“——The soul that moment caught
A something it through life had sought.”
—MOORE.
“Forbear that dream! My lips are sworn apart
From tender words; mine ears from lover’s vows;
Mine eyes from sights God made so beautiful;
My very heart from feelings which move soft.”
—E. B. BROWNING.
The bridal of the only daughter of the Comptons was naturally an event of great importance, and consequently of much parade. The bride-elect was in favor of being married in the most approved modern style, having the ceremony performed at ten in the morning, and starting immediately upon a wedding tour. But Colonel and Mrs. Compton had some strong, old-fashioned predilections, and decided to have the time-honored, old style of marriage party in the evening. And accordingly preparations were made upon the grandest scale to do honor to the nuptials of their only child.
Marguerite De Lancie arrived upon the evening previous to the wedding, and was most cordially welcomed by the family. She was carried off immediately by Cornelia to her chamber for a tête-à-tête.
“Well, my little incapable!” Marguerite said, as soon as she was seated, “now tell me about your bridegroom! Long ago, you know, we divided the present generation of men into two classes—monsters and imbeciles; to which does your fiancé belong?”
“You shall see and judge for yourself, Marguerite! To neither, I think!”
“Oh! of course, you think! Well! who are to be your bridesmaids?”
“The Misses Davidge and—yourself, dear Marguerite, since you were so kind as to promise.”
“So weak, you mean! And who are to be groomsmen?”
“Steve and Peyton Rutlidge are to lead out the Davidges.”
“And who is to be my cavalier for the occasion?”
“There! that’s just what I wanted to talk to you about, Marguerite! because you have the privilege of rejecting him as your proposed escort, and I hope you will. I am afraid of him; I always was! I cannot endure him; I never could! I hate him, and I always did! But the colonel proposed him, and papa and mamma would not permit me to object.”
“But you have not yet told me who he is.”
“Oh, you would not know if I were to tell you! though if you ever see him, you will never fail to know him thenceforth!”
“His name? You’ve raised my curiosity.”
“Philip Helmstedt, my cousin! He is of those fierce and haughty Helmstedts of the Eastern Shore, whose forefathers, you know, claimed a prior right to the coast and the Isles of the Bay, from having made the place a sort of freebooting depot, long before the king’s patent endowed Lord Baltimore with it, and who headed so many rebellions and caused so much bloodshed among the early colonists.”
“Well, nearly two hundred years have rolled by. This fierce, arrogant nature must have been greatly modified by time and intermarriage.”
“Must it. Well, now, it is my opinion that no one who knows the history can look upon Philip Helmstedt’s bird-of-prey profile without remembering the fierce fights by sea and land of his freebooting forefathers.”
“It is doubtless true that a strong and powerful race of men may have so impressed upon their descendants as to leave their own peculiar traits unmodified and predominant to the latest generations,” said Marguerite, musing; and then, suddenly recollecting herself, she exclaimed: “Philip Helmstedt! surely I have heard that name in honorable association before, though I have never met the owner. Oh! by the way, is he not that gallant nephew, of whom I have heard your father speak, and who, though but thirteen years of age, followed him in the battle of Yorktown and performed such prodigies of youthful valor?”
“Oh, yes! he’s fire-eater enough, and a terror in general, at least to me.”
“But where has he been that I have never met him in society?”
“Oh! he has been for a number of years studying at Heidelburg, and traveling all over the Eastern Continent. I was sufficiently afraid of him before he went away, and I am twice as much in awe of him since he came back; so I want you to veto him, Marguerite; for you may do so, and then the colonel will get somebody else to stand up in his stead. Will you?”
“Certainly not. It would be a very great rudeness to all concerned,” said Miss De Lancie.
The preparations for the marriage were, as I said, upon a magnificent scale. The élite of the city and county were invited to be present. Upon the important evening the house was illuminated and thrown open. At a comparatively early hour the company began to assemble.
At a quarter to eight o’clock precisely, the bride and her maids were ready to go down.
Nellie looked, as all brides are expected to look, “never before so lovely.” A robe of embroidered white crape over white satin, a point lace veil, and a light wreath of orange blossoms, were the principal items of her costume.
The two younger bridesmaids were attired in harmony in white gauze over white silk, with wreaths of snowdrops around their hair.
The queenly form of Marguerite De Lancie was arrayed in a robe of the richest lace over white brocade; her superb black hair was crowned with a wreath of lilies, deep falls of the finest lace veiled her noble bust and arms, and the purest Oriental pearls adorned her neck and wrists; she looked as ever, a royal beauty.
