“Speak, speak, thou fearful guest!”
--LONGFELLOW.
“I could a tale unfold whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy blood!”
--SHAKESPEARE.
Spiritually speaking, there is no such thing as time or space,
as measured by numbers. For often moments in our experience drag
themselves painfully on into indefinitely protracted duration, and
sometimes years pass in a dream, “as a tale that is told.”
Life passed monotonously to all on Helmstedt’s Island; but most
monotonously to her who might not leave its shores. Every one else
among its inhabitants often varied the scene by going upon the mainland
on either side of the bay. Mr. Helmstedt went off almost every morning,
not infrequently remaining out all day to dine at Colonel Houston’s,
Mr. Wellworth’s, or some other friend’s house. The domestic and
out-servants relieved each other in turn, that they might go to church
on Sundays or visit their friends on the shore. Only Marguerite never
upon any account left the island. The Houstons and the Comptons would
expostulate with her, and talk to Mr. Helmstedt, alike in vain.
“Indeed I cannot leave the island, dear friends,” would Marguerite say,
without assigning any reason why she would not.
“Mrs. Helmstedt does not choose to leave home; it is her will to
confine herself to the island, and her will is a very dominant one, as
you know,” would be Mr. Helmstedt’s explanation.
“I declare it is a monomania! Marguerite is a riddle. Here some years
ago she used to run away from us all, and be absent six or seven
months, without deigning to inform us either where or why she went;
now she chooses to confine herself within the limits of her island
home, without giving us any reason for the eccentricity. But I suppose,
indeed, that it is all occasioned by the state of her nerves,” would be
Nellie’s comment upon all this.
Meanwhile Mrs. Helmstedt passed her time in superintending her house
and servants, all of which was faultlessly managed; in rearing her
child; and in attending, as only a devoted wife can attend, to the
personal comforts of her husband during the day, and in entertaining
him and any chance visitor with her harp or voice or varied
conversation in the evening. Those days upon which Mr. Helmstedt was
absent were the longest and heaviest of all to the recluse--but her
greatest comforts were her child, her occupations and the contemplation
of the glorious scenery around her.
She could never weary of the “infinite variety” of the sea. Some
days, in fine, weather, when the sky was clear, the air calm and the
water smooth, the bay spread out a vast level mirror, framed far
away by green shores and reflecting the firmament from a bosom pure
and peaceable as heaven. Other days, when the winds were rising and
the waves heaving, the whole sky lowered down upon the sea, the wild
waters leaped to meet it, and clouds and waves were mingled together
in dreadful chaos, like two opposing armies in mortal conflict. Some
nights the whole grand expanse of the bay was changed into an ocean of
fluid silver, with shores of diamond light, by the shining of the full
moon down upon the clear water and glittering, white sandy beach. Other
nights, when there was no moon, the dark, transparent waters reflected
clearly the deep blue firmament, brilliantly studded with stars. And
between these extreme phases, under foul or fair days, or dark or
bright nights, there was every variety and shade of change.
When the weather and her engagements permitted, Mrs. Helmstedt,
attended only by her faithful Newfoundlander, Fidelle, passed much time
in walking up and down the sandy beach, looking far out upon the free
waters, or using her spyglass to observe some distant passing ship and
its crew. She made the most of the space allotted to her. The isle, a
mile long by a quarter broad, was about two miles and a half round.
Often, to afford herself the longest walk, she started from some given
spot, and, following the beach, made the circuit of the island--a
long and varied walk for a stranger, but monotonous to her who had no
other, and who from her earliest infancy had been a natural rambler.
She who through childhood and youth had delighted to wander out among
the wild scenes of nature, and lose herself amid the pathless woods,
or to spring upon her favorite steed and fly over hill and vale, miles
and miles away; or jump into a boat propelled by her own single hand,
and explore the coast, with its frequent points and headlands, creeks
and inlets, felt most severely and bitterly this constraint upon her
motions. She never complained, in word, or even in look; she accepted
the suffering and hid it deep in her heart with her secret sorrow. Both
preyed upon her health of mind and body. Daily her form grew thinner
and the fire in her cheeks and eye brighter and fiercer.
Philip Helmstedt observed all this with pain and dread. Yet his pride
and firmness would not permit him to yield one tittle.
“This is a conflict between our wills, Marguerite,” he said, “and one
in which you should at once, as you must sooner or later, yield.”
“I will when I can, Philip.”
