“What’s become of ‘Marguerite’
Since she gave us all the slip--
Chose land travel, or sea faring,
Box and trunk, or staff and scrip,
Rather than pace up and down
Any longer this old town?
Who’d have guessed it from her lip,
Or her brow’s accustomed bearing,
On the night she thus took ship,
Or started landward, little caring?”
--BROWNING.
Christmas approached, and the gay belles of Richmond were preparing for
the festivities of that season.
Colonel Compton with his family and a few chosen friends went down to
Compton Lodge to spend the holidays in country hospitalities, hunting,
etc.
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, 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.”
“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.
“My lost sweetheart, by all that’s amazing!” cried Colonel Compton,
who, in his engrossment, was the very last to discover the arrival.
“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.
“From Loudoun street,” answered Miss De Lancie gayly, as she shook
hands right and left.
“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.
“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.”
“Enchanted to see you, my dear! truly so! But--you arrived the day
before yesterday--whence?”
“I may be mistaken, yet it seems to me that Colonel Compton’s asking
questions,” said Marguerite, with good-humored sarcasm.
“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.
“_Paix à vous_,” said Marguerite, pledging him.
“And now to breakfast--_sortez, sortez_!” exclaimed the Colonel,
leading the way to the dining-room.
Cornelia was, to use her own expression, “dying” to 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.
“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.
“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?”
“Gypsying,” answered Miss De Lancie.
“Gypsying; oh, nonsense, that is no answer. What have you been about?”
“Gypsying,” repeated Marguerite.
“Gypsying!” exclaimed Cornelia, now in wonder.
“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!”
“No, no! I never did,” said Cornelia, amazed; “but, tell me then where
did you go from Plover’s Point.”
“To Tierra-del-Fuego, or the Land of Fire,” said Marguerite, with a deep
flush.
“Fiddlesticks! Where did you come from last to Winchester?”
“From Iceland,” said Marguerite, with a shiver.
“Oh, pshaw! you are making fun of me, Marguerite!”
“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. And then Marguerite, to
compensate for her passing severity, tenderly embraced Nellie.
The Christmas party at Compton Lodge lasted until after New Year, and
then the family and their friends returned to Richmond.
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:
“Where have you been so long, Marguerite?” To which she would answer:
“To Obdorskoi on the sea of Obe,” or some such absurdity, until at last
all inquiry ceased.
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 _partis_ 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.
“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.
“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!”
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?
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.”
Again seven months rolled by, while the brightest star of fashion
remained in eclipse.
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.
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.
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 with much
more levity into all the gayeties of the season than she ever had done
in the restraining companionship of Marguerite De Lancie.
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.
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 drew rein until she reached Bellevue, when sending her horses
back by her servant, she took a packet for New York.
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.
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.
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!
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.”
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.
“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.”
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?
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 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.
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.
“I would see you in Gehenna first, you little imbecile. Marguerite.”
And sealed and dispatched the letter.
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:
“Well, well! go home and prepare for your wedding, Nellie! I’ll come
and assist at the farce.”