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Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
darkness, passionate love, and deep and fearful remorse as
inexplicable as it was irradicable.
Not another week of quiet domestic happiness, such as other people
have, was it henceforth their fate to know. Yet why should this have
been? Mutually loving and loved as devotedly as ever was a wedded
pair, blessed with the full possession of every good that nature and
fortune can combine to bestow, with youth, health, beauty, genius,
riches, honor—why should their wedded life be thus clouded? Why
should she be moody, silent, fitful often, all but wretched and
despairing? Often even emitting the wild gleam, like heat-lightning
from her dark and splendid eyes, of what might be incipient insanity?
One evening, like the night described in the beginning of this chapter
(for stormy nights were now frequent), when the wind howled around
the island and the waves lashed its shores, Marguerite reclined upon
the semi-circular sofa within the recess of the bay window, and
looked out upon the night as she had often looked before. No light
gleamed from the window where the lady sat alone, gazing out upon
the dark and angry waste of waters; that stormy scene without was
in unison with the fierce, tempestuous emotions within her own heart
—that friendly veil of darkness was a rest to her, who, weary of her
ill-worn mask of smiles, would lay it aside for a while. Twice had
Forrest entered to bring lights, and twice had been directed to
withdraw, the last dismissal being accompanied with an injunction
not to come again until he should hear the bell. And so Marguerite
sat alone in darkness, her eyes and her soul roving out into the wild
night over the troubled bosom of the ever-complaining sea. She sat
until the sound of a boat pushed up upon the sand, accompanied by
the hearty tones and outspringing steps of the oarsmen, and
followed by one resonant, commanding voice, and firm, authoritative
tread, caused her heart to leap, her cheek to flush, her eye to glow
and her whole dark countenance to light up as she recognized the
approach of her husband. She sprang up and rang.
“Lamps and wood, Forrest,” she said. But before the servant could
obey the order, Philip Helmstedt’s eager step crossed the threshold,
and the next instant his arms were around her and her head on his
bosom. They had been separated only for a day, and yet,
notwithstanding all that had passed and all that yet remained
unexplained between them, theirs was a lover’s meeting. Is any one
surprised at this, or inclined to take it as a sign of returning
confidence and harmony, and a prognostic of future happiness to
this pair? Let them not be deceived! It was but the warmth of a
passion more uncertain than the sunshine of an April day.
“Sitting in darkness again, my own Marguerite? Why do you do so?”
said Philip, with tender reproach.
“Why should I not?” returned Marguerite, smilingly.
“Because it will make you melancholy, this bleak and dreary scene.”
“No, indeed, it will not. It is a grand scene. Come, look out and see.”
“Thank you, love; I have had enough of it for one evening; and I
rather wonder at your taste for it.”
“Ah! it suits me—it suits me, this savage coast and weather! Rave
on, winds! thunder on, sea! my heart beats time to the fierce music
of your voices. ‘Deep calleth unto deep’—deep soul to deep sea!”
“Marguerite!”
“Well?”
“What is the matter with you?”
“Nothing: only I like this howling chaos of wind and water!”
“You are in one of your dark moods.”
“Could I be bright and you away?”
“Flatterer! I am here now. And here are the lights. And now I have a
letter for you.”
“A letter! Oh! give it quickly,” cried Marguerite, thrown off her guard.
“Why, how hasty you are.”
“True; I am daily expecting a letter from Nellie, and I do begin to think
that I have nerves. And now, to discipline these excitable nerves, I
will not look at the letter until after tea.”
“Pooh, my love, I should much rather you would read it now and get
it off your mind,” said Philip Helmstedt, placing her in a chair beside
the little stand, and setting a lamp upon it, before he put the letter in
her hand.
He watched her narrowly, and saw her lips grow white as she read
the postmark and superscription, saw the trembling of her fingers as
she broke the seal, and heard the half-smothered exclamation of joy
as she glanced at the contents; and then she quickly folded the
letter, and was about to put it into her pocket when he spoke.
“Stay!”
“Well!”
“That letter was not from Mrs. Houston.”
“No; you were aware of that; you saw the postmark.”
“Yes, Marguerite; and I could have seen the contents had I chosen it,
and would, under all the circumstances, have been justified in so
doing; but I would not break your seal, Marguerite. Now, however,
that I have delivered the letter, and you have read it, I claim the right
to know its contents.”
Marguerite held the letter close against her bosom, while she gazed
upon him in astonishment and expectation, not to say dread.
“With your leave, my lady,” he said, approaching her; and, throwing
one arm around her shoulders, held her fast, while he drew the letter
from her relaxing fingers. She watched him while he looked again at
the postmark “New York,” which told next to nothing, and then
opened and read the contents—three words, without either date or
signature, “All is well!” that was all.
He looked up at her. And her low, deep, melodious laughter—that
delicious laughter that charmed like music all who heard it, but that
now sounded wild and strange, answered his look.
“Your correspondent has been well tutored, madam.”
“Why, of course,” she said, still laughing; but presently growing
serious, she added: “Philip, would to God I could confide to you this
matter. It is the one pain of my life that I cannot. The time may come,
Philip, when I may be able to do so—but not now.”
“Marguerite, it is but fair to tell you that I shall take every possible
means to discover your secret; and if I find that it reflects discredit on
you, by Heaven——”
“Hush! for the sake of mercy, no rash vows. Why should it reflect
discredit upon any? Why should mystery be always in thought linked
with guilt? Philip, I am free from reproach!”
“But, great Heavens! that it should be necessary to assure me of
this! I wonder that your brow is not crimsoned with the thought that it
is so.”
“Ah, Philip Helmstedt, it is your own suspicious nature, your want of
charity and faith that makes it so,” said Marguerite.
“Life has—the world has—deprived me of charity and faith, and
taught me suspicion—a lesson that I have not unlearned in your
company, Mrs. Helmstedt.”
“Philip, dear Philip, still hope and trust in me; it may be that I shall
not wholly disappoint you,” she replied.
But Mr. Helmstedt answered only by a scornful smile; and, having
too much pride to continue a controversy, that for the present, at
least, must only end in defeat, fell into silent and resentful gloom and
sullenness.
The harmony and happiness of their island home was broken up; the
seclusion once so delightful was now insufferable; his presence on
the estate was not essentially necessary; and, therefore, after some
reflection, Philip Helmstedt determined to go to Richmond for a
month or six weeks.
When he announced this intention to his wife, requesting her to be
ready to accompany him in a week, Marguerite received the news
with indifference and promised to comply.
It was near the first of April when they reached Richmond. They had
secured apartments at the —— House, where they were quickly
sought by Colonel Compton and Mrs. Houston, who came to press
upon them, for the term of their stay in Richmond, the hospitalities of
the colonel’s mansion.
Marguerite would willingly have left the hotel for the more genial
atmosphere of her friend’s house; but she waited the will of Mr.
Helmstedt, who had an especial aversion to become the recipient of
private entertainment for any length of time, and, therefore, on the
part of himself and wife, courteously declined that friendly invitation,
promising at the same time to dine with them at an early day.
The colonel and his daughter finished their call and returned home
disappointed; Nellie with her instinctive dislike to Mr. Helmstedt much
augmented.
The fashionable season was over, or so nearly so, that, to electrify
society into new life, it required just such an event as the
reappearance of its late idol as a bride, and Mrs. De Lancie
Helmstedt (for by the will of her father, his sole child and heiress was
obliged to retain her patronymic with her married name).
Numerous calls were made upon the newly-wedded pair, and many
parties were given in their honor.
Marguerite was still the reigning queen of beauty, song, and fashion,
with a difference—there was a deeper glow upon her cheeks and
lips, a wilder fire in her eyes, and in her songs a dashing
recklessness alternating with a depth of pathos that “from rival eyes
unwilling tears could summon.” Those who envied her wondrous
charms did not hesitate to apply to her such terms as “eccentric,”
and even “partially deranged.” While her very best friends, including
Nellie Houston, thought that, during her three months’ retirement on
Helmstedts Island, Marguerite had
“Suffered a sea change
Into something wild and strange.”
No more of those mysterious letters had come to her, at least among
those forwarded from their home post office, and nothing had
transpired to revive the memory of the exciting events on the island.
But Mr. Helmstedt, although he disdained to renew the topic, had not
in the least degree relaxed his vigilant watchfulness and persevering
endeavors to gain knowledge of Marguerite’s secret; vainly, for not
the slightest event occurred to throw light upon that dark subject.
Marguerite was not less tender and devoted in private than brilliant
and fascinating in public; and, despite his bounded confidence, he
could not choose but passionately love the beautiful and alluring
woman, who, with one reservation, so amply satisfied his love and
pride.
Their month’s visit drew to a close, when Mr. Helmstedt accepted an
invitation to a dinner given to Thomas Jefferson, in honor of his
arrival at the capital. Upon the day of the entertainment, he left
Marguerite at four o’clock. And as the wine-drinking, toasting, and
speech-making continued long after the cloth was removed, it was
very late in the evening before the company broke up and he was
permitted to return to his hotel.
On entering first his private parlor, which was lighted up, he missed
Marguerite, who, with her sleepless temperament, usually kept very
late hours, and whom, upon the rare occasions of his absence from
her in the evening, he usually, when he returned, found still sitting up
reading while she awaited him. Upon glancing round the empty
room, a vague anxiety seized him and he hurried into the adjoining
chamber, which he found dark, and called in a low, distinct tone:
“Marguerite! Marguerite!”
But instead of her sweet voice in answer, came a silent, dreary
sense of vacancy and solitude. He hurried back into the parlor,
snatched up one of the two lighted lamps that stood upon the
mantelpiece, and hastened into the chamber, to find it indeed void of
the presence he sought. An impulse to ring and inquire when Mrs.
Helmstedt had gone out was instantly arrested by his habitual
caution. A terrible presentiment, that he thought scarcely justified by
the circumstances, disturbed him. He remembered that she could
not have gone to any place of amusement, for she never entered
such scenes unaccompanied by himself; besides, she had distinctly
informed him that preparations for departure would keep her busy in
her room all the evening. He looked narrowly around the chamber;
the bed had not been disturbed, the clothes closets and bureaus
were empty, and the trunks packed and strapped; but one, a small
trunk belonging to Marguerite, was gone. The same moment that he
discovered this fact, his eyes fell upon a note lying on the dressing-
bureau. He snatched it up: it was directed in Marguerite’s hand to
himself. He tore it open, and with a deadly pale cheek and darkly-
lowering brow, read as follows:
Our Private Parlor, —— House, 6 P.M.
My Beloved Husband: A holy duty calls me from you for
a few days, but it is with a bleeding heart and foreboding
mind that I go. Well do I know, Philip, all that I dare in thus
leaving without your sanction. But equally well am I aware,
from what has already passed, that that sanction never
could have been obtained. I pray you to forgive the
manner of my going, an extremity to which your former
inflexibility has driven me; and I even venture further to
pray that, even now, you will extend the shield of your
authority over my absence, as your own excellent
judgment must convince you will be best. Philip, dearest,
you will make no stir, cause no talk—you will not even
pursue me, for, though you might follow me to New York,
yet in that great thoroughfare you would lose trace of me.
But you will, as I earnestly pray you to do, await, at home,
the coming of your most unhappy but devoted
Marguerite.
It would be impossible to describe the storm of outraged love and
pride, of rage, grief, and jealousy that warred in Philip Helmstedt’s
bosom.
“Yes! by the eternal that hears me, I will wait her coming—and then!
then!” he muttered within himself as he cast the letter into the fire. All
night long, like a chafed lion in his cell, he paced the narrow limits of
his lonely apartments, giving ill vent to the fierceness of his passions
in half-muttered threats and curses, the deeper for suppression. But
when morning broke, and the world was astir, he realized that he had
to meet it, and his course was taken. His emotions were repressed
and his brow was cleared; he rang for his servant, made a careful
toilet, and at his usual hour, and with his usual appearance and
manner, descended to the breakfast table.
“I hope Mrs. Helmstedt is not indisposed this morning,” said a lady
opposite, when she observed the vacant chair at his side.
“Thank you, madam; Mrs. Helmstedt is perfectly well. She left for
New York last evening,” replied Mr. Helmstedt, with his habitual,
dignified courtesy. And this story went the rounds of the table, then
of the hotel, and then of the city, and though it excited surprise,
proved in the end satisfactory.
Later in the day he took leave of his friends. And by the next
morning’s packet he sailed for the island, which he reached at the
end of the week. And once in his own little, isolated kingdom, he
said:
“Yes, I will await you here, and then, Marguerite! then!”
 CHAPTER VI.
THE WIFE’S RETURN.
“She had moved to the echoing sounds of fame—
Silently, silently died her name;
Silently melted her life away
As ye have seen a rich flower decay,
Or a lamp that hath swiftly burned expire,
Or a bright stream shrink from a summer fire.”

