CHAPTER VIII.
LOVE, WAR AND BETROTHAL.
“Her mother smiled upon her bed,
As at its side we knelt to wed,
And the bride rose from her knee;
And she kissed the lips of her mother dead
Or ever she kissed me.”
—E. B. BROWNING.
None ever knew what passed between Mrs. Helmstedt and the gray-haired stranger who was closeted with her, in her favorite parlor, for several hours, that evening. No one was in the house, in fact, at the time, except the lady, her venerable guest, and her two confidential servants, Hildreth and Forrest, who had, of late years, grown into the habit of silence in regard to everything concerning their unhappy mistress. Once in the wane of that evening, Forrest rapped at the door for orders, and had caught a glimpse of his mistress’s blanched and haggard face, as she directed him to retire and wait until he should hear her bell. And after waiting in the dining-room opposite, for some hours, Forrest heard the departure of the visitor, but listened in vain for Mrs. Helmstedt’s bell.
Meanwhile, The Pearl Shell, containing Margaret and Franky, glided swiftly over the moonlit waters. As they neared the island, they saw another boat, containing a pair of oarsmen and a single passenger, push off from the beach and row rapidly toward a schooner, anchored some quarter of a mile off. But as it was not an unusual occurrence for passing vessels to send out boats to the isle for water, wood or provisions, purchased from the negroes, the sight of this one leaving its shores occasioned no remark.
“Now row swiftly home, dear Franky, or they will wonder what has become of us,” said Margaret, as soon as she had sprung upon the shore. But Franky refused to leave her until at least he had seen her safely housed. So he took her hand, and they ran on up the sandy barren, through the long timothy field, through the orchard, and through the garden, until they reached the front piazza, where Margaret insisted upon dismissing her boy lover, who reluctantly left her.
And Margaret ran into the hall door, and thence into her mother’s favorite parlor, on the threshold of which she stood appalled!
The two wax candles upon the mantelpiece were burning dimly, and their pale light fell ominously upon the figure of Mrs. Helmstedt, sitting on the short sofa, with her hands clasped rigidly together on her lap, her eyes fixed and strained outward, and her face blanched and frozen as if the hand of death had just passed over it.
One instant Margaret stood panic-stricken, and the next she was at her mother’s side, speaking to her, kissing her, stroking her forehead, and trying to unclasp and rub her rigidly-locked hands. For some minutes these efforts were all in vain; and then a deep shuddering sigh, that shook her whole form like the passage of an inward storm, dissolved the spell that had bound her, and she grew conscious of the presence of her child.
“Mamma, what shall I bring you? I had better call Hildreth,” said Margaret, softly stealing away. But the hand that she had been rubbing now closed on hers with a tight, restraining clasp, and a deep, hollow, cavernous voice, that she scarcely recognized as her mother’s answered:
“No—no—call no one, my child—stay with me.”
Margaret dropped upon the sofa, beside her mother, with a look of mute wonder and devoted love, and seemed to await her further commands.
“My child,” spoke the same hollow, cavernous, awful voice, “speak to no living soul of what you have seen to-night.”
“I will not, dear mamma; but tell me what I can do for you.”
“Nothing, nothing, Margaret.”
“Can I not help you somehow?”
“I am beyond help, Margaret.”
“Mother, mother, trust in your loving child, the child of your heart, who would give you back her life if she could give you happiness with it, mother,” murmured Margaret, most tenderly, as she caressed and fondled the rigid form of that dark, sorrowful woman—“trust in your loving child, mother, your child that heard your heart calling her to-night over the moonlit waters, and through all the music and laughter came hurrying to your side.”
“Ah! so you did, my love, so you did; and I, so absorbed in my own thoughts, did not even ask you whence you came, or how, or why.”
“Franky brought me at my earnest request. Now trust in me, dear mother, trust in your faithful child.”
“If ever I be driven to lay the burden of my grief upon any human heart, Margaret, it must be on yours—only on yours! for little Margaret, in my life, I have loved many and worshiped one, but I fully trust only you.”
“Trust me ever, mother! trust me fully, trust me even unto death; for I would be faithful unto death,” said the maiden, earnestly, fervently, solemnly.
“I know it, and I do trust you perfectly. Yet not now, not just now, need I shift this weight from my heart to yours—’tis enough that one living heart should bear that burthen at a time. I may leave it to you as a legacy, my Margaret.”
“A legacy—a legacy—oh! mother, what mean you?” inquired the maiden, as the sudden paleness of a deadly terror overspread her sweet face.
“Nothing, nothing, my dove, that should alarm you. It is the order of nature, is it not, that parents should die before their children? But who talks of dying now? Your soft touches, my child, have given me new life and strength. Lend me your arm; I will retire.”
“Let me sleep with you to-night, dear mother,” pleaded the maiden, from whose earnest face the paleness of fear had not yet vanished.
An affectionate pressure of the hand was her only answer. And Margaret assisted Mrs. Helmstedt to gain her chamber. That night, in her prayers, Margaret earnestly thanked God that she had been led to come home so opportunely to her lonely mother’s help.
And from that night the close union between the mother and daughter seemed even more firmly cemented.
The next day Mr. Helmstedt returned. He had spent the night at Heathville, and called in the morning at Buzzard’s Bluff for Margaret, and hearing that she had grown anxious upon account of her mother left alone on the island, and had returned, he simply approved the step and dropped the subject.
Later in the same week, Franky Houston, boy as he was, took a tearful leave of Margaret, turning back many times to assure her that Ralph, when he came, would not leave her to mope in loneliness, but would certainly, to the best of his ability, supply his (Franky’s) place. And so the candid, open-hearted boy left.
And Margaret, who had grown to understand how dear she was to Franky, felt her heart stricken with compunction to know how glad she was that his place would soon be supplied by Ralph.
Grace Wellworth and Clare Hartley had also returned to their city school. And “Island Mag” was left again companionless.
Not for a long time.
With the warm days of early summer came Ralph Houston, as he said, for a short visit home, before he should sail for Europe to make the grand tour.
