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Pholograiiiic

Sciences
Corporation

33 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, H.Y. MSSO

(716)S73-4S03

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The
to til

The
post
of tl
film!

Orig
begi
the I
sion
otha
first
sion
or ill

The
shall
TINI
whii

Map
difffl
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begi
righi
requ
metl

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32X

CORD AND CREESE

H Vlovel

JAMES'^^DE MILLE^

ADTHOR OP
"THB DODOB club" "cRTPTOGRAM" "a castle in SPAIN" KIO.

fl/<

127682

Lli

NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS

P^PE«TY OF THE LIBRARJ^

L/r^rHtRSITY OF WATtJ^LOQ

BRS

■ CHAF

•

1 '

. THE

1 "

. A LI

III,

. A M

IV,

. SINK

, THE

VI,

. THE

SIl

VII.

MAN

VIII,

, THE

IX.

THE

BEAl

XI.

THE

XII.

THE

XIII.

THE

KIV,

TWO

XV.

JOUR

XVI.

HUSE

XVII.

THE

FOl

XVIII.

ENQl

XIX.

THE

XX.

FRAN

XXI.

THE

XXII.

THE

XXIII.

THE

XXIV,

BEAT

XXV.

THE

XXVI.

CLASl

XXVII.

JOUR

XXVIII.

THIS

XXIX.

BEAT]

XXX.

SMITl

CONTENTS.

CHAP. PAGE

L THE LETTER FROM BEYOND THE

SEA I

n. A LIFE TRAGEDY 8

HL A MAN OVERBOARD . . . . I4

IV. SINKING IN DEEP WATERS . . 21

V. THE MYSTERY OF COFFIN ISLAND 25
VI. THE DWELLER IN THE SUNKEN

SHIP 32

VII. MANUSCRIPT FOUND IN A BOTTLE 37

VIII. THE SIGNAL OF FIRE ... 44

IX. THE MALAY PIRATE .... 53

X. BEATRICE 60

XI. THE IMPROVISATORE .... 66

XII. THE STRUGGLE FOR LIFE . . 71

XIII. THE BADINAGE OF OLD FRIENDS 8 1

KIV, TWO LETTERS 87

XV. JOURNAL OF PAOLO LANGHETTI gi

XVI. HUSBAND AND WIFE . . . . lOI
XVII. THE SHADOW OF THE AFRICAN

FOREST 108

XVIII. ENQUIRIES 115

XIX. THE DEAD ALIVE 12$

XX. FRANK'S STORY 129

XXI. THE DIVING BUSINESS . . . I34

XXII. THE ISLET OF SANTA CRUZ . 138

XXHI. THE OCEAN DEPTHS . . . . I4I

XXIV. BEATRICE'S JOURNAL . . . . I52

XXV. THE BYZANTINE HVMNISTS . . 163

XXVI. CLASPED HANDS 170

XXVII. JOURNAL OF PAOLO LANGHETTI 1 73

XXVIII. THIS MUST END 182

XXIX. BEATRICE'S JOURNAL . . . 184

XXX. SMITHERS & CO 187

CHAP.

XXXI.

XXXII.
XXXIII.
XXXIV.

XXXV.
XXXVI.

XXXVII.

XXXVIII.

XXXIX.

XL.

XLI.

XLII.
XLIIi.
XLIV.

XLV.

XLVI.
XLVII.

.. rviii.

Xi IX.

LI.

Lli.

LIII.

LIV.

LV.

LVI.

LV.I.

LV.II.

LIX.

PAGB

196

199

, 204

, 208

. 211

CON-

LX.

PAOLO LANGHETTI .

FLIGHT

"PICKED UP ADRIFT"

ON THE TRACK . .

BEATRICE'S RECOVERY

THE AFFAIRS OF SMITHERS &

THE "PROMETHEUS
THE SECRET . .
THE CAB . . .
DISCOVERIES . .
THEY MEET AGAIN
LANGHETTI'S ATTEMPT
THE STRANGER . .
THE stranger's STORY

Beatrice's journal

CLUDED . , .
THE LAST ESCAPE
ROUSED AT LAST
WHO IS HE? . .
THE RUN ON THE BANK
THE BANK DIRECTORS
A STRUGGLE . . .
FACE TO FACE . .
THE COTTAGE . .
THE WORM TURNS .
ON THE ROAD . .
FATHER AND SON .
MRS. COMPTON'S SECRET
THE MALAY'S VENGEANCE
AevTE TE?,€VTalov iairaafiw

Su/iEV 302

CONCLUSION 304

2l6
223
228
231
234
237
243
246
251

255
258
261
264
267
27a
274

277
284

285
287
290

293
300

••
2:
1^
r
<

>•

On the

')aily Ne\

[he ship /

^ales. A
yet ex
[his ship w
|he usual e
beset the
ielivery of
khe street cJ
|the latest hi
gathered frc
|the officers

At the lo\

|arge warel

ipper extre

sign, which

fetters the v

com:

The gene
louse show
Brandon we
chants, gen
that sort.

On the n

hvere in the i

)ne was ai

iind, benevi

hier of the

lunior partn

CORD AND CREESE

CHAPTER I

THE LETTER FROM BEYOND THE SEA

On the morning of July 21, 1846, the
laily News announced the arrival of
|he ship Rival at Sydney, New South

^ales. As ocean steam navigation had
liot yet extended so far, the advent of
[his ship with the English mail created
Ihe usual excitement. An eager crowd
beset the post-office, waiting for the
lelivery of the mail; and little knots at
[he street corners were busily discussing
ihe latest hints at news which had been
gathered from papers brought ashore by
Ihe officers or passengers.

At the lower end of King Street was a

|arge warehouse, with an office at the

ipper extremity, over which was a new

sign, which showed with newly gilded

letters the words :

COMPTON & BRANDON.

The general appearance of the ware-
house showed that Messrs. Compton &
|Tiiandon were probably commission mer-
cliants, general agents, or something of
that sort.

On the morning mentioned two men
[were in the inner office of this warehouse.
)ne was an elderly gentleman, with a
iind, benevolent aspect, the senior part-
ner of the firm. The other was the
Junior partner, and in every respect pre-

sented a marked contrast to his com-
panion.

He had a face of rather unusual ap-
pearance, and an air which in England
is usually considered foreign. His feat-
ures were regular — a straight nose, wide
brow, thin lips, and square, massive chin.
His complexion was olive, and his eyes
were of a dark hazel color, with a peculi-
arity about them which is not usually
seen in the eye of the Teutonic or Celtic
race, but is sometimes found among the
people of the south of Europe, or in the
East. It is difficult to find a name for
this peculiarity. It may be seen some-
times in the gypsy, sometimes in the
more successful among those who call
themselves " spiritual mediums," or
among the more powerful mesmerizers.
Such an eye belonged to Napoleon Bona-
parte, whose glance at times could make
the boldest and greatest among his mar-
shals quail. What is it ? Magnetism ?
Or the revelation of the soul ? Or what ?

In this man there were other things
which gave him the look of the great Na-
poleon. The contv^ur of feature was the
same ; and on his brow, broad and mas-
sive, there might be seen those grand
shadows with which French artists love to
glorify the Emperor. Yet in addition to
this he had that same serene immobility

ill
t

CORD AND CREESK

of countenance « '*'ich characterized the
other, which cci serve as an impene-
trable mask to hide even the intensest
passion.

There was also about this man a cer-
tain aristocratic air and grace of attitude,
or of manner, which seemed to show
lofty birth and gentle breeding, the
mysterious index to good blood or high
training. How such a man could have
happened to fill the position of junior
partner in a commission business was
certainly a problem not easily solved.
There he was, however, a man in appear-
ance out of place, yet in reality able to
fill that place with success ; a man, in
fact, whose resolute will enabled him to
enforce success in any calling of life to
which either outside circumstances or his
own personal desires might invite him.

" The mail ought to be open by this
time," said Brandon indifferently, look-
ing at his watch. " I am somewhat curi-
ous to see how things are looking. I
noticed quotations of wood rather higher
than by last mail. If the papers are cor-
rect which I saw then we ought to do
very well by that last cargo."

Mr. Compton smiled.

" Well, Brandon," said he, "if it is so
it will show that you are right. You
anticipated a rise about this time, you
know. You certainly have a remarkable
forecast about the chances of business."

" I don't think there is much forecast,"
said Brandon, with a smile, " it was only
the most ordinary calculation made from
the well-known fact that the exportation
this year had been slight. But there
comes Hedley now," he continued, mov-
ing his head a little to one side so as to
look up the street. " The letters will
soon show us all."

Mr. Compton looked out in the direc-
tion which Brandon indicated and saw

the clerk approaching. He then settled
himself back in his chair, put his hands
in his pockets, threw one leg over the
other, and began whistling a tune with
the air of a man who was so entirely
prosperous and contented that no news,
whether good or evil, could greatly affect
his fortunes.

In a short time the clerk entered the
inner office, and, laying the letters down
upon the table nearest Mr. Compton, he
withdrew.

Mr. Compton took up the letters one
by one and read the addresses, while
Brandon looked carelessly on. There
were ten or twelve of them, all of which,
except one, were addressed to the firm.
This one Mr. Compton selected from
among the others, and reaching it out in
his hand said :

" This is for you, Mr. Brandon."

"For me?" repeated Brandon, with
marked surprise ; and taking the letter
he looked at the address with eager
curiosity.

The address was simply as follows :

The letters were irregular and loosely
formed, as though written by a tremulous
hand — such letters as old men form
when the muscles have become relaxed.

Mr. Compton went on opening the
letters of the firm without taking any
further notice of his partner. The latter
sat for some time looking at the letter
without venturing to open it. He held it
in both hands and looked fixedly at that
address as though from the address itself
he was trying to extort some meaning.

He held it thus in both hands looking
fixedly at it, with his head bent forward.
Had Mr. Compton thought of taking a

lok at hi:
c would
Kinge V '
le meic
riting.
lisfortune
jcre, paui
le seal, t
Iready be
Gloom t
pon his
sives into
pcame m(
Ben disto
pd over h
^Gud, wh
rery insta
[id his fa
Bsembled
le artist %

lour 0^ W
ecoiled fr(
lat Imperi

ioul itself
' Lost ! "

Yet it V
lastily sul
ose, and cl
IS though
rusted to !
)nice and 1
he Street.
He walk(
large bu
'Australiar
valked upi
limself in.
ipartments
The pap
jandwritinj

Iremulous,

Illegible ; \
vhole appc

Indicate p(
i^art of th(

THE LETTER FROM BEYOND THE SEA

e then settled
put his hands
! leg over the
g a tune with
as so entirely
that no news,
J greatly affect

rk entered the
e letters down
. Compton, he

he letters one
dresses, while
y on. There
I, all of which,
d to the firm,
selected from
ching it out in

andon."
Brandon, with
ing the letter
s with eager

as follows :

ir and loosely

y a tremulous

men form

ome relaxed.

opening the

taking any

The latter

at the letter

. He held it

xedly at that

address itself

e meaning.

ands looking

lent forward.

. of taking a

|ok at his usually impassive companion,
would have been surprised a the
i.-^nge V ' !ch had taken place in him at
^e meic sight of that tremulous hand-
writing. For in that he had read grief,
»isfortune, perhaps death ; and ns he sat
lere, pausing before he dared to break
ic seal, the contents of the letter h.^d
Iready been conjectured.
Gloom therefore unutterable gathered
3on his face; his features fixed them-
•Ives into such rigidity of grief that they
pcame more expressive than if they had
sen distorted by passionate emotions ;
Hi over his brow collected cloud upon
|oud, which deepened and darkened
i^ery instant till they overshadowed all ;
ul his face in its statuesque fixedness
jsembled nothing so much as that which
le artist gives to Napoleon at the crisis
lour 0^ Waterloo, when the Guard has
Ecoiled from its last charge, and from
lat Imperial face in its fixed agony the
ioul itself seems to cry, "Loa!"
Lost ! "

Yet it was only for a few minuces.

[astily subduing his feeling Brandon

[ose, and clutching the letter in his hand

ks though it were too precious to be

[rusted to his pocket, he quietly left the

j)ffice and the warehouse and walked up

Ihe street.

He walked on rapidly until he reached

large building which bore the sign,

'Australian Hotel." Here he entered, and

iralked upstairs to a room, and locked

limself in. Then, when alone in his own

ipartments, he ventured to open the letter.

The paper was poor and mean ; the

landvvriting, like that of the address, was

jremulous, and in many places quite

Illegible ; the ink was pale ; and the

i^hole appearance of the letter seemed to

Indicate poverty and weakness on the

(.art of the writer, Py a very natural

impulse Brandon hesitated before begin-
ing to read, and took in all these things
with a quick glance.

At last he nerved himself to the task
and began to read.

This was the letter :

" Brandon, March lo, 1846.

" My Dear Boy : These are the last
words which you will ever hear from your
father, I am dying, my dear boy, and
dying of a broken heart ; but where I am
dying I am afraid to tell you. That bit-
terness I leave for you to tind out some
day for yourself. In poverty unspeak-
able, in anguish that I pray you may
never know, I turn to you after a silence
of years, and my first word is to implore
your forgiveness. I know, my noble boy,
that you grant it, and it is enough for me
to ask it. After asking this I can die
content on that score.

" Lying as I do now at the point of
death, I find myself at last freed from the
follies and prejudices which have been
my ruin. The clouds roll away from my
mind, and I perceive what a mad fool I
have been 'or years. Mosl of all I see
the madness that instigated me to turn
against you, and to put against the loyal
love of the best of sons my own misera-
ble pride and the accusation of a lying
scoundrel. May God have mercy upon
me for this !

" I have not much strength, dear boy ;
I have to write at intervals, and by
stealth, so as not to be discovered, for I
am closely watchf^d. He must never
know that I have sent this to you. Frank
and your mother are both sick, and my
only help is your sister, my sweet Edith.
She watches me, and enables me to write
this in safety.

" I must tell you all without reserve
before strength leaves me forever.

CORP AND CREKSF.

*• Tliat man Potts, whom you so justly
hated, Wiis and is tiie cause of all my
suffering and of yours. You used to
wonder how such a man ns that, a low,
vulgar knave, could gain such an influence
over me and sway me as he did. I will
try to explain.

" Perhaps you remember something
about the lamentable death of my old
friend Colonel Despard. The first that I
ever heard of this man Potts was in his
connection with Despard, for whom he
acted partly as valet, and partly as busi-
ness agent. Just before Despard left to
go on his fatal voyage he wrote to me
about his affairs, and stated in conclu-
sion that this man Potts was going to
England, that he was sorry to lose him,
but recommended him very earnestly to
me.

