<p>“And if they have not friends, then they are buried in
the prison grounds, are they not?” continued Mrs.
Helmstedt.</p>

<p>“Of course, I suppose so, dear Marguerite.”</p>

<p>“But, Nellie, I have friends to claim my body, after
death, have I not?”</p>

<p>“What do you say, dearest?” inquired Mrs. Houston,
bending closer down, for the voice of the dying was
nearly extinct.</p>

<p>“I say, Nellie, dear, when my spirit flees, it would not
leave this poor, racked frame behind in the prison.
Claim my body, Nellie, and bury it anywhere! anywhere!
out of this prison!”</p>

<p>“Yes, dearest Marguerite; be content; I will do it,”
answered Mrs. Houston, soothingly, as she would have
spoken to a maniac.</p>

<p>“What does she say?” asked old Mrs. Compton.</p>

<p>“Oh, nothing to any purpose, mother. She is wandering
dreadfully in her mind,” whispered the unsuspicious
Nellie. As if calmed by her friend’s promise,
Mrs. Helmstedt lay perfectly quiet for a few moments,
and then her fair, thin hand went wandering over the
quilt, as if to clasp that other loving hand, and not<span class="pagenum">[161]</span>
meeting it, she opened her large, dark eyes, turning
them about the dusky room, as if in search of some
one; then she raised and fixed them, with a wild gaze,
upon that sinister shadow that swooped over her head.</p>

<p>At this moment, the door was quietly opened, and
Margaret entered. Her face had again changed. It now
wore the look of one who had, in this short space of time,
suffered, struggled and overcome—of one who had gazed
steadily in the face of some appalling trial, and nerved
her heart to meet it—the look, in short, of a martyr who
had conquered the fear of torture and of death, and was
prepared to offer up her life. But from this night,
through all time, Margaret’s face never resumed its
youthful character of simplicity and freedom.</p>

<p>On coming into the room, her eyes were at once turned
toward her mother, and the first object that met their
glance was the large, starry eyes fixed, as if magnetized,
upon the swooping shadow on the ceiling.</p>

<p>Margaret went at once to the fireplace and removed
the lamp from the hearth to the mantelpiece, and placed
an alabaster shade over it, thus reducing the spectres,
and bringing the unnatural relations of shadow and substance
into harmony again. Then she went softly to her
mother’s side and slipped her hand into that wandering
hand, that now closed fondly and contentedly upon it.
The clasp of her child’s slender fingers seemed to recall
the wandering senses of Mrs. Helmstedt. Her dark
eyes softened from their fixed and fiery gaze, as she
turned then on her loving child, murmuring:</p>

<p>“Margaret! my little Margaret!”</p>

<p>And presently she said: “It is time you were at rest,
dear friends. Bid me good-night. Margaret will lie
down here by me. And we will sleep.”</p>

<p>No one seemed inclined to comply with this proposition,
until Mrs. Helmstedt, looking annoyed, Dr. Hartley
beckoned Margaret, who left her mother’s side for an
instant, to hear what he had to say.</p>

<p>“My dear child, I myself am of the opinion that we
had all best retire from the room. Shall you be afraid to
stay here and watch alone?”</p>

<p>“Oh, no, doctor, no!”</p>

<p>“‘But not alone art thou, if One above doth guide thee<span class="pagenum">[162]</span>
on thy way.’ Very well; return to your watch, my
child, and be sure, upon the least sign of change, to call
me quietly. I shall stay in the next room.”</p>

<p>“Yes, doctor,” said Margaret, going softly back to her
place.</p>

<p>“Come, friends, I think we had better retire and leave
this child with her mother,” said the doctor.</p>

<p>“Bid me good-night first,” said Mrs. Helmstedt, as
they all prepared to withdraw.</p>

<p>They all drew near her bed—Mrs. Houston nearest.</p>

<p>“You last, Nellie, you last, dear Nellie,” said Mrs.
Helmstedt, as Mrs. Houston stooped to receive her kiss.</p>

<p>One by one they bade her good-night, and left the
room. Mrs. Houston, by request, lingered longer.</p>

<p>“Come closer, Nellie—closer still—bend down,” whispered
Mrs. Helmstedt, “I have one last favor to ask of
you, dear Nellie. A trifle, yet I implore it. A foolish
one, perhaps; for little may reck the soul, even if it
survive, where or how the cast-off body lies. But do not
lay me here, Nellie! Lay me at the feet of my father
and mother, under the old trees at Plover’s Point. Do
you promise me?”</p>

<p>“Yes, yes, dearest Margaret,” faltered Nellie, through
her gushing tears.</p>

<p>“Now kiss me and go to bed. Good-night.”</p>

<p>Mrs. Houston left the room, and the mother and child
were once more alone together.</p>

<p>“Are you sleepy, little Margaret?”</p>

<p>“No, dearest mamma.”</p>

<p>“I am, and so ought you to be, my dove. Come, loosen
your wrapper; lie down on the bed beside me, and I will
pat your little shoulder softly, until we both fall to sleep,
as we used to do long ago, Margaret,” said Mrs. Helmstedt,
speaking with a playfulness strange and incomprehensible
to her child, who, though her heart seemed
almost breaking, and though these tender words and acts
weakened and unnerved her, prepared to comply. Once
more she lay down by her mother’s side, and felt the
gentle hand upon her neck, and the cooing voice in her
ear, as that dying mother sought, as heretofore, to soothe
her child to sleep.</p>

<p>Let us draw the curtain and leave them so.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[163]</span></p>

<p>The friends, dismissed from Mrs. Helmstedt’s deathbed,
reassembled in the parlor. The doctor lingered
there for a moment to take some little refreshment previous
to resuming his watch in the spare room above.</p>

<p>“What do you think of her now, doctor?” inquired
Mrs. Compton.</p>

<p>“I think, madam, that the quieter she remains the
longer her life will last. She will live through the night
probably—through the morrow possibly.”</p>

<p>The night indeed was far spent. No one thought of
retiring to rest. The doctor took a lamp and a book, and
went softly upstairs to sit and watch in the room adjoining
Mrs. Helmstedt’s. And the party who were left
below gathered around the little wood fire that, even at
this season, the chilly nights on the bleak island rendered
necessary.</p>

<p>Amid the distress and confusion that had reigned
throughout the house since the mistress’ illness, no usual
household duty, save only the getting of meals and the
making of beds, had been attended to. Among other
neglected matters, the window shutters had remained
open all night. So that the first faint dawn of morning
was plainly visible through the windows.</p>

<p>As soon as it was daylight the sad party separated—old
Mrs. Compton going about to take upon herself, for
the better comfort of the family, the supervision of domestic
affairs, and Nellie stealing softly on tiptoe up to
the death-chamber. Nevertheless, the watchful old physician
heard, and came to speak to her at his own door.</p>

<p>“How has she passed the night, doctor?”</p>

<p>“In perfect repose, as far as I can judge.”</p>

<p>Nellie stole noiselessly into the room, softly took away
the night lamp that was still burning, then gently opened
a window to admit the fresh morning air, and finally
went up to the bedside to gaze upon the mother and
child. It was a touching picture. Both were sleeping.
The shadows of death had crept more darkly still over
Mrs. Helmstedt’s beautiful face, but she seemed to rest
quietly, with one hand laid over Margaret’s shoulder, in
a protecting, soothing manner. Margaret’s face had the
troubled look of one who had been overcome by sleep,
in the midst, and despite of great sorrow. As Nellie<span class="pagenum">[164]</span>
gazed, Mrs. Helmstedt, with the sensitiveness of the
dying, perceived her presence, and opened her eyes.</p>

<p>“How are you, dear Marguerite?” inquired Nellie.</p>

<p>Her lips moved, and Nellie stopped to catch the faint
murmur that came from them.</p>

<p>“Hush—sh! don’t wake her. It took so long to get
her to sleep—and sleep is such a blessing.”</p>

<p>“Sleep is such a blessing!” These were the last words
of Marguerite Helmstedt. Saying them, her eyes turned
with unutterable love upon the little form sleeping beside
her, and her hand essayed again its soothing part, but
that dying hand was too feeble, and it slipped, powerless,
from its work.</p>

<p>Margaret, at the same moment, opened her eyes, with
that distressed, perplexed expression wherewith we first
awake after a great sorrow. But in an instant all was
remembered. Her mother dying since yesterday! Simultaneously
with this anguish of recovered memory came
that strange power of self-control, with which this young
creature was so greatly endowed.</p>

<p>“How are you, sweet mother?” she asked, calmly.</p>

<p>The lips of the dying woman fluttered and faintly
smiled, but no audible sound issued thence. Her powers
of speech had failed. Margaret grew deadly pale.</p>

<p>“Do not be alarmed, and do not worry her with questions.
She is very much exhausted. The doctor will
give her a cordial presently,” said the pitying Nellie,
seeking to conceal the terrible truth. But had she looked
for an instant into that pale, resolute face she would not
have feared any unseemly outburst of sorrow on the part
of that young girl.</p>

<p>Nellie, assisted by Margaret, placed Mrs. Helmstedt in
an easier position and arranged the bed drapery. Then,
while old Mrs. Compton and Dr. Hartley paid a visit to
the room, she took Margaret downstairs and constrained
her to take a cup of coffee, that she might be able to
attend upon her mother through the day, Nellie said.
And upon this adjuration, Margaret forced herself to
take some refreshment.</p>

<p>After that the young girl resumed her watch, and
never again left her dying mother.</p>

<p>As yesterday passed, so passed this day, except that<span class="pagenum">[165]</span>
Mrs. Helmstedt was sinking faster. As yesterday, so
to-day, she lay quietly, in a gentle, murmuring delirium,
not one word of which was audible, but which flowed on
in a continuous stream of inarticulate music. Her life
waned with the day. Late in the afternoon, during a
lucid interval, she signed her wish that all might depart
from the room and leave her alone with her child.</p>

<p>And they went.</p>

<p>And as upon the night preceding, so upon this afternoon,
at a sign from Mrs. Helmstedt, Margaret lay down
beside her, as if consenting to take some rest. At another
sign she drew her mother’s powerless hand over her own
shoulder. And then, with a sigh of content, Mrs. Helmstedt
closed her eyes as if to sleep.</p>

<p>The day was dying. The sun was sinking low on the
horizon. In the parlor below the friends of the family
were watching its slow but sure descent, and mentally
comparing it with the steady decline of life in one above,
and mournfully wondering whether she could live to see
another sunrise.</p>

<p>In the recess of the beloved bay window Mrs. Helmstedt’s
forsaken harp still stood in mournful splendor.
The level beams of the setting sun, now shining through
this window, touched the harp, drawing from its
burnished frame responsive rays, “in lines of golden
light.” A moment thus stood the harp in a blaze of quivering
glory, and then, as a sheaf that is gathered up, the
rays were all withdrawn, and the sun sunk below the
horizon. Simultaneously, as if some awful hand had
swept its strings, each chord of that harp in swift succession
snapped, in a long, wild, wailing diapason of
melody, that died in silence with the dying sun, as though
all music, light and life went out together, forever. All
arose to their feet and looked into each other’s faces, in
awe-stricken silence. And the same instant a sudden,
prolonged, despairing shriek rang through the house.</p>

<p>“It is Margaret! Something has happened!” exclaimed
Ralph Houston, breaking the spell.</p>

<p>All immediately hurried upstairs with prophetic intimations
of what had occurred.</p>

<p>They were right.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[166]</span></p>

<p>Marguerite Helmstedt was dead, and her daughter was
distracted!</p>

<p>With matchless heroism Margaret had maintained her
self-control until now; but the grief restrained for her
idolized mother’s sake now broke all bounds—and raged,
a wild, wild storm of sorrow. Who shall dare to approach
her with words of comfort? Who, indeed, can
console her? Not one of you, well-meaning friends;
for you never sounded the depths of woe like hers. Not
you, young lover; for in the passionate idolatry of her
grief, she feels that to listen to your voice, beloved as it
is, would, at this hour, be sacrilege to the presence of the
dead. Not even you, holy, eloquent minister of God.
Seek not to soothe her sorrow, any one of you. It were
vain, and worse than vain. It was a mockery. Can
you breathe the breath of life again into the cold bosom
of the dead mother that lies in yonder chamber? Can
you cause that stilled heart to beat? those closed eyes
to open? those silent lips to speak and murmur softly,
“My little Margaret, my dove?” In a word, can you
raise the dead to life? If not, then go, and trouble her
not with your commonplaces. Before the image of an
only child, just orphaned of her mother, that merely
human comforter who best comprehends her sorrow
would stand the most confounded—dumb. Leave her to
God. Only He who wounds can heal.</p>

<p>That afternoon, late as it was, Dr. Hartley set off for
his home, to commence preparations for the burial; as,
in accordance with Mrs. Helmstedt’s directions, she was
to be laid beside her father and mother, in her ancestral
resting-ground at Plover’s Point.</p>

<p>It was long before Margaret could be forced to leave
her mother’s chamber, and then no one knew what to do
with a child so lost in woe, until, at last, her old nurse,
Hildreth, without venturing a single word of consolation,
just lifted and bore her away from them all—bore her up
to an old quiet attic, a sort of “chamber of desolation,”
where she sat down and held her—still never breathing a
word—only making of her own embracing arms a physical
support for the fainting form, and her affectionate
bosom a pillow for the weeping head. And so she held
her for hours while she moaned and wept.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[167]</span></p>

<p>“Oh, mother, come back to me! I cannot bear it—I
cannot! Oh, God, have mercy! Send her back to me!
Thou canst do all things, dear God—send her back!”
And sometimes: “Oh, mother! do you hear me? are
you near me? where are you? Oh, take me with you!
take me with you! I am your child, your heart’s child!
I cannot live without you, I cannot! Oh, my mother,
call me after you—call me, mother! Don’t you hear me—don’t
you hear your child? Oh, mother, can’t you answer
me—can’t you answer your child? Oh, no—you
cannot—you cannot! and I am growing crazy!” And
other wild words like these; to all of which old Hildreth
listened without making any expostulation, uttering any
rebuke, or offering any vain words of comfort. At last,
when exhausted nature succumbed to a deep and trance-like
sleep, old Hildreth carried her down and tenderly
undressed and put her to bed, and sat watching hours
while she slept.</p>

<p>The next morning, when Margaret opened her eyes,
her grief awoke afresh. She wished to fly immediately
to the side of her mother. But this was strictly forbidden.
At last, partly because she had already shed such
floods of tears, and partly because she made almost superhuman
efforts to control herself, she restrained the outward
expression of her grief, and went to Mrs. Houston
and said:</p>

<p>“Let me see my mother. If you do not, I shall die.
But if you do, I will be very quiet, I will not make a
moan, nor shed a tear, nor utter a single complaint.
Consider—when the coffin is once closed I shall never—never
see her face or hold her hand again! Even now
I can never more hear her voice or meet her eyes; but I
can look upon her face, and hold her hands, and kiss
her; but in a little while I cannot even do that. Consider
then how precious, how priceless is every moment of a
time so short; and let me go.”</p>

<p>Margaret spoke with so much self-control and forced
calmness that her words and manner were strangely
formal. And Mrs. Houston, deceived by them, consented
to her wish.</p>

<p>And Margaret went down to the favorite parlor, where
Mrs. Helmstedt was laid out. The shutters were all<span class="pagenum">[168]</span>
closed to darken the room; but the windows were up to
ventilate it; and the breeze blowing through the Venetian
blinds of the bay window played upon the broken
harp, making a fitful moaning in strange harmony with
the scene. Margaret reverently lifted the covering from
the face of the dead, and pressed kiss after kiss upon the
cold brow and lips. And then she took her seat by the
side of her dead mother, and never left her again for a
moment while she lay in that room.</p>

<p>The third day from that, being Saturday, the funeral
took place. As it was to be a boat funeral, all the neighbors
of the adjacent shores and islands sent or brought
their boats. A large company assembled at the house.
The religious services were performed in the parlor
where the body had been first laid out.</p>

<p>After which the procession formed and moved down to
the beach, where about fifty boats were moored. Not a
single sail among them—all were large or small rowboats.
The oars were all muffled, and the oarsmen wore
badges of mourning on their sleeves.</p>

<p>The island boat, the <em>Nereide</em>, had had her sails and
masts all taken away, and had been painted white, and
furnished with a canopy of black velvet raised on four
poles. The twelve oarsmen seated in it were clothed in
deep mourning. Into this boat the coffin was reverently
lowered. This was the signal for the embarkation of
every one else. In twenty minutes every boat was ready
to fall into the procession that was beginning to form.
The boat containing the Rev. Mr. Wellworth and Dr.
Hartley led the van. Then followed the <em>Nereide</em>, with its
sacred freight. Behind that came <em>The Pearl Shell</em>, containing
the orphaned girl, Mrs. Houston and Ralph.</p>

<p>After them came a skiff bearing Colonel and Mrs.
Compton and Colonel Houston. Other boats, occupied
by friends and acquaintances, and others still, filled with
old family servants, followed in slow succession to the
number of fifty boats or more.</p>

<p>Slowly and silently the long procession moved across
the waters. It formed a spectacle solemn and impressive,
as it was strange and picturesque.</p>

<p>The sun was near its setting when this funeral train
reached Plover’s Point, an abrupt headland crowned<span class="pagenum">[169]</span>
with ancient forest trees, that nearly hid from sight the
old graystone dwelling-house. On the west side of this
bluff, under the shadows of great elms and oaks of a
hundred years’ growth, the family resting place lay.
Here the boats landed. The coffin was reverently lifted
out. The foot procession formed and walked slowly up
the hill. And just as the latest rays of the setting sun
were flecking all the green foliage with gold, they gathered
around her last bed, that had been opened under the
shade of a mighty oak. There they lay her down to
rest—</p>

<div class="poetry-container" style="margin-top:0em">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“There, where with living ear and eye</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">She heard Potomac’s flowing,</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">And through her tall, ancestral trees</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">Saw Autumn’s sunset glowing,</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">She sleeps, still looking to the West,</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">Beneath the dark wood shadow,</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">As if she still would see the sun</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">Sink down on wave and meadow.”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>


<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.
<br /><span class="cheaderfont">THE ORPHAN BRIDE.</span></h2>
</div>


<p>“Come, Margaret, come, my child, it is time to
go home,” said Mrs. Houston, gently trying to raise the
orphan from her kneeling posture by the grave—“come,
dear Margaret.”</p>

<p>“Oh, I cannot! Oh, I cannot! Not yet! Not so
soon!”</p>

<p>“My love, the boat is waiting and the rest of our friends
are gone.”</p>

<p>“Oh, I cannot go so soon! I cannot hurry away and
leave her here alone.”</p>

<p>“But, Margaret, it is late, and we have far to go.”</p>

<p>“Go then, dear Mrs. Houston, and leave me here with
her. I cannot forsake her so soon. Dr. Hartley will
let me stay at his house a few days to be near her, I
know.”</p>

<p>“As long as you like, my dearest child! as if it were
your own house—as it is—and as if you were my own
child,” said the kind-hearted physician, laying his hand
as in benediction upon the bowed head of the kneeling
girl.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[170]</span></p>

<p>“But, my child, think of Ralph! You have not spoken
of him since—since your hands were united. Consider
now a little the feeling of Ralph, who loves you so entirely,”
whispered Mrs. Houston, stooping and caressing
her, and thinking that all good purposes must be served
in drawing the orphan girl from the last sleeping place
of her mother.</p>

<p>“Oh, I cannot! I cannot! I cannot think of any living!
I can think only of her! of her! my mother! Oh,
my mother!”</p>

<p>“What! not think of Ralph, who loves you so devotedly?”</p>

<p>“Not now! Oh, I cannot now! I should be most
unworthy of any love if I could turn from her grave, so
soon, to meet it! Mr. Houston knows that,” she passionately
cried.</p>

<p>“I do, my Margaret! I feel and understand it all. I
would not seek to draw you from this place; but I would
remain and mourn with you,” said Ralph Houston, in a
low and reverential tone, but not so low that the good
doctor did not overhear it, for he hastened to urge:</p>

<p>“Remain with her, then, Mr. Houston! there is no reason
why you should not, and every reason why you
should.”</p>

<p>And so said Mrs. Houston, and so said all friends.</p>

<p>“But what says my Margaret?” inquired Ralph Houston,
stooping and speaking gently.</p>

<p>“No, Mr. Houston, do not stay, please; leave me here
alone with her—let her have me all to herself, for a little
while,” whispered Margaret. And Ralph arose up,
thanked Dr. Hartley, and declined his hospitality.</p>

<p>“Good-by, then, dear Margaret! I shall come to you
in a day or two.”</p>

<p>“Good-by, Mrs. Houston.”</p>

<p>“But you must not call me Mrs. Houston now, my
child. You must call me mother. I have no other
daughter, and you have no other mother now. Besides,
you are my daughter-in-law, you know. So you must
call me mother. Say—will you not?”</p>

<p>“Oh, I cannot! I cannot, Mrs. Houston! You are
my mother’s friend, and I love you very dearly; but I
cannot give you her dear title. I had but one mother in<span class="pagenum">[171]</span>
this world—in all eternity we can have but one; to call
another person so, however near and dear, would be vain
and false; excuse me, Mrs. Houston,” said the girl,
gravely.</p>

<p>“As you please then, dear. You will get over these
morbid feelings. Good-night, God bless you,” said Mrs.
Houston, stooping and pressing a kiss upon the brow of
her adopted daughter.</p>

<p>When every one else was gone, the old doctor lingered
near Margaret.</p>

<p>“Will you come now, my child?” he asked, gently.</p>

<p>“Presently, dear doctor. Please go and leave me here
a little while alone with her.”</p>

<p>“If I do, will you come in before the dew begins to
fall?”</p>

<p>“Yes, indeed I will.”</p>

<p>The doctor walked away through the woods in the
direction of the house. Let us also leave the orphan to
her sacred grief, nor inquire whether she spent the next
hour in weeping or in prayer. The doctor kept on to
the house and told his daughter Clare to prepare the best
bedchamber for the accommodation of her friend Margaret.</p>

<p>And before the dew fell, true to her promise, Margaret
came in.</p>

<p>Clare took charge of her. If ever there existed a perfectly
sound mind in a perfectly sound body, that body
and mind was Clare Hartley’s. She was “a queen of
noble nature’s crowning.” She was a fine, tall, well-developed
girl, with a fresh and ruddy complexion, hair as
black as the black eagle’s crest, and eyes as bright and
strong as his glance when sailing toward the sun; with
a cheerful smile, and a pleasant, elastic voice. She took
charge of Margaret, and in her wise, strong, loving way,
ministered to all her needs—knowing when to speak
to her, and better still, when to be silent—when to wait
upon her, and best of all, when to leave her alone. And
Margaret was by her own desire very much left alone.</p>

<p>Every morning she stole from the house, and went
down through the woods to sit beside her mother’s grave.
For the first few days, the hours passed there were spent<span class="pagenum">[172]</span>
in inconsolable grief. Then after a week she would sit
there quietly, tearlessly, in pensive thought.</p>

<p>In the second week of her stay, Mrs. Houston came
and brought her clothing from the island, and with it a
large packet of linen cut out and partly sewed. This
was a set of shirts that Margaret and her mother had
been making up for her father the very day that Mrs.
Helmstedt had been struck with her death sickness.</p>

<p>“I thought that if she could be interested in any of her
former occupations, her spirits might sooner rally,” said
Mrs. Houston to Clare. And afterward, in delivering
the parcel to Margaret, she said:</p>

<p>“You know, your father will be home soon, my dear,
and will want these to take back to camp with him.
Will you not try to finish them all in time?”</p>

<p>“Oh, yes! give them to me! how could I forget them.
She was so anxious they should be done,” said Margaret,
with an eagerness strangely at variance with her earnest,
mournful countenance.</p>

<p>In unrolling the packet, she came upon the shirt-ruffles
that she knew her mother had been hemming. There
were the very last stitches she had set. There was the
delicate needle just where she had stuck it when she left
her sewing to go out into the garden that fatal morning.
Margaret burst into tears and wept as if her heart would
break, until she became exhausted. Then she reverently
rolled up that relic, saying:</p>

<p>“I cannot finish this ruffle. I would not draw out the
needle her fingers put there, for the world. I will keep
this unchanged in remembrance of her.”</p>

<p>“And when will you be willing to come home?” said
Mrs. Houston.</p>

<p>“After my father comes and goes. I would rather
stay here near her to meet him.”</p>

<p>“And, when he goes, will you come?”</p>

<p>“Yes.”</p>

<p>After dinner Mrs. Houston left Plover’s Point.</p>

<p>Margaret remained, and, each morning after breakfast,
took her little workbasket and walked through the woods
down beside the grave, and sat sewing there all day.</p>

<p>One day while she sat thus a gentle footstep approached,<span class="pagenum">[173]</span>
a soft hand was laid upon her shoulder and a
loving voice murmured her name.</p>

<p>Margaret looked up to see the mild old minister, Mr.
Wellworth, standing near her.</p>

<p>“My child,” he said, “why do you sit here day after
day to give way to grief?”</p>

<p>“Oh, Mr. Wellworth, I do not sit here to give way to
grief. I only sit here to be near her,” pleaded Margaret.</p>

<p>“But, my child, do you know that you grieve as one
without hope and without God in the world?”</p>

<p>Margaret did not answer; she had never in her life
received any religious instruction, and scarcely understood
the bearing of the minister’s words.</p>

<p>“Shall I tell you, Margaret, of Him who came down
from heaven to light up the darkness of the grave?”</p>

<p>Margaret raised her eyes in a mute, appealing glance
to his face.</p>

<p>“Shall I speak of Him, Margaret? Of Him, of whom,
when his friends had seen him dead and buried out of
their sight, the angel of the sepulchre said, ‘He is not
here, but risen?’”</p>

<p>Still that uplifted, appealing gaze.</p>

<p>“Of Him, Margaret, who said, ‘I am the resurrection
and the life?’”</p>

<p>“Oh, yes! yes! tell me of Him! tell me something to
relieve this dreadful sense of loss and death that is pressing
all the life out of my heart,” said Margaret, earnestly.</p>

<p>The old man took the seat beside her, held her hand
in his own, and for the first time opened to her vision the
spiritual views of life, death and immortality—of man,
Christ and God.</p>

<p>Sorrow softens and never sears the heart of childhood
and youth. Sorrow had made very tender and impressible
the heart of the orphan; its soil was in a good state
for the reception of the good seed.</p>

<p>To hear of God the Father, of Christ the Saviour, of
the Holy Ghost the Comforter—was to her thirsting and
fainting spirit the very water of life.</p>

<p>She followed where her pastor led—she sought the
Saviour and found Him not far off. Here Margaret received
her first deep religious impressions—impressions<span class="pagenum">[174]</span>
that not all the stormy waves that dashed over her after-life
were able to efface. In religion she found her greatest,
her sweetest, her only all-sufficient comfort. So it
was in following the strong attractions of her spirit that
Margaret gradually advanced until she became a fervent
Christian.</p>

<p>It was on Monday of the third week of Margaret’s
visit that, just at sunset, Mr. Helmstedt arrived at
Plover’s Point. And, reader, if you had been, however
justly, angry with Philip Helmstedt, you must still have
forgiven him that day, before the woe that was stamped
upon his brow.</p>

<p>His innocent daughter’s tempestuous sobs and tears
had been healthful and refreshing compared to the silent,
dry, acrid, burning and consuming grief that preyed upon
the heart and conscience of this stricken and remorseful
man. Scarcely waiting to return the greeting of the
doctor and his family, Mr. Helmstedt, in a deep, husky
voice, whispered to his daughter:</p>

<p>“Come, Margaret, show me where they have laid her.”</p>

<p>She arose and went before, he following, through the
deep woods, down beside the grassy grave.</p>

<p>“Here is her resting place, my father.”</p>

<p>“Go and leave me here, my girl.”</p>

<p>“But, my father——”</p>

<p>“Obey me, Margaret.”</p>

<p>She reluctantly withdrew, and left the proud mourner,
who could not brook that even his child should look upon
his bitter, sombre, remorseful grief.</p>

<p>“I have killed her, I have killed her!” he groaned in
the spirit. “I have killed her as surely as if my dirk’s
point had reached her breast! I crushed that strong,
high heart under the iron heel of my pride! I have killed
her! I have killed her! I have killed her in her glorious
prime, ere yet one silver thread had mingled with
her ebon locks! And I! What am I now? Ah, pride!
Ah, devil pride! do you laugh now to see to what you
have driven me? Do you laugh to see that I have done
to death the noblest creature that ever stepped upon this
earth? Yes, laugh, pride! laugh Satan! for that is your
other name.”</p>

<p>Oh! terrible is grief when it is mixed with remorse,<span class="pagenum">[175]</span>
and more terrible are both when without hope—without
God! They become despair—they may become—madness!</p>

<p>It was late that evening when Mr. Helmstedt rejoined
the family in the drawing-room of Plover’s Point. And
his sombre, reserved manner repelled those kind friends
who would otherwise have sought means to console
him.</p>

<p>The next day Mrs. Houston came to make another
effort to recover her adopted daughter.</p>

<p>Mr. Helmstedt met the bosom friend of his late wife
with deep yet well-controlled emotion.</p>

<p>He begged for a private interview, and, in the conversation
that ensued, apologized for the necessity, and
questioned her closely as to the details of his wife’s last
illness.</p>

<p>Mrs. Houston told him that Marguerite’s health had
steadily declined, and that the proximate cause of her
death was a trifle—the intrusion of a fugitive British soldier
whom she had relieved and dismissed; but whose
strange or rude behavior was supposed to have alarmed
her and accelerated and aggravated an attack of the
heart to which she had of late grown subject, and which,
in this instance, proved fatal.</p>

<p>“An attack of the heart—yes, yes—that which is the
most strained the soonest breaks,” said Philip Helmstedt
to himself, with a pang of remorse.</p>

<p>Again and again begging pardon for his persistence,
he inquired concerning the last scenes of her life, hoping
to hear some last charge or message from her to himself.
There was none, or, at least, none trusted to Mrs. Houston’s
delivery. Ah! Philip Helmstedt, could you imagine
that the last words of your dying wife to her absent husband
could be confided to any messenger less sacred
than her child and yours, when she was at hand to take
charge of it?</p>

<p>The same morning, when Mr. Helmstedt walked
through the woods down to the grave, he found his
daughter Margaret sitting sewing by the grassy mound.
She arose as her father approached, and stood waiting to
retire at his bidding.</p>

<p>“No, no, my child! you need not go now. Sit down<span class="pagenum">[176]</span>
here by me.” And Philip Helmstedt took his seat and
motioned Margaret to place herself by his side.</p>

<p>“Now tell me about your mother, Margaret,” he said.</p>

<p>The poor girl controlled her feelings and obeyed—related
how, for months past, her mother’s life had steadily
waned, how at shorter and still shorter intervals those
dreadful heart spasms had occurred—how—though the
narrator did not then know why—she had put her house
in order—how anxiously, feverishly she had looked and
longed for his return, until that fatal day when a sudden
attack of the heart had terminated her existence.</p>

<p>“But her last hours! her last hours, Margaret?”</p>

<p>“They were tranquil, my father. I spent the last night
alone with her—she talked to me of you. She bade me
give you these farewell kisses from her. She bade me
tell you that her last love and thoughts were all yours—and
to beg you, with my arms around your neck and my
head on your bosom, to comfort yourself by loving her
little, bereaved daughter,” said the child, scarcely able
to refrain from sobbing.</p>

<p>“And I will, my Margaret! I will be faithful to the
charge,” replied the proud man, more nearly humbled
than he had ever before been in his life.</p>