Scarcely was the last fold of Cornelia’s veil gracefully arranged by Marguerite, before the little bride, with a mixture of childish petulance and envy and genuine admiration, raised her eyes to the beautiful brow of her patroness, and said:
“Ah! how stately, how radiant you are, Marguerite! But how shall I look, poor, insignificant, little, fady pigmy! my very bridegroom will be ashamed of his choice, seen by the side of the magnificent Miss De Lancie!”
“Be silent! How dare you humble yourself, or flatter me so shamefully!” exclaimed Marguerite, flushing with indignation. “As for the ‘magnificent,’ that can be easily transferred; ‘fine feathers make fine birds,’ and queenly jewels go very far toward making queenly women,” she continued, proceeding to unclasp the pearls from her own neck and arms, and to fasten them upon those of Cornelia.
“No, no, dear Marguerite, desist! I cannot, indeed. I cannot consent to shine in borrowed jewels,” said Miss Compton, opposing this ornamental addition to her costume.
“They are your own; wear them for my sake, sweet Nellie,” replied Miss De Lancie; clasping the necklace and kissing the bride with renewed tenderness.
“But your matchless set of pearls! a dower, a fortune in themselves! I cannot, Marguerite! Indeed, indeed, I dare not! Such a transfer would look as if you were not quite sane, nor myself quite honest,” said Cornelia, with sincere earnestness.
“Ridiculous! I care not for them, or, I assure you, I should not give them away. Hush! don’t put me to the trouble of pressing them upon you, for really I do not consider them worth the expenditure of so much breath. Stop! don’t thank me, either, for I have no patience to listen. We are all ready, I believe? What are we waiting for?”
While she spoke, there came a gentle rap at the connecting door between Cornelia’s and her parents’ bedchambers. It was Colonel and Mrs. Compton, who were waiting there to embrace and bless their child before giving her up to the possession of another. Cornelia went in to them, and after a stay of five minutes, returned with her eyes suffused with tears, evanescent tears that quickly evaporated. And in another moment Colonel Compton came to the passage door and announced to the bevy of bridesmaids that the bishop had arrived, and that the bridegroom and his attendants were waiting downstairs.
“We are ready. But remember, colonel, that I have never met Mr. Helmstedt.”
“I shall not fail to present him, Marguerite,” replied the old gentleman, turning to go downstairs. The bride’s party followed in due order; the third bridesmaid, leading the way, received the arm of her appointed escort, and advanced toward the saloon; the second did likewise; then Marguerite, in her turn, descended. She had never before seen the distinguished-looking personage, then waiting at the foot of the stairs to offer his arm and lead her on; but Colonel Compton stood ready to present him and all was well. Marguerite reached the last step, paused, and raised her eyes to look at the stranger, whom Cornelia’s description had invested with a certain interest.
A tall, thin, muscular form, large, clearly cut aquiline features, raven-black hair, strongly marked black eyebrows, deep and piercing dark grey eyes, a stern and somewhat melancholy countenance, a stately, not to say haughty, carriage, a style of dress careful even to nicety, a tout ensemble indicating a forcible, fiery, high-toned, somewhat arrogant character, were the features impressed by first sight upon Marguerite’s perceptions. She had scarcely made these observations and withdrawn her glance, when Colonel Compton, taking the stranger’s hand and turning to her, said:
“Miss De Lancie, permit me to present to you Mr. Helmstedt, of Northumberland County.”
Again Marguerite lifted her eyes.
A stately bow, a gracious smile, a mellifluous voice in addressing her, threw a charm, a warm, bright glow, like a sudden sunburst over those stern, dark features, clothing them with an indescribable beauty as fascinating as it was unexpected.
“I esteem myself most happy in meeting Miss De Lancie,” he said.
Marguerite dropped her eyes, and blushed deeply beneath his fixed, though deferential gaze, curtseyed in silence, received his offered arm and followed the others, who were waiting at the door. The bride and groom brought up the rear. And the party entered the saloon.
The rooms were superbly adorned, brilliantly illuminated, and densely crowded by a splendid company.
The white-gowned bishop stood upon the rug in front of the fireplace, facing the assembly. A space had been left clear before him, upon which the bridal party formed. A hushed silence filled the room; the book was opened; the rites commenced, and in ten minutes after little Nellie Compton was transmogrified into Mrs. Colonel Houston.
When the congratulations were all over, and the bridal party seated, and the little embarrassments attendant upon all these movements well over, the programme for the remainder of the evening proceeded according to all the “rules and regulations in such cases made and provided”—with one memorable exception.
When the bride’s cake (which was quite a miraculous chef-d’œuvre of the confectioner’s art, being made in the form of the temple of Hymen, highly ornate, and containing besides a costly diamond ring, which it was supposed, according to the popular superstition, would indicate the happy finder as the next to be wedded of the party), was cut and served to all the single ladies present, it was soon discovered that none of them had drawn the token. Colonel Compton then declared that the unmarried gentlemen should try their fortune. And when they were all served, Mr. Helmstedt proved to be the fortunate possessor of the costly talisman.