"You recollect that Colonel Despard
was murdered on this voyage under very
mysterious circumstances on shipboard.
His Malay servant Uracao was convicted
and executed. Potts distinguished him-
self by his zeal in avenging his niastcr's
death.

" About a year after this Potts himself
came to England and visited me. He
was, as you know, a rough, vulgar man ;
but his connection with my murdered
friend, and the warm recommendations
of that friend, made me receive him with
the greatest kindness. Besides, he had
many things to tell me about my poor
friend, and brought the newspapers both
from Manilla and Calcutta which con-
tained accounts of the trial.

" It was this man's desire to settle him-
self somewhere, and I gave him letters to
different people. He then went off, and
I did not see him for two years. At the
end of that time he returned with glow-
ing accounts of a tin mine which he was
working in Cornwall. He had bought it

at n low price, and the returns from work-
ing it had exceeded his most sanguine
expectations. He had just organized a
company, and was selling the stock. Ho
canie first to me to let me take what i
wished. I carelessly took five thousand
pounds' worth.

" In the following year the dividend
was enormous, being nearly sixty per
cent. Potts explained to me the cause,
declaring that it was the richest mine it)
the kingdom, and assuring me that my
five thousand pounds was worth ten
times that sum. His glowing accounts
of the mine interested me greatly,
Another year the dividend was higher,
and he assured me that he expected tu
pay cent, per cent.

" It was then that the demon of avar-
ice took full possession of me. Visions
of millions came to me, and I determined
to become the richest man in the king-
dom. After this I turned everything !
had into money to invest in the mine
I raised enormous sums on my landed
estate, and put all that I was worth, and
more too, into the speculation. I was
fascinated, not by this man, but by the
wealth that he seemed to represent. I
believed in him to the utmost. In vain
my friends warned me. I turned from
them, and quarrelled with most of them.
In my madness I refused to listen to tlic
entreaties of my poor wife, and turned
even against you. I cannot bear to al
lude to those mournful days when you
denounced that villain to his face before
me ; when I ordered you to beg his par-
don or leave my roof forever ; when you
chose the latter alternative and became
an outcast. My noble boy — my tnic-
hearted son — that last look of yours, witli
all its reproach, is haunting my dying
hours. If you were only near rn? P<jw
how peacefully I could die t

My strc
icribe the
t the min
ief stockh
lad to sel
IS worthle
went. 1 li
madness
IS came up
Hut mar
itts was
e grown
e. Whei
the auth
Ited that h
scoundre
The Hal
unfortun
our family
iled. A fe(
this neglec
|rchaser wa
[ve bought
had plund
' Now, sii
ened, I ha\
ong all thi
minent thi
^r friend. 1
the time. ]
Malay. '
ire down ha
escape, a
!t this muc
•gely benefii
s could not
i own savin
10 wronged
5 of murder
in now that
tious feelin
inquiry in
refore he
er life and
e man the

THE LETTER UtOM IIEYONI) THE SEA

lear rn? p'jw

Mv strength is failing. I cannot

icribe the details of my ruin. Enough

lit the mine broi<e down utterly, and I as

icf stockholder was responsible for all.

lad to sell out everything. The stock

|s worthless. The Hall and the estates

[went. I had no friend to help me, for by

madness I had alienated them all. All

|s came upon me during the last year.

]' Hut mark this, my son. This man

Itts was tto/ ruined. He seemed to

/c grown possessed of a colossal for-

le. When I reproached him with be-

the author of my calamity, and in-

(tcd that he ought to share it with me,

scoundrel laughed in my face.

The Hall and the estates were sold,

\, unfortunately, though they have been

[our family for ages, they were not en-

lled. A feeling of honor was the cause

[this neglect. They were sold, and the

Irchaser was this man Potts. He must

Ive bougljt them with the money that

had plundered from me.

Now, since my eyes have been

[ened, I have had many thoughts ; and

long all that occur to me none is more

jminent than the mysterious murder of

' friend. This man Potts was with him

I the time. He was chief witness against

Malay. The council for the defense

|re down hard on him, but he managed

escape, and Uracao was executed.

kt this much is evident, that Potts was

fgely benefited by the death of Despard.

could not have made all his money by

own savings. I believe that the man

10 wronged me so foully was fully capa-

of murder. So strong is this convic-

kn now that I sometimes have a super-

jtious feeling that because I neglected

inquiry into the death of my friend,

erefore he has visited me from that

ler life and punished me by making the

me man the ruin of us both.

" The mine, I now believe, was a colos-
sal sham ; and all the money that I in-
vested in stocks went directly to Potts.
Good God ! what madness was mine I

" Oh, my boy ! Your mother and your
brother are lying here sick ; your sister
attends on us all, though little more than
a child. Soon I must leave them ; and
for those who are destined to live there is
a future which I shudder to contemplate.
Come home at once. Come home, what-
ever you are doing. Leave all business,
and all prospects, and come and save
them. That much you can do. Come,
if it is only to take them back with you to
that new land where you live, where they
may forget their anguish.

" Come home, my son, and take ven-
geance. This, perhaps, you cannot do,
but you at least can try. By the time
that you read these words they will be my
voice from the grave ; and thus I invoke
you, and call you to take vengeance.

" But at least come and save your
mother, your brother, and your sister.
The danger is imminent. Not a friend is
left. They all hold aloof, indignant at
me. This miscreant has his own plans
with regard to them, I doubt not ; and he
will disperse them or send them off to
starve in some foreign land. Come and
save them.

" But I warn you to be careful about
yourself for their sakes. For this villain
is powerful now, and hates you worse
than anybody. His arm may reach even
to the antipodes to strike you there. Be
on your guard. Watch everyone. For
once, from words which fell from him
hastily, I gathered that he had some dark
plan against you. Trust no one. Rely
on yourself, and may God help you !

" Poor boy ! I have no estate to leave
you now, and what I do send to you may
seem to you like a mockery. Yet do not

i
<

CORD AND CREESE

hi,

(lespis Who knows what may be

possible in these clays of science ? Why
may it not be possible to force the sea to
give up its prey ?

" I send it, at any rate, for I have noth-
ing else to send. You know that it has
been in our family for centuries, and have
heard how stout old Peter Leggit, with
nine sailors, escaped by night through the
Spanish fleet, and what suffering they en-
dured before they reached England. He
brought this, and it has been preserved
ever since. A legend has grown up, as
a matter of course, that the treasure will
be recovered one day when the family is
at its last extremity. It may not be im-
possible. The writer intended that some-
thing should come of it.

" If in that other world to -vhich I am
going the disembodied spirit can assist
man, then be sure, oh, my son, I will assist
you, and in the crisis of your fate I will be
near, if it is only to communicate to your
spirit what you ought to do.

" God bless you, dear boy, and fare-
well.

" Your affectionate father,

" Ralph Brandon."

This letter was evidently written I,
fragmentary portions, as though it ha
been done at intervals. Some parts wei
written leisurely — others apparently i
haste. The first half had been writtc
evidently with the greatest ease. T\
writing of the last half showed wp^knei
and tremulousness of hand ; many wok
would have been quite illegible to or
not familiar with the handwriting ot tl
old man. Sometimes the words wei
written two or three times, and thei
were numerous blots and unmeanir;
lines. It grew more and more illegibli
toward the close. Evidently it was thi
work of one who was but ill able to ei
ert even sufficient strength to hold a pe
in his trembling hand.

In this letter there was folded a larj
piece of coarse paper, evidently a blar
leaf torn from a book, brown with ags
which was worn at the folds, and pre
tected thereby pieces of co.ton which liai
been pasted upon it. The paper wai
covered with writing, in ink that wa;
much faded, though still quite legible.

Opening this Brandon read the fol-
lowing :

Yar'

ntly written
; though it li.i
Some parts vvei
i apparently i
id been writtc
test ease. Tf
lowed Wv^-^knei
id ; many wok
illegible to or
idwritingot tl;
he words wet
mes, and the
and unmeanir:
:1 more illegibi
;ntly it was th(
Jt ill able to ei
h to hold a pe

► folded a larj

idently a blar

)rown with ag!

folds, and pro

kton which lia;

he paper wi

ink that was

uite legible.

read the fol'

lii
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(3
i

liii

CHAPTER II

A LIFE TRAGEDY

Not a word or a gesture escaped
Brandon during the perusal, but after he
had finished he read the whole through
twice, then laying it down, he paced up
and down the room. His olive skin had
become of a sickly tawny hue, his eyes
glowed with intense lustre, and his brow
was covered with those gloomy Napo-
leonic clouds, but not a nerve was
shaken by the shock of this dread intel-
ligence.

Evening came and night ; and the
night passed, and morning came, but it
found him still there pacing the room.

Earlier than usual next morning he
was at the office, and waited for some
time before the senior partner made his
appearance. When he came in it was
with a smile on his face, and a general
air of congratulation to all the world.

"Well, Brandon," said he cordially,
•• that last shipment has turned out finely.
More than a thousand pounds. And it's
all your doing. I objected, but you were
right. Let me congratulate you."

Something in Brandon's face seemed
to surprise the old gentleman, and he
paused for a moment. " Why, what's
the matter, my boy ? " he said, in a
paternal voice. "You have not heard
any bad news, I hope, in that letter — I
hope it's nothing serious ? "

Brandon gave a faint smile.

"Serious enough," said he, looking
away with an abstracted gaze, " to put a
sudden end to my Australian career."

"Oh, no— oh, no!" said the oth
earnestly ; " not so bad as that."

" I must go home at once."

" Oh, well, that may be, but you will i
back again. Take a leave of absence k
five years if you wish, but don't quit ft
good. I'll do (he business and wor
complain, my boy ! I'll keep your pla
comfortable for you till your return."

Brandon's stern face softened as 1
looked at the old man, whose featui
were filled with the kindest expressio
and whose tone showed the affectiona
interest which he felt.

" Your kindness to me, Mr. Compton,
said he very slowly, and with deep fee
ing, " has been beyond all words. Evf
since I first came to this country yc
have been the truest and the best t :
friends. I hope you know me wej
enough to believe that I can never forge ;
it. But now all this is at an end, and a!
the bright prospects that I had here mus|
give way to the call of the sternest duty^
In that letter which I received last nigM
there came a summons home which l|
cannot neglect, and my whole life herel
after must be directed toward the fulfill
ment of that summons. From midda)|
yesterday until dawn this morning
paced my room incessantly, laying oiii|
my plans for the future thus suddenlj
thrust upon me, and though I have noi
been able to decide upon anything ilefi-|
nite, yet I see plainly that nothing lesi^
than a life will enable me to accomplisbi

A LIFE TRAGEDY.

said the oth

luty. The first thing for me to do
[acquaint you with this and to give
)y part in the business."

Compton placed his elbow on the
\ near which he had seated himself,
id his head upon his hand, and
bd at the floor. From Brandon's

he perceived that this resolution
irrevocable. The deep dejection
^h he felt could not be concealed,
vas silent for a long time.
}od knows," said he at last, " that I
lid rather have failed in business than
1 this should have happened."
randon looked away and said noth-

llt comes upon me so suddenly," he
linued. " I do not know what to
|k. And how can I manage these
I affairs without your assistance ? For
j were the one who did our business,
inow that well. I had no head for

'You can reduce it to smaller pro-

tions," said Brandon. "That can

Jly be done."

'he old man sighed.

After all," he continued, " it is not

business. It's losing you that I think

dear boy. I'm not thinking of the

^iness at all. My grief is altogether

3ut your departure. I gritfve, too, at

blow which must have fallen on you

fmake this necessary."
'The blow is a heavy one," said
indon ; " so heavy that everything

|e in life must be forgotten except the
thought — how to recover from it ;

Id perhaps, also," he added, in a lower

lice, " how to return it."

|Mr, Compton was silent for a long
ie, and with every minute the deep

Ijectlon of his face and manner in-
eased. He folded his arms and shut
eyes in deep thought.

" My boy," said he at last, in that same
paternal tone vtrhich he had used before,
in a mild, calm voice, *' I suppose this
thing cannot be helped, and all that is
left for me to do is to bear it as best I
may. I will not indulge in any selfish
sorrow in the presence of your greater
trouble. I will rather do all in my power
to coincide with your wishes. I see now
that you must have a good reason for
your decision, although I do not seek to
look into that reason."

" Believe me," said Brandon, " I would
show you the letter at once, but it is so
terrible that I would rather that you
should not know. It is worse than death,
and I do not even yet begin to know the
worst."

The old man sighed, and looked at him
with deep commiseration.

"If our separation must indeed be
final," said he at last, " I will take care
that you shall suffer no loss. You shall
have your full share of the capital."

" I leave that entirely to you," said
Brandon.

" Fortunately our business is not much
scattered. A settlement can easily be
made, and I will arrange it so that you
shall not have any loss. Our balance
sheet was made out only last month, and
it showed our firm to be worth thirty
thousand pounds. Half of this is yours,
and "

" Half ! " interrupted the other. " My
dear friend, you mean a quarter."

The old man waved his hand.

" I said half, and I mean half."

" I will never consent."

" You must."

" Never."

" You shall. Why, think of the petty
business that I was doing when you came
here. I was worth about four thousand.
You have built up the business to iti

lill

CORD AND CREESE

III! I

present dimensions. Do you suppose
that I don't know?"

" I cannot allow you to make such a
sacrifice," said Brandon.

*' Stop," said Mr. Compton. " I have
not said all. I attach a condition to this
which I implore you not to refuse. Lis-
ten to me, and you will then be able to
see."

Mr. Compton rose and looked carefully
out into the office. There was no one
near. He then returned, locked the door,
and drawing his chair close to Brandon,
began in a low voice :

*' You have your secrets and I have
mine. I don't wish to know yours, but
my own I am going to tell to you, not
merely for the sake of sympathy, but
rather for the sake of your assistance. I
am going to tell you who I am, and why
I came out here.

" My name is not Compton. It is
Henry Lawton. All my early life was
passed at York. There I married, had a
son, and lived happily for years — in fact,
during the childhood of my boy.

•• It was that boy of mine, Edgar, that
led to all my troubles. I suppose we in-
dulged him too much. It was natural.
He was our only child, and so we ruined
him. He got beyond our control at last,
and used to run wild about the streets of
York. I did what I could to save him,
but it was too late.

" He went on from bad to worse, until
at last he got in with a set of miscreants
who were among the worst in the country.
My God ! to think how my boy, cnce a
sweet child, could have fallen so low.
But he was weak and easily led, and so
he went on from bad to worse.

" I cannot bear to go into particulars,"
said the old man, after a long pause. " I
will come at once to the point. My poor
wretched boy got in with these miscre-

ants, as I was telling you, and I did i
see him from one month's end to anoth
At last a great burglary took pla(
Three were arrested. Among these wt
two old offenders, hardened in vice, t
one named Briggs, the other Crocks
the third was my unhappy boy."

