“They said that guilt a shade had cast
Upon her youthful fame,
And scornful murmurs as she passed
Were mingled with her name.
In truth, it was a painful sight
As former friends went by
To see her trembling lip grow white
Beneath each altered eye.”
--MRS. HOLMES.
To the surprise of all the family at the Bluff, Margaret Helmstedt,
the third morning from her disappearance, returned to her guardian’s
house. Mrs. Houston took upon herself the ungenial task of meeting the
delinquent.
“Well, miss, or rather, I beg your pardon, madam, permit me to
congratulate you! though really I had not supposed you would have so
soon honored my humble house with a visit,” said Nellie, as she met her
at the door.
“Mrs. Houston, I do not understand you: pray, let me pass,” pleaded the
girl, who looked pale, exhausted, and heartbroken.
“Pass, indeed! I would first know who it is that so glibly demands to
pass. No, madam; your right to pass here is forfeited. I only wonder
that you should present yourself. But I suppose that you have come for
your effects; if so, inform me where they shall be sent, and I will
have them forwarded.”
Margaret leaned half fainting against the door frame, but
notwithstanding her physical prostration and mental disturbance, she
maintained her presence of mind.
“Mrs. Houston, you are mistaken. I bear no new name or new relation, as
your words would seem to imply.”
“Then, miss, so much the worse!” exclaimed Nellie, indignantly.
“I do not understand you,” said Margaret, in amazement.
“You do! And I wonder more than ever that you should presume to present
yourself before me!” retorted the lady, raising her voice.
“Mrs. Houston, my mother was your bosom friend. Do not insult her
daughter,” said Margaret, as the blood rushed to her face.
“You have dishonored your mother!” exclaimed Nellie, in a paroxysm of
emotion between anger, awakened memory and grief.
“God knoweth!” replied the maiden, dropping her head and her clasped
hands with a gesture of profound despair.
But the altercation had reached the ears of Colonel Houston, who now
came out, saying:
“Nellie, my dear, this is not the way to meet this exigency.
Good-morning, Miss Helmstedt, pray walk in and be seated. Nellie, she
is but a young thing! If she has committed any grave fault, it carries
its own bitter punishment, God knows. As for us, since she presents
herself here again, we must continue to give her shelter and protection
until the arrival of her father. Nay, Nellie, my dear, I say this must
be done whatever her offences may be.”
“You too! Oh, you too, Colonel Houston!” involuntarily exclaimed
Margaret, clasping her hands.
“Miss Helmstedt, my child, I am not your judge. Make a confidante of my
wife, she loved your mother. Go into your apartment, Margaret. Attend
her, Mrs. Houston.”
“Colonel Houston, I thank you! Mrs. Houston,” she continued, in a
faltering voice; “I returned here only--because--it was my appointed
place of abode--the home selected for me by my parents and--Ralph.”
“Never mind about Ralph now, my child,” said the colonel, in a gentle
tone, which nevertheless cut Margaret to the heart. She meekly bowed
her head and passed on to her own apartments, followed by Mrs. Houston,
who threw herself into a chair and immediately commenced a close
catechism, which was interrupted in the midst by Margaret saying:
“Dear Mrs. Houston, not from any want of respect to you, and not in
defiance of your authority, but from the direst necessity--Oh, what am
I saying!” She stopped suddenly in great anguish and remained silent.
“Margaret Helmstedt, what mean you?” demanded Mrs. Houston, indignantly.
“Nothing! I mean nothing!”
“You mean to affront me!”
“No, Heaven knows!”
“How can you explain or defend your conduct?”
“In no manner!”
“And you expect us quietly to submit to your contumacy?”
“No! Do your will. I cannot blame you!”
“And Ralph?”
Like the rising of an inward light came a transient glow of faith from
her beautiful face.
“Ralph will think no evil,” she said, softly.
“Yet let me assure you, Miss Helmstedt, that though Ralph Houston’s
chivalric confidence in you may be unshaken; yet his father will never
now consent to the continuance of his engagement with you. You heard
what Colonel Houston said?”
“I heard,” said Margaret, with gentle dignity.
“You heard? what then!”
“Mr. Houston is twenty-eight years of age, and his own master.”
“And what follows, pray, from that?”
“That in this matter he will do as seems to him right!”
“And yourself?”
“I leave my destiny with the fullest faith where God, my parents and
his parents placed it--in the hands of my betrothed husband.”
“And he will abide by his engagement! I know his Quixotic temper! he
will. But, Margaret Helmstedt, delicacy requires of you to retire from
the contract.”
Margaret smiled mournfully, and answered earnestly:
“Madam, God knoweth that there are higher principles of action than
fantastic delicacy. I have no right to break my engagement with Ralph
Houston. I will free him from his bond; but if he holds me to mine,
why so be it; he is wiser than I am, and in the name of the Lord I am
his affianced wife.”
Nellie scarcely knew how to reply to this. She looked straight into
the face of the girl as though she would read and expose her soul.