<p>“I passed the last two hours of her life alone with her.
She died with her head on my bosom, her hand over my
shoulder. Her last sigh—I seem to feel it now—was
breathed on my forehead and through my hair.”</p>

<p>“Oh, Heaven! But yourself, my Margaret. What
were her directions in regard to your future?”</p>

<p>“She had received your letter, dear father, intrusting
her with the sole disposal of your daughter’s hand. And
being so near dissolution, she sent for Mr. Houston and
joined our hands in betrothal at her deathbed. Then
she wished that after she had departed her orphan girl
should go home with Mr. Houston to wait your will
and disposition, my father.”</p>

<p>Mr. Helmstedt turned and looked upon his youthful
daughter. He had scarcely looked at her since his return.
Although he had met her with affection and kissed
her with tenderness, so absorbed had he been in his
bitter, remorseful grief, that he scarcely fixed his eyes
upon her, or noticed that in his two years’ absence she<span class="pagenum">[177]</span>
had grown from childhood into womanhood. But now,
when without hesitating bashfulness, when with serious
self-possession, she spoke of her betrothal, he turned and
gazed upon her.</p>

<p>She was looking so grave and womanly in her deep
mourning robe, her plainly banded hair and her thoughtful,
earnest, fervent countenance, whence youthful lightness
seemed banished forever. There was a profounder
depth of thought and feeling under that young face than
her great sorrow alone could have produced—as though
strange suffering and severe reflection, searching trial,
and terrible struggle, and the knowledge, experience and
wisdom that they bring, had prematurely come upon that
young soul.</p>

<p>Her father contemplated her countenance with an increasing
wonder and interest. His voice, in addressing
her, unconsciously assumed a tone of respect; and when
in rising to leave the spot he offered her his arm, the
deferential courtesy of the gentleman blended in his manner
with the tender affection of the father. And afterward,
in the presence of others, he always called her, or
spoke of her, as Miss Helmstedt, an example which all
others were, of course, expected to follow.</p>

<p>The next day Mr. Helmstedt departed for the island.
Margaret was anxious to accompany her father thither,
but he declined her offer, expressing his desire and necessity
to be alone. He went to the island, to the scene of
his high-spirited, broken-hearted wife’s long, half-voluntary,
half-enforced confinement; he went to indulge in
solitude his bitter, remorseful grief.</p>

<p>He remained there a fortnight, inhabiting the vacant
rooms, wandering about amid the deserted scenes, once
so full, so insinct, so alive with Marguerite De Lancie’s
bright, animating and inspiring presence—now only
haunted by her memory. He seemed to derive a strange,
morose satisfaction in thus torturing his own conscience-stricken
soul.</p>

<p>Once, from Marguerite’s favorite parlor, were heard
the sounds of deep, convulsive weeping and sobbing;
and old Hapzibah, who was the listener upon this occasion,
fearing discovery, hurried away in no less astonishment
than consternation. And this was the only instance<span class="pagenum">[178]</span>
in the whole course of his existence upon which Mr.
Helmstedt was ever suspected of such unbending.</p>

<p>At the end of a fortnight, having appointed an overseer
to take charge of the island plantation, Mr. Helmstedt
returned to Plover’s Point.</p>

<p>This was on a Saturday.</p>

<p>The next day, Sunday, his young daughter Margaret
formally united with the Protestant Episcopal Church,
over which Mr. Wellworth had charge, and received her
first communion from his venerable hands.</p>

<p>And on Monday morning Mr. Helmstedt conveyed his
daughter to Buzzard’s Bluff, where he placed her in
charge of her prospective mother-in-law. The same day,
calling Margaret into an unoccupied parlor, he said to
her:</p>

<p>“My dear, since you are to remain here under the
guardianship of your future relatives, and as you are,
though so youthful, a girl of unusual discretion, and an
affianced bride, I wish to place your maintenance here
upon the most liberal and independent footing. I have
set apart the rents of Plover’s Point, which is, indeed,
your own property, to your support. The rents of the
house, farm and fisheries amount, in all, to twelve hundred
dollars a year. Enough for your incidental expenses,
Margaret?”</p>

<p>“Oh, amply, amply, my dear father.”</p>

<p>“I have requested Dr. Hartley to pay this over to you
quarterly. In addition to this, you will certainly need a
maid of your own, my dear; and it will also be more
convenient for you to have a messenger of your own, for
there will be times when you may wish to send a letter
to the post office, or a note to some of your young
friends, or even an errand to the village shops, when you
may not like to call upon the servants of the family. I
have, therefore, consulted Mrs. Houston, and with her
concurrence have directed Hildreth and Forrest to come
over and remain here in your service.”</p>

<p>“Are they willing to come, dear father?”</p>

<p>“What has that to do with it, my dear? But since
you ask, I will inform you they are very anxious to be
near you.”</p>

<p>“I thank you earnestly, my dear father.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[179]</span></p>

<p>“Forrest will bring over your riding horse and your
own little sailboat.”</p>

<p>“I thank you, sir.”</p>

<p>“And here, Margaret, it will be two months before
the first quarter’s rent is due on Plover’s Point, and you
may need funds. Take this, my dear.” And he placed in
her hand a pocketbook containing a check for five hundred
dollars, and also several bank notes of smaller value.
Margaret, who did not as yet know what the book contained,
received it in the same meek, thankful spirit.</p>

<p>“And now let us rejoin Mrs. Houston and Ralph, who
thinks it unkind that I should thus, on the last day of our
stay, keep his promised bride away from him.”</p>

<p>The next morning Mr. Helmstedt and Ralph Houston
took leave of their friends and departed together for the
Northern seat of war.</p>

<p>Margaret bore her trials with a fortitude and resignation
wonderful when found in one so young. The recent
and sudden decease of her idolized mother, the departure
of her father and her lover to meet the toils, privations,
and dangers of a desperate war, and above all, the undivided
responsibility of a dread secret—a fatal secret,
weighing upon her bosom—were enough, combined, to
crush the spirit of any human being less firm, patient,
and courageous than this young creature; and even such
as she was, the burden oppressed, overshadowed, and subdued
her soul to a seriousness almost falling to gloom.</p>

<p>Mrs. Houston, to do that superficial little lady justice,
applied herself with more earnestness than any one would
have given her credit for possessing, to the delicate and
difficult task of consoling the orphan. And her advantages
for doing this were excellent.</p>

<p>Buzzard’s Bluff was a fine, pleasant, cheerful residence.
It was, in fact, a high, grassy, rolling hill, rising gradually
from the water’s edge, and, far behind, crowned
with the dense primitive forest.</p>

<p>Upon the brow of this green hill, against the background
of the green forest, stood the white dwelling-house,
fronting the water. It was a large brick edifice
covered with white stucco, relieved by many green Venetian
window-blinds, and presenting a very gay and bright
aspect. Its style of architecture was very simple, being<span class="pagenum">[180]</span>
that in which ninety-nine out of a hundred of the better
sort of country houses in that neighborhood were then
built. The mansion consisted of a square central edifice,
of two stories, with a wide hall running through the
middle of each story from front to back, and having four
spacious rooms on each floor. This main edifice was
continued by a long back building.</p>

<p>And it was flanked on the right by a tasteful wing,
having a peaked roof with a gable-end front, one large,
double window below, and a fanlight above. There were
also side windows and a side door opening into a flower
garden. The whole wing, walls, windows, and roof, was
completely covered with creeping vines, cape jessamine,
clematis, honeysuckles, running roses, etc., that gave
portions of the mansion the appearance of a beautiful
summer house. This contained two large rooms, divided
by a short passage, and had been given up entirely to the
use of Ralph. The front room, with the large seaward
window, he had occupied as a private sitting, reading,
writing and lounging parlor; the back room was his
sleeping chamber. A staircase in the short dividing passage
led up into the room in the roof, lighted by two opposite
gable fanlights, where he stowed his guns, game-bags,
fishing tackle, etc.</p>

<p>Now, during the month that Margaret had passed at
the Point, Ralph had gradually removed his personal effects
from this wing, had caused both parlor and chamber
to be newly papered, painted, and furnished, and then
expressed his wish that upon his departure for the Northern
frontier the whole wing, as the most separated, beautiful
and desirable portion of the establishment, might be
given up to the exclusive use of his affianced bride.</p>

<p>Mrs. Houston consented, with the proviso that he
should not vacate the rooms until the hour of his departure
for camp.</p>

<p>Accordingly, the first evening of Margaret’s arrival
she had been accommodated with a pleasant chamber on
the second-floor front of the main building.</p>

<p>But on Tuesday morning, after Mr. Helmstedt and
Ralph Houston had departed, Mrs. Houston and her
maids went busily to work and refreshed the two pretty
rooms of the wing, hanging white lace curtains to the<span class="pagenum">[181]</span>
windows, white lace valances to the toilet table and tester,
etc., and transfiguring the neatly-kept bachelor’s apartments
into a lady’s charming little boudoir and bedchamber.</p>

<p>When all was arranged, even to the fresh flowers in
the white vases upon the front room mantelpiece, and
the choice books from Mrs. Houston’s own private library
upon the center table, the busy little lady, in her
eagerness to surprise and please, hurried away to seek
Margaret and introduce her to her delightful apartments.
She tripped swiftly and softly up the stairs, and into the
room, where she surprised Margaret, quite absorbed in
some work at her writing-desk.</p>

<p>“Oh, you are busy! Whom are you writing to, my
dear?” she inquired eagerly, hastening to the side of the
girl and looking over her shoulder.</p>

<p>She meant nothing, or next to nothing—it was her
heedless, impulsive way. She was in a hurry, and did
not stop to remember that the question was rude, even
when Margaret, with a sudden blush, reversed her sheet
of paper, and, keeping her hand pressed down upon it,
arose in agitation.</p>

<p>“Why, how startled you are, my dear! How nervous
you must be! I ought not to have come upon you so
suddenly. But to whom are you writing, my dear?”</p>

<p>“To—a—correspondent, Mrs. Houston.”</p>

<p>“Why, just look there now! See what a good hand I
am at guessing, for I even judged as much! But who is
your correspondent then, my dear?”</p>

<p>“A—friend! Mrs. Houston.”</p>

<p>“Good, again! I had imagined so, since you have no
enemies, my child. But who then is this friend, you little
rustic? You have not even acquaintances to write letters
to, much less friends, unless it is Franky! Ah, by the
way, don’t write to Franky, Margaret! He could not
bear it now.”</p>

<p>Margaret made no comment, and Mrs. Houston, growing
uneasy upon the subject of Franky, said:</p>

<p>“I hope you are not writing to Franky, Margaret!”</p>

<p>“No, Mrs. Houston, I am not.”</p>

<p>“If not to Franky, to whom then? It cannot be to
your father or Ralph, for they have just left you. Come!<span class="pagenum">[182]</span>
this is getting interesting! Who is your correspondent,
little one? Your old duenna insists upon knowing.”</p>

<p>Margaret turned pale, but remained silent.</p>

<p>“Dear me, how mysterious you are! My curiosity is
growing irresistible! Who is it?”</p>

<p>Margaret suddenly burst into tears.</p>

<p>This brought the heedless little lady to her senses. She
hastened to soothe and apologize.</p>

<p>“Why, Margaret, my dear child! Why, Margaret!
Dear me, how sorry I am! I am very sorry, Margaret!
What a thoughtless chatterbox I am of my age! But
then I was only teazing you to rouse you a little, my
dear! I did not mean to hurt you! And then I had
such a pleasant surprise for you. Forgive me.”</p>

<p>Margaret slipped her left hand into Mrs. Houston’s
(her right was still pressed upon the letter), and said:</p>

<p>“Forgive me. It is I who am nervous and irritable
and require sufferance. You are very, very kind to me
in all things, and I feel it.”</p>

<p>The little lady stooped and kissed her, saying:</p>

<p>“Such words are absurd between you and me, Maggie.
Come, I will leave you now to finish your letter, and
return to you by and by.”</p>

<p>And then she left the room, thinking within herself:
“The sensitive little creature! Who would have thought
my heedless words would have distressed her so? I did
not care about knowing to whom the letter was written,
I am sure. But, by the way, to whom could she have
been writing? And, now I reflect, it was very strange
that she should have been so exceedingly distressed by
my questionings! It never occurred to me before, but it
really was rather mysterious! I must try to find out
what it all means! I ought to do so! I am her guardian,
her mother-in-law. I am responsible for her to her
father and to her betrothed husband.”</p>

<p>Meanwhile Margaret Helmstedt had started up, closed
the door and turned the key, and clasping her pale face
between her hands, began pacing the floor and exclaiming
at intervals:</p>

<p>“Oh, Heaven of heavens, how nearly all had been
lost! Oh, I am unfit, I am unfit for this dreadful trust!
To think I should have set down to write to him, and<span class="pagenum">[183]</span>
left the door unfastened! Farewell to liberty and
frankness! I am given over to bonds, to vigilance and
secretiveness forever! Oh, mother! my mother! I will
be true to you! Oh, our Father who art in heaven,
help me to be firm and wise and true!”</p>

<p>She came back at last, and sat down to her writing-desk,
and finished her letter. Then opening her pocketbook,
she took out the check for five hundred dollars,
drawn by her father, in her favor, on a Baltimore bank,
inclosed it in the letter, sealed and directed it, and placed
it in the sanctity of her bosom.</p>

<p>Then folding her arms upon her writing-desk, she
dropped her head upon them, and in that attitude of
dejection remained until the ringing of the supper bell
aroused her.</p>

<p>Colonel Houston, who was waiting for her in the hall,
received her with his old-school courtesy, drew her hand
within his arm and led her out upon the lawn, where,
under the shade of a gigantic chestnut tree, the tea table
was set—its snowy drapery and glistening service making
a pleasant contrast to the vivid green verdure of the
lawn upon which it stood. Old Colonel and Mrs.
Compton and Nellie formed a pleasing group around
the table. Colonel Houston handed Margaret to her
place, and took his own seat.</p>

<p>“My dear, I am going to send Lemuel to Heathville
to-morrow, and if you like to leave your letter with me,
I will give it to him to put in the post office,” said Mrs.
Houston.</p>

<p>“I thank you, Mrs. Houston,” said Margaret.</p>

<p>“Ah! that is what kept you in your room all the afternoon,
my dear. You were writing a letter; whom were
you writing to, my child?” said old Mrs. Compton.</p>

<p>“Pray excuse me,” said Margaret, embarrassed.</p>

<p>This answer surprised the family group, who had,
however, the tact to withdraw their attention and change
the subject.</p>

<p>After tea, an hour or two was spent upon the pleasant
lawn, strolling through the groves, or down to the silvery
beach, and watching the monotonous motion of the
sea, the occasional leap and plunge of the fish, the solitary<span class="pagenum">[184]</span>
flight of a laggard water fowl, and perhaps the
distant appearance of a sail.</p>

<p>At last, when the full moon was high in the heavens,
the family returned to the house.</p>

<p>Mrs. Houston took Margaret’s arm, and saying:</p>

<p>“I have a little surprise for you, my love,” led her
into the pretty wing appropriated to her.</p>

<p>The rooms were illumined by a shaded alabaster lamp
that diffused a sort of tender moonlight tone over the
bright carpet and chairs and sofa covers, and the marble-topped
tables, and white lace window curtains of the
boudoir, and fell softly upon the pure white draperies of
the sleeping-room beyond.</p>

<p>Hildreth, in her neat, sober gown of gray stuff, and
her apron, neckhandkerchief and turban of white linen,
stood in attendance.</p>

<p>Margaret had not seen her faithful nurse for a month—that
is, not since her mother’s decease—and now she
sprang to greet her, scarcely able to refrain from bursting into
tears.</p>

<p>Mrs. Houston interfered.</p>

<p>“Now, my dear Margaret, here are your apartments—a
sweet little boudoir and chamber, I flatter myself, as
can be found in Maryland—connected with the house,
yet entirely separate and private. And here are your
servants; Hildreth will occupy the room in the roof
above, and Forrest has a quarter in the grove there,
within easy sound of your bell. Your boat is secure in
the boathouse below, and your horse is in the best stall
in the stable.”</p>

<p>“I thank you, dear Mrs. Houston.”</p>

<p>“I understand, also, that your father has assigned
you a very liberal income. Consequently, my dear, you
are in all things as independent as a little queen in her
palace. Consider also, dear Margaret, that it is a great
accession of happiness to us all to have you here, and
we should wish to have as much of your company as
possible. Therefore, when you are inclined to society,
come among us; at all other times, you can retire to
this, your castle. And at all times and seasons our
house and servants are at your orders, Margaret; for
you know that as the bride of our eldest son and heir,<span class="pagenum">[185]</span>
you are in some sort our Princess of Wales,” she concluded,
playfully.</p>

<p>“I thank you, dear Mrs. Houston,” again said the
young girl. Her thoughts were too gravely preoccupied
to give much attention to the prattle of the
lady.</p>

<p>“And by the way, Margaret, where is your letter,
my dear? I shall dispatch Lemuel early in the morning.”</p>

<p>“You are very considerate, Mrs. Houston, but I do
not purpose to send it by Lemuel.”</p>

<p>“As you please, my dear. Good-night,” she said,
kissing the maiden with sincere affection, notwithstanding
that, as she left the room, her baffled curiosity induced
her to murmur:</p>

<p>“There is some ill mystery, that I am constrained to
discover, connected with that letter.”</p>

<p>Miss Helmstedt, left to herself, directed Hildreth to
secure the doors communicating with the main building,
and then go and call Forrest to her presence.</p>

<p>“I shall not tax you much, Forrest,” she said,
“though to-night I have to require rather an arduous
service of you.”</p>

<p>“Nothing is hard that I do for you, Miss Margaret,”
replied Forrest.</p>

<p>“Listen then—to-night, after you are sure that all the
family are retired, and there is no possibility of your
being observed, take my horse from the stable, and ride,
as for your life, to Belleview, and put this carefully in
the post office,” she said, drawing the letter from her
bosom and placing it in the hand of Forrest.</p>

<p>The old man looked at her wistfully, uneasily, drew
a deep sigh, bowed reverently, put the letter in his
pocket, and, at a sign from his mistress, left the room.</p>

<p>But that night at eleven o’clock, Nellie, watching from
her window, saw Miss Helmstedt’s messenger ride away
over the hills through the moonlight.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum">[186]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.
<br /><span class="cheaderfont">THE MYSTERIOUS CORRESPONDENT.</span></h2>
</div>


<p>“You, sir! I want to see you! Come hither!” said
Mrs. Houston, as she stood upon the back piazza, early
the next morning, and beckoned Forrest to her presence.</p>

<p>The old man bowed in his deferential manner, advanced
and stood hat in hand before the little lady.</p>

<p>“Where did you go last night after we had all retired?”</p>

<p>Forrest bowed again, humbly and deprecatingly, but
remained silent.</p>

<p>“Did you hear me speak to you?” inquired Mrs.
Houston, impatiently.</p>

<p>The old man bowed once more very meekly, and answered:</p>

<p>“I went after no harm, mistress.”</p>

<p>“Nor after any good, I’ll venture to say!—but that is
not the point, sir. I ask you where you went! and I
intend to have an answer.”</p>

<p>“I begs your pardon sincere, mistress, but mus’ ’cline
for to ’form you.”</p>

<p>“You old villain! Do you dare to defy me here on my
own premises? I’ll see about this!” exclaimed the lady,
in a voice more shrill than ladylike, as with a flushed
face and excited air she turned into the house to summon
Colonel Houston.</p>

<p>But she was intercepted by Margaret, who had heard
the voice, and now came from her own apartment and
stood before her.</p>

<p>“Stay, Mrs. Houston, I sent Forrest away on an errand,
last night, and if he declined to inform you whither
he went, it was from no disrespect to you; but from fidelity
to me. I had enjoined him not to speak to any one
of his errand,” she said, in a voice and manner so respectful
as to take away everything offensive from her words.</p>

<p>“You did! Now then where did you send him, Margaret?
I am your guardian, and I have a right to know.”</p>

<p>“You must forgive me, Mrs. Houston, if I decline to<span class="pagenum">[187]</span>
inform you,” replied the maiden, firmly, though still very
respectfully.</p>

<p>“I know, however. It was to mail that letter.”</p>

<p>“You must draw your own conclusions, dear madam.”</p>

<p>“I know it was to mail that letter! And I will put on
my bonnet and drive over to the post office, and demand
of the postmaster to whom the letter mailed last night
by the negro Forrest was directed! There’s not so many
letters go to that little office but what he will be able to
recollect!” exclaimed Mrs. Houston, angrily.</p>

<p>“Oh, God!”</p>

<p>The words breathed forth possessed so much of prayerful
woe that the little lady half started, and turned back
to see Margaret grow pale and sink upon the corner of
the hall settee.</p>

<p>Mrs. Houston hesitated between her curiosity and
anger on the one hand, and her pity on the other. Finally
she made a compromise. Coming to Margaret’s side, she
said:</p>

<p>“Maggie, I am treated abominably, standing as I do
in your mother’s place toward you, and being as I am
your guardian—abominably! Now I am sure I do not
wish to pry into your correspondence, unless it is an
improper one.”</p>

<p>“Mrs. Houston, my mother’s daughter could not have
an improper correspondence, as you should be the first to
feel assured.”</p>

<p>“Yet, Margaret, as it appears to me, if this correspondence
were proper, you would not be so solicitous to
conceal it from me.”</p>

<p>It occurred to Margaret to reply, “Mrs. Houston, suppose
that I were writing sentimental letters to a female
friend, which might not be really wrong, yet which I
should not like to expose to your ridicule, would I not,
in such a case, even though it were a proper correspondence,
be solicitous to conceal it from you?”—but her
exact truthfulness prevented her from putting this supposititious
case, and as she did not in any other manner
reply, Mrs. Houston continued:</p>

<p>“So you see, Margaret, that you force me to investigate
this matter, and I shall, therefore, immediately after
breakfast, proceed to the village to make inquiries at the<span class="pagenum">[188]</span>
post office.” And having announced this resolution, the
lady, still struggling with her feelings of displeasure, left
the hall.</p>

<p>Margaret withdrew to her own sitting-room, and threw
herself upon her knees to pray. Soon rising she touched
the bell and summoned Forrest.</p>

<p>The old man came in looking very sorrowful.</p>

<p>“How did it become known that you left the premises
last night, Forrest?”</p>

<p>“Somebody must o’ ’spicioned me, chile, an’ been on
de watch.”</p>

<p>“Yes! yes! I see now! that was it; but, Forrest, this
is what I called you to say: In future, whenever Mrs.
Houston asks you a question about your services to your
mistress, refer her to me.”</p>

<p>“Yes, Miss Marget.”</p>

<p>“You may go now.”</p>

<p>“Pardon, Miss Marget; I wants to say somefin as’ll
set your min’ at ease ’bout dat letter.”</p>

<p>“Ah, yes, you mailed it?”</p>

<p>“True for you, Miss Marget; but listen; de pos’ office
was shet up. So I jes drap de letter inter de letter-box.
Same minit der was two colored boys an’ a white man
drap as many as five or six letters in long o’ mine. So
even ef de pos’masser could o’ see me t’rough de winder,
which he couldn’t, how he gwine know which letter
’mong de half-dozen I drap in?”</p>

<p>“True! true! true! Oh, that was very providential!
Oh, thank Heaven!” exclaimed Margaret, fervently
clasping her hands.</p>

<p>The old man bowed and retired.</p>

<p>After breakfast, Mrs. Houston, without explaining the
motive of her journey to any one, ordered her carriage,
and drove to the village as upon a shopping excursion.</p>

<p>Now you have not known Mrs. Nellie Houston thus
long without discovering that with some good qualities,
she was, in some respects, a very silly woman. She drove
up to the post office, and by her indiscreet questions respecting
“a certain letter mailed the night before by Forrest,
the messenger of her ward, Miss Helmstedt,” set the
weak-headed young postmaster to wondering, conjecturing
and speculating. And when she found that he<span class="pagenum">[189]</span>
could give her no satisfaction in respect of the letter, she
made matters worse by directing him to detain any letters
sent there by her ward, Miss Helmstedt, unless such letters
happened to be directed to a Helmstedt or a Houston,
who were the only correspondents of Miss Helmstedt
recognized by her family.</p>

<p>The postmaster thereupon informed Mrs. Houston,
that if she wished to interfere with the correspondence of
her ward, she must do so at her own discretion, and
necessarily before they should be sent to his office, as he
had no authority to detain letters sent thither to be
mailed, and might even be subjected to prosecution for so
doing.</p>

<p>Mrs. Houston went away baffled and angered, and also
totally unconscious of the serious mischief she had set on
foot.</p>

<p>To an idle and shallow young man she had spoken
indiscreetly of the young maiden whose orphanage she
had promised to cherish and defend, exposing her actions
to suspicion and her character to speculation. She had
left the spotless name of Margaret Helmstedt a theme of
low village gossip.</p>

<p>And thus having done as much evil as any foolish
woman could well do in an hour, she entered her carriage,
and with the solemn conviction of having discharged her
duty, drove home to the Bluff.</p>

<p>“God defend me, only, from my friends, for of my
enemies I can myself take care,” prayed one who seemed
to have known this world right well.</p>

<p>From that day Margaret Helmstedt, whenever she had
occasion to write a letter, took care to turn the key of her
room door; and whenever she had occasion to mail one,
took equal precaution to give it, unperceived, into the
hands of Forrest, with directions that he should drop it
into the letter-box at a moment when he should see other
letters, from other sources, going in. Poor girl! she was
slowly acquiring an art hateful to her soul. And one also
that did not avail her greatly. For notwithstanding all
her precautions, the report crept about that Miss Helmstedt
had a secret correspondent, very much disapproved
of by her friends. And in course of time also, the name
of this correspondent transpired. And this is the manner<span class="pagenum">[190]</span>
in which it happened. Young Simpson, the postmaster,
to whom Mrs. Houston had so imprudently given a portion
of her confidence, found his curiosity piqued to discover
who this forbidden correspondent might be, and
after weeks of patient waiting, convinced himself that
the letters addressed in a fair Italian hand to a certain
person were those dropped into the box by Miss Helmstedt’s
messenger, old Forrest. A few more observations
confirmed this conviction. Then wishing to gain consequence
in the eyes of Mrs. Houston, he availed himself
of the first opportunity presented by the presence of that
lady at the office to inform her of the discovery he had
made.</p>

<p>“You are sure that is the name?” inquired the lady, in
surprise.</p>

<p>“Yes, madam, that is the name, in a regular slanting
hand. I always find a letter bearing that name in the
box the moment after that old man has been seen about
here, and never at any other time.”</p>

<p>“Very well; I thank you for your information; but
mind! pray do not speak of this matter to any one but
myself; for I would not like to have this subject discussed
in town,” said Mrs. Houston.</p>

<p>“Oh, certainly not, madam! You may rely on me,”
replied the young man, who, in half an hour afterward,
laughed over the whole affair with a companion, both
making very merry over the idea that the wealthy heiress,
Miss Helmstedt, should be engaged to one lover and in
private correspondence with another.</p>

<p>And so the ball set in motion by Nellie’s indiscretion
rolled finely, never wanting a helping hand to propel it on
its course; and gathered as it rolled. The rumor changed
its form: the gossip became slander. And every one in
the county, with the exception of Miss Helmstedt and her
friends, “knew” that young lady was in “secret” correspondence
with a low, disreputable sailor, whose acquaintance
she had formed in some inexplicable manner,
and the discovery of whose surreptitious visits to the
island had been the proximate cause of her mother’s
death.</p>

<p>Could Mrs. Houston have imagined half the evil that
must accrue from her own imprudent conversation, she<span class="pagenum">[191]</span>
would have been touched with compunction; as it was,
hearing nothing whatever of this injurious calumny, the
guilty reveled in the rewards of “an approving conscience.”
She kept her discovery of the mysterious name
to herself; hinting to no one, least of all to Margaret, the
extent of her knowledge upon this subject. And in order
to throw the girl off her guard, she was careful never to
resume the subject of the letters.</p>

<p>And the plan succeeded so far that Margaret continued,
at intervals of three or four weeks, to send off
those mysterious letters, and thus the scandal grew and
strengthened. That upon such slight grounds the good
name of an innocent girl should have been assailed may
astonish those unacquainted with the peculiar character
of a neighborhood where the conduct of woman is governed
by the most stringent conventionalism, and where
such stringency is made necessary by the existing fact,
that the slightest eccentricity of conduct, however innocent,
or even meritorious it may be, is made the ground
of the gravest animadversions.</p>

<p>Mrs. Houston, unconscious, as I said, of the rumors
abroad, and biding her time for farther discoveries,
treated Margaret with great kindness. Nellie had always,
of all things, desired a daughter of her own. In her
attached stepchild, Franky, she felt that she had quite
a son of her own, and in Margaret she would have been
pleased to possess the coveted daughter. As well as her
capricious temper would allow her to do so, she sought
to conduct herself as a mother toward the orphan girl;
at times overwhelming her with flippant caresses and
puerile attentions, which she might have mistaken for
“the sweet, small courtesies of life,” but which were very
distasteful and unwelcome to one of Margaret Helmstedt’s
profound, earnest, impassioned soul, and mournful
life experiences.</p>

<p>The malaria of slander that filled all the air without
must necessarily at last penetrate the precincts of home.</p>

<p>One day, a miserable, dark, drizzling day, near the last
of November, Mr. Wellworth presented himself at the
Bluff, and requested to see Mrs. Houston alone.</p>

<p>Nellie obeyed the summons, and went to receive the<span class="pagenum">[192]</span>
pastoral call in the front parlor across the hall from Margaret’s
wing.</p>

<p>On entering the room she was struck at once by the
unusually grave and even troubled look of the minister.</p>

<p>He arose and greeted her, handed a chair, and when
she was seated resumed his own.</p>

<p>And then, after a little conversation, opened the subject
of his visit.</p>

<p>“Mrs. Houston it is my very painful duty to advise you
of the existence of certain rumors in regard to your amiable
ward that I know to be as false as they are injurious,
but with which I am equally certain you should be made
acquainted.”</p>

<p>Nellie was really amazed—so unconscious was she of
the effect of her own mischief-making. She drew out her
perfumed pocket handkerchief to have it ready, and then
inquired:</p>

<p>“To what purpose should I be informed of false, injurious
rumors, sir? I know nothing of the rumors to which
you refer.”</p>

<p>“I verily believe you, madam. But you should be
made acquainted with them, as, in the event of their
having been occasioned by any little act of thoughtlessness
on the part of Miss Helmstedt, you may counsel that
young lady and put a stop to this gossiping.”</p>

<p>“I do entreat you, sir, to speak plainly.”</p>

<p>“You must pardon me then, madam, if I take you at
your word. It is currently reported, then, that Miss
Helmstedt is in secret correspondence, ‘secret’ no longer,
with a person of low and disreputable character, a waterman,
skipper, or something of the sort, whose acquaintance
she formed in her mother’s lifetime and during her
father’s absence, while she lived almost alone, on her
native island. Now, of course, I know this rumor to be
essentially false and calumnious; but I know also how
delicate is the bloom on a young girl’s fair name, and how
easily a careless handling will smirch it. Some thoughtless,
perhaps some praiseworthy act on the part of this
young creature—such as the sending of charitable donations
through the post office, or something of the sort—may
have given rise to this rumor, which should at once
be met and put down by her friends. But I advise you,<span class="pagenum">[193]</span>
my dear madam, to speak to Miss Helmstedt and ascertain
what ground, if any, however slight, there may be
for this injurious rumor.”</p>

<p>For all answer, Mrs. Houston put her handkerchief
to her face and began to weep.</p>

<p>“No, no, my dear Mrs. Houston, don’t take this too
much to heart! these things must be firmly confronted
and dealt with—not wept over.”</p>

