CHAPTER XI.
THE MYSTERIOUS CORRESPONDENT.
“You, sir! I want to see you! Come hither!” said Mrs. Houston, as she stood upon the back piazza, early the next morning, and beckoned Forrest to her presence.
The old man bowed in his deferential manner, advanced and stood hat in hand before the little lady.
“Where did you go last night after we had all retired?”
Forrest bowed again, humbly and deprecatingly, but remained silent.
“Did you hear me speak to you?” inquired Mrs. Houston, impatiently.
The old man bowed once more very meekly, and answered:
“I went after no harm, mistress.”
“Nor after any good, I’ll venture to say!—but that is not the point, sir. I ask you where you went! and I intend to have an answer.”
“I begs your pardon sincere, mistress, but mus’ ’cline for to ’form you.”
“You old villain! Do you dare to defy me here on my own premises? I’ll see about this!” exclaimed the lady, in a voice more shrill than ladylike, as with a flushed face and excited air she turned into the house to summon Colonel Houston.
But she was intercepted by Margaret, who had heard the voice, and now came from her own apartment and stood before her.
“Stay, Mrs. Houston, I sent Forrest away on an errand, last night, and if he declined to inform you whither he went, it was from no disrespect to you; but from fidelity to me. I had enjoined him not to speak to any one of his errand,” she said, in a voice and manner so respectful as to take away everything offensive from her words.
“You did! Now then where did you send him, Margaret? I am your guardian, and I have a right to know.”
“You must forgive me, Mrs. Houston, if I decline to inform you,” replied the maiden, firmly, though still very respectfully.
“I know, however. It was to mail that letter.”
“You must draw your own conclusions, dear madam.”
“I know it was to mail that letter! And I will put on my bonnet and drive over to the post office, and demand of the postmaster to whom the letter mailed last night by the negro Forrest was directed! There’s not so many letters go to that little office but what he will be able to recollect!” exclaimed Mrs. Houston, angrily.
“Oh, God!”
The words breathed forth possessed so much of prayerful woe that the little lady half started, and turned back to see Margaret grow pale and sink upon the corner of the hall settee.
Mrs. Houston hesitated between her curiosity and anger on the one hand, and her pity on the other. Finally she made a compromise. Coming to Margaret’s side, she said:
“Maggie, I am treated abominably, standing as I do in your mother’s place toward you, and being as I am your guardian—abominably! Now I am sure I do not wish to pry into your correspondence, unless it is an improper one.”
“Mrs. Houston, my mother’s daughter could not have an improper correspondence, as you should be the first to feel assured.”
“Yet, Margaret, as it appears to me, if this correspondence were proper, you would not be so solicitous to conceal it from me.”
It occurred to Margaret to reply, “Mrs. Houston, suppose that I were writing sentimental letters to a female friend, which might not be really wrong, yet which I should not like to expose to your ridicule, would I not, in such a case, even though it were a proper correspondence, be solicitous to conceal it from you?”—but her exact truthfulness prevented her from putting this supposititious case, and as she did not in any other manner reply, Mrs. Houston continued:
“So you see, Margaret, that you force me to investigate this matter, and I shall, therefore, immediately after breakfast, proceed to the village to make inquiries at the post office.” And having announced this resolution, the lady, still struggling with her feelings of displeasure, left the hall.
Margaret withdrew to her own sitting-room, and threw herself upon her knees to pray. Soon rising she touched the bell and summoned Forrest.
The old man came in looking very sorrowful.
“How did it become known that you left the premises last night, Forrest?”
“Somebody must o’ ’spicioned me, chile, an’ been on de watch.”
“Yes! yes! I see now! that was it; but, Forrest, this is what I called you to say: In future, whenever Mrs. Houston asks you a question about your services to your mistress, refer her to me.”
“Yes, Miss Marget.”
“You may go now.”
“Pardon, Miss Marget; I wants to say somefin as’ll set your min’ at ease ’bout dat letter.”
“Ah, yes, you mailed it?”
“True for you, Miss Marget; but listen; de pos’ office was shet up. So I jes drap de letter inter de letter-box. Same minit der was two colored boys an’ a white man drap as many as five or six letters in long o’ mine. So even ef de pos’masser could o’ see me t’rough de winder, which he couldn’t, how he gwine know which letter ’mong de half-dozen I drap in?”
“True! true! true! Oh, that was very providential! Oh, thank Heaven!” exclaimed Margaret, fervently clasping her hands.
The old man bowed and retired.
After breakfast, Mrs. Houston, without explaining the motive of her journey to any one, ordered her carriage, and drove to the village as upon a shopping excursion.
Now you have not known Mrs. Nellie Houston thus long without discovering that with some good qualities, she was, in some respects, a very silly woman. She drove up to the post office, and by her indiscreet questions respecting “a certain letter mailed the night before by Forrest, the messenger of her ward, Miss Helmstedt,” set the weak-headed young postmaster to wondering, conjecturing and speculating. And when she found that he could give her no satisfaction in respect of the letter, she made matters worse by directing him to detain any letters sent there by her ward, Miss Helmstedt, unless such letters happened to be directed to a Helmstedt or a Houston, who were the only correspondents of Miss Helmstedt recognized by her family.
