“They said that guilt a shade had cast
Upon her youthful fame,
And scornful murmurs as she passed
Were mingled with her name.
In truth, it was a painful sight
As former friends went by
To see her trembling lip grow white
Beneath each altered eye.”
—MRS. HOLMES.
To the surprise of all the family at the Bluff, Margaret Helmstedt, the third morning from her disappearance, returned to her guardian’s house. Mrs. Houston took upon herself the ungenial task of meeting the delinquent.
“Well, miss, or rather, I beg your pardon, madam, permit me to congratulate you! though really I had not supposed you would have so soon honored my humble house with a visit,” said Nellie, as she met her at the door.
“Mrs. Houston, I do not understand you: pray, let me pass,” pleaded the girl, who looked pale, exhausted, and heartbroken.
“Pass, indeed! I would first know who it is that so glibly demands to pass. No, madam; your right to pass here is forfeited. I only wonder that you should present yourself. But I suppose that you have come for your effects; if so, inform me where they shall be sent, and I will have them forwarded.”
Margaret leaned half fainting against the door frame, but notwithstanding her physical prostration and mental disturbance, she maintained her presence of mind.
“Mrs. Houston, you are mistaken. I bear no new name or new relation, as your words would seem to imply.”
“Then, miss, so much the worse!” exclaimed Nellie, indignantly.
“I do not understand you,” said Margaret, in amazement.
“You do! And I wonder more than ever that you should presume to present yourself before me!” retorted the lady, raising her voice.
“Mrs. Houston, my mother was your bosom friend. Do not insult her daughter,” said Margaret, as the blood rushed to her face.
“You have dishonored your mother!” exclaimed Nellie, in a paroxysm of emotion between anger, awakened memory and grief.
“God knoweth!” replied the maiden, dropping her head and her clasped hands with a gesture of profound despair.
But the altercation had reached the ears of Colonel Houston, who now came out, saying:
“Nellie, my dear, this is not the way to meet this exigency. Good-morning, Miss Helmstedt, pray walk in and be seated. Nellie, she is but a young thing! If she has committed any grave fault, it carries its own bitter punishment, God knows. As for us, since she presents herself here again, we must continue to give her shelter and protection until the arrival of her father. Nay, Nellie, my dear, I say this must be done whatever her offences may be.”
“You too! Oh, you too, Colonel Houston!” involuntarily exclaimed Margaret, clasping her hands.
“Miss Helmstedt, my child, I am not your judge. Make a confidante of my wife, she loved your mother. Go into your apartment, Margaret. Attend her, Mrs. Houston.”
“Colonel Houston, I thank you! Mrs. Houston,” she continued, in a faltering voice; “I returned here only—because—it was my appointed place of abode—the home selected for me by my parents and—Ralph.”
“Never mind about Ralph now, my child,” said the colonel, in a gentle tone, which nevertheless cut Margaret to the heart. She meekly bowed her head and passed on to her own apartments, followed by Mrs. Houston, who threw herself into a chair and immediately commenced a close catechism, which was interrupted in the midst by Margaret saying:
“Dear Mrs. Houston, not from any want of respect to you, and not in defiance of your authority, but from the direst necessity—Oh, what am I saying!” She stopped suddenly in great anguish and remained silent.
“Margaret Helmstedt, what mean you?” demanded Mrs. Houston, indignantly.
“Nothing! I mean nothing!”
“You mean to affront me!”
“No, Heaven knows!”
“How can you explain or defend your conduct?”
“In no manner!”
“And you expect us quietly to submit to your contumacy?”
“No! Do your will. I cannot blame you!”
“And Ralph?”
Like the rising of an inward light came a transient glow of faith from her beautiful face.
“Ralph will think no evil,” she said, softly.
“Yet let me assure you, Miss Helmstedt, that though Ralph Houston’s chivalric confidence in you may be unshaken; yet his father will never now consent to the continuance of his engagement with you. You heard what Colonel Houston said?”
“I heard,” said Margaret, with gentle dignity.
“You heard? what then!”
“Mr. Houston is twenty-eight years of age, and his own master.”
“And what follows, pray, from that?”
“That in this matter he will do as seems to him right!”
“And yourself?”
“I leave my destiny with the fullest faith where God, my parents and his parents placed it—in the hands of my betrothed husband.”
“And he will abide by his engagement! I know his Quixotic temper! he will. But, Margaret Helmstedt, delicacy requires of you to retire from the contract.”
Margaret smiled mournfully, and answered earnestly:
“Madam, God knoweth that there are higher principles of action than fantastic delicacy. I have no right to break my engagement with Ralph Houston. I will free him from his bond; but if he holds me to mine, why so be it; he is wiser than I am, and in the name of the Lord I am his affianced wife.”