When, with a courtly dignity, he had arrested the storm of badinage that was ready to burst upon him, he deliberately crossed the room to the quarter where the bride and her attendants remained seated, and pausing before Marguerite, said:
“Miss De Lancie, permit me,” and offered the ring.
“Yes, yes, Marguerite! relieve him of it! He cannot wear it himself, you know, and to whom here could he properly offer it but to yourself,” hastily whispered Cornelia.
Miss De Lancie hesitated, but unwilling to draw attention by making a scene out of such an apparent trifle, she smiled, drew off her glove, and held up her hand, saying,
“If Mr. Helmstedt will put it on.”
Philip Helmstedt slipped the ring on her finger, turned and adjusted it with a slight pressure, when Marguerite, with a half-suppressed cry, snatched away her hand and applied her handkerchief to it.
“Have I been so awkward and unhappy as to hurt you, Miss De Lancie?” inquired Mr. Helmstedt.
“Oh, no, not at all! it is nothing to speak of; a sharp flaw in the setting of the stones pierced my finger; I think that is all,” answered Marguerite, drawing off the ring that was stained with blood.
Mr. Helmstedt took the jewel, walked up to the fireplace, and threw it into the glowing coals.
“Well! if that is not the most wanton piece of destructiveness I ever saw in my life,” said Cornelia, indignantly; “you know, Marguerite, when I saw Mr. Helmstedt draw the ring and come and put it on your finger, I thought it was a happy sign; but now see how it is? everything that man touches, turns—not to gold, but to blood or tears, that he thinks only can be dried in the fire!”
“Don’t use such fearful words here on your bridal evening, dear Nellie, they are ill-omened. You are, besides, unjust to Mr. Helmstedt, I think,” said Marguerite, who had now quite recovered her composure.
“They were false diamonds after all, Miss De Lancie,” said Mr. Helmstedt, rejoining the ladies.
The bishop had retired from the room; the musicians had entered and taken their places, and were now playing a lively prelude to the quadrilles; partners were engaged, and were only waiting for the bride and groom to open the ball, as was then the custom. Nellie gave her hand to her colonel, and suffered herself to be led to the head of the set.
“Miss De Lancie, will you honor me?” inquired Mr. Helmstedt, and receiving a gracious inclination of the head in acquiescence, he conducted Marguerite to a position vis-à-vis with the bridal pair. Other couples immediately followed their example, and the dancing commenced in earnest. The lively quadrille was succeeded by the stately minuet, and that by the graceful waltz, and the time-honored and social Virginia reel. Then came an interval of repose, preceding the sumptuous supper. Then the outpouring of the whole company into the dining-room; and the eating, drinking, toasting, and jesting; then they adjourned to the saloon, when again quadrilles, minuets, reels and waltzes alternated with short-lived rest, refreshment, gossip, and flirtations, until a late hour, when the discovered disappearance of the bride and her attendants gave the usual warning for the company to break up. At the covert invitation of Colonel Compton, some of the gentlemen, who were without ladies, lingered after the departure of the other guests, and adjourned with himself and his son-in-law, to the dining-room, where, after drinking the health of the newly married pair, they took leave.
The next day Judge Houston, the uncle of the bridegroom, entertained the wedding party and a large company at dinner. And this was the signal for the commencement of a series of dinners, tea and card parties, and balls, given in honor of the bride, and which kept her and her coterie in a whirl of social dissipation for several weeks.
But from this brilliant entanglement let us draw out clearly the sombre thread of our own narrative.
Everywhere the resplendent beauty of Marguerite De Lancie was felt and celebrated. Every one declared that the star of fashion had emerged from her late eclipse with new and dazzling brilliancy. And ever, whether in repose or action; whether reclined upon some divan, she was the inspiration of a circle of conversationalists; or whether she led the dance, or, seated at the harpsichord, poured forth her soul in glorious song—she was ever the queen of all hearts and minds, who recognized in her magnificent personality a sovereignty no crown or sceptre could confer. All, in proportion to their depth and strength of capacity for appreciation, felt this. But none so much as one whose duty brought him ever to her side in zealous service, or deferential waiting.
Philip Helmstedt, almost from the first hour of his meeting with this imperial beauty, had felt her power. He watched her with the most reserved and respectful vigilance; he saw her ever the magnet of all hearts and eyes, the life of all social intercourse, the inspiration of poets, the model of painters, the worship of youth and love; shining for, warming, lighting, and enlivening all who approached her, yet with such impartiality that none ventured to aspire to especial notice. There was one exception, and not a favored one to his equanimity and that was Mr. Helmstedt himself; her manner toward him, at first affable, soon grew reserved, then distant, and at length repelling. Colonel Compton, who had taken it into his head that this haughty pair were well adapted to each other, watched with interest the progress of their acquaintance, noticed this, and despaired.
