Love's labor won

by Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth

There was no time to be lost. It was now half-past eleven o’clock. The household, except her father and the servant whom he had ordered to watch with him, was wrapped in sleep. Her father she knew to be deeply engaged in writing his will in the study. Forrest she supposed to be employed in cleaning the pistols in the back kitchen.

There was nothing then to interrupt her escape but the dogs, who before recognizing would surely break out upon her. But there was little to dread from that circumstance. The barking of the dogs was no unusual event of the night. Any noise in nature, the footstep of a negro walking out, the spring of a startled squirrel, the falling of a nut or a pine cone, was frequently enough to arouse their jealous vigilance, and provoke a canine concert. Only when the barking was very prolonged was attention usually aroused. Of this contingency there was no danger. They would probably break out in a furious onslaught, recognize her and be still.

But there was another serious difficulty. Margaret was very feeble; weeks of mental anguish, with the consequent loss of appetite and loss of sleep, had so exhausted her physical nature that not all the proverbial power of the mind over the body, the spirit over the flesh, could impart to her sufficient strength for an undertaking, that, in her stronger days, would have taxed her energies to the utmost. A restorative was absolutely necessary. A few drops of distilled lavender water—a favorite country cordial—gave her a fictitious strength.

Then tying on her black velvet hood, and her short black camlet riding cloak, she prepared to depart. First, she bolted the door on the inside that her father might not enter her room to ascertain her absence. Then she softly hoisted the window, and with perfect ease crossed the low sill and stepped upon the friendly vine, where she remained standing while she let down the window and closed the blinds.

Thus having restored everything to its usual order, she commenced her descent. Holding to the vines, stepping cautiously, and letting herself down slowly, she at length reached the ground safely.

Now for the dogs. But they were quiet. Their quick instincts were truer than her fears, and she passed on undisturbed.

How still and brilliant the starlight night. No sound but the sighing of the wind in the trees, and the trilling of the insects that wake at eve to chirp till day; and all distinctly, yet darkly visible, like a scene clearly drawn in Indian ink upon a gray ground.

She passed down through the garden, the orchard, and the stubble field to the beach, where her little sailboat, The Pearl Shell, lay.

For the trip that she contemplated of fifteen miles up the mouth of the river, a rowboat would have been far the safer. But Margaret was too weak for such prolonged labor as the management of the oar for two or three hours must necessitate. The sailboat would only require the trifling exertion of holding the tiller, and occasionally shifting the sails. Happily, the tide was in and just about to turn; the boat was, therefore, afloat, though chained to the boathouse, and so needed no exertion to push her off. Margaret went on board, untied the tiller, hoisted the sails, unlocked the chain and cast loose. She had but time to spring and seize the tiller before the wind filled the sails and the boat glided from the shore.

So far all had gone marvelously well. Let who would discover her escape now, she was safe from pursuit. Let who would follow, she could not be overtaken. Her boat was beyond measure the swiftest sailer of the island fleet. True, before this fresh wind the boat might capsize, especially as there was no one to manage it except herself, who to shift the sails must sometimes let go the tiller. But Margaret was without selfish, personal fear; her purpose was high, and had been so far providentially favored; she would, therefore, believe in no accidents, but trust in God.