Nellie scarcely knew how to reply to this. She looked straight into the face of the girl as though she would read and expose her soul. Superficially that face was pale and still; the lips compressed; the eyes cast down until the close, long lashes lay penciled on the white cheeks; but, under all, a repressed glow of devotion, sorrow, firmness, fervor, made eloquent the beautiful countenance, as she sat there, with her hands clasped and unconsciously pressed to her bosom. Despite of the strong circumstantial evidence, Nellie could not look into that face and hold to her belief the owner’s unworthiness. And the little woman grew more angry at the inconsistency and contradiction of her own thoughts and feelings. She ascribed this to Margaret’s skill in influencing her. And out of her pause and study she broke forth impatiently:
“You are an artful girl, Margaret. I do not know where you get your duplicity, not from your mother, I know. No matter; thank Heaven, in a few days your father and Ralph will be here, and my responsibility over.” And rising, angrily, she left the room, and left Margaret remaining in the same attitude of superficial calmness and suppressed excitement.
Nellie went to her own especial sitting-room, communicating by short passages with storeroom, pantry and kitchen, and where she transacted all her housekeeping business. She found her own maid, the pretty mulatress, with knitting in hand, as usual, in attendance.
“Go at once, Jessie, and call Miss Helmstedt’s servants here.”
The girl obeyed, and soon returned, accompanied by Hildreth and Forrest, who made their “reverence,” and stood waiting the lady’s pleasure.
“I suppose your mistress has given you orders to reply to no questions in regard to her absence!” asked Nellie, sharply.
“No, madam; Miss Marget did nothing of the sort,” answered Forrest.
“Be careful of your manner, sir.”
Forrest bowed.
“When did she leave the house?”
“Night afore last.”
“With whom?”
“Me an’ Hild’eth, madam.”
“No others?”
“No, madam.”
“Where did she go?”
“Up the river some ways to a landin’ on to de Marylan’ shore as I never was at afore.”
“And what then?”
“She lef’ me den, Hild’eth an’ me, at a farmhouse where we landed, an’ took a horse an’ rode away. She was gone all day. Last night she come back, an’ paid de bill, and took boat an’ come straight home.”
“Very well, that is all very well of you, Forrest, so far. You have told the truth, I suppose; but you have not told the whole truth, I know. Whom did she meet at that farmhouse? and who rode away with her when she went?”
“Not a singly soul did she meet, ’cept it was de fam’ly. An’ not a singly soul did ride with her.”
“You are lying!” exclaimed Nellie, who, in her anger, was very capable of using strong language to the servants.
“No! ’fore my ’Vine Marster in heaben, I’se tellin’ of you de trufe, Miss Nellie.”
“You are not! Your mistress has tutored you what to say.”
The old man’s face flushed darkly, as he answered:
“I ax your pardon very humble, Miss Nellie; but Miss Marget couldn’t tutor no one to no false. An’ on de contrairy wise she said to we den, my sister an’ me, she said: ‘Forrest and Hildreth, mind when you are questioned in regard to me tell the truf as jus’ you know it.’ Dat’s all, Miss Nellie. ’Deed it is, madam. Miss Marget is high beyant tutorin’ anybody to any false.”
“There! you are not requested to indorse Miss Helmstedt. And very likely she did not take you into her counsels. Now, tell me the name of the place where you stopped?”
“I doesn’t know it, Miss Nellie, madam.”
“Well, then, the name of the people?”
“Dey call de old gemman Marse John, an’ de ole lady Miss Mary. I didn’ hear no other name.”
“You are deceiving me!”
“No, ’fore my Heabenly Marster, madam.”
“You are!” And here followed an altercation not very creditable to the dignity of Mrs. Colonel Houston, and which was, besides, quite fruitless, as the servant could give her no further satisfaction.
All that forenoon Margaret sat in her room, occupying her hands with some needlework in which her heart took little interest. She dreaded the dinner hour, in which she should have to face the assembled family. She would gladly have remained fasting in her room, for, indeed, her appetite was gone, but she wished to do nothing that could be construed into an act of resentment. So, when the bell rang, she arose with a sigh, bathed her face, smoothed her black tresses, added a little lace collar and locket brooch to her black silk dress, and passed out to the dining-room.
The whole family were already seated at the table; but Colonel Houston, who never failed in courtesy to the orphan girl, arose, as usual, and handed her to her seat. Her eyes were cast down, her cheeks were deeply flushed. She wore, poor girl, what seemed a look of conscious guilt, but it was the consciousness, not of guilt, but of being thought guilty. She could scarcely lift her heavy lids to meet and return the cold nods of recognition with which old Colonel and Mrs. Compton acknowledged her presence. The fervid devotion that had nerved her heart to meet Mrs. Houston’s single attack was chilled before this table full of cold faces and averted eyes. She could not partake of the meal; she could scarcely sustain herself through the sitting; and at the end she escaped from the table as from a scene of torture.