“It is useless,” he said, “and I warn you, Philip Helmstedt, not to consume your heart in the blaze of Marguerite De Lancie’s beauty! She is the invincible Diana of modern times. For seven years has Marguerite reigned in our saloons, with the absolute dominion of a beauty and genius that ‘age cannot wither nor custom stale,’ and her power remains undiminished as her beauty is undimmed. Year after year the most distinguished men of their time, men celebrated in the battles and in the councils of their country, men of history, have been suitors in her train, and have received their congé from her imperial nod. Can you hope for more than an Armstrong, a Bainbridge, a Cavendish?”
“I beseech you, sir, spare me the alphabetical list of Miss De Lancie’s conquests! I can well believe their name is legion,” interrupted Philip Helmstedt, with an air of scorn and arrogance that seemed to add, “and if it were so, I should enter the lists with full confidence against them all.”
“I assure you it is sheer madness, Philip! A man may as well hope to monopolize the sun to light his own home as to win Marguerite De Lancie to his hearth! She belongs to society, I think, also, to history. She requires a nation for her field of action. I have known her from childhood and watched with wonder her development. It is the friction of marvelous and undirected energies that causes her to glow and radiate in society as you see her. It is sheer frenzy, your pursuit of her! I tell you, I have seen a love chase worth ten of yours—Lord William Daw——”
“Lord—William—Daw!” interrupted Philip Helmstedt, curling his lip with ineffable scorn.
“Well, now, I assure you, Philip, the heir presumptive of a marquisate is not to be sneered at. He was besides a good-looking and well-behaved young fellow, except that he followed Miss De Lancie up and down the country like a demented man, in direct opposition, both to the clucking of an old hen of a tutor, and the coldness of his Diana. He was drowned, poor youth! but I always suspected that he threw himself overboard in desperation!”
“Lord—William—Daw,” said Mr. Helmstedt, with the same deliberate and scornful intonation, “may not have been personally the equal of the lady to whom he aspired. Very young men frequently raise their hopes to women ‘who are, or ought to be, unattainable’ by them. Miss De Lancie is not one to permit herself to be dazzled by the glitter of mere rank and title.”
Yes. Philip Helmstedt hoped, believed, in more success for himself than had attended any among his predecessors or temporary rivals. True, indeed, his recommendations, personal as well as circumstantial, to the favor of this “fourth Grace and tenth Muse,” were of the first order. The last male representative of an ancient, haughty, and wealthy family, their vast estates centered in his possession—he chose to devote many years to study and to travel. An accomplished scholar, he had read, observed and reflected, and was prepared, at his own pleasure, to confer the result upon the world. A tried and proved soldier, he might claim military rank and rapid promotion. Lastly, a pre-eminently fine looking person, he might aspire to the hand of almost any beauty in the city, with every probability of success. But Philip Helmstedt was fastidious and proud to a degree of scornful arrogance—that was his one great, yes, terrible sin. It was the bitter upas of his soul that poisoned every one of the many virtues of his character. But for scorn, truth, justice, prudence, temperance, generosity, fortitude, would have flourished in his nature. It was this trenchant arrogance that made him indifferent to accessory honors—that made him as a profound student, regardless of scholastic fame—as a brave soldier, careless of military glory—as an accomplished gentleman, negligent of beauty’s allurements. It was this arrogance in fine, that entered very largely into his passion for the magnificent Marguerite. For here at last, in her, he found a princess quite worthy of his high devotion, and he resolved to win her.
God have mercy on any soul self-cursed with scorn.
And Marguerite? Almost from the first moment of their meeting, her eyes, her soul, had been strangely and irresistibly magnetized. I do not know that this was caused by the distinguished personal appearance of Philip Helmstedt. After all, it is not the beauty, but the peculiarity, individuality, uniqueness, in the beauty that attracts its destined mate. And Philip Helmstedt’s presence was pre-eminently characteristic, individual, unique. At first Marguerite’s eyes were attracted by a certain occult resemblance to his young cousin, her own beloved friend, Cornelia Compton. It was not only such a family likeness as might exist between brother and sister. It was something deeper than a similitude of features, complexion and expression. The same peculiar conformation of brow and eye, the same proud lines in the aquiline profile, the same disdainful curves in the expressive lips, the same distinctly individualized characteristics, that had long charmed and cheated her in Nellie’s superficial face, was present, only more strongly marked and deeply toned, and truly representative of great force of character, in Philip Helmstedt’s imposing countenance. But there was something more than this—there was identity in the uniqueness of each—faint and uncertain in the delicate face of Nellie, intense and ineffaceable in the sculptured features of Philip. As Marguerite studied this remarkable physiognomy, she felt that her strange attraction to Nellie had been but a faint prelude, though a prophecy of this wondrous magnetism.