The postmaster thereupon informed Mrs. Houston, that if she wished to interfere with the correspondence of her ward, she must do so at her own discretion, and necessarily before they should be sent to his office, as he had no authority to detain letters sent thither to be mailed, and might even be subjected to prosecution for so doing.
Mrs. Houston went away baffled and angered, and also totally unconscious of the serious mischief she had set on foot.
To an idle and shallow young man she had spoken indiscreetly of the young maiden whose orphanage she had promised to cherish and defend, exposing her actions to suspicion and her character to speculation. She had left the spotless name of Margaret Helmstedt a theme of low village gossip.
And thus having done as much evil as any foolish woman could well do in an hour, she entered her carriage, and with the solemn conviction of having discharged her duty, drove home to the Bluff.
“God defend me, only, from my friends, for of my enemies I can myself take care,” prayed one who seemed to have known this world right well.
From that day Margaret Helmstedt, whenever she had occasion to write a letter, took care to turn the key of her room door; and whenever she had occasion to mail one, took equal precaution to give it, unperceived, into the hands of Forrest, with directions that he should drop it into the letter-box at a moment when he should see other letters, from other sources, going in. Poor girl! she was slowly acquiring an art hateful to her soul. And one also that did not avail her greatly. For notwithstanding all her precautions, the report crept about that Miss Helmstedt had a secret correspondent, very much disapproved of by her friends. And in course of time also, the name of this correspondent transpired. And this is the manner in which it happened. Young Simpson, the postmaster, to whom Mrs. Houston had so imprudently given a portion of her confidence, found his curiosity piqued to discover who this forbidden correspondent might be, and after weeks of patient waiting, convinced himself that the letters addressed in a fair Italian hand to a certain person were those dropped into the box by Miss Helmstedt’s messenger, old Forrest. A few more observations confirmed this conviction. Then wishing to gain consequence in the eyes of Mrs. Houston, he availed himself of the first opportunity presented by the presence of that lady at the office to inform her of the discovery he had made.
“You are sure that is the name?” inquired the lady, in surprise.
“Yes, madam, that is the name, in a regular slanting hand. I always find a letter bearing that name in the box the moment after that old man has been seen about here, and never at any other time.”
“Very well; I thank you for your information; but mind! pray do not speak of this matter to any one but myself; for I would not like to have this subject discussed in town,” said Mrs. Houston.
“Oh, certainly not, madam! You may rely on me,” replied the young man, who, in half an hour afterward, laughed over the whole affair with a companion, both making very merry over the idea that the wealthy heiress, Miss Helmstedt, should be engaged to one lover and in private correspondence with another.
And so the ball set in motion by Nellie’s indiscretion rolled finely, never wanting a helping hand to propel it on its course; and gathered as it rolled. The rumor changed its form: the gossip became slander. And every one in the county, with the exception of Miss Helmstedt and her friends, “knew” that young lady was in “secret” correspondence with a low, disreputable sailor, whose acquaintance she had formed in some inexplicable manner, and the discovery of whose surreptitious visits to the island had been the proximate cause of her mother’s death.
Could Mrs. Houston have imagined half the evil that must accrue from her own imprudent conversation, she would have been touched with compunction; as it was, hearing nothing whatever of this injurious calumny, the guilty reveled in the rewards of “an approving conscience.” She kept her discovery of the mysterious name to herself; hinting to no one, least of all to Margaret, the extent of her knowledge upon this subject. And in order to throw the girl off her guard, she was careful never to resume the subject of the letters.
And the plan succeeded so far that Margaret continued, at intervals of three or four weeks, to send off those mysterious letters, and thus the scandal grew and strengthened. That upon such slight grounds the good name of an innocent girl should have been assailed may astonish those unacquainted with the peculiar character of a neighborhood where the conduct of woman is governed by the most stringent conventionalism, and where such stringency is made necessary by the existing fact, that the slightest eccentricity of conduct, however innocent, or even meritorious it may be, is made the ground of the gravest animadversions.
Mrs. Houston, unconscious, as I said, of the rumors abroad, and biding her time for farther discoveries, treated Margaret with great kindness. Nellie had always, of all things, desired a daughter of her own. In her attached stepchild, Franky, she felt that she had quite a son of her own, and in Margaret she would have been pleased to possess the coveted daughter. As well as her capricious temper would allow her to do so, she sought to conduct herself as a mother toward the orphan girl; at times overwhelming her with flippant caresses and puerile attentions, which she might have mistaken for “the sweet, small courtesies of life,” but which were very distasteful and unwelcome to one of Margaret Helmstedt’s profound, earnest, impassioned soul, and mournful life experiences.