The old man was silent for some tir

" I do not think, after all, that he v
guilty; but Briggs turned King's I
dence, and Crocker and my son w
condemned to transportation. Tht
was no help.

" I sold out all I had in the world, ar
in compliance with the entreaties of t
poor wife, who nearly went mad w |
grief, I came out here. I changed r
name to Compton. My boy's term v;
for three years. I began a business c
here, and as my boy behaved well he w
able to get permission to hire out as
servant. I took him nominally as t
servant, for no one knew that he was i
son, and so we had him with us again.

" I hoped that the bitter lesson whk
he had learned would prove benefice
but I did not know the strength of eri
inclinations. As long as his term
imprisonment lasted he was content at ;
behaved well ; but at last, when the thr
years were up, he began to grow restii
Crocker was freed at about the sar
time, and my boy fell again under M
evil influences. This lasted for about
year, when, at last, one morning a letl
was brought me from him stating that 1
had gone to India.

*' My poor wife was again nearly diii
tracted. She thought of nothing but htj
boy. She made me take her and go is
search of him again. So we went trs
India. After a long search I found hir|
there, as I had feared, in connection vvitlj
his old vicious associates. True, tlie|
had changed their names, and were tryind

A LIFE TRAGEDY.

iss for honest men. Crocker called
self Clark, and Briggs called himself

I Potts ! " cried Brandon.

I Yes," said the other, who was too

jrbed in his own thoughts to notice

surprise of Brandon. " He was in

employ of Colonel Despard at Cal-

ta, and enjoyed much of his con-

tnce."

' V/hat year was this ? " asked Brandon.
1825," replied Mr. Compton.
Crocker," he continued, " was act-
as a sort of shipping agent, and
son was his clerk. Of course, my
St efforts were directed toward de-
aling my son from these scoundrels,
iid all that I could. I offered to give
half of my property, and finally all,
he would only leave them forever and
Ime back. 1 be wretched boy refused.
|e did not appear to be altogether bad.
It he had a weak nature, and could
)t get rid of the influence of these
|en.

" I stayed in India a year and a half,

itil I found at last there was no hope.

could find nothing to do there, and

I remained I would have to starve or

to out to service. This I could not

link of doing. So I prepared to come

lack here. But my wife refused to leave

ler son. She was resolved, she said, to

Itay by him till the last. I tried to

jlissuade her, but could not move her.

told her that I could not be a domestic.

>he said that she could do even that for

|ihe sake of her boy. And she went off

nt once, and got a situation as nurse with

khe same Colonel Despard with whom

Jriggs, or, as he called himself. Potts,

vas staying."

" What was the Christian name of this

j Potts ? " asked Brandon calmly.

" John— John Potts."

Brandon said nothing further, and
Compton resumed :

"Thus my wife actually left me. I
could not stay and be a slave. So I
made her promise to write me, and told
her that I would send her as much
money as I could. She clung to me half
broken-hearted as I left her. Our part-
ing was a bitter one — bitter enough ; but
I would rather break my heart with grief
than be a servant. Besides, she knew
that whenever she came back my heart
was open to receive her.

" I came back to my lonely life out
here and lived for nearly tv/o years. At
last, in September, 1828, a mail arrived
from India bringing a letter from my
wife, and Indian papers. The news
which they brought well-nigh drove me
mad."

Compton buried his face in his hands
and remained silent for some time.

" You couldn't have been more than a
child at that time, but perhaps you may
have heard of the mysterious murder of
Colonel Despard ? "

He looked inquiringly at Brandon, but
the latter ga\'c no sign.

" Perhaps not," he continued—" no ;
you wer« toe young, of course. Well, it
was in the Vtshnii, a brig in which the
colonel had embarked for Manilla. The
brig was laden with hogshead staves and
box shooks, and the colonel went there
partly for his health, partly on business,
taking with him his valet Potts."

" What became of his family ? " inter-
rupted Brandon.

" He had a son in England at school.
His wife had died not long before this at
one of the hill stations, where she had
gone for her health. Grief may have had
something to do with the colonel's voy-
age, for he was very much attached to
his wife.

0*
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CORD AND CREESE

'liiii!

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Ii.ii

" Mails used only to come at long inter-
vals in those days, and this one brought
the account not only of the colonel's fate,
but of the trial at Manilla and the execu-
tion of the man that was condemned.

" It was a very mysterious case. In
the month of July a boat arrived at
Manilla which carried the crew and one
passenger from the brig Vishnu. One
of the men, a Malay named Uracao, was
in irons, and he was immediately given up
to the authorities."

" Who were the others ? "

" Potts, as he called himself, the
colonel's valet, Clark, three Lascars, and
the captain, an Italian named Cigole.
Information was at once laid against the
Malay. Potts was the chief witness.
He said that he slept in the cabin while
the colonel slept in an inner state-room ;
that one morning early he was roused by
a frightful shriek and saw Uracao rush-
ing from the colonel's state-room. He
sprang up, chased him, and caught him
just as he was about to leap overboard.
His creese, covered with blood, was in his
hand. The colonel, when they went to
look at hi'n, had his throat cut from ear
to ear. Clark swore that he was steering
the vessel and saw Potts catch Uracao,
and helped to hold him. The captain
Cigole swore that he was waked by the
noise, and rushed out in time to see this.
Clark had gone as mate of the vessel. Of
the Lascars, two had been down below,
but one was on deck and swore to have
seen the same. On this testimony
Uracao was condemned and executed."

" How did they happen to leave the
brig?"

" They said that a great storm came
up about three days' sail from Manilla,
the vessel sprang a leak, and they had to
take to the boat. Their testimony was
very clear indeed, and there were no con-

tradictions ; but in spite of all this it w
felt to be a very mysterious case, ati
even the exhibition of the Malay crees
carefully covered with the stains
blood, did not altogether dispel this fe(
ing."

" Have you got the papers yet, or a
there any in Sydney that contain an «
count of this affair ? "

" I have kept them all. You may re;
the whole case if you care about it."

" I should like to very much," sa:
Brandon, with great calmness.

" When I heard of this before iV
mail was opened I felt an agony of fe;
lest my miserable boy might be implicate
in some way. To my immense relief In
name did not occur at all."

" You got a leUer from your wife ?
said Brandon interrogatively.

" Yes," said the old man, with a sigh
" The last that I ever received from her
Here it is." And, saying this, he opened
his pocket-book and took out a letter
worn and faded, and blackened by fre
quent readings.

Brandon took it respectfully, and reac
the following :

"Calcutta, August 15, 1828.
"My Dearest Henry: By the papers
that I send you, you will see what has
occurred. Our dear Edgar is well,
indeed better than usual, and I woiikl
feel much cheered if it were not for the
sad fate of the poor colonel. This is the
last letter that you will ever receive from
me. I am going to leave this country
never to return, and do not yet know
where I will go. Wherever I go I will
be with my darling Edgar. Do not.
worry about me or about him. It will be
better for you to try and forget all about
us, since we are from this time the same
as dead to you. Qood-by forever, my

A LIFE TRAGEDY.

«3

Irest husband ; It shall be my daily
Iyer that God may bless you.

" Your affectionate wife,

" Mary."

Jrandon read this in silence, and
jided it back.

I A strange letter," said Compton

Jurnfully. "At first it gave a bitter

fig to think of my Mary thus giving

up forever, so coldly, and for no

Lson : but afterward I began to under-

^nd why she wrote this.

My belief is that these villains kept

son in their clutches for some good

ison, and that they had some equally

Ld reason for keeping her. There's

Inie mystery about it which I can't

Ithom. Perhaps she knew too much

l)out the colonel's affairs to be allowed

go free. They might have detained

er by working upon her love for her son,

simply by terrifying her. She was

^ways a timid soul, poor Mary ! That

^tter is not her composition ; there is not

word there that sounds like her, and

hey no doubt told her what to write,

\r wrote out something, and made her

|opy it.

' And now," said Compton, after

Inother long pause, " I have got to the

bnd of my story. I know nothing more

about them. I have lived here ever

Bince, at first despairing, but of late

lore resigned to my lot. Yet still if I

have one desire in life, it is to get some

Itrace of these dear ones whom I still

hove as tenderly as ever. You, my dear

Jl)oy, with your ability, may conjecture

jsome way. Besides, you will perhaps be

Itravelling more or less, and may be able

Ito hear of their fate. This is the con-

Idition that I make: I implore you by

I your pity for a heart-broken father to

do as I say and help me. Half ! why, I

would give all that I have if I could get
them back again."

Brandon shuddered perceptibly at the
words " heart-broken father " ; but he
quickly recovered himself. He took
Compton's hand and pressed it warmly.

" Dear friend, I will make no objection
to anything, and I promise you that all
my best efforts shall be directed toward
finding them out."

" Tell them to come to me, that I am
rich, and ran make them happy."

" I'll make them go to you if they are
alive," said Brandon.

" God bless you ! " ejaculated the old
man fervently.

Brandon spent the greater part of that
day in making business arrangements,
and in reading the papers which Comp-
ton had preserved containing an account
of the Despard murder.

It was late at night before he returned
to his hotel. As he went into the hall he
saw a stranger sitting there in a lounging
attitude reading the Sydney News.

He was a thin, small-sized man, with a
foreign air, and quick, restless manner.
His features were small, a heavy beard
and mustache covered his face, his brow
was low, and his eyes black and twin-
kling. A sharp, furtive glance which he
gave at Brandon attracted the attention
of the latter, for there was something in
the glance that meant more than idle
curiosity.

Even in the midst of his cares Bran-
don's curiosity was excited. He walked
with assumed indifference up to the desk
as though looking for the key of his room.
Glancing at the hotel Dook his eye
ranged down the column of names till it
rested on the last one :

" Ptefro CigoUr

Cigole ! the name brought singular
associations. Had this man still any

J
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CORD AND CREESE

connection with Potts? The words of
his father's letter rushed into his mind—
" His arm may reach even to the antip-
odes to strilce you. Be on your guard.

Watch everyone. He has some dar
plan against you ! "

With these thoughts in his min
Brandon went up to his room.

CHAPTER HI
A MAN OVERBOARD !

In so small a town as Sydney then
was Brandon could hope to learn all
that could be learned about Cigole. By
casual inquires he learned that the Italian
had come out in the Rival, and had given
out that he was agent for a London
house in the wool business. He had
bought up a considerable quantit; , which
he was preparing to ship.

Brandon could not help feeling that
there was some ruse about this. Yet he
thought, on the other hand, why should
he flaunt his name so boldly before the
world ? If he is in reality following me
why should he not drop his name ? But
then, again, why should he? Perhaps
he thinks that I cannot possibly know any-
thing about his name. Why should I ?
I was a child when Despard was mur-
dered. It may be merely a similarity of
names.

Brandon from time to time had oppor-
tunities of hearing more about Cigole,
yet always the man seemed absorbed in
business.

He wondered to himself whether he
had better confide his suspicions to Mr.
Compton or not. Yet why should he ?
The old man would become excited, and
feel all sorts of wild hopes about dis-
covering his wife and son. Could it be
possible that the Italian after so many

years could now afford any clue what
ever ? Certainly it was not very prol
able.

On the whole Brandon thought the
this man, whoever he was or whateve
his purpose might be, would be en
countered best by himself singly. If Mr
Compton took part he would at ona
awaken Cigole's fears by his clumsiness.

Brandon felt quite certain that Mr,
Compton would not know anything
about Cigole's presence in Sydney un-
less he himself told him. For the old
man was so filled with trouble at the luss
of his partner that he could think ot
nothing else, and all his thoughts wen
taken up with closing up the concern sc
as to send forward remittances of money
to London as soon as possible. Mr
Compton had arranged for him to draw
_;^2C>oo on his arrival at London, and
three months afterward {^yxxt — £^\Qfxx.
would be remitted during the following
year,

Brandon had come to the conclusior
to tell Mr. Compton about Cigole before
he left, so that if the man remained ii
the country he might be bribed or other-
wise induced to tell what he knew ; yei
thinking it possible that Cigole had de-
signed to return in the same ship with ,
him, he waited to see how things would i

A MAN OVERBOARD !

las some dnr

out. As he could not help associat-

Cigole in his mind with Potts, so he

ght that whichever way he turned

man would try to follow him. His

icipations proved correct. He had

n passage in the ship Java, and

days before the vessel left he

ed that Cigole had taken his pas-

[e in her also, having put on board a

siderable quantity of wool. On the

le Brandon felt gratified to hear this,

the close association of a long sea

age would give him opportunities to

this man, and probe him to the

torn. The thought of danger arising

imself did not enter his mind. He

ieved that Cigole meant mischief, but

too much confidence in his own

ers to fear it.

n the 5th of August the ship Java
s ready, and Mr. Compton stood on
quarter-deck to bid good-by to
andon.

' God bless you, dear boy ! You will

d the money coming promptly, and

ithers & Co.'s house is one of the

ongest in London. I have brought

u a parting gift," said he, in a low

ice. He drew from his pocket a

Istol, which in those days was less

own than now — indeed, this was the

st of its kind which had reached Aus-

[alia, and Mr. Compton had paid a fabu-

us price for it. " Here," said he, " take

is to remember me by. They call it a

ivolver. Here is a box of patent car-

idges that go with it. It is from me

you. And mind," he continued, while

ere came over his face a vengeful look

hich Brandon had never seen there be-

Dre— " mind, if ever you see John Potts,

ive him one of those patent cartridges,

id tell him it is the last gift of a broken-

learted father."

Brandon's face turned ghastly, and his

lips seemed to freeze into a smile of
deadly meaning.

" God bless you ! " cried Compton, " I
see by your face that you will do it.
Good-by."

He wrung Brandon's hand hard and
left the ship.

About six feet away stood Cigole,
looking over the stern and smoking a
cigar. He was near enough to hear
what had been said, but he did not appear
to have heard it. Throwing his cigar
intc the water, he plunged his hands
into his pockets, and began whistling a
lively air.

" Aha, capitano," said he in a foreign
accent, " I have brought my wool off at
last."

Brandon paced the deck silently yet
watchfully.

The good ship Java went out with a
fine breeze, which continued for some
days, until at last nothing could be seen
but the wide ocean. In those few days
Brandon had settled himself comfortably
on board, and had learned pretty well
the kind of life which he would have to
lead for the next six months or so. The
captain was a quiet, amiable sort of a
person, without much force of character ;
the mate was more energetic and some-
what passionate; the cr-^w consisted of
the average order of men. There was
no chance, certainly, for one of those
conspiracies such as Mr. Compton had
hinted at as having taken place on the
Vishnu; for in his account of that
affair he evidently believed that Uracao
had been made a scape-goat for the sins
of the others.