Alarmed at the spell that was growing around her heart, she withdrew her eyes and thoughts, opposed to the attentions of her lover a cold, repellant manner, and treated his devotion with supreme disdain, which must have banished any man less strong in confidence than Philip Helmstedt, but which in his case only warded off the day of fate. Perseveringly he attended her, earnestly he sought an opportunity of explaining himself. In vain; for neither at home nor abroad, in parlor, saloon, thoroughfare or theatre, could he manage to secure a tête-à-tête. Whether sitting or standing, Miss De Lancie was always the brilliant center of a circle; and if she walked, like any other queen, she was attended by her suite. Only when he mingled with this train, could he speak to her. But then—the quick averting of that regal hand, the swift fall of the sweeping, dark eyelashes, the sudden, deep flush of the bright cheeks, the suppressed heave of the beautiful bosom, the subdued tremor of the thrilling voice, betrayed hidden emotions, that only he had power to arouse, or insight to detect, and read therein the confirmation of his dearest hopes. The castle walls might show a forbidding aspect, but the citadel was all his own, hence his determination, despite her icy coldness of manner, to pass all false shows, and come to an understanding with his Diana. Still Miss De Lancie successfully evaded his pursuit and defeated his object. What was the cause of her course of conduct, he could not satisfactorily decide. Was pride struggling with love in her bosom? If so, that pride should succumb.
Having failed in every delicate endeavor to effect a tête-à-tête, and the day of Marguerite’s departure being near at hand, Mr. Helmstedt went one morning directly to the house of Colonel Compton, sent up his card to Miss De Lancie, and requested the favor of an interview. He received an answer that Miss De Lancie was particularly engaged and begged to be excused. Again and again he tried the same plan with the same ill-success. Miss De Lancie was never at leisure to receive Mr. Helmstedt. At length this determined suitor sent a note, requesting the lady to name some hour when she should be sufficiently disengaged to see him. The reply to this was that Miss De Lancie regretted to say that at no hour of her short remaining time should she be at liberty to entertain Mr. Helmstedt. This flattering message was delivered in the parlor, and in the presence of Colonel Compton. As soon as the servant had retired, the old gentleman raised his eyes to the darkened brow of Philip Helmstedt, and said: “I see how it is, Philip. Marguerite is a magnanimous creature. She would spare you the humiliation of a refusal. But you—you are resolved upon mortification. You will not be content without a decided rejection. Very well. You shall have an opportunity of receiving one. Listen. Houston and Nellie are dining with the judge to-day. Mrs. Compton is superintending the making of calf’s-foot jelly; don’t huff and sneer, Philip. I cannot help sometimes knowing the progress of such culinary mysteries; but I am not going to assist at them or to ask you to do so. I am going to ride. Thus, if you will remain here to-day, you will have the house to yourself, and Marguerite, who for some unaccountable reason, fate perhaps, chooses to stay home. Go into the library and wait. Miss De Lancie, according to her usual custom, will probably visit that or the adjoining music-room in the course of the forenoon, and there you have her. Make the best use of your opportunity, and the Lord speed you; for I, for my part, heartily wish this lioness fairly mated. Come; let me install you.”
“There appears to be no other chance, and I must have an interview with her to-day,” said Mr. Helmstedt, rising to accompany his host who led the way to the library. It was on the opposite side of the hall.
“Now be patient,” said the colonel, as he took leave; “you may have to wait one or more hours, but you can find something here to read.”
“Read!” ejaculated Philip Helmstedt, with the tone and energy of an oath; but the old gentleman was already gone, and the younger one threw himself into a chair to wait.
“‘Be patient!’ with the prospect of waiting here several hours, and the possibility of disappointment at the end,” exclaimed Philip, rising, and walking in measured steps up and down the room, trying to control the eagerness of expectation that made moments seem like hours, while he would have compressed hours into moments.
How long he waited ought scarcely to be computed by the common measure of time. It might not have been; an hour—to him it seemed an indefinite duration—a considerable portion of eternity, when at length, while almost despairing of the presence of Marguerite, he heard from the adjoining music-room the notes of a harp.
He paused, for the harpist might be—must be Miss De Lancie.
He listened.