The malaria of slander that filled all the air without must necessarily at last penetrate the precincts of home.
One day, a miserable, dark, drizzling day, near the last of November, Mr. Wellworth presented himself at the Bluff, and requested to see Mrs. Houston alone.
Nellie obeyed the summons, and went to receive the pastoral call in the front parlor across the hall from Margaret’s wing.
On entering the room she was struck at once by the unusually grave and even troubled look of the minister.
He arose and greeted her, handed a chair, and when she was seated resumed his own.
And then, after a little conversation, opened the subject of his visit.
“Mrs. Houston it is my very painful duty to advise you of the existence of certain rumors in regard to your amiable ward that I know to be as false as they are injurious, but with which I am equally certain you should be made acquainted.”
Nellie was really amazed—so unconscious was she of the effect of her own mischief-making. She drew out her perfumed pocket handkerchief to have it ready, and then inquired:
“To what purpose should I be informed of false, injurious rumors, sir? I know nothing of the rumors to which you refer.”
“I verily believe you, madam. But you should be made acquainted with them, as, in the event of their having been occasioned by any little act of thoughtlessness on the part of Miss Helmstedt, you may counsel that young lady and put a stop to this gossiping.”
“I do entreat you, sir, to speak plainly.”
“You must pardon me then, madam, if I take you at your word. It is currently reported, then, that Miss Helmstedt is in secret correspondence, ‘secret’ no longer, with a person of low and disreputable character, a waterman, skipper, or something of the sort, whose acquaintance she formed in her mother’s lifetime and during her father’s absence, while she lived almost alone, on her native island. Now, of course, I know this rumor to be essentially false and calumnious; but I know also how delicate is the bloom on a young girl’s fair name, and how easily a careless handling will smirch it. Some thoughtless, perhaps some praiseworthy act on the part of this young creature—such as the sending of charitable donations through the post office, or something of the sort—may have given rise to this rumor, which should at once be met and put down by her friends. But I advise you, my dear madam, to speak to Miss Helmstedt and ascertain what ground, if any, however slight, there may be for this injurious rumor.”
For all answer, Mrs. Houston put her handkerchief to her face and began to weep.
“No, no, my dear Mrs. Houston, don’t take this too much to heart! these things must be firmly confronted and dealt with—not wept over.”
“Oh, sir! good sir! you don’t know! you don’t know! It is too true! Margaret gives me a world of anxiety.”
“Madam! you shock me! What is it you say?”
“Oh! sir, I am glad you came this morning! I have been wanting to ask your advice for a long time; but I did not like to. It is too true! Margaret is very imprudent!”
“Dear Heaven, madam! do you tell me that you knew of this report, and that it is not unfounded?”
“Oh! no, sir, I knew nothing of the report, as I told you before! I knew that Margaret was very, very imprudent, and gave me excessive uneasiness, but I did not dream that she had compromised herself to such an extent! Oh, never!” exclaimed Nellie, still and always unsuspicious of her own great share in creating the evil.
“You said that you had thought of asking my counsel. If you please to explain, my dear Mrs. Houston, you shall have the benefit of the best counsel my poor ability will furnish.”
“Oh! Heavens, sir! girls are not what they used to be when I was young—though I am scarcely middle-aged now—but they are not.”
“And Miss Helmstedt?”
“Oh, sir! Margaret is indeed in correspondence with some unknown man, whose very name I never heard in all my life before! She does all she can to keep the affair secret, and she thinks she keeps it so; but poor thing, having very little art, she cannot succeed in concealing the fact that she sends off these mysterious letters about once a month.”
“And do you not expostulate with her?” inquired the deeply-shocked minister.
“Oh, I did at first, sir, but I made no more impression upon her than if she had been a marble statue of Firmness. She would not tell me who her correspondent was, where he was, what he was, what was the nature of the acquaintance between them; in short, she would tell me nothing about him.”
“And can neither Colonel nor Mrs. Compton, nor your husband, impress her with the impropriety of this proceeding?”
“Oh, sir, they know nothing about it. No one in this house knows anything about Margaret’s conduct but myself. And the rumor you have just brought me has never reached them, I am sure.”
“Suppose you let me talk with my young friend. She means well, I am sure.”
“Well, sir, you shall have the opportunity you desire. But—excuse me for quoting for your benefit a homely adage—‘Trot sire, trot dam, and the colt will never pace!’ Margaret Helmstedt takes stubbornness from both parents, and may be supposed to have a double allowance,” said Mrs. Houston, putting her hand to the bell cord.
A servant appeared.
“Let Miss Helmstedt know that Mr. Wellworth desires to see her,” said Mrs. Houston.
The messenger withdrew, and soon returned with the answer that Miss Helmstedt would be glad to receive Mr. Wellworth in her own sitting-room.
“Will you accompany me hither then, Mrs. Houston?”
“No, I think not, sir. I fancy Miss Helmstedt prefers a private interview with her pastor. And I believe also that such a one would afford the best opportunity for your counseling Margaret.”
