CHAPTER XII.
THE DAUGHTER’S FIDELITY.
“Still through each change of fortune strange,
Racked nerve and brain all burning,
Her loving faith to given trust
Knew never shade of turning.”
More than fifteen months have elapsed since the close of the last chapter—months, replete with the destiny of nations as of individuals. First, the prospects of peace through the mediation of the Emperor of Russia, or by any other means, seemed indefinitely postponed. The desired return of the long-absent soldiers to their homes, was a distant and doubtful hope. The war continued to be prosecuted on both sides with unremitting animosity.
Cockburn was on the Chesapeake. Now I know not whether history has softened, or tradition exaggerated the fierceness, rapacity, and cruelty of this licensed pirate and his crew. History tells of quiet farmsteads razed to the ground and peaceful villages burned to ashes. Tradition speaks of individual instances of monstrous atrocity, that resulted in the madness or death of the innocent victim. But whatever may stand recorded in history, or be believed in distant regions, concerning the conduct of the British fleet in the Chesapeake—here on the scene of action, here along the shores and among the isles of the Bay, the memory of Rear Admiral Cockburn and his crew, is, justly or unjustly, loaded with almost preternatural abhorrence.
The villages of Havre de Grace, Frenchtown, Fredericktown, Georgetown and Hampton, and other unguarded hamlets, whose natural protectors were absent at the distant theatres of the war, were successively assaulted, sacked and burned, while their helpless inhabitants, consisting of old men, women and children, were put to the sword, hunted away or carried off. The massacre on Craney Island, with all its concomitant horrors of debauchery, madness and violence, had carried consternation into every heart. Marauding parties were frequently landed to lay waste defenceless farmsteads, whose masters were absent on the Northern frontier.
Still, as yet, nothing had occurred to alarm, for themselves, our friends in the neighborhood of Helmstedt’s Island. The sail of the enemy had been more than once seen in the distance, but not even a single foraging party had landed to lay them under tribute. Thus it was considered quite safe by the neighbors to vary the monotony of their lives by forming a picnic party for Helmstedt’s Island. The company consisted of the Houstons, the Wellworths, the Hartleys, and others. The time appointed for the festival was the first of August. The day proved cool for the season, and consequently pleasant for the occasion. The Wellworths came down to the bluff to join the Houstons, with whom, at sunrise, they set out for the island, where they were met by the Hartleys and other friends, and regaled by a sumptuous seaside breakfast, previously prepared to order by the island housekeeper, Aunt Hapzibah. After that repast, the company separated into groups, according to their “attractions.” Of the elder portion, some formed quiet whist parties in the drawing-room, and others sat down for a cozy gossip on the vine-shaded piazza. Of the younger party, some entered boats and went crabbing, while others formed quadrilles and danced to the sound of the tambourine, the fiddle, and the banjo, wielded with enthusiasm by the hands and arms of three ecstatic sable musicians. Margaret Helmstedt and her chosen friends, Grace Wellworth and Clare Hartley, separated themselves from the company, and with their arms affectionately intertwined around each other’s waists, wandered down to the beach with the purpose of making the whole circuit of her beloved island. Margaret has changed and matured in these fifteen months. She has become very beautiful, very much like what her mother had been, but with a profounder and more mournful style, “a beauty that makes sad the eye.” Time, experience and sorrow have prematurely done their work upon her. She, but sixteen years of age, looks much older. She is dressed quite plainly, in a gown of black gauze striped with black satin, a fine lace inside handkerchief and cuffs, white kid gloves and black morocco gaiters. Her jet-black hair is parted over her broad brow, and rippling in a myriad of shining wavelets that would, if permitted, fall in a cloud of ringlets around her sweet, pale face, and throw into deeper shade the shadowy, mournful eyes. The white chip hat, plainly trimmed with white ribbons, hangs idly from her arm. Within the last year Margaret’s position has not improved. It is true that the subject of the letters and the unknown correspondent or lover has been suffered to die out. Not even country gossips can, without new materials, keep a vague scandal alive year after year. And no such stimuli had been afforded them. Margaret, whether she had ceased to write, or had taken a more effectual manner of concealing her correspondence, seemed neither to receive nor send any more mysterious letters. But she had not regained, nor even sought to regain, the confidence, esteem, and affection of her family. An atmosphere of distrust, coldness, and reserve, surrounded, chilled, and depressed her spirit, yet could not destroy the deep enthusiasm of some hidden devotion that inspired her soul, and gave to her beautiful, pale face, the air of rapt religious enthusiasm seen on the pictured brows of saints and angels. Even now, upon this festive occasion, as she walks between her friends, the same deep, serious, earnest fervor glows under the surface of her eloquent countenance. They were imparting to her, as girls will, their girlish mysteries, and inviting her to a similar confidence. But Margaret was pre-occupied and abstracted, and though her replies were always affectionate, they were not always to the point.