“She is suffering very much; I will go and talk to her,” said the really kind-hearted old Mrs. Compton.
“No, mother, do nothing of the sort. It would be altogether useless. You might wear out your lungs to no purpose. She is perfectly contumacious,” said Mrs. Houston.
“Nellie, my dear, she is the child of your best friend.”
“I know it,” exclaimed the little lady, with the tears of grief and rage rushing to her eyes, “and that is what makes it so difficult to deal with her; for if she were any other than Marguerite De Lancie’s daughter, I would turn her out of the house without more ado.”
“My good mother, and my dear wife, listen to me. You are both right, in a measure. I think with you, Nellie, that since Miss Helmstedt persistently declines to explain her strange course, self-respect and dignity should hold us all henceforth silent upon this subject. And with you, Mrs. Compton, I think that regard to the memory of the mother should govern our conduct toward the child until we can resign her into the hands of her father. The trial will be short. We may daily expect his arrival, and in the meantime we must avoid the obnoxious subject, and treat the young lady with the courtesy due solely to Marguerite De Lancie’s daughter.”
While this conversation was on the tapis, the door was thrown open, and the Rev. Mr. Wellworth announced. This worthy gentleman’s arrival was, of late, the harbinger of startling news. The family had grown to expect it on seeing him. His appearance now corroborated their usual expectations. His manner was hurried, his face flushed, his expression angry.
“Good-day, friends! Has your fugitive returned?”
“Yes, why?” inquired three or four in a breath, rising from the table.
“Because mine has, that is all!” replied the old man, throwing down his hat and seating himself unceremoniously. “Yes, Ensign Dawson presented himself this morning at our house, looking as honest, as frank, and as innocent as that exemplary young man generally does. I inquired why he came, and how he dared present himself. He replied that he had been unavoidably detained, but that as soon as he was at liberty, he had returned to redeem his parole and save his honor. I told him that ‘naught was never in danger,’ but requested him to be more explicit. He declined, saying that he had explained to me that he had been detained, and had in the first moment of his liberty returned to give himself up, and that was enough for me to know.”
“But, you asked him about the supposed companion of his flight?” inquired the indiscreet Nellie.
“Ay, and when I mentioned Margaret Helmstedt’s name, his eyes flashed fire! he clapped his hand where his sword was not, and looked as if he would have run me through the body!”
“And gave you no satisfaction, I daresay?”
“None whatever—neither denying nor affirming anything.”
“And what have you done with the villain? I hope you have locked him up in the cellar!” exclaimed the indignant Nellie.
“Not I, indeed; if I had, the case would have been hopeless.”
“I—I do not understand you,” said Nellie.
The clergyman looked all around the room, and then replied:
“There are no giddy young people here to repeat the story. I will tell you. Grace is a fool! All girls are, I believe! A scarlet coat with gilt ornaments inflames their imaginations—a wound melts their hearts! And our wounded prisoner, between his fine scarlet and gold coat and his broken rib—(well, you understand me!)—if I had locked him up in the cellar, or in the best bedroom, my girl would have straightway imagined me a tyrannical old despot, and my captive would have grown a hero in her eyes! No, I invited him to dinner, drank his health, played a game of backgammon with him, and afterward returned him his parole, and privately signified that he was at liberty to depart. And however my silly girl feels about it, she cannot say that I persecuted this ‘poor wounded hussar.’”
“But, the d——l! you do not mean to say that this villain aspired to Grace also?” exclaimed Colonel Houston, in dismay.
“How can I tell? I do not know that he did aspire to Margaret, or that he didn’t aspire to Grace! All I know is, that Grace behaved like a fool after his first departure and worse, if possible, after his second. But Margaret, you say, has returned?”
“She came back this morning.”
“And what does the unfortunate girl say?”
“Like your prisoner, she refuses to affirm or deny anything.”
“Mr. Wellworth,” said Colonel Houston, “we have decided to speak no more upon the subject with Miss Helmstedt, but to leave matters as they are until the return of her father, who is daily expected.”
“I think, under the circumstances, that that is as well,” replied the old man. And soon after, he concluded his visit and departed.
And as the subject was no more mentioned to Margaret, she remained in ignorance of the visit of Mr. Wellworth.
And from this time Margaret Helmstedt kept her own apartments, except when forced to join the family at their meals. And upon these occasions, the silence of the ladies, and the half compassionate courtesy of Colonel Houston, wounded her heart more deeply than the most bitter reproaches could have done.
A week passed in this dreary manner, and still Major Helmstedt and Captain Houston had not returned, though they were as yet daily expected.
Margaret, lonely, desolate, craving companionship and sympathy, one day ordered her carriage and drove up to the parsonage to see Grace Wellworth. She was shown into the little sitting-room where the parson’s daughter sat sewing.
