Solution Manual for Dynamics of Structures 5th Edition by

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CHAPTER 2

Problem 2.1
A heavy table is supported by flat steel legs (Fig. P2.1). Its natural period in lateral vibration is 0.5 sec.
When a 50-lb plate is clamped to its surface, the natural period in lateral vibration is lengthened to 0.75
sec. What are the weight and the lateral stiffness of the table?

Tn = 0.5 sec Tn = 0.75 sec Figure P2.1

Solution:
Given:

T = 2π m = 0.5 sec (a)

n
k
T′=2π m + 50 g = 0. 75 sec (b)
n
k
1. Determine the weight of the table.
Taking the ratio of Eq. (b) to Eq. (a) and squaring the
result gives
2
2 50 ⎛0.75 ⎞
⎛ ′⎞
⎜ Tn ⎜ m +50 g ⇒ 1+ =⎜ ⎜ =2.25
=

⎜ ⎜ mg ⎝ 0.5 ⎜
⎝Tn ⎜ m
or
50
mg = = 40 lbs
1.25

2. Determine the lateral stiffness of the table.

Substitute for m in Eq. (a) and solve for k:
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 ⎛ 40 ⎞
k =16π 2 m =16π 2 ⎜ ⎝ 386 ⎜ ⎜ =16.4lbs in.

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publisher.
Problem 2.2
An electromagnet weighing 400 lb and suspended by a spring having a stiffness of 100 lb/in. (Fig.
P2.2a) lifts 200 lb of iron scrap (Fig. P2.2b). Determine the equation describing the motion when the
electric current is turned off and the scrap is dropped (Fig. P2.2c).

Figure P2.2
Solution:
1. Determine the natural frequency.
400
k = 100 lb in. m= 2 in.
386 lb − sec

k 100
ωn = = = 9. 82 rads sec
m 400 386
2. Determine initial deflection.
Static deflection due to weight of the iron scrap
200
u(0) = = 2 in.
100

3. Determine free vibration.

u(t ) = u(0 ) cos ωnt = 2 cos (9. 82t )

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laws as thebe reproduced, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Problem 2.3
A mass m is at rest, partially supported by a spring and partially by stops (Fig. P2.3). In the posi-tion
shown, the spring force is mg/ 2. At time t = 0 the stops are rotated, suddenly releasing the mass.
Determine the motion of the mass.

Figure P2.3

Solution:

1. Set up equation of motion.

ku+m g/2

mü
u
mg

mu&& + ku = m g
2

2. Solve equation of motion.

u(t ) = A cos ω t + B sin ω t + mg
n n 2k
At t = 0 , u(0) = 0 and u& (0) = 0
mg =0
, B
∴A=− 2k

mg
u(t ) = (1 − cos ωnt )
2k

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laws as thebe reproduced, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Problem 2.4
The weight of the wooden block shown in Fig. P2.4 is 10 lb and the spring stiffness is 100 lb/in. A
bullet weighing 0.5 lb is fired at a speed of 60 ft/sec into the block and becomes embedded in the block.
Determine the resulting motion u(t) of the block.

vo
m
k
Figure P2.4

Solution:

u
k v0
m
m0

10
m = 386 = 0. 0259 lb − sec2 in.

= 386
0.5 = 1.3 × 10 −3
m0 lb − sec2 in.

k = 100 lb in.
Conservation of momentum implies
&
m0v0 = (m + m0 ) u(0)

u& (0) = m 0v 0 = 2.857 ft sec = 34. 29 in. sec

m +m
0
After the impact the system properties and initial
conditions are
Mass = m + m = 0. 0272 lb − sec2 in.
0
Stiffness = k = 100 lb in.

Natural frequency:

ωn = k = 60.63 rads sec

m + m0
Initial conditions: u(0) = 0, u&( 0) = 34. 29 in. sec
The resulting motion is
u(t ) = u&( 0 )
sin ω t = 0.565 sin (60. 63t ) in.
ωn