At last the brown-eyed and gentle little Grace ventured to say:
“I tell you what, Margaret, it is said that there are two sorts of people in this world—those who love, and those who permit themselves to be loved. If so, then you belong to the latter class.”
“Why do you think so, dear Grace?”
“Why?—here my arm has been around your waist, and it might better have been around the stem of an oak sapling! that at least would have nodded over me a little; but you, you walk on erect, silent, thoughtful, and when I speak to you of the flowers along our path, you speak of the clouds over our heads, or make an equally applicable response to my observation, which shows how much attention you pay to what I say.”
“I beg your pardon, dear Grace.”
“Of course you do, and of course I grant it, which will not prevent your offending in the same way the very next minute.”
“Cease, chatterbox!” exclaimed Clare Hartley. “Remember that Miss Helmstedt has other subjects to occupy her mind to the exclusion of your mature ideas. She is engaged, you know. Her affianced is far away. Like that other ‘Margaret, who in Lithgow’s bower, all lonely sat and wept the weary hour,’ she may be thinking of:—
“‘The war against her native soil
Her lover’s risk in battle broil.’
“Though after all, since they seem to be so quiet up there, I shouldn’t wonder if she is only thinking of household linens, with a view to housekeeping. Let the ‘plenishing’ be on the most liberal scale, Margaret, for I and Grace intend to spend a great deal of time with you after you are married.”
“And we are to be your bridesmaids, of course, are we not, dear Margaret?”
“Dear Grace, pray do not speak of any future event with such presumptuous assurance. My marriage may never take place,” replied Margaret, with a mournful earnestness that she did not attempt to conceal or modify.
“Your marriage may never take place!” exclaimed both her companions, in consternation.
“I mean that life is full of vicissitudes; one or the other of us may die.”
“How gravely you speak! You are certainly the daughter of Heraclitus, the crying philosopher. Why, Margaret——”
She was interrupted by a piercing shriek from Grace Wellworth, who, breaking suddenly from her companions, ran like Atalanta up toward the inland of the island. They looked up to ascertain the cause. With wild eyes and blanched faces they recognized the occasion of her terror and flight. Three boats had been silently pushed up on the sands a few yards below them, and were now discharging their crews, consisting of about twelve or more from each boat, or from thirty-five to forty British soldiers in all. One of these men had instantly perceived the flight of Grace, and moved by the mere animal instinct to pursue the flying, as the hound pursues the running hare, had cried out:
“Atalanta! Atalanta! By George, when a girl flies she invites pursuit,” and ran after her.
“For the love of Heaven, let us not follow her example. Let us stand our ground. Let us speak to the commanding officer, and we will save ourselves and her from farther aggression,” said Margaret, looking very firm, and not a shade paler than usual. Clare drew herself up with dignity and remained standing beside her friend.
The pursuer of Grace had now overtaken, caught and lifted the terrified and struggling girl, and laughing gayly the while, was bearing her back to the scene. No more dangerous spirit than that of wild fun and frolic seemed to inspire the merry captor.
“Release me! Release me, I command you, villain!” cried Grace, wild with indignation and fear, and struggling desperately to free herself.
“Ha! ha! ha! the little brown partridge! how fierce and strong, and spiteful it is! How it flutters and flaps, and beats!” exclaimed the soldier, holding his captive tighter.
“Let me go! Let me go, I say, poltroon!” cried the girl, wrestling madly with her captor.
“Kingdom come! what a wild bird it is!” exclaimed the latter, squeezing his prize maliciously.
“Put me down! Put me down, I order you, marauder! coward! brute!” resumed Grace, now maddened with rage and terror.
“George! What! It is not a wild partridge, but a young hawk that I’ve caught! What claws and beak it has! how it bites, and tears, and scratches! I must look out for my face, or, by George! the best-looking soldier in his majesty’s service will be ruined!”