Brandon was soon on the best of
terms with the officers of the ship. As
to Cigole it was different. The fact of
their being the only passengers on board
might of itself have been a sufficient

>•

CORD AND CREESE

cause to draw them together ; but Bran-
don found it difficult to pass beyond the
extremest limits of formal intercourse.
Brandon himself considered that his
purposes would be best served by close
association with this man ; he hoped that
in the course of such association he might
draw something from Cigole. But Cigole
bafBed him constantly. He was as
polite and courteous as all Italians are ;
he had an abundance of remarks all
ready about the state of the weather, the
prospects of the .'oyage, or the health of
the seamen ; but beyond these topics it
was difficult to induce him to go. Bran-
don stifled the resentment which he felt
toward this man, in his efforts to break
down the barriers of formality which he
kept up, and sought to draw him out on
the subject of the wool trade. Yet here
he vVas baffied. Cigole always took up
the air of a man who was speaking to a
rival in business, and pretended to be
very cautious and guarded in his remarks
about wool, as though he feared that
Brandon would interfere with his pros-
pects. This sort of thing was kept up
with such great delicacy of management
on Cigole's part that Brandon himself
would have been completely deceived,
and would have come to consider him
as nothing more than a speculator in
wool, had it not been for a certain deep
instinct within, which made him regard
this man as one who was actuated by
something far deeper than mere regards
for a successful speculation.

Cigole managed to baffle the most
dextrous efforts and the most delicate
contrivances of L:andon. He would
acknowledge that he was an Italian, and
had been in all parts of Italy, but care-
fully refrained from telling where he
was born. He asserted that this was the
first time that he had been in the Eastern

seas. He remarked once, casually, th;
Cigole was a very common name amoni
Italians. He said that he had no a(
quaintances at all In England, and W{
only going there now because he heaii
that there was a good market for woo
At another time he spoke as thoug
much of his life had been passed i
Marseilles, and hinted that he was
partner of a commercial house there.

Cigole never made any advances, an:
never even met half-way those whici
Brandon made. He was never off hi;
guard for one instant. Polite, smiling, ;
furtive, never looking Brandon fairly iti
the face, he usually spoke with a profu- i
ston of b^ws, gestures, and common|^
places, adopting, in fact, that part whic^
is always at once both the easiest and tH
safest to play — the non-committal, purej
and perfect.

It was cunning, but low cunning aftel
all, and Brandon perceived that, for on^
who had some purpose to accomplisli
with but a common soul to sustain hiiTiJ
this was the most ordinary way to do it.|
A villain of profounder cunning or of
larger spirit would have pursued a differ-^
ent path. He would have converset
freely and with apparent unreserve; he
would have yielded to all frietidly ad^
vances, and made them himself ; he wouU^
have shown the highest art by concealing
art, in accordance with the hackneyec
proverb, " Ars est celare artem."

Brandon despised him as an ordinary!
villain, and hardly thought it worth his
while to take any particular notice of him,!
except to watch him in a general way.|
But Cigole, on the contrary, was very dif-j
ferent. His eyes, which never met those|
of Brandon fairly, were constantly watch-
ing him. When moving about the quar-l
ter-deck, or when sitting in the cabin, he|
usually had the air of a man who was pre-

A MAN OVERBOARD !

Kiing to be intent on something else,
It in reality watching Brandon's acts or
lening to his words. To any other man
knowledge of this would have been
I the highest degree irksome. But to
Jandon it was gratifying, since it con-
ned his suspicions. He saw this man,
lose constant efforts were directed to-
brd not committing himself by word,
ling that very thing by his attitude, his
[sture, and the furtive glance of his eye.
kindon, too, had his part, but it was in-
litely greater than that of Cigole, and the
irpose that now animated his life was
lintelligible to this man who watched
im. But Cigole's whole soul was ap-
irent to Brandon ; and by his small arts,
Is low cunning, his sly observation, and
lany other peculiarities, he exhibited that
Ihich is seen in its perfection in the or-
linary spy of despotic countries, such as
|scd to abound most in Rome and Naples
the good old days.

For the common spy of Europe may
leceive the English or American traveller;
lut the Frenchman, the German, the
Spaniard, or the Italian, always recog-
lizes him.

So Brandon's superior penetration dis-
jovered the true character of Cigole.

He believed that this man was the

lame Cigole who had figured in the affair

k the Vtshmt : that he had been sent out

by Potts to do some injury to himself,

^nd that he was capable of any crime.

^et he could not see how he could do

jinything. He certainly could not incite

[he simple-minded captain and the honest

mate to conspiracy. He was too great

coward to attempt any violence. So

3randon concluded that he had simply

come to watch him, so as to learn his

character and carry back to Potts all the

iiiowledge that he might gain.

This was his conclusion after a close

association of one month with Cigole.
Yet he made up his mind not to lose
sight of this man. To him he appeared
only an agent in villamy, and therefore
unworthy of vengeance ; yet he might be
made use of as an aid in that vengeance.
He therefore wished to have a clue by
which he might afterward find him.

" You and I," said he one day, in con-
versation, " are both in the same trade.
If I ever get to England I may wish
sometime to see you. Where can I find
you ? "

Cigole looked in twenty different
directions, and hesitated for some time.

"Well," said he at last, "I do not
think that you will wish to see me " —
and he hesitated ; " but," he resumed,
with an evil smile, " if you should by any
possibility wish to do so, you can find
out where I am by enquiring of Giovanni
Cavallo, i6 Red Lion Street, London."

"Perhaps I may not wish to," said
Brandon coolly, " and perhaps I may.
At any rate, if I do, i will remember to
enquire of Giovanni Cavallo, i6 Red Lion
Street, London."

He spoke with deep emphasis on the
address. Cigole looked uncomfortable,
as though he had at last made the mis-
take which he dreaded, ^nd had com-
mitted himself.

So the time passed.

After the first few days the weather had
become quite stormy. Strong head-
winds, accompanied often by very heavy
rains, had to be encountered. In spite
of this the ship had a very good passage
northward, and met with no particular
obstacle until her course was turned to-
ward the Indian Ocean. Then all the
winds were dead against her, and for
weeks a succession of long tacks far to
the north and to the south brought her
but a short distance onward. Every day

liJ
>

CORD AND CRi-lESR

made the wind more violent and the
storm worse. And now the season of the
equinox was approaching, when the mon-
soons change, and all the winds that
sweep over these seas alter their courses.
For weeks before and after this season
the winds are all unsettled, and it seems
as if the elements were let loose. From
the first week in September this became
manifest, and every day brought them
face to face with sterner difficulties.
Twice before the captain had been to
Australia, and for years he had been in
the China trade, so that he knew these
seas well ; but he said that he had never
known the equinoctial storms begin so
early and rage with such violence.

Opposed by such difficulties as these
the ship made but a slow passage — the
best routes had not yet been discovered —
and it was the middle of September before
they entered the Indian Ocean. The
weather then became suddenly calm, and
they drifted along beyond the latitude of
the western extremity of Java, about a
hundred miles south of the Straits of
Sunda. Here they began to encounter
the China fleet which steers through this
strait, for every day one or more sails
were visible.

Here they were borne on helplessly by
the ocean currents, which at this place
are numerous and distracted. The
streams that flow through the many isles
of the Indian Archipelago, uniting with
the greater southern streams, here meet
and blend, causing great difficulties to
navigation, and often baffling even the
most experienced seaman. Yet it was
not all left to the currents, for frequently
and suddenly the storms came up ; and
the weather, ever changeful, kept the
sailors constantly on the alert.

Yet between the storms the calms
were frequent, and sometimes long con-

tinued, though of such a sort as require
watchfulness. For out of the midst
dead calms the storm would sudden
rise in its might, and all the care whi(
experience could suggest was not alwa;
able to avert disaster.

" I don't like this weather, Mr. Brai
don. it's the worst that we could hav
especially just here."

••Why just here?"

'• Why, we're opposite the Straits (
Sunda, the worst place about these parts,

•• What for ? "

•' Pirates. The Malays, you knov
We're not over well prepared to met
them, I'm afraid. If they come we"
have to fight them the best way we can
and these calms are the worst thing fo
us, because the Malay proas can gi
along in the lightest wind, or with oan
when we can't move at all."

'• Are the Malays any worse thai
usual now ? " asked Brandon.

" Well, no worse than they'v»: been fo:
the last ten years. Zangorri is the worsi
of them all."

" Zangorri ! I've heard of him."

" I should think you had. Why, then
never was a pirate in these seas that dli
so much damage. No mortal knowi
the ships that devil has captured anc
burned."

'• I hope you have arms for the seamen
at any rate."

" Oh, we have one howitzer, and small-
arms for the men, and we will have tc
get along the best way we can with these
but the owners ought never to send us
here without a better equipment."

•• I suppose they think it would cost toe
much."

'• Yes ; that's it. They think only about ;
the profits, and trust to luck for our|
safety. Well, I only hope we'll get safely|
out of this place— that's all."

A MAN OVERBOARD !

)r the seamen

Lnd the captain walked off much more

iiicd than usual.

:hey drifted on through days of calm

kch were succeeded by fierce but short-
)(! storms, and then followed by calms.
leir course lay sometimes north, some-
^es south, sometimes nowhere. Thus
time passed, until at length, about the

Idle of September, they came in sight
long, low island of sand.
I've heard of that sand-bank before,"
the captain, who showed some sur-

se at seeing it ; " but I didn't believe it
here. It's not down in the charts.
\re we are three hundred and fifty miles

jthwest of the Straits of Sutida, and the

irt makes this place all open water.
[ell, seein's believin' ; and after this I'll
[ear that there is such a thing as Coffin
land."

' Is that the name ? "

That's the name an old sea captain

Ive it, and tried to get the Admiralty to

|t it on the charts, but they wouldn't.

It this is it, and no mistake."

Why did he call it Coffin Island ? "

Well, he thought that rock looked

^e a coffin, and it's dangerous enough,

len a fog comes, to deserve that name."

I Brandon looked earnestly at the island

lich the captain mentioned, and which

ley were slowly approaching.

lit lay toward the north, y/h'ile the

^ip's course, if it had any in that calm,

IS southwest. It was not more than six

jiles away, and appeared to be about

ire miles long. At the nearest extremity

I black rock rose to a height of about

fty feet, which appeared to be about

ve hundred feet long, and was of such a

bpe that the imagination might easily

pe a resemblance to a coffin. At the

lirthest extremity of the island was a low

liound. The rest of the island was flat,

l)w, and sandy, with no trace of vegeta-

tion perceptible from the ship, except a
line of dingy green under the rock, which
looked like grass.

The ship drifted slowly on.

Meanwhile the captain, in anticipation
of a storm, had caused all the sails to be
taken in, and stood anxiously watching
the sky toward the southwest.

There a dense mass of clouds lay piled
along the horizon, gloomy, lowering,
menacing ; frowning over the calm seas
as though they would soon destroy that
calm, and fling forth all the fury of the
winds. These clouds seemed to have
started up from the sea, so sudden had
been their appearance ; and now, as they
gathered themselves together, their forms
distended and heightened, and reached
forward vast arms into the sky, striving
to climb there, roll.ng upward volumi-
nous cloud masses which swiftly ascended
toward the zenith. So quick was the
progress of these clouds that they did not
seem to come from the banks below ; but
it was rather as though all the air sud-
denly condensed its moisture and made
it visible in these dark masses.

As yet there was no wind, and the
water was as smooth as glass ; but over
the wide surface, as far as the eye could
reach, the long swell of the ocean had
changed into vast rolling undulations, to
the motion of which the ship yielded,
slowly ascending and descending as the
waters rose and fell, while the yards
creaked, and the rigging twanged to the
strain upon them.

Every moment the sky grew darker,
and as gloom gathered above so it in-
creased below, till all the sea spread out
a smooth ebon mass. Darkness settled
down, and the sun's face was thus ob-
scured, and a preternatural gloom
gathered upon the face of nature. Over-
head vast black clouds went sweeping

111

CORD AND CREESE

!i ,

ll«il

' "i
ii ;!

! li
I!!

past, covering all things, faster and faster,
till at last far down in the northern sky
the heavens were all obscured.

But amid all this there was as yet not
a breath of wind. Far above the wind
careered in a narrow current, which did
not touch the surface of the sea but only
bore onward the clouds. The agitation
of the sky above contrasted with the still-
ness below made the latter not consoling
but rather fearful, for this could be none
other than that treacherous stillne-s
which precedes the sudden outburst of
the hurricane.

For that sudden outburst all were now
looking, expecting it every moment. On
the side of the ship where the wind was
expected the captain was standing, look-
ing anxiously at the black clouds on the
horizon, and all the crew were gazing
there in sympathy with him. From that
quarter the wind would burst, and it was
for this assault that all the preparations
had been made.

For some time Brandon had watched
the collecting clouds, but at length he
turned away, and seemed to find a su-
preme fascination in the sand-bank. He
stood at the stern of the ship, looking
fixedly toward the rock, his arms folded,
and his thoughts all absorbed in that one
thing. A low railing ran round the
quarter-deck. The helmsman stood in a
sheltered place which rose only two feet
above the deck. The captain stood by
the companion-way, looking south at the
storm ; the mate was near the capstan,
and all were intent and absorbed in their
expectation of a sudden squall.

Close by the rudder-post stood Cigole,
looking with all the rest at the gathering
storm. His face was only half turned,
and as usual he watched this with only a
furtive glance, for at times his stealthy
ey^>s turned toward Brandon ; and he

alone of all on board did not seem to
absorbed by some overmastering thougj

Suddenly a faint, fluttering ripple
peared to the southward ; it came quick'(|
it seemed to flash over the waters ; wi
the speed of the wind moved on, till
quick, fresh blast struck the ship a
sighed through the rigging. Then
faint breathing of wind succeeded; I
far away there arose a low moan li '
that which arises from some vast catarj
at a great distance, whose roar, subdui
by distance, sounds faintly, yet warningi
to the ear.

At this first touch of the tempest, at
the menacing voice of its approach, not
word was spoken, but all stood mut
Brandon alone appeared not to ha
noticed it. He still stood with folcl(
arms and absorbed air, gazing at tl
island.

The roar of the waters in the distanc
grew louder, and in the direction fror
which it came the dark water was all wliii
with foam, and the boiling flood advancei
nearer in myriad-numbered waves, wliicl
seemed now like an army rushing t
the charge, tossing on high its crestei
heads and its countless foam plumes, aiK .
threatening to bear down all before it.

At last the tornado struck.