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laws as thebe reproduced, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.
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“Release me! Release me, I command you, villain!” cried Grace, wild
with indignation and fear, and struggling desperately to free herself.
“Ha! ha! ha! the little brown partridge! how fierce and strong, and
spiteful it is! How it flutters and flaps, and beats!” exclaimed the soldier,
holding his captive tighter.
“Let me go! Let me go, I say, poltroon!” cried the girl, wrestling madly
with her captor.
“Kingdom come! what a wild bird it is!” exclaimed the latter, squeezing
his prize maliciously.
“Put me down! Put me down, I order you, marauder! coward! brute!”
resumed Grace, now maddened with rage and terror.
“George! What! It is not a wild partridge, but a young hawk that I’ve
caught! What claws and beak it has! how it bites, and tears, and
scratches! I must look out for my face, or, by George! the best-looking
soldier in his majesty’s service will be ruined!”
“You a soldier! Poltroon! Coward!”
“Whe-ew! the little creature can call hard names, too. Well, come! one
kiss for a cheap ransom, and I let you go! What! Not one kiss? Very well;
what is not freely yielded must be boldly rifled! What the deuce——”
And despite her frenzied struggles the “ransom” was seized, and Grace,
furious at the indignity, was set upon her feet.
“For shame, ensign! How dare you? Go directly and ask the young lady’s
pardon,” said the commanding officer, who had just that instant reached
the scene.
The delinquent addressed touched his hat to his superior officer and said:
“I beg yours, lieutenant. If the bird had not flown, the falcon would not
have flown!” and repeating the gesture of subordination, he turned to
obey. Going up and standing before Grace, who gave him a furious look,
he took off his cap, revealing a very finely turned head, bowed
profoundly, and said:
“Young lady, Ensign Dawson humbly begs your pardon; and all the more
humbly, because, poor wretch! he cannot repent! nor even—hardened
sinner that he is—promise never to do so again. For if ever the
opportunity should offer, son of perdition that you know him to be! he
would be sure to repeat the offense. Under such unpromising prospects,
you will deign to stretch out the sceptre of grace, whose touch is pardon
to the poor devil—William Dawson?”
“‘William Dawson.’” The words were echoed by a low, thrilling,
impassioned voice, that did not come from Grace, whose lovely
countenance, as she listened to the ensign’s apology, underwent the most
ludicrous series of phases; rage, curiosity, admiration, pride—all
struggled for the supremacy a moment, and then, shocked at detecting in
herself the slightest indication of relenting toward such unpardonable
and atrocious impudence, she turned and walked away in haughty
silence. Lieutenant King stepped after her to offer a more suitable
apology. At the same instant Clare Hartley left the side of her friend, and
went to soothe her.
And thus Margaret Helmstedt and the young ensign were left alone,
standing a few yards apart.
He stood watching with laughing eyes the retreating form of Grace.
But Margaret’s face was a study. Her thrilling, passionate voice it was
that had echoed his name at the instant of hearing it. When that name
first struck her ear, she had started and clutched her breast with both
hands, as one who had received a shot in the heart. And, since that
moment, she had been standing transfixed, white and still, with burning
gaze fixed upon the young soldier. Presently her steadfast gaze attracted
the attention of the man, who raised his eyes to hers. The meeting of
those mutual glances did not dissolve, but changed the spell under which
she labored.
She moved, stretched out her arm, and without withdrawing her gaze,
like a somnambulist or a mesmerized subject, as if irresistibly drawn on,
in measured steps, with fixed eyes and extended arm, she walked toward
him, laid her hand firmly upon his breast, and gazed wistfully into his
face.
The young soldier laughed, drew himself up, threw out his chest, folded
his arms, lifted his head, and so seemed defiantly to offer himself for
criticism. And in truth he had no just reason to avoid inspection. He was
very possibly just what he had laughingly described himself—the
handsomest man in his majesty’s service. He was one of the finest
specimens of the Anglo Saxon race—in form somewhat above the
medium height—broad-shouldered, deep-chested, round-limbed, with a
full face, fair, roseate complexion, flaxen hair, merry blue eyes, straight
nose, finely curved, red and smiling lips, white teeth, and an expression
of countenance replete with blended frankness, firmness, and good-
humor.
But no recognition of his manly beauty was in the steadfast, profound,
and serious gaze with which Margaret—her hand still laid upon his
breast—regarded him.
“William Dawson. Your name is William Dawson?” she said, speaking
low and slowly.
“Yes, fair one! William Dawson, hitherto ensign in his majesty’s ——
company of ——, but henceforth your liege subject!” replied the young
soldier, laughingly though in great surprise.
“William Dawson,” she repeated, without removing her eyes.
“You have said it, lovely lady.”
“William Dawson,” she reiterated, as it were, unconsciously.
“At your service, beautiful Virginian! What can I do to prove my
devotion? Blow up the Albion? desert my colors! swear allegiance to
that warlike hero, President Madison? or, I have it! cut off Rear Admiral
Cockburn’s ears? for I think he is the favorite antipathy of your charming
countrywomen! Tell me what unheard-of audacity I shall perpetrate to
prove my devotion, and above all things, tell the worshiped name of her
for whom I am pledging myself to do anything and everything!” said the
young soldier, in the same tone of gay, but not disrespectful, raillery.
“I am Margaret Helmstedt,” she replied, in a low and thrilling voice.
“Great Heaven!”
It was all he said. And there fell a pause and deep silence between them
for some intense and vital moments, during which they gazed with
unutterable emotions upon each other’s face and form. She could not
have been whiter than she had been from the first, so she remained
without color and without voluntary motion, but shaken upon her feet as
a statue by an earthquake. He at length grew as pale as she was,
shuddered through all his frame, seized her hand, drew her closer, as one
having authority, held her firmly while he fixed upon her blanched face a
gaze as earnest, as searching, as thrilling as her own had been.
He broke the silence.
“Margaret Helmstedt! Margaret Helmstedt! I see you then at last! And
now that I gaze upon your face—how like, great Heaven! to hers. Come
—come! You must go with me. You must inform me of that which you
alone have power to communicate. You must confirm to me that fact
which I suspect, but do not know; or, rather, which I know, but cannot
prove. Come, Margaret Helmstedt, come;” and, closing his hand cruelly
upon hers, he drew her, blanched and unresisting, after him, into the
covert of the wood, where they were quickly hidden.
There had been unsuspected witnesses to this strange scene. So absorbed
in their mutual subject of interest had been the maiden and the soldier,
that they had not perceived that the trio, consisting of Lieutenant King,
Clare Hartley, and Grace Wellworth, who were going up toward the
house, had been met by another party, consisting of Mrs. Compton, Mrs.
Houston, and Parson Wellworth, who were coming down toward the
beach, and that a pause and a parley was the consequence. Nellie