<p>“Oh, sir! good sir! you don’t know! you don’t know!
It is too true! Margaret gives me a world of anxiety.”</p>

<p>“Madam! you shock me! What is it you say?”</p>

<p>“Oh! sir, I am glad you came this morning! I have
been wanting to ask your advice for a long time; but
I did not like to. It is too true! Margaret is very imprudent!”</p>

<p>“Dear Heaven, madam! do you tell me that you knew
of this report, and that it is not unfounded?”</p>

<p>“Oh! no, sir, I knew nothing of the report, as I
told you before! I knew that Margaret was very, very
imprudent, and gave me excessive uneasiness, but I did
not dream that she had compromised herself to such
an extent! Oh, never!” exclaimed Nellie, still and always
unsuspicious of her own great share in creating
the evil.</p>

<p>“You said that you had thought of asking my counsel.
If you please to explain, my dear Mrs. Houston,
you shall have the benefit of the best counsel my poor
ability will furnish.”</p>

<p>“Oh! Heavens, sir! girls are not what they used to
be when I was young—though I am scarcely middle-aged
now—but they are not.”</p>

<p>“And Miss Helmstedt?”</p>

<p>“Oh, sir! Margaret is indeed in correspondence with
some unknown man, whose very name I never heard in
all my life before! She does all she can to keep the
affair secret, and she thinks she keeps it so; but poor
thing, having very little art, she cannot succeed in concealing
the fact that she sends off these mysterious
letters about once a month.”</p>

<p>“And do you not expostulate with her?” inquired
the deeply-shocked minister.</p>

<p>“Oh, I did at first, sir, but I made no more impression<span class="pagenum">[194]</span>
upon her than if she had been a marble statue of
Firmness. She would not tell me who her correspondent
was, where he was, what he was, what was the nature
of the acquaintance between them; in short, she would
tell me nothing about him.”</p>

<p>“And can neither Colonel nor Mrs. Compton, nor
your husband, impress her with the impropriety of this
proceeding?”</p>

<p>“Oh, sir, they know nothing about it. No one in
this house knows anything about Margaret’s conduct
but myself. And the rumor you have just brought
me has never reached them, I am sure.”</p>

<p>“Suppose you let me talk with my young friend. She
means well, I am sure.”</p>

<p>“Well, sir, you shall have the opportunity you desire.
But—excuse me for quoting for your benefit a
homely adage—‘Trot sire, trot dam, and the colt will
never pace!’ Margaret Helmstedt takes stubbornness
from both parents, and may be supposed to have a
double allowance,” said Mrs. Houston, putting her hand
to the bell cord.</p>

<p>A servant appeared.</p>

<p>“Let Miss Helmstedt know that Mr. Wellworth desires
to see her,” said Mrs. Houston.</p>

<p>The messenger withdrew, and soon returned with the
answer that Miss Helmstedt would be glad to receive
Mr. Wellworth in her own sitting-room.</p>

<p>“Will you accompany me hither then, Mrs. Houston?”</p>

<p>“No, I think not, sir. I fancy Miss Helmstedt prefers
a private interview with her pastor. And I believe
also that such a one would afford the best opportunity
for your counseling Margaret.”</p>

<p>“Then you will excuse me, madam?”</p>

<p>“Certainly; and await here the issue of your visit,”
said Mrs. Houston.</p>

<p>With a bow, the clergyman left the room, crossed the
hall, and rapped at the door of Miss Helmstedt’s parlor.</p>

<p>It was opened by Hildreth, who stood in her starched
puritanical costume, curtseying while the pastor entered
the pretty boudoir.</p>

<p>Margaret, still clothed in deep mourning, with her<span class="pagenum">[195]</span>
black hair plainly banded each side of her pale, clear,
thoughtful face, sat in her low sewing-chair, engaged in
plain needlework. She quietly laid it aside, and, with
a warm smile of welcome, arose to meet her minister.</p>

<p>“You are looking better than when I saw you last,
my child,” said the good pastor, pressing her hand, and
mistaking the transient glow of pleasure for the permanent
bloom of health.</p>

<p>“I am quite well, thank you, dear Mr. Wellworth!
and you?”</p>

<p>“Always well, my child, thank Heaven.”</p>

<p>“And dearest Grace? I have not seen her so long.”</p>

<p>“Ah! she has even too good health, if possible! it
makes her wild. We have to keep her at home to
tame her.”</p>

<p>“But see—I am housekeeping here to myself, almost.
My dear father has placed my maintenance upon the
most lavish footing, and Mrs. Houston has given to
his requests in regard to me the most liberal interpretation.
See! I have, like a little princess, an establishment
of my own. This wing of the house, a maid and
messenger, a boat and horse; and my dear father has
even written to have the carriage brought from the
island for my use, so that I may be able to visit or
send for my friends at pleasure,” said Margaret, with a
transient feeling of girlish delight in her independence.</p>

<p>“Yes, my child, I see; and I know that, in addition to
this, you have an ample income. These are all great
and unusual privileges for a young girl like yourself,
not past childhood,” said Mr. Wellworth, very gravely.</p>

<p>“Oh! I know they are. I know, too, that these favors
are lavished upon me in compassion for—to console
me for—as if anything could make me cease to
regret——” Here faltering, and finding herself on the
verge of tears, Margaret paused, made an effort, controlled
herself and resumed: “It is done in kindness toward
her child; and I accept it all in the same spirit.”</p>

<p>“It is accorded in consideration of your grave and
important position, my dear girl—do you never think
of it? Young as you are, you are the affianced wife
of the heir of this house.”</p>

<p>Again a transient flush of bashful joy chased the melancholy<span class="pagenum">[196]</span>
from Margaret’s face. Blushing, she dropped
her eyes and remained silent.</p>

<p>“You think sometimes of your position, Margaret?”
asked the clergyman, who, for his purpose, wished to
lead and fix her mind upon this subject—“you remember
sometimes that you are Ralph Houston’s promised
wife?”</p>

<p>For an instant she lifted her dark eyelashes, darting
one swift, shy, but most eloquent glance deep into his
face, then, dropping them, crimsoned even to the edges
of her black hair, and still continued silent.</p>

<p>“Ah! I see you do. I see you do. But do you know
my dear, that something of the same discreet exclusiveness,
reserve, circumspection, is demanded of a betrothed
maiden as of a wife?” inquired the clergyman,
solemnly.</p>

<p>Again her beautiful dark eyes were raised, in that
quick, and quickly-withdrawn, penetrating, earnest, fervid,
impassioned glance, that said, more eloquently than
words would have spoken, “All that you demand for him,
and more, a millionfold, will my own heart, daily, hourly
yield!” and then the blush deepened on her cheek, and
she remained dumb.</p>

<p>“She, the promised wife, I mean, must not hold free
conversation with gentlemen who are not her own near
relatives; she must not correspond with them—she must
not, in a word, do many things, which, though they
might be perfectly innocent in a disengaged woman,
would be very reprehensible in a betrothed maiden.”</p>

<p>Margaret’s color visibly fluctuated—her bosom perceptibly
fluttered.</p>

<p>“Well, Margaret, what do you think of that which I
have been telling you?”</p>

<p>“Oh! I know—I know you speak truly. I hope I
know my duty and love to do it,” she said, in an agitated,
confused manner; “but let us talk of something
else, dear Mr. Wellworth. Let us talk of my little, independent
establishment here. When I spoke of the
pleasant nature of my surroundings, it was to win your
consent that dear Grace might come and be my guest
for a week. She would be such a sweet comfort to me,
and I could make her so happy here! If you will consent,<span class="pagenum">[197]</span>
I will send Forrest with the carriage for her to-morrow.
Say, will you, dear Mr. Wellworth?”</p>

<p>“Perhaps; we will talk about that by and by. Margaret,”
he said, suddenly lowering his voice, “dismiss
your woman, I wish to speak alone with you, my child.”</p>

<p>“Hildreth, go, but remain in sound of my bell,” said
Miss Helmstedt.</p>

<p>As soon as Hildreth had left the room, Mr. Wellworth
drew his chair beside the low seat of Margaret, took
her hand, and would have held it while he spoke, but
that she, who always shrank even from the fatherly familiarity
of her pastor, very gently withdrew it, and
respectfully inquired:</p>

<p>“What was it you wished to say to me, dear Mr.
Wellworth?”</p>

<p>“A very serious matter, my dear child. Margaret, I
have no art in circumnavigating a subject. I have been
trying to approach gradually the subject of my visit
to you this morning, and I have not succeeded. I am
no nearer than when I first entered. I know not how
to ‘break’ bad news——”</p>

<p>“In a word, sir, has misfortune happened to any of
my friends?” inquired Margaret, with a pale cheek, but
with a strange, calm voice.</p>

<p>“No; that were more easily told than what I have to
tell,” said the minister, solemnly.</p>

<p>“Please go on then, sir, and let me know the worst
at once.”</p>

<p>“Then, my dear Margaret, I have been informed that
you, a betrothed wife, have an intimate male correspondent,
who is neither your father nor your affianced husband,
and whose name and character, and relations with
yourself, you decline to divulge?”</p>

<p>Margaret grew ashen pale, clasped her hands, compressed
her lips, and remained silent.</p>

<p>“What have you to say to this charge, Margaret?”</p>

<p>There was a pause, while Mr. Wellworth gazed upon
the maiden’s steadfast, thoughtful face. She reasoned
with herself; she struggled with herself. It occurred to
her to say, “My correspondent is a gray-haired man,
whom I have never set eyes upon.” But immediately,<span class="pagenum">[198]</span>
she reflected. “No, this may put suspicion upon the
true scent; I must say nothing.”</p>

<p>“Well, Margaret, what have you to answer to this
charge?”</p>

<p>“Nothing, sir.”</p>

<p>“Nothing?”</p>

<p>“Nothing.”</p>

<p>“You admit it, then?”</p>

<p>“I neither admit nor deny it!”</p>

<p>“Margaret, this will never do. Are you aware that
you seriously imperil, nay, more, that you gravely compromise
your good name?”</p>

<p>Her pale cheek grew paler than before, the tightly-clasped
fingers trembled, the compressed lips sprang
quivering apart, and then closed more firmly than ever.
It had occurred to her to say: “But this correspondence
is solely a business affair, with one of whom I have no
personal knowledge whatever.” But then came the reflection:
“If I give them this explanation, this ever so
slight clue, these worldly-wise people will follow it up
until they unravel the whole mystery, and I shall have
proved myself a cowardly traitor to her confidence. No,
I must be dumb before my accusers!”</p>

<p>“You do not speak, Margaret.”</p>

<p>“I have nothing to say, sir!”</p>

<p>“Ah, dear Heaven! I see that I must not ‘prophesy
smooth things’ to you, my girl. I must not spare the
truth! Listen, then, Miss Helmstedt: Your name has
become a byword in the village shops! What now will
you do?”</p>

<p>It was on her pallid lips to say: “I will trust in God;”
but she said it only in her heart, adding: “I must not
even insist upon my innocence; for if they believe me,
they will be forced to find the right track to this scent.”</p>

<p>“Margaret Helmstedt, why do you not answer me?”</p>

<p>“Because, sir, I have nothing to say.”</p>

<p>“Nothing to say?”</p>

<p>“Nothing—nothing to say!”</p>

<p>“Listen to me, then. You seem to have some regard
for your betrothed husband. You seem even to understand
the duty you owe him! Think, I beg you, what
must be the feelings of a proud and honorable man like<span class="pagenum">[199]</span>
Ralph Houston, on returning to this neighborhood and
finding the name and fame of his affianced bride lightly
canvassed?”</p>

<p>It was piteous to see how dark with woe her face became.
Her hands were clenched until it seemed as
though the blood must start from her finger nails; but
not one word escaped her painfully-compressed lips.</p>

<p>“I ask you, Miss Helmstedt, when Ralph Houston returns
to this neighborhood and hears what I and others
have heard—what do you suppose he will do?”</p>

<p>“He will do his own good pleasure; and I—I shall
submit,” said the maiden, meekly bowing her head.</p>

<p>But then in an instant—even as though she had heard
Ralph’s voice in her ear—there was a change. Her beautiful
head was raised, her color flushed brightly back, her
dark eyes kindled, flashed, and she replied:</p>

<p>“He may hear, as you and others do, incredible things
said of me; but he will not, as you and others do, believe
them! And I only dread to think what his reply would
be to any who should, in his presence, speak with levity
of any woman he respects.”</p>

<p>“Margaret, pause—bethink you! this is no idle gossip!
It is slander, do you hear? It is the venomed serpent
slander that has fixed its fangs upon your maiden name.
I believe, of course, unjustly! but nothing except an open
explanation will enable your friends to exculpate you and
silence your calumniators. Will you not give them such
a weapon?”</p>

<p>“I cannot,” she breathed, in a low tone of returning
despair.</p>

<p>“Reflect, girl. Ralph Houston, when he arrives, will
surely hear these reports; for, in the country, nothing is
forgotten. He may stand by you—I doubt not with his
unfunded faith and chivalrous generosity that he will;
but—will you, loving and honoring him, as I am sure you
do, will you, with a blemished name, give your hand to
him, a man of stainless honor?”</p>

<p>“No, no! oh, never, no!” came like a wail of woe from
her lips, as her head sank down upon her bosom.</p>

<p>“Then, Margaret, give your friends the right to explain
and clear your conduct.”</p>

<p>She was incapable of reply, and so remained silent.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[200]</span></p>

<p>“You will not?”</p>

<p>She mournfully shook her head.</p>

<p>“Good-by, Margaret; God give you a better spirit. I
must leave you now,” said the old pastor. And he arose,
laid his hand in silent prayer upon the stricken young
head bent beneath him, then took up his broad-brimmed
hat and quietly left the room.</p>

<p>As he came out, Mrs. Houston opened the front parlor
door and invited him in there.</p>

<p>“Well, sir, what success?” she inquired, anxiously, as
soon as they were both seated.</p>

<p>The good old man slowly shook his head.</p>

<p>“None whatever, madam.”</p>

<p>“She still refuses to explain?”</p>

<p>“Ah, yes, madam!”</p>

<p>“In fact, it is just what I expected. I am not surprised.
There never was such contumacious obstinacy.
Dear me, what shall I do? What would you advise me
to do?”</p>

<p>“Be patient, Mrs. Houston; and, above all things,
avoid betraying to any others out of your own immediate
family the anxiety that you reveal to me. ‘It is written
that a man’s foes shall be those of his own household.’
Unnatural and horrible as it sounds, every one who has
lived, observed and reflected to any purpose, must have
discovered that still more frequently a woman’s foes are
of such.”</p>

<p>“Really and truly, Mr. Wellworth, that is a very
strange speech of yours. I hope you do not suppose that
any one in this house is the enemy of Margaret Helmstedt?”</p>

<p>“Assuredly not. I merely wished to entreat that you
will not again speak of this correspondence in the village
post office.”</p>

<p>“But dear me, what then am I to do?”</p>

<p>“Leave matters just where they are for the present.
There is nothing wrong in this, farther than that it has
unfortunately been made the occasion of gossip; therefore,
of course it must be perfectly cleared up for Margaret’s
own sake. But our interference at present evidently
will not tend to precipitate a satisfactory denouement.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[201]</span></p>

<p>“Oh, how I wish her father or Ralph were home. I
have a great mind to write to them!” exclaimed Nellie,
who certainly was governed by an unconscious attraction
toward mischief-making.</p>

<p>“My good lady, do nothing of the sort; it would be
both useless and harmful.”</p>

<p>“What, then, shall I do?” questioned Nellie, impatiently.</p>

<p>“Consult your husband.”</p>

<p>“Consult Colonel Houston! You certainly can’t know
Colonel Houston. Why, well as he likes me, he would—bite
my head off if I came to him with any tale of scandal,”
said Nellie, querulously.</p>

<p>“Then leave the matter to me for the present,” said the
minister, rising and taking his leave.</p>

<p>Meanwhile, Margaret Helmstedt had remained where
the pastor had left her, with clenched hands and sunken
head in the same attitude of fixed despair. Then, suddenly
rising, with a low, long wail of woe, she threw herself
on her knees before her mother’s portrait, and raising
both arms with open hands, as though offering up some
oblation to that image, she cried:</p>

<p>“Oh, mother! mother! here is the first gift, a spotless
name! freely renounced for thy sake! freely offered
up to thee! Only look on me! love me, my mother!
for I have loved thee more than all things—even than
him, mother mine!”</p>

<p>Mrs. Houston, in her excited state of feeling, could
not keep quiet. Even at the risk of being “flouted”
or ridiculed, she went into the colonel’s little study,
which was the small room in the second story immediately
over the front entrance, and sitting down beside
him, solemnly entered upon the all-engrossing subject of
her thoughts. The colonel listened, going through the
successive stages of being surprised, amused and bored,
and finally, when she ceased and waited for his comments,
he just went on tickling his ear with the feathered
end of his pen and smiled in silence.</p>

<p>“Now, then, colonel, what do you think of all this?”</p>

<p>“Why, that it must be all perfectly correct, my dear,
and need not give you the slightest uneasiness. That
our fair little daughter-in-law regularly writes and receives<span class="pagenum">[202]</span>
letters from a certain person, is of course a sufficient
proof of the correctness of both correspondence
and correspondent,” said the colonel, gallantly.</p>

<p>“All that may be very true, and at the same time
very indiscreet—think of what they say.”</p>

<p>“Tah—tah, my love! never mind ‘they say!’ the only
practical part of it is, that in the absence of Ralph, if I
should happen to meet with ‘they say’ in man’s form,
I shall be at the trouble of chastising him, that’s all!”</p>

<p>“Now, colonel! of all things, I do hope that you will
not, at your age, do anything rash.”</p>

<p>“Then, my pretty one, pray do not trouble me or
yourself, and far less little Margaret, with this ridiculous
wickedness,” he said, drawing her head down to give
her a parting kiss, and then good-humoredly putting her
out of the study.</p>

<p>Colonel Houston, in his contempt of gossip, had unhappily
treated the subject with more levity than it
deserved. In such a neighborhood as this of which I
write, calumny is not to be despised or lived down—it
must be met and strangled; or it will be pampered
and cherished until it grows a very “fire-mouthed dragon,
horrible and bright.”</p>

<p>In such a place events and sensations do not rapidly
succeed each other, and a choice piece of scandal is long
“rolled as a sweet morsel under the tongue.” Margaret
either ceased to write obnoxious letters, or else
she changed her post office, but that circumstance did
not change the subject of village gossip—it only furnished
a new cause of conjecture. And this continued
until near Christmas, when Frank Houston was expected
home to spend the holidays, and a large party was
invited to dinner and for the evening to meet him.</p>

<p>Frank arrived on Christmas eve, at night. He involuntarily
betrayed some little agitation on first meeting
Margaret; his emotion, slight as it was, and soon
as it was conquered, was perceived by his fond stepmother,
upon whom it produced the effect of reviving
all her former feelings of suspicion and resentment toward
Margaret, for having, as she supposed, trifled with
his affections, and abandoned him in favor of his elder
brother. And this resuscitated hostility was unconsciously<span class="pagenum">[203]</span>
increased by Frank, who, being alone with his
stepmother later in the evening, said with a rueful
attempt at smiling:</p>

<p>“So Ralph and my little Margo—mine no longer! are
to be married. Well, when I went away I charged him
with the care of my little love; and he has taken excellent
care of her, that is all.”</p>

<p>“You have been treated villainously, Franky! villainously,
my poor boy! And I am grieved to death to
think I had anything to do with it! only—what could I
do at such a time as that, when her mother, my poor,
dear, Marguerite, was dying?” said Nellie, half crying
from the mixed motives of revived grief for the loss of
her friend, and indignation at what she persisted in regarding
as the wrongs of her favorite stepson.</p>

<p>“However, Franky, dear, I can tell you, if that will
be any comfort to you, that I don’t think you have lost
a treasure in Margaret, for I doubt if she will be any
more faithful to Ralph than she has been to you!”</p>

<p>“Fair little mamma, that is not generous or even
just!” said Frank, in a tone of rebuke, tempered by affectionate
playfulness. “Don’t let’s imitate the philosophical
fox in the fable, nor call sour these most luscious
of grapes hung far above my reach. Margaret
owed me no faith. My aspiration gave me no claim
upon her consideration. She is a noble girl, and ‘blistered
be my tongue’ if ever it say otherwise. Henceforth,
for me, she is my brother’s wife, no more, nor
less,” said the young man, swallowing the sob that had
risen in his throat and nearly choked him.</p>

<p>“Oh, my dear Franky! my very heart bleeds for you,”
said Nellie, with the tears streaming down her face;
for if the little lady had one deep, sincere affection in
the world, it was for her “pretty boy,” as, to the young
man’s ludicrous annoyance, she still called him.</p>

<p>But Frank wiped her tears away and kissed her. And
the next moment Nellie was talking gayly of the party
she had invited to do honor to his return home.</p>

<p>This festival fixed for Christmas was intended to come
off the next afternoon. There was to be a dinner followed
by an evening party. As the family were still
in mourning for Mrs. Helmstedt, dancing was prohibited;<span class="pagenum">[204]</span>
but the evening was laid off to be employed in
tea-drinking, parlor games, cards, and conversation.</p>

<p>Mrs. Houston, as far as the contradictory nature of
her sentiments would permit, took some pride in the
beauty, wealth, and social importance of her “daughter”
Margaret; and experienced quite a fashionable,
mamma-like solicitude for her favorable appearance
upon the evening in question. Therefore, without ever
having had any altercation with the pensive and unwilling
girl upon the subject of her toilet, Nellie, on the
morning of Christmas day, entered Margaret’s little
boudoir, accompanied by Jessie Bell, bringing a packet.</p>

<p>Margaret, who sat by the fire quietly reading, looked
up, smiled, and invited her visitor to be seated.</p>

<p>“I have not time to sit down, Maggie; all those
cakes are to be frosted yet; the jellies are waiting to be
poured into the moulds; the cream has yet to be seasoned
and put in the freezers; flowers cut in the greenhouse
for the vases; and I know not what else besides.
Here, Christmas Day, of all days in the year, that I
should be working harder than any slave,” said the little
lady.</p>

<p>“I had no idea that you were so busy. Pray let me
and Hildreth assist you. We are both skillful, you
know. Please always let me know when I or my servants
can be of any use to you, Mrs. Houston,” said Miss
Helmstedt, laying aside her book and rising.</p>

<p>“Nonsense, my dear, I don’t really need your services
or I should call upon you. I came in to bring you a
Christmas gift. Your foolish little mother-in-law, whom
you refuse to call ‘mamma,’ has not forgotten you. Jessie,
open that box.”</p>

<p>The waiting-maid obeyed, and drew from it a rich
black velvet evening dress, made with a low corsage and
short sleeves, and both neck and sleevelets trimmed
with point lace.</p>

<p>“There! there is your dress for this evening, my dear.
How do you like it?” asked the little lady, holding
up the dress in triumph.</p>

<p>“It is very beautiful, and I am very grateful to you,
Mrs. Houston.”</p>

<p>“‘Mrs. Houston!’ There it is again! You will not say<span class="pagenum">[205]</span>
‘mamma.’ By-and-by, I suppose, you will expect me
also to say ‘Mrs. Houston,’ and we, a mother and
daughter-in-law, shall be formally ‘Mrs. Houston-ing’
each other. Well, let that pass—‘sufficient unto the
day,’ etc. Now, about this dress. You do not, after
all, look as if you half liked it? It is true, I know,
that velvet is rather matronly to wear for a girl of
fifteen; but then, when one is in mourning, the choice
of material is not very extensive; and besides, for
Christmas, velvet may not be very much out of place,
even on a young person. But I am sorry you don’t like
it,” concluded Nellie, regretfully dropping the dress that
she had been holding up to exhibition.</p>

<p>“Oh, I do like it, very much, indeed. I should be
very tasteless not to like it, and very thankless not to
feel your kindness. The dress is as beautiful as can
be—only too fine for me,” said Margaret.</p>

<p>“Not the least so, my dear girl. Consider,” replied
the little lady, launching out into a strain of good-humored
compliment upon her “daughter’s” face and
figure, riches, position, prospects, etc.</p>

<p>Margaret arrested the flow of flattery by quietly and
gratefully accepting the dress. She would have preferred
to wear, even upon the coming festive evening,
the nunlike black bombazine, that, ever since her mother’s
death, had been her costume. But, in very truth,
her mind was now too heavily oppressed with a private
and unshared responsibility, to admit of her giving much
thought to the subject of her toilet. Her neatness was
habitual, mechanical; beyond the necessity of being
neat, dress was to her a matter of indifference.</p>

<p>Nellie next took out a small morocco case.</p>

<p>“And here,” she said, “is Colonel Houston’s Christmas
offering to his little daughter-in-law.”</p>

<p>Margaret opened the casket, and found a beautiful
necklace and bracelet of jet, set in gold.</p>

<p>“I will wear them to-night, and thank the kind donor
in person,” said Miss Helmstedt, putting it beside her
book on the stand.</p>

<p>Mrs. Houston then bustled out of the room, leaving
the young girl to her coveted quiet.</p>

<p>Late in the afternoon, the Christmas party began to<span class="pagenum">[206]</span>
assemble—a mixed company of about forty individuals,
comprising old, middle-aged, and young persons of both
sexes. The evening was spent, according to programme,
in tea-drinking, parlor games, tableaux, cards
and conversation, <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">i. e.</i>, gossip, <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">i. e.</i>, scandal.</p>

<p>Among all the gayly attired young persons present
Margaret Helmstedt, in her mourning-dress, with her
black hair plainly braided around her fair, broad forehead,
was pronounced not only the most beautiful, but by far
the most interesting; her beauty, her orphanage, her
heiress-ship, her extreme youth, and her singular position
as a betrothed bride in the house of her father-in-law,
all invested with a prestige of strange interest this
fair young creature.</p>

<p>But, ah! her very pre-eminence among her companions,
instigated the envious to seize upon, and use against
her, any circumstance that might be turned to her disadvantage.
Whispers went around. Sidelong glances
were cast upon her.</p>

<p>As a daughter of the house, she shook off her melancholy
pre-occupation, and exerted herself to entertain the
visitors.</p>

<p>But matrons, whose daughters she had thrown into the
shade, could not forgive her for being “talked of,” and
received all her hospitable attentions with coldness. And
the maidens who had been thus overshadowed took their
revenge in curling their lips and tossing their heads, as
she passed or smiled upon them.</p>

<p>Now Margaret Helmstedt was neither insensible, cold,
nor dull; on the contrary, she was intelligent to perceive,
sensitive to feel, and reflective to refer this persecution
back to its cause. And though no one could have judged
from her appearance how much she suffered under the
infliction; for, through all the trying evening, she exhibited
the same quiet courtesy and ladylike demeanour;
the iron entered her soul.</p>

<p>Only when the festival was over, the guests departed,
the lights put out, and she found herself at liberty to seek
the privacy of her own chamber, she dropped exhausted
beside her bed, and burying her face in the coverlid,
sighed forth:</p>

<p>“Oh, mother! mother! Oh, mother! mother!”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[207]</span></p>

<p>The Christmas party had the effect of giving zest and
impetus to the village gossip, of which Margaret was the
favorite theme. It was scarcely in fallen human nature
to have seen a girl of fifteen so exalted beyond what was
considered common and proper to one of her age, and
not to recollect and repeat all that could justly or unjustly
be said to her disadvantage.</p>

<p>This newly-augmented slander resulted in an event
very humiliating to the family at the Bluff.</p>

<p>Near the end of the Christmas holidays, Frank happened
to be in the village upon some unimportant business.
While loitering near a group of young men in one
of the shops, he started on hearing the name of Margaret
Helmstedt coupled with a light laugh. Frank’s eyes
flashed as he advanced toward the group. He listened
for a moment, to ascertain which of their number had
thus taken the name of Miss Helmstedt upon irreverent
lips; and when the culprit discovered himself, by again
opening his mouth upon the same forbidden theme, without
another word spoken on any side, Frank silently and
coolly walked up, collared, and drew him struggling out
from the group, and using the riding wand he held in his
hand, proceeded to inflict upon him summary chastisement.
When he considered the young man sufficiently
punished, he spurned him away, threw his own card in
the midst of the group, inviting whomsoever should list
to take it up (with the quarrel), mounted his horse and
rode home.</p>

<p>He said nothing of what had occurred to any member
of the family.</p>

<p>But about the middle of the afternoon, he received a
visit from the deputy sheriff of the county, who bore a
pressing invitation from a justice of the peace, that
“Franklin Pembroke Houston, of said county,” should
appear before him to answer certain charges.</p>

<p>“Why, what is this?” inquired Colonel Houston, who
was present when the warrant was served.</p>

<p>“Oh, nothing, nothing; only I heard a certain Craven
Jenkins taking a lady’s name in vain, and gave him a
lesson on reverence; and now, I suppose, I shall have to
pay for the luxury, that is all,” replied Frank. And then,<span class="pagenum">[208]</span>
being further pressed, he explained the whole matter to
his father.</p>

<p>“You did well, my boy, and just what I should have
done in your place. Come! we will go to the village and
settle up for this matter,” said the colonel, as he prepared
to accompany his son.</p>

<p>The affair ended, with Frank, in his being fined one
hundred dollars, which he declared to be cheap for the
good done.</p>

<p>But not so unimportant was the result to the hapless
girl, whom every event, whether festive or otherwise,
seemed to plunge more deeply into trouble.</p>

<p>When, after New Year, Franky went away, Mrs. Houston
accompanied him to Belleview, whence he took the
packet. And after parting with him, on her return
through the village, she chanced to hear, for the first
time, the affair of the horsewhipping, for which her
Franky had been fined. Upon inquiry, she further
learned the occasion of that chastisement. And her indignation
against Margaret, as the cause, knew no
bounds.</p>

<p>Happily, it was a long, cold ride back to the Bluff, and
the sedative effect of time and frost had somewhat lowered
the temperature of little Mrs. Houston’s blood before
she reached home.</p>

<p>Nevertheless, she went straight to Margaret’s sanctum,
and laying off her bonnet there, reproached her bitterly.</p>

<p>Margaret bore this injustice with “a great patience.”
That had, however, but little power to disarm the lady,
whose resentment continued for weeks.</p>

<p>Drearily passed the time to the hapless girl—the long
desolate months brightened by the rare days when she
would receive a visit from one of her two friends, Grace
or Clare, or else get letters from her father or Ralph
Houston.</p>

<p>Toward the spring, the news from camp held out the
prospect of Mr. Houston’s possible return home. And
to Ralph’s arrival poor Margaret looked forward with
more of dread than hope.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum">[209]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.
<br /><span class="cheaderfont">THE DAUGHTER’S FIDELITY.</span></h2>
</div>


<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“Still through each change of fortune strange,</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">Racked nerve and brain all burning,</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">Her loving faith to given trust</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">Knew never shade of turning.”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>More than fifteen months have elapsed since the close
of the last chapter—months, replete with the destiny of
nations as of individuals. First, the prospects of peace
through the mediation of the Emperor of Russia, or by
any other means, seemed indefinitely postponed. The
desired return of the long-absent soldiers to their homes,
was a distant and doubtful hope. The war continued to
be prosecuted on both sides with unremitting animosity.</p>

<p>Cockburn was on the Chesapeake. Now I know not
whether history has softened, or tradition exaggerated
the fierceness, rapacity, and cruelty of this licensed pirate
and his crew. History tells of quiet farmsteads razed to
the ground and peaceful villages burned to ashes. Tradition
speaks of individual instances of monstrous atrocity,
that resulted in the madness or death of the innocent
victim. But whatever may stand recorded in history,
or be believed in distant regions, concerning the conduct
of the British fleet in the Chesapeake—here on the scene
of action, here along the shores and among the isles of the
Bay, the memory of Rear Admiral Cockburn and his
crew, is, justly or unjustly, loaded with almost preternatural
abhorrence.</p>