Superficially that face was pale and still; the lips compressed;
the eyes cast down until the close, long lashes lay penciled on the
white cheeks; but, under all, a repressed glow of devotion, sorrow,
firmness, fervor, made eloquent the beautiful countenance, as she sat
there, with her hands clasped and unconsciously pressed to her bosom.
Despite of the strong circumstantial evidence, Nellie could not look
into that face and hold to her belief the owner’s unworthiness. And the
little woman grew more angry at the inconsistency and contradiction of
her own thoughts and feelings. She ascribed this to Margaret’s skill
in influencing her. And out of her pause and study she broke forth
impatiently:
“You are an artful girl, Margaret. I do not know where you get your
duplicity, not from your mother, I know. No matter; thank Heaven, in
a few days your father and Ralph will be here, and my responsibility
over.” And rising, angrily, she left the room, and left Margaret
remaining in the same attitude of superficial calmness and suppressed
excitement.
Nellie went to her own especial sitting-room, communicating by short
passages with storeroom, pantry and kitchen, and where she transacted
all her housekeeping business. She found her own maid, the pretty
mulatress, with knitting in hand, as usual, in attendance.
“Go at once, Jessie, and call Miss Helmstedt’s servants here.”
The girl obeyed, and soon returned, accompanied by Hildreth and
Forrest, who made their “reverence,” and stood waiting the lady’s
pleasure.
“I suppose your mistress has given you orders to reply to no questions
in regard to her absence!” asked Nellie, sharply.
“No, madam; Miss Marget did nothing of the sort,” answered Forrest.
“Be careful of your manner, sir.”
Forrest bowed.
“When did she leave the house?”
“Night afore last.”
“With whom?”
“Me an’ Hild’eth, madam.”
“No others?”
“No, madam.”
“Where did she go?”
“Up the river some ways to a landin’ on to de Marylan’ shore as I never
was at afore.”
“And what then?”
“She lef’ me den, Hild’eth an’ me, at a farmhouse where we landed, an’
took a horse an’ rode away. She was gone all day. Last night she come
back, an’ paid de bill, and took boat an’ come straight home.”
“Very well, that is all very well of you, Forrest, so far. You have
told the truth, I suppose; but you have not told the whole truth, I
know. Whom did she meet at that farmhouse? and who rode away with her
when she went?”
“Not a singly soul did she meet, ’cept it was de fam’ly. An’ not a
singly soul did ride with her.”
“You are lying!” exclaimed Nellie, who, in her anger, was very capable
of using strong language to the servants.
“No! ’fore my ’Vine Marster in heaben, I’se tellin’ of you de trufe,
Miss Nellie.”
“You are not! Your mistress has tutored you what to say.”
The old man’s face flushed darkly, as he answered:
“I ax your pardon very humble, Miss Nellie; but Miss Marget couldn’t
tutor no one to no false. An’ on de contrairy wise she said to we
den, my sister an’ me, she said: ‘Forrest and Hildreth, mind when you
are questioned in regard to me tell the truf as jus’ you know it.’
Dat’s all, Miss Nellie. ’Deed it is, madam. Miss Marget is high beyant
tutorin’ anybody to any false.”
“There! you are not requested to indorse Miss Helmstedt. And very
likely she did not take you into her counsels. Now, tell me the name of
the place where you stopped?”
“I doesn’t know it, Miss Nellie, madam.”
“Well, then, the name of the people?”
“Dey call de old gemman Marse John, an’ de ole lady Miss Mary. I didn’
hear no other name.”
“You are deceiving me!”
“No, ’fore my Heabenly Marster, madam.”
“You are!” And here followed an altercation not very creditable to
the dignity of Mrs. Colonel Houston, and which was, besides, quite
fruitless, as the servant could give her no further satisfaction.
All that forenoon Margaret sat in her room, occupying her hands with
some needlework in which her heart took little interest. She dreaded
the dinner hour, in which she should have to face the assembled family.
She would gladly have remained fasting in her room, for, indeed, her
appetite was gone, but she wished to do nothing that could be construed
into an act of resentment. So, when the bell rang, she arose with a
sigh, bathed her face, smoothed her black tresses, added a little lace
collar and locket brooch to her black silk dress, and passed out to the
dining-room.
The whole family were already seated at the table; but Colonel Houston,
who never failed in courtesy to the orphan girl, arose, as usual,
and handed her to her seat. Her eyes were cast down, her cheeks were
deeply flushed. She wore, poor girl, what seemed a look of conscious
guilt, but it was the consciousness, not of guilt, but of being thought
guilty. She could scarcely lift her heavy lids to meet and return
the cold nods of recognition with which old Colonel and Mrs. Compton
acknowledged her presence. The fervid devotion that had nerved her
heart to meet Mrs. Houston’s single attack was chilled before this
table full of cold faces and averted eyes. She could not partake of the
meal; she could scarcely sustain herself through the sitting; and at
the end she escaped from the table as from a scene of torture.
