“He can’t eat anyt’ing else case he’s—eatin’ his own heart! An’ it makes men mad—that sort o’ eatin’ does!”
“My Lors!” ejaculated Hildreth, in real or affected horror.
“Eatin’ his own heart,” continued old Hapzibah—“eatin’ his own heart, wid his black eagle head an’ hook nose poke down in his buzzum a-chawin’ an’ a-chawin’! Always a-chawin’ an’ a-chawin’! Walkin’ up an’ down de peeazzy a-chawin’ an’ a-chawin’. Stan’in’ up to his screwtaw, ’tendin’ to write, but only a-chawin’ an’ a-chawin’. Settin’ down at de table, a-chawin’ an’ a-chawin’—not my good wittles, mine you, but his own heart—always his own heart. He better stop of it, too. It won’t ’gest, nor likewise ’gree wid him, nor udderwise fetch Miss Marget home one minit ’fore she thinks proper for to come.”
“Well, den, ennyways, t’ink it ’pears mon’ous strange your Miss Marget don’t come home ef our Marse Fillup wants her to come,” here put in old Neptune, one of the Helmstedt negroes.
“Set him up wid it,” indignantly broke in Aunt Hapzibah—“set you an’ your marse bofe up wid it. Who de sarpent! he? or you either? I reckon my Miss Marget allers went an’ come when ebber she thought proper, ’fore ebber she saw de hook nose o’ Marse Fillup Hempseed, of any his low-life saut water niggers either. Not as I tends for to hurt your feelin’s, Nep; you can’t help bein’ of an’ antibberous creetur like a lan’ tarrapin or a water dog, as ’longs to nyther to’ther nor which, nor likewise to hit you in de teef wid your marster, who is a right ’spectable, ’sponsible, ’greeable gemplemun, ef he’d leave off a-hookin’ of his crook nose inter his buzzum an’ a-chawin’ his own heart; which he’d better, too, or it’ll run him rampin’ mad!—you see, chillun, you see!”
One afternoon, during the last week in May, Philip Helmstedt, as usual, walked up and down the beach in front of his mansion house. With his arms folded and his head bowed upon his chest, in deep thought, he paced with measured steps up and down the sands. Occasionally he stopped, drew a small spyglass from his pocket, placed it at his eye, and swept the sea to the horizon.
Before him, miles away to the westward, lay the western shore of Maryland and Virginia, cloven and divided by the broad and bay-like mouth of the Potomac—with Point Lookout on the north and Point Rodgers on the south. Beyond this cleft coast the western horizon was black with storm clouds. A freshening gale was rising and rushing over the surface of the water, rippling its waves, and making a deep, low, thrilling murmur, as if Nature, the improvvisatrice, swept the chords of her grand harp in a prelude to some sublime performance. Occasionally flocks of sea fowl, sailing slowly, lighted upon the island or the shores. All signs indicated an approaching storm. Philip Helmstedt stood, telescope in hand, traversing the now dark and angry waste of waters. Far, far away up the distant Potomac, like a white speck upon the black waters, came a vessel driven before the wind, reeling against the tide, yet gallantly holding her course and hugging the Maryland coast. Marguerite might be in that packet (as, indeed, she might have been in any passing packet for the last month), and Philip Helmstedt watched its course with great interest. Nearing the mouth of the river, the packet veered away to avoid the strong current around Point Lookout, and, still struggling between wind and tide, steered for the middle of the channel. Soon she was clear of the eddies and out into the open bay, with her head turned southward. Then it was that Philip observed a boat put out from her side. A convincing presentiment assured him that Marguerite had arrived. The gale was now high and the sea rough; and that little boat, in which he felt sure that she was seated, would have but a doubtful chance between winds and waves. Dread for Marguerite’s safety, with the eagle instinct to swoop upon and seize his coveted prey, combined to instigate Philip Helmstedt to speedy action. He threw down the spyglass and hastened along the beach until he came to the boathouse, where he unfastened a skiff, threw himself into it and pushed off from the shore. A more skillful sailor than Philip Helmstedt never handled an oar—a gift inherited from all his seafaring forefathers and perfected by years of practice. He pushed the boat on amid heaving waves and flashing brine, heedless of the blinding spray dashed into his face, until he drew sufficiently near the other boat to see that it was manned by two oarsmen, and then to recognize Marguerite as its passenger. And in another moment the boats were side by side. Philip Helmstedt was standing resting on his oar, and Marguerite had risen with one low-toned exclamation of joy.
“Oh! Mr. Helmstedt, this is very kind; thank you—thank you.”
He did not reply by word or look.
The wind was so high, the water so rough, and the skiffs so light that they were every instant striking together, rebounding off, and in imminent danger of being whirled in the waves and lost.