<p>The villages of Havre de Grace, Frenchtown, Fredericktown,
Georgetown and Hampton, and other unguarded
hamlets, whose natural protectors were absent
at the distant theatres of the war, were successively assaulted,
sacked and burned, while their helpless inhabitants,
consisting of old men, women and children, were
put to the sword, hunted away or carried off. The massacre
on Craney Island, with all its concomitant horrors
of debauchery, madness and violence, had carried consternation
into every heart. Marauding parties were frequently
landed to lay waste defenceless farmsteads, whose
masters were absent on the Northern frontier.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[210]</span></p>

<p>Still, as yet, nothing had occurred to alarm, for themselves,
our friends in the neighborhood of Helmstedt’s
Island. The sail of the enemy had been more than once
seen in the distance, but not even a single foraging party
had landed to lay them under tribute. Thus it was considered
quite safe by the neighbors to vary the monotony
of their lives by forming a picnic party for Helmstedt’s
Island. The company consisted of the Houstons, the
Wellworths, the Hartleys, and others. The time appointed
for the festival was the first of August. The day
proved cool for the season, and consequently pleasant for
the occasion. The Wellworths came down to the bluff to
join the Houstons, with whom, at sunrise, they set out
for the island, where they were met by the Hartleys and
other friends, and regaled by a sumptuous seaside breakfast,
previously prepared to order by the island housekeeper,
Aunt Hapzibah. After that repast, the company
separated into groups, according to their “attractions.”
Of the elder portion, some formed quiet whist parties in
the drawing-room, and others sat down for a cozy gossip
on the vine-shaded piazza. Of the younger party, some
entered boats and went crabbing, while others formed
quadrilles and danced to the sound of the tambourine,
the fiddle, and the banjo, wielded with enthusiasm by the
hands and arms of three ecstatic sable musicians. Margaret
Helmstedt and her chosen friends, Grace Wellworth
and Clare Hartley, separated themselves from the company,
and with their arms affectionately intertwined
around each other’s waists, wandered down to the beach
with the purpose of making the whole circuit of her beloved
island. Margaret has changed and matured in
these fifteen months. She has become very beautiful,
very much like what her mother had been, but with a
profounder and more mournful style, “a beauty that
makes sad the eye.” Time, experience and sorrow have
prematurely done their work upon her. She, but sixteen
years of age, looks much older. She is dressed quite
plainly, in a gown of black gauze striped with black
satin, a fine lace inside handkerchief and cuffs, white kid
gloves and black morocco gaiters. Her jet-black hair is
parted over her broad brow, and rippling in a myriad of
shining wavelets that would, if permitted, fall in a cloud<span class="pagenum">[211]</span>
of ringlets around her sweet, pale face, and throw into
deeper shade the shadowy, mournful eyes. The white
chip hat, plainly trimmed with white ribbons, hangs idly
from her arm. Within the last year Margaret’s position
has not improved. It is true that the subject of the letters
and the unknown correspondent or lover has been suffered
to die out. Not even country gossips can, without
new materials, keep a vague scandal alive year after year.
And no such stimuli had been afforded them. Margaret,
whether she had ceased to write, or had taken a more
effectual manner of concealing her correspondence,
seemed neither to receive nor send any more mysterious
letters. But she had not regained, nor even sought to
regain, the confidence, esteem, and affection of her family.
An atmosphere of distrust, coldness, and reserve, surrounded,
chilled, and depressed her spirit, yet could not
destroy the deep enthusiasm of some hidden devotion that
inspired her soul, and gave to her beautiful, pale face, the
air of rapt religious enthusiasm seen on the pictured
brows of saints and angels. Even now, upon this festive
occasion, as she walks between her friends, the same
deep, serious, earnest fervor glows under the surface of
her eloquent countenance. They were imparting to her,
as girls will, their girlish mysteries, and inviting her to a
similar confidence. But Margaret was pre-occupied and
abstracted, and though her replies were always affectionate,
they were not always to the point.</p>

<p>At last the brown-eyed and gentle little Grace ventured
to say:</p>

<p>“I tell you what, Margaret, it is said that there are two
sorts of people in this world—those who love, and those
who permit themselves to be loved. If so, then you belong
to the latter class.”</p>

<p>“Why do you think so, dear Grace?”</p>

<p>“Why?—here my arm has been around your waist, and
it might better have been around the stem of an oak
sapling! that at least would have nodded over me a little;
but you, you walk on erect, silent, thoughtful, and when
I speak to you of the flowers along our path, you speak
of the clouds over our heads, or make an equally applicable
response to my observation, which shows how
much attention you pay to what I say.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[212]</span></p>

<p>“I beg your pardon, dear Grace.”</p>

<p>“Of course you do, and of course I grant it, which will
not prevent your offending in the same way the very next
minute.”</p>

<p>“Cease, chatterbox!” exclaimed Clare Hartley. “Remember
that Miss Helmstedt has other subjects to occupy
her mind to the exclusion of your mature ideas. She
is engaged, you know. Her affianced is far away. Like
that other ‘Margaret, who in Lithgow’s bower, all lonely
sat and wept the weary hour,’ she may be thinking of:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container" style="margin-top:0em">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“‘The war against her native soil</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Her lover’s risk in battle broil.’</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>“Though after all, since they seem to be so quiet up there,
I shouldn’t wonder if she is only thinking of household
linens, with a view to housekeeping. Let the ‘plenishing’
be on the most liberal scale, Margaret, for I and Grace
intend to spend a great deal of time with you after you
are married.”</p>

<p>“And we are to be your bridesmaids, of course, are we
not, dear Margaret?”</p>

<p>“Dear Grace, pray do not speak of any future event
with such presumptuous assurance. My marriage may
never take place,” replied Margaret, with a mournful
earnestness that she did not attempt to conceal or modify.</p>

<p>“Your marriage may never take place!” exclaimed
both her companions, in consternation.</p>

<p>“I mean that life is full of vicissitudes; one or the other
of us may die.”</p>

<p>“How gravely you speak! You are certainly the
daughter of Heraclitus, the crying philosopher. Why,
Margaret——”</p>

<p>She was interrupted by a piercing shriek from Grace
Wellworth, who, breaking suddenly from her companions,
ran like Atalanta up toward the inland of the island.
They looked up to ascertain the cause. With wild eyes
and blanched faces they recognized the occasion of her
terror and flight. Three boats had been silently pushed
up on the sands a few yards below them, and were now
discharging their crews, consisting of about twelve or
more from each boat, or from thirty-five to forty British
soldiers in all. One of these men had instantly perceived
the flight of Grace, and moved by the mere animal instinct<span class="pagenum">[213]</span>
to pursue the flying, as the hound pursues the running
hare, had cried out:</p>

<p>“Atalanta! Atalanta! By George, when a girl flies she
invites pursuit,” and ran after her.</p>

<p>“For the love of Heaven, let us not follow her example.
Let us stand our ground. Let us speak to the commanding
officer, and we will save ourselves and her from
farther aggression,” said Margaret, looking very firm,
and not a shade paler than usual. Clare drew herself
up with dignity and remained standing beside her friend.</p>

<p>The pursuer of Grace had now overtaken, caught and
lifted the terrified and struggling girl, and laughing
gayly the while, was bearing her back to the scene. No
more dangerous spirit than that of wild fun and frolic
seemed to inspire the merry captor.</p>

<p>“Release me! Release me, I command you, villain!”
cried Grace, wild with indignation and fear, and struggling
desperately to free herself.</p>

<p>“Ha! ha! ha! the little brown partridge! how fierce
and strong, and spiteful it is! How it flutters and flaps,
and beats!” exclaimed the soldier, holding his captive
tighter.</p>

<p>“Let me go! Let me go, I say, poltroon!” cried the
girl, wrestling madly with her captor.</p>

<p>“Kingdom come! what a wild bird it is!” exclaimed
the latter, squeezing his prize maliciously.</p>

<p>“Put me down! Put me down, I order you, marauder!
coward! brute!” resumed Grace, now maddened
with rage and terror.</p>

<p>“George! What! It is not a wild partridge, but a
young hawk that I’ve caught! What claws and beak it
has! how it bites, and tears, and scratches! I must look
out for my face, or, by George! the best-looking soldier
in his majesty’s service will be ruined!”</p>

<p>“You a soldier! Poltroon! Coward!”</p>

<p>“Whe-ew! the little creature can call hard names,
too. Well, come! one kiss for a cheap ransom, and I let
you go! What! Not one kiss? Very well; what is
not freely yielded must be boldly rifled! What the
deuce——” And despite her frenzied struggles the
“ransom” was seized, and Grace, furious at the indignity,
was set upon her feet.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[214]</span></p>

<p>“For shame, ensign! How dare you? Go directly
and ask the young lady’s pardon,” said the commanding
officer, who had just that instant reached the scene.</p>

<p>The delinquent addressed touched his hat to his superior
officer and said:</p>

<p>“I beg yours, lieutenant. If the bird had not flown,
the falcon would not have flown!” and repeating the
gesture of subordination, he turned to obey. Going up
and standing before Grace, who gave him a furious
look, he took off his cap, revealing a very finely turned
head, bowed profoundly, and said:</p>

<p>“Young lady, Ensign Dawson humbly begs your pardon;
and all the more humbly, because, poor wretch!
he cannot repent! nor even—hardened sinner that he is—promise
never to do so again. For if ever the opportunity
should offer, son of perdition that you know
him to be! he would be sure to repeat the offense.
Under such unpromising prospects, you will deign to
stretch out the sceptre of grace, whose touch is pardon
to the poor devil—William Dawson?”</p>

<p>“‘William Dawson.’” The words were echoed by a
low, thrilling, impassioned voice, that did not come from
Grace, whose lovely countenance, as she listened to the
ensign’s apology, underwent the most ludicrous series
of phases; rage, curiosity, admiration, pride—all struggled
for the supremacy a moment, and then, shocked at
detecting in herself the slightest indication of relenting
toward such unpardonable and atrocious impudence, she
turned and walked away in haughty silence. Lieutenant
King stepped after her to offer a more suitable apology.
At the same instant Clare Hartley left the side of her
friend, and went to soothe her.</p>

<p>And thus Margaret Helmstedt and the young ensign
were left alone, standing a few yards apart.</p>

<p>He stood watching with laughing eyes the retreating
form of Grace.</p>

<p>But Margaret’s face was a study. Her thrilling, passionate
voice it was that had echoed his name at the
instant of hearing it. When that name first struck her
ear, she had started and clutched her breast with both
hands, as one who had received a shot in the heart.
And, since that moment, she had been standing transfixed,<span class="pagenum">[215]</span>
white and still, with burning gaze fixed upon the
young soldier. Presently her steadfast gaze attracted
the attention of the man, who raised his eyes to hers.
The meeting of those mutual glances did not dissolve,
but changed the spell under which she labored.</p>

<p>She moved, stretched out her arm, and without withdrawing
her gaze, like a somnambulist or a mesmerized
subject, as if irresistibly drawn on, in measured steps,
with fixed eyes and extended arm, she walked toward
him, laid her hand firmly upon his breast, and gazed
wistfully into his face.</p>

<p>The young soldier laughed, drew himself up, threw
out his chest, folded his arms, lifted his head, and so
seemed defiantly to offer himself for criticism. And in
truth he had no just reason to avoid inspection. He
was very possibly just what he had laughingly described
himself—the handsomest man in his majesty’s
service. He was one of the finest specimens of the
Anglo Saxon race—in form somewhat above the medium
height—broad-shouldered, deep-chested, round-limbed,
with a full face, fair, roseate complexion, flaxen
hair, merry blue eyes, straight nose, finely curved, red
and smiling lips, white teeth, and an expression of countenance
replete with blended frankness, firmness, and
good-humor.</p>

<p>But no recognition of his manly beauty was in the
steadfast, profound, and serious gaze with which Margaret—her
hand still laid upon his breast—regarded
him.</p>

<p>“William Dawson. Your name is William Dawson?”
she said, speaking low and slowly.</p>

<p>“Yes, fair one! William Dawson, hitherto ensign in
his majesty’s —— company of ——, but henceforth your
liege subject!” replied the young soldier, laughingly
though in great surprise.</p>

<p>“William Dawson,” she repeated, without removing
her eyes.</p>

<p>“You have said it, lovely lady.”</p>

<p>“William Dawson,” she reiterated, as it were, unconsciously.</p>

<p>“At your service, beautiful Virginian! What can I
do to prove my devotion? Blow up the Albion? desert<span class="pagenum">[216]</span>
my colors! swear allegiance to that warlike hero, President
Madison? or, I have it! cut off Rear Admiral
Cockburn’s ears? for I think he is the favorite antipathy
of your charming countrywomen! Tell me what unheard-of
audacity I shall perpetrate to prove my devotion,
and above all things, tell the worshiped name
of her for whom I am pledging myself to do anything
and everything!” said the young soldier, in the same
tone of gay, but not disrespectful, raillery.</p>

<p>“I am Margaret Helmstedt,” she replied, in a low and
thrilling voice.</p>

<p>“Great Heaven!”</p>

<p>It was all he said. And there fell a pause and deep
silence between them for some intense and vital moments,
during which they gazed with unutterable emotions
upon each other’s face and form. She could not
have been whiter than she had been from the first, so
she remained without color and without voluntary motion,
but shaken upon her feet as a statue by an earthquake.
He at length grew as pale as she was, shuddered
through all his frame, seized her hand, drew her closer,
as one having authority, held her firmly while he fixed
upon her blanched face a gaze as earnest, as searching,
as thrilling as her own had been.</p>

<p>He broke the silence.</p>

<p>“Margaret Helmstedt! Margaret Helmstedt! I see
you then at last! And now that I gaze upon your face—how
like, great Heaven! to hers. Come—come! You
must go with me. You must inform me of that which
you alone have power to communicate. You must confirm
to me that fact which I suspect, but do not know;
or, rather, which I know, but cannot prove. Come,
Margaret Helmstedt, come;” and, closing his hand
cruelly upon hers, he drew her, blanched and unresisting,
after him, into the covert of the wood, where they
were quickly hidden.</p>

<p>There had been unsuspected witnesses to this strange
scene. So absorbed in their mutual subject of interest
had been the maiden and the soldier, that they had not
perceived that the trio, consisting of Lieutenant King,
Clare Hartley, and Grace Wellworth, who were going
up toward the house, had been met by another party,<span class="pagenum">[217]</span>
consisting of Mrs. Compton, Mrs. Houston, and Parson
Wellworth, who were coming down toward the
beach, and that a pause and a parley was the consequence.
Nellie Houston, who was at the same time a
furious patriot and a fearful poltroon, on seeing the
hated and dreaded “redcoat,” had clenched her fist, and
frowned defiance, even while she paled and trembled
with terror. Mrs. Compton had remained composed.
She had been an old campaigner of the long revolutionary
struggle, and was not easily disconcerted by
the sight of the British uniform. The old parson had
put on his spectacles and taken sight. Seeing that the
officer, cap in hand, walked quietly and inoffensively
on, between the two girls, neither of whom betrayed
the least uneasiness, he turned to the frightened and
belligerent Nellie, and said: “Do not be alarmed, madam;
he is an officer and a gentleman, and will, no doubt,
conduct himself as such, and compel his men to the
manners of men.”</p>

<p>And the next moment, when they met, the officer
made good the words of the preacher. Bowing profoundly,
he explained that his party had landed on the
island for the purpose of procuring a supply of fresh
water and provisions.</p>

<p>Nellie flushed to her forehead, bit her lips till the
blood came, and turned away in silence. She had no
good-will for the British, and would not feign even
civility.</p>

<p>Mrs. Compton satisfied the claims of conventional
politeness by bowing coldly.</p>

<p>Mr. Wellworth took upon himself to be spokesman of
his party, and responded:</p>

<p>“Sir, Major Helmstedt, the proprietor of this estate,
is now absent with the American army, in the North—doing,
no doubt, good service to his country, and
good execution among your ranks. We, whom you find
on the spot, are only members of a picnic party, consisting
in all of about fifteen ladies, young and old, two
half-grown boys, and four aged men. Your force, sir,
looks to me to be nearly, or quite, forty fighting men.
Resistance on our part would be in vain, else, Christian
minister as I am, I might be tempted to refuse to<span class="pagenum">[218]</span>
give to our enemy drink, though he were athirst, or
meat, though he hungered. The available provisions
of the island, sir, are just now very limited in quantity.
The fortunes of war have placed them at your disposition,
sir. We are in your power. We therefore confide
in your honor, as a gentleman and an officer, that in
appropriating the articles in question, you will proceed
with the quietness and courtesy due to the presence of
ladies.”</p>

<p>To this speech, which was more candid than conciliating,
the lieutenant bowed, assuring the clergyman that
“booty” and not “beauty,” was the present object in request;
that the former should be removed with the least
possible disturbance to the latter; and counseling him to
withdraw the ladies to the upper chambers of the mansion,
while his men came on and took possession, for an
hour or so, of the lower rooms.</p>

<p>While the clergyman and the lieutenant thus conversed,
Nellie turned to the two girls, who had left the
side of their escort, and said:</p>

<p>“Why, where is Margaret? Where have you left her?”</p>

<p>“Margaret! Oh! on the beach, or just above it.
There she is now, talking with that saucy ensign!” exclaimed
Grace Wellworth, in a tone of pique.</p>

<p>“No fear for our heroic Margaret! She is quite competent
to the care of her own personal safety,” retorted
Clare Hartley.</p>

<p>“Yet I think it is very indiscreet in Margaret to remain
behind conversing with that impudent young ensign!”
cried Grace, petulantly, drawing the attention of
the whole party to the unconscious subject of her
animadversions. Clare looked on in astonishment.
Nellie gazed in consternation. Mr. Wellworth stared like
a lunatic. And Lieutenant King declared it as his experience
that Ensign Dawson was “the devil among the
girls.” And before this group had recovered their self-possession,
they saw the young couple disappear in the
woods.</p>

<p>“Go after them! Fly to her rescue! She is carried
off! Run, Mr. Wellworth,” cried Nellie, in a paroxysm
of terror, as soon as she had recovered from her amazement.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[219]</span></p>

<p>But Lieutenant King advised the lady to be calm, and
the clergyman to mind his own affairs, adding that the
young girl had accompanied the soldier quite voluntarily,
and that he would warrant her, or any lady, safe from
offense by Ensign Dawson.</p>

<p>“You would warrant him, after witnessing his behavior
to me!” exclaimed Grace, in a half-suppressed whisper,
which was, however, not so much smothered, but that its
purport reached the ears of the officer, who answered,
earnestly:</p>

<p>“Had you been in the woods alone with that youthful
soldier, he would have respected your solitude, and helplessness;
but you were amid your friends; you ran, unwittingly
challenging pursuit, and hence—but I do not
defend him; he was wrong, and I beg pardon in his behalf.”</p>

<p>“What? what? what was that, Grace?” asked old Mr.
Wellworth, in alarm.</p>

<p>“Nothing, father! only when I took fright and ran
away, he gave chase, caught and brought me back to my
party; that is all,” replied Grace, suppressing the fact of
the rifled kiss, and blushing deeply for its suppression.</p>

<p>“Mr. Wellworth, I really must insist upon your going
in search of Margaret. This lieutenant indorses the ensign;
but who indorses the lieutenant?” inquired Nellie.</p>

<p>Lieutenant King bowed “as if he had received a compliment.”</p>

<p>And moved by this persistence on the part of Mrs.
Houston, the old clergyman took the path leading down
to the thicket.</p>

<p>“Madam,” said Lieutenant King, “will you permit me
to counsel you to proceed to the house, and withdraw
your female friends to the privacy of the upper chambers.
Myself and my men, who are not desirable company for
ladies, will follow in about fifteen minutes. They will
want refreshments. You will, therefore, be so kind as to
leave the keys of the pantry, storehouse, cellars, etc., in
charge of some male servant, with orders to wait upon
me.”</p>

<p>“Sir, because all our able men are with the army, and
we are defenseless and in your power, you shall be obeyed.
And for no other reason on the face of the earth!” exclaimed<span class="pagenum">[220]</span>
Nellie, flushing with anger, as she beckoned her
companions, and took the way, successively, through the
meadow, the orchard, and the garden, to the house. As
they turned away, the British officer bowed with scrupulous
politeness, and laughed within himself, as he
muttered:</p>

<p>“You are a ‘good-nater’ little lady,” and took the way
to the beach to bring together his men.</p>

<p>Meanwhile, Nellie and her companions reached the
mansion, and spread consternation among the company by
announcing that a British force had landed on the island.
With the recollection of Craney Island fresh in their
minds, there was not an old lady there who did not expect
to be put to the sword, or a young woman or boy who
did not look to be carried off. But the calm courage of
Clare Hartley, and the cool serenity of old Mrs. Compton,
did much toward soothing their fears and restoring
quiet. Mrs. Houston then explained that they were all
to go upstairs and lock themselves in the chambers, while
the soldiers bivouacked below.</p>

<p>Hapzibah was then called, and ordered to produce the
keys.</p>

<p>“Well, I ’spose how der’s no help for it, Miss Nellie;
fur ef I don’t guv um up, dem are white niggers bust
open ebery singly door in the house,” said Hapzibah.</p>

<p>“Yes, and set it on fire afterward, and throw you in to
feed the flames!” was the comforting reply.</p>

<p>“I ’fies ’em for to do it—white herrin’s!—who’s afeard?—’sides
which, I don’t believe I’d blaze for ’em!”</p>

<p>“No; you’d blow up like a skin of gunpowder. But
hand over the keys, and go call your brother, old Euripedes,
to take charge of them and wait on the gentlemen.
You’ll have to come upstairs with the ladies.”</p>

<p>“Me go hide ’long o’ de ladies, jes’ as ef I was feared o’
dem white niggers! Me leabe my poor, ole, innocen’
brudder ’lone, to be put upon by dem debbils! I like to
see myself a doin’ of it! I’d see ole Hempseed Island
sunk inter de bottom o’ de sea wid all aboard fust—dat’s
me. Yer all hear me good, don’t yer?”</p>

<p>“They’ll certainly throw you in the fire if you talk in
that way,” said Nellie, laughing, in despite of her secret
fears and anxieties.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[221]</span></p>

<p>“I wouldn’t burn to save dere precious libes! I’d see
’em all blasted fust! I’d see it good! Dat’s me! But
I begs yer pardon, Miss Nellie, chile! I doesn’t mean no
’fence, nor likewise no disrespect to you, honey—’deed no!
But yer see de werry sight ’o one ’o dem dere b’iled crabs
makes me crawl all ober—an’ de sight o’ one o’ dere scarlet-coats
drives me ravin’ mad as ef I war a she-bull!—dat’s
me! ’Cause yer see, chile, de werry fust time one
o’ dem dere debbils put his fut on ter de islan’ he done
fetch death an’ ’struction long ob him! An’ now dat
debbil done gone an’ fetch forty more debbils more worse
nor hisself. An’ I wish, I does, how I could bore a hole
in de islan’ an’ sink it wid all aboard, I do—dat’s me.
An’ now I’ll go arter my brudder You-Rip.”</p>

<p>“Stay a moment,” said Mrs. Houston. “You can tell
us—is there much wine and liquor in the cellar?—for if
those wretches are permitted to drink themselves to madness,
even the word of their commanding officer is no
security for their good behavior!”</p>

<p>“Wine an’ likker! No, thanks be to my ’Vine Marster
dere ain’t a singly drap to cool dere parchy tongues,
no more’n dere is in Aberyham’s buzzum! Marse
Fillup done ship it all away to camp, for he an’ Marse
Wrath to treat dere brudder ossifers wid, to keep dere
couridge when dey goes inter battle. Wish it was me
goin’! I wouldn’t ’quire no sich. ’Sides which, I’d
shoot somefin harder at ’em nor grapeshot inter ’em,
as dey talk so much about, which it stands to reason
shootin’ grapes is nuffin but chile’s play, and can’t hurt
nobody, much less dem dere hardened b’iled crabs, ’less
deys ’stilled into likker an’ drank too much of, ’sides
bein’ a waste o’ de fruit; which dey do say as how
‘willful waste make woeful want.’”</p>

<p>“My goodness alive, Happy, how you do run on.
You make my head go round and round like a water-wheel.
Do go now and send Euripedes to me,” said
Mrs. Houston.</p>

<p>“I gwine,” said Hapzibah, who took herself off.</p>

<p>And just then the gentlemen of the party, who had
been out fishing at the opposite extremity of the island,
and had been sent for, arrived upon the scene, and received
the intelligence of the landing of the foraging<span class="pagenum">[222]</span>
party on the western shore of the island, and of their
momentarily expected arrival at the house.</p>

<p>And now at last there was promptitude of action.
The ladies and female servants were collected and hurried
upstairs, with recommendations not only to lock,
but to bolt and bar themselves within the innermost
chambers. Old Hapzibah’s age, fearlessness and tearful
remonstrances obtained for her the questionable
privilege of remaining out to stand by her “poor ole
angel,” as she lovingly termed her brother. Euripedes
and herself were intrusted with the keys, and directions
to wait upon the foragers. The four old gentlemen and
the two boys then armed themselves, and took their
stations in the upper hall to defend, if necessary, the approach
to the ladies’ place of retreat. These arrangements
were scarcely concluded, before the foraging
party entered the house. And then followed the feast,
and succeeded the orgies!—and such orgies! It was
providential that there was no liquor to be found, though
every cellar, closet, cupboard and pantry was ransacked,
in the vain hope of finding a hidden store. The hampers
of the picnic party were rifled of their costly delicacies,
and a few bottles of rare wine discovered, but this went
only a little way among so many. You should have
heard old Hapzibah’s indignant account of their proceedings.
She said that “Each red debbil among ’em
’haved as if he wer’ ’sessed o’ seben oder debbils more
worser dan hissef!” That when they failed to find the
wine, they drove her “poor, ole, innocen’, sufferin’
darlin’ on afore ’em an’ swore all de hair off’n his head—de
poor, ole, timidy, saf’-hearted chile, as couldn’ stan’
nuffin o’ dere debblish doin’s”—that because she, Aunt
Hapzibah, couldn’t be here, and there, and everywhere
at once, “de ’fernal white niggers got into her cabin
an’ stole her trunk o’ berryin’ close, which she meant
to go arter ’em herself, an’ git ’em back even ef she had
to pull ’em out’n Admirable Cockburn’s own claws!
Dough ef he, Cockburn, was admirable, she should like
to know, she should, who was ’bominable! That de
low-life white herrin’s was so ’fraid o’ bein’ p’isoned,
dat dey made poor, ole Rip, poor, ole, sufferin’, put-upon
angel, drink out’n ebery thing, whedder it ’greed<span class="pagenum">[223]</span>
with him or not—an’ eben ’pelled him to drink out’n
ebery singly milk-pan in the dairyhouse, which eberybody
knows he neber could ’bide milk eber since he was
weaned, which allers made him dead sick to his
stumick.”</p>

<p>Finally, it was sunset before the marauders left the
island, carrying off with them not only all the grain, but
all the meat, fruit, and garden vegetables, and also all
the poultry, and all the live stock with the exception
of one old black ram, the patriarch of the flock, whom
Hapzibah swore bitterly to carry to Cockburn, when
she went after her trunk.</p>

<p>It was quite dark before it was considered safe to
warrant the descent of the ladies from their retreat.
Fortunately there would be a moon, or else the half-starved
and thoroughly wearied picnickers must have
rowed home in darkness. Now, therefore, they assembled
on the porch, to talk over their misadventure, and
wait for the rising of the moon. But suddenly some one
asked:</p>

<p>“Where is Margaret Helmstedt, and——”</p>

<p>“Where is Margaret?” was echoed all around.</p>

<p>Nellie had hoped that she was safe in the charge of
Mr. Wellworth. But Mr. Wellworth, who from wandering
all over the island now joined the party, declared
that he had been unable to find her, and that
he had expected to hear of her among her friends present.
And now, as the alarm spread, and exclamations
of: “Where is Margaret?” “Where can she be?” “Is it
possible she can have been carried off?” were passed
in distress from one to another, and all began to separate
to prosecute the search for her, a quiet low voice
was heard from their midst, saying:</p>

<p>“I am here—be not uneasy!” and, ghostlike, Margaret
Helmstedt stood among them! The sight of the
maiden was an immediate and great relief, but:</p>

<p>“Are you quite safe, my child?” asked Mr. Wellworth.</p>

<p>“Quite!” responded Margaret, sinking upon a bench
as if greatly exhausted.</p>

<p>“Where have you been?” asked Mrs. Houston
sharply.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[224]</span></p>

<p>“Beyond the wa——” Her voice died away in silence;
she had fainted.</p>

<p>“It is fatigue, and fright, and want of food,” said
old Mrs. Compton, going to the poor girl, raising her
head, and supporting it on her lap.</p>

<p>“And those wretches have not left so much as a
drop of wine to revive her, or even a candle to see
her face by,” exclaimed Nellie, who, whatever her cause
of displeasure might be, was always moved by the sight
of physical suffering, with which she could the more
readily sympathize. But Dr. Hartley caused Margaret’s
head to be laid down again, and water to be dashed in
her face; and by these simple means her recovery was
soon effected.</p>

<p>As the moon was now rising, the company prepared
themselves, and went down to the beach to get into
their boats, which, they thanked Heaven, had not been
carried off by the marauders. The trip back was decidedly
the pleasantest part of the whole expedition.
An hour’s row over the moonlit waters brought them
to the Bluff, where Nellie ordered supper to be immediately
prepared for the whole famished party, who remained
her guests that night, and only separated after
breakfast the next morning.</p>

<p>When her last guest had departed, Mrs. Houston entered
the private sitting-room of Margaret Helmstedt,
whom she found quietly sitting beside her workstand,
engaged in sewing.</p>

<p>Taking a seat close beside her, Mrs. Houston said:</p>

<p>“Margaret, I have come to request an explanation of
your strange conduct of yesterday, which, let me assure
you, has given your friends great pain, and even revived
all the old gossip of which you were the subject.
Margaret, I await your answer.”</p>

<p>She looked up from her work, and fixing her dark
eyes full upon the face of her catechiser, answered firmly
though gently:</p>

<p>“Mrs. Houston, I have no explanation to make!”</p>

<p>The little lady flushed and bit her lip.</p>

<p>Margaret continued her needlework.</p>

<p>“Then I am to understand, Miss Helmstedt, that you
consider it quite proper for a young lady to spend two or<span class="pagenum">[225]</span>
three hours alone in the woods with a soldier, who is not
of her kindred?”</p>

<p>Margaret might have replied with truth, “No, Mrs.
Houston, I do not consider that at all proper,” but she
chose, on the contrary, to remain silent.</p>

<p>“And you doubtless think, besides, that an affianced
bride owes no consideration to her betrothed husband.”</p>

<p>“So far from that, I feel that she owes the same as if
the church and the state had already blessed and confirmed
the engagement,” answered Margaret.</p>

<p>“Which, in your case, it will never do, unless certain
suspicious acts of yours are satisfactorily explained.”</p>

<p>“Mrs. Houston, I do not understand you,” said Margaret,
flushing deeply.</p>

<p>“You do not seem to know that the honor of Ralph is
committed to your keeping!”</p>

<p>“Mrs. Houston, the honor of no human being can possibly
go out of his own keeping, or into that of another.”</p>

<p>The lady still bit her lip in high displeasure; but a
glance at the pale, pensive face, and mourning dress of
the orphan girl, a sudden recollection of her dead mother,
a reflection upon the inevitable misery that any real imprudence
might bring upon that mother’s only child, perhaps
modified her resentment, for in a kinder tone she
said:</p>

<p>“Margaret Helmstedt, you are on the brink of a frightful
precipice! pause! confide to me the nature of the acquaintance
subsisting between yourself and that strange
young man, whom you had evidently known previous to
your meeting yesterday morning. Is he the person to
whom you wrote those mysterious letters? Is he the
same whose visit to the island caused your poor mother
such keen distress? Was it the dread of your continued
intimacy, and possible union with such an unadmissible
person, that constrained her to betroth you to Ralph, and
consign you to my care? Speak, Margaret! It may be
in my power to help and save you!”</p>

<p>Margaret trembled through all her frame, but answered
firmly:</p>

<p>“Dear Mrs. Houston, I thank you for your kindness,
but—I have nothing to say!”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[226]</span></p>

<p>“Margaret; I adjure you by the memory of your dead
mother, speak! explain!”</p>

<p>She might have replied, “And in the name of my dear,
mother, I repudiate your adjuration!” But fearing to
give the slightest clue, or in the least degree to compromise
the memory of her who slept beneath the old oak
beside the waves, she answered:</p>

<p>“Even so adjured, I can only repeat, that I have no
explanation to make, Mrs. Houston.”</p>

<p>“Then I will delay no longer. I will write to Ralph!”
exclaimed Mrs. Houston, indignantly rising and leaving
the room.</p>

<p>“Oh! mother! mother!” The wailing voice of the girl
was smothered in her spread hands, and in her thick,
disheveled hair as she cast herself upon the floor.</p>

<p>Now whether Mrs. Houston really put her threat into
immediate execution, is not known. What is certain, the
increased coldness of all the family, even of the kind-hearted,
liberal-minded Colonel Houston, so distressed
the spirit of the orphan girl that she seldom sought their
company, and at last met them only at meal times. A
fortnight passed thus, during which the family at the
Bluff received no company and paid no visits. Such long
seasons of isolation, even in summer, were not unusual in
that sparsely settled place, where the undertaking of a
friendly visit was really a serious piece of business.</p>

<p>At the end of a fortnight, however, as the family were
sitting at dinner, Mr. Wellworth suddenly and unannounced
entered the room. His countenance betrayed
that some unusual circumstance had brought him out.
All arose to receive him. In the midst of the general
shaking of hands, the colonel put the question that all
longed to ask.</p>

<p>“What has happened, Mr. Wellworth?”</p>

<p>“Why, sir, a party of British soldiers landed this morning
and attacked the parsonage!”</p>

<p>“Good Heaven! I hope no serious damage has been
done?” exclaimed Colonel Houston, while all listened
with intense interest for his answer.</p>

<p>“No, thank the Lord! There was, providentially, a
wedding at the church, a poor man’s, whose friends had
all gathered to see him married. We armed ourselves<span class="pagenum">[227]</span>
with what we could catch up, and, being much the larger
party, succeeded in beating off the assailants.”</p>

<p>“I hope there was no bloodshed?” said the kind-hearted
Mrs. Compton.</p>

<p>“None on our side to speak of. They left one of their
party on the field—Dodson—Carson—Dawson—yes, that
is his name, Dawson—the very fellow that was with the
foragers who broke in upon our picnic party.”</p>

<p>A low half-suppressed cry from Margaret, had greeted
the name of the wounded man. But no one heard it
but Mrs. Houston, who resented it by saying:</p>

<p>“And I hope, Mr. Wellworth, the wretch was dead!”</p>

<p>“He may be so by this time, madam,” replied the minister,
in a voice of grave rebuke; “the poor young man
is severely wounded. We have put him to bed; my
daughter Grace and her maid are taking care of him, and
I am off for Dr. Hartley. I called just to beg you to have
me put across the bay.”</p>

<p>“Certainly,” replied Colonel Houston, who immediately
despatched his waiter to give orders for the boat to
be made ready. And in fifteen minutes Mr. Wellworth
had departed on his errand.</p>

<p>It was late in the evening when the clergyman returned
with the physician, and both took their way to the parsonage.
The next morning, when Dr. Hartley called at
the Bluff on his way home, he reported the wound of the
young ensign not so dangerous as had been represented.
And, in short, in a few days the young man was convalescent.
Before his full recovery, the British fleet had
left this portion of the bay, and had gone down to the
mouth of the Patuxent. The attack upon the parsonage
was the last foray made by their troops in that neighborhood.</p>

<p>One morning, about the third week in August, the
family at Buzzard’s Bluff were cast into a state of consternation
by an unprecedented event. Margaret Helmstedt
did not appear at the breakfast table. After awaiting
her coming for some time, Mrs. Houston sent to
inquire for her, and learned that she was not to be found.
Her maid was also missing. Her footman was next
sought for in vain, and during the search it was discovered
that her little sail, <em>The Pearl Shell</em> had also been<span class="pagenum">[228]</span>
taken away. And while the trouble of the family was still
at its height, Mr. Wellworth was announced, and entered
with intelligence that seemed, in Mrs. Houston’s
estimation, to throw light upon the mystery of Margaret’s
flight—namely, that his prisoner, the young British
ensign, William Dawson, had broken his parole and
fled.</p>


<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.
<br /><span class="cheaderfont">PERSECUTION.</span></h2>
</div>


<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“They said that guilt a shade had cast</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">Upon her youthful fame,</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">And scornful murmurs as she passed</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">Were mingled with her name.</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">In truth, it was a painful sight</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">As former friends went by</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">To see her trembling lip grow white</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">Beneath each altered eye.”</div>
    <div class="verse indent6">—<span class="smcap">Mrs. Holmes.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>To the surprise of all the family at the Bluff, Margaret
Helmstedt, the third morning from her disappearance,
returned to her guardian’s house. Mrs. Houston took
upon herself the ungenial task of meeting the delinquent.</p>

<p>“Well, miss, or rather, I beg your pardon, madam,
permit me to congratulate you! though really I had not
supposed you would have so soon honored my humble
house with a visit,” said Nellie, as she met her at the
door.</p>

<p>“Mrs. Houston, I do not understand you: pray, let me
pass,” pleaded the girl, who looked pale, exhausted, and
heartbroken.</p>

<p>“Pass, indeed! I would first know who it is that so
glibly demands to pass. No, madam; your right to pass
here is forfeited. I only wonder that you should present
yourself. But I suppose that you have come for your
effects; if so, inform me where they shall be sent, and I
will have them forwarded.”</p>

<p>Margaret leaned half fainting against the door frame,
but notwithstanding her physical prostration and mental
disturbance, she maintained her presence of mind.</p>

<p>“Mrs. Houston, you are mistaken. I bear no new name
or new relation, as your words would seem to imply.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[229]</span></p>

<p>“Then, miss, so much the worse!” exclaimed Nellie,
indignantly.</p>

<p>“I do not understand you,” said Margaret, in amazement.</p>

<p>“You do! And I wonder more than ever that you
should presume to present yourself before me!” retorted
the lady, raising her voice.</p>

<p>“Mrs. Houston, my mother was your bosom friend.
Do not insult her daughter,” said Margaret, as the blood
rushed to her face.</p>

<p>“You have dishonored your mother!” exclaimed Nellie,
in a paroxysm of emotion between anger, awakened
memory and grief.</p>

<p>“God knoweth!” replied the maiden, dropping her
head and her clasped hands with a gesture of profound
despair.</p>

<p>But the altercation had reached the ears of Colonel
Houston, who now came out, saying:</p>

<p>“Nellie, my dear, this is not the way to meet this exigency.
Good-morning, Miss Helmstedt, pray walk in
and be seated. Nellie, she is but a young thing! If she
has committed any grave fault, it carries its own bitter
punishment, God knows. As for us, since she presents
herself here again, we must continue to give her shelter
and protection until the arrival of her father. Nay, Nellie,
my dear, I say this must be done whatever her offences
may be.”</p>

<p>“You too! Oh, you too, Colonel Houston!” involuntarily
exclaimed Margaret, clasping her hands.</p>

<p>“Miss Helmstedt, my child, I am not your judge.
Make a confidante of my wife, she loved your mother.
Go into your apartment, Margaret. Attend her, Mrs.
Houston.”</p>

<p>“Colonel Houston, I thank you! Mrs. Houston,” she
continued, in a faltering voice; “I returned here only—because—it
was my appointed place of abode—the home
selected for me by my parents and—Ralph.”</p>

<p>“Never mind about Ralph now, my child,” said the
colonel, in a gentle tone, which nevertheless cut Margaret
to the heart. She meekly bowed her head and passed on
to her own apartments, followed by Mrs. Houston, who
threw herself into a chair and immediately commenced a<span class="pagenum">[230]</span>
close catechism, which was interrupted in the midst by
Margaret saying:</p>

<p>“Dear Mrs. Houston, not from any want of respect to
you, and not in defiance of your authority, but from the
direst necessity—Oh, what am I saying!” She stopped
suddenly in great anguish and remained silent.</p>

<p>“Margaret Helmstedt, what mean you?” demanded
Mrs. Houston, indignantly.</p>

<p>“Nothing! I mean nothing!”</p>

<p>“You mean to affront me!”</p>

<p>“No, Heaven knows!”</p>

<p>“How can you explain or defend your conduct?”</p>

<p>“In no manner!”</p>

<p>“And you expect us quietly to submit to your contumacy?”</p>

<p>“No! Do your will. I cannot blame you!”</p>

<p>“And Ralph?”</p>

<p>Like the rising of an inward light came a transient
glow of faith from her beautiful face.</p>

<p>“Ralph will think no evil,” she said, softly.</p>

<p>“Yet let me assure you, Miss Helmstedt, that though
Ralph Houston’s chivalric confidence in you may be unshaken;
yet his father will never now consent to the continuance
of his engagement with you. You heard what
Colonel Houston said?”</p>

<p>“I heard,” said Margaret, with gentle dignity.</p>

<p>“You heard? what then!”</p>

<p>“Mr. Houston is twenty-eight years of age, and his
own master.”</p>

<p>“And what follows, pray, from that?”</p>

<p>“That in this matter he will do as seems to him right!”</p>

<p>“And yourself?”</p>

<p>“I leave my destiny with the fullest faith where God,
my parents and his parents placed it—in the hands of my
betrothed husband.”</p>

<p>“And he will abide by his engagement! I know his
Quixotic temper! he will. But, Margaret Helmstedt,
delicacy requires of you to retire from the contract.”</p>

<p>Margaret smiled mournfully, and answered earnestly:</p>

<p>“Madam, God knoweth that there are higher principles
of action than fantastic delicacy. I have no right to
break my engagement with Ralph Houston. I will free<span class="pagenum">[231]</span>
him from his bond; but if he holds me to mine, why so
be it; he is wiser than I am, and in the name of the Lord
I am his affianced wife.”</p>

<p>Nellie scarcely knew how to reply to this. She looked
straight into the face of the girl as though she would read
and expose her soul. Superficially that face was pale and
still; the lips compressed; the eyes cast down until the
close, long lashes lay penciled on the white cheeks; but,
under all, a repressed glow of devotion, sorrow, firmness,
fervor, made eloquent the beautiful countenance, as she
sat there, with her hands clasped and unconsciously
pressed to her bosom. Despite of the strong circumstantial
evidence, Nellie could not look into that face and
hold to her belief the owner’s unworthiness. And the
little woman grew more angry at the inconsistency and
contradiction of her own thoughts and feelings. She
ascribed this to Margaret’s skill in influencing her. And
out of her pause and study she broke forth impatiently:</p>

<p>“You are an artful girl, Margaret. I do not know
where you get your duplicity, not from your mother, I
know. No matter; thank Heaven, in a few days your
father and Ralph will be here, and my responsibility
over.” And rising, angrily, she left the room, and left
Margaret remaining in the same attitude of superficial
calmness and suppressed excitement.</p>

<p>Nellie went to her own especial sitting-room, communicating
by short passages with storeroom, pantry and
kitchen, and where she transacted all her housekeeping
business. She found her own maid, the pretty mulatress,
with knitting in hand, as usual, in attendance.</p>

<p>“Go at once, Jessie, and call Miss Helmstedt’s servants
here.”</p>

<p>The girl obeyed, and soon returned, accompanied by
Hildreth and Forrest, who made their “reverence,” and
stood waiting the lady’s pleasure.</p>

<p>“I suppose your mistress has given you orders to reply
to no questions in regard to her absence!” asked Nellie,
sharply.</p>

<p>“No, madam; Miss Marget did nothing of the sort,”
answered Forrest.</p>

<p>“Be careful of your manner, sir.”</p>

<p>Forrest bowed.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[232]</span></p>

<p>“When did she leave the house?”</p>

<p>“Night afore last.”</p>

<p>“With whom?”</p>

<p>“Me an’ Hild’eth, madam.”</p>

<p>“No others?”</p>

<p>“No, madam.”</p>

<p>“Where did she go?”</p>

<p>“Up the river some ways to a landin’ on to de Marylan’
shore as I never was at afore.”</p>

<p>“And what then?”</p>

<p>“She lef’ me den, Hild’eth an’ me, at a farmhouse
where we landed, an’ took a horse an’ rode away. She
was gone all day. Last night she come back, an’ paid de
bill, and took boat an’ come straight home.”</p>

<p>“Very well, that is all very well of you, Forrest, so far.
You have told the truth, I suppose; but you have not
told the whole truth, I know. Whom did she meet at
that farmhouse? and who rode away with her when she
went?”</p>

<p>“Not a singly soul did she meet, ’cept it was de fam’ly.
An’ not a singly soul did ride with her.”</p>

<p>“You are lying!” exclaimed Nellie, who, in her anger,
was very capable of using strong language to the servants.</p>

<p>“No! ’fore my ’Vine Marster in heaben, I’se tellin’ of
you de trufe, Miss Nellie.”</p>

<p>“You are not! Your mistress has tutored you what to
say.”</p>

<p>The old man’s face flushed darkly, as he answered:</p>

<p>“I ax your pardon very humble, Miss Nellie; but Miss
Marget couldn’t tutor no one to no false. An’ on de
contrairy wise she said to we den, my sister an’ me, she
said: ‘Forrest and Hildreth, mind when you are questioned
in regard to me tell the truf as jus’ you know it.’
Dat’s all, Miss Nellie. ’Deed it is, madam. Miss Marget
is high beyant tutorin’ anybody to any false.”</p>

<p>“There! you are not requested to indorse Miss Helmstedt.
And very likely she did not take you into her
counsels. Now, tell me the name of the place where you
stopped?”</p>

<p>“I doesn’t know it, Miss Nellie, madam.”</p>

<p>“Well, then, the name of the people?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[233]</span></p>

<p>“Dey call de old gemman Marse John, an’ de ole lady
Miss Mary. I didn’ hear no other name.”</p>

<p>“You are deceiving me!”</p>

<p>“No, ’fore my Heabenly Marster, madam.”</p>

<p>“You are!” And here followed an altercation not very
creditable to the dignity of Mrs. Colonel Houston, and
which was, besides, quite fruitless, as the servant could
give her no further satisfaction.</p>

<p>All that forenoon Margaret sat in her room, occupying
her hands with some needlework in which her heart took
little interest. She dreaded the dinner hour, in which
she should have to face the assembled family. She would
gladly have remained fasting in her room, for, indeed, her
appetite was gone, but she wished to do nothing that
could be construed into an act of resentment. So, when
the bell rang, she arose with a sigh, bathed her face,
smoothed her black tresses, added a little lace collar and
locket brooch to her black silk dress, and passed out to
the dining-room.</p>

<p>The whole family were already seated at the table; but
Colonel Houston, who never failed in courtesy to the
orphan girl, arose, as usual, and handed her to her seat.
Her eyes were cast down, her cheeks were deeply flushed.
She wore, poor girl, what seemed a look of conscious
guilt, but it was the consciousness, not of guilt, but of
being thought guilty. She could scarcely lift her heavy
lids to meet and return the cold nods of recognition with
which old Colonel and Mrs. Compton acknowledged her
presence. The fervid devotion that had nerved her heart
to meet Mrs. Houston’s single attack was chilled before
this table full of cold faces and averted eyes. She could
not partake of the meal; she could scarcely sustain herself
through the sitting; and at the end she escaped from
the table as from a scene of torture.</p>

<p>“She is suffering very much; I will go and talk to her,”
said the really kind-hearted old Mrs. Compton.</p>

<p>“No, mother, do nothing of the sort. It would be altogether
useless. You might wear out your lungs to no
purpose. She is perfectly contumacious,” said Mrs.
Houston.</p>

<p>“Nellie, my dear, she is the child of your best friend.”</p>

<p>“I know it,” exclaimed the little lady, with the tears of<span class="pagenum">[234]</span>
grief and rage rushing to her eyes, “and that is what
makes it so difficult to deal with her; for if she were any
other than Marguerite De Lancie’s daughter, I would
turn her out of the house without more ado.”</p>

<p>“My good mother, and my dear wife, listen to me. You
are both right, in a measure. I think with you, Nellie,
that since Miss Helmstedt persistently declines to explain
her strange course, self-respect and dignity should hold us
all henceforth silent upon this subject. And with you,
Mrs. Compton, I think that regard to the memory of the
mother should govern our conduct toward the child until
we can resign her into the hands of her father. The trial
will be short. We may daily expect his arrival, and in
the meantime we must avoid the obnoxious subject, and
treat the young lady with the courtesy due solely to Marguerite
De Lancie’s daughter.”</p>

<p>While this conversation was on the tapis, the door was
thrown open, and the Rev. Mr. Wellworth announced.
This worthy gentleman’s arrival was, of late, the harbinger
of startling news. The family had grown to expect
it on seeing him. His appearance now corroborated their
usual expectations. His manner was hurried, his face
flushed, his expression angry.</p>

<p>“Good-day, friends! Has your fugitive returned?”</p>

<p>“Yes, why?” inquired three or four in a breath, rising
from the table.</p>

<p>“Because mine has, that is all!” replied the old man,
throwing down his hat and seating himself unceremoniously.
“Yes, Ensign Dawson presented himself this morning
at our house, looking as honest, as frank, and as innocent
as that exemplary young man generally does. I
inquired why he came, and how he dared present himself.
He replied that he had been unavoidably detained, but
that as soon as he was at liberty, he had returned to redeem
his parole and save his honor. I told him that
‘naught was never in danger,’ but requested him to be
more explicit. He declined, saying that he had explained
to me that he had been detained, and had in the first moment
of his liberty returned to give himself up, and that
was enough for me to know.”</p>

<p>“But, you asked him about the supposed companion
of his flight?” inquired the indiscreet Nellie.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[235]</span></p>

<p>“Ay, and when I mentioned Margaret Helmstedt’s
name, his eyes flashed fire! he clapped his hand where
his sword was not, and looked as if he would have
run me through the body!”</p>

<p>“And gave you no satisfaction, I daresay?”</p>

<p>“None whatever—neither denying nor affirming anything.”</p>

<p>“And what have you done with the villain? I hope
you have locked him up in the cellar!” exclaimed the
indignant Nellie.</p>

<p>“Not I, indeed; if I had, the case would have been
hopeless.”</p>

<p>“I—I do not understand you,” said Nellie.</p>

<p>The clergyman looked all around the room, and then
replied:</p>

<p>“There are no giddy young people here to repeat the
story. I will tell you. Grace is a fool! All girls are, I
believe! A scarlet coat with gilt ornaments inflames
their imaginations—a wound melts their hearts! And
our wounded prisoner, between his fine scarlet and
gold coat and his broken rib—(well, you understand
me!)—if I had locked him up in the cellar, or in the best
bedroom, my girl would have straightway imagined me
a tyrannical old despot, and my captive would have
grown a hero in her eyes! No, I invited him to dinner,
drank his health, played a game of backgammon
with him, and afterward returned him his parole, and
privately signified that he was at liberty to depart. And
however my silly girl feels about it, she cannot say that
I persecuted this ‘poor wounded hussar.’”</p>

<p>“But, the d——l! you do not mean to say that this
villain aspired to Grace also?” exclaimed Colonel Houston,
in dismay.</p>

<p>“How can I tell? I do not know that he did aspire
to Margaret, or that he didn’t aspire to Grace! All I
know is, that Grace behaved like a fool after his first
departure and worse, if possible, after his second. But
Margaret, you say, has returned?”</p>

<p>“She came back this morning.”</p>

<p>“And what does the unfortunate girl say?”</p>

<p>“Like your prisoner, she refuses to affirm or deny
anything.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[236]</span></p>

<p>“Mr. Wellworth,” said Colonel Houston, “we have
decided to speak no more upon the subject with Miss
Helmstedt, but to leave matters as they are until the
return of her father, who is daily expected.”</p>

<p>“I think, under the circumstances, that that is as
well,” replied the old man. And soon after, he concluded
his visit and departed.</p>

<p>And as the subject was no more mentioned to Margaret,
she remained in ignorance of the visit of Mr.
Wellworth.</p>

<p>And from this time Margaret Helmstedt kept her own
apartments, except when forced to join the family at
their meals. And upon these occasions, the silence of
the ladies, and the half compassionate courtesy of Colonel
Houston, wounded her heart more deeply than the
most bitter reproaches could have done.</p>

<p>A week passed in this dreary manner, and still Major
Helmstedt and Captain Houston had not returned,
though they were as yet daily expected.</p>

<p>Margaret, lonely, desolate, craving companionship
and sympathy, one day ordered her carriage and drove
up to the parsonage to see Grace Wellworth. She was
shown into the little sitting-room where the parson’s
daughter sat sewing.</p>

<p>Grace arose to meet her friend with a constrained
civility that cut Margaret to the heart. She could not
associate her coldness with the calumnious reports
afloat concerning herself, and therefore could not comprehend
it.</p>

<p>But Margaret’s heart yearned toward her friend; she
could not bear to be at variance with her.</p>

<p>“My dearest Grace, what is the matter? have I unconsciously
offended you in any way?” she inquired,
gently, as she sat down beside the girl and laid her
hand on her arm.</p>

<p>“Unconsciously! no, I think not! You are doubly a
traitor, Margaret Helmstedt! Traitor to your betrothed
and to your friend!” replied Miss Wellworth, bitterly.</p>

<p>“Grace! this from you!”</p>

<p>“Yes, this from me! of all others from me! The
deeply injured have a right to complain and reproach.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[237]</span></p>

<p>“Oh, Grace! Grace! my friend!” exclaimed Margaret,
wringing her hands.</p>

<p>But before another word was said, old Mr. Wellworth
entered the room.</p>

<p>“Good-afternoon, Miss Helmstedt. Grace, my dear,
go down to Dinah’s quarter and give her her medicine,
Miss Helmstedt will excuse you. One of our women
has malaria fever, Miss Helmstedt.”</p>

<p>“Indeed! I am sorry; but I have some skill in
nursing: shall I not go with Grace?” inquired Margaret,
as her friend arose to leave the room.</p>

<p>“No, young lady; I wish to have some conversation
with you.”</p>

<p>Grace sulkily departed, and Margaret meekly resumed
her seat.</p>

<p>“Miss Helmstedt, my poor child, it is a very painful
duty that I have now to perform. Since the decease of
my wife, I have to watch with double vigilance over the
welfare of my motherless daughter, and I should feel
indebted to you, Margaret, if you would abstain from
visiting Grace until some questions in regard to your
course are satisfactorily answered.”</p>

<p>Margaret’s face grew gray with anguish as she arose
to her feet, and clasping her hands, murmured:</p>

<p>“My God! my God! You do not think I could do
anything that should separate me from the good of my
own sex?”</p>

<p>“Margaret, unhappy child, that question is not for
me to answer. I dare not judge you, but leave the
matter to God above and to your father on earth.”</p>

<p>“Farewell, Mr. Wellworth. I know the time will come
when your kind nature will feel sorrow for having
stricken a heart already so bruised and bleeding as
this,” she said, laying her hand upon her surcharged
bosom; “but you are not to blame, so God bless you
and farewell,” she repeated, offering her hand.</p>

<p>The clergyman took and pressed it, and the tears
sprang to his eyes as he answered:</p>

<p>“Margaret, the time has come, when I deeply regret
the necessity of giving you pain. Alas! my child, ‘the
way of the transgressor is hard.’ May God deliver<span class="pagenum">[238]</span>
your soul,” and rising, he attended her to her carriage,
placed her in it, and saying:</p>

<p>“God bless you!” closed the door and retired.</p>

<p>“Oh, mother! mother! Oh, mother! mother! behold
the second gift—my only friendship! They are yours,
mother! they are yours! only love me from heaven!
for I love you beyond all on earth,” cried Margaret,
covering her sobbing face, and sinking back in the
carriage.</p>

<p>Margaret returned home to her deserted and lonely
rooms. No one came thither now; no one invited her
thence. Darker lowered the clouds of fate over her
devoted young head. Another weary week passed, and
still the returning soldiers had not arrived. The Sabbath
came—the first Sabbath in October.</p>

<p>Margaret had always found the sweetest consolation
in the ordinances of religion. This, being the first Sabbath
of the month, was sacrament Sunday. And never
since her entrance into the church had Margaret missed
the communion. And now, even in her deep distress,
when she so bitterly needed the consolations of religion,
it was with a subdued joy that she prepared to
receive them. It was delightful autumn weather, and
the whole family who were going would fill the family
coach—so much had been intimated to Margaret
through her attendants. Therefore she was obliged to
order her own carriage. The lonely ride, under present
circumstances, was far more endurable than the presence
of the family would have been; and solitude and silence
afforded her the opportunity for meditation that the
occasion required.</p>

<p>She reached the church and left her carriage before the
hour of service. The fine day had drawn an unusually
large congregation together, and had kept them sauntering
and gossiping out in the open air; but Margaret,
as she smiled or nodded to one or another, met
only scornful glances or averted heads. More than
shocked, appalled and dismayed by this sort of reception,
she hurried into the church and on to her pew.</p>

<p>Margaret had always, in preference to the Houstons’
pew, occupied her own mother’s, “to keep it warm,”
she had said, in affectionate explanation, to Mrs. Houston.<span class="pagenum">[239]</span>
Generally, Grace or Clare, or both, came and sat
with her to keep her company. But to-day, as yet,
neither of her friends had arrived, and she occupied her
pew alone. As hers was one of those side pews in a line
with the pulpit, her position commanded not only the
preacher’s, but the congregation’s view. The preacher
had not come. The congregation in the church was
sparse, the large majority remaining in the yard. Yet, as
Margaret’s eyes casually roved over this thin assembly, she
grew paler to notice how heads were put together, and
whispers and sidelong glances were directed to herself.
To escape this, and to find strength and comfort, she
opened her pocket Bible and commenced reading.</p>

<p>Presently, the bell tolled; and the people came pouring
in, filling their pews. About the time that all was
quiet, the minister came in, followed at a little distance
by his son and daughter, who passed into the parsonage
pew, while he ascended into the pulpit, offered his preliminary
private prayer, and then opening the book
commenced the sublime ritual of worship.</p>

<p>“The Lord is in His holy temple. Let all the earth
keep silence before Him.”</p>

<p>These words, repeated Sunday after Sunday, never
lost their sublime significance for Margaret. They ever
impressed her solemnly, at once awing and elevating
her soul. Now as they fell upon her ear, her sorrows
and humiliations were, for the time, set aside. A hundred
eyes might watch her, a hundred tongues malign
her; but she neither heeded, nor even knew it. She
knew she was alone—she could not help knowing this;
Grace had passed her by; Clare had doubtless come,
but not to her. She felt herself abandoned of human
kind, but yet not alone, for “God was in His holy
temple.”</p>

<p>The opening exhortation, the hymn, the prayers, and
the lessons for the day were all over, and the congregation
knelt for the litany.</p>

<p>“From envy, hatred and malice, and all uncharitableness,
good Lord deliver us.”</p>

<p>These words had always slid easily over the tongue of
Margaret, so foreign had these passions been to her life<span class="pagenum">[240]</span>
and experience; but now with what earnestness of heart
they were repeated:</p>

<p>“That it may please Thee to forgive our enemies, persecutors
and slanderers, and to turn their hearts.”</p>

<p>Formal words once, repeated as by rote, now how full
of significance to Margaret. “Oh, Father in Heaven,”
she added, “help me to ask this in all sincerity.”</p>

<p>The litany was over, and the little bustle that ensued,
of people rising from their knees, Margaret’s pew door
was opened, a warm hand clasped hers, and a cordial voice
whispered in her ear:</p>

<p>“I am very late to-day, but ‘better late than never,’ even
at church.”</p>

<p>And Margaret, looking up, saw the bright face of Clare
Hartley before her.</p>

<p>Poor Margaret, at this unexpected blessing, nearly
burst into tears.</p>

<p>“Oh, Clare, have you heard? have you heard?” she
eagerly whispered.</p>

<p>There was no time to say more; the services were recommenced,
and the congregation attentive.</p>

<p>When the usual morning exercises were over, a portion
of the congregation retired, while the other remained for
the communion. Clare was not a communicant, but she
stayed in the pew to wait for Margaret. Not with the
first circle, nor yet with the second, but meekly with the
third, Margaret approached the Lord’s table. Mr. Wellworth
administered the wine, and one of the deacons the
bread. Margaret knelt near the center of the circle, so
that about half the set were served before the minister
came to her. And when he did, instead of putting the
blessed chalice into her hand, he stooped and whispered:</p>

<p>“Miss Helmstedt, I would prefer to talk with you again
before administering the sacrament to you.”</p>

<p>This in face of the whole assembly. This at the altar.
Had a thunderbolt fallen upon her head, she could
scarcely have been more heavily stricken, more overwhelmed
and stunned.</p>

<p>This, then, was the third offering; the comfort of the
Christian sacraments was sacrificed. No earthly stay was
left her now, but the regard of her stern father and the
love of Ralph. Would they remain to her? For her<span class="pagenum">[241]</span>
father she could not decide. One who knew him best,
and loved him most, had died because she dared not trust
him with the secret of her life. But for Ralph! Ever at
the thought of him, through her deeper distress, the great
joy of faith arose, irradiating her soul and beaming from
her countenance.</p>

<p>But now, alas! no thought, no feeling, but a sense of
crushing shame possessed her. How she left that spot
she never could have told! The first fact she knew was
that Clare had left her pew to meet and join her; Clare’s
supporting arm was around her waist; Clare’s encouraging
voice was in her ears; Clare took her from the church
and placed her in her carriage; and would have entered
and sat beside her, but that Margaret, recovering her
presence of mind, repulsed her, saying:</p>

<p>“No, Clare! no, beloved friend! it is almost well to
have suffered so much to find a friend so loyal and true;
but your girlish arm cannot singly sustain me. And you
shall not compromise yourself for me. Leave me, brave
girl; leave me to my fate!”</p>

<p>“Now may the Lord leave me when I do! No, please
Heaven, Clare Hartley stands or falls with her friend!”
exclaimed the noble girl, as she entered and seated herself
beside Margaret. “Drive on, Forrest,” she added, seeing
Miss Helmstedt too much preoccupied to remember to
give the order.</p>

<p>“My father was not at church to-day. So if you will
send a messenger with a note from me to Dr. Hartley, I
will remain with you, Margaret, until your father
arrives.”</p>

<p>“Oh, Clare! Clare! if you hurt yourself for me, I shall
never forgive myself for allowing you to come.”</p>

<p>“As if you could keep me away.”</p>

<p>“Clare, do you know what they say of me?”</p>

<p>Clare shook her head, frowned, beat an impatient tattoo
with her feet upon the mat, and answered:</p>

<p>“Know it! No; I do not! Do you suppose that I sit
still and listen to any one slandering you? Do you imagine
that any one would dare to slander you in my presence?
I tell you, Margaret, that I should take the responsibility
of expelling man or woman from my father’s
house who should dare to breathe a word against you.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[242]</span></p>