Houston, who was at the same time a furious patriot and a fearful
poltroon, on seeing the hated and dreaded “redcoat,” had clenched her
fist, and frowned defiance, even while she paled and trembled with
terror. Mrs. Compton had remained composed. She had been an old
campaigner of the long revolutionary struggle, and was not easily
disconcerted by the sight of the British uniform. The old parson had put
on his spectacles and taken sight. Seeing that the officer, cap in hand,
walked quietly and inoffensively on, between the two girls, neither of
whom betrayed the least uneasiness, he turned to the frightened and
belligerent Nellie, and said: “Do not be alarmed, madam; he is an officer
and a gentleman, and will, no doubt, conduct himself as such, and
compel his men to the manners of men.”
And the next moment, when they met, the officer made good the words
of the preacher. Bowing profoundly, he explained that his party had
landed on the island for the purpose of procuring a supply of fresh water
and provisions.
Nellie flushed to her forehead, bit her lips till the blood came, and turned
away in silence. She had no good-will for the British, and would not
feign even civility.
Mrs. Compton satisfied the claims of conventional politeness by bowing
coldly.
Mr. Wellworth took upon himself to be spokesman of his party, and
responded:
“Sir, Major Helmstedt, the proprietor of this estate, is now absent with
the American army, in the North—doing, no doubt, good service to his
country, and good execution among your ranks. We, whom you find on
the spot, are only members of a picnic party, consisting in all of about
fifteen ladies, young and old, two half-grown boys, and four aged men.
Your force, sir, looks to me to be nearly, or quite, forty fighting men.
Resistance on our part would be in vain, else, Christian minister as I am,
I might be tempted to refuse to give to our enemy drink, though he were
athirst, or meat, though he hungered. The available provisions of the
island, sir, are just now very limited in quantity. The fortunes of war have
placed them at your disposition, sir. We are in your power. We therefore
confide in your honor, as a gentleman and an officer, that in
appropriating the articles in question, you will proceed with the quietness
and courtesy due to the presence of ladies.”
To this speech, which was more candid than conciliating, the lieutenant
bowed, assuring the clergyman that “booty” and not “beauty,” was the
present object in request; that the former should be removed with the
least possible disturbance to the latter; and counseling him to withdraw
the ladies to the upper chambers of the mansion, while his men came on
and took possession, for an hour or so, of the lower rooms.
While the clergyman and the lieutenant thus conversed, Nellie turned to
the two girls, who had left the side of their escort, and said:
“Why, where is Margaret? Where have you left her?”
“Margaret! Oh! on the beach, or just above it. There she is now, talking
with that saucy ensign!” exclaimed Grace Wellworth, in a tone of pique.
“No fear for our heroic Margaret! She is quite competent to the care of
her own personal safety,” retorted Clare Hartley.
“Yet I think it is very indiscreet in Margaret to remain behind conversing
with that impudent young ensign!” cried Grace, petulantly, drawing the
attention of the whole party to the unconscious subject of her
animadversions. Clare looked on in astonishment. Nellie gazed in
consternation. Mr. Wellworth stared like a lunatic. And Lieutenant King
declared it as his experience that Ensign Dawson was “the devil among
the girls.” And before this group had recovered their self-possession,
they saw the young couple disappear in the woods.
“Go after them! Fly to her rescue! She is carried off! Run, Mr.
Wellworth,” cried Nellie, in a paroxysm of terror, as soon as she had
recovered from her amazement.
But Lieutenant King advised the lady to be calm, and the clergyman to
mind his own affairs, adding that the young girl had accompanied the
soldier quite voluntarily, and that he would warrant her, or any lady, safe
from offense by Ensign Dawson.
“You would warrant him, after witnessing his behavior to me!”
exclaimed Grace, in a half-suppressed whisper, which was, however, not
so much smothered, but that its purport reached the ears of the officer,
who answered, earnestly:
“Had you been in the woods alone with that youthful soldier, he would
have respected your solitude, and helplessness; but you were amid your
friends; you ran, unwittingly challenging pursuit, and hence—but I do
not defend him; he was wrong, and I beg pardon in his behalf.”
“What? what? what was that, Grace?” asked old Mr. Wellworth, in
alarm.
“Nothing, father! only when I took fright and ran away, he gave chase,
caught and brought me back to my party; that is all,” replied Grace,
suppressing the fact of the rifled kiss, and blushing deeply for its
suppression.
“Mr. Wellworth, I really must insist upon your going in search of
Margaret. This lieutenant indorses the ensign; but who indorses the
lieutenant?” inquired Nellie.
Lieutenant King bowed “as if he had received a compliment.”
And moved by this persistence on the part of Mrs. Houston, the old
clergyman took the path leading down to the thicket.
“Madam,” said Lieutenant King, “will you permit me to counsel you to
proceed to the house, and withdraw your female friends to the privacy of
the upper chambers. Myself and my men, who are not desirable company
for ladies, will follow in about fifteen minutes. They will want
refreshments. You will, therefore, be so kind as to leave the keys of the
pantry, storehouse, cellars, etc., in charge of some male servant, with
orders to wait upon me.”
“Sir, because all our able men are with the army, and we are defenseless
and in your power, you shall be obeyed. And for no other reason on the
face of the earth!” exclaimed Nellie, flushing with anger, as she
beckoned her companions, and took the way, successively, through the
meadow, the orchard, and the garden, to the house. As they turned away,
the British officer bowed with scrupulous politeness, and laughed within
himself, as he muttered:
“You are a ‘good-nater’ little lady,” and took the way to the beach to
bring together his men.
Meanwhile, Nellie and her companions reached the mansion, and spread
consternation among the company by announcing that a British force had
landed on the island. With the recollection of Craney Island fresh in their
minds, there was not an old lady there who did not expect to be put to the
sword, or a young woman or boy who did not look to be carried off. But
the calm courage of Clare Hartley, and the cool serenity of old Mrs.
Compton, did much toward soothing their fears and restoring quiet. Mrs.
Houston then explained that they were all to go upstairs and lock
themselves in the chambers, while the soldiers bivouacked below.
Hapzibah was then called, and ordered to produce the keys.
“Well, I ’spose how der’s no help for it, Miss Nellie; fur ef I don’t guv
um up, dem are white niggers bust open ebery singly door in the house,”
said Hapzibah.
“Yes, and set it on fire afterward, and throw you in to feed the flames!”
was the comforting reply.
“I ’fies ’em for to do it—white herrin’s!—who’s afeard?—’sides which, I
don’t believe I’d blaze for ’em!”
“No; you’d blow up like a skin of gunpowder. But hand over the keys,
and go call your brother, old Euripedes, to take charge of them and wait
on the gentlemen. You’ll have to come upstairs with the ladies.”
“Me go hide ’long o’ de ladies, jes’ as ef I was feared o’ dem white
niggers! Me leabe my poor, ole, innocen’ brudder ’lone, to be put upon