But this month of June, 1812, was a month big with the fate of nations as well as of individuals. The bitter disputes between the young Republic and the “Mother Country,” like all family quarrels, did not tend toward reconciliation, but on the contrary, month by month, and year by year, had grown more acrid and exasperating, until at length a war could no longer be warded off, and thus, without the least preparation, either military or naval, Congress on the eighteenth of June, 1812, declared war against Great Britain. Never had Young America before, and never since, taken so rash and impetuous a step. Never had an unfortunate country plunged headlong into an unequal and perilous war under more forbidding circumstances; with two formidable antagonists, and without either army or navy in readiness to meet them. Yet no sooner had the tocsin sounded through the land, than “the spirit of ’76” was aroused, and an army arose. Simultaneously, all over the country, volunteer companies were formed and marched toward the principal points of gathering.
Among the first who started into action at the country’s call, was Philip Helmstedt, who set about raising a company of volunteers in his own neighborhood, and at his own expense. This enterprise took him frequently from home, and kept him absent for many days at a time. At last, about the middle of July, he had formed and equipped his troop of one hundred men, and was prepared to march them to obtain his commission from Mr. Madison.
Mrs. Helmstedt had watched his preparations for departure with the mournful resignation of one whom sorrow had accustomed to submission. He was to join his men at Belleview, and take one of the larger packets bound up the Potomac River to the capital.
On the morning of his departure, Mrs. Helmstedt had risen early to superintend the final arrangements for his comfort. And they breakfasted alone at an early hour. Their child had not left her chamber, her father having taken leave of her on the evening previous. When breakfast was over, and the servants had withdrawn from the room by their master’s order, Mr. Helmstedt approached his wife, and seating himself beside her on the sofa, said:
“Marguerite! we are about to part. God knows for how long. It may be years before we meet, if, indeed, we ever meet again, Marguerite!”
“I know how long it will be—until we meet in the spirit world!” thought Mrs. Helmstedt; but she spoke not, only looked lovingly, mournfully in the face of her departing husband.
“Marguerite, shall not this painful feud of years come to an end between us?”
“There is not, there never has been, there never can be a feud between us, dearest Philip. It was my bitter misfortune not to be able to comply with your just requirements. In view of that, you fixed my fate and I accepted it. There is no feud, dearest husband.”
“Marguerite, I cannot endure the thought of leaving you for so long a time, restricted to the narrow confines of this island, and yet I cannot do otherwise unless——”
“Dearest Philip, I have grown accustomed to confinement on this island, and do not——” She paused abruptly.
“Marguerite, you were about to say that you do not care about it; but you never uttered an untruth in your life, and could not be betrayed into doing so now. Marguerite, you do care; you care bitterly about the restraint that is placed upon your motions. Dear Marguerite, you know the conditions of peace and freedom. Will you not, even at this late day, accept them?”
“Oh, Mr. Helmstedt, had it been possible for me to have accepted these conditions, I should have done so, not for my own advantage, but for your satisfaction, thirteen years ago! Since that time nothing has happened to render the impossible possible.”
“Then I am to understand, Marguerite, that you still hold out in your resistance?” said Mr. Helmstedt, more gloomily than angrily.
She did not reply at first, except by a steady, mute, appealing look from her dark, mournful eyes. But as Mr. Helmstedt still looked for a reply, she said:
“Dear Philip, as you remarked, we are just about to part, and Heaven only knows if ever we shall meet again on earth. Let us not have hard feelings toward each other.”
“Good-by Marguerite,” he said, suddenly rising and taking his hat and gloves.
“Good-by—not yet. Philip turn: let me look at you!” She clung tightly to the hand he had given her, and held him fast while she fixed a long, deep gaze upon his face—a gaze so strange, so wistful, so embarrassing, that Mr. Helmstedt cut it short by saying, gently:
“Farewell, dearest! let me be gone.”
“Not yet! oh, not yet! a moment more!” her bosom swelled and heaved, her lips quivered, but no tear dimmed her brilliant, feverish eyes, that were still fixed in a riveting gaze upon his face.
Mr. Helmstedt felt himself strongly moved.
“Marguerite, why Marguerite, dearest, this is not like you! You are in soul a Spartan woman! You will receive my parting kiss now and bid me go,” he said, and opened his arms and pressed her to his heart a moment and then with another whispered, “Farewell,” released her.
“God bless you, Philip Helmstedt,” she said.
The next instant he was gone. She watched him from the door, where he was joined by his groom and valet, down to the beach and into the boat; and then she went upstairs to the balcony over the bay window and watched the boat out of sight.
“There! That is the last! I shall never see his face again,” she murmured, in heartbroken tones, and might have cast herself upon the ground in her desolation, but that two gentle arms were wound about her, and a loving voice said,
“Dearest mother.”
No more than just that—so little, yet so much.
“He is gone, Margaret, your father is gone,” said Mrs. Helmstedt, passing her arm over the head of the maiden and drawing it down to her bosom—“he is gone—gone!”
“I know it, dear mother, I know it; but so also is every good and true American gone, on the same path.”
“True, my dove, true,” said Mrs. Helmstedt; but she did not say, what farther she felt to be true, namely, that from her he had gone forever.
That afternoon following the departure, Ralph Houston, with affectionate thoughtfulness, came over to cheer the lonely ladies.
He had accompanied Mr. Helmstedt from the Bluff to Belleview, and witnessed the embarkation of himself and his company, on board the schooner Kingfisher, bound for Alexandria and Washington, and after thus seeing them off, he had ridden back as fast as possible, and crossed to the isle. Mr. Houston spent the evening, planned some amusement for the next afternoon, and took leave.
Ten days of weary waiting passed, and then Mrs. Helmstedt received a letter from her husband, announcing that they had reached Washington; that he had received a captain’s commission; had reported himself and his company ready for service; and that they were then waiting orders.
“Has my father any idea where he will be sent, mamma?” inquired Margaret, after this letter had been read aloud.
“No, my dear; at least he has hinted so; we must wait to hear.”
Ten, fifteen, twenty more anxious days passed, heavily, and then came a second letter from Mr., now Captain, Helmstedt, postmarked New York, and bringing the intelligence that upon the next day succeeding the writing of the first letter, he had received orders to depart immediately with his troops to join General Van Rennselaer on the Canadian frontier; that the suddenness of the departure and the rapidity of the journey had prevented him, until now, from writing a line home; but that they were now delayed in New York, for a day or two, waiting for a reinforcement from the State militia.
This was the last letter that Mrs. Helmstedt received for many months; but she sent on and ordered the principal Northern papers, that she might be kept advised of the progress of the campaign.