“She is suffering very much; I will go and talk to her,” said the
really kind-hearted old Mrs. Compton.
“No, mother, do nothing of the sort. It would be altogether useless.
You might wear out your lungs to no purpose. She is perfectly
contumacious,” said Mrs. Houston.
“Nellie, my dear, she is the child of your best friend.”
“I know it,” exclaimed the little lady, with the tears of grief and
rage rushing to her eyes, “and that is what makes it so difficult to
deal with her; for if she were any other than Marguerite De Lancie’s
daughter, I would turn her out of the house without more ado.”
“My good mother, and my dear wife, listen to me. You are both right,
in a measure. I think with you, Nellie, that since Miss Helmstedt
persistently declines to explain her strange course, self-respect and
dignity should hold us all henceforth silent upon this subject. And
with you, Mrs. Compton, I think that regard to the memory of the mother
should govern our conduct toward the child until we can resign her into
the hands of her father. The trial will be short. We may daily expect
his arrival, and in the meantime we must avoid the obnoxious subject,
and treat the young lady with the courtesy due solely to Marguerite De
Lancie’s daughter.”
While this conversation was on the tapis, the door was thrown open,
and the Rev. Mr. Wellworth announced. This worthy gentleman’s arrival
was, of late, the harbinger of startling news. The family had grown to
expect it on seeing him. His appearance now corroborated their usual
expectations. His manner was hurried, his face flushed, his expression
angry.
“Good-day, friends! Has your fugitive returned?”
“Yes, why?” inquired three or four in a breath, rising from the table.
“Because mine has, that is all!” replied the old man, throwing down his
hat and seating himself unceremoniously. “Yes, Ensign Dawson presented
himself this morning at our house, looking as honest, as frank, and
as innocent as that exemplary young man generally does. I inquired
why he came, and how he dared present himself. He replied that he had
been unavoidably detained, but that as soon as he was at liberty, he
had returned to redeem his parole and save his honor. I told him that
‘naught was never in danger,’ but requested him to be more explicit. He
declined, saying that he had explained to me that he had been detained,
and had in the first moment of his liberty returned to give himself up,
and that was enough for me to know.”
“But, you asked him about the supposed companion of his flight?”
inquired the indiscreet Nellie.
“Ay, and when I mentioned Margaret Helmstedt’s name, his eyes flashed
fire! he clapped his hand where his sword was not, and looked as if he
would have run me through the body!”
“And gave you no satisfaction, I daresay?”
“None whatever--neither denying nor affirming anything.”
“And what have you done with the villain? I hope you have locked him up
in the cellar!” exclaimed the indignant Nellie.
“Not I, indeed; if I had, the case would have been hopeless.”
“I--I do not understand you,” said Nellie.
The clergyman looked all around the room, and then replied:
“There are no giddy young people here to repeat the story. I will tell
you. Grace is a fool! All girls are, I believe! A scarlet coat with
gilt ornaments inflames their imaginations--a wound melts their hearts!
And our wounded prisoner, between his fine scarlet and gold coat and
his broken rib--(well, you understand me!)--if I had locked him up in
the cellar, or in the best bedroom, my girl would have straightway
imagined me a tyrannical old despot, and my captive would have grown a
hero in her eyes! No, I invited him to dinner, drank his health, played
a game of backgammon with him, and afterward returned him his parole,
and privately signified that he was at liberty to depart. And however
my silly girl feels about it, she cannot say that I persecuted this
‘poor wounded hussar.’”
“But, the d----l! you do not mean to say that this villain aspired to
Grace also?” exclaimed Colonel Houston, in dismay.
“How can I tell? I do not know that he did aspire to Margaret, or that
he didn’t aspire to Grace! All I know is, that Grace behaved like
a fool after his first departure and worse, if possible, after his
second. But Margaret, you say, has returned?”
“She came back this morning.”
“And what does the unfortunate girl say?”
“Like your prisoner, she refuses to affirm or deny anything.”
“Mr. Wellworth,” said Colonel Houston, “we have decided to speak no
more upon the subject with Miss Helmstedt, but to leave matters as they
are until the return of her father, who is daily expected.”
“I think, under the circumstances, that that is as well,” replied the
old man. And soon after, he concluded his visit and departed.
And as the subject was no more mentioned to Margaret, she remained in
ignorance of the visit of Mr. Wellworth.
And from this time Margaret Helmstedt kept her own apartments,
except when forced to join the family at their meals. And upon these
occasions, the silence of the ladies, and the half compassionate
courtesy of Colonel Houston, wounded her heart more deeply than the
most bitter reproaches could have done.
A week passed in this dreary manner, and still Major Helmstedt and
Captain Houston had not returned, though they were as yet daily
expected.
Margaret, lonely, desolate, craving companionship and sympathy, one
day ordered her carriage and drove up to the parsonage to see Grace
Wellworth. She was shown into the little sitting-room where the
parson’s daughter sat sewing.
