Faithful Margaret: A Novel
Madame played some air, fairy nonsense, that her little hands might
glamour the rapt chevalier in their bird-like glancings here and there;
and then, with a defiant glance over her shoulder at cold Margaret
Walsingham, she stole into a theme with sentiment, with soul in every
chord.
Ah, those strains of tender sadness! how they rose and fell in
persistent plaint! how they mourned, and whispered of hope, mourned
again in homeless accents! Then these waves of stronger passion--how
they surged from grief to fury! how they gushed from beneath the
glancing hands in menacing strains and conquering thunder!
It was as if a Frederic Chopin sat before the keys, instead of that
small Circe.
Then these songs, so wild, so caroling, so purely joyous--could Sappho
sing more burningly of happiness and love?
Margaret forgot her chill disdain of the perverted nature, forgot her
own heart-trouble, even forgot St. Udo Brand in her trance of
ravishment; and unconscious that she did so, rose and stood beside the
wondrous St. Cecilia.
Madame raised her mock-simple eyes--they were not disappointed--Margaret
was bending over her with a fascinated face, and the chevalier was
wrapped in his study of the fair musician.
"Thanks for that act of homage," said Madame Hesslein, gravely, to
Margaret; then dropping her tones, and rising, "I thought I could make
you like me. I came here, to this hotel, to make you like me, because I
had something pleasant to tell you; and I never do a favor for any one
who presumes to criticise me unfavorable. Griselda, patient soul, come
to my room, and we shall talk."
She drew the astonished Margaret's hand within her arm, gave a majestic
bow to the flushed chevalier, and led the unresisting girl out of the
drawing-room to her own luxurious apartments.
"Now, my good lady," observed Madame Hesslein, airily. "I have conceived
something like appreciation of your humdrum goodness, and since I see a
good deal of intellect at the back of it, I am disposed to do you a good
turn, hoping that, charity-like, it may cover a multitude of my sins."
"What is it that you have to communicate?" asked Margaret, earnestly.
"How can it be that you, a stranger have become acquainted with my
concerns?"
"Pshaw! English exclusiveness again!" mocked madame. "But I do know
somewhat of your affairs, gentle Griselda. For instance, I hear that you
are searching for Colonel Brand, that you may make over your fortune to
him. Margaret Walsingham, how can you be so foolish?"
"Madame, I only do my duty."
"Ugh! You horrify me with your crucifixion of the flesh, you devotee of
Duty."
"Colonel Brand is worth sacrificing life itself for," said Margaret,
with glowing eyes.
Madame watched her with sudden interest.
"Ah! I thought so," murmured she, sadly; "You care for this man--you
love him."
"Madame!" deprecated timid Margaret, coldly.
"Yes, I see it. Poor creature, you should not love anything, do you know
that, said madame, pityingly.
"You are right," replied Margaret, with a meek, quiet despair. "My plain
face and manner will never win me love."
Madame Hesslein looked at her with a curious smile--at the spiritual
face, the soulful eyes, the tall, magnificent figure--and she patted
Margaret's hand with dainty tenderness.
"Your humility is very prettily done," said she, "and would really look
well on myself, for I have none of it. But you mistake me; I meant that
since love is eternally being met with treachery, why do you waste it,
and especially upon such a poor _parti_ as a colonel? Heavens! she
troubles her digestion about a colonel! Why are you not more ambitious?
If I were you, I wouldn't look below a major-general. I don't intend to
give myself to any man who can't give me a lift in life. I am going to
marry Vice-Admiral Oldright, who followed me to the Bermudas. I have
worked hard to entrap him, and I have succeeded, I crossed the Atlantic
five times for his sake, and I mean to get him; because when he is an
admiral, and I am his wife, I shall take precedence of all other women
in my circle."
"Ambition is not worth a true woman's pursuit," said Margaret.
"Well said, St. Griselda--such an apothegm deserves applause. Ah, well,
Miss Walsingham, perhaps you are right, but you are not wise. You will
stick to your colonel in spite of my advice? You will give him your
fortune, and live on your wits in future? Poor creature! However I will
not reproach you; for, as St. Chrysostom wrote to Pentadia, 'I know your
great and lofty soul, which can sail, as with a fair wind through many
tempests, and in the midst of the waves enjoy a white calm.' You will
depart on your Utopian enterprise, contented with the white calm of an
approving conscience in the midst of the waves of starvation. Men are
such beasts, they prefer the bold and grasping Kestral like myself to
rewarding the fidelity of a ring-dove like Miss Walsingham."
Margaret was gazing breathlessly in the brilliant, heartless woman's
face, and her voice faltered, as she asked:
"Can you send me on that enterprise? Do you bring me news of Colonel
Brand?"
And madame, with a glance of pity in the passionate eyes, replied:
"Yes, I can. When at Key West, a month ago, I saw Colonel Brand driving
out with a friend. Does that please you?"
Margaret's face was quivering with joy--with a noble triumph; she turned
it from those scoffing eyes, and whispered a quiet "Thank God!"
CHAPTER XXIX.
FOUND AT LAST.
Three days afterward a steamer was entering the harbor of Key West.
Margaret Walsingham, Madame Hesslein, Mr. Davenport, and the Chevalier
de Calembours stood on deck, watching the fair white city grow larger,
and breathing the lambent air, which brought upon its wings the perfume
of wild roses, orange-trees, and tropic herbs, although the month was
yet February.