“You a soldier! Poltroon! Coward!”
“Whe-ew! the little creature can call hard names, too. Well, come! one kiss for a cheap ransom, and I let you go! What! Not one kiss? Very well; what is not freely yielded must be boldly rifled! What the deuce——” And despite her frenzied struggles the “ransom” was seized, and Grace, furious at the indignity, was set upon her feet.
“For shame, ensign! How dare you? Go directly and ask the young lady’s pardon,” said the commanding officer, who had just that instant reached the scene.
The delinquent addressed touched his hat to his superior officer and said:
“I beg yours, lieutenant. If the bird had not flown, the falcon would not have flown!” and repeating the gesture of subordination, he turned to obey. Going up and standing before Grace, who gave him a furious look, he took off his cap, revealing a very finely turned head, bowed profoundly, and said:
“Young lady, Ensign Dawson humbly begs your pardon; and all the more humbly, because, poor wretch! he cannot repent! nor even—hardened sinner that he is—promise never to do so again. For if ever the opportunity should offer, son of perdition that you know him to be! he would be sure to repeat the offense. Under such unpromising prospects, you will deign to stretch out the sceptre of grace, whose touch is pardon to the poor devil—William Dawson?”
“‘William Dawson.’” The words were echoed by a low, thrilling, impassioned voice, that did not come from Grace, whose lovely countenance, as she listened to the ensign’s apology, underwent the most ludicrous series of phases; rage, curiosity, admiration, pride—all struggled for the supremacy a moment, and then, shocked at detecting in herself the slightest indication of relenting toward such unpardonable and atrocious impudence, she turned and walked away in haughty silence. Lieutenant King stepped after her to offer a more suitable apology. At the same instant Clare Hartley left the side of her friend, and went to soothe her.
And thus Margaret Helmstedt and the young ensign were left alone, standing a few yards apart.
He stood watching with laughing eyes the retreating form of Grace.
But Margaret’s face was a study. Her thrilling, passionate voice it was that had echoed his name at the instant of hearing it. When that name first struck her ear, she had started and clutched her breast with both hands, as one who had received a shot in the heart. And, since that moment, she had been standing transfixed, white and still, with burning gaze fixed upon the young soldier. Presently her steadfast gaze attracted the attention of the man, who raised his eyes to hers. The meeting of those mutual glances did not dissolve, but changed the spell under which she labored.
She moved, stretched out her arm, and without withdrawing her gaze, like a somnambulist or a mesmerized subject, as if irresistibly drawn on, in measured steps, with fixed eyes and extended arm, she walked toward him, laid her hand firmly upon his breast, and gazed wistfully into his face.
The young soldier laughed, drew himself up, threw out his chest, folded his arms, lifted his head, and so seemed defiantly to offer himself for criticism. And in truth he had no just reason to avoid inspection. He was very possibly just what he had laughingly described himself—the handsomest man in his majesty’s service. He was one of the finest specimens of the Anglo Saxon race—in form somewhat above the medium height—broad-shouldered, deep-chested, round-limbed, with a full face, fair, roseate complexion, flaxen hair, merry blue eyes, straight nose, finely curved, red and smiling lips, white teeth, and an expression of countenance replete with blended frankness, firmness, and good-humor.
But no recognition of his manly beauty was in the steadfast, profound, and serious gaze with which Margaret—her hand still laid upon his breast—regarded him.
“William Dawson. Your name is William Dawson?” she said, speaking low and slowly.
“Yes, fair one! William Dawson, hitherto ensign in his majesty’s —— company of ——, but henceforth your liege subject!” replied the young soldier, laughingly though in great surprise.
“William Dawson,” she repeated, without removing her eyes.
“You have said it, lovely lady.”
“William Dawson,” she reiterated, as it were, unconsciously.
“At your service, beautiful Virginian! What can I do to prove my devotion? Blow up the Albion? desert my colors! swear allegiance to that warlike hero, President Madison? or, I have it! cut off Rear Admiral Cockburn’s ears? for I think he is the favorite antipathy of your charming countrywomen! Tell me what unheard-of audacity I shall perpetrate to prove my devotion, and above all things, tell the worshiped name of her for whom I am pledging myself to do anything and everything!” said the young soldier, in the same tone of gay, but not disrespectful, raillery.
“I am Margaret Helmstedt,” she replied, in a low and thrilling voice.