“Then you will excuse me, madam?”
“Certainly; and await here the issue of your visit,” said Mrs. Houston.
With a bow, the clergyman left the room, crossed the hall, and rapped at the door of Miss Helmstedt’s parlor.
It was opened by Hildreth, who stood in her starched puritanical costume, curtseying while the pastor entered the pretty boudoir.
Margaret, still clothed in deep mourning, with her black hair plainly banded each side of her pale, clear, thoughtful face, sat in her low sewing-chair, engaged in plain needlework. She quietly laid it aside, and, with a warm smile of welcome, arose to meet her minister.
“You are looking better than when I saw you last, my child,” said the good pastor, pressing her hand, and mistaking the transient glow of pleasure for the permanent bloom of health.
“I am quite well, thank you, dear Mr. Wellworth! and you?”
“Always well, my child, thank Heaven.”
“And dearest Grace? I have not seen her so long.”
“Ah! she has even too good health, if possible! it makes her wild. We have to keep her at home to tame her.”
“But see—I am housekeeping here to myself, almost. My dear father has placed my maintenance upon the most lavish footing, and Mrs. Houston has given to his requests in regard to me the most liberal interpretation. See! I have, like a little princess, an establishment of my own. This wing of the house, a maid and messenger, a boat and horse; and my dear father has even written to have the carriage brought from the island for my use, so that I may be able to visit or send for my friends at pleasure,” said Margaret, with a transient feeling of girlish delight in her independence.
“Yes, my child, I see; and I know that, in addition to this, you have an ample income. These are all great and unusual privileges for a young girl like yourself, not past childhood,” said Mr. Wellworth, very gravely.
“Oh! I know they are. I know, too, that these favors are lavished upon me in compassion for—to console me for—as if anything could make me cease to regret——” Here faltering, and finding herself on the verge of tears, Margaret paused, made an effort, controlled herself and resumed: “It is done in kindness toward her child; and I accept it all in the same spirit.”
“It is accorded in consideration of your grave and important position, my dear girl—do you never think of it? Young as you are, you are the affianced wife of the heir of this house.”
Again a transient flush of bashful joy chased the melancholy from Margaret’s face. Blushing, she dropped her eyes and remained silent.
“You think sometimes of your position, Margaret?” asked the clergyman, who, for his purpose, wished to lead and fix her mind upon this subject—“you remember sometimes that you are Ralph Houston’s promised wife?”
For an instant she lifted her dark eyelashes, darting one swift, shy, but most eloquent glance deep into his face, then, dropping them, crimsoned even to the edges of her black hair, and still continued silent.
“Ah! I see you do. I see you do. But do you know my dear, that something of the same discreet exclusiveness, reserve, circumspection, is demanded of a betrothed maiden as of a wife?” inquired the clergyman, solemnly.
Again her beautiful dark eyes were raised, in that quick, and quickly-withdrawn, penetrating, earnest, fervid, impassioned glance, that said, more eloquently than words would have spoken, “All that you demand for him, and more, a millionfold, will my own heart, daily, hourly yield!” and then the blush deepened on her cheek, and she remained dumb.
“She, the promised wife, I mean, must not hold free conversation with gentlemen who are not her own near relatives; she must not correspond with them—she must not, in a word, do many things, which, though they might be perfectly innocent in a disengaged woman, would be very reprehensible in a betrothed maiden.”
Margaret’s color visibly fluctuated—her bosom perceptibly fluttered.
“Well, Margaret, what do you think of that which I have been telling you?”
“Oh! I know—I know you speak truly. I hope I know my duty and love to do it,” she said, in an agitated, confused manner; “but let us talk of something else, dear Mr. Wellworth. Let us talk of my little, independent establishment here. When I spoke of the pleasant nature of my surroundings, it was to win your consent that dear Grace might come and be my guest for a week. She would be such a sweet comfort to me, and I could make her so happy here! If you will consent, I will send Forrest with the carriage for her to-morrow. Say, will you, dear Mr. Wellworth?”
“Perhaps; we will talk about that by and by. Margaret,” he said, suddenly lowering his voice, “dismiss your woman, I wish to speak alone with you, my child.”
“Hildreth, go, but remain in sound of my bell,” said Miss Helmstedt.
As soon as Hildreth had left the room, Mr. Wellworth drew his chair beside the low seat of Margaret, took her hand, and would have held it while he spoke, but that she, who always shrank even from the fatherly familiarity of her pastor, very gently withdrew it, and respectfully inquired:
“What was it you wished to say to me, dear Mr. Wellworth?”
“A very serious matter, my dear child. Margaret, I have no art in circumnavigating a subject. I have been trying to approach gradually the subject of my visit to you this morning, and I have not succeeded. I am no nearer than when I first entered. I know not how to ‘break’ bad news——”
“In a word, sir, has misfortune happened to any of my friends?” inquired Margaret, with a pale cheek, but with a strange, calm voice.