Madame Hesslein had come, she told Margaret, to meet her husband at Key
West; but if that were so, she chose a singular method to prepare her
mind for the gentle thrill of matrimony.
She was drawing the meshes of her secret net slowly round the unwary
chevalier, even as yon secret reef enclasped the beautiful isles of
summer, and lay in wait to wreck the unsuspicious ship that might carry
future cheer to the prisoner.
Her witchery, her diablerie was maddening the little man; his customary
caution had forsaken him, his intuitive presence of danger was
unheeded--he loved the splendid siren.
The steamer anchored mid-stream, and waited for the usual fleet of
little boats to dart out from the city and to carry the passengers
ashore--not a sign of life appeared.
At last a signal-gun was fired in answer to their salute; and what was
that tiny, fluttering beacon which mounted to a tall flagstaff in the
dock-yard?
The captain gazing through his glass, grew suddenly silent; his face
fell. The passengers, curiously watching the limp, yellow rag, wondered
much what it might presage.
Presently tiny boat shot out from the cedar-fringed shore, with one man
at the oars--a painted toy which moved upon the glassy water like a tiny
bird and the man climbed aboard.
He was tall, and lank, and yellow-faced; his limbs trembled as he
followed the captain to the cabin, and he shunned the passengers with
half-fearful looks when they would have questioned him.
In three minutes the captain and the stranger emerged from the cabin,
and the passengers pressed forward to hear what catastrophe had befallen
the city.
"We must just right-about face, and get back to New York," said the
captain, ominously. "Not a soul can go ashore."
"What's up?" asked the gentlemen.
"Is it the _plague_?" whispered the ladies.
"Yellow fever," said the captain; "the whole city is raging, half the
people are escaped to the main land, and the other half are dying."
Madame Hesslein's small, eager face grew pale; the chevalier burst into
a heartfelt imprecation, and Mr. Davenport clutched the white Margaret's
hand with a shocked, "Heaven preserve us!"
But she tore her hand away, and ran to the gaunt stranger, who had
brought such dire news.
"I am going ashore with you," she said.
He looked at her wild face, and shrank from her touch; he hurried to the
stern to gain the boat.
"Don't come nigh," whispered he. "I've had it."
But she seized his arm and clung to him; she would not let him go.
Murmurs rose from her fellow-passengers; Mr. Davenport's eyes threatened
to start from their sockets; but the captain interfered.
"No soul can leave the steamer," said he, resolutely.
"I must go!" returned Margaret, in a frantic voice.
"Miss Walsingham, you can't go," said the captain, sternly. "You would
only fall a victim; and mind, I couldn't take you aboard again to carry
the infection here."
"I won't come back!" she cried; "but I must go."
"Miss Margaret, I beg of you not to throw your precious life away,"
entreated Mr. Davenport next. "You can't find the colonel just now; most
likely he's gone, poor fellow."
"God forbid!" ejaculated she, raising her passionate eyes to heaven.
"Surely I am not so wretched as that. Ah, sir, don't listen to them,"
she implored the man. "I will give you any money to put me ashore. There
is a gentleman in Key West who may be dying for help, and he is a
stranger there."
"Did you ever hear of a fellow called Brand being here?" demanded the
lawyer, suspiciously.
"Oh, yes," smiled the man. "I know him well."
"Is he here?" whispered Margaret, looking piteously up at him.
"Yes, he is, at least he was three days ago, for he was nursing me, and
left me last Tuesday. I am just getting about again, and haven't been in
the town yet."
"There, do you hear that?" cried Margaret, turning to the lawyer with a
wild smile. "Kind as ever, noble as ever. Surely you believe now that we
have found him?"
"Yes," groaned Mr. Davenport; "but three days make a difference. He may
be dead now."
"I will find him, and see," said Margaret.
"The woman's mad," blustered the captain, and left her to her fate.
"Nobody escapes, Miss," said the stranger, warningly.
She never listened. She wrapped her cloak about her, and brought her
travelling-bag from her saloon.
"Good-by, Madame Hesslein."
She held out her steady hand, the calm light of heroism in her eyes; and
madame, trembling and beseeching, saw that there was no remedy, and wept
a last "Farewell, Miss Walsingham."
She held out her hand to the little chevalier, who cast an agitated
glance from mademoiselle to madame, and swore that it tore his
heart-strings to part from either, but that vile fortune had decreed
that he was not to see "the hand clasp" and the "happy hour," and kissed
her hands in adieu.
And then she offered her cold hand to Davenport, who kept it close, and
walked with her to where the little boat lay.
"You must not blame me if I never return," said she, eagerly, as he bent
to button her cloak for her. "You know that it is my place to care for
St. Udo for his grandmother's sake. You will wait in New York for news
of me, won't you?"
Mr. Davenport took her in his arms and handed her into the boat, and
swung himself after her.
"Think I'd send you off alone, Miss Margaret?" asked he, with glistening
eyes. "By gad, you must think meanly of me."
For the first time her resolution was shaken; she looked at him
doubtfully.
"Go back! go back!" she cried, beseechingly. "You must not peril your
life for ours."
The old man shook his head and sat down in the thwarts, and the boatman
rowed away.
So they went to meet the peril which was worse than the battle-field;
and the crew on the deck of the steamer gave them a cheer of admiration;
and the passengers waved them a dubious "God-speed;" and the men sitting