Grace arose to meet her friend with a constrained civility that cut Margaret to the heart. She could not associate her coldness with the calumnious reports afloat concerning herself, and therefore could not comprehend it.
But Margaret’s heart yearned toward her friend; she could not bear to be at variance with her.
“My dearest Grace, what is the matter? have I unconsciously offended you in any way?” she inquired, gently, as she sat down beside the girl and laid her hand on her arm.
“Unconsciously! no, I think not! You are doubly a traitor, Margaret Helmstedt! Traitor to your betrothed and to your friend!” replied Miss Wellworth, bitterly.
“Grace! this from you!”
“Yes, this from me! of all others from me! The deeply injured have a right to complain and reproach.”
“Oh, Grace! Grace! my friend!” exclaimed Margaret, wringing her hands.
But before another word was said, old Mr. Wellworth entered the room.
“Good-afternoon, Miss Helmstedt. Grace, my dear, go down to Dinah’s quarter and give her her medicine, Miss Helmstedt will excuse you. One of our women has malaria fever, Miss Helmstedt.”
“Indeed! I am sorry; but I have some skill in nursing: shall I not go with Grace?” inquired Margaret, as her friend arose to leave the room.
“No, young lady; I wish to have some conversation with you.”
Grace sulkily departed, and Margaret meekly resumed her seat.
“Miss Helmstedt, my poor child, it is a very painful duty that I have now to perform. Since the decease of my wife, I have to watch with double vigilance over the welfare of my motherless daughter, and I should feel indebted to you, Margaret, if you would abstain from visiting Grace until some questions in regard to your course are satisfactorily answered.”
Margaret’s face grew gray with anguish as she arose to her feet, and clasping her hands, murmured:
“My God! my God! You do not think I could do anything that should separate me from the good of my own sex?”
“Margaret, unhappy child, that question is not for me to answer. I dare not judge you, but leave the matter to God above and to your father on earth.”
“Farewell, Mr. Wellworth. I know the time will come when your kind nature will feel sorrow for having stricken a heart already so bruised and bleeding as this,” she said, laying her hand upon her surcharged bosom; “but you are not to blame, so God bless you and farewell,” she repeated, offering her hand.
The clergyman took and pressed it, and the tears sprang to his eyes as he answered:
“Margaret, the time has come, when I deeply regret the necessity of giving you pain. Alas! my child, ‘the way of the transgressor is hard.’ May God deliver your soul,” and rising, he attended her to her carriage, placed her in it, and saying:
“God bless you!” closed the door and retired.
“Oh, mother! mother! Oh, mother! mother! behold the second gift—my only friendship! They are yours, mother! they are yours! only love me from heaven! for I love you beyond all on earth,” cried Margaret, covering her sobbing face, and sinking back in the carriage.
Margaret returned home to her deserted and lonely rooms. No one came thither now; no one invited her thence. Darker lowered the clouds of fate over her devoted young head. Another weary week passed, and still the returning soldiers had not arrived. The Sabbath came—the first Sabbath in October.
Margaret had always found the sweetest consolation in the ordinances of religion. This, being the first Sabbath of the month, was sacrament Sunday. And never since her entrance into the church had Margaret missed the communion. And now, even in her deep distress, when she so bitterly needed the consolations of religion, it was with a subdued joy that she prepared to receive them. It was delightful autumn weather, and the whole family who were going would fill the family coach—so much had been intimated to Margaret through her attendants. Therefore she was obliged to order her own carriage. The lonely ride, under present circumstances, was far more endurable than the presence of the family would have been; and solitude and silence afforded her the opportunity for meditation that the occasion required.
She reached the church and left her carriage before the hour of service. The fine day had drawn an unusually large congregation together, and had kept them sauntering and gossiping out in the open air; but Margaret, as she smiled or nodded to one or another, met only scornful glances or averted heads. More than shocked, appalled and dismayed by this sort of reception, she hurried into the church and on to her pew.
Margaret had always, in preference to the Houstons’ pew, occupied her own mother’s, “to keep it warm,” she had said, in affectionate explanation, to Mrs. Houston. Generally, Grace or Clare, or both, came and sat with her to keep her company. But to-day, as yet, neither of her friends had arrived, and she occupied her pew alone. As hers was one of those side pews in a line with the pulpit, her position commanded not only the preacher’s, but the congregation’s view. The preacher had not come. The congregation in the church was sparse, the large majority remaining in the yard. Yet, as Margaret’s eyes casually roved over this thin assembly, she grew paler to notice how heads were put together, and whispers and sidelong glances were directed to herself. To escape this, and to find strength and comfort, she opened her pocket Bible and commenced reading.