“You must, for you are very weary of this island.”
“I have not said so.”
“You are very obstinate, Mrs. Helmstedt.”
“I am very unhappy in offending you--that is a greater sorrow to me
than my restraint.”
“They are the same in fact. Remember, Marguerite, that you are your own
custodian, and know how to get your liberty. Speak and you are free!”
“Would, indeed, that I might utter the words you wish to hear, Philip
Helmstedt. Alas, I cannot!”
“Will not, you mean. Very well, Marguerite, then remember that you
choose this confinement to the island.”
She bowed her head in proud though sad acquiescence, saying:
“Be it so! I accept your version of the affair, Philip. I choose this
confinement on the island.”
Mrs. Helmstedt’s immense wealth was for the present not only of no use,
but of vexation to her; it was troublesome to manage, on account of her
various estates being in places distant, or of difficult access, and
some four or five times in the course of each year it became necessary
for Mr. Helmstedt to make a journey of three or four weeks for the
settlement of accounts.
These absences were so trying to the secluded woman, who had no
companion but her husband, and could scarcely bear to lose him for
a day, that she suggested to Mr. Helmstedt that they should avail
themselves of the first favorable opportunity to dispose of Eagle
Flight, her mountain farm, and of her house on Loudoun street, in
Winchester. Whereupon Mr. Helmstedt, who desired nothing better,
immediately advertised the property for sale, and soon found
purchasers. When the transfer was made and price paid, Mr. Helmstedt
consulted his wife in regard to the disposition of the purchase money.
“Invest it in your own name, and in any way you see fit, dear Philip,”
she said.
And he probably took her at her word, for the subject was never renewed
between them.
Plover’s Point, her most valuable estate, being but fifteen miles up
the river, on the Virginia side, was so readily accessible that it
had been permitted to remain under cultivation, in the hands of an
overseer, subject to the occasional supervision of the master. But
at last an opportunity was presented of selling the place for a very
liberal price, and Mr. Helmstedt made known the fact to his wife.
But Marguerite declined to dispose of Plover’s Point upon any terms
whatever.
“It was my mother’s ancestral home, and my own birthplace, dearest
Philip. As my mother left it to me, I wish to leave it to my daughter.”
“As you please,” said her husband, and dropped the subject.
A few days after that he came to her with an inquiry whether she would
be willing to give a lease of the property for a term of years, and,
glad to be able to meet his wishes at any point, Mrs. Helmstedt at once
agreed to the proposition.
The new tenant of Plover’s Point was Dr. Hartley, with his wife,
son and daughter. They were a great accession to the neighborhood,
for, though fifteen miles up the river, they were, in that spacious
district, considered neighbors. The Houstons, Comptons and Wellworths
called upon them, as also did Mr. Helmstedt, who apologized for the
non-appearance of his wife, saying that Mrs. Helmstedt suffered in
health and spirits and never left her home, and expressed a hope that
they would dispense with form and visit her there. And this, at last,
Dr. and Mrs. Hartley decided to do, and, after having once made the
acquaintance of Marguerite, they felt powerfully attracted to pursue it.
About this time, five years from the birth of her daughter, Marguerite
became the mother of an infant son, who merely opened his eyes upon
this world to close them immediately in death.
The loss of the babe was a severe disappointment to Mr. Helmstedt, and,
for that reason, a heavier sorrow to Marguerite. Her health was now so
enfeebled that her physician, Dr. Hartley, earnestly advised a change
of air and scene, and his advice was warmly seconded by her friends at
Buzzard’s Bluff.
This consultation took place in the presence of Marguerite, who smiled
proudly and mournfully.
Her husband answered:
“It shall be just as Mrs. Helmstedt decides; but as she has confined
herself exclusively to her home, against the wishes and advice of all
her friends, for more than five years, I greatly fear that she will not
be induced, by anybody, to leave it.”
Mrs. Houston replied:
“Think of it, Dr. Hartley. Mrs. Helmstedt has not set foot off this
island for nearly six years! Enough in itself to ruin her health and
spirits.”
“Quite enough, indeed,” said the kind-hearted physician, adding, “I
hope, Mr. Helmstedt, that you will be able to persuade your wife to
leave here for a time.”
“I shall endeavor to do so,” gravely answered that gentleman.