“Great Heaven!”
It was all he said. And there fell a pause and deep silence between them for some intense and vital moments, during which they gazed with unutterable emotions upon each other’s face and form. She could not have been whiter than she had been from the first, so she remained without color and without voluntary motion, but shaken upon her feet as a statue by an earthquake. He at length grew as pale as she was, shuddered through all his frame, seized her hand, drew her closer, as one having authority, held her firmly while he fixed upon her blanched face a gaze as earnest, as searching, as thrilling as her own had been.
He broke the silence.
“Margaret Helmstedt! Margaret Helmstedt! I see you then at last! And now that I gaze upon your face—how like, great Heaven! to hers. Come—come! You must go with me. You must inform me of that which you alone have power to communicate. You must confirm to me that fact which I suspect, but do not know; or, rather, which I know, but cannot prove. Come, Margaret Helmstedt, come;” and, closing his hand cruelly upon hers, he drew her, blanched and unresisting, after him, into the covert of the wood, where they were quickly hidden.
There had been unsuspected witnesses to this strange scene. So absorbed in their mutual subject of interest had been the maiden and the soldier, that they had not perceived that the trio, consisting of Lieutenant King, Clare Hartley, and Grace Wellworth, who were going up toward the house, had been met by another party, consisting of Mrs. Compton, Mrs. Houston, and Parson Wellworth, who were coming down toward the beach, and that a pause and a parley was the consequence. Nellie Houston, who was at the same time a furious patriot and a fearful poltroon, on seeing the hated and dreaded “redcoat,” had clenched her fist, and frowned defiance, even while she paled and trembled with terror. Mrs. Compton had remained composed. She had been an old campaigner of the long revolutionary struggle, and was not easily disconcerted by the sight of the British uniform. The old parson had put on his spectacles and taken sight. Seeing that the officer, cap in hand, walked quietly and inoffensively on, between the two girls, neither of whom betrayed the least uneasiness, he turned to the frightened and belligerent Nellie, and said: “Do not be alarmed, madam; he is an officer and a gentleman, and will, no doubt, conduct himself as such, and compel his men to the manners of men.”
And the next moment, when they met, the officer made good the words of the preacher. Bowing profoundly, he explained that his party had landed on the island for the purpose of procuring a supply of fresh water and provisions.
Nellie flushed to her forehead, bit her lips till the blood came, and turned away in silence. She had no good-will for the British, and would not feign even civility.
Mrs. Compton satisfied the claims of conventional politeness by bowing coldly.
Mr. Wellworth took upon himself to be spokesman of his party, and responded:
“Sir, Major Helmstedt, the proprietor of this estate, is now absent with the American army, in the North—doing, no doubt, good service to his country, and good execution among your ranks. We, whom you find on the spot, are only members of a picnic party, consisting in all of about fifteen ladies, young and old, two half-grown boys, and four aged men. Your force, sir, looks to me to be nearly, or quite, forty fighting men. Resistance on our part would be in vain, else, Christian minister as I am, I might be tempted to refuse to give to our enemy drink, though he were athirst, or meat, though he hungered. The available provisions of the island, sir, are just now very limited in quantity. The fortunes of war have placed them at your disposition, sir. We are in your power. We therefore confide in your honor, as a gentleman and an officer, that in appropriating the articles in question, you will proceed with the quietness and courtesy due to the presence of ladies.”
To this speech, which was more candid than conciliating, the lieutenant bowed, assuring the clergyman that “booty” and not “beauty,” was the present object in request; that the former should be removed with the least possible disturbance to the latter; and counseling him to withdraw the ladies to the upper chambers of the mansion, while his men came on and took possession, for an hour or so, of the lower rooms.
While the clergyman and the lieutenant thus conversed, Nellie turned to the two girls, who had left the side of their escort, and said:
“Why, where is Margaret? Where have you left her?”
“Margaret! Oh! on the beach, or just above it. There she is now, talking with that saucy ensign!” exclaimed Grace Wellworth, in a tone of pique.
“No fear for our heroic Margaret! She is quite competent to the care of her own personal safety,” retorted Clare Hartley.
“Yet I think it is very indiscreet in Margaret to remain behind conversing with that impudent young ensign!” cried Grace, petulantly, drawing the attention of the whole party to the unconscious subject of her animadversions. Clare looked on in astonishment. Nellie gazed in consternation. Mr. Wellworth stared like a lunatic. And Lieutenant King declared it as his experience that Ensign Dawson was “the devil among the girls.” And before this group had recovered their self-possession, they saw the young couple disappear in the woods.