Presently, the bell tolled; and the people came pouring in, filling their pews. About the time that all was quiet, the minister came in, followed at a little distance by his son and daughter, who passed into the parsonage pew, while he ascended into the pulpit, offered his preliminary private prayer, and then opening the book commenced the sublime ritual of worship.
“The Lord is in His holy temple. Let all the earth keep silence before Him.”
These words, repeated Sunday after Sunday, never lost their sublime significance for Margaret. They ever impressed her solemnly, at once awing and elevating her soul. Now as they fell upon her ear, her sorrows and humiliations were, for the time, set aside. A hundred eyes might watch her, a hundred tongues malign her; but she neither heeded, nor even knew it. She knew she was alone—she could not help knowing this; Grace had passed her by; Clare had doubtless come, but not to her. She felt herself abandoned of human kind, but yet not alone, for “God was in His holy temple.”
The opening exhortation, the hymn, the prayers, and the lessons for the day were all over, and the congregation knelt for the litany.
“From envy, hatred and malice, and all uncharitableness, good Lord deliver us.”
These words had always slid easily over the tongue of Margaret, so foreign had these passions been to her life and experience; but now with what earnestness of heart they were repeated:
“That it may please Thee to forgive our enemies, persecutors and slanderers, and to turn their hearts.”
Formal words once, repeated as by rote, now how full of significance to Margaret. “Oh, Father in Heaven,” she added, “help me to ask this in all sincerity.”
The litany was over, and the little bustle that ensued, of people rising from their knees, Margaret’s pew door was opened, a warm hand clasped hers, and a cordial voice whispered in her ear:
“I am very late to-day, but ‘better late than never,’ even at church.”
And Margaret, looking up, saw the bright face of Clare Hartley before her.
Poor Margaret, at this unexpected blessing, nearly burst into tears.
“Oh, Clare, have you heard? have you heard?” she eagerly whispered.
There was no time to say more; the services were recommenced, and the congregation attentive.
When the usual morning exercises were over, a portion of the congregation retired, while the other remained for the communion. Clare was not a communicant, but she stayed in the pew to wait for Margaret. Not with the first circle, nor yet with the second, but meekly with the third, Margaret approached the Lord’s table. Mr. Wellworth administered the wine, and one of the deacons the bread. Margaret knelt near the center of the circle, so that about half the set were served before the minister came to her. And when he did, instead of putting the blessed chalice into her hand, he stooped and whispered:
“Miss Helmstedt, I would prefer to talk with you again before administering the sacrament to you.”
This in face of the whole assembly. This at the altar. Had a thunderbolt fallen upon her head, she could scarcely have been more heavily stricken, more overwhelmed and stunned.
This, then, was the third offering; the comfort of the Christian sacraments was sacrificed. No earthly stay was left her now, but the regard of her stern father and the love of Ralph. Would they remain to her? For her father she could not decide. One who knew him best, and loved him most, had died because she dared not trust him with the secret of her life. But for Ralph! Ever at the thought of him, through her deeper distress, the great joy of faith arose, irradiating her soul and beaming from her countenance.
But now, alas! no thought, no feeling, but a sense of crushing shame possessed her. How she left that spot she never could have told! The first fact she knew was that Clare had left her pew to meet and join her; Clare’s supporting arm was around her waist; Clare’s encouraging voice was in her ears; Clare took her from the church and placed her in her carriage; and would have entered and sat beside her, but that Margaret, recovering her presence of mind, repulsed her, saying:
“No, Clare! no, beloved friend! it is almost well to have suffered so much to find a friend so loyal and true; but your girlish arm cannot singly sustain me. And you shall not compromise yourself for me. Leave me, brave girl; leave me to my fate!”
“Now may the Lord leave me when I do! No, please Heaven, Clare Hartley stands or falls with her friend!” exclaimed the noble girl, as she entered and seated herself beside Margaret. “Drive on, Forrest,” she added, seeing Miss Helmstedt too much preoccupied to remember to give the order.
“My father was not at church to-day. So if you will send a messenger with a note from me to Dr. Hartley, I will remain with you, Margaret, until your father arrives.”
“Oh, Clare! Clare! if you hurt yourself for me, I shall never forgive myself for allowing you to come.”
“As if you could keep me away.”
“Clare, do you know what they say of me?”
Clare shook her head, frowned, beat an impatient tattoo with her feet upon the mat, and answered:
“Know it! No; I do not! Do you suppose that I sit still and listen to any one slandering you? Do you imagine that any one would dare to slander you in my presence? I tell you, Margaret, that I should take the responsibility of expelling man or woman from my father’s house who should dare to breathe a word against you.”
“Oh, Clare! the circumstantial evidence against me is overwhelming!”
“What is circumstantial evidence, however strong, against your whole good and beautiful life?”
“You would never believe ill of me.”