At the fierce blast of the storm the sl)i[
rolled far over, the masts creaked aiii
groaned, the waves rushed up and dasliei
against the side.

At that instant Cigole darted quickl;
toward Brandon, and the moment thai
the vessel yielded to the blow of tli( 1
storm he fell violently against him. lU
fore Brandon had noticed the storm, o\
had time to steady himself, he had pusliuc:
him headlong over the rail and help-
lessly into the sea :

" li^uidas projecit in undM

I'rtecipitcm."

SINKING IN DEEP WATERS

Igole clung to the rail, and instantly
(ked out :

Ian overboard ! "

le startling cry rang through the
The captain turned round with a
jof agony.

Ian overboard ! " shouted Cigole
" Help ! It's Brandon ! "

srandon ! " cried the captain, " He's
IJ O God ! "
le took up a hen-coop from its fasten-

and flung it into the sea; and a
3le of pails after it.
\e then looked aloft and to the south

eyes of despair. He could do noth-

For now the storm was upon them,

the ship was plunging furiously
|)ugh the waters with the speed of a
-horse at the touch of the gale. On
[lee-side lay the sand-bank, now only
be miles away, whose unknown shal-
[s made their present position perilous
(the extreme. The ship could not

turn to try and save the lost passenger ;
it was only by keeping straight on that
there was any hope of avoiding that lee
shore.

All on board shared the captain's
despair, for dl saw that nothing could
be done. The ship was at the mercy of
the hurricane. To turn was impossible.
If they could save their own lives now
it would be as much as they could
do.

Away went the smp — away, farther
and farther, every moment leaving at
a greater distance the lost man who
struggled in the waters.

At last they had passed the danger, the
island was left behind, and the wide sea
lay all around.

But by this time the storm was at its
height ; the ship could not maintain its
proper course, but, yielding to the gale,
fled to the northwest far out of its right
direction.

CHAPTER IV

SINKING IN DEEP WATERS

Jrandon, overwhelmed by the rush

waters, half suffocated, and struggling
the rush of the waves, shrieked out a

despairing cries for help, and sought

|keep his head above water as best he

jld. But his cries were borne off by

fierce winds, and the ship, as it
|-eered madly before the blast, was soon

of hearing.

le was a first-rate swimmer, but in a

like this it needed all his strength and
his skill to save himself from impend-

death. Encumbered by his clothes it

was still more difficult, yet so fierce was
the rush of wind and wave that he dared
not stop for a moment in his struggles,
in order to divest himself of his clothing.
At first, by a mere blind instinct, he
tried to swim after the ship, as though
by any possibility he could ever reach her
again, but the hurricane was against
him, arJ he was forced sideways far out
of the course which he was trying to
take. At last the full possession of his
senses was restored, and following the
ship no longer he turned toward the

5
m

ijj
>

lilt

CORD AND CREESE

direction where that sand island lay
which had been the cause of his disaster.
At first it was hidden from view by the
swell of waves that rose in front, but
soon rising upon the crest of one of these
he perceived far away the dark form of
the coffin-shaped rock. Here then be-
fore him lay the island, and toward this
both wind and wave impelled him.

But the rock was far to the right, and
it might be that the island did not ex-
tend far enough to meet him as he neared
it. It was about five miles in length, but
in his efforts he might not be able to
reach even the western extremity. Still
there was nothing else to do but to try.
Resolutely, therefore, though half despair-
ingly, he put forth his best strength, and
struggled manfully to win the shore.

That lone and barren sand-bank, after
all, offered but a feeble chance for life.
Even if he did reach it, which was doubt-
ful, what could he do ? Starvation in-
stead of drowning would be his fate.
More than once it occurred to him that
it would be better then and there to give
up all efforts and let himself go. But
then there came the thought of those
dear ones who waited for him in Eng-
land, the thought of the villain who had
thrown him from the ship, and the
greater villain who had sent him out on
his murderous errand. He could not
bear the idea that they should triumph
over him so easily and so quickly. His
vengeance should not be taken from him ;
it had been baffled, but it still nerved his
arm.

A half hour's struggle, which seemed
like many hours', had brought him much
nearer to the island, but his strength was
almost exhausted. His clothes, caught
in the rush of the waves, and clinging to
him, confined the free action of his limbs,
and lent an additional weight. Another

half hour's exertion might possibly br 1
him to the shore, but that exertion hatj
seemed possible. It was but with d
culty now that he could strike out. Oil
the rush of the waves from behind wo
overwhelm him, and it was only by ci
vulsive efforts that he was able to
mount the raging billows and regain
breath.

Efforts like these, however, were
exhaustive to be long continued. Nat
failed, and already a wild despair ca '
over him. For a quarter of an h
longer he had continued his exertio
and now the island was so near tha
quarter of an hour more might bring)
to it. But even that exertion of strer
was now no longer possible. Fai;
and feebly, and with failing limbs i
fiercely throbbing heart, he toiled on, i
til at last any lurther effort seemed i
possible. Before him was the moi
which he had noticed from the ship,
was at the western extremity of the isla:
He saw that he was being carried in su
a direction that even if he did struggle
he might be borne helplessly past r
island and out into the open sea.
ready he could look past the island, i]
see the wide expanse of white foam:
waves which threatened to engulf hi
The sight weakened what little stren;
was left, and made his efforts c
feebler.

Despairingly he looked around, i
knowing what he sought, but seek:
still for something, he knew not wk; '
In that last look of despair his eyescauj ^
sight of something which at once g:
him renewed hope. It was not far aw:
Borne along by the waves it was bui
few yards distant, and a little behind hi
It was the hencoop which the captain I
the /ava had thrown overboard so as,
give Brandon a chance (or life. TL

SINKING IN DEEP WATERS

chance was now thrown in his way,
khe hencoop had followed the same
Be with himself, and had been swept

not very far from him.
kndon was nerved to new efforts by
light of this. He turned and exerted
[last remnants of his strength in

to reach this means of safety. It

near enough to be accessible. A

[vigorous strokes, a few struggles

1 the waves, and his hands clutched

jars with the grasp of a drowning

was a large hen-coop, capable of
})ing several men afloat. Brandon
|g to this and at las^ had rest,
minute of respite from such

jgles as he had carried on restored
jstrength to a greater degree. He
|d now keep his head high out of the
jr and avoid the engulfing fury of the
\es behind. Now at last he could
a better survey of the prospect
[»re him, and see more plainly whither
iras going.

\he sand-bank lay before him ; the
ind at the western extremity was in
jit of him, not very far away. The

which lay at the eastern end was

at a great distance, for he had been
|pt by the current abreast of the island,

was even now in danger of being
("ied past it. Still there was hope, for
[d and wave were blowing directly
rard the island, and there was a
Ince of his being carried full upon its
Ire. Yet the chance was a slender
|, for the set of the tide rather carried
beyond the line of the western
remity.
Every minute brought him nearer,

soon his fate would be decided.

irer and nearer he came, still clinging

[the hen-coop, and making no efforts

itever, but reserving and collecting

together all his strength, so as to put it
forth at the final hour of need.

But as he came nearer the island ap-
peared to move more and more out of
the line of his approach. Under these
circumstances his only chance was to
float as near as possible, and then make
a last effort to reach the land.

Nearer and nearer he came. At last
he was close by it, but the extreme
point of the island lay to the right more
than twenty yards. This was the crisis
of his fate, for now if he floated on any
longer, he would be carried farther away.

The shore was here low but steep, the
waters appeared to be deep, and a heavy
surf dashed upon the island, and threw
up its spray far over the mound. He
was so near that he could distinguish the
pebbles on the beach, and could see be-
yond the mound a long, flat surface with
thin grass growing.

Beyond this point was another a hun-
dred yards away, but farther out of his
reach, and affording no hope whatever.
Between the two points there was an
inlet into the island showing a little
cove; but the surf just here became
wilder, and long rollers careered one
past another over the intervening space.
It was a hopeless prospect. Yet it was
his last chance.

Brandon made up his mind. He let
go the hen-coop, and summoning up all
his strength he struck out for the shore.
But this time the wind and sea were
against him, bearing him past the point,
and the waves dashed over him more
quickly and furiously than before. He
was swept past the point before he had
made half a dozen strokes ; he was borne
on still struggling ; and now on his left
lay the rollers which he had seen. In
spite of all his efforts he was farther away
from the island than when he had left the

»4

CORD AND CREESE

!liii!i!iiij!

■ mi

m M

hen-coop. Yet all hope and all life de-
pended upon the issue of this last effort.
The fifteen or twenty minutes of rest and
of breathing space which he had gained
had been of immense advantage, and he
struggled with all the force which could
be inspired by the nearness of safety.
Yet, after all, human efforts cannot with-
stand the fury of the elements, and here,
against this strong sea, the strongest
swimmer could not hope to contend
successfully.

"Never I ween was swimmer
In such an evil case."

He swam toward the shore, but the
wind striking him from one side, and
urging on the sea, drove him sideways.
Some progress was made, but the force
of the waters was fearful, and for every
foot that he moved forward he was car-
ried six feet to leeward. He himself saw
this, and calculating his chances he per-
ceived with despair that he was already
beyond the first point, and that at the
present rate there was no possibility of
gaining the farther point.

Already the waves leaped exultingly
about him, dashing over him now more
wildly, since he was exposed more than
before to their full sweep. Already the
rollers lay close beside him on his left.
Then it seemed as though he would be
engulfed. Turning his haad backward
with a last faint thought of trying to re-
gain the hen-coop, so as to prolong life
somewhat, he saw it far away out of his
reach. Then all hope left him.

He was now at the outermost line of
rollers. At the moment that he turned
his head a huge wave raised him up and
bore him forward. He struggled still,
even in that time of despair, and fought
with his enemies. They bore him on-
ward, however, none the less help-

lessly, and, descending, carried him wj
them.

But now at last, as he descended \m
that wave, hope came back, and all
despair vanished.

For as the wave flung him downwj
his feet touched bottom, and he st(]
for a moment erect, on solid, hard srl
in water that scarcely reached above
knees. It was for a moment only i\\
he stood, however, for the sweep of i|
water bore him down, and he fell forwaj
Before he could regain himself anot
wave came and hurled him farther i i
ward.

By a violent effort he staggered to lev
feet. In an instant he comprehenc
his position. At this western end i
island descended gently into the wat
and the shoal which it formed extend
for miles away. It was this shoal tl
caused the long rollers that came oi
them so vehemently, and in such mark
contrast with the more abrupt waves
the sea behind.

In an instant he had comprehend]
this, and had taken his course of actic i

Now he had foothold. Now ti
ground beneath lent its aid to his <!
deavor; he was no longer altogether
the mercy of the water. He bound
forward toward the shore in such a dire j
tion that he could approach it vvithoi
opposing himself entirely to the vvavd
The point that stretched out was no I
within his reach. The waves rolled pai*
it, but by moving in an oblique directic;
he could gain it.

Again and again the high rollers can,
forward, hurling him up as they caugtl
him in their embrace, and then castiri
him down again. As he was caught t
from the bottom, he sustained himself c j
the moving mass, and supported himsti
on the crest of the wave, but as soon as i

THE MYSTERY OF COFFIN ISLAND

Jouched bottom again he sprang for-

I toward the point, which now became

minute more accessible. Wave

I wave came, each more furious, each

ravenous than the preceding, as

gh hounding one another on to make

[of their prey. But now that the

of life was strong, and safety had

almost assured, the deathlike

Iness which but shortly before had

lied him gave way to newborn

Igth and unconquerable resolve.

t length he reached a place where the

fs were of less dimensions. His

ress became more rapid, until at

Ih the water became exceedingly

shallow, being not more than a foot in
depth. Here the first point, where the
mound was, protected it from the wind
and sea. This was the cove which he
had noticed. The water was all white
with foam, but offered scarcely any re-
sistance to him. He had but to wade
onward to the shore.

That shore was at last attained. He
staggered up a few paces upon the sandy
declivity, and then fell down exhausted
upon the ground.

He could not move. It was late;
night came on, but he lay where he had
fallen, until at last he fell into a sound
sleep.

CHAPTER V

THE MYSTERY OF COFFIN ISLAND

Then Brandon awaked on the fol-

ig morning the sun was already high
ke sky. He rose at once and walked
lly up, with stiffened limbs, to a
ler spot. His clothes already were
)y dry, but they were uncomfortable

impeded his motion. He took off
Hy everything, and laid them out on
{sand. Then he examined his pistol
j the box containing cartridges. This

held some oil also, with the help of
:h the pistol was soon in good order,
^he cartridges were encased in copper

were uninjured. He then examined
|ver case which was suspended round

neck. It was cylindrical in shape,

the top unscrewed. On opening this

|took out his father's letter and the

jsure, both of which were uninjured.

[then rolled them up in a small com-

and restored them to their place.

He now began to look about him.
The storm had ceased, the waves had
subsided, a slight breeze was blowing
from the sea which just ruffled the water
and tempered the heat. The island on
which he had been cast was low, flat, and
covered with a coarse grass which grew
out of the sand. But tlie sand itself was
in many places thrown into ridges, and
appeared as though it was constantly
shifting and changing. The mound was
not far away, and at the eastern end of
the island he could see the black outline
of the rock which he had noticed from
the ship. The length he had before
heard to be about five miles, the width
appeared about one mile, and in its
whole aspect it seemed nothing better
than the abomination of desolation.

At the end where he was the island
terminated ia two points, between which

(T
UJ

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Lii
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;!-!

' I ''

CORD AND CREESE

there was the cove where he had found
refuge. One of these points was distin>
guished by the mound already mentioned,
which, from where he stood, appeared of
an irregular oblong shape. The other
point was low, and descended gently into
the water. The island itself appeared to
be merely the emergence of some sand-
bank which, perhaps, had been formed
by currents and eddies; for here the
currents of the Strait of Sunda encounter
those of the Southern and Indian oceans,
and this bank lay probably near their
point of union.

A short survey showed him this. It
showed him also that there was but
little if any hope of sustaining life, and
that he had escaped drowning only per-
haps to perish by the more lingering
agonies of starvation.

Already hunger and thirst had begun
to be felt, and how to satisfy these wants
he knew not. Still he would not despair.
Perhaps the Java might return in search
of him, and his confinement would only
last for a day or so.

He understood the act of Cigole in a
way that was satisfactory to himself.
He had thrown him overboard, but had
made it appear like an accident. As he
fell he had heard the shout " Man over-
board!" and was now able to account
for it in this way. So a faint hope re-
mained that the captain of the /ava
would not give him up.

