CHAPTER VI.
THE WIFE’S RETURN.
“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.