Democratic Sentinel, Volume 8, Number 37, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 October 1884 — MARGARET. [ARTICLE]

MARGARET.

BY LILY M. CUBBY.

He might have been very comfortable, sitting there by the window; the gunlightbad slipped away, leaving only a mild reflection, and the sea breeze eame swelling up with a pleasant, salty odor. He might have bden very comfortable but for one thing, a twingegiving conscience. The afternoon light fired the great diamond of his fingerring, and so diverted his thoughts for a moment; then they returned to the subject of his uneasiness. If only he had not come to this place! And yet how pleasant it had been, here on the peaceful New England coast, in the old sea-captain’s house. How thoroughly he had enjoyed the bay, the sailing, the fishing with line and reel! How many splendid bluefish he had landed! Margaret, too—ah! Margaret! His conscience was at him again. He stood up restlessly and looked at himself in the glass. He was growing stronger every day; the long illness, from which he had come here to recuperate, was a shadow of the past. His friends, which was to say his mother and Elinor, would be delighted at the transformation. It was Elinor’s last letter that had brought him to his senses, reminded him of his obligations, namely to get away from this place at once and join his mother and his betrothed at a fashionable summer resort. He took his straw hat and went down into the piazza. Margaret was sitting there, slim and pretty in her white afternoon dress. It seemed to him she flushed at his approach; and he felt still guiltier. He sat down on the steps at her feet, and sighed faintly. She stopped the motion of her rock-ing-choir and asked: “What’s the matter ?” "“Nothing; only I feel sad at going •way.” “Going away ?” she repeated slowly. “Are you going away sooner than—than you thought?” “I’m afraid I shall have to. I’ve received a letter—l’ve heard from my another, and really think I must go tomorrow. ” Margaret began to rock again, not speaking for some moments. Then she said quietly: “We shall miss you very much another and L” “You have both been very good to me.” “Perhaps we shall hear from you sometimes,” she suggested. “You won’t forget us, quite.” There was always a plaintive note in her voice, a voice that one might more easily be enamored of than of its posessor. For she was not a beauty, this Margaret. She was too brown, too •gile, too sparrow-like. “Indeed, I shall never forget you,” he answered, soberly. “I have written much about you to my mother and Miss Hastings.” “Miss Hastings ?” “Yes.” For the moment he fairly hated himself; but he was determined •to brave it out. “Miss Elinor Hastings. ’We are to be married in the autumn. ” Then neither spoke. Glancing up into her face presently, he found it passive, a trifle pale, perhaps, besides. "Maybe it was only his fancy; maybe <ahe did not care for him. He hoped so. Then he rose uneasily. “I am going to row out to the ‘Ledge,’ ” he said. But Margaret did not offer to accompany him. And so he turned away and left her there. “It is done,” he said to himself. ■“Well, I hope she doesn’t mind. Poor .little girl! How fond one might be of .her! One thing, I’ll never board again ■with a widow and a young lady daugh- • -ter. I only hope she won’t think me itoo contemptible. I haven’t meant to -flirt—onlv a few soft speeches, a pressure of the hand at times—wrong, of course. ”

The tide was out and the skiff clung to the sand. He pushed off slowly •into deeper water. He had been out to the “Ledge” a number of times ere this, but always Margaret went with him to remind him when they must leave the rocks. Today he must remember for . himself; there was no plaintive voice to warn him: “The rocks are covered at high 'Water.” Margaret sat looking after him as he ■went down the road. “The end of it all,” she said to herself in a hopeless way. “The end of it •111” And when he was out of sight, she went into the house and up to her own chamber, Where she threw herself down by the bed and buried her face in hands. She did not sob or shed a tear; she •only knelt there and suffered. “I might have known!” she moaned. •I might have known! What am I that Jie should care for me? Oh, Richard, Bichard!” Meanwhile Richard Lester found it cather pleasant out upon the “Ledge. ” tMow, that the “murder was out,” he could breathe more easily. He fastened the rope of his boat around a rock, •nd went up higher. He sat down where the sun had dried away the •dampness, and contemplated. He pre- [ «Qined he should be happy as Elinor’s : husband. Elinot was consideredWandaome;.she was wealthy, refined, accom>li*hed; she dressed in excellent taste