Soon the chords of the lyre were swept by a magic hand that belonged only to one enchantress, and the instrument responded in a low, deep moan, that presently swelled in a wild and thrilling strain. And then the voice of the improvvisatrice stole upon the ear—that wondrous voice, that ever, while it sounded, held captive all ears, silent and breathless all lips, spellbound all hearts!—it arose, first tremulous, melodious, liquid, as from a sea of tears, then took wing in a wild, mournful, despairing wail. It was a song of renunciation, in which some consecrated maiden bids adieu to her lover, renouncing happiness, bewailing fate, invoking death. Philip Helmstedt listened, magnetized by the voice of the sorceress, with its moans of sorrow, its sudden gushes of passion or tenderness, and its wails of anguish and despair. And when at last, like the receding waves of the heart’s life tide, the thrilling notes ebbed away into silence and death, he remained standing like a statue. Then, with self-reflection and the returning faculty of combination, came the question:
“What did this song of renunciation mean?” And the next more practical inquiry, should he remain in the library, awaiting the doubtful event of her coming, or should he enter the music-room? A single moment of reflection decided his course.
He advanced softly, and opened the listed and silently-turning doors, and paused an instant to gaze upon a beautiful tableau!
Directly opposite to him, at the extremity of the thickly carpeted room, was a deep bay window, richly curtained with purple and gold, through which the noon-day sun shone with a subdued glory. Within the glowing shadows of this recess sat Marguerite beside the harp. A morning robe of amber-hued India silk fell in classic folds around her form. Her arms were still upon the harp, her inspired face was pale and half averted. Her rich, purplish tresses pushed off from her temples, revealed the breadth of brow between them in a new and royal aspect of beauty. Her eyes were raised and fixed upon the distance, as if following in spirit the muse that had just died from lips of fire. She was so completely absorbed, that she did not heed the soft and measured step of Philip Helmstedt, until he paused before her, bowed and spoke.
Then she started to her feet with a brow crimsoned by a sudden rush of emotion, and thrown completely off her guard, for the moment, she confronted him with a home question.
“Philip Helmstedt! what has brought you here?”
“My deep, my unconquerable, consuming love! It has broken down all the barriers of etiquette, and given me thus to your presence, Marguerite De Lancie,” he replied, with a profound and deprecating inclination of the head.
She had recovered a degree of self-possession; but the tide of blood receding had left her brow cold and clammy, and her frame tremulous and faint; she leaned upon her harp for support, pushed the falling tresses from her pale, damp forehead, and said, in faltering tones:
“I would have saved you this! Why, in the name of all that is manly, delicate, honorable!—why have you in defiance of all opposition, ventured this?”
“Because I love you, Marguerite. Because I love you for time and for eternity with a love that must speak or slay.”
“Ungenerous! unjust!”
“Be it so, Marguerite. I do not ask you to forgive me, for that must presuppose repentance, and I do not repent standing here, Miss De Lancie.”
“Still I must ask you, sir,” said Marguerite, who was gradually recovering the full measure of her natural dignity and self-possession, “what feature in all my conduct that has come under your observation has given you the courage to obtrude upon me a presence and a suit that you must know to be unwelcome and repulsive?”
“Shall I tell you? I will, with the truthfulness of spirit answering to spirit. I come because, despite all your apparent hauteur, disdain, coldness, such a love as this which burns within my heart for you, bears within itself the evidence of reciprocity,” replied Philip Helmstedt, laying his hand upon his heart, and atoning by a profound reverence for the presumption of his words. “And I appeal to your own soul, Marguerite De Lancie, for the indorsement of my avowal.”
“You are mad!” said Marguerite, trembling.
“No—not mad, lady, because loving you as never man loved woman yet, I also feel and know, with the deepest respect be it said, that I do not love in vain,” he replied, sinking for an instant upon his knee, and bowing deeply over her hand that he pressed to his lips.
“In vain! in vain! you do! you do!” she exclaimed, almost distractedly, while trembling more than ever.
“Marguerite,” he said, rising, yet retaining his hold upon her hand, “it may be that I love in vain, but I do not love alone. This hand that I clasp within my own throbs like a palpitating heart. I read, on your brow, in your eyes, in your trembling lip and heaving bosom, that my great love is not lost; that it is returned; that you are mine, as I am yours. Marguerite De Lancie, by a claim rooted in the deepest nature, you are my wife for time and for eternity!”
“Never! never! you know not what you say or seek!” she exclaimed, snatching her hand away and shuddering through every nerve.
“Miss De Lancie, your words and manner are inexplicable, are alarming! Tell me, for the love of Heaven, Marguerite, does any insurmountable obstacle stand in the way of our union?”
“Obstacle!” repeated Miss De Lancie, starting violently, and gazing with wild, dilated eyes upon the questioner, while every vestige of color fled from her face.
“Yes, that was the word I used, dearest Marguerite! Oh, if there be——”
“What obstacle should exist, except my own will? A very sufficient one, I should say,” interrupted Marguerite, struggling hard for self-control.
“Say your decision against your will.”
“What right have you to think so, sir?”
“Look in your own heart and read my right, Marguerite.”
“I never look into that abyss!”