And when the visitors had all departed, and Mr. Helmstedt was alone
with his wife, he took her white, transparent hand, and gazing
mournfully into her emaciated, but still brilliantly beautiful face,
said:
“Marguerite, will you have mercy on yourself? Will you save your
life? Will you, in a word, make the revelation I require as your only
possible ransom, so that I may take you where you may recover your
health? Will you, Marguerite?”
She shook her head in sorrowful pride.
“Have you so mistaken me after all these years, Philip? And do you
think that the revelation I could not make for your dear sake six years
ago I can make now for my own? No, Philip, no.”
And again, for a time, the harassing subject was dropped.
Mrs. Helmstedt had one dear consolation; a lone angel was ever at
her side, her little daughter “Margaret,” as her Anglo-Saxon father
preferred to write the name. As the lady’s health temporarily rallied,
her sweetest employment was that of educating this child.
Margaret had inherited little of her mother’s transcendent beauty
and genius; but the shadow of that mother’s woe lay lingering in her
eyes--those large, soft, dark eyes, so full of earnest tenderness.
Through the dreariest seasons in all the long and dreary years of her
confinement--those desolate seasons when Mr. Helmstedt was varying the
scene of his life at Baltimore, Annapolis, or some other point to which
business or inclination called him; and Nellie was enjoying the society
of her friends in Richmond, and Marguerite was left for weary weeks and
months, companionless on the island, this loving child was her sweetest
comforter. And little Margaret, with her premature and thoughtful
sympathy, better liked to linger near her sad-browed mother, than even
to leave the isle; but sweet as was this companionship, Mrs. Helmstedt,
with a mother’s unselfish affection, was solicitous that Margaret
should enjoy the company of friends of her own age, and frequently sent
her, under the charge of Ralph or Franky Houston, to pass a day at
Rockbridge parsonage with Grace Wellworth, the clergyman’s child, or a
week at Plover’s Point with Clare Hartley, the doctor’s daughter; and
still more frequently she invited one or both of those little girls to
spend a few days on the island.
But at length there came a time, when Margaret was about twelve years
of age, that she lost the society of her young friends. Grace Wellworth
and Clare Hartley were sent up together to Richmond, under the charge
of Colonel and Mrs. Houston, who were going thither on a visit,
to enter a first-class boarding school, and thus Margaret was left
companionless; and for a little while suffered a depression of spirits,
strange and sad in one so young.
Mrs. Helmstedt saw this with alarm, and dreaded the farther effect of
isolation and solitude upon her loving and sensitive child.
“She must not suffer through my fate. Dear as she is, she must leave
me. The sins of her parents shall not be visited upon her innocent
head,” said Marguerite to herself. (Alas! Mrs. Helmstedt, how could you
prevent the action of that natural and certain consequence?) And that
same day, being in her own special parlor, of the bay window, with Mr.
Helmstedt, she said:
“Do you not think, Philip, that it would be best to send our daughter
to Richmond, to be educated with her friends, Grace and Clare?”
“By no means, Marguerite; the plan is not to be thought of for a
moment,” answered Mr. Helmstedt, who did not love his child with one
tithe of the affection he bestowed upon his wife--notwithstanding that
through pride and obstinacy he still kept the latter a sort of prisoner
of honor--and who, knowing how dear to her was the society of her
little girl, would not let the interest of Margaret conflict for an
instant with the happiness of her mother.
“But our child has attained an age now when she needs the companionship
of her equals, as much as she wants teachers.”
“Marguerite! there is not in this wide world a teacher, man or woman,
so, in all respects, and for all reasons, competent to educate
your daughter as yourself. You delight, also, in the occupation of
instructing her; therefore, she shall not leave you.”
“But her isolation--her loneliness? Her evident depression of spirits?”
“She feels the loss of her companions, as she must feel it for some
days, after which she will get over it. For the rest, a child abroad
with nature as she is, cannot suffer from loneliness; and even if she
did, her sufferings would be less than nothing compared with what you
would feel in losing her for years.”
“I pray you do not consider me in this affair.”
“Cease, dear Marguerite; the child is better with you, and shall not
leave you,” said Mr. Helmstedt.
And as little Margaret entered at the same moment to take her music
lesson, the subject was dropped, and Mr. Helmstedt left the room.
But Marguerite did not yield the point. After giving her young daughter
her lesson on the harp, and while sitting exhausted on her sofa, she
suddenly said:
“My dear, you miss Grace and Clare very much, don’t you?”
“Yes, dear mother.”