Grace arose to meet her friend with a constrained civility that cut
Margaret to the heart. She could not associate her coldness with the
calumnious reports afloat concerning herself, and therefore could not
comprehend it.
But Margaret’s heart yearned toward her friend; she could not bear to
be at variance with her.
“My dearest Grace, what is the matter? have I unconsciously offended
you in any way?” she inquired, gently, as she sat down beside the girl
and laid her hand on her arm.
“Unconsciously! no, I think not! You are doubly a traitor, Margaret
Helmstedt! Traitor to your betrothed and to your friend!” replied Miss
Wellworth, bitterly.
“Grace! this from you!”
“Yes, this from me! of all others from me! The deeply injured have a
right to complain and reproach.”
“Oh, Grace! Grace! my friend!” exclaimed Margaret, wringing her hands.
But before another word was said, old Mr. Wellworth entered the room.
“Good-afternoon, Miss Helmstedt. Grace, my dear, go down to Dinah’s
quarter and give her her medicine, Miss Helmstedt will excuse you. One
of our women has malaria fever, Miss Helmstedt.”
“Indeed! I am sorry; but I have some skill in nursing: shall I not go
with Grace?” inquired Margaret, as her friend arose to leave the room.
“No, young lady; I wish to have some conversation with you.”
Grace sulkily departed, and Margaret meekly resumed her seat.
“Miss Helmstedt, my poor child, it is a very painful duty that I
have now to perform. Since the decease of my wife, I have to watch
with double vigilance over the welfare of my motherless daughter,
and I should feel indebted to you, Margaret, if you would abstain
from visiting Grace until some questions in regard to your course are
satisfactorily answered.”
Margaret’s face grew gray with anguish as she arose to her feet, and
clasping her hands, murmured:
“My God! my God! You do not think I could do anything that should
separate me from the good of my own sex?”
“Margaret, unhappy child, that question is not for me to answer. I dare
not judge you, but leave the matter to God above and to your father on
earth.”
“Farewell, Mr. Wellworth. I know the time will come when your kind
nature will feel sorrow for having stricken a heart already so bruised
and bleeding as this,” she said, laying her hand upon her surcharged
bosom; “but you are not to blame, so God bless you and farewell,” she
repeated, offering her hand.
The clergyman took and pressed it, and the tears sprang to his eyes as
he answered:
“Margaret, the time has come, when I deeply regret the necessity of
giving you pain. Alas! my child, ‘the way of the transgressor is
hard.’ May God deliver your soul,” and rising, he attended her to her
carriage, placed her in it, and saying:
“God bless you!” closed the door and retired.
“Oh, mother! mother! Oh, mother! mother! behold the second gift--my
only friendship! They are yours, mother! they are yours! only love
me from heaven! for I love you beyond all on earth,” cried Margaret,
covering her sobbing face, and sinking back in the carriage.
Margaret returned home to her deserted and lonely rooms. No one came
thither now; no one invited her thence. Darker lowered the clouds of
fate over her devoted young head. Another weary week passed, and still
the returning soldiers had not arrived. The Sabbath came--the first
Sabbath in October.
Margaret had always found the sweetest consolation in the ordinances
of religion. This, being the first Sabbath of the month, was sacrament
Sunday. And never since her entrance into the church had Margaret
missed the communion. And now, even in her deep distress, when she so
bitterly needed the consolations of religion, it was with a subdued joy
that she prepared to receive them. It was delightful autumn weather,
and the whole family who were going would fill the family coach--so
much had been intimated to Margaret through her attendants. Therefore
she was obliged to order her own carriage. The lonely ride, under
present circumstances, was far more endurable than the presence of
the family would have been; and solitude and silence afforded her the
opportunity for meditation that the occasion required.
She reached the church and left her carriage before the hour of
service. The fine day had drawn an unusually large congregation
together, and had kept them sauntering and gossiping out in the open
air; but Margaret, as she smiled or nodded to one or another, met only
scornful glances or averted heads. More than shocked, appalled and
dismayed by this sort of reception, she hurried into the church and on
to her pew.
Margaret had always, in preference to the Houstons’ pew, occupied
her own mother’s, “to keep it warm,” she had said, in affectionate
explanation, to Mrs. Houston. Generally, Grace or Clare, or both,
came and sat with her to keep her company. But to-day, as yet, neither
of her friends had arrived, and she occupied her pew alone. As hers
was one of those side pews in a line with the pulpit, her position
commanded not only the preacher’s, but the congregation’s view. The
preacher had not come. The congregation in the church was sparse, the
large majority remaining in the yard. Yet, as Margaret’s eyes casually
roved over this thin assembly, she grew paler to notice how heads
were put together, and whispers and sidelong glances were directed to
herself. To escape this, and to find strength and comfort, she opened
her pocket Bible and commenced reading.