by dem debbils! I like to see myself a doin’ of it! I’d see ole Hempseed
Island sunk inter de bottom o’ de sea wid all aboard fust—dat’s me. Yer
all hear me good, don’t yer?”
“They’ll certainly throw you in the fire if you talk in that way,” said
Nellie, laughing, in despite of her secret fears and anxieties.
“I wouldn’t burn to save dere precious libes! I’d see ’em all blasted fust!
I’d see it good! Dat’s me! But I begs yer pardon, Miss Nellie, chile! I
doesn’t mean no ’fence, nor likewise no disrespect to you, honey—’deed
no! But yer see de werry sight ’o one ’o dem dere b’iled crabs makes me
crawl all ober—an’ de sight o’ one o’ dere scarlet-coats drives me ravin’
mad as ef I war a she-bull!—dat’s me! ’Cause yer see, chile, de werry
fust time one o’ dem dere debbils put his fut on ter de islan’ he done
fetch death an’ ’struction long ob him! An’ now dat debbil done gone an’
fetch forty more debbils more worse nor hisself. An’ I wish, I does, how
I could bore a hole in de islan’ an’ sink it wid all aboard, I do—dat’s me.
An’ now I’ll go arter my brudder You-Rip.”
“Stay a moment,” said Mrs. Houston. “You can tell us—is there much
wine and liquor in the cellar?—for if those wretches are permitted to
drink themselves to madness, even the word of their commanding officer
is no security for their good behavior!”
“Wine an’ likker! No, thanks be to my ’Vine Marster dere ain’t a singly
drap to cool dere parchy tongues, no more’n dere is in Aberyham’s
buzzum! Marse Fillup done ship it all away to camp, for he an’ Marse
Wrath to treat dere brudder ossifers wid, to keep dere couridge when dey
goes inter battle. Wish it was me goin’! I wouldn’t ’quire no sich. ’Sides
which, I’d shoot somefin harder at ’em nor grapeshot inter ’em, as dey
talk so much about, which it stands to reason shootin’ grapes is nuffin
but chile’s play, and can’t hurt nobody, much less dem dere hardened
b’iled crabs, ’less deys ’stilled into likker an’ drank too much of, ’sides
bein’ a waste o’ de fruit; which dey do say as how ‘willful waste make
woeful want.’”
“My goodness alive, Happy, how you do run on. You make my head go
round and round like a water-wheel. Do go now and send Euripedes to
me,” said Mrs. Houston.
“I gwine,” said Hapzibah, who took herself off.
And just then the gentlemen of the party, who had been out fishing at the
opposite extremity of the island, and had been sent for, arrived upon the
scene, and received the intelligence of the landing of the foraging party
on the western shore of the island, and of their momentarily expected
arrival at the house.
And now at last there was promptitude of action. The ladies and female
servants were collected and hurried upstairs, with recommendations not
only to lock, but to bolt and bar themselves within the innermost
chambers. Old Hapzibah’s age, fearlessness and tearful remonstrances
obtained for her the questionable privilege of remaining out to stand by
her “poor ole angel,” as she lovingly termed her brother. Euripedes and
herself were intrusted with the keys, and directions to wait upon the
foragers. The four old gentlemen and the two boys then armed
themselves, and took their stations in the upper hall to defend, if
necessary, the approach to the ladies’ place of retreat. These
arrangements were scarcely concluded, before the foraging party entered
the house. And then followed the feast, and succeeded the orgies!—and
such orgies! It was providential that there was no liquor to be found,
though every cellar, closet, cupboard and pantry was ransacked, in the
vain hope of finding a hidden store. The hampers of the picnic party
were rifled of their costly delicacies, and a few bottles of rare wine
discovered, but this went only a little way among so many. You should
have heard old Hapzibah’s indignant account of their proceedings. She
said that “Each red debbil among ’em ’haved as if he wer’ ’sessed o’
seben oder debbils more worser dan hissef!” That when they failed to
find the wine, they drove her “poor, ole, innocen’, sufferin’ darlin’ on
afore ’em an’ swore all de hair off’n his head—de poor, ole, timidy, saf’-
hearted chile, as couldn’ stan’ nuffin o’ dere debblish doin’s”—that
because she, Aunt Hapzibah, couldn’t be here, and there, and everywhere
at once, “de ’fernal white niggers got into her cabin an’ stole her trunk o’
berryin’ close, which she meant to go arter ’em herself, an’ git ’em back
even ef she had to pull ’em out’n Admirable Cockburn’s own claws!
Dough ef he, Cockburn, was admirable, she should like to know, she
should, who was ’bominable! That de low-life white herrin’s was so
’fraid o’ bein’ p’isoned, dat dey made poor, ole Rip, poor, ole, sufferin’,
put-upon angel, drink out’n ebery thing, whedder it ’greed with him or
not—an’ eben ’pelled him to drink out’n ebery singly milk-pan in the
dairyhouse, which eberybody knows he neber could ’bide milk eber
since he was weaned, which allers made him dead sick to his stumick.”
Finally, it was sunset before the marauders left the island, carrying off
with them not only all the grain, but all the meat, fruit, and garden
vegetables, and also all the poultry, and all the live stock with the
exception of one old black ram, the patriarch of the flock, whom
Hapzibah swore bitterly to carry to Cockburn, when she went after her
trunk.
It was quite dark before it was considered safe to warrant the descent of
the ladies from their retreat. Fortunately there would be a moon, or else
the half-starved and thoroughly wearied picnickers must have rowed
home in darkness. Now, therefore, they assembled on the porch, to talk
over their misadventure, and wait for the rising of the moon. But
suddenly some one asked:
“Where is Margaret Helmstedt, and——”
“Where is Margaret?” was echoed all around.
Nellie had hoped that she was safe in the charge of Mr. Wellworth. But
Mr. Wellworth, who from wandering all over the island now joined the
party, declared that he had been unable to find her, and that he had
expected to hear of her among her friends present. And now, as the alarm
spread, and exclamations of: “Where is Margaret?” “Where can she be?”
“Is it possible she can have been carried off?” were passed in distress
from one to another, and all began to separate to prosecute the search for
her, a quiet low voice was heard from their midst, saying:
“I am here—be not uneasy!” and, ghostlike, Margaret Helmstedt stood
among them! The sight of the maiden was an immediate and great relief,
but:
“Are you quite safe, my child?” asked Mr. Wellworth.
“Quite!” responded Margaret, sinking upon a bench as if greatly
exhausted.
“Where have you been?” asked Mrs. Houston sharply.
“Beyond the wa——” Her voice died away in silence; she had fainted.
“It is fatigue, and fright, and want of food,” said old Mrs. Compton,
going to the poor girl, raising her head, and supporting it on her lap.
“And those wretches have not left so much as a drop of wine to revive
her, or even a candle to see her face by,” exclaimed Nellie, who,
whatever her cause of displeasure might be, was always moved by the
sight of physical suffering, with which she could the more readily
sympathize. But Dr. Hartley caused Margaret’s head to be laid down
again, and water to be dashed in her face; and by these simple means her
recovery was soon effected.
As the moon was now rising, the company prepared themselves, and
went down to the beach to get into their boats, which, they thanked
Heaven, had not been carried off by the marauders. The trip back was
decidedly the pleasantest part of the whole expedition. An hour’s row
over the moonlit waters brought them to the Bluff, where Nellie ordered