Nearly maddened between the deeply suppressed, conflicting

passions of wounded love, outraged pride, gloomy jealousy, fierce
anger, and burning desire of revenge, Philip Helmstedt’s impetuous
spirit would have devoured the time between his arrival at the island
and Marguerite’s expected return. Now feeling, through the magic
power of memory and imagination, the wondrous magnetism of her
personality, and praying for her arrival only that all else might be
forgotten in the rapture of their meeting—then, with all the force of
his excessive pride and scorn, sternly spurning that desire as most
unworthy. Now torturing himself with sinister speculations as to
where she might be? what doing? with whom tarrying? Then feeling
intensely, as resentfully, his indubitable right to know, and longing for
her return that he might make her feel the power of the man whose
affection and whose authority had been equally slighted and
despised. And through all these moods of love and jealousy still
invoking, ever invoking, with a breathless, burning impatience that
would have consumed and shriveled up the intervening days—the
hour of her return; for still he doted on her with a fatuity that neither
possession nor time had power to sate, nor pride nor anger force to
destroy—nay, that these agencies only goaded into frenzy. Strong
man that he was, she possessed him like a fever, a madness, a
shrouding fire! he could not deliver himself from the fascination of
her individuality. Was she a modern Lamia, a serpent woman who
held him, another Lexius, in her fatal toils? So it sometimes seemed
to him as he walked moodily up and down the long piazza before the
house, looking out upon the sea. At all events she held him! very
well, let it be so, since he held her so surely, and she should feel it!
Oh! for the hour of her return! All day he paced the long piazza or
walked down to the beach, spyglass in hand, to look out for the
packet that should bear her to the isle. But packet after packet sailed
by, and day succeeded day until a month had passed, and still
Marguerite came not. And day by day Philip Helmstedt grew darker,
thinner, and gloomier. Sleep forsook his bed, and appetite his board;
it often happened that by night his pillow was not pressed, and by
day his meals were left untasted.
Speculation was rife among the servants of the household. All
understood that something was wrong in the family. The Helmstedt
servants took the part of their master, while the De Lancie negroes
advocated the cause of their mistress. It was a very great trial to
poor old Aunt Hapzibah, the housekeeper, to find her best efforts
unavailing to make her master comfortable in the absence of her
mistress. Every one likes to be appreciated; and no one more than
an old family cook whose glory lies in her art; and so it proved too
much for the philosophy of the old woman, who had taken much
pride in letting “Marse Fillup see that eberyting went on as riglar as
dough Miss Marget was home hersef”—to see her best endeavors
unnoticed and her most recherché dishes untasted. And so—partly
for her own relief, and partly for the edification of her underlings in
the kitchen, she frequently held forth upon the state of affairs in
something like the following style:
“De Lord bress de day an’ hour as ever I toted mysef inter dis here
house! De Lord men’ it I pray! Wonner what Marse Fillup Hempseed
mean a-scornin’ my bes’ cook dishes? Better not keep on a-’spisin’
de Lord’s good wittles—’deed hadn’ he if he is Marse Fillup
Hempseed! Come to want bread if he does—’deed will he! Set him
up! What he ’spect? Sen’ him young ducks an’ green peas? down
dey comes ontotch! Try him wid lily white weal an’ spinnidge? down
it come ontaste! Sen’ up spring chicken an’ sparrowgrass? all de
same! I gwine stop of it now, I tell you good! ’deed is I. I ain’t gwine
be fool long o’ Marse Fillup Hemps’d’s funnelly nonsense no longer! I
gwine sen’ him up middlin’ and greens, or mutton an’ turnups—you
hear me good, don’t you?”
“I wonder what does ail master?” remarked Hildreth.
“I know what ail him well ’nough! I know de reason why he won’t eat
his wittles!”
“What is it, den?”
“He can’t eat anyt’ing else case he’s—eatin’ his own heart! An’ it
makes men mad—that sort o’ eatin’ does!”
“My Lors!” ejaculated Hildreth, in real or affected horror.
“Eatin’ his own heart,” continued old Hapzibah—“eatin’ his own
heart, wid his black eagle head an’ hook nose poke down in his
buzzum a-chawin’ an’ a-chawin’! Always a-chawin’ an’ a-chawin’!
Walkin’ up an’ down de peeazzy a-chawin’ an’ a-chawin’. Stan’in’ up
to his screwtaw, ’tendin’ to write, but only a-chawin’ an’ a-chawin’.
Settin’ down at de table, a-chawin’ an’ a-chawin’—not my good
wittles, mine you, but his own heart—always his own heart. He better
stop of it, too. It won’t ’gest, nor likewise ’gree wid him, nor
udderwise fetch Miss Marget home one minit ’fore she thinks proper
for to come.”