Presently, the bell tolled; and the people came pouring in, filling
their pews. About the time that all was quiet, the minister came in,
followed at a little distance by his son and daughter, who passed into
the parsonage pew, while he ascended into the pulpit, offered his
preliminary private prayer, and then opening the book commenced the
sublime ritual of worship.
“The Lord is in His holy temple. Let all the earth keep silence before
Him.”
These words, repeated Sunday after Sunday, never lost their sublime
significance for Margaret. They ever impressed her solemnly, at once
awing and elevating her soul. Now as they fell upon her ear, her
sorrows and humiliations were, for the time, set aside. A hundred eyes
might watch her, a hundred tongues malign her; but she neither heeded,
nor even knew it. She knew she was alone--she could not help knowing
this; Grace had passed her by; Clare had doubtless come, but not to
her. She felt herself abandoned of human kind, but yet not alone, for
“God was in His holy temple.”
The opening exhortation, the hymn, the prayers, and the lessons for the
day were all over, and the congregation knelt for the litany.
“From envy, hatred and malice, and all uncharitableness, good Lord
deliver us.”
These words had always slid easily over the tongue of Margaret, so
foreign had these passions been to her life and experience; but now
with what earnestness of heart they were repeated:
“That it may please Thee to forgive our enemies, persecutors and
slanderers, and to turn their hearts.”
Formal words once, repeated as by rote, now how full of significance to
Margaret. “Oh, Father in Heaven,” she added, “help me to ask this in
all sincerity.”
The litany was over, and the little bustle that ensued, of people
rising from their knees, Margaret’s pew door was opened, a warm hand
clasped hers, and a cordial voice whispered in her ear:
“I am very late to-day, but ‘better late than never,’ even at church.”
And Margaret, looking up, saw the bright face of Clare Hartley before
her.
Poor Margaret, at this unexpected blessing, nearly burst into tears.
“Oh, Clare, have you heard? have you heard?” she eagerly whispered.
There was no time to say more; the services were recommenced, and the
congregation attentive.
When the usual morning exercises were over, a portion of the
congregation retired, while the other remained for the communion. Clare
was not a communicant, but she stayed in the pew to wait for Margaret.
Not with the first circle, nor yet with the second, but meekly with the
third, Margaret approached the Lord’s table. Mr. Wellworth administered
the wine, and one of the deacons the bread. Margaret knelt near the
center of the circle, so that about half the set were served before the
minister came to her. And when he did, instead of putting the blessed
chalice into her hand, he stooped and whispered:
“Miss Helmstedt, I would prefer to talk with you again before
administering the sacrament to you.”
This in face of the whole assembly. This at the altar. Had a
thunderbolt fallen upon her head, she could scarcely have been more
heavily stricken, more overwhelmed and stunned.
This, then, was the third offering; the comfort of the Christian
sacraments was sacrificed. No earthly stay was left her now, but the
regard of her stern father and the love of Ralph. Would they remain
to her? For her father she could not decide. One who knew him best,
and loved him most, had died because she dared not trust him with the
secret of her life. But for Ralph! Ever at the thought of him, through
her deeper distress, the great joy of faith arose, irradiating her soul
and beaming from her countenance.
But now, alas! no thought, no feeling, but a sense of crushing shame
possessed her. How she left that spot she never could have told! The
first fact she knew was that Clare had left her pew to meet and join
her; Clare’s supporting arm was around her waist; Clare’s encouraging
voice was in her ears; Clare took her from the church and placed her
in her carriage; and would have entered and sat beside her, but that
Margaret, recovering her presence of mind, repulsed her, saying:
“No, Clare! no, beloved friend! it is almost well to have suffered so
much to find a friend so loyal and true; but your girlish arm cannot
singly sustain me. And you shall not compromise yourself for me. Leave
me, brave girl; leave me to my fate!”
“Now may the Lord leave me when I do! No, please Heaven, Clare Hartley
stands or falls with her friend!” exclaimed the noble girl, as she
entered and seated herself beside Margaret. “Drive on, Forrest,” she
added, seeing Miss Helmstedt too much preoccupied to remember to give
the order.
“My father was not at church to-day. So if you will send a messenger
with a note from me to Dr. Hartley, I will remain with you, Margaret,
until your father arrives.”
“Oh, Clare! Clare! if you hurt yourself for me, I shall never forgive
myself for allowing you to come.”
“As if you could keep me away.”
“Clare, do you know what they say of me?”
Clare shook her head, frowned, beat an impatient tattoo with her feet
upon the mat, and answered:
“Know it! No; I do not! Do you suppose that I sit still and listen
to any one slandering you? Do you imagine that any one would dare to
slander you in my presence? I tell you, Margaret, that I should take
the responsibility of expelling man or woman from my father’s house who
should dare to breathe a word against you.”
“Oh, Clare! the circumstantial evidence against me is overwhelming!”
“What is circumstantial evidence, however strong, against your whole
good and beautiful life?”
“You would never believe ill of me.”