Alas! little but continuous disaster signalized this opening of the war; repeated rebuffs, varied by small successes, and climaxing in the defeat of Hull, and the loss of Detroit, with all Michigan territory. These calamities, while they shocked, aroused the temperate blood of all those laggards at home, who, until now, had looked on philosophically, while others went forth to fight.
Colonel Houston applied for orders, and old Colonel Compton sat in his leathern armchair, and swore at the gouty limb that unfitted him for service. At length the news of the disastrous defeat of Van Rennselaer, on the fourth of October, followed by his resignation of the command reached them. And when General Smythe, of Virginia, was appointed to fill his post, Colonel Houston received orders to join the latter, and proceed with him to the Northern frontier.
Ralph Houston was most anxious to enter upon the service; but at the earnest entreaty of his father, reluctantly consented to remain, for awhile, at the Bluff, for the protection of the family left behind.
Mrs. Houston accompanied her husband as far as Buffalo, where she remained to be in easy reach of him.
At the Bluff were left old Colonel and Mrs. Compton (“a comfortable couple,” who were always, and especially now, in their quiet old age, company enough for each other), and Ralph Houston as a caretaker.
At the lonely isle were left Mrs. Helmstedt and her daughter. And very desolate would the lady have been, only for the presence of her “dove.” Very monotonously passed the winter days on the sea-girt isle. No visitors came, and the mail, bringing newspapers and an occasional letter from Captain Helmstedt, Mrs. Houston, or Franky, arrived only once a week; and not always then. But for the frequent society of Ralph Houston, who was almost an inmate of the family, the dreary life would have been almost insupportable to the mother and child. While they sat at needlework in Mrs. Helmstedt’s private room, he read to them through all the forenoon; or, if the sun was warm and the air balmy, as often happens in our Southern winters, he invited them out to walk over the isle; or when, in addition to warm sun and balmy air, there was still water, he prepared the little Pearl Shell, the gift of Franky to Margaret, and took the maiden across to the Bluff to visit the old people there. But as no persuasion would ever induce Mrs. Helmstedt to join them in these water trips, they were at last relinquished, or at least very seldom indulged in.
“Dear Margaret, I think your mother has a natural antipathy to water, has she not?” asked Ralph Houston, one day, of the girl.
“No, it is to leaving the isle; if my dear mamma was a Catholic, I should think she had taken a vow never to leave Helmstedt’s Isle. As it is, I am at a loss to know why she ever remains here, Mr. Houston.”
“I never remember to have seen her off the isle, since she came here. There must be a cause for her seclusion greater than any that appears,” thought Ralph Houston, as he handed Margaret into the little skiff, and threw his glance up to the house, where from the balcony of her chamber window Mrs. Helmstedt watched their departure from the shore. For this was upon one of those very rare occasions when they took a little water trip, leaving the lady alone on the isle. As he glanced up, Ralph thought Mrs. Helmstedt’s thin face more sunken, and her eyes more brilliant, than he had ever noticed them before; and for the first time the thought that death, speedy death, was awaiting that once glorious woman, smote him to the heart. They were not out long; even Mr. Houston now no longer pleaded with Margaret to remain out upon the water to see the wintry sunset; but followed her first hint to return. The winter evenings at the isle were pleasant with Ralph Houston for a guest. He read to the mother and daughter, while they sewed or sketched; and sometimes the three formed a little concert among themselves, Mrs. Helmstedt playing on the harp, Margaret on the piano, and Ralph Houston on the flute; and sometimes, that is to say, once a week, or seldomer, the mail came in, bringing its keen excitement; it always reached the isle on the evening of Saturday, when Ralph Houston was sure to remain to hear the latest news of the absent. Always there were newspapers, bringing fresh and startling news from the Canadian frontier, the Indian settlements, or from the ocean, where our infant navy, like young Hercules in his cradle, was strangling the serpents of wrong and oppression, and winning more glorious laurels than were lost upon the land. Sometimes, there came intelligence of a disastrous loss on the Northern frontier—sometimes, of a glorious victory at sea; but whether were the news of triumph or defeat, it ever roused Ralph Houston’s blood almost beyond the power of his control. He chafed and fretted like Marmion in Tantallon Hold.
“A most unworthy task, dear Margaret, to be left at home to take care of two old people, who do not need either my company or protection, while the struggling country cries aloud for every man capable of bearing arms to come to her help! A most unworthy post is mine!”
They were standing alone within the bay window of the parlor, on Sunday morning, after having read in the papers, that had come the evening before, of the repulse of Smythe at Niagara.
Ralph spoke as bitterly as he felt, the enforced inaction of his life.
“A most unmanly part to play!”
“‘They also serve who only stand and wait,’” said Margaret, gently.
His stern face softened instantly, and he looked on her with a smile, full of deep tenderness and beauty, as he answered:
“True, sweet Margaret, yet, nevertheless, the only circumstance that renders this standing and waiting endurable is—do you know what, dear maiden? Your sweet society, and the thought that I may be useful in making the days pass less heavily to you and to her who is dearer to you.”
A swift, burning blush crimsoned the neck and face of the young girl. And just at this juncture Mrs. Helmstedt entered the room. Always her first glance was directed in search of her daughter; and now, she started and pressed her hand to her heart, at the tableau that was presented to her. Within the crimson-draped recess of the bay window the pair were standing. Ralph stood, resting one elbow upon the frame of the harp, and clasping Margaret’s hand, and bending over her half-averted and deeply-blushing face. Both were too absorbed in their own emotions to perceive her gentle entrance, and she stood for a minute, unobserved, gazing upon them. To Mrs. Helmstedt, her young daughter, had, up to this hour, seemed an unconscious child, and now she stood revealed to her a young maiden, awakening to the consciousness of loving and being loved. Yet though this revelation was unexpected, it was not quite unacceptable. More than in any other man, Mrs. Helmstedt confided in Ralph Houston for the wisdom, goodness and power, inherent in his soul, and including in themselves every other virtue. And, after a few years, should she live to pass them, and should he have the patience and constancy to wait—with less reluctance than to any other man, would she entrust the life-happiness of her only and cherished daughter, to the charge of Ralph Houston. All this passed, in an instant, through the mind of the mother, as she crossed the room and bade them “Good-morning.”
Margaret started; the blush deepened on her face. But Mr. Houston, still holding her hand, and leading her from the recess, greeted Mrs. Helmstedt affectionately, and said, frankly, as one who would not conceal his disposition:
“I was just telling Margaret that nothing but her sweet society, and the hope of being useful to herself and her mother, could reconcile me, at this time, to the unworthy inactivity of my life.”