supper to be immediately prepared for the whole famished party, who
remained her guests that night, and only separated after breakfast the
next morning.
When her last guest had departed, Mrs. Houston entered the private
sitting-room of Margaret Helmstedt, whom she found quietly sitting
beside her workstand, engaged in sewing.
Taking a seat close beside her, Mrs. Houston said:
“Margaret, I have come to request an explanation of your strange
conduct of yesterday, which, let me assure you, has given your friends
great pain, and even revived all the old gossip of which you were the
subject. Margaret, I await your answer.”
She looked up from her work, and fixing her dark eyes full upon the face
of her catechiser, answered firmly though gently:
“Mrs. Houston, I have no explanation to make!”
The little lady flushed and bit her lip.
Margaret continued her needlework.
“Then I am to understand, Miss Helmstedt, that you consider it quite
proper for a young lady to spend two or three hours alone in the woods
with a soldier, who is not of her kindred?”
Margaret might have replied with truth, “No, Mrs. Houston, I do not
consider that at all proper,” but she chose, on the contrary, to remain
silent.
“And you doubtless think, besides, that an affianced bride owes no
consideration to her betrothed husband.”
“So far from that, I feel that she owes the same as if the church and the
state had already blessed and confirmed the engagement,” answered
Margaret.
“Which, in your case, it will never do, unless certain suspicious acts of
yours are satisfactorily explained.”
“Mrs. Houston, I do not understand you,” said Margaret, flushing deeply.
“You do not seem to know that the honor of Ralph is committed to your
keeping!”
“Mrs. Houston, the honor of no human being can possibly go out of his
own keeping, or into that of another.”
The lady still bit her lip in high displeasure; but a glance at the pale,
pensive face, and mourning dress of the orphan girl, a sudden
recollection of her dead mother, a reflection upon the inevitable misery
that any real imprudence might bring upon that mother’s only child,
perhaps modified her resentment, for in a kinder tone she said:
“Margaret Helmstedt, you are on the brink of a frightful precipice!
pause! confide to me the nature of the acquaintance subsisting between
yourself and that strange young man, whom you had evidently known
previous to your meeting yesterday morning. Is he the person to whom
you wrote those mysterious letters? Is he the same whose visit to the
island caused your poor mother such keen distress? Was it the dread of
your continued intimacy, and possible union with such an unadmissible
person, that constrained her to betroth you to Ralph, and consign you to
my care? Speak, Margaret! It may be in my power to help and save
you!”
Margaret trembled through all her frame, but answered firmly:
“Dear Mrs. Houston, I thank you for your kindness, but—I have nothing
to say!”
“Margaret; I adjure you by the memory of your dead mother, speak!
explain!”
She might have replied, “And in the name of my dear, mother, I
repudiate your adjuration!” But fearing to give the slightest clue, or in
the least degree to compromise the memory of her who slept beneath the
old oak beside the waves, she answered:
“Even so adjured, I can only repeat, that I have no explanation to make,
Mrs. Houston.”
“Then I will delay no longer. I will write to Ralph!” exclaimed Mrs.
Houston, indignantly rising and leaving the room.
“Oh! mother! mother!” The wailing voice of the girl was smothered in
her spread hands, and in her thick, disheveled hair as she cast herself
upon the floor.
Now whether Mrs. Houston really put her threat into immediate
execution, is not known. What is certain, the increased coldness of all the
family, even of the kind-hearted, liberal-minded Colonel Houston, so
distressed the spirit of the orphan girl that she seldom sought their
company, and at last met them only at meal times. A fortnight passed
thus, during which the family at the Bluff received no company and paid
no visits. Such long seasons of isolation, even in summer, were not
unusual in that sparsely settled place, where the undertaking of a friendly
visit was really a serious piece of business.
At the end of a fortnight, however, as the family were sitting at dinner,
Mr. Wellworth suddenly and unannounced entered the room. His
countenance betrayed that some unusual circumstance had brought him
out. All arose to receive him. In the midst of the general shaking of
hands, the colonel put the question that all longed to ask.
“What has happened, Mr. Wellworth?”
“Why, sir, a party of British soldiers landed this morning and attacked
the parsonage!”
“Good Heaven! I hope no serious damage has been done?” exclaimed
Colonel Houston, while all listened with intense interest for his answer.
“No, thank the Lord! There was, providentially, a wedding at the church,
a poor man’s, whose friends had all gathered to see him married. We
armed ourselves with what we could catch up, and, being much the
larger party, succeeded in beating off the assailants.”
“I hope there was no bloodshed?” said the kind-hearted Mrs. Compton.
“None on our side to speak of. They left one of their party on the field—
Dodson—Carson—Dawson—yes, that is his name, Dawson—the very
fellow that was with the foragers who broke in upon our picnic party.”
A low half-suppressed cry from Margaret, had greeted the name of the
wounded man. But no one heard it but Mrs. Houston, who resented it by
saying:
“And I hope, Mr. Wellworth, the wretch was dead!”
“He may be so by this time, madam,” replied the minister, in a voice of
grave rebuke; “the poor young man is severely wounded. We have put
him to bed; my daughter Grace and her maid are taking care of him, and
I am off for Dr. Hartley. I called just to beg you to have me put across the
bay.”
“Certainly,” replied Colonel Houston, who immediately despatched his
waiter to give orders for the boat to be made ready. And in fifteen
minutes Mr. Wellworth had departed on his errand.
It was late in the evening when the clergyman returned with the
physician, and both took their way to the parsonage. The next morning,
when Dr. Hartley called at the Bluff on his way home, he reported the
wound of the young ensign not so dangerous as had been represented.
And, in short, in a few days the young man was convalescent. Before his
full recovery, the British fleet had left this portion of the bay, and had
gone down to the mouth of the Patuxent. The attack upon the parsonage
was the last foray made by their troops in that neighborhood.
One morning, about the third week in August, the family at Buzzard’s
Bluff were cast into a state of consternation by an unprecedented event.
Margaret Helmstedt did not appear at the breakfast table. After awaiting
her coming for some time, Mrs. Houston sent to inquire for her, and
learned that she was not to be found. Her maid was also missing. Her
footman was next sought for in vain, and during the search it was
discovered that her little sail, The Pearl Shell had also been taken away.
And while the trouble of the family was still at its height, Mr. Wellworth
was announced, and entered with intelligence that seemed, in Mrs.
Houston’s estimation, to throw light upon the mystery of Margaret’s
flight—namely, that his prisoner, the young British ensign, William
Dawson, had broken his parole and fled.
 CHAPTER XIII.
PERSECUTION.
“They said that guilt a shade had cast
Upon her youthful fame,
And scornful murmurs as she passed
Were mingled with her name.
In truth, it was a painful sight
As former friends went by
To see her trembling lip grow white
Beneath each altered eye.”
—M . H .