“Go after them! Fly to her rescue! She is carried off! Run, Mr. Wellworth,” cried Nellie, in a paroxysm of terror, as soon as she had recovered from her amazement.
But Lieutenant King advised the lady to be calm, and the clergyman to mind his own affairs, adding that the young girl had accompanied the soldier quite voluntarily, and that he would warrant her, or any lady, safe from offense by Ensign Dawson.
“You would warrant him, after witnessing his behavior to me!” exclaimed Grace, in a half-suppressed whisper, which was, however, not so much smothered, but that its purport reached the ears of the officer, who answered, earnestly:
“Had you been in the woods alone with that youthful soldier, he would have respected your solitude, and helplessness; but you were amid your friends; you ran, unwittingly challenging pursuit, and hence—but I do not defend him; he was wrong, and I beg pardon in his behalf.”
“What? what? what was that, Grace?” asked old Mr. Wellworth, in alarm.
“Nothing, father! only when I took fright and ran away, he gave chase, caught and brought me back to my party; that is all,” replied Grace, suppressing the fact of the rifled kiss, and blushing deeply for its suppression.
“Mr. Wellworth, I really must insist upon your going in search of Margaret. This lieutenant indorses the ensign; but who indorses the lieutenant?” inquired Nellie.
Lieutenant King bowed “as if he had received a compliment.”
And moved by this persistence on the part of Mrs. Houston, the old clergyman took the path leading down to the thicket.
“Madam,” said Lieutenant King, “will you permit me to counsel you to proceed to the house, and withdraw your female friends to the privacy of the upper chambers. Myself and my men, who are not desirable company for ladies, will follow in about fifteen minutes. They will want refreshments. You will, therefore, be so kind as to leave the keys of the pantry, storehouse, cellars, etc., in charge of some male servant, with orders to wait upon me.”
“Sir, because all our able men are with the army, and we are defenseless and in your power, you shall be obeyed. And for no other reason on the face of the earth!” exclaimed Nellie, flushing with anger, as she beckoned her companions, and took the way, successively, through the meadow, the orchard, and the garden, to the house. As they turned away, the British officer bowed with scrupulous politeness, and laughed within himself, as he muttered:
“You are a ‘good-nater’ little lady,” and took the way to the beach to bring together his men.
Meanwhile, Nellie and her companions reached the mansion, and spread consternation among the company by announcing that a British force had landed on the island. With the recollection of Craney Island fresh in their minds, there was not an old lady there who did not expect to be put to the sword, or a young woman or boy who did not look to be carried off. But the calm courage of Clare Hartley, and the cool serenity of old Mrs. Compton, did much toward soothing their fears and restoring quiet. Mrs. Houston then explained that they were all to go upstairs and lock themselves in the chambers, while the soldiers bivouacked below.
Hapzibah was then called, and ordered to produce the keys.
“Well, I ’spose how der’s no help for it, Miss Nellie; fur ef I don’t guv um up, dem are white niggers bust open ebery singly door in the house,” said Hapzibah.
“Yes, and set it on fire afterward, and throw you in to feed the flames!” was the comforting reply.
“I ’fies ’em for to do it—white herrin’s!—who’s afeard?—’sides which, I don’t believe I’d blaze for ’em!”
“No; you’d blow up like a skin of gunpowder. But hand over the keys, and go call your brother, old Euripedes, to take charge of them and wait on the gentlemen. You’ll have to come upstairs with the ladies.”
“Me go hide ’long o’ de ladies, jes’ as ef I was feared o’ dem white niggers! Me leabe my poor, ole, innocen’ brudder ’lone, to be put upon by dem debbils! I like to see myself a doin’ of it! I’d see ole Hempseed Island sunk inter de bottom o’ de sea wid all aboard fust—dat’s me. Yer all hear me good, don’t yer?”
“They’ll certainly throw you in the fire if you talk in that way,” said Nellie, laughing, in despite of her secret fears and anxieties.