“No; that were more easily told than what I have to tell,” said the minister, solemnly.
“Please go on then, sir, and let me know the worst at once.”
“Then, my dear Margaret, I have been informed that you, a betrothed wife, have an intimate male correspondent, who is neither your father nor your affianced husband, and whose name and character, and relations with yourself, you decline to divulge?”
Margaret grew ashen pale, clasped her hands, compressed her lips, and remained silent.
“What have you to say to this charge, Margaret?”
There was a pause, while Mr. Wellworth gazed upon the maiden’s steadfast, thoughtful face. She reasoned with herself; she struggled with herself. It occurred to her to say, “My correspondent is a gray-haired man, whom I have never set eyes upon.” But immediately, she reflected. “No, this may put suspicion upon the true scent; I must say nothing.”
“Well, Margaret, what have you to answer to this charge?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“You admit it, then?”
“I neither admit nor deny it!”
“Margaret, this will never do. Are you aware that you seriously imperil, nay, more, that you gravely compromise your good name?”
Her pale cheek grew paler than before, the tightly-clasped fingers trembled, the compressed lips sprang quivering apart, and then closed more firmly than ever. It had occurred to her to say: “But this correspondence is solely a business affair, with one of whom I have no personal knowledge whatever.” But then came the reflection: “If I give them this explanation, this ever so slight clue, these worldly-wise people will follow it up until they unravel the whole mystery, and I shall have proved myself a cowardly traitor to her confidence. No, I must be dumb before my accusers!”
“You do not speak, Margaret.”
“I have nothing to say, sir!”
“Ah, dear Heaven! I see that I must not ‘prophesy smooth things’ to you, my girl. I must not spare the truth! Listen, then, Miss Helmstedt: Your name has become a byword in the village shops! What now will you do?”
It was on her pallid lips to say: “I will trust in God;” but she said it only in her heart, adding: “I must not even insist upon my innocence; for if they believe me, they will be forced to find the right track to this scent.”
“Margaret Helmstedt, why do you not answer me?”
“Because, sir, I have nothing to say.”
“Nothing to say?”
“Nothing—nothing to say!”
“Listen to me, then. You seem to have some regard for your betrothed husband. You seem even to understand the duty you owe him! Think, I beg you, what must be the feelings of a proud and honorable man like Ralph Houston, on returning to this neighborhood and finding the name and fame of his affianced bride lightly canvassed?”
It was piteous to see how dark with woe her face became. Her hands were clenched until it seemed as though the blood must start from her finger nails; but not one word escaped her painfully-compressed lips.
“I ask you, Miss Helmstedt, when Ralph Houston returns to this neighborhood and hears what I and others have heard—what do you suppose he will do?”
“He will do his own good pleasure; and I—I shall submit,” said the maiden, meekly bowing her head.
But then in an instant—even as though she had heard Ralph’s voice in her ear—there was a change. Her beautiful head was raised, her color flushed brightly back, her dark eyes kindled, flashed, and she replied:
“He may hear, as you and others do, incredible things said of me; but he will not, as you and others do, believe them! And I only dread to think what his reply would be to any who should, in his presence, speak with levity of any woman he respects.”
“Margaret, pause—bethink you! this is no idle gossip! It is slander, do you hear? It is the venomed serpent slander that has fixed its fangs upon your maiden name. I believe, of course, unjustly! but nothing except an open explanation will enable your friends to exculpate you and silence your calumniators. Will you not give them such a weapon?”
“I cannot,” she breathed, in a low tone of returning despair.
“Reflect, girl. Ralph Houston, when he arrives, will surely hear these reports; for, in the country, nothing is forgotten. He may stand by you—I doubt not with his unfunded faith and chivalrous generosity that he will; but—will you, loving and honoring him, as I am sure you do, will you, with a blemished name, give your hand to him, a man of stainless honor?”
“No, no! oh, never, no!” came like a wail of woe from her lips, as her head sank down upon her bosom.
“Then, Margaret, give your friends the right to explain and clear your conduct.”
She was incapable of reply, and so remained silent.
“You will not?”
She mournfully shook her head.
“Good-by, Margaret; God give you a better spirit. I must leave you now,” said the old pastor. And he arose, laid his hand in silent prayer upon the stricken young head bent beneath him, then took up his broad-brimmed hat and quietly left the room.
As he came out, Mrs. Houston opened the front parlor door and invited him in there.
“Well, sir, what success?” she inquired, anxiously, as soon as they were both seated.
The good old man slowly shook his head.
“None whatever, madam.”
“She still refuses to explain?”
“Ah, yes, madam!”
“In fact, it is just what I expected. I am not surprised. There never was such contumacious obstinacy. Dear me, what shall I do? What would you advise me to do?”
“Be patient, Mrs. Houston; and, above all things, avoid betraying to any others out of your own immediate family the anxiety that you reveal to me. ‘It is written that a man’s foes shall be those of his own household.’ Unnatural and horrible as it sounds, every one who has lived, observed and reflected to any purpose, must have discovered that still more frequently a woman’s foes are of such.”
