“Muse, Grace, and Woman--in herself
All moods of mind contrasting--
The tenderest wail of human woe,
The scorn like lightning blasting;
Mirth sparkling like a diamond shower
From lips of lifelong sadness,
Clear picturings of majestic thought
Upon a ground of madness;
And over all romance and song
A magic lustre throwing,
And laureled Celie at her side
Her storied pages showing.”
--VARIED FROM WHITTIER.
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.
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.
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, 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.
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 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,” 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.
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
“The air was still and the water still,”
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 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:
“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:
“You never improvise now, my Corinne! You never have done so since our
union. Has inspiration fled?”
“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.”
“And that direction?”
She turned to him with a glance and a smile that fully answered his
question.
“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.
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 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.
“It is my messenger from the post office--now for news of Nellie!” said
Marguerite.
Philip looked slightly vexed.
“‘Nellie!’--how you love Mrs. Houston, Marguerite! I do not understand
such intimate female friendships.”
“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.
“Any letters, Forrest?” she eagerly inquired, as the boy came in.
“Only one, madam, for you,” replied the man, delivering the missive.
“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.
Mr. Helmstedt, who had just turned and walked to the window to look out
upon the wild weather, did not see this agitation.
Marguerite broke the seal and read; fear, grief and cruel remorse
storming in her darkened and convulsed countenance.
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.
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.
“Your letter was not from Mrs. Houston, love? I am 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.
Marguerite smiled archly at this badinage, but did not otherwise reply.
“Well, then, if not from Nellie, I hope you heard good news from some
other dear friend.”
“As if I had scores of other dear friends!--but be at ease, thou
jealous Spaniard, for Nellie is almost your only rival.”
“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.
Marguerite saw this, and, lightly wringing the paper in her fingers,
said:
“It is from an acquaintance--I have so many--perhaps it would amuse you
to look it over.”
“Thank you, dear Marguerite,” replied Mr. Helmstedt, extending his hand
to take it.
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.
“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?”
“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.”
“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.
“We will have it served here, Philip,” she said; “it is so bleak in the
dining-room.”
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,
_chef-d’œuvres_ 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.
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.
“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.”
“The guitar? The harp is your instrument of improvisation.”
“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.
Philip listened with undisguised astonishment and irrepressible 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.
“Thalia,” he said; “Thalia as well as Melpomene.”
“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.
“And I alone have heard it! So I would have it, Marguerite. I almost
detest that any other should enjoy your gifts and accomplishments.”
“Egotist!” she exclaimed, but with the fond, worshiping tone and
manner, wherewith she might have said, “Idol!”
“So you like my music, Philip?”
“How can you ask, my love? Your music delights me, as all you ever say
and do always must.”
“I have heard that ever when the lute and voice of an _improvvisatrice_
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.
“How? What do you say, my love?”
“My voice and stringed instrument have pleased my master, and I would
crave of him a boon.”
“Dearest love! do not use such a phrase, even in the wantonness of your
sport.”
“What is, then, Mr. Helmstedt but Marguerite’s master?”
“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.
“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, 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.”
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.
“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.”
“‘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.”
He answered only by folding her closer to his bosom, and then said:
“But the boon, Marguerite; or rather the command, my lady, what is it?”
“Philip,” she said, raising her head from his bosom, and fixing her
eyes on his face, “Philip, I want--heavens! how the storm raves!--do
you hear it, Philip?”
“Yes, love, do not mind it; it cannot enter.”
“But the ships, the ships at sea.”
“Do not think of them, love; we cannot help them; what is beyond remedy
is beyond regret.”
“True, that is very true! what is beyond remedy is beyond regret,” said
Marguerite, meditatively.
“But the ‘boon,’ as you call it, the command, as I regard it--what is
it, Marguerite?”
“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.
“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.”
“You take this matter very seriously, Philip,” said Marguerite, with a
troubled brow.
“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.”
“And yet it must necessarily be such, nor can you help it, my lord,”
said Marguerite, smiling with assumed gayety.
“Well, well! let’s hear and judge of that.”
Marguerite still hesitated, then she spoke to the point.
“I beg you will permit me to leave you for a month.”
“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. In the name of heaven where do you wish to
go? To your friend Nellie, perchance?”
“I wish to go away unquestioned, unattended and unfollowed.”
“But, Marguerite,” he stammered, “but this is the maddest proposition.”
“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.
“And when do you propose to start?” he asked.
“To-morrow, if you will permit me.”