To the surprise of all the family at the Bluff, Margaret Helmstedt, the
third morning from her disappearance, returned to her guardian’s house.
Mrs. Houston took upon herself the ungenial task of meeting the
delinquent.
“Well, miss, or rather, I beg your pardon, madam, permit me to
congratulate you! though really I had not supposed you would have so
soon honored my humble house with a visit,” said Nellie, as she met her
at the door.
“Mrs. Houston, I do not understand you: pray, let me pass,” pleaded the
girl, who looked pale, exhausted, and heartbroken.
“Pass, indeed! I would first know who it is that so glibly demands to
pass. No, madam; your right to pass here is forfeited. I only wonder that
you should present yourself. But I suppose that you have come for your
effects; if so, inform me where they shall be sent, and I will have them
forwarded.”
Margaret leaned half fainting against the door frame, but notwithstanding
her physical prostration and mental disturbance, she maintained her
presence of mind.
“Mrs. Houston, you are mistaken. I bear no new name or new relation, as
your words would seem to imply.”
“Then, miss, so much the worse!” exclaimed Nellie, indignantly.
“I do not understand you,” said Margaret, in amazement.
“You do! And I wonder more than ever that you should presume to
present yourself before me!” retorted the lady, raising her voice.
“Mrs. Houston, my mother was your bosom friend. Do not insult her
daughter,” said Margaret, as the blood rushed to her face.
“You have dishonored your mother!” exclaimed Nellie, in a paroxysm of
emotion between anger, awakened memory and grief.
“God knoweth!” replied the maiden, dropping her head and her clasped
hands with a gesture of profound despair.
But the altercation had reached the ears of Colonel Houston, who now
came out, saying:
“Nellie, my dear, this is not the way to meet this exigency. Good-
morning, Miss Helmstedt, pray walk in and be seated. Nellie, she is but a
young thing! If she has committed any grave fault, it carries its own
bitter punishment, God knows. As for us, since she presents herself here
again, we must continue to give her shelter and protection until the
arrival of her father. Nay, Nellie, my dear, I say this must be done
whatever her offences may be.”
“You too! Oh, you too, Colonel Houston!” involuntarily exclaimed
Margaret, clasping her hands.
“Miss Helmstedt, my child, I am not your judge. Make a confidante of
my wife, she loved your mother. Go into your apartment, Margaret.
Attend her, Mrs. Houston.”
“Colonel Houston, I thank you! Mrs. Houston,” she continued, in a
faltering voice; “I returned here only—because—it was my appointed
place of abode—the home selected for me by my parents and—Ralph.”
“Never mind about Ralph now, my child,” said the colonel, in a gentle
tone, which nevertheless cut Margaret to the heart. She meekly bowed
her head and passed on to her own apartments, followed by Mrs.
Houston, who threw herself into a chair and immediately commenced a
close catechism, which was interrupted in the midst by Margaret saying:
“Dear Mrs. Houston, not from any want of respect to you, and not in
defiance of your authority, but from the direst necessity—Oh, what am I
saying!” She stopped suddenly in great anguish and remained silent.
“Margaret Helmstedt, what mean you?” demanded Mrs. Houston,
indignantly.
“Nothing! I mean nothing!”
“You mean to affront me!”
“No, Heaven knows!”
“How can you explain or defend your conduct?”
“In no manner!”
“And you expect us quietly to submit to your contumacy?”
“No! Do your will. I cannot blame you!”
“And Ralph?”
Like the rising of an inward light came a transient glow of faith from her
beautiful face.
“Ralph will think no evil,” she said, softly.
“Yet let me assure you, Miss Helmstedt, that though Ralph Houston’s
chivalric confidence in you may be unshaken; yet his father will never
now consent to the continuance of his engagement with you. You heard
what Colonel Houston said?”
“I heard,” said Margaret, with gentle dignity.
“You heard? what then!”
“Mr. Houston is twenty-eight years of age, and his own master.”
“And what follows, pray, from that?”
“That in this matter he will do as seems to him right!”
“And yourself?”
“I leave my destiny with the fullest faith where God, my parents and his
parents placed it—in the hands of my betrothed husband.”
“And he will abide by his engagement! I know his Quixotic temper! he
will. But, Margaret Helmstedt, delicacy requires of you to retire from the
contract.”
Margaret smiled mournfully, and answered earnestly:
“Madam, God knoweth that there are higher principles of action than
fantastic delicacy. I have no right to break my engagement with Ralph
Houston. I will free him from his bond; but if he holds me to mine, why
so be it; he is wiser than I am, and in the name of the Lord I am his
affianced wife.”
Nellie scarcely knew how to reply to this. She looked straight into the
face of the girl as though she would read and expose her soul.
Superficially that face was pale and still; the lips compressed; the eyes
cast down until the close, long lashes lay penciled on the white cheeks;
but, under all, a repressed glow of devotion, sorrow, firmness, fervor,
made eloquent the beautiful countenance, as she sat there, with her hands
clasped and unconsciously pressed to her bosom. Despite of the strong
circumstantial evidence, Nellie could not look into that face and hold to
her belief the owner’s unworthiness. And the little woman grew more
angry at the inconsistency and contradiction of her own thoughts and
feelings. She ascribed this to Margaret’s skill in influencing her. And out
of her pause and study she broke forth impatiently:
“You are an artful girl, Margaret. I do not know where you get your
duplicity, not from your mother, I know. No matter; thank Heaven, in a
few days your father and Ralph will be here, and my responsibility over.”
And rising, angrily, she left the room, and left Margaret remaining in the
same attitude of superficial calmness and suppressed excitement.
Nellie went to her own especial sitting-room, communicating by short
passages with storeroom, pantry and kitchen, and where she transacted
all her housekeeping business. She found her own maid, the pretty
mulatress, with knitting in hand, as usual, in attendance.
“Go at once, Jessie, and call Miss Helmstedt’s servants here.”
The girl obeyed, and soon returned, accompanied by Hildreth and
Forrest, who made their “reverence,” and stood waiting the lady’s
pleasure.
“I suppose your mistress has given you orders to reply to no questions in
regard to her absence!” asked Nellie, sharply.
“No, madam; Miss Marget did nothing of the sort,” answered Forrest.
“Be careful of your manner, sir.”
Forrest bowed.
“When did she leave the house?”
“Night afore last.”
“With whom?”
“Me an’ Hild’eth, madam.”
“No others?”
“No, madam.”
“Where did she go?”
“Up the river some ways to a landin’ on to de Marylan’ shore as I never
was at afore.”
“And what then?”
“She lef’ me den, Hild’eth an’ me, at a farmhouse where we landed, an’
took a horse an’ rode away. She was gone all day. Last night she come
back, an’ paid de bill, and took boat an’ come straight home.”
“Very well, that is all very well of you, Forrest, so far. You have told the
truth, I suppose; but you have not told the whole truth, I know. Whom
did she meet at that farmhouse? and who rode away with her when she
went?”
“Not a singly soul did she meet, ’cept it was de fam’ly. An’ not a singly
soul did ride with her.”
“You are lying!” exclaimed Nellie, who, in her anger, was very capable
of using strong language to the servants.
“No! ’fore my ’Vine Marster in heaben, I’se tellin’ of you de trufe, Miss
Nellie.”
“You are not! Your mistress has tutored you what to say.”
The old man’s face flushed darkly, as he answered:
“I ax your pardon very humble, Miss Nellie; but Miss Marget couldn’t
tutor no one to no false. An’ on de contrairy wise she said to we den, my
sister an’ me, she said: ‘Forrest and Hildreth, mind when you are
questioned in regard to me tell the truf as jus’ you know it.’ Dat’s all,
Miss Nellie. ’Deed it is, madam. Miss Marget is high beyant tutorin’
anybody to any false.”
“There! you are not requested to indorse Miss Helmstedt. And very
likely she did not take you into her counsels. Now, tell me the name of
the place where you stopped?”
“I doesn’t know it, Miss Nellie, madam.”
“Well, then, the name of the people?”
“Dey call de old gemman Marse John, an’ de ole lady Miss Mary. I didn’
hear no other name.”
“You are deceiving me!”
“No, ’fore my Heabenly Marster, madam.”
“You are!” And here followed an altercation not very creditable to the
dignity of Mrs. Colonel Houston, and which was, besides, quite fruitless,
as the servant could give her no further satisfaction.
All that forenoon Margaret sat in her room, occupying her hands with
some needlework in which her heart took little interest. She dreaded the
dinner hour, in which she should have to face the assembled family. She
would gladly have remained fasting in her room, for, indeed, her appetite
was gone, but she wished to do nothing that could be construed into an
act of resentment. So, when the bell rang, she arose with a sigh, bathed
her face, smoothed her black tresses, added a little lace collar and locket
brooch to her black silk dress, and passed out to the dining-room.
The whole family were already seated at the table; but Colonel Houston,
who never failed in courtesy to the orphan girl, arose, as usual, and
handed her to her seat. Her eyes were cast down, her cheeks were deeply
flushed. She wore, poor girl, what seemed a look of conscious guilt, but
it was the consciousness, not of guilt, but of being thought guilty. She
could scarcely lift her heavy lids to meet and return the cold nods of
recognition with which old Colonel and Mrs. Compton acknowledged
her presence. The fervid devotion that had nerved her heart to meet Mrs.
Houston’s single attack was chilled before this table full of cold faces
and averted eyes. She could not partake of the meal; she could scarcely
sustain herself through the sitting; and at the end she escaped from the
table as from a scene of torture.
“She is suffering very much; I will go and talk to her,” said the really