“Wouldn’t you like to go to Richmond and enter the same school they are
in?” she inquired, pushing aside the dark clustering curls from the
child’s fair forehead, and looking wistfully into her face, which was
suddenly shadowed by a cloud of grief or fear. “Say, would you not, my
Margaret?”
The little red lip quivered, and the dark eyes melted into tears; but
she answered by asking, softly:
“Do you want me to go, mamma?”
“I think, perhaps, it might be best that you should do so, my love.”
“Well, then, I will go,” she said, meekly, struggling to govern her
feelings, and then, losing all self-control, she burst into a fit of
irrepressible weeping; in the midst of which her father re-entered the
room, and learning the cause of her emotion, said:
“Cease crying this moment, Madge. You shall not leave your mother.”
“But--sir, mamma prefers that I should go,” said the little girl,
quickly swallowing her sobs and wiping her eyes, for she feared even
more than she loved her father, though she loved him very much.
“Your mother prefers that you should go, only because she sees you look
sad, and fears that you feel lonesome here without companions of your
own age.”
“Oh, but--I should be more lonesome at Richmond, away from my dear
mamma,” said the little maiden, with a look of amazement, that her
mother should, for a moment, think otherwise.
“Of course you would; so then let the matter rest. Mrs. Helmstedt, are
you at length satisfied?”
Marguerite bowed and smiled to her husband, and then turned upon her
daughter a look of ineffable tenderness, while forming the secret
resolution that her own devoted love and care should compensate to the
maiden for the absence alike of teachers and companions.
And well she kept her silent promise. No princess ever had an
instructress at once so accomplished, so competent and zealous as this
little island rustic possessed in her gifted and devoted mother. And
from this day also, whether for her beloved mother’s sake, she shook
off her sadness, or whether a happy reaction had taken place, Margaret
did not appear to suffer in the least degree from the loneliness so
dreaded for her. As other more favored children learn to walk by
nature, so this lonely island maiden learned to ride on horseback,
to row a skiff, and to work a little sailboat. And daily, after her
lessons were over, she would, in her free, unquestioned way, run down
to the beach, get into her little boat and row around the isle, or if
the wind was fresh and not too high plant her slender mast and hoist
her sail.
Ralph Houston was at this time at Harvard University, but Franky was
at home, preparing for college, under the direction of the Rev. Mr.
Wellworth, whom he attended in his library three times a week. And
Franky came often to the island to see his young neighbor, Margaret,
and in his affectionate zeal would have been Grace, Clare, the city of
Richmond and himself, all in one, for her sweet sake. While at home in
the evenings, he carved “cornelian” rings and bodkins out of broken
tortoiseshell combs, and “ivory” needle-cases and paper-folders out
of boiled mutton bones for her; and she wore and used them because
they were Franky’s work. And if he had pocket money, as he generally
had, for he was a great favorite with his stepmother, who liberally
supplied him, he was sure to send it by the first opportunity to the
city to buy the newest book, picture or music for Margaret, who,
whether the present were good, bad or indifferent of its kind, read
the book, framed the picture or learned the music, because it was the
gift of Franky. As time passed Mr. Houston observed this growing
friendship with delight, and prophesied the future union of the youth
and maiden--a provision at which Franky would blush scarlet between
boyish shame and joy. Other interested parties took cognizance of
this state of affairs. Mr. Helmstedt, whenever he gave himself the
trouble to think of his daughter’s future, viewed this prospect without
dissatisfaction, which was, perhaps, the highest degree of approbation
of which his sombre nature was now capable. And Mrs. Helmstedt also,
conscious of the precarious hold of her feverish spirit upon her frail
body, found great comfort in the contemplation of Franky’s clear
mind and affectionate heart, cheerful temper and strong attachment
to her child. But if Margaret loved Franky it was “at second best,”
and as much for the sake of one far away as for his own. There is no
accounting for the waywardness of the passions and affections, and
if the truth must here be told, Margaret in her secret heart better
liked the dark, earnest, thoughtful man, Ralph, who was twelve years
her senior, and whom she never saw more than twice a year, than this
fair, gay, gentle youth who was her almost daily companion. And no
one suspected this secret, which was but dimly revealed to the young
maiden’s self.