“Really and truly, Mr. Wellworth, that is a very strange speech of yours. I hope you do not suppose that any one in this house is the enemy of Margaret Helmstedt?”
“Assuredly not. I merely wished to entreat that you will not again speak of this correspondence in the village post office.”
“But dear me, what then am I to do?”
“Leave matters just where they are for the present. There is nothing wrong in this, farther than that it has unfortunately been made the occasion of gossip; therefore, of course it must be perfectly cleared up for Margaret’s own sake. But our interference at present evidently will not tend to precipitate a satisfactory denouement.”
“Oh, how I wish her father or Ralph were home. I have a great mind to write to them!” exclaimed Nellie, who certainly was governed by an unconscious attraction toward mischief-making.
“My good lady, do nothing of the sort; it would be both useless and harmful.”
“What, then, shall I do?” questioned Nellie, impatiently.
“Consult your husband.”
“Consult Colonel Houston! You certainly can’t know Colonel Houston. Why, well as he likes me, he would—bite my head off if I came to him with any tale of scandal,” said Nellie, querulously.
“Then leave the matter to me for the present,” said the minister, rising and taking his leave.
Meanwhile, Margaret Helmstedt had remained where the pastor had left her, with clenched hands and sunken head in the same attitude of fixed despair. Then, suddenly rising, with a low, long wail of woe, she threw herself on her knees before her mother’s portrait, and raising both arms with open hands, as though offering up some oblation to that image, she cried:
“Oh, mother! mother! here is the first gift, a spotless name! freely renounced for thy sake! freely offered up to thee! Only look on me! love me, my mother! for I have loved thee more than all things—even than him, mother mine!”
Mrs. Houston, in her excited state of feeling, could not keep quiet. Even at the risk of being “flouted” or ridiculed, she went into the colonel’s little study, which was the small room in the second story immediately over the front entrance, and sitting down beside him, solemnly entered upon the all-engrossing subject of her thoughts. The colonel listened, going through the successive stages of being surprised, amused and bored, and finally, when she ceased and waited for his comments, he just went on tickling his ear with the feathered end of his pen and smiled in silence.
“Now, then, colonel, what do you think of all this?”
“Why, that it must be all perfectly correct, my dear, and need not give you the slightest uneasiness. That our fair little daughter-in-law regularly writes and receives letters from a certain person, is of course a sufficient proof of the correctness of both correspondence and correspondent,” said the colonel, gallantly.
“All that may be very true, and at the same time very indiscreet—think of what they say.”
“Tah—tah, my love! never mind ‘they say!’ the only practical part of it is, that in the absence of Ralph, if I should happen to meet with ‘they say’ in man’s form, I shall be at the trouble of chastising him, that’s all!”
“Now, colonel! of all things, I do hope that you will not, at your age, do anything rash.”
“Then, my pretty one, pray do not trouble me or yourself, and far less little Margaret, with this ridiculous wickedness,” he said, drawing her head down to give her a parting kiss, and then good-humoredly putting her out of the study.
Colonel Houston, in his contempt of gossip, had unhappily treated the subject with more levity than it deserved. In such a neighborhood as this of which I write, calumny is not to be despised or lived down—it must be met and strangled; or it will be pampered and cherished until it grows a very “fire-mouthed dragon, horrible and bright.”
In such a place events and sensations do not rapidly succeed each other, and a choice piece of scandal is long “rolled as a sweet morsel under the tongue.” Margaret either ceased to write obnoxious letters, or else she changed her post office, but that circumstance did not change the subject of village gossip—it only furnished a new cause of conjecture. And this continued until near Christmas, when Frank Houston was expected home to spend the holidays, and a large party was invited to dinner and for the evening to meet him.
Frank arrived on Christmas eve, at night. He involuntarily betrayed some little agitation on first meeting Margaret; his emotion, slight as it was, and soon as it was conquered, was perceived by his fond stepmother, upon whom it produced the effect of reviving all her former feelings of suspicion and resentment toward Margaret, for having, as she supposed, trifled with his affections, and abandoned him in favor of his elder brother. And this resuscitated hostility was unconsciously increased by Frank, who, being alone with his stepmother later in the evening, said with a rueful attempt at smiling:
“So Ralph and my little Margo—mine no longer! are to be married. Well, when I went away I charged him with the care of my little love; and he has taken excellent care of her, that is all.”
“You have been treated villainously, Franky! villainously, my poor boy! And I am grieved to death to think I had anything to do with it! only—what could I do at such a time as that, when her mother, my poor, dear, Marguerite, was dying?” said Nellie, half crying from the mixed motives of revived grief for the loss of her friend, and indignation at what she persisted in regarding as the wrongs of her favorite stepson.