“Well, den, ennyways, t’ink it ’pears mon’ous strange your Miss
Marget don’t come home ef our Marse Fillup wants her to come,”
here put in old Neptune, one of the Helmstedt negroes.
“Set him up wid it,” indignantly broke in Aunt Hapzibah—“set you an’
your marse bofe up wid it. Who de sarpent! he? or you either? I
reckon my Miss Marget allers went an’ come when ebber she
thought proper, ’fore ebber she saw de hook nose o’ Marse Fillup
Hempseed, of any his low-life saut water niggers either. Not as I
tends for to hurt your feelin’s, Nep; you can’t help bein’ of an’
antibberous creetur like a lan’ tarrapin or a water dog, as ’longs to
nyther to’ther nor which, nor likewise to hit you in de teef wid your
marster, who is a right ’spectable, ’sponsible, ’greeable gemplemun,
ef he’d leave off a-hookin’ of his crook nose inter his buzzum an’ a-
chawin’ his own heart; which he’d better, too, or it’ll run him rampin’
mad!—you see, chillun, you see!”
One afternoon, during the last week in May, Philip Helmstedt, as
usual, walked up and down the beach in front of his mansion house.
With his arms folded and his head bowed upon his chest, in deep
thought, he paced with measured steps up and down the sands.
Occasionally he stopped, drew a small spyglass from his pocket,
placed it at his eye, and swept the sea to the horizon.
Before him, miles away to the westward, lay the western shore of
Maryland and Virginia, cloven and divided by the broad and bay-like
mouth of the Potomac—with Point Lookout on the north and Point
Rodgers on the south. Beyond this cleft coast the western horizon
was black with storm clouds. A freshening gale was rising and
rushing over the surface of the water, rippling its waves, and making
a deep, low, thrilling murmur, as if Nature, the improvvisatrice, swept
the chords of her grand harp in a prelude to some sublime
performance. Occasionally flocks of sea fowl, sailing slowly, lighted
upon the island or the shores. All signs indicated an approaching
storm. Philip Helmstedt stood, telescope in hand, traversing the now
dark and angry waste of waters. Far, far away up the distant
Potomac, like a white speck upon the black waters, came a vessel
driven before the wind, reeling against the tide, yet gallantly holding
her course and hugging the Maryland coast. Marguerite might be in
that packet (as, indeed, she might have been in any passing packet
for the last month), and Philip Helmstedt watched its course with
great interest. Nearing the mouth of the river, the packet veered
away to avoid the strong current around Point Lookout, and, still
struggling between wind and tide, steered for the middle of the
channel. Soon she was clear of the eddies and out into the open
bay, with her head turned southward. Then it was that Philip
observed a boat put out from her side. A convincing presentiment
assured him that Marguerite had arrived. The gale was now high and
the sea rough; and that little boat, in which he felt sure that she was
seated, would have but a doubtful chance between winds and
waves. Dread for Marguerite’s safety, with the eagle instinct to
swoop upon and seize his coveted prey, combined to instigate Philip
Helmstedt to speedy action. He threw down the spyglass and
hastened along the beach until he came to the boathouse, where he
unfastened a skiff, threw himself into it and pushed off from the
shore. A more skillful sailor than Philip Helmstedt never handled an
oar—a gift inherited from all his seafaring forefathers and perfected
by years of practice. He pushed the boat on amid heaving waves
and flashing brine, heedless of the blinding spray dashed into his
face, until he drew sufficiently near the other boat to see that it was
manned by two oarsmen, and then to recognize Marguerite as its
passenger. And in another moment the boats were side by side.
Philip Helmstedt was standing resting on his oar, and Marguerite had
risen with one low-toned exclamation of joy.
“Oh! Mr. Helmstedt, this is very kind; thank you—thank you.”
He did not reply by word or look.
The wind was so high, the water so rough, and the skiffs so light that
they were every instant striking together, rebounding off, and in
imminent danger of being whirled in the waves and lost.
“Quick, men; shift Mrs. Helmstedt’s baggage into this boat,”
commanded Mr. Helmstedt, as with averted eyes he coldly took
Marguerite’s hand and assisted her to enter his skiff. The two men
hastily transferred the little traveling trunk that comprised
Marguerite’s whole baggage—and then, with a respectful leave-
taking, laid to their oars and pulled rapidly to overtake the vessel.
