“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.