Still subsistence of some kind was
necessary, and there was nothing to be
done but to explore the sandy tract be-
fore him. Setting forth he walked to-
ward the rock along the seashore. On
one side toward the north the shore was
shallow and sloped gently into the water ;
but on the southern side it descended
more abruptly. The tide was out. A
Steep beach appeared here covered with

stones to which myriads of shelU
were attached. The sight of these s:
gested the idea to him that on the o[;>
site side there might be clams in <i
sand. He walked over there in seat;
of them. Here the slope was so gradg
that extensive flats were left uncoverc
by the receding tide.

When a boy he had been sometime
accustomed to wander on sand flats m
his home, and dig up these clams :
sport. Now his boyish experience t»
came useful. Myriads of little hole
dotted the sand, which he knew to It Aunded; at the i
the indications of these moUusks, ai^ { ^^ irregular ; bu
he at once began to scoop in the ai
with his hands. In a short time he k
found enough to satisfy his hunger, ait
what was better, he saw all round t
unlimited supply of such food.

Yet food was not enough. Drink n
equally necessary. The salt of thei
shell-iish aggravated the thirst thati
had already begun to feel, and now a k
came over him that there might bett:
water. The search seemed a hopeles
one; but he determined to seek for;
nevertheless, and the only place tlii;
seemed to promise success was the roci
at the eastern end. Toward this he noi
once more directed his steps.

ndred feet in ler

ight. There wa

ffin now as Bran

It likeness was

tance. Its side

litous. It was

thout any outlyi

entsnearit. Its

be level, and ir

ry easy to asce

aces Brandon cl

1 the top.

Near him the s

sank into a deej
lat which at oni
ope and fear. H
last fifty feet in <
ince the sides ol
leeply. But was

the accumulatii

The island was all of sand except tli f | jg^yp kneeling
rocks on the south beach and the cliSa ;
the eastern end. Coarse grass grewven
extensively over the surface, but the sani
was fine and loose, and in many place
thrown up into heaps of many differet
shapes. The grass grew in tufts oris
spires and blades, thinly scattered, am
nowhere forming a sod. The soil n
difficult to walk over, and Brandoi
sought the beach, where the damp saiii

he rainy season
ut the result of
irhich had hurlei
ill the hollow wa
With hasty foo
he margin of the
aste. For a m(
atural feeHng, h
ng off the feve

afforded a firmer foothold. In about a " {^^ ^^^ receptic

hour and a half he reached the rock.
It was between five hundred and

'!li'!

:i!ii

ips touched th(

It was fresh!

eavens above, a

ow. It was the

that had filled th

spray from the

e quaffed the

a trace of the i

tected. It was

thus lay before

present, at leas
He had food

THE MYSTERY OF COFFIN ISLAND

>f shell-j

these s.

)n the ofjs

ams in l'

e in sei:
so grade
uncover

sometime

id flats riti

se clams !

)erience bt

little hob

knew tok

ollusks, at:

in the san

time he k

lunger, m.

U round r

od.

Drink u

It of thtt

lirst thath

i now a iw

night bcK

a hopelsi.

seek forii

place that

^as the roci^

this he noi

except tl f|
1 the cliff i
»s grewvei
lut the sai
lany placi
ny differei
tufts or
ttered, ai
le soil wi
1 Brandoi
damp saiii
n about ai^
e rock,
ed and iti

ndred feet in length, and about fifty in

Kght. There was no resemblance to a

in now as Brandon approached it, for

It likeness was only discernible at a

stance. Its sides were steep and pre-

>itous. It was one black solid mass,

|thout any outlying crags, or any frag-

;nts near it. Its upper surface appeared

be level, and in various places it was

)ry easy to ascend. Up one of these

laces Brandon climbed, and soon stood

the top.

Near him the summit was somewhat

)unded; at the farther end it was flat

id irregular ; but between the two ends

sank into a deep hollow, where he saw

lat which at once excited a tumult of

)pe and fear. It was a pool of water at

fcast fifty feet in diameter, and deep too,

ince the sides of the rock went down

tecply. But was it fresh or salt ? Was

the accumulation from the showers of

le rainy season of the tropics, or was it

[ut the result of the past night's storm,

ifhich had hurled wave after wave here

ill the hollow was filled ?

With hasty footsteps he rushed toward

ihe margin of the pool, and bent down to

laste. For a moment or so, by a very

latural feeling, he hesitated, then, throw-

fng off the fever of suspense, he bent

lown, kneeling on the margin, till his

fips touched the water.

It was fresh! Yes, it was from the

leavcns above, and not from the sea be-

|ow. It was the fresh rains from the sky

that had filled this deep pool, and not the

spray from the sea. Again and again

le quaffed the refreshing liquid. Not

trace of the salt water could be de-

[tected. It was a natural cistern which

thus lay before him, formed as though

[for the reception of the rain. For the

[present, at least, he was safe.

He had food and drink. As long as

the rainy season lasted, and for some
time after, life was secure. Life becomes
doubly sweet after being purchased by
such efforts as those which Brandon had
put forth, and the thought that for the
present, at least, he was safe did not
fail to fill him with the most buoyant
hope. To him, indeed, it seemed just
then as if nothing more could be desired.
He had food and drink in abundance.
In that climate shelter was scarcely
needed. What more could he wish ?

The first day was passed in exploring
the rock to see if there was any place
which he might select for his abode.
There were several fissures in the rock
at the eastern end, and one of these he
selected. He then went back for his
clothes, and brought them to this place.
So the first day went.

All the time his eyes wandered round
the horizon to see if a sail might be in
sight. After two or three days, in which
nothing appeared, he ceased his constant
watch, though still from time to time, by
a natural impulse, he continued to look.
After all he thought that rescue might
come. He" was somewhat out of the
track of the China ships, but still not very
much so. An adverse wind might bring
a ship close by. The hope of this sus-
tained him.

But day succeeded to day and week to
week with no appearance of anything
whatever on the wide ocean.

During these long days he passed the
greater part of his time either under the
shelter of the rock, w here he could best
avoid the hot sun, or when the sea breeze
blew on its summit. The frightful soli-
tude offered to him absolutely nothing
which could distract his thoughts, or pre-
vent him from brooding upon the help-
lessness of his situation.

Brooding thus, it became his chief

CORD AND CREESE

'I I!

occupation to read over and over his
father's letter and the enclosure, and con-
jecture what might be his course of action
if he ever escaped from this place. His
father's voice seemed now to sound to
him more imploringly than ever ; and the
winds at night, as they moaned round
the rock, seemed to modulate themselves,
to form their sounds to something like a
wild cry, and wail forth, " Come home ! "
Yet that home was now surely farther
removed than ever, and the winds seemed
only to mock him. More sad and more
despairing than Ulysses on the Ogygian
shore, he too wasted away with home-
sickness.

Kareipero de yTiVKvg aiov vdoTov bivpofitvtji.

Fate thus far had been against him,
and the melancholy recollections of his
past life could yield nothing but despond-
ency. Driven from home when but a
boy, he had become an exile, had
wandered to the other side of the world,
and was just beginning to attain some
prospect of a fortune when this letter
came. Rising up from the prostration of
that blow, he had struggled against fate,
but only to encounter a more overmaster-
ing force, and this last stroke had been
the worst of all. Could he rally after
this ? Could he now hope to escape ?

Fate had been against him ; but yet,
perhaps, here on this lonely island, he
might find a turning point. Here he
might find that turning in the long lane
which the proverb speaks of. " The
day is darkest before the morn," and per-
haps he would yet have Fate on his side.

But the sternest and most courageous
spirit can hardly maintain its fortitude in
an utter and unmitigated solitude. St.
Simeon Stylites could do so, but he felt
that on the top of that pillar there rested
the eyes of the heavenly hosts and of

admiring mankind. It is when the ct
sciousness of utter solitude comes tl,
the soul sinks. When the prisoner thint
that he is forgotten by the outside wott
then he loses that strength which st;
tained him while he believed himst
remembered.

It was the lot of Brandon to have tk
sense of utter desolation; to feel thati
all the world there was not one huinit
being that knew of his fate ; and to feai
that the eye of Providence only saw lie
with indifference. With bitterness \>.
thought of the last words of his fatheri
letter : " If in that other world to wliic:
I am going the disembodied spirit can
assist man, then be sure, oh, my son, 1
vill assist you, and in the crisis of youi
fate I will be near, if it is only to comniii.
nicate to your spirit what you ought to
do." \

A melancholy smile passed over his'
face as he thought of what seemed to
him the utter futility of that promis .

Now, as the weeks passed, his wholtj

mode of life affected both mind and ^

body. Yet, if it be the highest stated a
man for the soul to live by itself, as
Socrates used to teach, and sever itseli
from bodily association, Brandon surely
had attained, without knowing it, a most
exalted stage of existence. Perhaps i'
was the period of purification and
preparation for future work.

The weather varied incessantly, calms
and r(orms alternating; sometimes all
the .^a lying dull, listless, and glassy
under the burning sky ; at other times
both sea and sky convulsed with the war
of elements.

At last there came one storm so
tremendous that it exceeded all that
Brandon had ever seen anywhere.

The wind gathered itself up from the
southeast, and for a whole day the forces

THE MYSTERY OF COFFIN ISLAND

»9

the tempest collected themselves, till
|t last they burst in fury upon the island,
sustained violence and in the frenzy
[l its assault it far surpassed that first
brm. Before sundown the storm was
|t its height, and, though yet day, the
llouds were so dense and so black that
became like night. Night came on,
Ind the storm and roar and darkness
icreased steadily every hour. So in-
tense was the darkness that the hand,
irhen held close by the face, could not
)e distinguished. So resistless was the
lorce of the wind that Brandon, on look-
ing out to sea, had to cling to the rock
\o prevent himself from being blown
ivvay. A dense rain of spray streamed
|through the air, and the surf, rolling up,
lung its crest all across the island.
3randon could hear beneath him, amid
some of the pauses of the storm, the
[liissing and bubbling of foaming waters.
Its though the whole island, submerged
py the waves, was slowly settling down
into the depths of the ocean.

Brandon's place of shelter was suflfi-

Iciently elevated to be out of the reach of

Ithe waves that might rush upon the land,

land on the lee side of the rock, so that

[he was sufficiently protected. Sand,

which he had carried up, formed his bed.

In this place, which was more like the

lair of a wild beast than the abode of

a human being, he had to live. Many

wakeful nights he had passed there, but

never had he known such a night as

i this.

There was a frenzy about this hurri-
I cane that would have been inconceivable
I if he had not witnessed it. His senses,
refined and rendered acute by long vigils
and slender diet, seemed to detect audible
words in the voice of the storm. Look-
ing out through the gloom, his sight
seemed to discern shapes flitting by like

lightning, as though the fabled spirits of
the storm had gathered here.

It needed all the robust courage of his
strong nature to sustain himself in the
presence of the wild fancies that now
came rushing and thronging before his
mind. The words of his father sounded
in his ears ; he thought he heard them
spoken from the air ; he thought he saw
an aged spectral face, wan with suffering
and grief, in front of his cave. He cov-
ered his eyes with his hands, and sought
to reason down his superstitious feeling.
In vain. Words rang in his ears, muified
words, as though muttered in the storm,
and his mind, which had brooded so long
over his father's letter, now gave shape to
the noise of winds and waves.

" In the crisis of your fate I will be
near."

" I shall go mad ! " cried Brandon,
aloud, and he started to his feet.

But the storm went on with its fury,
and still his eyes saw shapes, and his ears
heard fantastic sounds. So the night
passed until at last the storm had ex-
hausted itself. Then Brandon sank
down and slept far on into the day.

When he awaked again the storm had
subsided. The sea was still boisterous,
and a fresh breeze blew, which he inhaled
with pleasure. After obtaining some
shell-fish, and satisfying his appetite, he
went to the summit of the rock for water,
and then stood looking out at sea.

His eye swept the whole circuit of the
horizon without seeing anything, until at
length he turned to look in a westwardly
direction where the island spread out
before him. Here an amazing sight met
his eyes.

The mound at the other end had
become completely and marvellously
changed. On the previous day it had
preserved its usual shape, but now it wns

o
o

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O

£C

CORD AND CREESE

lii

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no longer smoothly rounded. On the
contrary it was irregular, the northern
end being still a sort of hillocic, but the
middle and southern end was flat on the
surface and dark in color. From the
distance at which he stood it looked like
a rock, around which the sand had
accumulated, but which had been un-
covered by the violent storm of the pre-
ceding night.

At that distance it appeared like a rock,
but there was something in its shape and
in its position which made it look like a
ship which had been cast ashore. The
idea was a startling one, and he at once
dismissed it as absurd. But the more he
looked the closer the resemblance grew
until at last, unable to endure this sus-
pense, he hurried off in that direction.

During all the time that he had been
on the island he had never been close to
the mound. He had remained for the
most part in the neighborhood of the
rock, and had n- /er thought that a bar-
ren sand hillock was worthy of a visit.
But now it appeared a very different
object in his eyes.

He walked on over half the intervening
distance, and now the resemblance in-
stead of fading out, as he anticipated,
grew more close. It was still too far to be
seen very distinctly ; but there, even from
that distance, he saw the unmistakable
outline of a ship's hull.

There was now scarcely any doubt
about this. There it lay. Every step
only made it more visible. He walked
more quickly onward, filled with wonder
and marvelling by what strange chance
this vessel could have reached its present
position.

There it lay. It could not by any
possibility have been cast ashore on the
preceding night. The mightiest billows
that ever rose from ocean could never

have lifted a ship so far upon the shot
To him it was certain that it must ha
been there for a long time, and that t
sand had been heaped around it by sit
cessive storms.

As he walked nearer he regarded mor
closely the formation of this western enc
He saw the low northern point, and the
the cove where he had escaped froc
the sea. He noticed that the souther
point where the mound was appeared i:
be a sort of peninsula, and the theory suj
gested itself to him by which he couk
account for this wonder. This ship, ht
saw, must have been wrecked at som
time long before upon this island. A
the shore was shallow it had run agrouiK
and stuck fast in the sand. But succei
sive storms had continued to beat upoiii;
until the moving sands which the waters
were constantly driving about had
gathered all around it higher and higher
At last, in the course of time, a vast
accumulation had gathered about tliii
obstacle till a new bank had been foniKi!
and joined to the island ; and the winds
had lent their aid, heaping up the loost
sand on high till all the ship was covered*
But last night's storm had to some e^ ;
tent undone the work, and now the ■
wreck was once more exposed.