“Marguerite, you fill me with a terrible anxiety. Marguerite, for seven years you have reigned a queen over society; your hand has been sought by the most distinguished men of the country; you are as full of tenderness and enthusiasm as a harp is of music; it seems incredible that you have never married or betrothed yourself, or even loved, or fancied that you loved! Tell me, Marguerite, in the name of Heaven, tell me, have any of these events occurred to you?” He waited for an answer.
She remained silent, while a frightful pallor overspread her face.
“Tell me! Oh! tell me, Marguerite, have you ever before loved? Ah, pardon the question and answer it.”
She made a supreme effort, recovered her self-possession and replied:
“No, not as you understand it.”
“How?—not as I understand it? Ah! forgive me again, but your words increase my suffering.”
“Oh! I have loved Nellie as a sister, her father and mother as parents, some acquaintances as friends, that is all.”
She was answering these close questions! she was yielding to the fascination. Amid all her agony of conflicting emotions she was yielding.
“Marguerite! Marguerite! And this is true! You have never loved before!”
“It is true—yet what of that? for I know not even why I admit this! Oh! leave me, I am not myself. Hope nothing from what I have told you. I can never, never be your wife!” exclaimed Marguerite, with the half-suppressed and wild affright of one yielding to a terrible spell.
“But one word more. Is your hand free also, dearest Marguerite?”
“Yes, it is free; but what then? I have told you——”
“Then it is free no longer; for by the splendor of the heavens, it is mine. Marguerite, it is mine!” he exclaimed as he caught and pressed that white hand in his own.
Marguerite De Lancie’s previsions had been prophetic. She had foreseen that an interview would be fatal to her resolution, and it proved fatal. Philip Helmstedt urged his suit with all the eloquence of passionate love, seconded by the dangerous advocate in Marguerite’s heart, and he won it; and in an hour after, the pair that had met so inauspiciously, parted as betrothed lovers. Mr. Helmstedt went away in deep joy, and with a sense of triumph only held in check by his habitual dignity and self-control. And Marguerite remained in that scene of the betrothal, looking, not like a loving and happy affianced bride, but rather like a demented woman, with pale face and wild, affrighted eyes, strained upward as for help, and cold hands wrung together as in an appeal, and exclaiming under her breath:
“What have I done! Lord forgive me! Oh, Lord have pity on me!” And yet Marguerite De Lancie loved her betrothed with all her fiery soul. That love in a little while brought her some comfort in her strange distress.
“What’s done is done,” she said, in the tone of one who would nerve her soul to some endurance, and then she went to her room, smoothed her hair, dressed for the afternoon, and through all the remainder of the day moved about, the same brilliant, sparkling Marguerite as before.
In the evening the accepted suitor presented himself. And though he only mingled as before, in the train of Miss De Lancie, and acted in all respects with the greatest discretion, yet those particularly interested could read the subdued joy of his soul, and draw the proper inference.
That night, when Marguerite retired to her chamber, Nellie followed her, and casting herself at once into an armchair, she broke the subject by suddenly exclaiming: “Marguerite, I do believe you have been encouraging Ironsides!”
“Why do you think so—if I understand what you mean?”
“Oh, from his looks! He looks as bright as a candle in a dark lantern, and as happy as if he had just slain his enemy. I do fear you have given him hopes, Marguerite.”
“And why fear it?”
“Oh, because, Marguerite, dear, I don’t want you to have him!” said Nellie, with a show of great tenderness.
“Nonsense!”
“I do not believe you will, you see, but still I fear. Oh, Marguerite, he may be high-toned, magnanimous, and all that, but he is not tender, not gentle, not loving!”
“In a word—not a good nurse.”
“No.”
“Good! I do not want a nurse!”
“Ah! Marguerite, I am afraid of Philip Helmstedt. If you only knew how he treated his sister.”
“His sister! I did not even know he had one.”
“I dare say not; but he has. She is in the madhouse.”
“In the madhouse!”
“Yes; I’ll tell you all about it. It was before he went away the last time. His sister Agnes was then eighteen; they lived together. She was engaged to poor Hertford, the son of the notorious defaulter, who was no defaulter when that engagement was made. Agnes and Hertford were within a few days of their marriage when the father’s embezzlements were discovered. Now poor young Hertford was not in the least implicated, yet as soon as his father’s disgrace was made manifest, Philip Helmstedt, as the guardian of his sister, broke off the marriage.”
“He could have done no otherwise,” said Marguerite.
“In spite of her pledged word? In spite of her prayers and tears, and distracted grief?”
“He could have done no otherwise,” repeated Marguerite, though her face grew very pale.
“That was not all. The lovers met, arranged a flight, and were about to escape, when Philip Helmstedt discovered them. He insulted the young man, struck him with his riding whip across the face, and bore his fainting sister home. The next day the two men met in a duel.”