“Margaret--barring original sin, which I am required to believe in--I
think I have a pure heart, a clear head, and strong eyes. I do not find
so much evil in my own soul, as to be obliged to impute a part of it
to another. I never confuse probabilities; and, lastly, I can tell an
Agnes from a Calista at sight.”
By this time the rapid drive had brought them home. Clare scribbled a
hasty note, which Forrest conveyed to her father.
The Comptons and the Houstons were all communicants, and did not leave
the church until all the services were over. They had been bitterly
galled and humiliated by the repulse that Margaret Helmstedt, a member
of their family, had received. On their way home, they discussed
the propriety of immediately sending her off, with her servants, to
Helmstedt’s Island.
“Her father does not come; her conduct grows worse and worse; she has
certainly forfeited all claims to our protection, and she compromises
us every day,” urged Nellie.
“I am not sure but that the isle would be the best and most secure
retreat for her until the coming of her father; the servants there
are faithful and reliable, and the place is not so very accessible to
interlopers, now that the British have retired,” said old Mrs. Compton.
Such being the opinion of the ladies of the family, upon a case
immediately within their own province, Colonel Houston could say but
little.
“Dear mother and fair wife, the matter rests with you at last; but for
myself, I prefer that the girl should remain under our protection until
the arrival of her father. I would place her nowhere, except in Major
Helmstedt’s own hands.”
The ladies, however, decided that Margaret Helmstedt should, the
next morning, be sent off to the isle. And the colonel reluctantly
acquiesced. As for old Colonel Compton, from first to last he had not
interfered, or even commented, except by a groan or a sigh.
Upon arriving at home, they were astonished to find Clare Hartley with
Margaret. And when they were told that Forrest had been dispatched to
Plover’s Point, with a note from Clare to inform her father of her
whereabouts, Nellie prophesied that the messenger would bring back
orders for Clare to return immediately. And she decided to say nothing
to Margaret about the approaching exodus until after Clare’s departure.
Mrs. Houston’s prediction was verified. Forrest returned about sunset
with a note from Dr. Hartley to his daughter, expressing surprise that
she should have made this visit without consulting him, and commanding
her, as it was too late for her to cross the bay that evening, to
return, without fail, early the next morning.
Margaret gazed anxiously at Clare while the latter read her note.
“Well, Clare! well?” she asked, eagerly, as her friend folded the paper.
“Well, dear, as I left home without settling up some matters, I must
run back for a few hours to-morrow morning; but I will be sure to come
back and redeem my pledge of remaining near you until your father’s
arrival, dear Margaret; for every minute I see more clearly that you
need some faithful friend at your side,” replied Clare, who felt
confident of being able to persuade her father to permit her return.
Clare slept with Margaret in her arms that night. And early the next
morning--very early, to deprecate her father’s displeasure, she entered
Margaret’s little _Pearl Shell_, and was taken by Forrest across the
bay and up the river to Plover’s Point.
She had scarcely disappeared from the house, before Mrs. Houston
entered Miss Helmstedt’s room.
Margaret was seated in her low sewing-chair with her elbow leaning on
the little workstand beside her, her pale forehead bowed upon her open
palm, and a small piece of needlework held laxly in the other hand
lying idly upon her lap. Her eyes were hollow, her eyelashes drooping
until they overshadowed cheeks that wore the extreme pallor of
illness. Her whole aspect was one of mute despair.
The bustling entrance of Mrs. Houston was not perceived until the lady
addressed her sharply:
“Miss Helmstedt, I have something to say to you.”
Margaret started ever so slightly, and then quietly arose, handed her
visitor a chair, and resumed her own seat, and after a little while her
former attitude, her elbow resting on the stand, her head bowed upon
her hand.
“Miss Helmstedt,” said the lady, taking the offered seat with an air of
importance, “we have decided that under present circumstances, it is
better that you should leave the house at once with your servants, and
retire to the isle. Your effects can be sent after you.”
A little lower sank the bowed head--a little farther down slid the
relaxed hand, that was the only external evidence of the new blow she
had received. To have had her good name smirched with foul calumny; to
have suffered the desertion of all her friends save one; to have been
publicly turned from the communion table; all this had been bitter as
the water of Marah! Still she had said to herself: “Though all in this
house wound me with their frowns and none vouchsafe me a kind word or
look, yet will I be patient and endure it until they come. My father
and Ralph shall find me where they left me.”
But now to be sent with dishonor from this home of shelter, where she
awaited the coming of her father and her betrothed husband; and under
such an overwhelming mass of circumstantial evidence against her as to
justify in all men’s eyes those who discarded her--this, indeed, was
the bitterness of death!