“We should indeed be very badly off without you, Mr. Houston; but I do not see what compensation for a dull life you can find in the company of a little island rustic.”
“‘A little island rustic,’ my dear lady. I have lived in the great world where there are more false jewels than real ones, and I know how to prize a real pearl that I find amid the sea!”
“Do not waste poetry on my little girl, Ralph Houston.”
“Again! ‘little girl!’ Well, I suppose she is a little girl, scarce fourteen years of age, just in her dawn of existence! Yet the dawn is very beautiful! and we, who are up early enough, love to watch it warm and brighten to the perfect day,” he said, bending a grave, sweet look upon the downcast face of Margaret.
To break up this conversation and relieve her little daughter’s embarrassment, Mrs. Helmstedt touched the bell and ordered breakfast to be served directly in that parlor; and it was speedily brought thither.
Spring at length opened, and the recluse family of the island were once more in communication with the outside world.
Old Colonel and Mrs. Compton paid a visit of a day and night to Mrs. Helmstedt, and again, although they knew it to be a mere form, renewed their oft-repeated entreaties that their hostess would return their visit.
The Wellworths came and spent a couple of days, and carried off Margaret to pass a week at the parsonage. And during the absence of the young girl, it should be observed, that Ralph Houston did not slacken in the least degree his visits to the island, and his friendly attentions to the solitary lady there.
Soon after Margaret returned home, the doctor and Mrs. Hartley came to the isle to spend a day, and when they departed took the maiden with them to Plover’s Point to spend a fortnight. Truth to tell, the young girl did not like to leave her mother; but Mrs. Helmstedt, ever fearful of the effect of too much isolation and solitude upon the sensitive nature of her daughter, firmly insisted upon her going.
Ralph Houston was ubiquitous. He did not fail in daily visits to the island, and yet two or three times a week he contrived to be twenty miles up the river at Plover’s Point. There are no secrets in a country neighborhood. The attachment of Ralph Houston, the heir of Buzzard’s Bluff, to the little island maiden was no secret, though a great mystery to all.
“What can a man of twenty-five see in a child of fourteen?” asked one gossip.
“Money,” quoth the other—“money; Miss Helmstedt is the richest heiress in the whole South, as she will inherit both her mother’s and her father’s large property.”
“Humph! I guess Mr. Houston will have to wait a long time for that property; Mr. and Mrs. Helmstedt look as if they might be the elder brother and sister, rather than the parents of Miss Helmstedt.”
“It is true they are a very youthful-looking and handsome pair; but at last their daughter will inherit their property, if she lives; and meantime, when she marries, no doubt her parents will dower her handsomely; and that is what Mr. Houston knows. Ah! he sees what’s what, and takes time by the forelock, and wins her heart before any one else dreams of laying siege to it.”
“But her parents will never permit her to marry so young.”
“Of course not; but what matter to Mr. Houston, if he can secure her heart and her promise. He understands perfectly well what he is doing.”
Thus, with their usual perspicacity and charity, the quidnuncs of the county settled the matter.
Meantime the news from the Canadian frontier was of the most disheartening character. The defeat and capture of General Winchester, at Frenchtown, was followed speedily by that of Generals Greene and Clay at Fort Meigs, and Generals Winder and Chandler at Burlington Heights.
Colonel Houston had been dangerously wounded, and after lying ill two months in camp, was sent home to recuperate. He arrived at the Bluff, in charge of Nellie, who had grown to be quite a campaigner, and attended by his faithful servant, Lemuel. Nellie could not leave her wounded soldier, but she dispatched a note announcing her arrival, and explaining her position to Mrs. Helmstedt, and praying that lady to come to her at once without ceremony.
This was perhaps the severest trial to which Mrs. Helmstedt’s fidelity had been put. She did not hesitate a moment, however; but wrote a reply, pleading to be excused, upon the score of her shattered health. This answer of course displeased little Mrs. Houston, who, in a few days, just as soon as she could leave her invalid, went over to the island with the intention of relieving her heart by upbraiding her cold friend. But as soon as she met Mrs. Helmstedt and saw her changed face, Nellie burst into tears, and cast her arms about Marguerite’s neck, and had no word of reproach for the suffering woman.
As Colonel Houston recovered from the fatigue of his journey, and convalesced under the genial influences of his quiet home and native air, Nellie often left him to spend a day with Mrs. Helmstedt. And as often as otherwise she found Ralph Houston there before her.
“That is right, Ralph,” she one day said, approvingly, “I shall be sure to tell Franky, when I write, what care you take of his little sweetheart.”
“Sweetheart?” repeated Ralph, with a grave, displeased look.
“Yes, sweetheart, or ladylove, if you like it better. Didn’t you know that my Franky and little Margaret were cut out for each other?”
“Really, no, nor do I know it now.”
“Well, I inform you; so don’t go too far, my fine fellow.”
Ralph was silent. These remarks affected him despite his reason, and raised into importance many trifling incidents until now unnoticed, such as the raillery of Margaret upon the subject of Franky by Dr. Hartley; the favorite keepsakes of Margaret, all gifts of Franky; and finally, the frequent correspondence between the young collegian and the island maiden. Then Frank was handsome, gay, near the age of the young girl, and had been her intimate companion for years. All this looked very illy ominous to the hopes of Ralph, but he generously resolved to investigate the case, and if he found an incipient attachment existing between the youth and maiden, to withdraw at once from the rivalship, at whatever cost to his own feelings. This conversation with Mrs. Houston had occurred one Saturday afternoon, as he was taking that lady from Helmstedt’s Island to the Bluff. So anxious became Ralph Houston upon this subject, that after seeing his stepmother safe home, he turned about and rowed swiftly to the island, and entered the parlor just as Mrs. Helmstedt had received the weekly mail.
“I felt sure you would return and join us in discussing the news brought by this post; and it is glorious, at last. This paper contains an account of the repulse of Proctor from before Fort Stevenson, by the gallant Croghan! Do read it,” said Mrs. Helmstedt, passing the paper to Mr. Houston.
“And here I am yet!” impatiently exclaimed Ralph, as he took the paper and sat down to assure himself of the contents. But frequently, in the course of his perusal, he glanced over the edge of the sheet at Margaret, who sat absorbed in the letter she was reading—now smiling, now looking grave, and anon with eyes swimming in tears.