and moved in the best society. His motMr worshiped her. She, Elinor, was twenty-three years old; six years his junior. Poor little Margaret could not be over eighteen, he supposed. Poor little brown bird I Then his thoughts took a wider range. He forgot where he was; he grew utterly oblivious to the fading sunlight or the water rising slowly about the rocks. The lapping, limpid, lingering water, musical and incessant. There was no Margaret present to remind him. “ The rocks are covered at high water. ” Margaret had been kneeling by her bed for a long, long time—Lours, perhaps—when she heard her mother calling. “Coming directly,” she answered, and went down to the sitting-room. There were no tear-marks on her face; only a new pallor. “Where is Mr. Lester, Margaret?” “I don’t know, mother. Is it near supper-time?” “Yes; it is getting late. I thought surely you would know where he was. ” The words hurt Margaret, innocently as they had been spoken; but she only replied quietly: “He went away a long while ago. He was going out to the ‘ Ledge.’” “Then he has returned before this; the tide is coming in.” Margaret felt a sudden, inexplicable fear. She could not tell why she should feel thus. She turned and went out of the house, and off in the direction of the beach. Perhaps it was habit; she had grown accustomed to think of him as in need of looking after. Richard Lester had finally come to his senses. He remembered now that the tide was coming in, and that he must return. Rowing would be eagy and delightful. He arose, rubbed Ins eyes, and made his way down to the boat. But, to his unspeakable astonishment and discomfiture, the boat was gone.

“Gone!” he said to himself, in a faint,’confused tone. “W’hat shall I do?” He looked off shoreward, and fancied he saw his empty skiff tossing, drifting lightly on the waters that had wooed it. He kept on looking until his eyes were dim. There was no one to see or hear him. And still the water rising about the rocks. He had not tried to sWim since his illness. It was a long distance, and he had never been a very strong swimmer. He still looked landward, but no help came. And still the water rose about the rocks! He buried his face in his hands. “A punishment!” he groaned. “A just punishment for my actions!” Then he wished that he could only see Margaret once more and ask her to forgive him. Perhaps she had cared; perhaps she would be sorry. He would never see ler again, or any other living creature. For he could never reach the land. He would wait until the last moment, then attempt to swim it. But he had no uope. It was getting on toward dusk and the water still rose, and would continue to rise until the rocks were covered. He tried to think, to be calm; he wondered if Elinor would grieve terribly. His mother—something choked him as he thought of his mother. “O, heaven! I must reach land!” he cried, with a sob. Then—then, what was that? The sound of oars ? He turned swiftly, uncovering his face. A boat! Thank God! A boat was creeping steadily against the tide, and something white glimmered through the twilight. And all at once he felt that it must be she. “Margaret!” he cried out her name, as if it were his dearest hope. And then her clear, sweet voice rang back to him. “Yes, it’s I. I must pull carefully just here”. And slowly she drew close to the “ledge.” “Now,” she said. And he dropped lightly into the boat. “You have saved me,” he said, and his voice shook perceptibly. “You could not have managed to swim it,” she answered. “I suppose not. But I should have tried.” t She shivered. “Thank heaven, I remembered where you were, ” she said. He took the oars from her hands. “1 will pull ashore,” he said.

In silence she gave him her seat and took the tiller rope. She was thankful for the growing dusk which hid her pallor. “Margaret, I owe you my lite.” She was looking out as if for the point at which to steer the boat. “I am glad I knew,” she said. He waited a little; then he spoke awkwardly: “What can I do to repay you ?” “O, hush,” she cried, half impatiently. “It was nothing!” “It was life or death to me,” he said in a serious voice. “I meant my coming out was nothing,” she explained in quick confusion. “I thought of you,” he went on, “and of my mother.” " ’■ “And of Miss Hastings,” she suggested, without sign of emotion. “My mother would have missed me the most,” he returned. “Elinor would have cared, I suppose; but she is still young, and young people recover from such things.” “Do they ?” asked Margaret, sharply. “I do not think I could, if—if any one I cared for were lost. ” She puzzled him now. Perhaps he had been utterly mistaken, perhaps she had a lover whom she loved. “There is some one, then, that you care for, dear child,” he said softly. She started. “Yes,” she said, as if she defied him. Her answer gave him a vast relief. “I am so glad,” he said, earnestly. “I would like to plan the happiest future for you. I suppose I shall be happy myself. My mother is well suited, and Miss Hastings is very amiable.” They were getting close to the landing, and Margaret Seemed wholly occupied with the boat. He rested his oars and spoke with a sudden impulse: “Tell me, are you happy in this love of yours?” “Very happy!” she cried, laughing

wildly. “I would not change places with any one on earth!” “I am so glad,” he said once more. “I—l was afraid—you won’t be angry, Margaret? I want to tell you the truth, I think so much of you, dear child. I was afraid you might think I was trying to—to trifle with you myself. God knows I had no thought of it. You won’t be angry, Margaret?” “No,” she said, softly. “I am not angry. I never thought of you as — a trifler.” “And we shall always be friends?” “Always!” The old pathetic ring was in her voice. They landed then and walked slowly homeward. At the gate he paused, and with a sudden motion, drew from his finger the diamond that had sparkled there. “Wear this for my sake?” he cried, “dear Margaret.” She snatched her hand away with a sharp cry: “No, O no! Not that!” But he, insisting, slipped it on. Then she broke away from him and ran in, up to her own room. “He does not dream!” she sobbed, flinging herself down as once before that day. “Thank heaven, he does not dream! And I love him. O, I love him! But he will be happy; that is the most I care. O yes, he will be happy!” *