Brandon was happy in his conjecture
and right in his theory. All who know
anything about the construction ami;
nature of sand islands such as this art|;
aware that the winds and waters woili|
perpetual changes. The best-known ex-
ample of this is the far-famed SabltV
Island, which lies off the coast of Nova|;
Scotia, in the direct track of vessels il
crossing the Atlantic between England J
and the United States. Here there isj
repeated on a far larger scale the work!
which Brandon saw on Coffin IslandJ
Sable Island is twenty miles long andj

THE MYSTERY OF COFFIN ISLAND

3ut one in width— the crest of a vast

ap of sand which rises out of the

ean's bed. Here the wildest storms in

world rage uncontrolled, and the

cpers of the lighthouse have but little

clter. Not long ago an enormous flag-

iiff was torn from out its place and

Irled away into the sea. In fierce

srms the spray drives all across, and it

impossible to venture out. But most

all. Sable Island is famous for the

elancholy wrecks that have taken place

lere. Often vessels that have the bad

[rtune to run aground are broken up,

It sometimes the sand gathers about

lem and covers them up. There are

jmerous mounds here which are known

I conceal wrecked ships. Some of these

ive been opened, and the wreck beneath

IS been brought to view. Sometimes

ISO, after a severe gale, these sandy

liounds are torn away and the buried

essels are exposed.

Far away in Australia Brandon had

leard of Sable Island from different sea

aptains who had been in the Atlantic

k-ade. The stories which these men had

tell were all largely tinged with the

jpernatural. One in particular who had

Men wrecked there, and had taken

Efuge for the right in a hut built by the

British Government for wrecked sailors,

3ld some wild story about the apparition

kf a negro, who waked him up at dead of

^ight and nearly killed him with horror.

With all these thoughts in his mind

kandon approached the wreck, and at

last stood close beside it.

It had been long buried. The hull

vas about two-thirds uncovered. A vast

?ap of sand still clung to the bow, but

|he stern stood out full in view. Although

It must have been there for a long time

the planks were still sound, for they
seemed to have been preserved from
decay by the sand. All the calking, how-
ever, had become loose, and the seams
gaped widely. There were no masts, but
the lower part of the shrouds still re-
mained, showing that the vessel was a
brig. So deeply was it buried in the
sand that Brandon, from where he stood,
could look over the whole deck, he him-
self being almost on a level with the
deck. The masts appeared to have been
chopped away. The hatchways were
gone. The hold appeared to be filled
with sand, but there may have been only
a layer of sand concealing something
beneath. Part of the planking of the
deck as well as most of the taffrail on
the other side had been carried away.
Astern there was a quarterdeck. There
was no skylight, but only deadlights set
on the deck. The door of the cabin still
remained and was shut tight.

All these things Brandon took in at a
glance. A pensive melancholy came over
him, and a feeling of pity for the inani-
mate ship as though she were capable of
feeling. By a natural curiosity he walked
around to the stern to see if he could read
her name.

The stern was buried deep in the sand.
He had to kneel to read it. On the side
nearest him the letters were obliterated,
but he saw some remaining on the oppo-
site side. He went over there and knelt
down. There were four letters still legi-
ble and part of a fifth. These were
the letters :

VISHN

"Great Heavens!" cried Brandon,
starting back— "the Vishnu/"

CHAPTER VI

THE DWELLER IN THE SUNKEN SHIP

After a moment of honor Brandon
walked away for a short distance, and
then, turning, he looked fixedly at the
wreck for a long time.

Could this be indeed the ship— ///^
Vishnu? By what marvellous coincidence
had he thus fallen upon it? It was in
1828 that the Vishnu sailed from Calcutta
for Manilla. Was it possible for this
vessel to be preserved so long ? And if
80, how did it get here ?

Yet why not ? As to its preservation
that was no matter in itself for wonder.
East Indian vessels are sometimes built
of mahogany, or other woods which last
for immense periods. Any wood might
endure for eighteen years if covered up
by sand. Besides, this vessel he recol-
lected had been laden with staves and
box shooks, with other wooden materials
which would keep it afloat. It might
have drifted about these seas till the
currents bore it here. After all it was
not so wonderful that this should be the
Vishnu of Colonel Despard.

The true marvel was that he himself
should have been cast ashore here on the
same place where this ship was.

He stood for a long time not caring to
enter. His strength had been worn down
by the privations of his island life ; his
nerves, usually like steel, were becoming
unstrung ; his mind had fallen into a
morbid state, and was a prey to a thou-
sand strange fancies. The closed doors
of the cabin stood there before him, and

he began to imagine that some fright;
spectacle was concealed within.

Perhaps he could find some traces
that tragedy of which he had heat
Since the ship had come here, and he k
been cast ashore to meet it, there w,
nothing which he might not anticipate,

A strange horror came over him as
looked at the cabin. But he was not t:
man to yield to idle fancies. Taking
long breath he walked across the islan:
and then back again. By that time *
had completely recovered, and the or
feeling now remaining was one of inters
curiosity.

This time he went up without hesiti
tation, and climbed on board the vesst
The sand was heaped up astern, tk
masts gone, '^nd the hatchways torn cf
as has been said. The wind which hac
blown the sand away had swept tht,
decks as clean as though they had beet
holystoned. Not a rope or a spar ci
any movable of any kind could b«
seen.

He walked aft. He tried the cabi:
door ; it was wedged fast as though par
of the front. Finding it immovable h
stepped back and kicked at it vigorously
A few sturdy kicks started the panel. I
gradually yielded and sank in. Then the
other panel followed. He could now
look in and see that the sand lay inside
to the depth of a foot. As yet, however
he could not enter. There was nothinga
else to do except to kick at it till it wasf

it-' ~!

THE DWF,I,t,ER IN THK SUNKEN SHU'

knocked away, and this after some
\ict\t labor was accomplished.
He entered. The cabin was about
Ko feet square, lighted by deadlights
tlic deck above. On each side were
|o state-rooms, probably intended for
ship's officers. The doors were all
»n. The sand had drifted in here and
irered the floor and the berths. The
)i of the cabin was covered with sand
the depth of a foot. There was no
tge opening through which it couid
Iter; but it had probably penetrated
^-oukIi the cracks of the doorway in a
jc, impalpable dust, and had covered
Icry available surface within.
■In the center of the cabin was a table,
[cured to the floor, as ships' tables
lays arc; and immediately over it
ling the barometer which was now all
krroded and covered with mould and
|st. A half dozen stools were around,
fme lying on their sides, some upside
|)\vn, and one standing upright. The
i)or by which he had entered was at one
]e, on the other side was another, and
ptwecn the two stood a sofa, the shape
which was plainly discernible under the
kiul. Over this was a clock, which had
:ked its last tick.

On some racks over the closet there
rere a few guns and swords, intended,
erhaps, for the defensive armament of
k brig, but all in the last stage of rust
1(1 of decay. Brandon took one or two
lown, but they broke with their own
^eij^ht.

The sand seemed to have drifted more
leeply into the state-rooms, for while its
jepth in the cabin was only a foot, in
lese the depth was nearly two feet.
Some of the bedding projected from the
berths, but it was a mass of mould and
Irumbled at the touch.
Brandon went into each of these rooms

in succession, and brushed out the heavy,
wet sand from the berths. The rotten
quilts and blankets fell with the sand in
matted masses on the floor, In each
room was a seaman's chest. Two of
these were covered deeply ; the other
two but lightly: the latter were unlocked,
and he opened the lids. Only some old
clothes appeared, however, and these in
the same stage of decay as everything
else. In one of them was a book, or
rather what had once been a book, but
now the leaves were all stuck together,
and formed one lump of slime and mould.
In spite of his most careful search he
had thus far found nothing whatever
which could be of the slightest benefit to
him in his solitude and necessity.

There were still two rooms which he
had not yet examined. These were at
the end of the cabin, at the stern of the
ship, each taking up one-half of the
width. The sand had drifted in here to
about the same depth as in the side-
rooms. He entered hist the one nearest
him, which was on the light side of the
ship. This room was about ten feet
long, extending from the middle of the
ship to the side, and about six feet wide.
A telescope was the first thing which at-
tracted his attention. It lay in a rack
near the doorway. He took it down, but
it fell apart at once, being completely
corroded. In the middle of the room
there was a compass, which hung from
the ceiling. But the iron pivot had
rusted, and the plate had fallen down.
Some more guns and swords were here,
bui all rusted like the others. There was
a table at the wall by the stern, covered
with sand. An armchair stood close by
it, and opposite this was a -ouch. At
the end of this room was a berth which
had the same appearance as the other
berths in the other rooms. The quilts

CORD AND CREESE

and mattresses, as he felt them beneath
the damp sand, were equally decayed.
Too long had the ship been exposed to
the ravages of time, and Brandon saw
that to seek for anything here which
could be of the slightest service to him-
self was in the highest degree useless.

This last room seemed to him as
though it might have been the captain's.
That captain was Cigole, the very man
who had flung him overboard. He had
unconsciously by so doing sent him to
the scene of his early crime. Was this
visit to be all in vain? Thus far it
seemed so. Rut might there not yet be
something beneath this sand which
might satisfy him in his search?

There still remained another room.
Might there not be something there ?

Brandon went back into the cabin and
stood looking at the open doorway of
that other room.

He hesitated. Why ? Perhaps it was
the thought that here was his last chance,
that here his exploration must end, and
if nothing came of it then all this adven-
ture would be in vain. Then the fantas-
tic hopes and fears which by turns had
agitated him would prove to have been
absurd, and he, instead of being sent by
Fate as the minister of vengeance, would
be only the commonplace victim of an
everyday accident.

Perhaps it was some instinct within
him that made known to his mind what
awaited him there. For now, as he stood,
that old horror camr^ upon him full and
strong. Weakness and excitement made
his heart beat and his ears ring. Now
his tAncy becane wild, and he recalled
with [lainful vividness his father's words :

'• h\ the crisis of your fate I will be
neav."

The horrors of the past night recurred.
The air of the cabin was close and suffo-

cating. There seemed in that dark room
before him some dread Presence, he knew
not what ; some Being, who had uncov.
ered this his abode and enticed him hen.

He found himself rapidly falling into
that state in which he would not have
been able either to advance or retreat,
One overmastering horror seized him,
Twice his spirit sought to overcome the
faintness and weakness of the flesh.
Twice he stepped resolutely forward;
but each time he faltered and recoiled,

Here was no place for him to summon
\ p his strength. He could bear it no
longer. He turned abruptly and rushed
out from the damp, gloomy place into the
warm, bright sunshine and the free air ol
heaven.

The air was bright, the wi.id blew fresh.
He drank in great draughts of that deli-
cious breeze, and the salt sea seemed to
be inhaled at each breath.

The sun shone brilliantly. The tea
rolled afar and all around, and sparkled
before him under the sun's rays, with that
infinite laughter, that av^pidfiov yiXaa/ia ol
which vEschylus spoke in his deep love
of the salt sea. Spei^king parenthetically,
it may be said that the only ones from
among articuiate speaking men who have
found fitting epithets for the sea are the
old Greek, the Scandinavian, and the
Englishman.

Brandon drew in new strength and life
with every breath, till at last he began to
think once more of returning.

But even yet he feared that when he
entered that cabin the spell would be on
him. The thought of attempting it was
intolfi'able. Yet what was to be done ?
To remain unsatisfied was equally intoler-
able. To go back to his rock was not to
be thought of.

But an effort must be made to get rid
of this womanly fear; why should he

5(lled out utterly.

THE DWELLER IN THE SUNKEN SHIP

ield to this ? Surely there were other
houghts which he might call to his mind,
here came over him the memory of that
illain who had cast him here, who now
as exulting in his fancied success and
earing back to his master the news.
here came to him the thought of his
ather, and his wrongs, and his woe.
here came to his memory his father's
ying words summoning him to ven-

feance. There came to him the thought
f those who yet lived and suffered in
pngland, at the mercy of a pitiless enemy.
Should he falter at a superstitious fancy,
he— who, if he lived, had so great a pur-
pose?

All superstitious fancy faded away.
|The thirst for revenge, the sense of in-
tolerable wrong, arose. Fear and horror
(lied out utterly, destroyed by Vengeance.

" The Presence, then, is my ally," he
murmured. " \ will go and face it."

And 'v. walked resolutely, with a firm
step, back into the cabin.

Yet even then it needed all the new-
born resolution which he had summoned
up, and all the thought of his wrong, to
sustain him as he entered that inner room.
Even then a sharp thrill passed through
him, and bodily weakness could only be
sustained by the strong, resolute, stub-
born soul.

The room was about the size of the
captain's. There was a table against the
siile, which looked like a leaf which could
hang down in case of necessity. A trunk
stood opposite the door, with the open
lid projecting upward out of a mass of
sand. Upon the wall there hung the
collar of a coat and part of t'\e shoulders,
the rest having apparently fallen away
from decay. The color of the coat could
still be distinguished ; it was red, and the
epaulets showed that it had belonged to
a British ofRcer.

Brandon, on entering, took in all these
details at a glance, and then his eyes
were drawn to the berth at the end of
the room, where that Thing lay whose
presence he had felt and feared, and
which he knew by an internal conviction
must be here.

There it awaited him, on the berth.
Sand had covered it, like a coverlet, up
to the neck, while beyond that protruded
the head. It was turned toward him ; a
bony skeleton head, whose hollow cavities
seemed not altogether vacancy, but
rather dark eyes which looked gloomily
at him; dark eyes fixed, motionless;
which had been thus fixed through the
long years, watching wistfully for him,
expecting his entrance through that
doorway. And this was the Being who
had assisted him to the shore, and who
had thrown off the covering of sand
with which he had concealed himself, so as
to bring him here before him. Brandon
stood motionless, mute. The face was
turned toward him— that face which is
at once human and yet most fright !ul,
iince it is the face of Death — the face of
a skeleton. The jaws had fallen apart,
and that fearful grin which is fixed on the
fleshless face here seemed like an effort
at a smile of welcome.

The hair still clung to that head, and
hung down over the fleshless forehead,
giving it more tliC appearance of Death
in life, and lending a new horror to that
which already pervaded this Dweller in
the Ship.

" The nightmare Life-in-Death was he,
That thicks men's blood with oold."

Brandon stood while his blood ran
chill, and his breath came fast.

If that Form had suddenly thrown off
its sandy coverlet and risen to his feet,
and advanced with extended hand to

o
o

C3C

*Z!ll

CORD AND CREESE

1 i i '

meet him, he would not have been sur-
prised, nor would he have been one whit
more horror-stricken.

Biandon stood fixed. He could not
move. He was like one in a nightmare.
His limbs seemed rigid. A spell was
upon him. His eyes seemed to fasten
themselves on the hollow cavities of the
Form before him. But under that tre-
mendous pressure he did not altogether
sink. Slowly his spirit rose; a thought
of flight came, but it was instantly re-
jected. The next moment he drew a
long breath. " I'm an infernal fool and
coward," he muttered. He took three
steps forward and stood beside the Figure.
He laid his hand firmly upon the head ; the
hair fell off at his touch. " Poor devil,"
he said, " I'll bury your bones at any rate."
The spell was broken, and Brandon was
himself again.