Yet one word from her would have changed all. And now she was under no
vow to withhold that word, for she recollected that her dying mother
had said to her: “If ever, my little Margaret, your honor or happiness
should be at stake through this charge with which I have burdened you,
cast it off, give my secret to the wind!” And now a word that she was
free to speak would lift her from the pit of ignominy and set her
upon a mount of honor. It would bring the Comptons, the Houstons, the
Wellworths and the whole company of her well-meaning, but mistaken
friends to her feet. Old Mr. Wellworth would beg her pardon, Grace
would weep upon her neck. The family here would lavish affection upon
her. Nellie would busy herself in preparations for the approaching
nuptials. The returning soldiers, instead of meeting disappointment
and humiliation, would greet--the one his adored bride--the other his
beloved daughter. And confidence, love and joy would follow.
But then a shadow of doubt would be cast upon that grave under the oaks
by the river. And quickly as the temptation came, it was repulsed. The
secret that Marguerite De Lancie had died to keep, her daughter would
not divulge to be clear of blame. “No, mother, no, beautiful and gifted
martyr, I can die with you, but I will never betray you! Come what will
I will be silent.” And compressing her sorrowful and bloodless lips and
clasping her hands, Margaret “took up her burden of life again.”
“Well, Miss Helmstedt, I am waiting here for any observation you may
have to offer, I hope you will make no difficulty about the plan
proposed.”
“No, Mrs. Houston, I am ready to go.”
“Then, Miss Helmstedt, you had better order your servants to pack up
and prepare the boat. We wish you to leave this morning; for Colonel
Houston, who intends to see you safe to the island, and charge the
people there concerning you, has only this day at his disposal.
To-morrow he goes to Washington, to meet Ralph and Frank, who, we learn
by a letter received this morning, are on their way home.”
This latter clause was an additional piece of cruelty, whether
intentional or only thoughtless on the part of the speaker. Ralph so
near home, and she dismissed in dishonor! Margaret felt it keenly; but
she only inquired in a low and tremulous voice:
“And my father?”
“Your father, it appears, is still detained by business in New York.
And now I will leave you to prepare for your removal.”
Margaret rang for her servants, directed Hildreth to pack up her
clothing, and Forrest to make ready the boat, for they were going back
to the island.
Her faithful attendants heard in sorrowful dismay. They had acutely
felt and deeply resented the indignities inflicted upon their young
mistress.
An hour served for all necessary preparations, and then Margaret sent
and reported herself ready to depart.
The family assembled in the hall to bid her good-by. When she took
leave of them they all looked grave and troubled. Old Mrs. Compton
kissed her on the cheek and prayed God to bless her. And the tears
rushed to Colonel Houston’s eyes when he offered his arm to the
suffering girl, whose pale face looked so much paler in contrast with
the mourning dress she still wore.
They left the house, entered the boat, and in due time reached
Helmstedt’s Island. Colonel Houston took her to the mansion, called the
servants together, informed them that their master would be at home
in a few days; and that their young mistress had come to prepare for
his arrival, and to welcome him back to his house. That of course they
would obey her in all things. This explanation of Margaret’s presence
was so probable and satisfactory, that her people had nothing to do but
to express the great pleasure they felt in again receiving their young
lady. In taking leave of Margaret, Colonel Houston was very deeply
shaken. He could not say to her, “This act, Margaret, was the act of
the women of my family, who, you know, hold of right the disposal of
all such nice questions as these. I think they are wrong, but I cannot
with propriety interfere.” No, he could not denounce the doings of his
own wife and mother, but he took the hand of the maiden and said:
“My dearest Margaret--my daughter, as I hoped once proudly to call
you--if ever you should need a friend, in any strait, for any purpose,
call on me. Will you, my dear girl?”
Miss Helmstedt remained silent, with her eyes cast down in bitter
humiliation.
“Say, Margaret Helmstedt, my dear, will you do this?” earnestly pleaded
Colonel Houston.
Margaret looked up. The faltering voice, and the tears on the old
soldier’s cheeks touched her heart.
“The bravest are ever the gentlest. God bless you, Colonel Houston.
Yes, if ever poor Margaret Helmstedt needs a friend, she will call upon
you,” she said, holding out her hand.
The old man pressed it and hurried away.
The next morning Colonel Houston set out for Washington city to meet
his son.
The reunion took place at the City Hotel.
Captain Houston was eager to proceed directly homeward; but a night’s
rest was necessary to the invalid soldier, and their departure was
fixed for the next day. Ralph Houston’s eagerness seemed not altogether
one of joy; through the evening his manner was often abstracted and
anxious.
When the party had at last separated for the night, Ralph left his own
chamber and proceeded to that of his father. He found the veteran in
bed, and much surprised at the unseasonable visit. Ralph threw himself
into the easy-chair by his side, and opened the conversation by saying:
“I did not wish to speak before a third person, even when that person
was my brother; but what then is this about Margaret? Mrs. Houston’s
letters drop strange, incomprehensible hints, and Margaret’s little
notes are constrained and sorrowful. Now, sir, what is the meaning of
it all?”
“Ralph, it was to break the news to you that I came up hither to meet
you,” replied the colonel, solemnly.