But at length the passage of time brought the day when Margaret was
to lose Franky also. Ralph Houston had graduated at Harvard, and
was coming home for a visit previous to going out to make the grand
tour. And Franky, now fully prepared to enter college, was to take
his brother’s vacated rooms at the university. Nellie Houston had
appropriated all her available funds in fitting out Franky for his new
life, purchasing delicacies and luxuries in the way of fine and costly
wearing apparel and elegant toilet apparatus, such as his father’s
prudence or economy would have denied him; for never did a mother
dote upon an only son with a fonder affection than did Nellie on her
fair stepson, her “pretty boy,” as she called him, even after he was
twenty years of age. Many of the presents she had purchased for her
“boy,” such as a rich watch and chain, a costly seal ring, a heavily
chased gold pencil case with a ruby setting, richly embroidered velvet
fatigue cap and slippers, a handsome dressing gown, Paris kid gloves,
linen cambric handkerchiefs, perfumery, scented soaps, etc.--articles,
some of them, only fit for a lady’s toilet, she had smuggled into his
trunks, unknown to his father; but some things accidentally fell under
the observation of the colonel, who stared in astonishment.
“Why, what upon the face of the earth, Nellie, do you think Frank wants
with this gimcrack?” he said, raising the lid of an elegant inlaid
dressing case.
“He will want it at his morning exercises,” said Nellie.
“Ah, it is you who are making a dandy of that boy! I shall, by and by,
expect to hear, as the highest praise that can be bestowed upon him,
that he is ‘ladylike.’”
“Well, sir, your gallantry will not deny that is very high praise.”
“Humph! yes! about as high as it would be to call a lady ‘manly.’”
“Well, why shouldn’t that be high praise also? Why should not a man,
with all his manliness, possess the delicate tastes of a woman? And why
should not a woman, with all her womanliness, possess the courage and
fortitude of a man? My Franky shall have lace shirt frills and collars
and cuffs, if he likes; and I, if there’s to be a war with England, as
they say, will go and ‘’list for a sojer,’ if I like,” said Nellie,
petulantly.
“Ha, ha, ha! You will certainly have an opportunity, my dear,” said the
colonel; then, growing serious, “for a war can no longer be staved off.”
In addition to her other efforts to please her “boy,” Nellie determined
upon giving him a farewell party, the first party ever given in the
neighborhood. It was difficult in that sparse district to “drum up”
enough young people to form a single quadrille. Grace Wellworth and
Clare Hartley were at home for the Easter holidays. Grace had brought
a schoolmate with her, and Clare had an elder brother, John; and these
four were invited. Mr. and Mrs. Helmstedt and their daughter were, of
course, bidden; Nellie herself carried the invitation, with the view of
teazing Marguerite into accepting it.
“Now, Marguerite, you must be sure to come, it will do you good. You
can come over early in the afternoon, so as to get a good rest before
it is time to dress, and when all is over you can stay all night, you
know. Marguerite, do come. Mr. Helmstedt, lay your commands on her,
make her come, bring her,” said Nellie, playfully appealing to the
master of the house.
“If Mrs. Helmstedt had placed the slightest value upon her husband’s
wishes, not to use so obnoxious a word as commands, madam, she would
not have confined herself to the island thus long,” said that gentleman.
“You will please to excuse me, dear Nellie. Mr. Helmstedt and Margaret
will go with pleasure, but for myself, I cannot leave home.”
“You only think so, Marguerite. I declare it is a monomania that your
friends ought not to put up with,” said Nellie, impatiently. But her
words were as vain then as they had been for many years past.
She went home to make arrangements for her _fête_, and Marguerite
busied herself in preparing her daughter’s costume for the occasion.
Margaret was delighted at the prospect of going to a party, a thing
that she had heard of and read of, but never witnessed. At length the
all-important day arrived. Mr. Helmstedt said that he should attend his
daughter to Buzzard’s Bluff, but that afterward he should have to leave
her there and go to a political meeting at Heathville, so that she must
prepare herself to stay all night with her friends, as he should not be
able to return for her until morning.
“But then mamma will be alone all night,” said Margaret, uneasily.
“Never think of me, sweet girl; I shall sleep,” replied her mother.
Early in the afternoon Forrest received orders to get the _Nereide_
ready to take his master and young mistress across to the Bluff. And
Mrs. Helmstedt, with affectionate care, dressed her daughter. Never had
Margaret been in full dress before. Her attire was rather delicate than
rich, and consisted of a lace robe over a rose-colored silk skirt, and
a wreath of white and red rosebuds in her hair. Her white kid gloves
and white satin shoes were wrapped up to be put on when she should
reach the Bluff.