“I wouldn’t burn to save dere precious libes! I’d see ’em all blasted fust! I’d see it good! Dat’s me! But I begs yer pardon, Miss Nellie, chile! I doesn’t mean no ’fence, nor likewise no disrespect to you, honey—’deed no! But yer see de werry sight ’o one ’o dem dere b’iled crabs makes me crawl all ober—an’ de sight o’ one o’ dere scarlet-coats drives me ravin’ mad as ef I war a she-bull!—dat’s me! ’Cause yer see, chile, de werry fust time one o’ dem dere debbils put his fut on ter de islan’ he done fetch death an’ ’struction long ob him! An’ now dat debbil done gone an’ fetch forty more debbils more worse nor hisself. An’ I wish, I does, how I could bore a hole in de islan’ an’ sink it wid all aboard, I do—dat’s me. An’ now I’ll go arter my brudder You-Rip.”
“Stay a moment,” said Mrs. Houston. “You can tell us—is there much wine and liquor in the cellar?—for if those wretches are permitted to drink themselves to madness, even the word of their commanding officer is no security for their good behavior!”
“Wine an’ likker! No, thanks be to my ’Vine Marster dere ain’t a singly drap to cool dere parchy tongues, no more’n dere is in Aberyham’s buzzum! Marse Fillup done ship it all away to camp, for he an’ Marse Wrath to treat dere brudder ossifers wid, to keep dere couridge when dey goes inter battle. Wish it was me goin’! I wouldn’t ’quire no sich. ’Sides which, I’d shoot somefin harder at ’em nor grapeshot inter ’em, as dey talk so much about, which it stands to reason shootin’ grapes is nuffin but chile’s play, and can’t hurt nobody, much less dem dere hardened b’iled crabs, ’less deys ’stilled into likker an’ drank too much of, ’sides bein’ a waste o’ de fruit; which dey do say as how ‘willful waste make woeful want.’”
“My goodness alive, Happy, how you do run on. You make my head go round and round like a water-wheel. Do go now and send Euripedes to me,” said Mrs. Houston.
“I gwine,” said Hapzibah, who took herself off.
And just then the gentlemen of the party, who had been out fishing at the opposite extremity of the island, and had been sent for, arrived upon the scene, and received the intelligence of the landing of the foraging party on the western shore of the island, and of their momentarily expected arrival at the house.
And now at last there was promptitude of action. The ladies and female servants were collected and hurried upstairs, with recommendations not only to lock, but to bolt and bar themselves within the innermost chambers. Old Hapzibah’s age, fearlessness and tearful remonstrances obtained for her the questionable privilege of remaining out to stand by her “poor ole angel,” as she lovingly termed her brother. Euripedes and herself were intrusted with the keys, and directions to wait upon the foragers. The four old gentlemen and the two boys then armed themselves, and took their stations in the upper hall to defend, if necessary, the approach to the ladies’ place of retreat. These arrangements were scarcely concluded, before the foraging party entered the house. And then followed the feast, and succeeded the orgies!—and such orgies! It was providential that there was no liquor to be found, though every cellar, closet, cupboard and pantry was ransacked, in the vain hope of finding a hidden store. The hampers of the picnic party were rifled of their costly delicacies, and a few bottles of rare wine discovered, but this went only a little way among so many. You should have heard old Hapzibah’s indignant account of their proceedings. She said that “Each red debbil among ’em ’haved as if he wer’ ’sessed o’ seben oder debbils more worser dan hissef!” That when they failed to find the wine, they drove her “poor, ole, innocen’, sufferin’ darlin’ on afore ’em an’ swore all de hair off’n his head—de poor, ole, timidy, saf’-hearted chile, as couldn’ stan’ nuffin o’ dere debblish doin’s”—that because she, Aunt Hapzibah, couldn’t be here, and there, and everywhere at once, “de ’fernal white niggers got into her cabin an’ stole her trunk o’ berryin’ close, which she meant to go arter ’em herself, an’ git ’em back even ef she had to pull ’em out’n Admirable Cockburn’s own claws! Dough ef he, Cockburn, was admirable, she should like to know, she should, who was ’bominable! That de low-life white herrin’s was so ’fraid o’ bein’ p’isoned, dat dey made poor, ole Rip, poor, ole, sufferin’, put-upon angel, drink out’n ebery thing, whedder it ’greed with him or not—an’ eben ’pelled him to drink out’n ebery singly milk-pan in the dairyhouse, which eberybody knows he neber could ’bide milk eber since he was weaned, which allers made him dead sick to his stumick.”