“The news! Great Heaven, sir, what news can there be that needs such
serious breaking? You told me that she was well!” exclaimed the
captain, changing color, and rising in his anxiety.
“Ralph! Margaret Helmstedt is lost to you forever.”
The soldier of a dozen battles dropped down into his chair as if
felled, and covered his face with his hands.
“Ralph! be a man!”
A deep groan from the laboring bosom was the only response.
“Ralph! man! soldier! no faithless woman is worth such agony!”
He neither moved nor spoke; but remained with his face buried in his
hands.
“Ralph! my son! my brave son! Ralph!” exclaimed the old man, rising in
bed.
The captain put out his hand and gently pressed him back upon his
pillow, saying in a calm, constrained voice:
“Lie still; do not disturb yourself; it is over. You said that she was
lost to me, forever. She is married to another, then?”
“I wish to Heaven that I knew she was; but I only know that she ought
to be.”
“Tell me all!”
The voice was so hollow, so forced, so unnatural, that Colonel Houston
could not under other circumstances have recognized it as his son’s.
The old man commenced and related the circumstances as they were known
to himself.
Captain Houston listened--his dreadful calmness as the story
progressed, startled first into eager attention, then into a breathless
straining for the end, and finally into astonishment and joy! And just
as the story came to the point of Margaret’s return from her mysterious
trip, with the denial that she was married, he broke forth with:
“But you told me that she was lost to me forever! I see nothing to
justify such an announcement!”
“Good Heaven, Ralph, you must be infatuated, man! But wait a moment.”
And taking up the thread of his narrative, he related how all Miss
Helmstedt’s friends, convinced of her guilt or folly, had deserted her.
At this part of the recital Ralph Houston’s fine countenance darkened
with sorrow, indignation and scorn.
“Poor dove!--but we can spare them. Go on, sir! go on!”
“Ralph, you make me anxious; but listen further.” And the old man
related how Margaret, presenting herself at the communion table, had,
in the face of the whole congregation, been turned away.
Ralph Houston leaped upon his feet with a rebounding spring that shook
the house, and stood, convulsed, livid, speechless, breathless with
rage.
“Ralph! My God, you alarm me! Pray, pray govern yourself.”
His breast labored, his face worked, his words came as if each syllable
was uttered with agony: “Who--did--this?”
“Mr. Wellworth, once her friend!”
“An old man and a clergyman! God knoweth that shall not save him when I
meet him.”
“Ralph! Ralph! you are mad.”
“And Margaret! How did she bear this? Oh! that I had been at her side.
Oh, God, that I had been at her side!” exclaimed the captain, striding
in rapid steps up and down the floor.
“She felt it, of course, very acutely.”
“My dove! my poor, wounded dove! But you all comforted and sustained
her, sir!”
“Ralph, we thought it best to send her home to the island.”
“What!” exclaimed Captain Houston, pausing suddenly in his rapid walk.
“Yes, Ralph, we have sent her away home. We thought it best to do
so,” replied the colonel, generously suppressing the fact that it was
altogether the women’s work, against his own approval.
Ralph Houston had gone through all the stages of displeasure,
indignation and fury. But he was past all that now! There are some
wrongs so deep as to still the stormiest natures into a stern calm more
to be feared than fury.
“What, do you tell me that in this hour of her bitterest need you have
sent my promised bride from the protection of your roof?” he inquired,
walking to the bedside, and speaking in a deep, calm, stern tone, from
which all emotion seemed banished.
“Ralph, we deemed it proper to do so.”
“Then hear me! Margaret Helmstedt shall be my wife within twenty-four
hours; and, so help me God, at my utmost need, I will never cross
the threshold of Buzzard’s Bluff again!” exclaimed Captain Houston,
striding from the room and banging the door behind him.
“Ralph! Ralph! my son, Ralph!” cried the colonel, starting up from
the bed, throwing on his dressing-gown and following him through the
passage. But Captain Houston had reached and locked himself in his own
chamber, where he remained in obdurate silence.
The colonel went back to bed.
Ralph Houston, in his room, consulted the timepiece. It was eleven
o’clock. He sat down to the table, drew writing materials before him,
and wrote the following hasty note to his betrothed:
CITY HOTEL, WASHINGTON, October 6, 1815.
MARGARET, MY BELOVED ONE:--Only this hour have I heard of your
sorrows. Had I known them sooner, I would have come from the uttermost
parts of the earth to your side. But be of good cheer, my own best
love. Within twenty-four hours I shall be with you to claim your hand,
and assume the precious privilege and sacred right of protecting you
against the world for life and death and eternity.
Yours,
RALPH HOUSTON.
“‘It is written that for this cause shall a man leave father and mother
and cleave to his wife.’ I am glad of it. Let them go. For my poor,
storm-beaten dove, she shall be safe in my bosom,” said Ralph Houston,
his heart burning with deep resentment against his family, and yearning
with unutterable affection toward Margaret, as he sealed and directed
the letter, and hastened with it to the office to save the midnight
mail.