When all was ready Marguerite walked down with her husband and daughter
to the beach to see them off. As they reached the sands a pleasant
object met their view. It was a fairylike boat, of elegant form,
artistically painted, of a shaded gray on the outside and white,
flushed with rose-color, on the inside; and bore upon its prow, in
silver characters, _The Pearl Shell_.
“And here is the pearl,” said Franky Houston, who had just leaped on
shore, going to Margaret and taking her hand, “will you allow me to put
her in it, Mr. Helmstedt?”
“Certainly, Franky, since you were so kind as to come. Your dainty
‘shell’ is also somewhat cleaner and more suitable to her dress than
our working-day boat.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Helmstedt? Come, Margaret,” said the youth.
“Stop, Franky, I must bid mamma good-by first,” replied the maiden,
going up to her mother. “Sweet mamma! you will not be lonesome?”
“No--no, my love, I shall go to sleep--good-evening,” said Mrs.
Helmstedt, throwing over her daughter’s head and shoulders a fleecy
white shawl, to protect her from the sea breeze.
“Come, Margaret,” pleaded her companion.
“Yes, yes, I am coming, Franky. Mamma, dearest mamma! I do so dislike
to leave you alone to-night--it seems so cruel. We are all going but
you. Everybody on the island, black and white, can go abroad but you.
Mamma, why is it? Why do you never leave the island, dearest mamma?”
inquired Margaret, fixing her earnest, tender eyes wistfully upon her
mother’s face.
“Because I do not will to do so, my dear; there, go and enjoy yourself,
love. See, your father and Forrest are already in the other boat, and
Franky is waiting to put my pearl in his shell. Good-night, sweet!”
said Mrs. Helmstedt, kissing her daughter, with a smile so bright that
it cheered the maiden, and sent her tripping to join her companion.
The _Nereide_, containing Mr. Helmstedt and his man, had already left
the shore. Franky handed Margaret into the dainty boat, that was so
perfectly clean as not to endanger the spotless purity of her gala
dress. When she was seated, and Franky had taken his place at the oars
and pushed a little way from the shore, he said:
“This boat is yours, you know, dear Margaret; my parting gift; I had
it built on purpose, and painted it myself, and named it for you.
‘Margaret,’ you know, means ‘pearl,’ and this boat that carries you
is a pearl shell; I colored it as near like one as I could. I should
like to have the pleasure of rowing you about in it, but”--with a deep
sigh--“I can’t! However, you will not want attention, Margaret, for my
brother Ralph will be home, where I am sure he will stay; for they say
that we are on the eve of war with England, in which case it will not
be expedient for him to go to Europe--so, of course, he will stay home,
and equally, of course, if he is a great Don, he will supply my place
to you, Margaret! You have not answered one word that I have said to
you--why, what is the matter?”
Margaret, with her thoughts and affections still lingering with her
mother left behind, had turned to give her a last look, and in doing so
had started and grown pale to see her still standing there, her black
dress strongly marked against the drear, white beach, alone, desolate,
in an attitude and with an expression of utter despair. Margaret had
never before surprised that look of heartbroken hopelessness upon her
mother’s well-guarded countenance, and now having seen it, she never
afterward in life forgot it.
“You do not speak, Margaret; you do not like my boat?”
“Oh, indeed I do, Franky! And you are very kind; but I am thinking of
mamma; I am afraid she will be lonesome to-night, and, indeed, I wish
to return to her.”
“Nonsense, my dear Margaret. She would send you off again; besides,
what would your father say?”
“But do, then, look at her, Franky, where she stands alone.”
The youth turned around; but Mrs. Helmstedt saw them watching her,
smiled her bright, delusive smile, waved them adieu, and turned away.
Margaret sighed.
And Franky pulled rapidly for the Bluff, which they reached just after
sunset.
“Is not that a fine sight, Margaret?” asked her companion, as they left
the boat and climbed the bluff, pointing to the illuminated front of
the mansion that cast a long stream of red light across the darkening
water.
“Yes,” said Margaret, absently; for she saw in her “mind’s eye,” not
the twenty festive lights before her, but her mother’s solitary figure
left behind on the beach.
They soon arrived at the house, where the young girl was met by Mrs.