“They could have done no otherwise. It was the bloody code of honor!” reiterated Marguerite, yet her very lips were white, as she leaned forward against the top of Nellie’s chair.
“Hertford lost his right arm, and Agnes lost—her reason!”
“My God!”
“Yes; ‘a plague o’ honor,’ I say.”
“Dear Nellie, leave me now; my head aches, and I am tired.”
Nellie, accustomed to such abrupt dismissions, kissed her friend and retired.
“Honor, honor, honor,” repeated Marguerite, when left alone. “Oh, Moloch of civilization, when will you be surfeited?”
The next morning Philip Helmstedt called, sent up his card to Miss De Lancie, and was not denied her presence.
“Show the gentleman into the music-room, and say that I will see him there, John,” was the direction given by Miss De Lancie, who soon descended thither.
Mr. Helmstedt arose to meet her, and wondered at her pale, worn look.
“I hope you are in good health this morning, dear Marguerite,” he said, offering to salute her. But she waved him off, saying:
“No! I am ill! And I come to you, this morning, Philip Helmstedt, to implore you to restore the promise wrenched from me yesterday,” she said, and sunk, pallid and exhausted, upon the nearest chair.
A start and an attitude of astounded amazement was his only reply. A pause of a moment ensued, and Marguerite repeated:
“Will you be so generous as to give me back my plighted faith, Philip Helmstedt?”
“Marguerite! has nature balanced her glorious gift to you with a measure of insanity?” he inquired, at length, but without abatement of his astonishment.
“I sometimes think so. I do mad things occasionally. And the maddest thing I ever did, save one, was to give you that pledge yesterday.”
“Thank you, fairest lady.”
“And I ask you now to give it back to me.”
“For what reason?”
“I can give you none!”
“No reason for your strange request?”
“None!”
“Then I assure you, my dearest Marguerite, that I am not mad.”
“Indeed, you are upon one subject, if you did but know it. Once more, will you enfranchise my hand?”
“Do I look as if I would, lady of mine?”
“No! no! you do not! You never will! very well! be the consequences on your own head.”
“Amen. I pray for no better.”
“Heaven pity me!”
“My dearest, most capricious love! I do not know the motive of your strangest conduct; it may be that you only try the strength of my affection—try it, Marguerite! you will find it bear the test—but I do know, that if I doubted the truth of yours, I should disengage your hand at once.”
There followed words of passionate entreaty on her part, met by earnest deprecation and unshaken firmness on his; but the spell was over her, and the scene ended as it had done the day previous; Philip was the victor, and the engagement was riveted, if possible, more firmly than before. Again Philip departed rejoicing; Marguerite, almost raving.
Yet Marguerite loved no less strongly and truly than did Philip.
Later in that forenoon, before going out, Nellie went into Marguerite’s chamber, where she found her friend extended on her bed, so still and pale that she drew near in alarm and laid her hand upon her brow; it was beaded with a cold sweat.
“Marguerite! Marguerite! what is the matter? You are really ill.”
“I am blue,” said Marguerite.
“Blue! that you are literally—hands and face, too.”
“Yes, I have got an ague,” said Marguerite, shuddering, “but I will not be coddled! There.”
In vain, Nellie, with a great show of solicitude, urged her services. Marguerite would receive none of them, and ended, as usual, by ordering Nellie out of the room.
In a few days the engagement between Mr. Helmstedt and Miss De Lancie was made known to the intimate friends of the parties. The marriage was appointed to take place early in the ensuing winter. Then the Richmond party dispersed—Colonel and Mrs. Houston went down to their plantation in Northumberland County; Philip Helmstedt proceeded to his island estates on the coast, to prepare his long-deserted home for the reception of his bride. And, lastly, Marguerite, after a hurried visit of inspection to Plover’s Point, went “gypsying,” as she called it, for the whole summer and autumn. Upon this occasion, her mysterious absence was longer than usual. And when at last she rejoined her friends, her beautiful face betrayed the ravages of some strange, deep bitter sorrow.
Upon the following Christmas, once more, and for the last time, a merry party was assembled at Compton Hall. Among the guests were Nellie and her husband, on a visit to their parents. Marguerite De Lancie and Philip were also present. And there, under the auspices of Colonel and Mrs. Compton, they were united in marriage. By Marguerite’s expressed will, the wedding was very quiet, and almost private. And immediately afterward the Christmas party broke up.
And Philip Helmstedt, instead of accompanying the Comptons and Houstons to Richmond, or starting upon a bridal tour, took his idolized wife to himself alone, and conveyed her to his bleak and lonely sea-girt home, where the wild waters lashed the shores both day and night, and the roar of the waves was ever heard.