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

in the pretty bark raised a feeble "huzzah!" in return, which however,

sank into hopeless silence ere it was half expressed; and they melted

from the straining eyes which followed them, and went their way.

The boatman rowed into a wharf of the deserted town, secured his craft,

and lifted Margaret out.

"D'ye see that great house among them trees?" he asked, pointing to a

large mansion on the brow of the hill, perhaps a quarter of a mile

distant.

"Them's the officers' quarters, miss, and we'll go there first. There

were a score or more of sick soldiers there for their health. I came

here myself after the battle, where they most killed the colonel."

"Were you with the colonel the night he was stabbed?" asked Davenport.

"Yes, sir. I never left him when I could manage to be with him. Maybe

you've heard of Reed, who served the colonel for a while?"

"Yes," sighed Margaret, "he mentioned you in a letter to Dr. Gay.

Hasten, kind friend, and bring us to him."

They sped through the deserted streets, where every window was barred

and every door jealously locked, and a few famished dogs broke the

silence by long, wild, and ominous howls.

A cart, covered with a white canvas cloth, rumbled heavily by, and then

Reed took the lady's hand, and dragged her to the opposite pavement,

whispering:

"Muffle your face in your handkerchief, miss, for Heaven's sake!"

And with bated breath they let the dead cart rumble by with its ghastly

burden.

A funeral emerged from a court hard by--a funeral which was composed of

the clergyman, an old man weeping over his dead, and tottering feebly

after, and four negroes carrying the bier. They flitted by like

phantoms, casting apathetic glances after the old man, the boatman, and

the young lady who were mounting the hill to that lonely house on its

brow.

They entered the grove, and with one accord paused and gazed toward the

house, and listened, and looked in each others faces for encouragement.

The door was ajar, the windows all open, and the fair white curtains,

fluttering low adown among the climbing grapes and budding roses, were

limp and yellow with nights of dew and days of rust, but not a living

face looked out through the silent panes, not a sound broke the deep and

breathless silence.

These men were brave men, but which of them would venture within these

desolate walls where death triumphant reigned.

Suddenly Margaret slipped her hand from the lawyer's clasp, and fled

like a spirit into the silent house--fear, hope, and love giving her the

courage which these others could not summon.

She traversed the passages, where all was wild confusion, she looked

into every room, but the drivers of the dead carts had been there before

her--each bed was vacant, each chamber that used to echo to the careless

jests of the soldiers was dull and lifeless as they.

She fled up the staircase, she opened another chamber-door--it was the

last.

It was a wide, dim chamber, whose close-drawn curtains banished all the

light, and between her and the window loomed a great white object--a bed

with the hangings drawn close about it.

No breath, no sound--oh, Heaven! is he not here? Is he dead and gone

forever?

A long sigh breaks the blank silence: a moan steals helplessly from the

great white mausoleum which entombs the man.

She glides forward and draws back the shroud-like folds from window,

then from bed, and the yellow light falls upon a flushed and

foam-flecked face, and upon two toiling, twitching hands.

And, blessed be Heaven! this is surely St. Udo Brand, and there is life

in him yet!

The lawyer enters and tries to drag her back, and fills the room with

his beseeching clamor; but she breaks wildly from him, and returns to

St. Udo Brand.

And, Heaven be praised! she thinks that she is in time, and that this

dear soul may yet be held on earth.

So she lifts the hot head to her arm, and lays her loving hand upon the

heart that is almost still, and she kisses tenderly the shrunken

forehead where death fain would print his seal.

And she whispers from her noble heart:

"Oh, God! give me back his life! oh, God! give me back his life!"

And the old lawyer weeps, and repeats after her the half-articulate

prayer.

One glance of anguish she casts at her poor old friend, and past him, up

into Heaven, it says:

"Man cannot help us, but God will!" and then she turns again to the

beloved one.

He has wronged her, hated her, maligned her; no single throb has his

hushed heart ever beat for her; but she has forgiven him long ago, if

she has anything to forgive. She is warming that chilling heart against

her own; she is watching that disfigured face which can never be

disfigured to her; she loves him faithfully.

When Reed comes back from his search for a doctor, they find the old

lawyer sitting by the window, with his wet eyes covered by his hands,

and the woman kneeling by the bed, with the sick man's head on her

breast.

"You must leave this place," says the doctor, in affright.

"No, I will nurse him best," she smiles.

So she has her way, good, faithful Margaret.