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.”