“Yes, it was a brilliant action, and Lieutenant Croghan is a true hero,” he said, as he finished the perusal and laid the paper aside. But his eyes were fixed on the maiden. Mrs. Helmstedt noticed this and said:
“Margaret has a pleasant letter from Franky.” Ralph visibly changed color.
“Read it, my child.”
“You read it, Mr. Houston; dear Franky!” exclaimed the girl, half smiling, half weeping, as she gave the letter to Ralph. Mr. Houston felt that he must peruse it. It was a frank, gay, affectionate letter, written as freely as a boy might write to his sister, yet much more warmly than any boy would be apt so to write. Mr. Houston could gather nothing definite from its contents. It certainly was not the letter of a young, diffident, uncertain lover, but it might mean either an intimate, youthful friendship or an understood betrothal. Upon the whole, Ralph felt disheartened; but resolved to see farther before resigning his hopes. He arose to take leave, and declining the friendly invitation of Mrs. Helmstedt, that he should spend the night on the isle, departed.
The next morning Ralph had some conversation with his father, the result of which was the consent of Colonel Houston that he should depart, as a volunteer, to serve under General Browne.
The same day Mr. Houston went over to the island to apprise his friends there of his intended departure. Mrs. Helmstedt was not surprised or displeased, but on the contrary, cordially approved his resolution. But Margaret, no adept at concealment, betrayed so much deep and keen distress, that Mr. Houston’s lately entertained ideas of an attachment between herself and Frank were all shaken. And he determined, ere the day should be over, to satisfy himself upon that point. In the course of his visit he contrived to say, aside to Mrs. Helmstedt:
“Pray, grant me a confidential interview of a few moments.”
“Margaret, my child, go down to the quarters and see if Uncle Ben is any better to-day, and if he wants anything from the house; and if he does, have it got and sent to him. One of our gardeners is ill, Mr. Houston. Now then, how can I serve you?” she asked, when her daughter had left the room.
“Mrs. Helmstedt, what I have to say relates to the fair creature who has just left us. You will place confidence in me when I assure you that, with the exception of those few impulsive words uttered the other morning, and afterward repeated to you, I have never said anything to your young daughter of the subject that lies nearest my heart; because, in fact, it is an affair belonging to the future, and I did not wish to be premature.”
“You were quite right, Ralph. It is time enough three or four years hence for any one to think of addressing Margaret.”
“Assuredly. But yet, as I deeply appreciate and devotedly love this young maiden, it behooves me to have some security that I am not freighting with my whole life’s happiness some untenable bark in which it may go to the bottom.”
“And what precisely do you mean by that, Mr. Houston?”
“In a word, I have gathered from the conversation of my fair stepmother, and from other corroborating circumstances, that there exists a sort of Paul and Virginia affection between my younger brother Frank and Margaret Helmstedt.”
“Permit me to assure you that testimony and circumstances have deceived you. It is not so. Of Frank I cannot speak advisedly; but, as far as her sentiments toward him are concerned, Margaret is heart whole.”
“Are you sure of this?” asked Ralph, with a deep joy lighting up his dark and earnest countenance.
“Absolutely certain of it.”
“Then, Mrs. Helmstedt, since this is so, and as I am about to depart for a long and dangerous service, will you permit me to speak to your daughter upon this subject?”
The lady hesitated.
“Understand me, if you please Mrs. Helmstedt. I know that, even under the most auspicious circumstances, the marriage must be delayed for years, and under any circumstances shall wait your fullest concurrence; for my pearl once secured to my affections I can wait. Nor do I wish now to bind her by any pledge to me, but leaving her entirely free, I desire only to pledge myself to her, that I may write to her as freely and confidentially as to my betrothed. You can trust me to that extent, Mrs. Helmstedt?”
“I can trust you fully to any extent, Ralph Houston. It is not lack of confidence in you. But you understand that I must not sanction your addresses to my daughter without consulting her father. Taking for granted that your inclinations are approved by your family, I advise you to get Colonel Houston to write to Captain Helmstedt upon this subject. That is the proper course to pursue, and in the meantime I beg you to delay speaking of this matter to Margaret until you have heard from her father.”
“I will obey you, certainly, Mrs. Helmstedt, although——”
“The formality is a bore, you mean. Well, I know you think so, and yet it must be borne.”
Mr. Houston arose to leave.
“Will you not wait to see Margaret?”
“I think not now, Mrs. Helmstedt, for if she should wear the sweet, pale face she wore just now, I should have some trouble to keep my promise. Good-morning, madam.”
The “inclinations” of Ralph Houston were highly approved by his father, who sat down the same day and wrote to Captain Helmstedt, asking the hand of Margaret in betrothal to his son, and stating that a mere betrothal was all that was necessary to satisfy the young people for some years.
A weary fortnight passed before there could arrive any answer to this letter. At last, however, it came. Captain Helmstedt, with the stately politeness of his nature, acknowledged the compliment paid to his daughter; expressed the highest consideration for the suitor and his family; did not as a general thing approve of early betrothals or long engagements; thought this, however, to be an exceptional case; and concluded by referring the matter exclusively to the maiden’s mother, in whose excellent judgment and maternal affection he expressed the highest confidence.
“There, you may look upon this as the sanction of your addresses; for, of course, I suppose there will be no difficulty raised by Mrs. Helmstedt,” said Colonel Houston, as he placed the letter in the hands of son.
“Oh, no, sir! in fact, Mrs. Helmstedt has given me to understand as much.”
“What is all that about?” inquired Nellie, who did not happen to be au fait to these transactions.
Colonel Houston explained.
“And Margaret will engage herself to you, Ralph, who are ten or twelve years older than she is? And Mrs. Helmstedt will sanction that engagement? Well, well, well.”
“Why, what is the matter?” asked Colonel Houston.
“This world! this world! I did not think that Margaret was so light and fickle, or that her mother was so—governed by worldly motives.”
“Pray tell me what you mean?” asked Ralph Houston, uneasily.
“Why, the whole county knew Margaret and my Franky were like a pair of young turtle doves. Everybody remarked it, and said they were born for each other! Shame on you, Ralph Houston, to offer to supplant your younger brother in his absence; and shame on that wanton girl and her worldly mother to allow you to do it!”
“Nellie, come, come, this will not do,” said Colonel Houston.