“However, Franky, dear, I can tell you, if that will be any comfort to you, that I don’t think you have lost a treasure in Margaret, for I doubt if she will be any more faithful to Ralph than she has been to you!”
“Fair little mamma, that is not generous or even just!” said Frank, in a tone of rebuke, tempered by affectionate playfulness. “Don’t let’s imitate the philosophical fox in the fable, nor call sour these most luscious of grapes hung far above my reach. Margaret owed me no faith. My aspiration gave me no claim upon her consideration. She is a noble girl, and ‘blistered be my tongue’ if ever it say otherwise. Henceforth, for me, she is my brother’s wife, no more, nor less,” said the young man, swallowing the sob that had risen in his throat and nearly choked him.
“Oh, my dear Franky! my very heart bleeds for you,” said Nellie, with the tears streaming down her face; for if the little lady had one deep, sincere affection in the world, it was for her “pretty boy,” as, to the young man’s ludicrous annoyance, she still called him.
But Frank wiped her tears away and kissed her. And the next moment Nellie was talking gayly of the party she had invited to do honor to his return home.
This festival fixed for Christmas was intended to come off the next afternoon. There was to be a dinner followed by an evening party. As the family were still in mourning for Mrs. Helmstedt, dancing was prohibited; but the evening was laid off to be employed in tea-drinking, parlor games, cards, and conversation.
Mrs. Houston, as far as the contradictory nature of her sentiments would permit, took some pride in the beauty, wealth, and social importance of her “daughter” Margaret; and experienced quite a fashionable, mamma-like solicitude for her favorable appearance upon the evening in question. Therefore, without ever having had any altercation with the pensive and unwilling girl upon the subject of her toilet, Nellie, on the morning of Christmas day, entered Margaret’s little boudoir, accompanied by Jessie Bell, bringing a packet.
Margaret, who sat by the fire quietly reading, looked up, smiled, and invited her visitor to be seated.
“I have not time to sit down, Maggie; all those cakes are to be frosted yet; the jellies are waiting to be poured into the moulds; the cream has yet to be seasoned and put in the freezers; flowers cut in the greenhouse for the vases; and I know not what else besides. Here, Christmas Day, of all days in the year, that I should be working harder than any slave,” said the little lady.
“I had no idea that you were so busy. Pray let me and Hildreth assist you. We are both skillful, you know. Please always let me know when I or my servants can be of any use to you, Mrs. Houston,” said Miss Helmstedt, laying aside her book and rising.
“Nonsense, my dear, I don’t really need your services or I should call upon you. I came in to bring you a Christmas gift. Your foolish little mother-in-law, whom you refuse to call ‘mamma,’ has not forgotten you. Jessie, open that box.”
The waiting-maid obeyed, and drew from it a rich black velvet evening dress, made with a low corsage and short sleeves, and both neck and sleevelets trimmed with point lace.
“There! there is your dress for this evening, my dear. How do you like it?” asked the little lady, holding up the dress in triumph.
“It is very beautiful, and I am very grateful to you, Mrs. Houston.”
“‘Mrs. Houston!’ There it is again! You will not say ‘mamma.’ By-and-by, I suppose, you will expect me also to say ‘Mrs. Houston,’ and we, a mother and daughter-in-law, shall be formally ‘Mrs. Houston-ing’ each other. Well, let that pass—‘sufficient unto the day,’ etc. Now, about this dress. You do not, after all, look as if you half liked it? It is true, I know, that velvet is rather matronly to wear for a girl of fifteen; but then, when one is in mourning, the choice of material is not very extensive; and besides, for Christmas, velvet may not be very much out of place, even on a young person. But I am sorry you don’t like it,” concluded Nellie, regretfully dropping the dress that she had been holding up to exhibition.
“Oh, I do like it, very much, indeed. I should be very tasteless not to like it, and very thankless not to feel your kindness. The dress is as beautiful as can be—only too fine for me,” said Margaret.
“Not the least so, my dear girl. Consider,” replied the little lady, launching out into a strain of good-humored compliment upon her “daughter’s” face and figure, riches, position, prospects, etc.
Margaret arrested the flow of flattery by quietly and gratefully accepting the dress. She would have preferred to wear, even upon the coming festive evening, the nunlike black bombazine, that, ever since her mother’s death, had been her costume. But, in very truth, her mind was now too heavily oppressed with a private and unshared responsibility, to admit of her giving much thought to the subject of her toilet. Her neatness was habitual, mechanical; beyond the necessity of being neat, dress was to her a matter of indifference.
Nellie next took out a small morocco case.
“And here,” she said, “is Colonel Houston’s Christmas offering to his little daughter-in-law.”
Margaret opened the casket, and found a beautiful necklace and bracelet of jet, set in gold.
“I will wear them to-night, and thank the kind donor in person,” said Miss Helmstedt, putting it beside her book on the stand.
Mrs. Houston then bustled out of the room, leaving the young girl to her coveted quiet.