“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.”
Marguerite laughed strangely.
“Will you allow me to ask you one question, my love? Where do you wish
to go?”
“Gipsying.”
“Gipsying?”
“‘Aye, my good lord.’”
“Oh, yes; I remember! Marguerite, let me tell you seriously that I
cannot consent to your wish.”
“You do not mean to say that you refuse to let me go?” exclaimed
Marguerite, all her assumed lightness vanishing in fear.
“Let us understand each other. You desire my consent that you shall
leave home for one month, without explaining whither or wherefore you
go?”
“Yes.”
“Then most assuredly I cannot sanction any thing of the sort.”
“Philip, I implore you.”
“Marguerite, you reduce me to the alternative of doubting your
sincerity or your sanity!”
“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.”
“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.
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:
“Philip, I pray you, look at me here!”
“Mrs. Helmstedt, for your own dignity, leave this attitude,” he said,
taking her hands and trying to force her to rise.
“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.”
“Do you regret the sacrifice?”
“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!”
“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.”
“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!”
“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.”
“Oh, God!--and yet you could do so, unquestioned and unblamed, as many
men do!”
“I could, but would not.”
“While I--would but cannot. Well, that is the difference between us.”
“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.”
“But in my girlhood I had unmeasured, irresponsible liberty. None dared
to cavil at my actions.”
“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.”
“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.
“Much was permissible and even graceful in Miss De Lancie, that could
not be tolerated in Mrs. Helmstedt,” continued Philip.
“A great accession of dignity and importance certainly,” sneered
Marguerite’s sarcastic intellect. “Away! I am his wife! his loving
wife,” replied her worshiping heart; but her lips spoke not.
“You do not answer me, Marguerite.”
“I was listening, beloved.”
“And you see this subject as I do?”
“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.”
“Confide in me and I will do it. I promise you, in advance, not knowing
of what nature that confidence may be.”
“Oh, Heaven, if--I cannot. Alas! Philip, I cannot!”
“Why?”
“The affair concerns others.”
“There are no others whose interest and claims can conflict with those
of your husband.”
“I--have a--friend--in deadly peril--I would go to--the assistance of
my friend.”
“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.”
“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!”
“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.”
“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?”
“Most assuredly not, Marguerite.”
“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!”
“No.”
“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!”
“Not for a week--not for a day! under the circumstances in which you
wish to go,” said Mr. Helmstedt, with stern inflexibility.
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.
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, 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.
“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.
“I wish to talk with you, if you please, Marguerite.”
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.
“Marguerite, there is much that must be cleared up before there can
ever more be peace between us.”
“Question me; it is your right, Philip,” she said, in a subdued tone,
steadying her trembling frame in a sitting posture on the sofa.
“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.
She took him at his word and sank down with her elbow on the piled-up
cushions, and her fingers run up through her lustrous tresses
supporting her head, and repeated.
“Question me, Philip, it is your right!”
“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?”
“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.
“You cannot!” he repeated, growing white and speaking through his
closed teeth.
“I cannot, alas! Philip, it concerns another.”
“Another! Man or woman?”
“Neith--oh, Heaven, Philip, I cannot tell you!”
“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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
“Why? Would you then have given it to me?”
“Alas! no, for my power to do so was no greater then than now. But
then, at least, on my refusal to confide this affair (that concerns
others, Philip) to you, you might have withdrawn from me--now, alas! it
is too late.”
“Perhaps not,” remarked Mr. Helmstedt, in a calm, but significant tone.
“My God! what mean you, Philip?” exclaimed his wife, starting up from
her recumbent position.
“To question you farther--that is all for the present.”
She sank down again and covered her face with her hands. He continued.
“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?”
A groan was her only answer, while her head remained buried in the
cushions of the sofa.
“So! you will not even clear up that matter?”
“Not ‘will not,’ but cannot, Philip, cannot!”
“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:
“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.”
“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!”
“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
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?”
“That depends, Marguerite!--there is another link in this dark chain
that I would have explained--the letter you received this evening.”
“The letter--oh, God! have mercy on me,” she cried, in a half smothered
voice.
“Yes, the letter!” repeated Mr. Helmstedt, coolly, with his eyes still
fixed steadily upon her pallid countenance that could scarcely bear his
gaze.
“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.
“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, 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!”
“Deception!”
“Yes, madam, that was the word I used, purposely and with a full
appreciation of the meaning,” said Mr. Helmstedt, sternly.