“But I know what it means,” Nellie continued impetuously, “they know you are the eldest son and heir according to our barbarous law of primogeniture, which, I thank Heaven, Mr. Jefferson is about to get repealed, and they think that you will have nearly all your father’s estate, while poor Franky will have little or nothing; but I’ll see! All that I have any control over shall go to swell the portion of my Franky, until we shall see if he shall not be a little richer than his fortunate elder brother. Oh, the unprincipled creatures.”
“Cornelia!” exclaimed Colonel Houston, severely.
Ralph’s face flushed for an instant, and then, controlling himself, he answered, with his usual moderation:
“You are in error, fair little mother; I neither could, nor would supplant any man, least of all my brother; no such attachment as that to which you allude exists, or has existed; I have ascertained that fact.”
But Nellie angrily averted her head without deigning to reply. And Ralph, although he had so positively repudiated all belief in the groundless assertions of his stepmother, nevertheless felt a deep uneasiness impossible to dislodge. A single seed of distrust had been sown in his heart, where it was destined to germinate and to be fostered into strong and bitter growth.
In the midst of this conversation the family were interrupted by the entrance of Jessie Bell—as she was familiarly and jocosely called, Jezebel—Mrs. Houston’s maid, who reported a messenger from the island waiting without.
“Let him come in here,” said Colonel Houston; and the next moment Uncle Ben entered with a face so gray and corrugated that Mrs. Houston and Ralph became alarmed, and simultaneously exclaimed:
“Why, old man! what is the matter?”
“Marster in heaven knows, ma’am! but I think my mistess is dying!”
“Dying!”
Every member of the family were now upon their feet, exclaiming and questioning in a chaos of surprise, grief, and dismay.
“Yes, ma’am, very suddint! No, sir, dere was no good come of it, as we dem knew. Yes, Marse Ralph, sir, Miss Marget is with her ma, an’ very much ’stress,” said the old man, answering right and left to the storm of questions that was hailed upon him.
“I’ll tell you all I know ’bout it, Marse Colonel Houston, sir, if de ladies’ll hush an’ listen a minute. See, las’ night I fotch de mail home ’s usual. Der was a letter from our marster as pleased our mistress very much. I never seen her in sitch sperrits—she, nor Miss Marget! We sarvints, we all noticed it, and said how something was gwine happen. Same way dis mornin’, Miss Marget and her mother both in sitch sperrits at the breakfas’ table. After breakfas’ dey went out long o’ me in de garden, to ’rect me ’bout transplantin’ some late flowers, and we were all busy, when all of a suddint mistess give a short, low scream, and when we all looked up, there stood mistress as white as a lily, pressing her hand to her heart and staring straight before her. We glanced roun’ to see what scared she; and it was a little, old, leaky boat with one oar, and a young man in a shabby uniform, like a runaway sojer, just stepping from it onto the beach. He came up while mistess stood there pale as death and pressing her hand on her heart; and he tetched his cap sort o’ half impident and half sorrowful. Mistess raised her hand for a minit as if to check him, and then she beckoned him to follow her, and went on to the house. Miss Marget looked oneasy, an’ I didn’t know what to make of it. More’n two hours passed, and then the young man came out, walking fast, with his head down, and passed right by without seeing us, and got into his leaky boat, and pushed off as if the old inemy was arter him.
“Miss Marget ran in the house to her mother. But in two minutes we heard her screaming like she was mad, and we all about the place rushed into the house, and up the stairs, into mistess’ chamber. And there we saw our mistess, lying on the floor, like one stone dead, and Miss Marget wringing her hands and crying, and trying to raise her. We were all scared almost to death, for there, besides, was the cabinet, where the plate and jewelry is kept, all open; and we made sure that that ’serter had robbed and frightened mistess into this swoon. Forrest went arter the doctor; and Hildreth and Aunt Hapzibah put her to bed, and tried every way to fetch her round. But when she come to herself, she fell into convulsions; and when that was over, she sunk into the same swoon. Then Aunt Hapsy sent me, pos’ haste, arter Miss Nellie an’ Mr. Ralph. An’ here I is, an’ dat’s all.”
Nellie, who looked very pale and anxious, now touched the bell, and summoned Jezebel to bring her scarf, bonnet and gloves, while Mr. Houston went out to order the boat got ready to take them to the island.
And in less than a quarter of an hour Mrs. Houston and Ralph, forgetful of their late feud in their common cause of anxiety, were seated side by side in the boat, that, propelled by six stalwart negro oarsmen, glided with directness and rapidity toward the island. As soon as the boat touched the beach Nellie sprang out, and without waiting an instant for Ralph, hurried to the house.
“In her own bedroom, Mrs. Houston,” was the mournful reply of Hildreth to that lady’s hasty question.
Nellie hastened upstairs and entered the chamber of sickness and death. Coming out of the brilliant light into the half-darkened room, Nellie at first saw only Dr. Hartley standing at the foot of the bed; as she advanced she found Margaret, pale, but still and self-collected, at the head. Nellie’s haste and anxiety sunk into awe as she saw, extended on the bed, the ruin of the once beautiful Marguerite De Lancie. All her late displeasure was forgotten or repented as she gazed upon that form and face so magnificent even in wreck. The pillows had been withdrawn to give her easier breathing, and her superb head lay low; the lace nightcap had been removed to give coolness to her throbbing temples, and her rich, purplish-black tresses, unbound, rolled in mournful splendor down each side of her pallid, sunken face, and flowed along upon the white counterpane; her eyes were half closed in that fearful state that is not sleep or waking, and that Nellie at first sight believed to be death.
Mrs. Houston turned an appealing glance to the physician, who bent forward and murmured in an almost inaudible tone:
“She is easier than she has been since her attack, madam. She has been resting thus for” (the doctor took out and consulted his watch) “twenty-five minutes.”
“But what, then, is the nature of her illness?”
“An acute attack of her old disease, brought on apparently by some great shock.”
“Is she in imminent danger?”
“Hush—sh!” said the physician, glancing toward his patient. Nellie followed that glance, and saw that Mrs. Helmstedt’s eyes were open, and that she was attending to their conversation.
“Oh, Marguerite! dear Marguerite! what is this?” cried Mrs. Houston, bending over her friend and dropping tears and kisses on her deathlike brow.
“Nothing unusual, Nellie; only the ‘one event’ that ‘happeneth to all;’ only death. Though in truth, it is inconvenient to die just now, Nellie; this morning I had no reason to expect the messenger; and to say truth, I was in no respect ready.”