Philip and Marguerite were left alone. Without addressing her, he
turned the head of the skiff and rowed for the island. The first flush of
pleasure had died from Marguerite’s face, leaving her very pale—
with a pallor that was heightened by the nunlike character of her
costume, which consisted simply of a gown, mantle and hood, all of
black silk. For some moments Marguerite fixed her large, mournful
eyes upon the face of her husband, vainly trying to catch his eyes,
that remained smoldering under their heavy lids. Then she suddenly
spoke to him.
“Philip! will you not forgive me?”
The thrilling, passionate, tearful voice, for once, seemed not to affect
him. He made no answer. She gazed imploringly upon his face—and
saw, and shuddered to see that an ashen paleness had overspread
his cheek, while his eyes remained rooted to the bottom of the boat.
“Philip! oh! Heaven—speak to me, Philip!” she cried, in a voice of
anguish, laying her hand and dropping her sobbing face upon his
knee.
The effect was terrible. Spurning her from him, he sprang to his feet,
nearly capsizing the skiff, that rocked fearfully under them, and
exclaimed:
“I do not know where you find courage to lift your eyes to my face,
madam, or address me! Where have you been? Come, trifling is
over between us! Explain, exculpate yourself from suspicion! or
these waters shall engulf at once your sin and my dishonor!”
“Philip! Philip!” she cried, in a voice of thrilling misery.
“Explain! explain! or in another moment God have mercy on your
soul!” he exclaimed, drawing in the oar, planting its end heavily on
the prow of the skiff, in such a manner that by leaning his weight
upon it he could capsize the boat—standing there, glaring upon her.
“Philip! Philip! for the Saviour’s sake, sit down,” she cried, wringing
her pale fingers in an ecstasy of terror.
“Coward! coward! coward! you fear death, and do not fear me nor
shame!” said Philip Helmstedt, his eyes burning upon her with a
consuming scorn that seemed to dry up her very heart’s blood.
“Once more, and for the last time, madam, will you explain?”
“Philip! mercy!”
“Commend yourself to the mercy of Heaven! I have none!” cried
Philip Helmstedt, about to throw his whole weight upon the oar to
upset the boat, when Marguerite, with a shriek, sprung up and
clasped his knees, exclaiming:
“Mercy! Philip! it is not my life I beg at your hands; it were not worth
the prayer! but another innocent life, Philip, spare your child,” and
fainted at his feet.
The boat, shaken by this violent scene, was rocking fearfully, and he
had much ado to steady it, while Marguerite lay in a dead heap at his
feet. The frenzy of his anger was passing for the present. The
announcement that she had just made to him, her swoon and her
perfect helplessness, as well as that majestic beauty, against the
influence of which he had been struggling through all this scene,
combined to sway his frantic purpose. He stood like a man
awakened from a nightmare, recovered from a fever, come to
himself. After cautiously trimming the boat, and letting it drift until it
had spent the violence of the impetus, he took up the oar, turned its
head, and rowed swiftly toward the island. Pushing the skiff up upon
the sand, he got out and fastened it, and then went to lift Marguerite,
who, on being raised, sighed and opened her eyes, and said, a little
wildly and incoherently:
“You will never be troubled by any more letters, Philip.”
“Ah?”
“No! and I will never leave you again, Philip.”
“I intend that you never shall have the opportunity, my—Marguerite.”
She had, with his assistance, risen to her feet, and, leaning on his
arm, she suffered herself to be led up the slope toward the house.
The whole sky was now overcast and blackened. The wind so
buffeted them that Marguerite could scarcely stand, much less walk
against it. Philip had to keep his arm around her shoulders, and busy
himself with her veil and mantle, that were continually blown and
flapped into her face and around her head. By the time they had
reached the house, and dispatched Forrest to put the boat away and
bring the trunk home, the storm had burst.
All night the tempest raged. Marguerite, in the midst of all her private
trouble, was sleepless with anxiety for the fate of the little vessel she
had left. But for Philip, a navy might have been engulfed, and he
remained unconcerned by anything aside from his own domestic
wrong. The next morning the terrible devastation of the storm was
revealed in the torn forests, prostrate fences and ruined crops. Early
Marguerite, with her spyglass, was on the lookout at the balcony of
her chamber window, that was immediately over the bay window of
the parlor, and commanded a magnificent sea view. And soon she
had the relief of seeing the poor little bark safely sheltered in
Wicomia inlet. With a sigh of gratitude, Marguerite turned from that
instance of salvation to face her own doubtful, if not dangerous,
prospect. Philip Helmstedt, since bringing her safely to the house,
had not noticed her by word or look. He remained silent, reserved,
and gloomy—in a mood that she dreaded to interrupt, lest she
should again rouse him to some repetition of his fury on the boat; but
in every gentle and submissive way she sought to soothe, accepting
all his scornful repulses with the patience of one offending where she
loved, yet unable to do otherwise, and solicitous to atone. It was
difficult to resist the pleading eyes and voice of this magnetic
woman, yet they were resisted.