“Margaret—barring original sin, which I am required to believe in—I think I have a pure heart, a clear head, and strong eyes. I do not find so much evil in my own soul, as to be obliged to impute a part of it to another. I never confuse probabilities; and, lastly, I can tell an Agnes from a Calista at sight.”
By this time the rapid drive had brought them home. Clare scribbled a hasty note, which Forrest conveyed to her father.
The Comptons and the Houstons were all communicants, and did not leave the church until all the services were over. They had been bitterly galled and humiliated by the repulse that Margaret Helmstedt, a member of their family, had received. On their way home, they discussed the propriety of immediately sending her off, with her servants, to Helmstedt’s Island.
“Her father does not come; her conduct grows worse and worse; she has certainly forfeited all claims to our protection, and she compromises us every day,” urged Nellie.
“I am not sure but that the isle would be the best and most secure retreat for her until the coming of her father; the servants there are faithful and reliable, and the place is not so very accessible to interlopers, now that the British have retired,” said old Mrs. Compton.
Such being the opinion of the ladies of the family, upon a case immediately within their own province, Colonel Houston could say but little.
“Dear mother and fair wife, the matter rests with you at last; but for myself, I prefer that the girl should remain under our protection until the arrival of her father. I would place her nowhere, except in Major Helmstedt’s own hands.”
The ladies, however, decided that Margaret Helmstedt should, the next morning, be sent off to the isle. And the colonel reluctantly acquiesced. As for old Colonel Compton, from first to last he had not interfered, or even commented, except by a groan or a sigh.
Upon arriving at home, they were astonished to find Clare Hartley with Margaret. And when they were told that Forrest had been dispatched to Plover’s Point, with a note from Clare to inform her father of her whereabouts, Nellie prophesied that the messenger would bring back orders for Clare to return immediately. And she decided to say nothing to Margaret about the approaching exodus until after Clare’s departure.
Mrs. Houston’s prediction was verified. Forrest returned about sunset with a note from Dr. Hartley to his daughter, expressing surprise that she should have made this visit without consulting him, and commanding her, as it was too late for her to cross the bay that evening, to return, without fail, early the next morning.
Margaret gazed anxiously at Clare while the latter read her note.
“Well, Clare! well?” she asked, eagerly, as her friend folded the paper.
“Well, dear, as I left home without settling up some matters, I must run back for a few hours to-morrow morning; but I will be sure to come back and redeem my pledge of remaining near you until your father’s arrival, dear Margaret; for every minute I see more clearly that you need some faithful friend at your side,” replied Clare, who felt confident of being able to persuade her father to permit her return.
Clare slept with Margaret in her arms that night. And early the next morning—very early, to deprecate her father’s displeasure, she entered Margaret’s little Pearl Shell, and was taken by Forrest across the bay and up the river to Plover’s Point.
She had scarcely disappeared from the house, before Mrs. Houston entered Miss Helmstedt’s room.
Margaret was seated in her low sewing-chair with her elbow leaning on the little workstand beside her, her pale forehead bowed upon her open palm, and a small piece of needlework held laxly in the other hand lying idly upon her lap. Her eyes were hollow, her eyelashes drooping until they overshadowed cheeks that wore the extreme pallor of illness. Her whole aspect was one of mute despair.
The bustling entrance of Mrs. Houston was not perceived until the lady addressed her sharply:
“Miss Helmstedt, I have something to say to you.”
Margaret started ever so slightly, and then quietly arose, handed her visitor a chair, and resumed her own seat, and after a little while her former attitude, her elbow resting on the stand, her head bowed upon her hand.
“Miss Helmstedt,” said the lady, taking the offered seat with an air of importance, “we have decided that under present circumstances, it is better that you should leave the house at once with your servants, and retire to the isle. Your effects can be sent after you.”
A little lower sank the bowed head—a little farther down slid the relaxed hand, that was the only external evidence of the new blow she had received. To have had her good name smirched with foul calumny; to have suffered the desertion of all her friends save one; to have been publicly turned from the communion table; all this had been bitter as the water of Marah! Still she had said to herself: “Though all in this house wound me with their frowns and none vouchsafe me a kind word or look, yet will I be patient and endure it until they come. My father and Ralph shall find me where they left me.”
But now to be sent with dishonor from this home of shelter, where she awaited the coming of her father and her betrothed husband; and under such an overwhelming mass of circumstantial evidence against her as to justify in all men’s eyes those who discarded her—this, indeed, was the bitterness of death!
