One evening, like the night described in the beginning of this chapter (for stormy nights were now frequent), when the wind howled around the island and the waves lashed its shores, Marguerite reclined upon the semi-circular sofa within the recess of the bay window, and looked out upon the night as she had often looked before. No light gleamed from the window where the lady sat alone, gazing out upon the dark and angry waste of waters; that stormy scene without was in unison with the fierce, tempestuous emotions within her own heart--that friendly veil of darkness was a rest to her, who, weary of her ill-worn mask of smiles, would lay it aside for a while. Twice had Forrest entered to bring lights, and twice had been directed to withdraw, the last dismissal being accompanied with an injunction not to come again until he should hear the bell. And so Marguerite sat alone in darkness, her eyes and her soul roving out into the wild night over the troubled bosom of the ever-complaining sea. She sat until the sound of a boat pushed up upon the sand, accompanied by the hearty tones and outspringing steps of the oarsmen, and followed by one resonant, commanding voice, and firm, authoritative tread, caused her heart to leap, her cheek to flush, her eye to glow and her whole dark countenance to light up as she recognized the approach of her husband. She sprang up and rang. “Lamps and wood, Forrest,” she said. But before the servant could obey the order, Philip Helmstedt’s eager step crossed the threshold, and the next instant his arms were around her and her head on his bosom. They had been separated only for a day, and yet, notwithstanding all that had passed and all that yet remained unexplained between them, theirs was a lover’s meeting. Is any one surprised at this, or inclined to take it as a sign of returning confidence and harmony, and a prognostic of future happiness to this pair? Let them not be deceived! It was but the warmth of a passion more uncertain than the sunshine of an April day. “Sitting in darkness again, my own Marguerite? Why do you do so?” said Philip, with tender reproach. “Why should I not?” returned Marguerite, smilingly. “Because it will make you melancholy, this bleak and dreary scene.” “No, indeed, it will not. It is a grand scene. Come, look out and see.” “Thank you, love; I have had enough of it for one evening; and I rather wonder at your taste for it.” “Ah! it suits me--it suits me, this savage coast and weather! Rave on, winds! thunder on, sea! my heart beats time to the fierce music of your voices. ‘Deep calleth unto deep’--deep soul to deep sea!” “Marguerite!” “Well?” “What is the matter with you?” “Nothing: only I like this howling chaos of wind and water!” “You are in one of your dark moods.” “Could I be bright and you away?” “Flatterer! I am here now. And here are the lights. And now I have a letter for you.” “A letter! Oh! give it quickly,” cried Marguerite, thrown off her guard.