Finally, it was sunset before the marauders left the island, carrying off with them not only all the grain, but all the meat, fruit, and garden vegetables, and also all the poultry, and all the live stock with the exception of one old black ram, the patriarch of the flock, whom Hapzibah swore bitterly to carry to Cockburn, when she went after her trunk.
It was quite dark before it was considered safe to warrant the descent of the ladies from their retreat. Fortunately there would be a moon, or else the half-starved and thoroughly wearied picnickers must have rowed home in darkness. Now, therefore, they assembled on the porch, to talk over their misadventure, and wait for the rising of the moon. But suddenly some one asked:
“Where is Margaret Helmstedt, and——”
“Where is Margaret?” was echoed all around.
Nellie had hoped that she was safe in the charge of Mr. Wellworth. But Mr. Wellworth, who from wandering all over the island now joined the party, declared that he had been unable to find her, and that he had expected to hear of her among her friends present. And now, as the alarm spread, and exclamations of: “Where is Margaret?” “Where can she be?” “Is it possible she can have been carried off?” were passed in distress from one to another, and all began to separate to prosecute the search for her, a quiet low voice was heard from their midst, saying:
“I am here—be not uneasy!” and, ghostlike, Margaret Helmstedt stood among them! The sight of the maiden was an immediate and great relief, but:
“Are you quite safe, my child?” asked Mr. Wellworth.
“Quite!” responded Margaret, sinking upon a bench as if greatly exhausted.
“Where have you been?” asked Mrs. Houston sharply.
“Beyond the wa——” Her voice died away in silence; she had fainted.
“It is fatigue, and fright, and want of food,” said old Mrs. Compton, going to the poor girl, raising her head, and supporting it on her lap.
“And those wretches have not left so much as a drop of wine to revive her, or even a candle to see her face by,” exclaimed Nellie, who, whatever her cause of displeasure might be, was always moved by the sight of physical suffering, with which she could the more readily sympathize. But Dr. Hartley caused Margaret’s head to be laid down again, and water to be dashed in her face; and by these simple means her recovery was soon effected.
As the moon was now rising, the company prepared themselves, and went down to the beach to get into their boats, which, they thanked Heaven, had not been carried off by the marauders. The trip back was decidedly the pleasantest part of the whole expedition. An hour’s row over the moonlit waters brought them to the Bluff, where Nellie ordered supper to be immediately prepared for the whole famished party, who remained her guests that night, and only separated after breakfast the next morning.
When her last guest had departed, Mrs. Houston entered the private sitting-room of Margaret Helmstedt, whom she found quietly sitting beside her workstand, engaged in sewing.
Taking a seat close beside her, Mrs. Houston said:
“Margaret, I have come to request an explanation of your strange conduct of yesterday, which, let me assure you, has given your friends great pain, and even revived all the old gossip of which you were the subject. Margaret, I await your answer.”
She looked up from her work, and fixing her dark eyes full upon the face of her catechiser, answered firmly though gently:
“Mrs. Houston, I have no explanation to make!”
The little lady flushed and bit her lip.
Margaret continued her needlework.
“Then I am to understand, Miss Helmstedt, that you consider it quite proper for a young lady to spend two or three hours alone in the woods with a soldier, who is not of her kindred?”
Margaret might have replied with truth, “No, Mrs. Houston, I do not consider that at all proper,” but she chose, on the contrary, to remain silent.
“And you doubtless think, besides, that an affianced bride owes no consideration to her betrothed husband.”
“So far from that, I feel that she owes the same as if the church and the state had already blessed and confirmed the engagement,” answered Margaret.
“Which, in your case, it will never do, unless certain suspicious acts of yours are satisfactorily explained.”
“Mrs. Houston, I do not understand you,” said Margaret, flushing deeply.
“You do not seem to know that the honor of Ralph is committed to your keeping!”
“Mrs. Houston, the honor of no human being can possibly go out of his own keeping, or into that of another.”
The lady still bit her lip in high displeasure; but a glance at the pale, pensive face, and mourning dress of the orphan girl, a sudden recollection of her dead mother, a reflection upon the inevitable misery that any real imprudence might bring upon that mother’s only child, perhaps modified her resentment, for in a kinder tone she said:
“Margaret Helmstedt, you are on the brink of a frightful precipice! pause! confide to me the nature of the acquaintance subsisting between yourself and that strange young man, whom you had evidently known previous to your meeting yesterday morning. Is he the person to whom you wrote those mysterious letters? Is he the same whose visit to the island caused your poor mother such keen distress? Was it the dread of your continued intimacy, and possible union with such an unadmissible person, that constrained her to betroth you to Ralph, and consign you to my care? Speak, Margaret! It may be in my power to help and save you!”