<p>“Oh, Clare! the circumstantial evidence against me is
overwhelming!”</p>

<p>“What is circumstantial evidence, however strong,
against your whole good and beautiful life?”</p>

<p>“You would never believe ill of me.”</p>

<p>“Margaret—barring original sin, which I am required
to believe in—I think I have a pure heart, a clear head,
and strong eyes. I do not find so much evil in my own
soul, as to be obliged to impute a part of it to another. I
never confuse probabilities; and, lastly, I can tell an Agnes
from a Calista at sight.”</p>

<p>By this time the rapid drive had brought them home.
Clare scribbled a hasty note, which Forrest conveyed to
her father.</p>

<p>The Comptons and the Houstons were all communicants,
and did not leave the church until all the services
were over. They had been bitterly galled and humiliated
by the repulse that Margaret Helmstedt, a member of
their family, had received. On their way home, they discussed
the propriety of immediately sending her off, with
her servants, to Helmstedt’s Island.</p>

<p>“Her father does not come; her conduct grows worse
and worse; she has certainly forfeited all claims to our
protection, and she compromises us every day,” urged
Nellie.</p>

<p>“I am not sure but that the isle would be the best and
most secure retreat for her until the coming of her father;
the servants there are faithful and reliable, and the place
is not so very accessible to interlopers, now that the British
have retired,” said old Mrs. Compton.</p>

<p>Such being the opinion of the ladies of the family,
upon a case immediately within their own province,
Colonel Houston could say but little.</p>

<p>“Dear mother and fair wife, the matter rests with you
at last; but for myself, I prefer that the girl should remain
under our protection until the arrival of her father.
I would place her nowhere, except in Major Helmstedt’s
own hands.”</p>

<p>The ladies, however, decided that Margaret Helmstedt
should, the next morning, be sent off to the isle. And the
colonel reluctantly acquiesced. As for old Colonel Compton,<span class="pagenum">[243]</span>
from first to last he had not interfered, or even commented,
except by a groan or a sigh.</p>

<p>Upon arriving at home, they were astonished to find
Clare Hartley with Margaret. And when they were told
that Forrest had been dispatched to Plover’s Point, with
a note from Clare to inform her father of her whereabouts,
Nellie prophesied that the messenger would bring back
orders for Clare to return immediately. And she decided
to say nothing to Margaret about the approaching exodus
until after Clare’s departure.</p>

<p>Mrs. Houston’s prediction was verified. Forrest returned
about sunset with a note from Dr. Hartley to his
daughter, expressing surprise that she should have made
this visit without consulting him, and commanding her,
as it was too late for her to cross the bay that evening,
to return, without fail, early the next morning.</p>

<p>Margaret gazed anxiously at Clare while the latter read
her note.</p>

<p>“Well, Clare! well?” she asked, eagerly, as her friend
folded the paper.</p>

<p>“Well, dear, as I left home without settling up some
matters, I must run back for a few hours to-morrow
morning; but I will be sure to come back and redeem
my pledge of remaining near you until your father’s arrival,
dear Margaret; for every minute I see more clearly
that you need some faithful friend at your side,” replied
Clare, who felt confident of being able to persuade her
father to permit her return.</p>

<p>Clare slept with Margaret in her arms that night. And
early the next morning—very early, to deprecate her
father’s displeasure, she entered Margaret’s little <em>Pearl
Shell</em>, and was taken by Forrest across the bay and up the
river to Plover’s Point.</p>

<p>She had scarcely disappeared from the house, before
Mrs. Houston entered Miss Helmstedt’s room.</p>

<p>Margaret was seated in her low sewing-chair with her
elbow leaning on the little workstand beside her, her
pale forehead bowed upon her open palm, and a small
piece of needlework held laxly in the other hand lying
idly upon her lap. Her eyes were hollow, her eyelashes
drooping until they overshadowed cheeks that wore the<span class="pagenum">[244]</span>
extreme pallor of illness. Her whole aspect was one of
mute despair.</p>

<p>The bustling entrance of Mrs. Houston was not perceived
until the lady addressed her sharply:</p>

<p>“Miss Helmstedt, I have something to say to you.”</p>

<p>Margaret started ever so slightly, and then quietly
arose, handed her visitor a chair, and resumed her own
seat, and after a little while her former attitude, her
elbow resting on the stand, her head bowed upon her
hand.</p>

<p>“Miss Helmstedt,” said the lady, taking the offered
seat with an air of importance, “we have decided that
under present circumstances, it is better that you should
leave the house at once with your servants, and retire to
the isle. Your effects can be sent after you.”</p>

<p>A little lower sank the bowed head—a little farther
down slid the relaxed hand, that was the only external
evidence of the new blow she had received. To have had
her good name smirched with foul calumny; to have
suffered the desertion of all her friends save one; to have
been publicly turned from the communion table; all this
had been bitter as the water of Marah! Still she had said
to herself: “Though all in this house wound me with
their frowns and none vouchsafe me a kind word or look,
yet will I be patient and endure it until they come. My
father and Ralph shall find me where they left me.”</p>

<p>But now to be sent with dishonor from this home of
shelter, where she awaited the coming of her father and
her betrothed husband; and under such an overwhelming
mass of circumstantial evidence against her as to justify
in all men’s eyes those who discarded her—this, indeed,
was the bitterness of death!</p>

<p>Yet one word from her would have changed all. And
now she was under no vow to withhold that word, for
she recollected that her dying mother had said to her:
“If ever, my little Margaret, your honor or happiness
should be at stake through this charge with which I have
burdened you, cast it off, give my secret to the wind!”
And now a word that she was free to speak would lift
her from the pit of ignominy and set her upon a mount
of honor. It would bring the Comptons, the Houstons,
the Wellworths and the whole company of her well-meaning,<span class="pagenum">[245]</span>
but mistaken friends to her feet. Old Mr.
Wellworth would beg her pardon, Grace would weep
upon her neck. The family here would lavish affection
upon her. Nellie would busy herself in preparations for
the approaching nuptials. The returning soldiers, instead
of meeting disappointment and humiliation, would
greet—the one his adored bride—the other his beloved
daughter. And confidence, love and joy would follow.</p>

<p>But then a shadow of doubt would be cast upon that
grave under the oaks by the river. And quickly as the
temptation came, it was repulsed. The secret that Marguerite
De Lancie had died to keep, her daughter would
not divulge to be clear of blame. “No, mother, no,
beautiful and gifted martyr, I can die with you, but I
will never betray you! Come what will I will be silent.”
And compressing her sorrowful and bloodless
lips and clasping her hands, Margaret “took up her burden
of life again.”</p>

<p>“Well, Miss Helmstedt, I am waiting here for any
observation you may have to offer, I hope you will make
no difficulty about the plan proposed.”</p>

<p>“No, Mrs. Houston, I am ready to go.”</p>

<p>“Then, Miss Helmstedt, you had better order your
servants to pack up and prepare the boat. We wish
you to leave this morning; for Colonel Houston, who
intends to see you safe to the island, and charge the
people there concerning you, has only this day at his
disposal. To-morrow he goes to Washington, to meet
Ralph and Frank, who, we learn by a letter received
this morning, are on their way home.”</p>

<p>This latter clause was an additional piece of cruelty,
whether intentional or only thoughtless on the part of
the speaker. Ralph so near home, and she dismissed in
dishonor! Margaret felt it keenly; but she only inquired
in a low and tremulous voice:</p>

<p>“And my father?”</p>

<p>“Your father, it appears, is still detained by business
in New York. And now I will leave you to prepare for
your removal.”</p>

<p>Margaret rang for her servants, directed Hildreth to
pack up her clothing, and Forrest to make ready the
boat, for they were going back to the island.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[246]</span></p>

<p>Her faithful attendants heard in sorrowful dismay.
They had acutely felt and deeply resented the indignities
inflicted upon their young mistress.</p>

<p>An hour served for all necessary preparations, and
then Margaret sent and reported herself ready to depart.</p>

<p>The family assembled in the hall to bid her good-by.
When she took leave of them they all looked grave
and troubled. Old Mrs. Compton kissed her on the
cheek and prayed God to bless her. And the tears rushed
to Colonel Houston’s eyes when he offered his arm to
the suffering girl, whose pale face looked so much paler
in contrast with the mourning dress she still wore.</p>

<p>They left the house, entered the boat, and in due time
reached Helmstedt’s Island. Colonel Houston took her
to the mansion, called the servants together, informed
them that their master would be at home in a few days;
and that their young mistress had come to prepare for
his arrival, and to welcome him back to his house. That
of course they would obey her in all things. This explanation
of Margaret’s presence was so probable and
satisfactory, that her people had nothing to do but to
express the great pleasure they felt in again receiving
their young lady. In taking leave of Margaret,
Colonel Houston was very deeply shaken. He could not
say to her, “This act, Margaret, was the act of the
women of my family, who, you know, hold of right the
disposal of all such nice questions as these. I think
they are wrong, but I cannot with propriety interfere.”
No, he could not denounce the doings of his own wife
and mother, but he took the hand of the maiden and
said:</p>

<p>“My dearest Margaret—my daughter, as I hoped once
proudly to call you—if ever you should need a friend,
in any strait, for any purpose, call on me. Will you,
my dear girl?”</p>

<p>Miss Helmstedt remained silent, with her eyes cast
down in bitter humiliation.</p>

<p>“Say, Margaret Helmstedt, my dear, will you do this?”
earnestly pleaded Colonel Houston.</p>

<p>Margaret looked up. The faltering voice, and the
tears on the old soldier’s cheeks touched her heart.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[247]</span></p>

<p>“The bravest are ever the gentlest. God bless you,
Colonel Houston. Yes, if ever poor Margaret Helmstedt
needs a friend, she will call upon you,” she said,
holding out her hand.</p>

<p>The old man pressed it and hurried away.</p>

<p>The next morning Colonel Houston set out for Washington
city to meet his son.</p>

<p>The reunion took place at the City Hotel.</p>

<p>Captain Houston was eager to proceed directly
homeward; but a night’s rest was necessary to the invalid
soldier, and their departure was fixed for the next
day. Ralph Houston’s eagerness seemed not altogether
one of joy; through the evening his manner was often
abstracted and anxious.</p>

<p>When the party had at last separated for the night,
Ralph left his own chamber and proceeded to that of his
father. He found the veteran in bed, and much surprised
at the unseasonable visit. Ralph threw himself
into the easy-chair by his side, and opened the conversation
by saying:</p>

<p>“I did not wish to speak before a third person, even
when that person was my brother; but what then is
this about Margaret? Mrs. Houston’s letters drop
strange, incomprehensible hints, and Margaret’s little
notes are constrained and sorrowful. Now, sir, what
is the meaning of it all?”</p>

<p>“Ralph, it was to break the news to you that I came
up hither to meet you,” replied the colonel, solemnly.</p>

<p>“The news! Great Heaven, sir, what news can there
be that needs such serious breaking? You told me
that she was well!” exclaimed the captain, changing
color, and rising in his anxiety.</p>

<p>“Ralph! Margaret Helmstedt is lost to you forever.”</p>

<p>The soldier of a dozen battles dropped down into his
chair as if felled, and covered his face with his hands.</p>

<p>“Ralph! be a man!”</p>

<p>A deep groan from the laboring bosom was the only
response.</p>

<p>“Ralph! man! soldier! no faithless woman is worth
such agony!”</p>

<p>He neither moved nor spoke; but remained with his
face buried in his hands.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[248]</span></p>

<p>“Ralph! my son! my brave son! Ralph!” exclaimed
the old man, rising in bed.</p>

<p>The captain put out his hand and gently pressed him
back upon his pillow, saying in a calm, constrained
voice:</p>

<p>“Lie still; do not disturb yourself; it is over. You
said that she was lost to me, forever. She is married
to another, then?”</p>

<p>“I wish to Heaven that I knew she was; but I only
know that she ought to be.”</p>

<p>“Tell me all!”</p>

<p>The voice was so hollow, so forced, so unnatural,
that Colonel Houston could not under other circumstances
have recognized it as his son’s.</p>

<p>The old man commenced and related the circumstances
as they were known to himself.</p>

<p>Captain Houston listened—his dreadful calmness as
the story progressed, startled first into eager attention,
then into a breathless straining for the end, and finally
into astonishment and joy! And just as the story came
to the point of Margaret’s return from her mysterious
trip, with the denial that she was married, he broke
forth with:</p>

<p>“But you told me that she was lost to me forever! I
see nothing to justify such an announcement!”</p>

<p>“Good Heaven, Ralph, you must be infatuated, man!
But wait a moment.” And taking up the thread of his
narrative, he related how all Miss Helmstedt’s friends,
convinced of her guilt or folly, had deserted her.</p>

<p>At this part of the recital Ralph Houston’s fine countenance
darkened with sorrow, indignation and scorn.</p>

<p>“Poor dove!—but we can spare them. Go on, sir!
go on!”</p>

<p>“Ralph, you make me anxious; but listen further.”
And the old man related how Margaret, presenting herself
at the communion table, had, in the face of the whole
congregation, been turned away.</p>

<p>Ralph Houston leaped upon his feet with a rebounding
spring that shook the house, and stood, convulsed, livid,
speechless, breathless with rage.</p>

<p>“Ralph! My God, you alarm me! Pray, pray govern
yourself.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[249]</span></p>

<p>His breast labored, his face worked, his words came as
if each syllable was uttered with agony: “Who—did—this?”</p>

<p>“Mr. Wellworth, once her friend!”</p>

<p>“An old man and a clergyman! God knoweth that
shall not save him when I meet him.”</p>

<p>“Ralph! Ralph! you are mad.”</p>

<p>“And Margaret! How did she bear this? Oh! that
I had been at her side. Oh, God, that I had been at her
side!” exclaimed the captain, striding in rapid steps up
and down the floor.</p>

<p>“She felt it, of course, very acutely.”</p>

<p>“My dove! my poor, wounded dove! But you all
comforted and sustained her, sir!”</p>

<p>“Ralph, we thought it best to send her home to the
island.”</p>

<p>“What!” exclaimed Captain Houston, pausing suddenly
in his rapid walk.</p>

<p>“Yes, Ralph, we have sent her away home. We
thought it best to do so,” replied the colonel, generously
suppressing the fact that it was altogether the women’s
work, against his own approval.</p>

<p>Ralph Houston had gone through all the stages of displeasure,
indignation and fury. But he was past all that
now! There are some wrongs so deep as to still the
stormiest natures into a stern calm more to be feared
than fury.</p>

<p>“What, do you tell me that in this hour of her bitterest
need you have sent my promised bride from the protection
of your roof?” he inquired, walking to the bedside,
and speaking in a deep, calm, stern tone, from which all
emotion seemed banished.</p>

<p>“Ralph, we deemed it proper to do so.”</p>

<p>“Then hear me! Margaret Helmstedt shall be my
wife within twenty-four hours; and, so help me God, at
my utmost need, I will never cross the threshold of Buzzard’s
Bluff again!” exclaimed Captain Houston, striding
from the room and banging the door behind him.</p>

<p>“Ralph! Ralph! my son, Ralph!” cried the colonel,
starting up from the bed, throwing on his dressing-gown
and following him through the passage. But Captain<span class="pagenum">[250]</span>
Houston had reached and locked himself in his own
chamber, where he remained in obdurate silence.</p>

<p>The colonel went back to bed.</p>

<p>Ralph Houston, in his room, consulted the timepiece.
It was eleven o’clock. He sat down to the table, drew
writing materials before him, and wrote the following
hasty note to his betrothed:</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p class="ir2"><span class="smcap">City Hotel, Washington</span>, October 6, 1815.</p>

<p><span class="smcap">Margaret, My Beloved One</span>:—Only this hour have I heard
of your sorrows. Had I known them sooner, I would have
come from the uttermost parts of the earth to your side. But
be of good cheer, my own best love. Within twenty-four hours
I shall be with you to claim your hand, and assume the precious
privilege and sacred right of protecting you against the world
for life and death and eternity.</p>

<p class="center pminus1" style="padding-left:10em">Yours,</p>

<p class="center pminus1" style="padding-left:18em"><span class="smcap">Ralph Houston</span>.</p>
</div>

<p>“‘It is written that for this cause shall a man leave
father and mother and cleave to his wife.’ I am glad of
it. Let them go. For my poor, storm-beaten dove, she
shall be safe in my bosom,” said Ralph Houston, his
heart burning with deep resentment against his family,
and yearning with unutterable affection toward Margaret,
as he sealed and directed the letter, and hastened with it
to the office to save the midnight mail.</p>


<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.
<br /><span class="cheaderfont">MARTYRDOM.</span></h2>
</div>


<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“Mother, mother, up in heaven!</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">Stand upon the jasper sea</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">And be witness I have given</div>
    <div class="verse indent3">All the gifts required of me;</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">Hope that blessed me, bliss that crowned,</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">Love that left me with a wound,</div>
    <div class="verse indent1">Life itself that turned around.”</div>
    <div class="verse indent6">—<span class="smcap">Mrs. Browning.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>An evil fatality seemed to attend all events connected
with Margaret Helmstedt. The letter mailed at midnight
night, by being one minute too late for the post, was delayed
a whole week, and until it could do no manner of
good.</p>

<p>The little packet schooner, <em>Canvas Back</em>, Captain
Miles Tawney, from Washington to Norfolk, on board
which Ralph Houston, the next morning, embarked, when<span class="pagenum">[251]</span>
but thirty-six hours out got aground below Blackstone’s
Island, where she remained fast for a week.</p>

<p>And thus it unhappily chanced that Major Helmstedt,
who reached Washington, on his way home, a few days
after the departure of the Houstons from the city, and
took passage in the first packet for Buzzard’s Bluff, arrived
thither the first of the returning soldiers.</p>

<p>Having no knowledge or suspicion of the important
events that had occurred, he caused himself and his baggage
to be landed upon the beach, below the mansion, in
which he naturally expected to find his daughter dwelling
in honor and security.</p>

<p>Leaving his trunks in charge of a loitering negro—whom
he had found upon the sands, and who, to his
hasty inquiries, had answered that all the family were
well—he hurried up to the house.</p>

<p>He was met at the door by a servant, who, with ominous
formality, ushered him into the parlor, and retreated
to call his mistress.</p>

<p>Mrs. Houston soon entered, with a pale face, trembling
frame, and a half-frightened, half-threatening aspect, that
greatly surprised and perplexed Major Helmstedt, who
however, arose with stately courtesy to receive and hand
the lady to a chair.</p>

<p>After respectfully saluting and seating his hostess, he
said:</p>

<p>“My daughter Margaret, madam—I hope she is well?”</p>

<p>“Well, I am sure I hope so, too; but Margaret is not
with us!” replied the little lady, looking more frightened
and more threatening than before.</p>

<p>“How, madam, Margaret not with you?” exclaimed
Major Helmstedt, in astonishment, that was not free from
alarm.</p>

<p>“No, sir. You must listen to me, major—it could not
be helped,” replied Nellie, who straightway began, and
with a manner half-deprecating and half-defiant, related
the story of Margaret’s indiscretions, humiliations, and
final expulsion.</p>

<p>Major Helmstedt listened with a mighty self-control.
No muscle of his iron countenance moved. When she
had concluded, he arose, with a cold and haughty manner.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[252]</span></p>

<p>“Slanders, madam—slanders all! I can say no more
to a lady, however unworthy of the courtesy due to her
sex. But I shall know how to call the men of her family
to a strict account for this insult.” And, throwing his
hat upon his head, he strode from the room.</p>

<p>“Major Helmstedt—Major Helmstedt! Come back,
sir. Don’t go; you must please to listen to me,” cried
Nellie, running after him, the principle of fear now quite
predominating over that of defiance.</p>

<p>But the outraged father, without deigning a word or
look of reply, hurried onward toward the beach.</p>

<p>Nellie, in great alarm, dispatched a servant in haste
after him, to beseech him, in her name, to return and stay
to dinner—or, if he would not honor her so far, at least
to accept the use of a carriage, or a boat, to convey him
whithersoever he wished to go.</p>

<p>But Major Helmstedt, with arrogant scorn, repulsed
all these offers. Throwing a half guinea to the negro to
take temporary charge of his trunks, he strode on his
way, following the windings of the waterside road for
many miles, until late in the afternoon he reached Belleview,
whence he intended to take a boat to the island.</p>

<p>His cause of indignation was reasonable, and his rage
increased with time and reflection. That Margaret had
been foully wronged by the Houstons he from his deepest
convictions believed. That the charges brought
against her had the slightest foundation in fact, he could
not for a moment credit. All his own intimate knowledge
of his pure-hearted child, from her earliest infancy to the
day when he left her in Mrs. Houston’s care, conclusively
contradicted these calumnies. But that, for some reason
or other, unconfessed, the Houstons wished to break off
the contemplated alliance with his family he felt assured.
And that his daughter’s betrothed was in correspondence
with Mrs. Houston, and in connivance with her plans, he
had been left to believe, by the incoherence, if not by the
intentional misrepresentations, of Nellie’s statement. That
they should wish, without just cause, to break the engagement
with his daughter, was both dishonorable and dishonoring—that
they should attempt this through such
means, was scandalous and insulting to the last degree.
That Ralph Houston should be either an active or a passive<span class="pagenum">[253]</span>
party to this plan, was an offense only to be satisfied
by the blood of the offender. His pride in an old, untainted
name, not less than his affection for his only
daughter, was wounded to the very quick.</p>

<p>There seemed but one remedy—it was to be found only
in “the bloody code,” miscalled “of honor”—the code
which required a man to wash out any real or fancied
offense in the life-stream of the offender; the code which
often made an honorable man responsible, with his life,
for careless words uttered by the women of his family;
that code which now enjoined Philip Helmstedt to seek
the life of his daughter’s betrothed, his intended son-in-law,
his brother-in-arms. Nor was this all. The feeling
that prompted Major Helmstedt was not only that of an
affronted gentleman, who deems it necessary to defend in
the duel his assailed manhood—it was much more—it was
the blood-thirsty rage of a scornful and arrogant man,
whose honor had been wounded in the most vulnerable
place, through the only woman of his name, his one fair
daughter, who had been by her betrothed and his family
rejected, insulted, and expelled from their house, branded
with indelible shame.</p>

<p>“Ralph Houston must die!”</p>

<p>He said it with remorseless resolution, with grim satisfaction,
and in his heart devoted the souls of his purposed
victim and all his family to the infernal deities.</p>

<p>In this evil mood, and in an evil hour, Major Helmstedt
unhappily arrived at Belleview, and, still more unhappily,
there met Ralph, who, in pursuance of his vow
never to set foot upon Buzzard’s Bluff again, had that
morning landed at the village, with the intention there to
engage a boat to take him to Helmstedt’s Island, whither
he was going to seek Margaret.</p>

<p>It was in the principal street of the village, and before
the only hotel that they chanced to meet.</p>

<p>Ralph advanced with eager joy to greet his father-in-law.</p>

<p>But Major Helmstedt’s mad and blind rage forestalled
and rendered impossible all friendly words or explanations.</p>

<p>How he assailed and insulted Ralph Houston; how he
hurled bitter scorn, taunt, and defiance in his teeth how<span class="pagenum">[254]</span>
in the presence of the gathering crowd, he charged falsehood,
treachery, and cowardice upon him; how, to cap the
climax of insult, the infuriate pulled off his glove and
cast it sharply into the face of the young man; how, in
short, he irremediably forced upon Ralph a quarrel, which
the latter was, upon all accounts, most unwilling to take
up, would be as painful, as needless, to detail at large.</p>

<p>Suffice it to say, that the circumstances of the case, and
the public sentiment of the day considered, he left the
young soldier, as a man of honor, no possible alternative
but to accept his challenge.</p>

<p>“‘Needs must when the devil drives;’ and, as there is
no honorable means of avoiding, I must meet this madman
and receive his shot. I am not, however, obliged to
return it. No code of honor can compel me to fire upon
my Margaret’s father,” thought Ralph. Then aloud he
said:</p>

<p>“Very well, sir; my brother Frank has doubtless by
this time reached home, and will, with any friend whom
you may appoint, arrange the terms of the meeting;” and,
lifting his hat, Ralph Houston, “more in sorrow than in
anger,” turned away.</p>

<p>“There is no honorable way of escaping it, Frank, else
be sure that I should not give him this meeting. As it is,
I must receive his fire; but, so help me Heaven; nothing
shall induce me to return it,” said Captain Houston, as he
talked over the matter with his brother that evening in
the private parlor of the little inn at Belleview.</p>

<p>“Then, without a thought of defending yourself, you
will stand up as a mark to be shot at by the best marksman
in the country? You will be murdered! just simply
murdered!” replied the younger man, in sorrow and disgust.</p>

<p>“There is no help for it, Frank. I must meet him, must
receive his fire, and will not return it!”</p>

<p>“You will fall,” said the youth, in a voice of despair.</p>

<p>“Probably. And if I do, Frank, go to my dearest Margaret
and bear to her my last words. Tell her that I
never so sinned against our mutual faith as for one instant
to doubt her perfect purity; tell her that I was on
my way to take her to my heart, to give her my name and
to defend her against the world, when this fatal quarrel<span class="pagenum">[255]</span>
was forced upon me; tell her that I never fired upon her
father, but that I died with her name upon my lips and
her love within my heart. If I fall, as I probably shall,
will you tell my widowed bride this?”</p>

<p>“I will! I will!” exclaimed Frank, in a voice of deep
emotion.</p>

<p>Meanwhile the innocent and most unhappy cause of the
impending duel had passed a miserable week on the solitary
island, in dread anticipation of her father’s and her
lover’s return, and with no one near her to breathe one
hopeful, comforting, or sustaining word to her fainting
heart.</p>

<p>It was late on the evening of the day of her father’s
arrival that she sat alone on the front piazza of her solitary
dwelling, wrapped in despairing thought, yet with
every nerve acute with involuntary vigilance, when, amid
the low, musical semi-silence of the autumnal night, the
sound of a boat, pushed gratingly up upon the gravelly
beach, reached her listening ear.</p>

<p>And while she still watched and waited in breathless
anxiety, she perceived by the clear starlight the tall figure
of a man, dressed in the blue and buff uniform of an
American officer, and in whose stature, air, and gait she
recognized her father, approaching the house.</p>

<p>In joy, but still more in fear, she arose and hurried to
meet him. But so terrible was the trouble of her mind
and the agitation of her frame, that she could scarcely
falter forth her inaudible words of welcome before she
sank exhausted in his arms.</p>

<p>In silence the soldier lifted her up, noticing even then
how very light was her wasted frame; in silence he kissed
her cold lips, and bore her onward to the house, and into
her mother’s favorite parlor which was already lighted
up, and where he placed her in an easy-chair. She sank
back half fainting, while he stood and looked upon her,
and saw how changed she was.</p>

<p>Her attenuated form, her emaciated face, with its cavernous
eyes, hollow cheeks and temples, and pallid forehead,
in fearful contrast with her flowing black locks and
mourning dress, gave her the appearance of a girl in the
very last stage of consumption. Yet this was the work
only of calumny, persecution, and abandonment.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[256]</span></p>

<p>Some one should write a book on Unindicted Homicides.</p>

<p>While Major Helmstedt gazed in bitterness of heart
upon this beautiful wreck of his fair, only daughter, she
fixed her despairing eyes upon him, and said:</p>

<p>“My father, do you wonder to find me here!”</p>

<p>For answer, he stooped and kissed her forehead.</p>

<p>“Father, my heart bleeds for you. This is a sorrowful
welcome home for the returning soldier.”</p>

<p>“Trouble not yourself about me, my child. Your own
wrongs are enough, and more than enough, to engage
your thoughts. I know those wrongs, and, by the soul of
your mother, they shall be terribly avenged!” said Major
Helmstedt, in a low, deep, stern voice of relentless determination.</p>

<p>“Father, oh, God! what do you mean?” exclaimed
Margaret, in alarm.</p>

<p>“I mean, my much injured child, that every tear they
have caused you to shed, shall be balanced by a drop of
heart’s blood, though it should drain the veins of all who
bear the name of Houston!”</p>

<p>“Oh, Heaven of heavens, my father!” cried Margaret,
wringing her pale hands in the extremity of terror.
Then suddenly catching the first hope that came, she
said:</p>

<p>“But you cannot war upon women.”</p>

<p>“Upon all men that bear the name of Houston, then!
Yet did not they spare to war upon women—or rather
worse, upon one poor, defenseless girl! Enough! they
shall bitterly repay it!”</p>

<p>“But father! my father! it was not the men; they were
ever kind to me. It was the women of the family, and
even they were deceived by appearances,” pleaded Margaret.</p>

<p>“It is you who are deceived! Mrs. Houston acted in
concert with her husband and his son!”</p>

<p>“Ralph? never, never, my father. My life, my soul,
upon Ralph’s fidelity!” exclaimed Margaret, as a warm
glow of loving faith flowed into and transfigured to angelic
beauty her pale face.</p>

<p>“Miss Helmstedt, you are a fond and foolish girl, with
all your sex’s weak credulity. It is precisely Ralph<span class="pagenum">[257]</span>
Houston whom I shall hold to be the most responsible
party in this affair!”</p>

<p>“Oh! my God!”</p>

<p>These words were wailed forth in such a tone of utter
despair, and were accompanied by such a sudden blanching
and sharpening of all her features, that Major Helmstedt
in his turn became alarmed, and with what diplomacy
he was master of, endeavored to modify the impression
that he had given. But his palpable efforts only
confirmed Margaret in her suspicion that he intended to
challenge Ralph, and made her more wary and watchful
to ascertain if this really were his purpose, so that, if
possible, she might prevent this meeting. That the challenge
had been already given she did not even suspect.</p>

<p>But from this moment the father and daughter were
secretly arrayed against each other; he to conceal from
her the impending duel; she to discover and prevent the
meeting. And while he talked to her with a view of
gradually doing away the impression that his first violent
words had made upon her mind, she watched his countenance
narrowly, keeping the while her own counsel.
But it was not entirely the wish to conceal her own anguish
of doubt and anxiety, but affectionate interest in
him, that caused her at length to say:</p>

<p>“But, my dear father, you are just off a long, harassing
journey; you are, indeed, greatly exhausted; your countenance
is quite haggard; you are needing rest and refreshment.
Let me go now and give the orders, while
you occupy my sofa. Say, what shall I bring you, dear
father?”</p>

<p>“Nothing, nothing, Margaret; I cannot——” began
Major Helmstedt; but then suddenly reflecting, he said:
“Yes, you may send me up a cup of coffee, and any trifle
with it that may be at hand. No, I thank you, Margaret,
you need not draw the sofa forward. I am going
to my study, where I have letters to write. Send the refreshments
thither. And send—let me see—yes! send
Forrest to me.”</p>

<p>“Very well, my dear father,” replied the maiden, leaving
the room. “‘Letters to write!’ ‘letters to write!’
and ‘send Forrest.’ So late at night, and just as he has<span class="pagenum">[258]</span>
returned home, oh, my soul!” she cried, within herself, as
she went into the kitchen to give her orders.</p>

<p>When the tray was ready, Forrest was told to take it
up to his master’s study.</p>

<p>Margaret, after a little hesitation, drawn by her strong
anxiety, followed, her light footsteps on the stairs and
through the hall waking no echo. As she approached
the door of her father’s study, she heard the words:</p>

<p>“Forrest, take this case of pistols downstairs and
thoroughly clean them; let no one see what you are
about. Then have a boat—the soundest in the fleet—ready
to take me to the landing below the burial ground,
at Plover’s Point. Do you prepare to go with me, and—listen
farther. At about daybreak to-morrow, a gentleman
will arrive hither. Be on the watch, and quietly
bring him to this room. Have breakfast served for us
here, and the boat ready for our departure when we rise
from the table. And mind, execute all these orders in
strict privacy, and breathe no word of their purport to
any living creature. Do you understand?”</p>