Yet one word from her would have changed all. And now she was under no vow to withhold that word, for she recollected that her dying mother had said to her: “If ever, my little Margaret, your honor or happiness should be at stake through this charge with which I have burdened you, cast it off, give my secret to the wind!” And now a word that she was free to speak would lift her from the pit of ignominy and set her upon a mount of honor. It would bring the Comptons, the Houstons, the Wellworths and the whole company of her well-meaning, but mistaken friends to her feet. Old Mr. Wellworth would beg her pardon, Grace would weep upon her neck. The family here would lavish affection upon her. Nellie would busy herself in preparations for the approaching nuptials. The returning soldiers, instead of meeting disappointment and humiliation, would greet—the one his adored bride—the other his beloved daughter. And confidence, love and joy would follow.
But then a shadow of doubt would be cast upon that grave under the oaks by the river. And quickly as the temptation came, it was repulsed. The secret that Marguerite De Lancie had died to keep, her daughter would not divulge to be clear of blame. “No, mother, no, beautiful and gifted martyr, I can die with you, but I will never betray you! Come what will I will be silent.” And compressing her sorrowful and bloodless lips and clasping her hands, Margaret “took up her burden of life again.”
“Well, Miss Helmstedt, I am waiting here for any observation you may have to offer, I hope you will make no difficulty about the plan proposed.”
“No, Mrs. Houston, I am ready to go.”
“Then, Miss Helmstedt, you had better order your servants to pack up and prepare the boat. We wish you to leave this morning; for Colonel Houston, who intends to see you safe to the island, and charge the people there concerning you, has only this day at his disposal. To-morrow he goes to Washington, to meet Ralph and Frank, who, we learn by a letter received this morning, are on their way home.”
This latter clause was an additional piece of cruelty, whether intentional or only thoughtless on the part of the speaker. Ralph so near home, and she dismissed in dishonor! Margaret felt it keenly; but she only inquired in a low and tremulous voice:
“And my father?”
“Your father, it appears, is still detained by business in New York. And now I will leave you to prepare for your removal.”
Margaret rang for her servants, directed Hildreth to pack up her clothing, and Forrest to make ready the boat, for they were going back to the island.
Her faithful attendants heard in sorrowful dismay. They had acutely felt and deeply resented the indignities inflicted upon their young mistress.
An hour served for all necessary preparations, and then Margaret sent and reported herself ready to depart.
The family assembled in the hall to bid her good-by. When she took leave of them they all looked grave and troubled. Old Mrs. Compton kissed her on the cheek and prayed God to bless her. And the tears rushed to Colonel Houston’s eyes when he offered his arm to the suffering girl, whose pale face looked so much paler in contrast with the mourning dress she still wore.
They left the house, entered the boat, and in due time reached Helmstedt’s Island. Colonel Houston took her to the mansion, called the servants together, informed them that their master would be at home in a few days; and that their young mistress had come to prepare for his arrival, and to welcome him back to his house. That of course they would obey her in all things. This explanation of Margaret’s presence was so probable and satisfactory, that her people had nothing to do but to express the great pleasure they felt in again receiving their young lady. In taking leave of Margaret, Colonel Houston was very deeply shaken. He could not say to her, “This act, Margaret, was the act of the women of my family, who, you know, hold of right the disposal of all such nice questions as these. I think they are wrong, but I cannot with propriety interfere.” No, he could not denounce the doings of his own wife and mother, but he took the hand of the maiden and said:
“My dearest Margaret—my daughter, as I hoped once proudly to call you—if ever you should need a friend, in any strait, for any purpose, call on me. Will you, my dear girl?”
Miss Helmstedt remained silent, with her eyes cast down in bitter humiliation.
“Say, Margaret Helmstedt, my dear, will you do this?” earnestly pleaded Colonel Houston.
Margaret looked up. The faltering voice, and the tears on the old soldier’s cheeks touched her heart.
“The bravest are ever the gentlest. God bless you, Colonel Houston. Yes, if ever poor Margaret Helmstedt needs a friend, she will call upon you,” she said, holding out her hand.
The old man pressed it and hurried away.
The next morning Colonel Houston set out for Washington city to meet his son.
The reunion took place at the City Hotel.
Captain Houston was eager to proceed directly homeward; but a night’s rest was necessary to the invalid soldier, and their departure was fixed for the next day. Ralph Houston’s eagerness seemed not altogether one of joy; through the evening his manner was often abstracted and anxious.
When the party had at last separated for the night, Ralph left his own chamber and proceeded to that of his father. He found the veteran in bed, and much surprised at the unseasonable visit. Ralph threw himself into the easy-chair by his side, and opened the conversation by saying:
“I did not wish to speak before a third person, even when that person was my brother; but what then is this about Margaret? Mrs. Houston’s letters drop strange, incomprehensible hints, and Margaret’s little notes are constrained and sorrowful. Now, sir, what is the meaning of it all?”
“Ralph, it was to break the news to you that I came up hither to meet you,” replied the colonel, solemnly.
“The news! Great Heaven, sir, what news can there be that needs such serious breaking? You told me that she was well!” exclaimed the captain, changing color, and rising in his anxiety.
