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.