Houston, who conducted her to the dressing-room, where Grace Wellworth,
Clare Hartley, and half a dozen other young ladies were arranging their
toilets. Very enthusiastic was the greeting between Margaret and her
young friends, whom she had not met since their return.
“Why, what exquisite taste is displayed in your toilet, Madge, you
little rustic; one would think a city milliner had arranged it--who
dressed you?” inquired Clare Hartley.
“A more delicate hand--my dearest mamma,” said Margaret, her thoughts
again reverting to the mournful figure left standing alone on the beach.
When they were all ready, they descended to the dancing-room--two large
parlors thrown into one, brilliantly lighted, and half filled with a
company of young, middle-aged and elderly persons, for there was not
youth enough in that neighborhood to make a considerable assembly of
themselves. A temporary platform at one end of the room accommodated
four sable musicians, with a large and small violin, a tambourine and
banjo, which they were tuning up with great zeal.
Franky “opened the ball” by leading Margaret out; other couples
instantly followed, and the dancing commenced, but through the
liveliest strains of the music Margaret heard only her lonely mother’s
fond “good-night,” and with flying feet and beaming smiles around her,
saw only her mother’s solitary figure and mournful brow.
Ah! Marguerite Helmstedt! How could you presume to say: “The sins of
her parents shall not be visited upon this child.”
About nine o’clock the supper was served, and, while the company were
crowding in to the supper table, Margaret called Franky aside and said:
“Franky, the moonlight is bright upon the water; if you love me, dear
Franky, take me home to mamma.”
“Why, you do astound me, dear Margaret! What would the company say?
Mother would never let you go.”
“I must steal away unobserved, for, Franky, I am sick to return to
mamma. Something draws me so strongly that I must and will go, even, if
need be, alone--do you understand?”
“I understand, dear Madge, that you inherit firmness from both sides
of your house, and that it is of very little use to oppose your will;
therefore, Margaret, I am at your orders.”
“Thank you, dear Franky--now go and see that the boat is ready, while
I run and put on my other shoes and shawl. We can go away quite
unobserved, and when you return you can make my apologies and adieus to
Mrs. Houston.”
Franky obeyed her.
And ten minutes after the youth and maiden were in _The Pearl Shell_,
skimming over the moonlit waters toward the isle.
Meanwhile Mrs. Helmstedt, when she had waved adieu to the young people
on their way to the party and turned from them, did not go immediately
home, but rambled up toward the north end of the island, and here
she walked up and down the sands, watching absently the monotonous
in-coming of the tide, or the leap and dip of the fish, or the slow
sailing of some laggard water fowl through the evening air. As far
as her eye could reach not a sail was visible in any direction; land
and water was a scene of unbroken solitude for hours while she walked
there. The sunset threw into deep shadow the long line of the opposite
western shore, the sky grew dark, and still the sad recluse pursued her
lonely monotonous walk. After awhile the full moon rose and changed the
darkened bay into a sea of fluid silver, and shining full against the
blackened western shore, changed it into a line of diamond light. Then
Marguerite was aware of a sail making down the bay and bearing full
upon the island. There was no reason for the feeling, but the approach
of this packet filled the lady’s mind with a strange anxiety, alike
impossible to explain or expel. The vessel anchored near the isle and
sent out a boat, manned by two sailors, and containing a third person,
apparently a passenger.
The boat rowed rapidly toward the very spot upon which the lady stood
watching. In five minutes it touched the sands, and the passenger, a
gentleman of about fifty years of age, stepped ashore, and, walking up
to Marguerite, bowed respectfully and inquired:
“Will you be so good as to inform me, madam, whether Mrs. Helmstedt is
at present at home.”
But as the stranger approached, Marguerite had grown pale, and now,
leaning against a pine tree for support, exclaimed in a faint tone:
“My God, has it come at last?”
“I fear, madam, that I have alarmed you by my sudden approach; reassure
yourself, dear lady!” said the visitor, politely.
But Marguerite, dropping her hands from before her agonized
countenance, exclaimed:
“Braunton! am I so changed, then, that you do not know me? I am
Marguerite Helmstedt, whom you seek. But in the name of Heaven, then,
what fatality has brought you here?”
“A fatality indeed, madam,” answered the stranger, in a sad tone.
“Come up to the house! by a merciful chance I am alone this evening,”
said the lady, struggling to sustain herself against the agony of mind
that was written in characters of iron on her corrugated brow. The
stranger gave her his arm as an indispensable support, and the two
proceeded toward the mansion.