“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.”
“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.”
“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?”
“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 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.”
“Dishonor!” cried Marguerite, dropping her hands, that until now had
covered her face, and gazing wildly at her husband.
“Aye, madam, dishonor!”
“Great Heaven! had another but yourself made that charge!” she
exclaimed, in a voice deep and smothered with intense emotion.
“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.
But his wife gazed upon him with the look of one thunder-stricken, as
she replied:
“Oh, doubtless, Mr. Helmstedt, you have the right to do what you will
with your own, even to the extremity of thus degrading her.”
“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----”
“Philip!”
Without regarding her indignant interruption, he went on:
“Upon the honorable name you bear--by the living Lord that hears me! I
will take justice in my own hands and--kill you!”
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:
“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 nothing compared to the great wrong you inflict upon your own
honor.”
“Once more--will you clear yourself before me?”
“No.”
“What! ‘No?’”
“No! Alas! why multiply words, when all is contained in that
monosyllable?”
“What is the meaning of this, madam?”
“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!”
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.
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.
“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.
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.
“How is the weather, Forrest?” inquired Mrs. Helmstedt, who was now at
the cabinet, that I have mentioned as standing to the right of the
fireplace, and writing rapidly.
“Bad ’nough, Miss Marget, ma’am, I ’sures you.”
“The wind has stopped.”
“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.”
Mrs. Helmstedt had finished writing, folded, closed and directed a
letter, which she now brought to her messenger.
“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.”
“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.
“Any oder orders, Miss Marget, ma’am?”
“No, only take care of yourself.”
Forrest bowed reverently and went out, softly closing the door behind
him.
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.
Eleven o’clock struck. They were in the habit of taking 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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.”
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.
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
gave Hildreth to understand that she might release herself of
responsibility, as he should attend to the matter.
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.
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.
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 fascinating woman, whom
he ardently loved, without becoming unconditionally reconciled to her.
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:
“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.”
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:
“Come, then to your home in this bosom, beloved, where there is an
aching void, until you fill it.”
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 love, and
deep and fearful remorse as inexplicable as it was irradicable.
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?
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.
“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 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.
“Sitting in darkness again, my own Marguerite? Why do you do so?” said
Philip, with tender reproach.
“Why should I not?” returned Marguerite, smilingly.
“Because it will make you melancholy, this bleak and dreary scene.”
“No, indeed, it will not. It is a grand scene. Come, look out and see.”
“Thank you, love; I have had enough of it for one evening; and I rather
wonder at your taste for it.”
“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!”
“Marguerite!”
“Well?”
“What is the matter with you?”
“Nothing: only I like this howling chaos of wind and water!”
“You are in one of your dark moods.”
“Could I be bright and you away?”
“Flatterer! I am here now. And here are the lights. And now I have a
letter for you.”
“A letter! Oh! give it quickly,” cried Marguerite, thrown off her guard.
“Why, how hasty you are.”
“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.”
“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.
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.
“Stay!”
“Well!”
“That letter was not from Mrs. Houston.”
“No; you were aware of that; you saw the postmark.”
“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.”
Marguerite held the letter close against her bosom, while she gazed
upon him in astonishment and expectation, not to say dread.
“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.
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.
“Your correspondent has been well tutored, madam.”
“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.”
“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----”
“Hush! for the sake of mercy, no rash vows. Why should it reflect
discredit upon any? Why should mystery be always in thought linked
with guilt? Philip, I am free from reproach!”
“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.”
“Ah, Philip Helmstedt, it is your own suspicious nature, your want of
charity and faith that makes it so,” said Marguerite.
“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.”
“Philip, dear Philip, still hope and trust in me; it may be that I
shall not wholly disappoint you,” she replied.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The colonel and his daughter finished their call and returned home
disappointed; Nellie with her instinctive dislike to Mr. Helmstedt much
augmented.
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).
Numerous calls were made upon the newly-wedded pair, and many parties
were given in their honor.
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
“Suffered a sea change
Into something wild and strange.”
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.
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 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.
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:
“Marguerite! Marguerite!”
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:
OUR PRIVATE PARLOR, ---- HOUSE, 6 P.M.
MY BELOVED HUSBAND: 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 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
MARGUERITE.
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.
“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.
“I hope Mrs. Helmstedt is not indisposed this morning,” said a lady
opposite, when she observed the vacant chair at his side.
“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.
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:
“Yes, I will await you here, and then, Marguerite! then!”