“Marguerite! dear Marguerite! let me send for the minister,” said Nellie, wringing her hands and dropping fast tears.
“No; what good can the minister do me, think you? No, Nellie; that is not what I meant. If I have lived all my days for the pride of life and the affections of the flesh, at least I will not mock God now with the offer of a heart that these idols have ground to dust. As I have lived, will I die, without adding fear and self-deception to the catalogue of my follies.” Mrs. Helmstedt spoke faintly and at intervals, and now she paused longer than usual, and, gathering breath, resumed:
“But since this summons has found me unready, in other respects which may be remedied, I must use the hours left for action. Nellie, Nellie; this is no time for useless tears,” she added, seeing Mrs. Houston weeping vehemently; “you must aid me. Dr. Hartley, will you grant me a few moments alone with my friend?”
“Not unless you both promise that your interview is not to be exciting or exhausting.”
“We promise, doctor, that on the contrary, it shall be soothing. Margaret, my child, attend the doctor down into the parlor, and see that refreshments are placed before him.”
Pale and still and self-governed, the young maiden followed the physician from the chamber. And the friends were left alone.
“Colonel Houston got a letter from my husband yesterday?” inquired Mrs. Helmstedt.
“He got it this morning, dear Marguerite.”
“I received one from my husband last night; he spoke of one mailed at the same time to Colonel Houston; he consents to the betrothal of Margaret to Ralph, or rather, he refers the matter to me, which amounts to the same thing. Nellie, I have but a few hours to live; before I die I wish to place the hand of my child in that of Ralph in solemn betrothal; and, when I rest in the grave, you will take my orphan child as your daughter home, and comfort her until her father, to whom Dr. Hartley has written, arrives. Oh, Nellie, be kind to my dove!”
“Indeed I will! Oh, indeed I will, though I was disappointed for Franky! I will love her as tenderly as if she were my own. Don’t doubt me. You know I have always been a good stepmother?”
“An excellent one, dear Nellie.”
“And don’t you know, then, how tenderly I should cherish your orphan child? I have two sons; but no daughter; I should take Margaret to my heart as a much-desired daughter,” said Nellie, earnestly, and at that moment, in that mood, she sincerely meant all she said.
“Thank you, dear Nellie. Margaret will, at the age of eighteen, inherit the greater portion of my patrimony, including Plover’s Point, which has been secured to her. This will make her independent. Upon the demise of her father—long and happily may he yet live—she will come into the possession of one of the largest fortunes in the South. Ralph’s expectations, I know, are nearly equal; therefore, deny her no indulgence, no wish of her heart that wealth can satisfy; for Margaret is not selfish or exacting, and will make no unreasonable demands. But how I twaddle. Have the soul of kindness toward my orphan girl, and that will teach you what to do.”
“Don’t doubt me, Marguerite. I will swear to you if you require it,” said Nellie, who believed herself to be as constant as she was fervent.
“It is enough! Is Ralph here?”
“Yes, dearest Marguerite.”
“Let him be called at once.”
Nellie flew to do her friend’s bidding, and swiftly returned with Mr. Houston.
“Draw near, dearest Ralph; look in my face; but do not look so shocked; you read what is before me, and what I wish you to do; you have seen my husband’s letter to your father; there is another, which came yesterday to me; Margaret will show it to you; go to her, dearest Ralph; she has read her father’s letter, and is prepared to hear what you have to say; go to her now, for I would join your hands before sunset; do not leave her again until I leave her; and then take her with you to your parents’ home to await her father’s coming. And oh! Ralph! as you hope for the blessing of God at your greatest need, comfort your orphan bride, as only you can comfort her.”
“As God hears me!” said Ralph Houston, reverently, dropping upon one knee, and bending his noble head over the wan hand the lady had extended to him.
“Go to her now, Ralph, for I would join your hands before sunset.”
Ralph pressed the wasted fingers to his lips, arose and went out, in search of Margaret.
He found the maiden alone in her mother’s favorite parlor. Dr. Hartley had gone out to send messengers for Mr. Wellworth and Colonel Houston to come immediately to the island, if they wished to see Mrs. Helmstedt once more in life. And Margaret had thrown herself down upon the sofa in solitude, to give way to the torrent of grief that she had so heroically suppressed in the sickroom of her mother.
Ralph Houston entered the sacred precincts of her filial grief as reverently as he had left the death-chamber of her mother. He closed the door softly, advanced and knelt an instant to press a pure kiss upon her tearful face; then rising, he lifted her tenderly, from the sofa, and gathered her to his bosom.
“Permit me, dearest,” he said, “for henceforth your sorrows are also mine.”
What farther he said is sacred between those two hearts.
The day waned—the shadows of evening gathered over the earth, and the shadows of death over the chamber.
Mr. Wellworth and Colonel Houston arrived about the same time.
The clergyman was immediately shown up into the chamber of Mrs. Helmstedt. She was sinking rapidly. He went gravely to her side, expressing sorrow for her illness, and anxiety to hear how she felt. And finding from her answers that she still retained full possession of her brilliant intellect, he drew a chair, sat down, and entered upon religious topics.
But Mrs. Helmstedt smiled mournfully, and stopped him, saying:
“Too late, good friend, too late; I would that I had had your Christian faith imprinted upon my heart while it was soft enough to receive the impression—it might have made me happier at this hour; but it is too late, and it does not matter!”
“Not matter! that you have no faith! Oh! Mrs. Helmstedt, my child, is it possible that with all your splendor of intellectual endowments you lack faith!”
Marguerite smiled more mournfully than before. “I believe in God, because I see Him in His glorious works; I believe in Christ as a wonder that once existed on this earth; but—as for a future state of rewards and punishments—as for our immortality, I tell you, despite all the gifts of intellect with which you credit me, and my extensive reading, observation and experience, at this hour I know not where in the next I shall be; or whether with the stopping of this beating brain, and the cooling of this burning heart, thought and affection will cease to exist; or if they will be transferred to another form and sphere. I know nothing.”
“God have mercy on you!” prayed the good minister, who would then and there have sought to inspire the “saving faith,” but that the dying woman silenced him.
“Too late, dear friend, too late; the short time left me must be given, not to selfish thoughts on my own uncertain future, but to the welfare of those I am about to leave. Will you please to ring the bell?”
The minister complied.
