Mr. Helmstedt, who had just turned and walked to the window to look out upon the wild weather, did not see this agitation.
Marguerite broke the seal and read; fear, grief and cruel remorse storming in her darkened and convulsed countenance.
Philip Helmstedt, having satisfied himself that the wind was increasing in force, and that vessels would be lost before morning, now turned and walked toward his wife.
She heard his step, oh! what a supreme effort of the soul was that—an effort in which years of life are lost—with which she commanded her grief and terror to retire, her heart to be still, her face to be calm, her tones to be steady, and her whole aspect to be cheerful and disengaged as her husband joined her.
“Your letter was not from Mrs. Houston, love? I am almost sorry—that is, I am sorry for your disappointment as a man half jealous of ‘Nellie’s’ share in your heart can be,” he said.
Marguerite smiled archly at this badinage, but did not otherwise reply.
“Well, then, if not from Nellie, I hope you heard good news from some other dear friend.”
“As if I had scores of other dear friends!—but be at ease, thou jealous Spaniard, for Nellie is almost your only rival.”
“I would not have even one,” replied Mr. Helmstedt; but his eyes were fixed while he spoke upon the letter, held lightly, carelessly in Marguerite’s hand, and that interested him as everything connected with her always did; and yet concerning which, that chivalrous regard to courtesy that ever distinguished him, except in moments of ungovernable passion, restrained him from inquiring.
Marguerite saw this, and, lightly wringing the paper in her fingers, said: