“A most unworthy task, dear Margaret, to be left at home to take care of two old people, who do not need either my company or protection, while the struggling country cries aloud for every man capable of bearing arms to come to her help! A most unworthy post is mine!”
They were standing alone within the bay window of the parlor, on Sunday morning, after having read in the papers, that had come the evening before, of the repulse of Smythe at Niagara.
Ralph spoke as bitterly as he felt, the enforced inaction of his life.
“A most unmanly part to play!”
“‘They also serve who only stand and wait,’” said Margaret, gently.
His stern face softened instantly, and he looked on her with a smile, full of deep tenderness and beauty, as he answered:
“True, sweet Margaret, yet, nevertheless, the only circumstance that renders this standing and waiting endurable is—do you know what, dear maiden? Your sweet society, and the thought that I may be useful in making the days pass less heavily to you and to her who is dearer to you.”
A swift, burning blush crimsoned the neck and face of the young girl. And just at this juncture Mrs. Helmstedt entered the room. Always her first glance was directed in search of her daughter; and now, she started and pressed her hand to her heart, at the tableau that was presented to her. Within the crimson-draped recess of the bay window the pair were standing. Ralph stood, resting one elbow upon the frame of the harp, and clasping Margaret’s hand, and bending over her half-averted and deeply-blushing face. Both were too absorbed in their own emotions to perceive her gentle entrance, and she stood for a minute, unobserved, gazing upon them. To Mrs. Helmstedt, her young daughter, had, up to this hour, seemed an unconscious child, and now she stood revealed to her a young maiden, awakening to the consciousness of loving and being loved. Yet though this revelation was unexpected, it was not quite unacceptable. More than in any other man, Mrs. Helmstedt confided in Ralph Houston for the wisdom, goodness and power, inherent in his soul, and including in themselves every other virtue. And, after a few years, should she live to pass them, and should he have the patience and constancy to wait—with less reluctance than to any other man, would she entrust the life-happiness of her only and cherished daughter, to the charge of Ralph Houston. All this passed, in an instant, through the mind of the mother, as she crossed the room and bade them “Good-morning.”
Margaret started; the blush deepened on her face. But Mr. Houston, still holding her hand, and leading her from the recess, greeted Mrs. Helmstedt affectionately, and said, frankly, as one who would not conceal his disposition:
“I was just telling Margaret that nothing but her sweet society, and the hope of being useful to herself and her mother, could reconcile me, at this time, to the unworthy inactivity of my life.”