<p>“I think I do, sir,” replied the astonished negro, who
imperfectly comprehended the affair.</p>

<p>Margaret knew all now. Her father had challenged
her betrothed. The only two beings whom she loved
supremely on this earth, were in a few hours hence to
meet in mortal combat.</p>

<p>With a heart that seemed paralyzed within her suffocating
bosom, she crept, reeling, to her own chamber,
and with the habitual instinct of soliciting Divine counsel
and assistance, she sank upon her knees beside the bed.
But no petition escaped her icy lips, or even took the
form of words in her paralyzed brain; her intellect
seemed frozen with horror; and her only form of prayer
was the eloquent, mute attitude, and the intense yearning
of the suffering heart after the All Merciful’s help and
pity. She remained many minutes in this posture of
silent prayer, before the power of reflection and of language
returned to her, and even then her only cry was:</p>

<p>“Oh, God of pity, have mercy on them! Oh, God of
strength, help and save!”</p>

<p>Then still looking to the Lord for guidance, she tried
to think what was best to be done. It was now ten<span class="pagenum">[259]</span>
o’clock. Day would break at four. There were but six
hours of a night to do all, if anything could be done.
But what, indeed, could she do? Cut off by the bay
from all the rest of the world, and with fifteen miles of
water between herself and the nearest magistrate, what
could the miserable maiden do to prevent this duel between
her father and her lover? To a religious heart
filled to overflowing with love and grief, and resolved
upon risking everything for the safety of the beloved,
almost all things are possible. Her first resolution was
the nearly hopeless one of going to her father and beseeching
him to abandon his purpose. And if that failed,
she had in reverse a final, almost desperate determination.
But there was not a moment to be lost.</p>

<p>Still mentally invoking Divine aid, she arose and went
to the door of her father’s study. It was closed; but
turning the latch very softly, she entered unperceived.</p>

<p>Major Helmstedt sat at his table, so deeply absorbed
in writing as not to be conscious of her presence, although
his face was toward the door. That face was
haggard with care, and those keen, strong eyes that followed
the rapid gliding of his pen over the paper were
strained with anxiety. So profound was his absorption
in his work that the candles remained unsnuffed and
burning with a murky and lurid light, and the cup of
coffee on his table sat cold and untouched.</p>

<p>Margaret approached and looked over his shoulder.</p>

<p>It was his last will and testament that he was engaged
in preparing.</p>

<p>The sight thrilled his daughter with a new horror.
Meekly she crept to his side and softly laid her hand
upon his shoulder, and gently murmured:</p>

<p>“Father, my dear father!”</p>

<p>He looked up suddenly, and in some confusion.</p>

<p>“What, Margo! not asleep yet, my girl? This is a
late hour for young eyes to be open. And yet I am glad
that you came to bid me good-night before retiring. It
was affectionate of you, Margo,” he said, laying down his
pen, putting a blotter over his writing, and then drawing
her to his side in a close embrace—“yes, it was affectionate
of you, Margo; but ah, little one, no daughter<span class="pagenum">[260]</span>
loves as a true wife does. I have been thinking of your
mother, dear.”</p>

<p>“Think of her still, my father,” replied the maiden, in
a voice of thrilling solemnity.</p>

<p>Major Helmstedt’s countenance changed, but, controlling
himself, he pressed a kiss upon his daughter’s brow,
and said:</p>

<p>“Well, well, I will not keep you up. God bless you,
my child, though I cannot. Good-night!” and with another
kiss he would have dismissed her. But, softly laying
her hand upon his right hand, she asked, in a voice
thrilling with earnestness:</p>

<p>“Oh, my father, what is this that you are about to do?”</p>

<p>“Margaret, no prying into my private affairs—I will
not suffer it!” exclaimed Major Helmstedt, in disturbed
voice.</p>

<p>“My father, there is no need of prying; I know all!
Providence, for His good purposes, has given the knowledge
into my hands. Oh, did you think that He would
permit this terrible thing to go on uninterruptedly to its
bloody termination?”</p>

<p>“What mean you, girl?”</p>

<p>“Father, forgive me; but I overheard and understood
your orders to Forrest.”</p>

<p>“By my soul, Margaret, this is perfectly insufferable!”
exclaimed Major Helmstedt, starting up, and then sinking
back into his chair.</p>

<p>But softly and suddenly Margaret dropped at his feet,
clasped his knees, and in a voice freighted with her
heart’s insupportable anguish, cried:</p>

<p>“Father! my father! hear me! hear me! hear your own
lost Marguerite’s heartbroken child, and do not make
her orphaned and widowed in one hour!”</p>

<p>“Orphaned and widowed in one hour!”</p>

<p>“Yes, yes, and most cruelly so, by the mutual act of
her father and her husband.”</p>

<p>“By her father and husband?”</p>

<p>“Yes, yes. Am I not Ralph Houston’s promised,
sworn wife? Oh, my father!”</p>

<p>“Death, girl! You call yourself his promised wife;
you pray me to stay my hand, nor avenge your wrongs,<span class="pagenum">[261]</span>
nor vindicate my own honor; you who have been calumniated,
insulted, and expelled from his house?”</p>

<p>“Not by him, father! not with his knowledge or consent!
Oh, never! never! My life, my soul, upon his
stainless faith!”</p>

<p>“My daughter, rise and leave, I command you,” said
Major Helmstedt, giving his hand to assist her.</p>

<p>But she clung to his knees and groveled at his feet,
crying:</p>

<p>“Father! father! pardon and hear me; hear me for
my dead mother’s sake! hear your Marguerite’s orphan
girl! do not make her a widow before she is a wife! My
father, do not, oh, do not meet my betrothed in a duel!
He was your oldest friend, your brother-in-arms, your
promised son; he has stood by your side in many a well-fought
battle; in camp and field you two have shared
together the dangers and glories of the war. How can
you meet as mortal foes? Crowned with victory, blessed
with peace, you were both coming home—you to your
only daughter, he to his promised bride—both to a devoted
girl, who would have laid out her life to make your
mutual fireside happy; but whose heart you are about
to break! Oh, how can you do this most cruel deed?
Oh! it is so horrible! so horrible, that you two should
thus meet. Dueling is wicked, but this is worse than
dueling! Murder is atrocious, but this is worse than
murder! This is parricide! this is the meeting of a
father and son, armed each against the other’s life! A
father and a son!”</p>

<p>“Son! no son or son-in-law of mine, if that is what
you mean.”</p>

<p>“Father, father, do not say so! He is the sworn husband
of your only child. My hand, with your consent,
was placed in his by my dying mother’s hand. He
clasped my fingers closely, promising never to forsake
me! A promise made to the living in the presence of the
dying! A promise that he has never retracted, and
wishes never to retract. My soul’s salvation upon Ralph
Houston’s honor!”</p>

<p>“Margaret Helmstedt! put the last seal to my mortification,
and tell me that you love this man—this man
whose family has spurned you!”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[262]</span></p>

<p>“I love him—for life, and death, and eternity!” she
replied, in a tone vibrating with earnestness.</p>

<p>“You speak your own degradation, miserable girl.”</p>

<p>“This is no time, Heaven knows, for the cowardice of
girlish shame. Father, I love him! For three long years
I have believed myself his destined wife. Long before
our betrothal, as far back, or farther, perhaps, than memory
reaches, I loved him, and knew that he loved me,
and felt that in some strange way I belonged finally to
him. Long, long before I ever heard of courtship, betrothal,
or marriage, I felt in my deepest heart—and knew
he felt it too—that Ralph was my final proprietor and
prince, that I, at last and forever, was his own little Margaret—ay!
as your Marguerite was yours, my father.
And always and ever, in all the changes of our life, in
joy and in sorrow, in presence and in absence, I seemed
to repose sweetly in his heart as a little bird in its nest,
loving him too quietly and securely to know how deeply
and strongly. But oh, my father, it has remained for the
anguish of this day to teach me how, above all creatures,
I love my promised husband, even as my mother loved
hers. The blow that reaches Ralph’s heart would break
my own. Father, I can conceive this globe upon which
we live, with all its seas and continents, its mountains,
plains and cities, its whole teeming life, collapsing and
sinking out of sight through space, and yet myself continuing
to live, somewhere, in some sphere of being; but,
my father, I cannot conceive of Ralph’s death and my
own continued life, anywhere, as possible! for there, at
that point, all sinks into darkness, chaos, annihilation!
Swift madness or death would follow his loss! Oh, my
father, say, is he not my husband? Oh, my father, will
you make your child a widow, a widow by her father’s
hand?”</p>

<p>“Margaret, this is the very infatuation of passion!”</p>

<p>“Passion! Well, since grief and terror and despair
have made my bosom so stormy, you may call it so! else
never should my lifelong, quiet, contented attachment to
Ralph be termed a passion, as if it were the feverish
caprice of yesterday. But oh, Heaven! all this time you
are not answering me. You do not promise that you
will not meet him. Father, I cannot die of grief, else had<span class="pagenum">[263]</span>
I long since been lying beside your other Marguerite!
But I feel that I may go mad, and that soon. Already
reason reels with dwelling on this impending duel! with
the thought that a few hours hence——! Father, if you
would not have your Marguerite’s child go mad, curse
the author of her being, and lay desperate hands upon
her own life, forgo this duel! do not make her a widowed
bride!”</p>

<p>“Wretched girl, it were better that you were dead, for
come what may, Margaret, honor must be saved.”</p>

<p>“Then you will kill him! My father will kill my husband!”</p>

<p>“Why do you harp upon this subject forever? Shall I
not equally risk my own life?”</p>

<p>“No, no, no! he will never risk hurting a hair of your
head. My life and soul upon it, he will fire into the air!
I know and feel what he will do, here, deep in my heart.
I know and feel what has been done. Father, you met
him in your blind rage, you gave him no chance of explanation,
but goaded and taunted, and drove him to the
point of accepting your challenge. You will meet him,
you will murder him! and I, oh, I shall go mad, and
curse the father that gave me life, and him death!” she
said, starting up and wildly traversing the floor.</p>

<p>“‘Still waters run deep!’ Who would have supposed
this quiet maiden had inherited all Marguerite De Lancie’s
strength of feeling?” thought Major Helmstedt, as
in a deep trouble he watched his daughter’s distracted
walk.</p>

<p>Suddenly, as that latent and final resolution, before
mentioned, recurred to her mind, she paused, and came
up to her father’s side, and said:</p>

<p>“Father, this thing must go no farther!”</p>

<p>“What mean you, Margaret?”</p>

<p>“This duel must not take place.”</p>

<p>“What absurdity—it must come off! Let all be lost
so honor is saved!”</p>

<p>“Then listen well to me, my father,” she said, in the
long, deep, quiet tone of fixed determination; “this duel
shall not take place!”</p>

<p>“Girl, you are mad. ‘Shall not?’”</p>

<p>“Shall not, my father!”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[264]</span></p>

<p>“What preposterous absurdity! Who will prevent it?”</p>

<p>“I will!”</p>

<p>“You! Come, that is best of all. How do you propose
to do it, fair daughter?”</p>

<p>“I shall lay the whole matter before the nearest magistrate!”</p>

<p>“Poor girl, if I did not pity you so deeply, I should
smile at your folly. Why, Margaret, the nearest magistrate
is fifteen miles off. It is now eleven o’clock at
night, and the proposed meeting takes place at five in
the morning!”</p>

<p>“Then the more reason for haste, my father, to save
you from a crime. I will order a boat and depart immediately,”
said Margaret, going to the bell-rope and giving
it a sudden peremptory pull.</p>

<p>“Oh, then I see that this will not do. You are desperate,
you are dangerous, you must be restrained,” said
Major Helmstedt, rising and approaching his daughter.</p>

<p>“Father, what mean you now? You would not—you,
a gentleman, an officer, would not lay violent hands on
your daughter?” she said, shrinking away in amazement.</p>

<p>“In an exigency of this kind my daughter leaves me
no alternative.”</p>

<p>“No, no! You would not use force to hinder me in
the discharge of a sacred duty?”</p>

<p>“Margaret, no more words. Come to your room,” he
said, taking her by the arm, and with gentle force conducting
her to the door of her own chamber, in which he
locked her securely.</p>

<p>Knowing resistance to be both vain and unbecoming,
Margaret had, for the time, quietly submitted. She remained
sitting motionless in the chair in which he had
placed her, until she heard his retreating footsteps pause
at the door of his study, and heard him enter and lock
the door behind him.</p>

<p>Then she arose and stepped lightly over the carpeted
floor, and looked from the front window out upon the
night.</p>

<p>A dark, brilliant starlight night, with a fresh wind that
swayed the branches of the trees.</p>

<p>Almost omnipotent is the religious heart; willing to
sink all things for the salvation of the beloved.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[265]</span></p>

<p>The means of escape, and of preventing the duel, were
quickly devised by her suggestive mind. Her chamber
was on the second floor front. A grape vine of nearly
twenty years’ growth reached her window, and climbed
up its side and over its top. The intertwined and knotted
branches, thick as a man’s wrist, and strong as a cable,
presented a means of descent safe and easy as that of a
staircase. And once free of the house, the course of the
brave girl was clear.</p>

<p>There was no time to be lost. It was now half-past
eleven o’clock. The household, except her father and
the servant whom he had ordered to watch with him, was
wrapped in sleep. Her father she knew to be deeply engaged
in writing his will in the study. Forrest she supposed
to be employed in cleaning the pistols in the back
kitchen.</p>

<p>There was nothing then to interrupt her escape but the
dogs, who before recognizing would surely break out
upon her. But there was little to dread from that circumstance.
The barking of the dogs was no unusual
event of the night. Any noise in nature, the footstep of
a negro walking out, the spring of a startled squirrel, the
falling of a nut or a pine cone, was frequently enough to
arouse their jealous vigilance, and provoke a canine concert.
Only when the barking was very prolonged was
attention usually aroused. Of this contingency there was
no danger. They would probably break out in a furious
onslaught, recognize her and be still.</p>

<p>But there was another serious difficulty. Margaret
was very feeble; weeks of mental anguish, with the consequent
loss of appetite and loss of sleep, had so exhausted
her physical nature that not all the proverbial
power of the mind over the body, the spirit over the flesh,
could impart to her sufficient strength for an undertaking,
that, in her stronger days, would have taxed her
energies to the utmost. A restorative was absolutely
necessary. A few drops of distilled lavender water—a
favorite country cordial—gave her a fictitious strength.</p>

<p>Then tying on her black velvet hood, and her short
black camlet riding cloak, she prepared to depart. First,
she bolted the door on the inside that her father might
not enter her room to ascertain her absence. Then she<span class="pagenum">[266]</span>
softly hoisted the window, and with perfect ease crossed
the low sill and stepped upon the friendly vine, where she
remained standing while she let down the window and
closed the blinds.</p>

<p>Thus having restored everything to its usual order, she
commenced her descent. Holding to the vines, stepping
cautiously, and letting herself down slowly, she at length
reached the ground safely.</p>

<p>Now for the dogs. But they were quiet. Their quick
instincts were truer than her fears, and she passed on
undisturbed.</p>

<p>How still and brilliant the starlight night. No sound
but the sighing of the wind in the trees, and the trilling
of the insects that wake at eve to chirp till day; and all
distinctly, yet darkly visible, like a scene clearly drawn
in Indian ink upon a gray ground.</p>

<p>She passed down through the garden, the orchard, and
the stubble field to the beach, where her little sailboat, <em>The
Pearl Shell</em>, lay.</p>

<p>For the trip that she contemplated of fifteen miles up
the mouth of the river, a rowboat would have been far
the safer. But Margaret was too weak for such prolonged
labor as the management of the oar for two or
three hours must necessitate. The sailboat would only
require the trifling exertion of holding the tiller, and
occasionally shifting the sails. Happily, the tide was in
and just about to turn; the boat was, therefore, afloat,
though chained to the boathouse, and so needed no exertion
to push her off. Margaret went on board, untied
the tiller, hoisted the sails, unlocked the chain and cast
loose. She had but time to spring and seize the tiller
before the wind filled the sails and the boat glided from
the shore.</p>

<p>So far all had gone marvelously well. Let who would
discover her escape now, she was safe from pursuit. Let
who would follow, she could not be overtaken. Her boat
was beyond measure the swiftest sailer of the island fleet.
True, before this fresh wind the boat might capsize, especially
as there was no one to manage it except herself,
who to shift the sails must sometimes let go the tiller.
But Margaret was without selfish, personal fear; her
purpose was high, and had been so far providentially<span class="pagenum">[267]</span>
favored; she would, therefore, believe in no accidents, but
trust in God.</p>

<p>And what a strange scene was this, in which the solitary
girl-mariner was out upon the lonely sea.</p>

<p>The broad canopy of heaven, of that deep, dark, intense
blue of cloudless night, was thickly studded with
myriads of stars, whose reflection in the mirror of the
sea seemed other living stars disporting themselves amid
the waves. Far away over the wide waters, darker lines
upon the dark sea suggested the distant shores and headlands
of the main. Straight before her flying boat, two
black points, miles apart, indicated the entrance to the
mouth of the Potomac River. She steered for the lower,
or Smith’s Point.</p>

<p>Under happier circumstances, the lonely night ride
over the dark waters would have charmed the fancy of
the fearless and adventurous girl. Now her only emotion
was one of anxiety and haste. Taking Smith’s Point
for her “polar star,” she gave all her sail to the wind.
The boat flew over the water. I dare scarcely say in how
marvelously short a time she reached this cape. This
was the longest part of her voyage.</p>

<p>Hugging the Northumberland coast, she soon reached
and doubled Plover’s Point, and ran up into the little
cove, the usual landing place, and pushed her boat upon
the sands.</p>

<p>She next sprang out, secured the boat to a post, and
began to climb the steep bank, that was thickly covered
with a growth of pines, from which the place took its
name.</p>

<p>Here danger of another and more appalling form
threatened her. Fugitive slaves, than whom a more dangerous
banditti can nowhere be found, were known to
infest this coast, where by day they hid in caves and
holes, and by night prowled about like wild beasts in
search of food or prey. More than to meet the wildcat
or the wolf, that were not yet banished from these woods,
the maiden dreaded to encounter one of these famished
and desperate human beasts! Lifting her heart in prayer
to God for assistance, she passed courageously on her
dark and dangerous way; starting at the sound of her
own light footsteps upon some crackling, fallen branch,<span class="pagenum">[268]</span>
and holding her breath at the slight noise made by the
moving of a rabbit or a bird in the foliage. At last she
reached the summit of the wooded hill, and came out of
the pine thicket on to the meadow. Then there was a
fence to climb, a field to cross, and a gate to open before
she reached the wooded lawn fronting the house. There
the last peril, that of the watchdogs, awaited her. One
mastiff barked furiously as she approached the gate; as
she opened it, the whole pack broke in full cry upon her.</p>

<p>She paused and stood still, holding out one hand, and
saying, gently:</p>

<p>“Why, Ponto! Why, Fido! What is the matter,
good boys?”</p>

<p>The two foremost recognized and fawned upon her,
and under their protection, as it were, she walked on
through the excited pack, that, one by one, dropped
gently under her influence, and walked quietly by her
side.</p>

<p>So she reached the front of the house, passed up the
piazza, and rang the bell. Peal upon peal she rung before
she could make any one in that quiet house hear.</p>

<p>At last, however, an upper window was thrown up, and
the voice of Dr. Hartley asked:</p>

<p>“Who’s there?”</p>

<p>“It is I, Dr. Hartley. It is I, Margaret Helmstedt!
come to you on a matter of life and death!”</p>

<p>“You! You, Margaret! You, at this hour! I am
lost in wonder!”</p>

<p>“Oh, come down, quickly, quickly, or it will be too
late!”</p>

<p>Evidently believing this to be an imminent necessity
for his professional services, the doctor drew in his head,
let down the window, hastily donned his apparel, and
came down to admit his visitor.</p>

<p>Leading her into the sitting-room, he said:</p>

<p>“Now, my dear, who is ill? And what, in the name
of all the saints, was the necessity of your coming out
at this time of night with the messenger?”</p>

<p>“Dr. Hartley, look at me well. I came with no messenger.
I left the island at midnight, and crossed the
bay, and came up the river alone.”</p>

<p>“Good Heaven, Miss Helmstedt! Margaret! what is<span class="pagenum">[269]</span>
it you tell me? What has happened?” he asked, terrified
at the strange words and the ghastly looks of the girl.</p>

<p>“Dr. Hartley, my father has challenged Ralph Houston.
They meet this morning, in the woods above the
family burial ground. I escaped from the room in which
my father had locked me, and came to give information
to the authorities, that they may, if possible, stop this
duel. What I desire particularly of your kindness is that
you will go with me to Squire Johnson’s, that I may lodge
the necessary complaint. I regret to ask you to take
this trouble; but I myself do not know the way to Squire
Johnson’s house.”</p>

<p>“Margaret, my dear, I am exceedingly grieved to hear
what you have told me. How did this happen? What
was the occasion of it?”</p>

<p>“Oh, sir, spare me! in mercy spare me! There is, indeed,
no time to tell you now. What we are to do should
be done quickly. They meet very, very early this morning.”</p>

<p>“Very well, Margaret. There is no necessity for your
going to Squire Johnson’s, for, indeed, you are too much
exhausted for the ride. And I am now suffering too
severely with rheumatism to bear the journey. But I
will do better. I will put a servant on a swift horse,
and dispatch a note that will bring Mr. Johnson hither.
We can go hence to the dueling ground and prevent the
meeting. Will not that be best?”</p>

<p>“So that we are in time—anything, sir.”</p>

<p>Dr. Hartley then went out to rouse the boy whom he
purposed to send, and after a few moments returned,
and while the latter was saddling the horse, he wrote
the note, so that in ten minutes the messenger was dispatched
on his errand.</p>

<p>Day was now breaking, and the house servants were
all astir. One of them came in to make the fire in the
parlor fireplace, and Dr. Hartley gave orders for an early
breakfast to be prepared for his weary guest.</p>

<p>Missing Clare from her customary morning haunts,
Margaret ventured to inquire if she were in good health.</p>

<p>At the mention of his daughter’s name, Dr. Hartley
recollected now, for the first time, that there might be
some good reason for treating his young visitor with<span class="pagenum">[270]</span>
rebuking coldness, and he answered, with distant politeness,
that Clare had gone to pay her promised visit to her
friends at Fort Warburton.</p>

<p>Margaret bore this change of manner in her host with
her usual patient resignation. And when the cloth was
laid, and breakfast was placed upon the table, and the
doctor, with professional authority rather than with hospitable
kindness, insisted that the exhausted girl should
partake of some refreshment, she meekly complied, and
forced herself to swallow a cup of coffee, though she
could constrain nature no farther.</p>

<p>They had scarcely risen from the table, before the messenger
returned with the news that Squire Johnson had
left home for Washington City, and would be absent for
several days.</p>

<p>“Oh, Heaven of heavens! What now can be done?”
exclaimed Margaret, in anguish.</p>

<p>“Nothing can be done by compulsion, of course, but
something may be accomplished by persuasion. I will
go with you, Miss Helmstedt, to the ground, and use
every friendly exertion to effect an adjustment of the
difficulties between these antagonists,” said Dr. Hartley.</p>

<p>“Oh, then, sir, let us hasten at once. No time is to be
lost!” cried Margaret, in the very extremity of anxiety.</p>

<p>“It is but a short distance, Miss Helmstedt. Doubtless
we shall be in full time,” replied the doctor, buttoning up,
his coat and taking down his hat from the peg.</p>

<p>Margaret had already, with trembling fingers, tied on
her hood.</p>

<p>They immediately left the house.</p>

<p>“What time did you say they met, Miss Helmstedt?”</p>

<p>“I said, ‘very early,’ sir. Alas, I do not know the
time to the hour. I fear, I fear—oh, let us hasten, sir.”</p>

<p>“It is but five o’clock, Margaret, and the distance is
short,” said the doctor, beginning to pity her distress.</p>

<p>“Oh, God! perhaps it was at five they were to meet.
Oh, hasten!”</p>

<p>Their way was first through the lawn, then through
the stubble field, then into the copse wood that gradually
merged in the thick forest behind the burial ground.</p>

<p>“Do you know the exact spot of the purposed meeting,
Margaret?” inquired the doctor.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[271]</span></p>

<p>“Oh, no, sir, I do not. I only know that my father
gave orders for the boat to be in readiness to take him
(and his second, of course) to the beach below the burial
ground at this point. Now, as the beach is narrow, and
the burial ground too sacred a place for such a purpose,
I thought of these woods above it.”</p>

<p>“Exactly; and there is a natural opening, a sort of
level glade, on the top of this wooded hill, that I think
likely to be the place selected. We will push forward to
that spot.”</p>

<p>They hurried on. A walk of five minutes brought
them to within the sound of voices, that convinced them
that they were near the dueling ground.</p>

<p>A few more rapid steps led them to a small, level, open
glade, on the summit of the wooded hill.</p>

<p>Oh, Heaven of heavens! What a sight to meet the
eyes of a daughter and a promised wife!</p>

<p>The ground was already marked off. In the drawing
of the lots it seemed that the best position had fallen to
her father, for he stood with his back to the rising sun,
which shone full into the face of Ralph, at the same
time dazzling his eyes, and making him the fairest mark
for the best marksman in the country.</p>

<p>At right angles with the principals stood the seconds,
one of them having a handkerchief held in his hand, while
the other prepared to give the word.</p>

<p>Margaret had not seen her betrothed for three years,
and now, oh, agony insupportable, to meet him thus!</p>

<p>So absorbed were the duelists in the business upon
which they met, and so quietly had she and her escort
stolen upon the scene, that the antagonists had perceived
no addition to their party, but went on with their bloody
purpose.</p>

<p>At the very entrance of the newcomers upon the scene,
the second of Major Helmstedt gave the word:</p>

<p>“One—two—three—fire!” Frank Houston dropped
the handkerchief, Ralph fired into the air, and Margaret,
springing forward, struck up the pistol of her father, so
that it was discharged harmlessly into the upper branches
of an old tree.</p>

<p>All this transpired in a single instant of time, so suddenly<span class="pagenum">[272]</span>
and unexpectedly, that until it was over no one
knew what had happened.</p>

<p>Then followed a scene of confusion difficult or impossible
to describe.</p>

<p>Major Helmstedt was the first to speak. Shaking
Margaret’s hand from his arm, he demanded, in a voice
of concentrated rage:</p>

<p>“Miss Helmstedt, what is the meaning of this? How
durst you come hither?”</p>

<p>Margaret, dropping upon her knees between the combatants
and lifting up both arms, exclaimed:</p>

<p>“Oh, father! father! Oh, Ralph! Ralph! bury your
bullets in this broken heart if you will, but do not point
your weapons against each other!”</p>

<p>“Margaret, my beloved!” began Ralph Houston,
springing to raise her, but before he could effect his purpose,
Major Helmstedt had caught up his daughter, and
with extended hands, exclaimed:</p>

<p>“Off, sir! How durst you? Touch her not! Address
her not at your peril! Dr. Hartley, since you attended
this self-willed girl hither, pray do me the favor
to lead her from the scene. Gentlemen, seconds, I look
to you to restore order, that the business of our meeting
may proceed.”</p>

<p>“Father, father!” cried Margaret, clasping his knees
in an agony of prayer.</p>

<p>“Degenerate child, release me and begone! Dr. Hartley,
will you relieve me of this girl?”</p>

<p>“Major Helmstedt, your daughter and myself came
hither in the hope of mediating between yourself and
your antagonist.”</p>

<p>“Mediating! Sir, there is no such thing as mediation
in a quarrel like this! Since you brought my daughter
hither, will you take her off, sir, I ask you?” thundered
Major Helmstedt, striving to unrivet the clinging arms
of his child.</p>

<p>“Father, father! Hear me, hear me!” she cried.</p>

<p>“Peace, girl, I command you. Fool that you are, not
to see that this is a mortal question, that can only be
resolved in a death meeting between us. Girl, girl, girl!
are you a Helmstedt? Do you know that the family of
this man have made dishonoring charges upon you?<span class="pagenum">[273]</span>
Charges that, by the Heaven above, can be washed out
only in life’s blood? Take her away, Hartley.”</p>

<p>“Father, father! Oh, God! the charges! the charges
that they have made! they are true! they are true!” cried
Margaret, clinging to his arms, while she hid her face
upon his bosom.</p>

<p>Had a bombshell exploded in their midst, it could not
have produced a severer or more painful shock.</p>

<p>Ralph Houston, after the first agonized start and shudder,
drew nearer to her, and paused, pale as death, to
listen further, if, perchance, he had heard aright.</p>

<p>All the others, after their first surprise, stood as if
struck statue still.</p>

<p>Major Helmstedt remained nailed to the ground, a
form of iron. Deep and unearthly was the sound of his
voice, as, lifting the head of his daughter from his breast,
he said:</p>

<p>“Miss Helmstedt, look me in the face!”</p>

<p>She raised her agonized eyes to his countenance.</p>

<p>All present looked and listened. No one thought by
word or gesture of interfering between the father and
daughter.</p>

<p>“Miss Helmstedt,” he began, in the low, deep, stern
tone of concentrated passion, “what was that which you
said just now?”</p>

<p>“I said, my father, in effect, that you must not fight;
that your cause is accurst; that the charges brought
against me are—true!”</p>

<p>“You tell me that——”</p>

<p>“The charges brought against me are true!” she said,
in a strange, ringing voice, every tone of which was
audible to all present.</p>

<p>Had the fabled head of the Medusa, with all its fell
powers, arisen before the assembled party, it could not
have produced a more appalling effect. Each stood as
if turned to stone by her words.</p>

<p>The father and daughter remained confronted like
beings charged with the mortal and eternal destiny of
each other. At length Margaret, unable to bear the
scrutiny of his fixed gaze, dropped her head upon her
bosom, buried her burning face in her hands, and turned
away.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[274]</span></p>

<p>Then Major Helmstedt, keeping his eyes still fixed
with a devouring gaze upon her, slowly raised, extended
and dropped his hand heavily upon her shoulder,
clutched, turned, and drew her up before him.</p>

<p>“Again! let fall your hands; raise your head; look me
in the face, minion!”</p>

<p>She obeyed, dropping her hands, and lifting her face,
crimsoned with blushes, to his merciless gaze.</p>

<p>“Repeat—for I can scarce believe the evidence of my
own senses! The charges brought against you, by the
Houstons, are——”</p>

<p>“True! They are true!” she replied, in a voice of
utter despair.</p>

<p>“Then, for three years past, ever since your betrothal
to Mr. Ralph Houston, you have been in secret correspondence
with a strange young man, disapproved by
your protectress?” asked Major Helmstedt, in a sepulchral
tone.</p>

<p>“I have—I have!”</p>

<p>“And you have met this young man more than once in
private?”</p>

<p>“Yes, yes!” she gasped, with a suffocating sob.</p>

<p>“On the day of the festival, and of the landing of the
British upon our island, you passed several hours alone
with this person in the woods?”</p>

<p>A deprecating wave of the hand and another sob was
her only reply.</p>

<p>“Once, at least, you received this man in your private
apartment at Buzzard’s Bluff?”</p>

<p>A gesture of affirmation and of utter despondency was
her answer.</p>

<p>“The night of that same visit, you secretly left the
room of your protectors for an unexplained absence of
several days, some of which were passed in the company
of this person?”</p>

<p>For all reply, she raised and clasped her hands and
dropped them down before her, and let her head fall
upon her bosom with an action full of irremediable despair.</p>