“Ralph! Margaret Helmstedt is lost to you forever.”
The soldier of a dozen battles dropped down into his chair as if felled, and covered his face with his hands.
“Ralph! be a man!”
A deep groan from the laboring bosom was the only response.
“Ralph! man! soldier! no faithless woman is worth such agony!”
He neither moved nor spoke; but remained with his face buried in his hands.
“Ralph! my son! my brave son! Ralph!” exclaimed the old man, rising in bed.
The captain put out his hand and gently pressed him back upon his pillow, saying in a calm, constrained voice:
“Lie still; do not disturb yourself; it is over. You said that she was lost to me, forever. She is married to another, then?”
“I wish to Heaven that I knew she was; but I only know that she ought to be.”
“Tell me all!”
The voice was so hollow, so forced, so unnatural, that Colonel Houston could not under other circumstances have recognized it as his son’s.
The old man commenced and related the circumstances as they were known to himself.
Captain Houston listened—his dreadful calmness as the story progressed, startled first into eager attention, then into a breathless straining for the end, and finally into astonishment and joy! And just as the story came to the point of Margaret’s return from her mysterious trip, with the denial that she was married, he broke forth with:
“But you told me that she was lost to me forever! I see nothing to justify such an announcement!”
“Good Heaven, Ralph, you must be infatuated, man! But wait a moment.” And taking up the thread of his narrative, he related how all Miss Helmstedt’s friends, convinced of her guilt or folly, had deserted her.
At this part of the recital Ralph Houston’s fine countenance darkened with sorrow, indignation and scorn.
“Poor dove!—but we can spare them. Go on, sir! go on!”
“Ralph, you make me anxious; but listen further.” And the old man related how Margaret, presenting herself at the communion table, had, in the face of the whole congregation, been turned away.
Ralph Houston leaped upon his feet with a rebounding spring that shook the house, and stood, convulsed, livid, speechless, breathless with rage.
“Ralph! My God, you alarm me! Pray, pray govern yourself.”
His breast labored, his face worked, his words came as if each syllable was uttered with agony: “Who—did—this?”
“Mr. Wellworth, once her friend!”
“An old man and a clergyman! God knoweth that shall not save him when I meet him.”
“Ralph! Ralph! you are mad.”
“And Margaret! How did she bear this? Oh! that I had been at her side. Oh, God, that I had been at her side!” exclaimed the captain, striding in rapid steps up and down the floor.
“She felt it, of course, very acutely.”
“My dove! my poor, wounded dove! But you all comforted and sustained her, sir!”
“Ralph, we thought it best to send her home to the island.”
“What!” exclaimed Captain Houston, pausing suddenly in his rapid walk.
“Yes, Ralph, we have sent her away home. We thought it best to do so,” replied the colonel, generously suppressing the fact that it was altogether the women’s work, against his own approval.
Ralph Houston had gone through all the stages of displeasure, indignation and fury. But he was past all that now! There are some wrongs so deep as to still the stormiest natures into a stern calm more to be feared than fury.
“What, do you tell me that in this hour of her bitterest need you have sent my promised bride from the protection of your roof?” he inquired, walking to the bedside, and speaking in a deep, calm, stern tone, from which all emotion seemed banished.
“Ralph, we deemed it proper to do so.”
“Then hear me! Margaret Helmstedt shall be my wife within twenty-four hours; and, so help me God, at my utmost need, I will never cross the threshold of Buzzard’s Bluff again!” exclaimed Captain Houston, striding from the room and banging the door behind him.
“Ralph! Ralph! my son, Ralph!” cried the colonel, starting up from the bed, throwing on his dressing-gown and following him through the passage. But Captain Houston had reached and locked himself in his own chamber, where he remained in obdurate silence.
The colonel went back to bed.
Ralph Houston, in his room, consulted the timepiece. It was eleven o’clock. He sat down to the table, drew writing materials before him, and wrote the following hasty note to his betrothed:
CITY HOTEL, WASHINGTON, OCTOBER 6, 1815.
MARGARET, MY BELOVED ONE:—Only this hour have I heard of your sorrows. Had I known them sooner, I would have come from the uttermost parts of the earth to your side. But be of good cheer, my own best love. Within twenty-four hours I shall be with you to claim your hand, and assume the precious privilege and sacred right of protecting you against the world for life and death and eternity.
Yours,
RALPH HOUSTON.
“‘It is written that for this cause shall a man leave father and mother and cleave to his wife.’ I am glad of it. Let them go. For my poor, storm-beaten dove, she shall be safe in my bosom,” said Ralph Houston, his heart burning with deep resentment against his family, and yearning with unutterable affection toward Margaret, as he sealed and directed the letter, and hastened with it to the office to save the midnight mail.