kind-hearted old Mrs. Compton.
“No, mother, do nothing of the sort. It would be altogether useless. You
might wear out your lungs to no purpose. She is perfectly
contumacious,” said Mrs. Houston.
“Nellie, my dear, she is the child of your best friend.”
“I know it,” exclaimed the little lady, with the tears of grief and rage
rushing to her eyes, “and that is what makes it so difficult to deal with
her; for if she were any other than Marguerite De Lancie’s daughter, I
would turn her out of the house without more ado.”
“My good mother, and my dear wife, listen to me. You are both right, in
a measure. I think with you, Nellie, that since Miss Helmstedt
persistently declines to explain her strange course, self-respect and
dignity should hold us all henceforth silent upon this subject. And with
you, Mrs. Compton, I think that regard to the memory of the mother
should govern our conduct toward the child until we can resign her into
the hands of her father. The trial will be short. We may daily expect his
arrival, and in the meantime we must avoid the obnoxious subject, and
treat the young lady with the courtesy due solely to Marguerite De
Lancie’s daughter.”
While this conversation was on the tapis, the door was thrown open, and
the Rev. Mr. Wellworth announced. This worthy gentleman’s arrival was,
of late, the harbinger of startling news. The family had grown to expect it
on seeing him. His appearance now corroborated their usual
expectations. His manner was hurried, his face flushed, his expression
angry.
“Good-day, friends! Has your fugitive returned?”
“Yes, why?” inquired three or four in a breath, rising from the table.
“Because mine has, that is all!” replied the old man, throwing down his
hat and seating himself unceremoniously. “Yes, Ensign Dawson
presented himself this morning at our house, looking as honest, as frank,
and as innocent as that exemplary young man generally does. I inquired
why he came, and how he dared present himself. He replied that he had
been unavoidably detained, but that as soon as he was at liberty, he had
returned to redeem his parole and save his honor. I told him that ‘naught
was never in danger,’ but requested him to be more explicit. He declined,
saying that he had explained to me that he had been detained, and had in
the first moment of his liberty returned to give himself up, and that was
enough for me to know.”
“But, you asked him about the supposed companion of his flight?”
inquired the indiscreet Nellie.
“Ay, and when I mentioned Margaret Helmstedt’s name, his eyes flashed
fire! he clapped his hand where his sword was not, and looked as if he
would have run me through the body!”
“And gave you no satisfaction, I daresay?”
“None whatever—neither denying nor affirming anything.”
“And what have you done with the villain? I hope you have locked him
up in the cellar!” exclaimed the indignant Nellie.
“Not I, indeed; if I had, the case would have been hopeless.”
“I—I do not understand you,” said Nellie.
The clergyman looked all around the room, and then replied:
“There are no giddy young people here to repeat the story. I will tell you.
Grace is a fool! All girls are, I believe! A scarlet coat with gilt ornaments
inflames their imaginations—a wound melts their hearts! And our
wounded prisoner, between his fine scarlet and gold coat and his broken
rib—(well, you understand me!)—if I had locked him up in the cellar, or
in the best bedroom, my girl would have straightway imagined me a
tyrannical old despot, and my captive would have grown a hero in her
eyes! No, I invited him to dinner, drank his health, played a game of
backgammon with him, and afterward returned him his parole, and
privately signified that he was at liberty to depart. And however my silly
girl feels about it, she cannot say that I persecuted this ‘poor wounded
hussar.’”
“But, the d——l! you do not mean to say that this villain aspired to
Grace also?” exclaimed Colonel Houston, in dismay.
“How can I tell? I do not know that he did aspire to Margaret, or that he
didn’t aspire to Grace! All I know is, that Grace behaved like a fool after
his first departure and worse, if possible, after his second. But Margaret,
you say, has returned?”
“She came back this morning.”
“And what does the unfortunate girl say?”
“Like your prisoner, she refuses to affirm or deny anything.”
“Mr. Wellworth,” said Colonel Houston, “we have decided to speak no
more upon the subject with Miss Helmstedt, but to leave matters as they
are until the return of her father, who is daily expected.”
“I think, under the circumstances, that that is as well,” replied the old
man. And soon after, he concluded his visit and departed.
And as the subject was no more mentioned to Margaret, she remained in
ignorance of the visit of Mr. Wellworth.
And from this time Margaret Helmstedt kept her own apartments, except
when forced to join the family at their meals. And upon these occasions,
the silence of the ladies, and the half compassionate courtesy of Colonel
Houston, wounded her heart more deeply than the most bitter reproaches
could have done.
A week passed in this dreary manner, and still Major Helmstedt and
Captain Houston had not returned, though they were as yet daily
expected.
Margaret, lonely, desolate, craving companionship and sympathy, one
day ordered her carriage and drove up to the parsonage to see Grace
Wellworth. She was shown into the little sitting-room where the parson’s
daughter sat sewing.
Grace arose to meet her friend with a constrained civility that cut
Margaret to the heart. She could not associate her coldness with the
calumnious reports afloat concerning herself, and therefore could not
comprehend it.
But Margaret’s heart yearned toward her friend; she could not bear to be
at variance with her.
“My dearest Grace, what is the matter? have I unconsciously offended
you in any way?” she inquired, gently, as she sat down beside the girl
and laid her hand on her arm.
“Unconsciously! no, I think not! You are doubly a traitor, Margaret
Helmstedt! Traitor to your betrothed and to your friend!” replied Miss
Wellworth, bitterly.
“Grace! this from you!”
“Yes, this from me! of all others from me! The deeply injured have a
right to complain and reproach.”
“Oh, Grace! Grace! my friend!” exclaimed Margaret, wringing her
hands.
But before another word was said, old Mr. Wellworth entered the room.
“Good-afternoon, Miss Helmstedt. Grace, my dear, go down to Dinah’s
quarter and give her her medicine, Miss Helmstedt will excuse you. One
of our women has malaria fever, Miss Helmstedt.”
“Indeed! I am sorry; but I have some skill in nursing: shall I not go with
Grace?” inquired Margaret, as her friend arose to leave the room.
“No, young lady; I wish to have some conversation with you.”
Grace sulkily departed, and Margaret meekly resumed her seat.
“Miss Helmstedt, my poor child, it is a very painful duty that I have now
to perform. Since the decease of my wife, I have to watch with double
vigilance over the welfare of my motherless daughter, and I should feel
indebted to you, Margaret, if you would abstain from visiting Grace until
some questions in regard to your course are satisfactorily answered.”
Margaret’s face grew gray with anguish as she arose to her feet, and
clasping her hands, murmured:
“My God! my God! You do not think I could do anything that should
separate me from the good of my own sex?”
“Margaret, unhappy child, that question is not for me to answer. I dare
not judge you, but leave the matter to God above and to your father on
earth.”
“Farewell, Mr. Wellworth. I know the time will come when your kind
nature will feel sorrow for having stricken a heart already so bruised and
bleeding as this,” she said, laying her hand upon her surcharged bosom;
“but you are not to blame, so God bless you and farewell,” she repeated,
offering her hand.
The clergyman took and pressed it, and the tears sprang to his eyes as he
answered:
“Margaret, the time has come, when I deeply regret the necessity of
giving you pain. Alas! my child, ‘the way of the transgressor is hard.’
May God deliver your soul,” and rising, he attended her to her carriage,
placed her in it, and saying:
“God bless you!” closed the door and retired.
“Oh, mother! mother! Oh, mother! mother! behold the second gift—my
only friendship! They are yours, mother! they are yours! only love me
from heaven! for I love you beyond all on earth,” cried Margaret,
covering her sobbing face, and sinking back in the carriage.
Margaret returned home to her deserted and lonely rooms. No one came
thither now; no one invited her thence. Darker lowered the clouds of fate
over her devoted young head. Another weary week passed, and still the
returning soldiers had not arrived. The Sabbath came—the first Sabbath
in October.
Margaret had always found the sweetest consolation in the ordinances of
religion. This, being the first Sabbath of the month, was sacrament
Sunday. And never since her entrance into the church had Margaret
missed the communion. And now, even in her deep distress, when she so
bitterly needed the consolations of religion, it was with a subdued joy
that she prepared to receive them. It was delightful autumn weather, and
the whole family who were going would fill the family coach—so much
had been intimated to Margaret through her attendants. Therefore she
was obliged to order her own carriage. The lonely ride, under present
circumstances, was far more endurable than the presence of the family
would have been; and solitude and silence afforded her the opportunity
for meditation that the occasion required.
She reached the church and left her carriage before the hour of service.
The fine day had drawn an unusually large congregation together, and
had kept them sauntering and gossiping out in the open air; but Margaret,
as she smiled or nodded to one or another, met only scornful glances or
averted heads. More than shocked, appalled and dismayed by this sort of
reception, she hurried into the church and on to her pew.
Margaret had always, in preference to the Houstons’ pew, occupied her
own mother’s, “to keep it warm,” she had said, in affectionate
explanation, to Mrs. Houston. Generally, Grace or Clare, or both, came
