“She had moved to the echoing sounds of fame--
Silently, silently died her name;
Silently melted her life away
As ye have seen a rich flower decay,
Or a lamp that hath swiftly burned expire,
Or a bright stream shrink from a summer fire.”
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. 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.
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 _recherché_ 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:
“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 no longer! I gwine sen’ him up middlin’
and greens, or mutton an’ turnups--you hear me good, don’t you?”
“I wonder what does ail master?” remarked Hildreth.
“I know what ail him well ’nough! I know de reason why he won’t eat his
wittles!”
“What is it, den?”
“He can’t eat anyt’ing else case he’s--eatin’ his own heart! An’ it
makes men mad--that sort o’ eatin’ does!”
“My Lors!” ejaculated Hildreth, in real or affected horror.
“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.”
“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.
“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!”
One afternoon, during the last week in May, Philip Helmstedt, as usual,
walked up and down the beach in 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.
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 _improvvisatrice_, 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. 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.
“Oh! Mr. Helmstedt, this is very kind; thank you--thank you.”
He did not reply by word or look.
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.
“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.
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.
“Philip! will you not forgive me?”
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.
“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.
The effect was terrible. Spurning her from him, he sprang to his feet,
nearly capsizing the skiff, that rocked fearfully under them, and
exclaimed:
“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!”
“Philip! Philip!” she cried, in a voice of thrilling misery.
“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 his weight upon it he
could capsize the boat--standing there, glaring upon her.
“Philip! Philip! for the Saviour’s sake, sit down,” she cried, wringing
her pale fingers in an ecstasy of terror.
“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?”
“Philip! mercy!”
“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:
“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.
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 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:
“You will never be troubled by any more letters, Philip.”
“Ah?”
“No! and I will never leave you again, Philip.”
“I intend that you never shall have the opportunity, my--Marguerite.”
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.
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, 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.
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, _tête-à-tête_ 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.
The mournful face of Marguerite lighted up with a transient smile;
passing the note across the table to Mr. Helmstedt, she said:
“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 _Nereide_ 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!”
Forrest paused, hat in hand, waiting in respectful silence for his
master’s speech. After a moment, Mr. Helmstedt said:
“No matter, another time will do; hasten to obey your mistress now.”
The two men then withdrew, and Mr. Helmstedt turned to his wife, and
said:
“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.”
“Dear Philip--Mr. Helmstedt! what mean you?”
“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!”
“Mr. Helmstedt, you do not mean this!” exclaimed the lady, rising
excitedly from her seat.
“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----”
“A captive queen--less happy than a free scullion!”
“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----”
“Six feet by two will suffice me!”
“Aye! until then, if need be!”
“Mr. Helmstedt, you cannot mean this--you are a gentleman!”
“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----”
“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.
“Compose yourself. I know that we are tied together (not so much by
church and state as by something inherent 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!”
“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?”
“You left me no other alternative than to repudiate----”
“Ah!” cried Marguerite, as if again the word had pierced her heart.
“Or--I was about to say--restrain you. I cannot repudiate--I must
restrain you. You, yourself, must see the propriety of the measure.”
“But, Philip, my husband, do you mean to say that I may not even visit
Mrs. Houston?”
“I mean to say that until you satisfactorily explain your late
escapade, you shall not leave the island for any purpose whatever.”
“Not even to visit Nellie?”
“Not even to visit Mrs. Houston.”
“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?”
“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.”
“Oh, Heaven! but the retort is natural. What will Colonel Compton think
or say?”
“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.”
“I could even plead for an exception in favor of my little Nellie but
that I know your inflexible will, Philip.”
“It is scarcely more so than your own; but now, do you forget that
there is an answer to be written to Mrs. Houston?”
“Ah, yes,” said Marguerite, going to the escritoire that we have
already named, and hastily writing a few words.
“DEAREST NELLIE:--I am not well and cannot go to you; waive ceremony,
beloved, and come to your Marguerite.”
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
_Nereide_.
“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.
“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.”
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 _Nereide_,
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.
“Why, where are all the boats, Mr. Helmstedt?”
“Sold, given away, broken up, dispersed--all except this one, which
will serve the necessities of myself and men.”
“But why, Philip?”
“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.”
“I know it. Oh, Heaven forgive me!”
“And you must have no opportunity for repeating that experiment. Your
restraint is a real one, as you will find.”
She turned upon him a look so full of love, resignation and devotion,
as she held out both her hands and said:
“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.”
A few more words sighed out upon his bosom, to which he at last had
drawn her, and then, lifting her head, she murmured:
“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.”
“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.”
“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 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.”
“Marguerite, tell me, is there a hope that, one day, this mystery may
be cleared up?”
“Philip, dearest, yes; a faint hope that I scarcely dare to entertain.”
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.
“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.”
“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.”
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.
“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.
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.
This was Mrs. Houston’s first visit to Mrs. De Lancie Helmstedt’s new
home, and she was full of curiosity and observation.
“How rich the land is, Marguerite! I declare the isle is green down
to the very water’s edge in most places--and 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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“‘My mind to me a kingdom is:
Such perfect joy I find therein,’”
murmured Marguerite, with an ambiguous smile.
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.
Nellie was unhesitating in her commendations of Marguerite’s chamber.
“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.
“I declare, Marguerite, this island lies along due east 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.”
“That is fancy, my dear; Plover’s Point is fifteen miles up the river.”
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.
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.
“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.
“Why, not even when the sea is as calm as it is this beautiful night?”
“I fear not--the sea is proverbially treacherous.”
“Why, you do not mean to say that, rather than venture on the water,
you will confine yourself to this island all your life?”
“I know not, indeed; life is uncertain--mine may be very short.”
“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.
For an answer Marguerite kissed her tenderly, when Nellie said:
“Well, well! I shall visit you frequently, Marguerite, 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.”
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.
Philip Helmstedt and Marguerite were left alone on the beach.
Philip stood with folded arms and moody brow, gloomily watching the
vanishing boat.
But Marguerite was watching him.
He turned and looked at her, saying, in a troubled voice:
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
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.
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 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.
“I fear that Marguerite will not live; I fear that she will die as her
mother died,” said the elder lady.
“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.
“‘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.
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.
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.
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.
Readily admitting the validity of these excuses, the pastor took the
lady at her word, and soon brought his wife to visit her.
And, excepting the family at Buzzard’s Bluff, this amiable pair were
the only acquaintances Mrs. Helmstedt possessed in the neighborhood.
Thus calmly and monotonously passed life on and around the island; its
passage marked that year by only two important events.
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.
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.
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:
“When Marguerite gets well we shall have her out among us again,” or
other hopeful words to the same effect.
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.