Mrs. Houston forestalled every servant by hastening to answer the summons.
“Dear Nellie, bring Ralph and Margaret to me, and ask your husband and the doctor to attend. And let lights be brought, Nellie; it is growing dusky here, or else my sight is failing, and I would see the face of my child plainly.”
Nellie stopped an instant to press a kiss upon the clammy brow of her friend, and then hastened to do her bidding.
A few minutes after, the door opened, and Ralph Houston entered, reverently supporting the pale but self-controlled maiden on his arm, and accompanied by his father, stepmother, and the doctor.
They approached the bed, and grouped themselves around it. On the right side stood Ralph, Margaret, and Mr. Wellworth; on the left, Colonel and Mrs. Houston and Dr. Hartley.
The dying woman turned her dark eyes from one group to the other, and then spoke.
“We sent for you, Mr. Wellworth, to join the hands of this young pair—not in marriage, for which one of them is much too youthful; but in a solemn betrothal, that shall possess all the sanctity, if not the legal force of marriage. Will you do this?”
“I will do everything in my power to serve Mrs. Helmstedt or her family,” said the clergyman.
“Margaret, my love, draw this ring from my finger, and hand it to Mr. Wellworth, who will give it to Ralph,” said Mrs. Helmstedt, holding out her thin, transparent hand, from the fourth finger of which Margaret drew the plain gold circlet, her mother’s wedding ring, and passed it to the minister, who put it in the hand of Ralph Houston. Then the dying woman turned her solemn eyes upon Mr. Houston, and in a voice thrilling with the depth and strength of a mother’s deathless love, said:
“Ralph Houston, you promise here, in the awful presence of God—of the living, and of the dying—to love and respect this maiden, as your destined wife, and to wed her when she shall have attained a suitable age?”
Ralph passed his arm protectingly around the half-sinking form of Margaret, and answered, slowly and solemnly:
“In the presence of God, and of her mother, I promise to love, and honor and serve, my affianced bride, Margaret, until such time as she shall bestow her hand in full marriage on me, and thenceforth forever. So help me God and all good angels.”
“Amen. Now place the ring upon her finger.”
Ralph Houston obeyed; and then Mrs. Helmstedt beckoned them to draw nearer, and taking the hand of Margaret, she placed it in that of Ralph, saying, solemnly:
“Ralph Houston, I bestow upon you my heart’s precious child—my dove, as you have heard me call her. Oh, be tender with her! And may God so love and bless you, as you shall love and bless the dove that is to nestle in your home.”
“Amen!” in turn said Ralph.
And still holding their hands together, Mrs. Helmstedt—skeptic for herself, believer for her child—called on Mr. Wellworth to seal and bless this betrothal with prayer and benediction.
At the signal of the minister, all knelt. And while Mrs. Helmstedt still held together the hands of the young couple, Mr. Wellworth reverently lifted his voice and prayed God’s blessing upon the living and the dying.
They all arose from their knees, and Mrs. Helmstedt pressed those joined hands to her lips before she released them. She was very much exhausted, and turning to the doctor, whispered, in a voice nearly extinct through faintness:
“Doctor, I must live an hour longer—one hour longer, doctor—is there no potential drug that will keep life in this frame for an hour?”
“You may live many hours, or even days—nay, you may even recover, dear lady—for while there is life there is hope. Now, you are only exhausted, and this will restore you,” said the physician, pouring out a cordial, and placing it to her lips.
“Thank you; yes, this is reviving!” answered Mrs. Helmstedt, drawing one deep, free breath.
“And now you must lie still and rest.”
“I will—soon. Dear friends,” she continued, addressing the group around the bed, “you will please withdraw now and leave me alone with my child. Go you also, dear Ralph, and leave Margaret with me. You will have her all to yourself soon. Well, then, kiss me before you go,” she added, seeing Ralph Houston hesitated. He bent down and pressed a reverential kiss upon her cold forehead, and a loving one upon her fading lips, and then arose and silently followed the others from the room.
And the mother and child were left alone.
The room seemed changed and darkened. The shadow of some “coming event” other than death hung over them.
Mrs. Helmstedt lay with her hands folded in what seemed prayer; but was only deep thought.
Margaret stood affectionately waiting her wishes.
Neither spoke for a few minutes.
Then Mrs. Helmstedt said, in a changed and solemn voice, whose sound caused Margaret’s heart to thrill with strange dread:
“Come hither, my dove.”
“I am here, sweet, dear mother,” replied the girl, striving to repress her grief.
The lady opened her eyes.
“Come sit upon the bed beside me—sit so that I can see your face—give me your hand.”
Margaret obeyed, silently praying to God to give her strength to repress the flood of tears that were ready to gush forth.
“Little Margaret, for, though you are an affianced bride, you are still my little Margaret,” said the lady, closing her fingers upon the soft hand and gazing fondly into the dark, true, tender eyes of the maiden, “little Margaret, some time ago, when your loving heart led you to leave a festive scene to rejoin your lonely mother, and you surprised me prostrated with grief and dismay, you implored me to confide my sorrows to your faithful heart; and I told you that if ever I was driven to trust the terrible secret of my life to mortal man or woman, it should be to my loving, loyal child—only to her. You remember?”
“Oh, yes—yes, mamma!”
“That time has come, my dove! I have a precious trust to bequeath as a legacy to some one; it is a secret that has been the grief and bane and terror of my life; a secret that lies as yet between my soul and God; yet must I not go hence and leave no clew to its discovery.
“Little daughter—as I said once before—I love many; I worship one; I trust only you; for of all the people I have known, loved, and respected, you are the most true-hearted, I think also the wisest. Dear child, I will not bind you by any promise to keep the secret about to be entrusted to your charge, for I feel sure that for my sake you will keep it.”
“Through life and unto death, mamma; the rack should not wring it from me; may God so keep my soul as I shall keep your secret, mother.”
“Nay, nay, there is a contingency, my child, under which you might reveal it; and it is to provide for this possible contingency that I feel constrained to leave this secret with you.”
“I will be faithful, dearest mother.”
“I know it, my dove!—sit closer now and listen. But stop—first go and see if the door is closed.”
“It is closed, dear mother.”
“Ah, but go and lock it, my child.”
Margaret complied.
“It is fast now, dear mother.”
“Come then and sit upon the bed where you were before, so that I can see your sweet face; give me your dear hand again—there!—now listen.”