Margaret trembled through all her frame, but answered firmly:
“Dear Mrs. Houston, I thank you for your kindness, but—I have nothing to say!”
“Margaret; I adjure you by the memory of your dead mother, speak! explain!”
She might have replied, “And in the name of my dear, mother, I repudiate your adjuration!” But fearing to give the slightest clue, or in the least degree to compromise the memory of her who slept beneath the old oak beside the waves, she answered:
“Even so adjured, I can only repeat, that I have no explanation to make, Mrs. Houston.”
“Then I will delay no longer. I will write to Ralph!” exclaimed Mrs. Houston, indignantly rising and leaving the room.
“Oh! mother! mother!” The wailing voice of the girl was smothered in her spread hands, and in her thick, disheveled hair as she cast herself upon the floor.
Now whether Mrs. Houston really put her threat into immediate execution, is not known. What is certain, the increased coldness of all the family, even of the kind-hearted, liberal-minded Colonel Houston, so distressed the spirit of the orphan girl that she seldom sought their company, and at last met them only at meal times. A fortnight passed thus, during which the family at the Bluff received no company and paid no visits. Such long seasons of isolation, even in summer, were not unusual in that sparsely settled place, where the undertaking of a friendly visit was really a serious piece of business.
At the end of a fortnight, however, as the family were sitting at dinner, Mr. Wellworth suddenly and unannounced entered the room. His countenance betrayed that some unusual circumstance had brought him out. All arose to receive him. In the midst of the general shaking of hands, the colonel put the question that all longed to ask.
“What has happened, Mr. Wellworth?”
“Why, sir, a party of British soldiers landed this morning and attacked the parsonage!”
“Good Heaven! I hope no serious damage has been done?” exclaimed Colonel Houston, while all listened with intense interest for his answer.
“No, thank the Lord! There was, providentially, a wedding at the church, a poor man’s, whose friends had all gathered to see him married. We armed ourselves with what we could catch up, and, being much the larger party, succeeded in beating off the assailants.”
“I hope there was no bloodshed?” said the kind-hearted Mrs. Compton.
“None on our side to speak of. They left one of their party on the field—Dodson—Carson—Dawson—yes, that is his name, Dawson—the very fellow that was with the foragers who broke in upon our picnic party.”
A low half-suppressed cry from Margaret, had greeted the name of the wounded man. But no one heard it but Mrs. Houston, who resented it by saying:
“And I hope, Mr. Wellworth, the wretch was dead!”
“He may be so by this time, madam,” replied the minister, in a voice of grave rebuke; “the poor young man is severely wounded. We have put him to bed; my daughter Grace and her maid are taking care of him, and I am off for Dr. Hartley. I called just to beg you to have me put across the bay.”
“Certainly,” replied Colonel Houston, who immediately despatched his waiter to give orders for the boat to be made ready. And in fifteen minutes Mr. Wellworth had departed on his errand.
It was late in the evening when the clergyman returned with the physician, and both took their way to the parsonage. The next morning, when Dr. Hartley called at the Bluff on his way home, he reported the wound of the young ensign not so dangerous as had been represented. And, in short, in a few days the young man was convalescent. Before his full recovery, the British fleet had left this portion of the bay, and had gone down to the mouth of the Patuxent. The attack upon the parsonage was the last foray made by their troops in that neighborhood.
One morning, about the third week in August, the family at Buzzard’s Bluff were cast into a state of consternation by an unprecedented event. Margaret Helmstedt did not appear at the breakfast table. After awaiting her coming for some time, Mrs. Houston sent to inquire for her, and learned that she was not to be found. Her maid was also missing. Her footman was next sought for in vain, and during the search it was discovered that her little sail, The Pearl Shell had also been taken away. And while the trouble of the family was still at its height, Mr. Wellworth was announced, and entered with intelligence that seemed, in Mrs. Houston’s estimation, to throw light upon the mystery of Margaret’s flight—namely, that his prisoner, the young British ensign, William Dawson, had broken his parole and fled.