and sat with her to keep her company. But to-day, as yet, neither of her
friends had arrived, and she occupied her pew alone. As hers was one of
those side pews in a line with the pulpit, her position commanded not
only the preacher’s, but the congregation’s view. The preacher had not
come. The congregation in the church was sparse, the large majority
remaining in the yard. Yet, as Margaret’s eyes casually roved over this
thin assembly, she grew paler to notice how heads were put together, and
whispers and sidelong glances were directed to herself. To escape this,
and to find strength and comfort, she opened her pocket Bible and
commenced reading.
Presently, the bell tolled; and the people came pouring in, filling their
pews. About the time that all was quiet, the minister came in, followed at
a little distance by his son and daughter, who passed into the parsonage
pew, while he ascended into the pulpit, offered his preliminary private
prayer, and then opening the book commenced the sublime ritual of
worship.
“The Lord is in His holy temple. Let all the earth keep silence before
Him.”
These words, repeated Sunday after Sunday, never lost their sublime
significance for Margaret. They ever impressed her solemnly, at once
awing and elevating her soul. Now as they fell upon her ear, her sorrows
and humiliations were, for the time, set aside. A hundred eyes might
watch her, a hundred tongues malign her; but she neither heeded, nor
even knew it. She knew she was alone—she could not help knowing this;
Grace had passed her by; Clare had doubtless come, but not to her. She
felt herself abandoned of human kind, but yet not alone, for “God was in
His holy temple.”
The opening exhortation, the hymn, the prayers, and the lessons for the
day were all over, and the congregation knelt for the litany.
“From envy, hatred and malice, and all uncharitableness, good Lord
deliver us.”
These words had always slid easily over the tongue of Margaret, so
foreign had these passions been to her life and experience; but now with
what earnestness of heart they were repeated:
“That it may please Thee to forgive our enemies, persecutors and
slanderers, and to turn their hearts.”
Formal words once, repeated as by rote, now how full of significance to
Margaret. “Oh, Father in Heaven,” she added, “help me to ask this in all
sincerity.”
The litany was over, and the little bustle that ensued, of people rising
from their knees, Margaret’s pew door was opened, a warm hand clasped
hers, and a cordial voice whispered in her ear:
“I am very late to-day, but ‘better late than never,’ even at church.”
And Margaret, looking up, saw the bright face of Clare Hartley before
her.
Poor Margaret, at this unexpected blessing, nearly burst into tears.
“Oh, Clare, have you heard? have you heard?” she eagerly whispered.
There was no time to say more; the services were recommenced, and the
congregation attentive.
When the usual morning exercises were over, a portion of the
congregation retired, while the other remained for the communion. Clare
was not a communicant, but she stayed in the pew to wait for Margaret.
Not with the first circle, nor yet with the second, but meekly with the
third, Margaret approached the Lord’s table. Mr. Wellworth administered
the wine, and one of the deacons the bread. Margaret knelt near the
center of the circle, so that about half the set were served before the
minister came to her. And when he did, instead of putting the blessed
chalice into her hand, he stooped and whispered:
“Miss Helmstedt, I would prefer to talk with you again before
administering the sacrament to you.”
This in face of the whole assembly. This at the altar. Had a thunderbolt
fallen upon her head, she could scarcely have been more heavily
stricken, more overwhelmed and stunned.
This, then, was the third offering; the comfort of the Christian
sacraments was sacrificed. No earthly stay was left her now, but the
regard of her stern father and the love of Ralph. Would they remain to
her? For her father she could not decide. One who knew him best, and
loved him most, had died because she dared not trust him with the secret
of her life. But for Ralph! Ever at the thought of him, through her deeper
distress, the great joy of faith arose, irradiating her soul and beaming
from her countenance.
But now, alas! no thought, no feeling, but a sense of crushing shame
possessed her. How she left that spot she never could have told! The first
fact she knew was that Clare had left her pew to meet and join her;
Clare’s supporting arm was around her waist; Clare’s encouraging voice
was in her ears; Clare took her from the church and placed her in her
carriage; and would have entered and sat beside her, but that Margaret,
recovering her presence of mind, repulsed her, saying:
“No, Clare! no, beloved friend! it is almost well to have suffered so
much to find a friend so loyal and true; but your girlish arm cannot
singly sustain me. And you shall not compromise yourself for me. Leave
me, brave girl; leave me to my fate!”
“Now may the Lord leave me when I do! No, please Heaven, Clare
Hartley stands or falls with her friend!” exclaimed the noble girl, as she
entered and seated herself beside Margaret. “Drive on, Forrest,” she
added, seeing Miss Helmstedt too much preoccupied to remember to
give the order.
“My father was not at church to-day. So if you will send a messenger
with a note from me to Dr. Hartley, I will remain with you, Margaret,
until your father arrives.”
“Oh, Clare! Clare! if you hurt yourself for me, I shall never forgive
myself for allowing you to come.”
“As if you could keep me away.”
“Clare, do you know what they say of me?”
Clare shook her head, frowned, beat an impatient tattoo with her feet
upon the mat, and answered:
“Know it! No; I do not! Do you suppose that I sit still and listen to any
one slandering you? Do you imagine that any one would dare to slander
you in my presence? I tell you, Margaret, that I should take the
responsibility of expelling man or woman from my father’s house who
should dare to breathe a word against you.”
“Oh, Clare! the circumstantial evidence against me is overwhelming!”
“What is circumstantial evidence, however strong, against your whole
good and beautiful life?”
“You would never believe ill of me.”
“Margaret—barring original sin, which I am required to believe in—I
think I have a pure heart, a clear head, and strong eyes. I do not find so
much evil in my own soul, as to be obliged to impute a part of it to
another. I never confuse probabilities; and, lastly, I can tell an Agnes
from a Calista at sight.”
By this time the rapid drive had brought them home. Clare scribbled a
hasty note, which Forrest conveyed to her father.
The Comptons and the Houstons were all communicants, and did not
leave the church until all the services were over. They had been bitterly
galled and humiliated by the repulse that Margaret Helmstedt, a member
of their family, had received. On their way home, they discussed the
propriety of immediately sending her off, with her servants, to
Helmstedt’s Island.
“Her father does not come; her conduct grows worse and worse; she has
certainly forfeited all claims to our protection, and she compromises us
every day,” urged Nellie.
“I am not sure but that the isle would be the best and most secure retreat
for her until the coming of her father; the servants there are faithful and
reliable, and the place is not so very accessible to interlopers, now that
the British have retired,” said old Mrs. Compton.
Such being the opinion of the ladies of the family, upon a case
immediately within their own province, Colonel Houston could say but
little.
“Dear mother and fair wife, the matter rests with you at last; but for
myself, I prefer that the girl should remain under our protection until the
arrival of her father. I would place her nowhere, except in Major
Helmstedt’s own hands.”
The ladies, however, decided that Margaret Helmstedt should, the next
morning, be sent off to the isle. And the colonel reluctantly acquiesced.
As for old Colonel Compton, from first to last he had not interfered, or
even commented, except by a groan or a sigh.
Upon arriving at home, they were astonished to find Clare Hartley with
Margaret. And when they were told that Forrest had been dispatched to
Plover’s Point, with a note from Clare to inform her father of her
whereabouts, Nellie prophesied that the messenger would bring back
orders for Clare to return immediately. And she decided to say nothing to
Margaret about the approaching exodus until after Clare’s departure.
Mrs. Houston’s prediction was verified. Forrest returned about sunset
with a note from Dr. Hartley to his daughter, expressing surprise that she
should have made this visit without consulting him, and commanding
her, as it was too late for her to cross the bay that evening, to return,
without fail, early the next morning.
Margaret gazed anxiously at Clare while the latter read her note.
“Well, Clare! well?” she asked, eagerly, as her friend folded the paper.
“Well, dear, as I left home without settling up some matters, I must run
back for a few hours to-morrow morning; but I will be sure to come back
and redeem my pledge of remaining near you until your father’s arrival,
dear Margaret; for every minute I see more clearly that you need some
faithful friend at your side,” replied Clare, who felt confident of being
able to persuade her father to permit her return.
Clare slept with Margaret in her arms that night. And early the next
morning—very early, to deprecate her father’s displeasure, she entered
Margaret’s little Pearl Shell, and was taken by Forrest across the bay and
up the river to Plover’s Point.
She had scarcely disappeared from the house, before Mrs. Houston
entered Miss Helmstedt’s room.
Margaret was seated in her low sewing-chair with her elbow leaning on
the little workstand beside her, her pale forehead bowed upon her open
palm, and a small piece of needlework held laxly in the other hand lying
idly upon her lap. Her eyes were hollow, her eyelashes drooping until
they overshadowed cheeks that wore the extreme pallor of illness. Her
whole aspect was one of mute despair.
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