In this constrained and painful manner a week passed, and brought
the first of June, when Colonel Houston and his family came down to
their seat at Buzzard’s Bluff. Mr. and Mrs. Helmstedt were seated at
their cold, tête-à-tête breakfast table when Nellie’s messenger,
Lemuel, came in with a note announcing her arrival at home, and
begging her dearest Marguerite, as the sky was so beautiful and the
water so calm, to come at once and spend the day with her.
The mournful face of Marguerite lighted up with a transient smile;
passing the note across the table to Mr. Helmstedt, she said:
“I will go,” and then rang the bell and directed Forrest, who answered
it, to conduct the messenger into the kitchen, give him breakfast, and
then get the boat Nereide ready to take her to Buzzard’s Bluff. The
man bowed and was about to leave the room, when Mr. Helmstedt
looked up from his note and said, “Stop!”
Forrest paused, hat in hand, waiting in respectful silence for his
master’s speech. After a moment, Mr. Helmstedt said:
“No matter, another time will do; hasten to obey your mistress now.”
The two men then withdrew, and Mr. Helmstedt turned to his wife,
and said:
“Upon second thoughts, I would not countermand your order,
madam, or humble you in the presence of your servants. But you
cannot leave this island, Mrs. Helmstedt.”
“Dear Philip—Mr. Helmstedt! what mean you?”
“That you are a prisoner! That you have been such since your last
landing! and that you shall remain such—if it be for fifty years—do
you hear?—until you choose to clear up the doubt that rests upon
your conduct!”
“Mr. Helmstedt, you do not mean this!” exclaimed the lady, rising
excitedly from her seat.
“Not?—look, Marguerite!” he replied, rising, and following her to the
window, where she stood with her large, mournful eyes now wildly
glancing from the bright, glad waters without to the darkened room
and the stern visaged man within. “Look, Marguerite! This island is a
mile long, by a quarter of a mile wide—with many thousand acres,
with deep, shady woods and pleasant springs and streams and
breezy beaches—almost room, variety and pleasure enough for a
home. Your house is, besides, comfortable, and your servants
capable and attentive. I say your house and servants, for here you
shall be a queen if you like——”
“A captive queen—less happy than a free scullion!”
“A captive by your own contumacy, lady. And, mark me, I have
shown you the limit of your range—this island—attempt to pass it
and your freedom of motion, now bounded only by the sea, shall be
contracted within the walls of this house, and so the space shall
narrow around you, Marguerite, until——”
“Six feet by two will suffice me!”
“Aye! until then, if need be!”
“Mr. Helmstedt, you cannot mean this—you are a gentleman!”
“Or was; but never a fool, or a tool, lady! God knows—Satan knows
how strongly and exclusively I have loved—still love! but you have
placed me in a false and humiliating position, where I must take care
of your honor and mine as best I may. You cannot imagine that I can
permit you to fly off, year after year, whither, with whom, to whom, for
what purpose I know not, and you refuse to tell! You left me no other
alternative, Marguerite but to repudiate——”
“Oh! no, no! sweet Heaven, not that! You love me, Philip Helmstedt! I
know you do. You could kill, but could not banish me! I could die, but
could not leave you, Philip!” interrupted his wife, with an outbreak of
agony that started cold drops of dew from her forehead.
“Compose yourself. I know that we are tied together (not so much by
church and state as by something inherent in the souls of both) for
weal or woe, blessing or cursing, heaven or hell—who can say? But
assuredly tied together for time and for eternity!”
“God be thanked for that, at worst!” exclaimed Marguerite, fervently.
“Anything—anything but the death to live, of absence from you,
Philip! Oh, why did you use that murderous word?”
“You left me no other alternative than to repudiate——”
“Ah!” cried Marguerite, as if again the word had pierced her heart.
“Or—I was about to say—restrain you. I cannot repudiate—I must
restrain you. You, yourself, must see the propriety of the measure.”
“But, Philip, my husband, do you mean to say that I may not even
visit Mrs. Houston?”
“I mean to say that until you satisfactorily explain your late escapade,
you shall not leave the island for any purpose whatever.”
“Not even to visit Nellie?”
“Not even to visit Mrs. Houston.”
“Philip, she will expect me; she will come and invite me to her house;
what shall I say to my bosom friend in explanation? or, keeping
silence, what shall I leave her to think?”
“Say what you please to Mrs. Houston; tell her the truth, or decline to
explain the motives of your seclusion to her—even as you have
refused to exhibit the purpose of your journeys to me. You can do
these things, Mrs. Helmstedt.”
“Oh, Heaven! but the retort is natural. What will Colonel Compton
think or say?”
“Refer Colonel Compton to me for an elucidation. I am always ready,
Marguerite, to answer for my course of conduct, though I may
seldom recognize the right of any man to question it.”
“I could even plead for an exception in favor of my little Nellie but
that I know your inflexible will, Philip.”
“It is scarcely more so than your own; but now, do you forget that
there is an answer to be written to Mrs. Houston?”
“Ah, yes,” said Marguerite, going to the escritoire that we have
already named, and hastily writing a few words.
“Dearest Nellie:—I am not well and cannot go to you;
waive ceremony, beloved, and come to your Marguerite.”
Meanwhile Mr. Helmstedt rang for Mrs. Houston’s messenger, who,
he was informed, had gone down to the beach to assist Forrest in
rigging the Nereide.
“We will walk down to the beach and send him home,” said Mr.
Helmstedt, taking his straw hat and turning toward Marguerite. She
arose to join him, and they walked out together across the front
piazza, down the steps, and down the terraced garden, through the
orchard and the timothy field, and, finally, to the sanded beach,
where they found the two negroes rigging the boat.
“Mrs. Helmstedt will not go, Forrest, so that you may leave the bark.
Lemuel, you will take this note to your mistress, and say that we
shall be glad to see the family here.”
Marguerite had not been down on the sands since the stormy
evening of her arrival, and now she noticed, with astonishment, that
of all the little fleet of some half-dozen boats of all sizes that were
usually moored within the boathouse but a single one, the little
Nereide, remained; and she saw that drawn into the house, the door
of which was chained and locked and the key delivered up to Mr.
Helmstedt. When this was done and the men had gone, Marguerite
turned to her husband for an explanation.
“Why, where are all the boats, Mr. Helmstedt?”
“Sold, given away, broken up, dispersed—all except this one, which
will serve the necessities of myself and men.”
“But why, Philip?”
“Can you not surmise? You are a prisoner—it is no jest, Marguerite—
a prisoner! and we do not leave the means of escape near such. I
am not playing with you, Marguerite! You fled me once, and
maddened me almost to the verge of murder and suicide.”
“I know it. Oh, Heaven forgive me!”
“And you must have no opportunity for repeating that experiment.
Your restraint is a real one, as you will find.”
She turned upon him a look so full of love, resignation and devotion,
as she held out both her hands and said:
“Well, I accept the restraint, Philip. I accept it. Oh, my dear husband,
how much more merciful than that other alternative of separation! for
your Marguerite tells you, Philip, that, would it come without sin, she
would rather take death from your hands than banishment. The one
great terror of her life, Philip, is of losing you by death or separation;
she could not survive the loss, Philip, for her very life lives in your
bosom. How can a widow live? Your Marguerite could not breathe
without you; while with you, from you she could accept anything—
anything. Since you do not banish her, do your will with her; you
have the right; she is your own.”
A few more words sighed out upon his bosom, to which he at last
had drawn her, and then, lifting her head, she murmured:
“And listen, dearest husband; give yourself no care or anxiety for the
safe custody of your prisoner, for she will not try to escape. It is your
command, dearest Philip, that binds me to the narrow limits of this
island, as no other earthly power could do. You know me, Philip; you
know that, were I in duress against my will, I would free myself; I
would escape, were it only to heaven or to hades! Your bond, Philip,
is not on this mortal frame, but on my heart, soul, spirit, and I should
feel its restricting power were all nature else beckoning me over the
limits you have prescribed, and all opportunities favorable to the
transgression.”
“You love me so; you say your life lives within mine, and I believe it
does, for you inhabit me, you possess me, nor can I unhouse you,
incendiary as you are—and yet you will not give me your confidence