<p>Her father’s face was dark with anguish.</p>

<p>“Speak, minion!” he said, “these things must not be<span class="pagenum">[275]</span>
left to conjecture; they must be clearly understood.
Speak! answer!”</p>

<p>“I did,” she moaned, in an expiring voice, as her head
sank lower upon her breast, and her form cowered under
the weight of an overwhelming shame and sorrow.</p>

<p>And well she might. Here, in the presence of men,
in the presence of her father and her lover, she was making
admissions, the lightest one of which, unexplained,
was sufficient to brand her woman’s brow with ineffaceable
and eternal dishonor!</p>

<p>Her lover’s head had sunk upon his breast, and he
stood with folded arms, set lips, downcast eyes and impassable
brow, upon which none could read his thoughts.</p>

<p>Her father’s face had grown darker and sterner, as
he questioned and she answered, until now it was terrible
to look upon.</p>

<p>A pause had followed her last words, and was broken
at length by Major Helmstedt, who, in a voice, awful in
the stillness and depth of suppressed passion, said:</p>

<p>“Wretched girl! why do you linger here? Begone!
and never let me see you more!”</p>

<p>“Father, father! have mercy, have mercy on your poor
child!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands and dropping
at his feet.</p>

<p>“Minion! never dare to desecrate my name, or pollute
my sight again. Begone!” he exclaimed, spurning her
kneeling form and turning away.</p>

<p>“Oh, father, father! for the sweet love of the Saviour!”
she cried, throwing her arms around his knees and clinging
to him.</p>

<p>“Wretch! outcast! release me, avoid my presence, or I
shall be driven to destroy you, wanton!” he thundered,
giving way to fury, and shaking her as a viper from her
clinging hold upon his feet; “wanton! courtez——”</p>

<p>But ere that word of last reproach could be completed,
swift as lightning she flew to his bosom, clung about his
neck, placed her hand over his lips to arrest his further
speech, and gazing intensely, fiercely into his eyes—into
his soul, exclaimed:</p>

<p>“Father, do not finish your sentence. Unless you wish
me to drop dead before you, do not. As you hope for
salvation, never apply that name to—her daughter.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[276]</span></p>

<p>“Her daughter!” he retorted, violently, shaking her off,
until she fell collapsed and exhausted at his feet—“her
daughter! Changeling, no daughter of hers or of mine
are you. She would disown and curse you from her
grave! and——”</p>

<p>“Oh, mother, mother! oh, mother, mother!” groaned
the poor girl, writhing and groveling like a crushed worm
on the ground.</p>

<p>“And I,” he continued, heedless of her agony, as he
stooped, clutched her arm, jerked her with a spring upon
her feet, and held her tightly confronting him.</p>

<p>“I—there was a time when I was younger, that had
any woman of my name or blood made the shameful
confessions that you have made this day, I would have
slain her on the instant with this, my right hand. But
age somewhat cools the head, and now I only spurn you—thus!”</p>

<p>And tightening his grasp upon her shoulder, he whirled
her off with such violence that she fell at several yards
distant, stunned and insensible upon the ground.</p>

<p>Then, followed by his second, he strode haughtily from
the place.</p>

<p>Dr. Hartley, who had remained standing in amazement
through the latter part of this scene, now hurried to the
assistance of the swooning girl.</p>

<p>But Ralph Houston, shaking off the dreadful apathy
that had bound his faculties, hastened to intercept him.
Kneeling beside the prostrate form, he lifted and placed
it in an easier position. Then, turning to arrest the
doctor’s steps, he said:</p>

<p>“Before you come nearer to her, tell me this: What do
you believe of her?”</p>

<p>“That she is a fallen girl,” replied Dr. Hartley.</p>

<p>“Then, no nearer on your life and soul,” said Ralph,
lifting his hand to bar the doctor’s further approach.</p>

<p>“What do you mean, Captain Houston?”</p>

<p>“That she still wears the betrothal ring I placed upon
her finger. That I am, as yet, her affianced husband.
And, by that name, I claim the right to protect her in
this, her bitter extremity; to defend her bruised and
broken heart from the wounds of unkind eyes! Had you
had faith in her, charity for her, I should have accepted,<span class="pagenum">[277]</span>
with thanks, your help. As it is, you have none; do not
let her awake to find a hostile countenance bending over
her!”</p>

<p>“As you please, sir. But, remember, that if the assistance
of a physician is absolutely required, my services,
and my home also, await the needs of Marguerite De
Lancie’s daughter,” said Dr. Hartley, turning to depart.</p>

<p>Frank also, at a sign from his brother, withdrew.</p>

<p>Ralph was alone with Margaret. He raised her light
form, shuddering, amid all his deeper distress, to feel how
light it was, and bore her down the wooded hill, to the
great spreading oak, under which was the green mound
of her mother’s last sleeping place.</p>

<p>He laid her down so that her head rested on this mound
as on a pillow, and then went to a spring near by to bring
water, with which, kneeling, he bathed her face.</p>

<p>Long and assiduous efforts were required before she
recovered from that mortal swoon.</p>

<p>When at length, with a deep and shuddering sigh, and
a tremor that ran through all her frame, she opened her
eyes, she found Ralph Houston kneeling by her side,
bending with solicitous interest over her.</p>

<p>With only a dim and partial recollection of some great
agony passed, she raised her eyes and stretched forth her
arms, murmuring, in tender, pleading tones:</p>

<p>“Ralph, my friend, my savior, you do not believe me
guilty? You know me so thoroughly; you always trusted
me; you are sure that I am innocent?”</p>

<p>“Margaret,” he said, in a voice of the deepest pain, “I
pillowed your head here above your mother’s bosom; had
I not believed you guiltless of any deeper sin than inconstancy
of affection, I should not have laid you in this
sacred place.”</p>

<p>“Inconstancy! Ralph?”</p>

<p>“Fear nothing, poor girl! it is not for me to judge or
blame you. You were but a child when our betrothal took
place; you could not have known your own heart; I was
twelve years your senior, and I should have had more
wisdom, justice, and generosity than to have bound the
hand of a child of fourteen to that of a man of twenty-six.
We have been separated for three years. You are now
but seventeen, and I am in my thirtieth year. You have<span class="pagenum">[278]</span>
discovered your mistake, and I suffer a just punishment.
It is natural.”</p>

<p>“Oh, my God! my God! my cup overflows with bitterness!”
moaned the poor maiden, in a voice almost inaudible
from anguish.</p>

<p>“Compose yourself, dear Margaret. I do not reproach
you in the least; I am here to serve you as I best may;
to make you happy, if it be possible. And the first step
to be taken is to restore to you your freedom.”</p>

<p>“Oh, no! Oh, Lord of mercy, no! no! no!” she exclaimed,
in an agony of prayer; and then, in sudden self-consciousness,
she flushed all over her face and neck with
maiden shame, and became suddenly silent.</p>

<p>“Dear Margaret,” said Ralph, in a tone of infinite tenderness
and compassion, “you have suffered so much that
you are scarcely sane. You hardly know what you would
have. Our betrothal must, of course, be annulled. You
must be free to wed this lover of your choice. I hope
that he is, in some measure, worthy of you; nay, since
you love him, I must believe that he is so.”</p>

<p>“Oh, Ralph, Ralph! Oh, Ralph, Ralph!” she cried,
wringing her hands.</p>

<p>“Margaret, what is the meaning of this?”</p>

<p>“I have no lover except you. I never wronged you in
thought, or word, or deed; never, never, never!”</p>

<p>“Dear Margaret, I have not charged you with wronging
me.”</p>

<p>“But I have no lover; do you hear, Ralph? I never
have had one! I never should have so desecrated our
sacred engagement.”</p>

<p>“Poor Margaret, you are distracted! Much grief has
made you mad! You no longer know what you say.”</p>

<p>“Oh, I do, I do! never believe but I know every word
that I speak. And I say that my heart has never wandered
for an instant from its allegiance to yourself! And
listen farther, Ralph,” she said, sinking upon her knees
beside that grave, and raising her hands and eyes to
heaven with the most impressive solemnity, “listen while
I swear this by the heart of her who sleeps beneath this
sod, and by my hopes of meeting her in heaven! that he
with whom my name has been so wrongfully connected
was no lover of mine—could be no lover of mine!”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[279]</span></p>

<p>“Hold, Margaret! Do not forswear yourself even in a
fit of partial derangement. Rise, and recall to yourself
some circumstances that occurred immediately before you
became insensible, and which, consequently, may have
escaped your memory. Recollect, poor girl, the admissions
you made to your father,” said Ralph, taking her
hand and gently constraining her to rise.</p>

<p>“Oh, Heaven! and you believe—you believe——”</p>

<p>“Your own confessions, Margaret, nothing more; for
had an angel from heaven told the things of you that you
have stated of yourself, I should not have believed him!”</p>

<p>“Oh, my mother! Oh, my God!” she cried, in a tone
of such deep misery, that, through all his own trouble,
Ralph deeply pitied and gently answered her.</p>

<p>“Be at ease. I do not reproach you, my child.”</p>

<p>“But you believe. Oh, you believe——”</p>

<p>“Your own statement concerning yourself, dear Margaret;
no more nor less.”</p>

<p>“Believe no more. Not a hair’s breadth more. Scarcely
so much. And draw from that no inferences. On your
soul, draw no inferences against me; for they would be
most unjust. For I am yours; only yours; wholly yours.
I have never, never had any purpose, wish, or thought at
variance with your claims upon me.”</p>

<p>“You must pardon me, Margaret, if I cannot reconcile
your present statement with the admissions lately made to
your father. Allow me to bring them to your memory.”</p>

<p>“Oh, Heaven, have mercy on me!” she cried, covering
her face.</p>

<p>“Remember, I do not reproach you with them; I only
recall them to your mind. You have been in secret correspondence
with this young man for three years past; you
have given him private meetings; you have passed hours
alone in the woods with him; you have received him in
your chamber; you have been abroad for days in his company;
you have confessed the truth of all this; and yet
you declare that he is not, and cannot be a lover of yours.
Margaret, Margaret, how can you expect me, for a moment,
to credit the amazing inconsistency of your statements?”</p>

<p>While he spoke, she stood before him in an agony of
confusion and distress, her form cowering; her face sunk<span class="pagenum">[280]</span>
upon her breast; her eyes shunning his gaze; her face,
neck, and bosom crimsoned with fiery blushes; her hands
writhed together; her whole aspect one of conscious guilt,
convicted crime, and overwhelming shame.</p>

<p>The anguish stamped upon the brow of her lover was
terrible to behold. Yet he governed his emotions, and
compelled his voice to be steady in saying:</p>

<p>“Dear Margaret, if in any way you can reconcile these
inconsistencies—speak!”</p>

<p>Speak. Ay, she might have done so. One word from
her lips would have sufficed to lift the cloud of shame
from her brow, and to crown her with an aureola of
glory; would have averted the storm of calamity gathering
darkly over her head, and restored her, a cherished
daughter, to the protecting arms of her father; an honored
maiden to the esteem of friends and companions; a beloved
bride to the sheltering bosom of her bridegroom.
A word would have done this; yet that word, which could
have lifted the shadow from her own heart and life, must
have bid it settle, dark and heavy, upon the grave of the
dumb, defenseless dead beneath her feet. And the word
remained unspoken.</p>

<p>“I can die for her; but I cannot betray her. I can live
dishonored for her sake; but I cannot consign her memory
to reproach,” said the devoted daughter to her own bleeding
and despairing heart.</p>

<p>“Margaret, can you explain the meaning of these letters,
these meetings in the woods, on the river, in your
own chamber?”</p>

<p>“Alas! I cannot. I can only endure,” she moaned, in
a voice replete with misery, as her head sunk lower upon
her breast, and her form cowered nearer the ground, as
if crushed by the insupportable weight of humiliation.</p>

<p>It was not in erring human wisdom to look upon her
thus, to listen to her words, and not believe her a fallen
angel!</p>

<p>And yet she was innocent. More than innocent. Devoted,
heroic, holy.</p>

<p>But, notwithstanding this, and her secret consciousness
of this, how could she—in her tender youth, with her
maiden delicacy and sensitiveness to reproach—how could<span class="pagenum">[281]</span>
she stand in this baleful position, and not appear overwhelmed
by guilt and shame?</p>

<p>There was a dread pause of some minutes, broken at
length by Ralph, who said:</p>

<p>“Margaret, will you return me that betrothal ring?”</p>

<p>She answered:</p>

<p>“You placed it on my finger, Ralph! Will you also
take it off? I was passive then; I will be passive now.”</p>

<p>Ralph raised the pale hand in his own and tried to
draw off the ring. But since, three years before, the
token had been placed upon the little hand of the child,
that hand had grown, and it was found impossible to
draw the ring over the first joint.</p>

<p>Ralph Houston, unwilling to give her physical pain,
resisted in his efforts, saying quietly, as he bowed and
left her:</p>

<p>“The betrothal ring refuses to leave your finger, Margaret.
Well, good-morning!”</p>

<p>A smile, holy with the light of faith, hope, and love,
dawned within her soul and irradiated her brow. In
a voice, solemn, thrilling with prophetic joy, she said:</p>

<p>“The ring remains with me! I hail it as the bow of
promise! In this black tempest, the one shining star!”</p>


<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV.
<br /><span class="cheaderfont">NIGHT AND ITS ONE STAR.</span></h2>
</div>


<p>Two years had elapsed since the disappearance of
Margaret Helmstedt.</p>

<p>Major Helmstedt had caused secret investigations to
be set on foot, that had resulted in demonstrating, beyond
the shadow of a doubt, that Margaret Helmstedt
and William Dawson had embarked as passengers on
board the bark <em>Amphytrite</em>, bound from Norfolk to
Liverpool. From the day upon which this fact was ascertained,
Margaret’s name was tacitly dropped by all her
acquaintances.</p>

<p>It was about twelve months after the disappearance
of Margaret that old Mr. Wellworth died, and his<span class="pagenum">[282]</span>
orphan daughter Grace found a refuge in the home of
Nellie Houston.</p>

<p>Ralph Houston was then at home, considering himself
quite released by circumstances from his rash vow of
forsaking his father’s house.</p>

<p>Grace, the weak-hearted little creature, permitted herself
to mistake all Ralph’s brotherly kindness for a
warmer affection, and to fall incontinently in love with
him.</p>

<p>When the clergyman’s daughter had been their inmate
for six months, Mrs. Houston astounded the young man
by informing him that unless his intentions were serious,
“he really should not go on so with the poor fatherless
and motherless girl.”</p>

<p>Captain Houston did not love Grace—but he rather
liked her. He thought her very pretty, gentle, and winning;
moreover, he believed her soft, pliable, elastic
little heart capable of being broken!</p>

<p>Since Margaret was lost to him forever, perhaps he
might as well as not make this pretty, engaging little
creature his wife. The constant presence of Grace was
an appeal to which he impulsively yielded. Then—the
word spoken—there was no honorable retreat.</p>

<p>Christmas was the day appointed for the wedding.
Clare Hartley consented to officiate as bridesmaid; Frank
Houston agreed to act as groomsman, and Dr. Hartley
offered to give the fatherless bride away.</p>

<p>The twenty-fifth day of December dawned clear and
cold. The whole bridal company that had assembled the
evening previous set out at the appointed hour for the
church.</p>

<p>They reached the church a few minutes before nine
o’clock. Dr. Simmons, the pastor, was already in attendance.
The bridal party passed up the aisle and formed
before the altar. Amid the solemn silence that ever
precedes such rites the marriage ceremony commenced.</p>

<p>“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the
sight of God, and in the face of this company, to join
together this man and this woman in holy matrimony;
which is commended of Saint Paul to be honorable
among all men; and therefore is not by any to be entered
into unadvisedly or lightly; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly,<span class="pagenum">[283]</span>
soberly, and in the fear of God. Into this holy
estate, these two persons present come now to be joined.
If any man can show just cause why they may not be
lawfully joined together, let him now speak, or else,
hereafter, forever hold his peace——”</p>

<p>Here the minister made the customary pause; and
then, just as he was about to resume his reading, there
was the sound of an opening door, and a clear, commanding
voice, exclaiming:</p>

<p>“Stop, on your lives! The marriage must not proceed!”</p>

<p>At the same moment all eyes were turned in astonishment,
to see a gentleman, with a veiled lady leaning
on his arm, advancing toward the altar.</p>

<p>The minister laid down his book; the bridegroom
turned, with a brow of stern inquiry, upon the intruder;
the bride stood in trembling amazement. Colonel Houston
alone had the presence of mind to demand, somewhat
haughtily:</p>

<p>“Pray, sir, what is the meaning of this most offensive
conduct? By what authority do you venture to interrupt
these solemnities?”</p>

<p>The young stranger turned and bowed to the questioner,
smiling good-humoredly as he answered:</p>

<p>“Faith, sir! by the authority conferred upon me by
the ritual, which exhorts that any man who can show
any cause why these two persons may not be united in
matrimony, forthwith declare it. So adjured, I speak—happening
to know two causes why these two persons
may not be lawfully joined together. The fair bride
has been for two years past my promised wife, and the
gallant bridegroom’s betrothal ring still encircles the finger
of Margaret Helmstedt!”</p>

<p>“And who are you, sir, that ventures to take these
words upon your lips?” now asked Ralph Houston,
deeply shaken by the mention of his Margaret’s name.</p>

<p>“I am,” replied the young man, speaking slowly and
distinctly, “William Daw, Earl of Falconridge, the half-brother
of Margaret Helmstedt by the side of our mother,
Marguerite De Lancie, who, previous to becoming the
wife of Mr. Philip Helmstedt, had been the wife and
the widow of Lord William Daw. Should my statement<span class="pagenum">[284]</span>
require confirmation,” continued the young man,
“it can be furnished by documents in my possession, and
which I am prepared to submit to any person concerned.”
Bowing to the astounded party, he retraced his steps.</p>

<p>The silence of amazement bound all the hearers; nor
was the spell broken until the young lady who leaned
upon the arm of Lord Falconridge drew aside her veil,
revealing the pale and lovely countenance of Margaret
Helmstedt, and crossed over to the side of Major Helmstedt,
saying:</p>

<p>“Father, the labor of my life is accomplished; my
mother’s name is clear forever!” and overpowered by
excess of emotion, she sank fainting at the feet of her
astonished parent.</p>

<p>“Margaret! my Margaret!” exclaimed Ralph Houston,
forgetting everything else, and springing forward.
Tenderly lifted in the arms of Ralph, Margaret was conveyed
to the parsonage, and laid on the bed in the best
chamber. Here efforts to restore her to consciousness
were vainly pursued for a long time.</p>

<p>When at last a change came, returning life was
scarcely less alarming than apparent death had been.
For weeks she wandered in a most distressing delirium.</p>

<p>It was about this time that Major Helmstedt and
Lord Falconridge had a long business conversation. The
major, being perfectly assured in regard to his identity
and his claims, delivered up into his lordship’s hands
such portion of his mother’s estate as he would have
legally inherited. After the transfer was made, Lord
Falconridge executed an instrument, conveying the whole
disputed property to his sister, Margaret Helmstedt,
“and her heirs forever.”</p>

<p>Not until Margaret was fully restored to health was
the whole secret history of her mother’s most unhappy
life revealed. The facts, obtained at intervals, were,
in brief, these:</p>

<p>Marguerite De Lancie, tempted by inordinate social
ambition, had consented to a private marriage with Lord
William Daw.</p>

<p>His lordship’s tutor, the Rev. Mr. Murray, became
a party to the plan, even to the extent of performing
the marriage ceremony. His lordship’s valet was the<span class="pagenum">[285]</span>
only witness. The certificate of marriage was left in
the hands of the bride. The ceremony took place at
Saratoga, in the month of July.</p>

<p>Two months after, early in September, Lord William
Daw, summoned by his father to the bedside of his
declining mother, sailed for England.</p>

<p>Marguerite received from him one letter, dated at
sea, and in which he addressed her as his “beloved wife,”
and signed himself, boy-loverlike, her “adoring husband.”
This letter was directed to Lady William Daw,
under cover to Marguerite De Lancie. It was the only
one that he ever had the opportunity of writing to her.
It arrived about the time that the wife first knew that
she was also destined to become a mother.</p>

<p>In the January following the receipt of this letter,
Marguerite went with the Comptons to the New Year’s
evening ball at the Executive Mansion. It was while
standing up in a quadrille that she overheard two gentlemen
speak of the wreck of the bark <em>Venture</em> off the
coast of Cornwall, with the loss of all on board.</p>

<p>Marguerite fainted; and thence followed the terrible
illness that brought her to the borders of death—of
death, for which indeed she prayed and hoped; for what
a wretched condition was hers! She, one of the most
beautiful, accomplished, and high-spirited queens of society,
found herself fated to become a mother, without
the power of proving that she had ever possessed the
right to the name of wife.</p>

<p>As soon as she was able to recollect, reflect, and act,
she felt that the only hope of recognition as the widow
of Lord William Daw rested with the family of the latter;
and she determined to go secretly to England. She
made her preparations and departed.</p>

<p>She reached London, where, overtaken by the pangs
of maternity, she gave birth to a son, and immediately
fell into a long and dangerous fever. Upon recovering,
she sought the Yorkshire home of her father-in-law,
and revealed to him her position.</p>

<p>Marguerite was prepared for doubt, difficulty, and delay,
but not for the utter incredulity, scorn, and rejection,
to which she was subjected by the arrogant Marquis
of Eaglecliff. Marguerite exhibited the certificate<span class="pagenum">[286]</span>
of her marriage, and the sole letter her young husband
had ever had the power to write to her, and pleaded for
recognition.</p>

<p>Now the old marquis knew the handwriting of his son,
and of his chaplain; but, feeling outraged by what he
chose to consider artifice on the part of Marguerite, disobedience
on that of William, and treachery on that of
Mr. Murray, he contemptuously put aside the certificate
as a forgery, and the letter, beginning “My beloved
wife,” as the mere nonsense of a boy-lover writing to his
mistress.</p>

<p>Indignant and broken-hearted, Marguerite took her
son and returned to her native country; put the boy
out to nurse, and then sought her home in Virginia, to
reflect, amid its quiet scenes, upon her future course.</p>

<p>Marguerite’s confidential consultations with various
eminent lawyers had resulted in no encouragement for
her to seek legal redress; she determined to rear her
boy in secrecy; and watch if, perchance, some opportunity
for successfully pushing his claims should occur.
Further, she resolved to remain unmarried, and to devote
herself to the welfare of this unacknowledged son,
so that, should all his rights of birth be finally denied,
she could at last legally adopt him, and make him her
sole heir. Somewhat quieted by this resolution, Marguerite
De Lancie became once more the ascendant star
of fashion. The greater part of each year she spent
in the hamlet in the State of New York where she had
placed her son at nurse, accounting for her long absences
by the defiant answer, “I’ve been gypsying.”</p>

<p>Thus three years slipped away, when at length Marguerite
De Lancie met her fate in Philip Helmstedt, the
only man whom she ever really loved.</p>

<p>The tale she durst not tell her lover, she insanely hoped
might be successfully concealed, or safely confided to her
husband. Ah, vain hope! Philip Helmstedt, to the last
degree jealous and suspicious, was the worst man on
the face of the earth to whom to confide her questionable
story.</p>

<p>They were married; and for a time she was lost in the
power that attracted, encircled, and swallowed up her
whole fiery nature.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[287]</span></p>

<p>From this deep trance of bliss she was electrified by the
receipt of a letter, advising her of the sudden and dangerous
illness of the unowned child. Here was an exigency
for which she was totally unprepared. She prayed Philip
Helmstedt to permit her to depart, for a season, unquestioned.
This strange petition gave rise to the first misunderstanding
between them. With the terrible scenes
that followed the reader is already acquainted. She was
not suffered to depart.</p>

<p>A subsequent letter informed her of the convalescence
of her son.</p>

<p>A superficial peace, without confidence, ensued between
herself and husband. They went to Richmond, where
Marguerite, filled with grief, remorse, and terror, so
distractedly overacted her part as queen of fashion, that
she brought upon herself, from wondering friends, the
suspicion of partial insanity.</p>

<p>It was at this time that she received a third letter,
advising her of the nearly fatal relapse of her child.</p>

<p>Knowing from past experience how vain it would be
to hope for Philip Helmstedt’s consent to her unexpected
absence, she secretly departed, to spend a few
weeks with her suffering child. She reached the hamlet,
nursed her boy through his illness, and then placed him
to be reared and educated in the family of the poor village
pastor, to whom, for his services as tutor, she offered
a liberal salary.</p>

<p>The Rev. John Braunton was a man past middle age,
of acute intellect, conscientious principles, and benevolent
disposition. From his keen perceptive faculties it
was impossible to hide the fact that the mysterious lady,
who took such deep and painful interest in this child,
was other than the boy’s mother.</p>

<p>Having arranged a system of correspondence with the
clergyman, and paid a half year’s salary in advance, Marguerite
Helmstedt departed for her Virginia home, full
of intense anxiety as to the reception she would meet
from her husband. We know what that reception was.
Philip Helmstedt must have sacrificed her life to his
jealous rage but that she was destined to be the mother
of his child. He kept his wife from her son for fifteen
years.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[288]</span></p>

<p>In the meantime Mr. Braunton, who regularly received
his salary, wondered that he received no more
visits from the guardian or mother of his pupil. As
the years passed he expostulated by letter. Marguerite
wept, but could not go.</p>

<p>Some time after this, Braunton suddenly appeared before
her on the island to inform her that her boy, grown
restive in his rustic residence, had run away from home.
Nothing could be discovered in relation to the missing
youth, and from this time Marguerite Helmstedt’s health
rapidly declined.</p>

<p>Once more Marguerite saw her son. In the spring of
1814 he suddenly appeared before her in the uniform
of a British soldier—claimed her assistance, and adjured
her to reveal to him his birth and parentage. His
miserable mother evaded his question, besought him to
return to the protection of Mr. Braunton, and, promising
to write, or to see him again, dismissed him.</p>

<p>That visit was the deathblow from which Marguerite
never recovered. She died, and, dying, bequeathed to her
daughter the legacy of this secret.</p>

<p>Having vindicated her mother’s honor, Margaret
would now withhold the particulars of her own perseverance
and self-denial in the cause of her brother. But
her father and her lover were not to be thus put off.
Little by little, they drew from the reluctant girl the
story of her devotion to her mother’s trust. The ample
income, drawn from her mother’s legacy of Plover’s
Point, had been regularly sent to Mr. Braunton, to be
invested for the benefit of William Dawson; afterward
a correspondence was opened with the young man.</p>

<p>When subsequently they happened to meet that day
on Helmstedt Island, the young man sought to compel,
from her lips, the story of his parentage; but Margaret
refused to tell him anything, and spoke of her
mother only as his patroness.</p>

<p>But when he begged to be shown her grave, Margaret
consented. They took a boat and went up the river to
the family burial ground at Plover’s Point. They returned
in the evening—the young soldier to rejoin his
comrades—Margaret to rejoin her friends, and to meet
suspicions which she had no power to quell.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum">[289]</span></p>

<p>It was some weeks after this when the famous attack
upon the parsonage was made, and young William Dawson
was taken prisoner. While upon his parole, an irresistible
attraction drew him to seek Margaret. He visited
her in her private apartment, entering and departing
by the garden door. Nellie saw him depart. Margaret
besought him to come no more. After that, he
lingered near the house, and met her in her walks. The
spies of Nellie Houston discovered and reported this interview.
Yet again they met in the woods, where Margaret
entreated him not to waylay her.</p>

<p>About that time also, Clare Hartley spoke in the presence
of the young ensign of her own and Margaret Helmstedt’s
purposed visit to Fort Warburton. The visit was
not made; but William Dawson, missing Margaret from
her accustomed haunts, wandered off to the neighborhood
of Fort Warburton, where he was taken for a
spy, and as such might have been hung, had he not bribed
a messenger to carry a note to his sister, whom he now
knew to be not at the fort. The messenger, in going
away, was seen by Nellie, who naturally took him to be
the young ensign. Margaret obeyed the peremptory
summons, and the same night departed for Fort Warburton.
With the terrible train of misfortunes that ensued,
the reader is already acquainted.</p>

<p>Immediately after the prevented duel and the parting
with her lover, Margaret sought her brother, and, taking
the marriage certificate, and the letter of Lord William
Daw, embarked with her brother for Liverpool.</p>

<p>On reaching England, she immediately sought the
Marquis of Eaglecliff, and laid before him the claims
of his grandson. At the first sight of the young man,
the aged peer made an exclamation of surprise. So
great was his likeness to the late Lord William Daw,
that the marquis almost fancied he beheld again his
long-lost son.</p>

<p>Legal steps were immediately taken to establish his
identity and confirm his position. Law processes are
proverbially slow. In all, it was about twelve months
between the time that William Daw was acknowledged
by his grandfather, and the time when his position as the
legal heir of Eaglecliff was permanently established.<span class="pagenum">[290]</span>
And it was more than two years from the day upon
which the brother and sister had sailed to England, to
that upon which they so opportunely returned to
America.</p>

<p>But little remains to be written. With spring, Margaret’s
beauty bloomed again.</p>

<p>In June Ralph Houston led his long-affianced bride to
the altar. After an extended trip through New England,
they took up their residence in the city of Richmond,
where Ralph Houston had been appointed to a high
official post.</p>

<p>Lord Falconridge remained through the winter, the
guest of his sister and brother-in-law. Major Helmstedt,
of course, took up his abode with his daughter and
her husband.</p>

<p>Honest Frank Houston married Clare Hartley, with
whom he lives very happily at Plover’s Point.</p>

<p>I am sorry that I cannot present poor little Grace
Wellworth as a countess, but, truth to tell, the young
earl never resumed his addresses. So Grace, in fear
of being an old maid, accepted the proposals soon afterward
made to her by Mr. Simmons, the minister, to
whom she makes a very exemplary wife.</p>

<p class="center p1" style="margin-bottom:1em">THE END.</p>

<p>No. 82 of <span class="smcap">The New Southworth Library</span>, entitled
“The Bride’s Dowry,” is a story in which love, finance,
and selfish interest play a part. It is quite out of the
common, and has not one dull page in it from start to
finish.</p>

<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<div class="boxit2">
<p class="center xxlargefont boldfont">The Dealer</p>

<p>who handles the STREET &amp; SMITH NOVELS
is a man worth patronizing. The fact that he
does handle our books proves that he has considered
the merits of paper-covered lines, and
has decided that the STREET &amp; SMITH
NOVELS are superior to all others.</p>

<p>He has looked into the question of the morality
of the paper-covered book, for instance, and
feels that he is perfectly safe in handing one of
our novels to any one, because he has our assurance
that nothing except clean, wholesome
literature finds its way into our lines.</p>

<p>Therefore, the STREET &amp; SMITH NOVEL
dealer is a careful and wise tradesman, and it
is fair to assume selects the other articles he
has for sale with the same degree of intelligence
as he does his paper-covered books.</p>

<p>Deal with the STREET &amp; SMITH NOVEL
dealer.</p>

<p class="center largefont p1"><span class="xlargefont">STREET &amp; SMITH CORPORATION</span><br />
79 Seventh Avenue<span style="padding-left:6em"> New York City</span></p>
</div></div>

<hr class="tb x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<div class="transnote">
<h2 id="TN_end" style="margin-top: 0em">Transcriber’s Notes:</h2>

<p>Punctuation has been made consistent.</p>

<p>Variations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in
the original publication, except that obvious typographical errors have
been corrected.</p>

<p>The following change was made:</p>

<p id="BRef_100"><a href="#Ref_100">p. 100</a>: its changed to his (leaning his weight)</p>

</div></div>

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 68610 ***</div>
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