Late in the afternoon, the Christmas party began to assemble—a mixed company of about forty individuals, comprising old, middle-aged, and young persons of both sexes. The evening was spent, according to programme, in tea-drinking, parlor games, tableaux, cards and conversation, i. e., gossip, i. e., scandal.
Among all the gayly attired young persons present Margaret Helmstedt, in her mourning-dress, with her black hair plainly braided around her fair, broad forehead, was pronounced not only the most beautiful, but by far the most interesting; her beauty, her orphanage, her heiress-ship, her extreme youth, and her singular position as a betrothed bride in the house of her father-in-law, all invested with a prestige of strange interest this fair young creature.
But, ah! her very pre-eminence among her companions, instigated the envious to seize upon, and use against her, any circumstance that might be turned to her disadvantage. Whispers went around. Sidelong glances were cast upon her.
As a daughter of the house, she shook off her melancholy pre-occupation, and exerted herself to entertain the visitors.
But matrons, whose daughters she had thrown into the shade, could not forgive her for being “talked of,” and received all her hospitable attentions with coldness. And the maidens who had been thus overshadowed took their revenge in curling their lips and tossing their heads, as she passed or smiled upon them.
Now Margaret Helmstedt was neither insensible, cold, nor dull; on the contrary, she was intelligent to perceive, sensitive to feel, and reflective to refer this persecution back to its cause. And though no one could have judged from her appearance how much she suffered under the infliction; for, through all the trying evening, she exhibited the same quiet courtesy and ladylike demeanour; the iron entered her soul.
Only when the festival was over, the guests departed, the lights put out, and she found herself at liberty to seek the privacy of her own chamber, she dropped exhausted beside her bed, and burying her face in the coverlid, sighed forth:
“Oh, mother! mother! Oh, mother! mother!”
The Christmas party had the effect of giving zest and impetus to the village gossip, of which Margaret was the favorite theme. It was scarcely in fallen human nature to have seen a girl of fifteen so exalted beyond what was considered common and proper to one of her age, and not to recollect and repeat all that could justly or unjustly be said to her disadvantage.
This newly-augmented slander resulted in an event very humiliating to the family at the Bluff.
Near the end of the Christmas holidays, Frank happened to be in the village upon some unimportant business. While loitering near a group of young men in one of the shops, he started on hearing the name of Margaret Helmstedt coupled with a light laugh. Frank’s eyes flashed as he advanced toward the group. He listened for a moment, to ascertain which of their number had thus taken the name of Miss Helmstedt upon irreverent lips; and when the culprit discovered himself, by again opening his mouth upon the same forbidden theme, without another word spoken on any side, Frank silently and coolly walked up, collared, and drew him struggling out from the group, and using the riding wand he held in his hand, proceeded to inflict upon him summary chastisement. When he considered the young man sufficiently punished, he spurned him away, threw his own card in the midst of the group, inviting whomsoever should list to take it up (with the quarrel), mounted his horse and rode home.
He said nothing of what had occurred to any member of the family.
But about the middle of the afternoon, he received a visit from the deputy sheriff of the county, who bore a pressing invitation from a justice of the peace, that “Franklin Pembroke Houston, of said county,” should appear before him to answer certain charges.
“Why, what is this?” inquired Colonel Houston, who was present when the warrant was served.
“Oh, nothing, nothing; only I heard a certain Craven Jenkins taking a lady’s name in vain, and gave him a lesson on reverence; and now, I suppose, I shall have to pay for the luxury, that is all,” replied Frank. And then, being further pressed, he explained the whole matter to his father.
“You did well, my boy, and just what I should have done in your place. Come! we will go to the village and settle up for this matter,” said the colonel, as he prepared to accompany his son.
The affair ended, with Frank, in his being fined one hundred dollars, which he declared to be cheap for the good done.
But not so unimportant was the result to the hapless girl, whom every event, whether festive or otherwise, seemed to plunge more deeply into trouble.
When, after New Year, Franky went away, Mrs. Houston accompanied him to Belleview, whence he took the packet. And after parting with him, on her return through the village, she chanced to hear, for the first time, the affair of the horsewhipping, for which her Franky had been fined. Upon inquiry, she further learned the occasion of that chastisement. And her indignation against Margaret, as the cause, knew no bounds.
Happily, it was a long, cold ride back to the Bluff, and the sedative effect of time and frost had somewhat lowered the temperature of little Mrs. Houston’s blood before she reached home.
Nevertheless, she went straight to Margaret’s sanctum, and laying off her bonnet there, reproached her bitterly.
Margaret bore this injustice with “a great patience.” That had, however, but little power to disarm the lady, whose resentment continued for weeks.
Drearily passed the time to the hapless girl—the long desolate months brightened by the rare days when she would receive a visit from one of her two friends, Grace or Clare, or else get letters from her father or Ralph Houston.
Toward the spring, the news from camp held out the prospect of Mr. Houston’s possible return home. And to Ralph’s arrival poor Margaret looked forward with more of dread than hope.