Once more Brandon walked out into
the open air, but this time there was not
a vestige of horror left. He had encoun-
tered what he dreaded, and it was now
in his eyes only a mass of bones. Yet
there was much to think of, and ihe
struggle which had raged wiihin him had
exhausted him.

The sea breeze played about him and
soon restored his strength. What next
to do was the question, and after some
deliberation he decided at once to remove
the skeleton and bury it.

A flat board which had served as a
shelf supplied him with an easy way of
turning up the sand. Occupation was
pleasant, and in an hour or two he had
scooped out a place large enough for the
purpose whii he had in view. He then
went back into the inner cabin.

Taking his board he removed carefully
the sand which had covered the skeleton.
The clothes came away with it. As he
moved his board along it struck some-

thing hard. He could not see in that dii;
light wlictt it was, so he reached downlil
hand and grasped it. ;

It was something which the fingerso
the skeleton also encircled, for his ox
hand as he grasped it touched thoi
fingers. Drawing it forth he perceivtl
that it was a common junk bottle tighitf
corked. ^

There seemed a ghastly comicality i
such a thing as this, that this latel
dreaded Being should be nothing mor;'
than a common skeleton, and that lit
should be discovered in this bed of horroi;
doing nothing more dignified thi
clutching a junk bottle like a sleepiii|'^
drunkard. Brandon smiled faintly
the idea ; and then thinking that, if t1
liquor were good, it at least would
welcome to him in his present situatioi
he walked out upon the deck, intendinj
to open it and test its contents. So hi|
sat down, and, taking his knife,
pushed the cork in. Then he smelled tk
supposed liquor to see what it might be,
There was only a musty odor. He
looked in. The bottle appeared to be|;
filled with paper. Then the whole truth
flashed upon his mind. He struck the
bottle upon the deck. It broke to atoms,
and there lay a scroll of paper covered
with writing.

He seized it eagerly, and was about
opening it to read what was written when
he noticed something else that also had
fallen from the bottle. '

It was a cord about two yards in length
made of the entrail of some animal, and
still as strong and as flexible as when it
was first made. He iook it up carefully,
wondering v.hy such a thing as this
should have Keen so carefully sealed up
and p eserved when so many other things
had been neglected.

Th^ cord, on a close examination, pre-

Inted nothing

|e fact that, thoi

) have been not

Iry peculiar m

Iraiuls. The

ten to give to

Irength togethei

bndon had h

lalays and Hi

]id this seeme

Ihich he had r

I At one end of

ronze about tl

garble, to which

a most pecu

■self was intend

"Adrift

Whoever

bat I, Lionel D

|7th Regiment, 1

Dul conspiracy ]

he captain and

|ind especially b

•■ i'xpecting
^drif . helplessl)
kiul waves, I sit
|o write all th
pair. I will en
pottle and fling
}od that he ms
|hose who ma)
vords, so that
iind bring the
bver finds this

MANUSCRIPT FOUND IN A BOTTLE

B in that di;
led down h

he fingers c
for his o\r
jched thoi
le perceivt
)0ttle tig 111

omicality :'

this lateli
ithing mor;
md that k
•ed of horro!
lified tha;

a sleepinj;

faintly ^
that, if th
t would h.
It situatiori
k, intendinji
nts. So hi;

knife, k'l
■ smelled tht[
it might bej
odor. Ht
iared to be
whole trutli
struck the
ce to atonisj
)er covered

was about|
ritten when
li also hadi

Is in lengtbi
minimal, andl
as when itf
p carefully,
ng as this!
y sealed up I
)ther things]

nation, pre*

Inted nothing very remarkable except
|e fact that, though very thin, it appeared

have been not twisted but plaited in a
try peculiar manner out of many fine

rands. The intention had evidently
ten to give to it the utmost possible
[rength together with the smallest size,
(randon had heard of cords used by
plays and Hindus for assassination,
[id this seemed like the description
Ihich he had read of them.

At one end of the cord was a piece of

^onze about the size of a common

garble, to which the cord was attached

a most peculiar knot. The bronze

Iself was intended to represent the head

of some Hindu idol, the grotesque fe-
rocity of its features, and the hideous
grimace of the mouth being exactly like
what one may see in the images of Mother
Kali or Bowhani.

At once the cord associated itself in his
mind with the horrors which he had heard
of as having been perpetrated in the
names of these frightful deities, and it
st-emed now to be more than a common
one. He carefully wound it up, placed
It ;n hb pojket, and prepared to examine
the manuscript.

The sun was high in the heavens, the sea
breeze still blew freshly, while Brandon,
opening the manuscript, began to read.

CHAPTER VH

MANUSCRIPT FOUND IN A BOTTLE

"Brig 'Vishnu,'
"Adrift in the Chinese Sea.
"July lo, 1828.

" Whoever finds this let him know

uiat I, Lionel Despard, Colonel of H. M.

|7th Regiment, have been the victim of a

Dul conspiracy performed against me by

le captain and crew of the brig Vt'shnu,
^nd especially by my servant, John Potts,
i'xpecting at any time to perish,
kdrif . helplessly, at the mercy of winds
knd waves, I sit down now before I die,
lo write all the circumstances of this
Affair. I will enclose the manuscript in a
bottle and fling it into the sea, trusting in
}od that he may cause it to be borne to
[hose who may be enabled to read my
vords, so that they may know my fate
bd bring the guilty to justice. Who-
ever finds this let him, if possible, have

it sent to my friend Ralph Brandon, of
Brandon Hall, Devonshire, England, who
will do more than any other man to cause
justice to have its due.

* To further the ends of justice and to
satisfy the desires of my friends, I will
write an account of the whole case.

" III the name of God, I declare that
John Potts is guilty of my death. He was
my servant. I first found him in India
under very remarkable circumstances.

" It was in the year 1826. The
Government was engaged in an effort
to put down bands of assassins by whom
the most terrific atrocities h:;d been com-
mitted, and I was appointed to conduct
the work in the district of Agra.

" The Thuggee society is still a
mystery, though its nature may yet be
revealed if they can ouiy capture the

iXl

LL,
O

■MHMMMr

viSa

J- l(

Il •'

I i I!

^:li:'i '

!i;:i:

chief* and make him confess. As yet
it is not fully known, and though I have
heard much which I have reported to
the Government, yet I am slow to believe
that any human beings can actually
practice what I have heard.

" The assassins whom I was pursuing
eluded our pursuit with marvellous agility
and cunning, but one by one we captured
them, and punished them summarily.
At last we surrounded a band of Thugs,
and to our amazement found among
them a European and a small boy. At
our attack the Hindus made a desperate
resistance, and killed themselves rather
than fall into our hands ; but the Euro-
pean, leading forward the little boy, fell
on his knees and implored us to save him.

" I had heard that an Englishman had
joined these wretches, and at first thought
that this was the man ; so, desirous of
capturing him, I ordered my men, when-
ever they found him, to spare his life if
possible. This man was at once seized
and brought before me.

" He hsd a piteous story to tell. He
snid that his name was John Potts, that
he belonged to Southampton, and had
been in India a year. He had come to
Agra to look out for employ as a servant,
and had been caught by the Thugs.
They offered to spare his life if he would
join them. According to him they
always make this offer. If it had only
been himself that was concerned he said
that he would have died a hundred times
rather than have accepted ; but his little
boy was with him, and to save his life he
consented, hoping that somehow or other
he might escape. They then received
him with some horrible ceremonies, and
marked on his arm and on the arm of his

* The chief was captured in 1830, and by his con-
fession all the atrocious system of Thuggee was re-
vealed.

CORD AND CREESE

son, on the inner part of the right elboi
the name of Bowhani in Hindu charai-
ters. Potts showed me his arm ac,
that of his son in proof of this.

" He had been with them, according!;
his own account, about three montit
and his life had been one continuoc
horror. He had picked up enough n.
their language to conjecture to sou:
extent the nature of their belief, whid
he asserted, would be most importr
information for the Government. Tk
Thugs had treated him very kindly, ((•
they looked upon him as one of therrr
selves, and they are all very humane an:r
affectionate to one another. His vvors
fear had been that they would compt;
him to do murder ; and he would hai;
died, he declared, rather than consent
I but, fortunately, he was spared. Tkl,
reason of this, he said, was because thttf
always do their murder by stranglinj
since the shedding of blood is not accept!
able to their divinity. He could not dt'
this, for it requires great dexteritj
Almost all their strangling is done by:
thin, strong cord, curiously twisted, abcr
six feet in length, with a weight at oti
end, generally carved so as to represer
the face of Bowhani. This they thro?
with a peculiar jerk around the neck c
their victim. The weight swings the con
round and round, while the strangle
pulls at the other end, and death is ine\i
table. His hands, he said, were coarsi
and r^lumsy, unlike the delicate Hindi
hands ; and so, although they forced hin
to practice incessantly, he could not learnj
He said nothing about the boy, but, fioir;
what T saw of that boy afterward, 1
believe that nature created him especial!;
to be a Thug, and have no doubt that litj
learned then to wield the cord with as
much dexterity as the best strangler oi|
them all.

His associat
Im much of t
jme of their I
that he said
fhuggee societ
m, a frightfi
|)y is the sight
jhose who are
lumon victims
ling of blood, i
le more of a
lotive for this
arely plunder,
'he reward is
ereafter, whi(
hem ; a life li
neclan Paradist
oys to be pc
latiety. Destn
;ind of duty, b
laturally perha
Vs the hunter
larried away b;
husiasm of the
iger, feels the
md displaying (
)assion is felt t
or it is man tl
kstroyed. He
the hunter of nr
cunning, fores
All this I aften
tion of the Go'
^ results.

Potts decla
had been on t
escape, but so
of these wret(
senses, sharpe
long practice, t
less. He had
and concluded
jthe efforts of tl
[these assassin;

[last saved him
4

;

MANUSCRIPT FOUND IN A BOTTLE

i right elbo.

indu charai.

lis arm at;

f this.

according!;

iree momfc
continues
p enough c
ure to son*
jeHef, whid
St importar
nment. Tl-
y kindly, fc
jne of theiTr;

humane ac:^

His vvorr;

ould comp"?

would hai'
lan consent
>pared. Tk
because thf
stranglinj
s not accipii
could not dt'
It dexteritj
is done byi
visted, abcr
weight at oni
to represer

they tliio»
the neck c
ngs the con
le strangle;
Jath is ine\>
were coarsii
icate Hindi'
r forced hiir
lid not learn
y, but, fi on
ifterward, 1
m especial!
)ubt that lifj
)rd with as
strangler

His association with them had shown

Sm much of their ordinary habits and

me of their beliefs. I gathered from

hat he said that the basis of the

huggee society is the worship of Bow-

(ani, a frightful demon, whose highest

y is the sight of death or dead bodies.

hose who are her disciples must offer up

uman victims killed without the shed-

ing of blood, and the more he can kill

e more of a saint he becomes. The

otive for this is never gain, for they

rely plunder, but purely religious zeal.

he reward is an immortality of bliss

ereafter, which Bowhani will secure

em ; a life like that of the Moham-

edan Paradise, where there are material

ys to be possessed forever without

latiety. Destruction, which begins as a

ind of duty, becomes also at last, and

aturally perhaps, an absorbing passion.

s the hunter in pursuing his prey is

arried away by excitement and the en-

husiasm of the chase, or, in hunting the

iger, feels the delight of braving danger

nd displaying courage, so here that same

assion is felt to an extraordinary degree,

or it is man that must be pursued and

estroyed. Here, in addition to courage,

he hunter of man must call into exercise

unning, foresight, eloquence, intrigue.

11 this I afterward brought to the atten-

ion of the Government with very good

esults.

" Potts declared that night and day he
'had been on the watch for a chance to
iescape, but so infernal was the cunning
of these wretches, and so quick their
senses, sharpened as they had been by
long practice, that success became hope-
less. He had fallen into deep dejection,
and concluded that his only hope lay in
the efforts of the Government to put down
I these assassins. Our appearance had at
I last saved him.

■^ 4

" Neither I, nor any of my men, nor
any Englishman who heard this story,
doubted for an instant the truth of every
word. All the newspapers mentioned
with delight the fact that an English-
man and his son had been rescued.
Pity was felt for that father who, for his
son's sake, had consented to dwell amid
scenes of terror, and sympathy for the
anguish that he must have endured
during that terrific captivity. A thrill of
horror passed through all our Anglo-
Indian society at the revelation which he
made about Thuggee ; and so great was
the feeling in his favor that a handsome
subscription was made up for him by
the officers at Agra.

" For my part I believed in him most
implicitly, and, as I saw him to be un-
usually clever, I engaged him at once to
be my servant. He stayed with me, and
every month won more and more of my
confidence. He had a good head for
business. Matters of considerable deli-
cacy which I entrusted to him were well
performed, and at last I thought it the
most fortunate circumstance in my Indian
life that I had found such a man.

** After about three years he expressed
a wish to go to England for the sake of
his son. He thought India a bad place
for a boy, and wished to try and start in
some business in his native land for his
son's sake.

'* That boy had always been my detes-
tation — a crafty, stealthy, wily, malicious
little demon, who was a perfect Thug in
his nature, without any religious basis to
his Thuggeeism. I pitied Potts for being
the father of such a son. I could not let
the little devil live in my house ; his
cruelty to animals, which he delighted to
torture, his thieving propensities, and nis
infernal deceit were all so intolerable.
He was not more than twelve, but he

€.C

CORD AND CREESE

I'. ,;'

was older in iniquity than many a gray-
headed villain. To oblige Potts, whom
I still trusted implicitly, 1 wrote to my
old friend Ralph Brandon, of Brandon
Hall, Devonshire, requesting him to do
what he could for so deserving a man.

" Just about this time an event occurred
which has brought me to this.

" My sweet wife had been ill for two
yrars. I had obtained a faithful nurse in
the person of a Mrs. Compton, a poor
creature, but gentle and affectionate, for
whom my dear love's sympathy had been
excited. No one could have been more
faithful than Mrs. Compton, and I sent
my darling to the hill station at Assurabad
in hopes that the cooler air might rein-
vigorate her.

" She died. It is only a month or two
since that frightful blow fell and crushed
me. To think of it overwhelms me — to
write of it is impossible.

" I could think of nothing but to fly
/rom my unendurable grief. I wished to
get away from India anywhere. Before
the blow crushed me I hoped that I
might carry my darling to the Cape of
Good Hope, and therefore I remitted
there a large sum ; but after she left me I
cared not where I went, and finding that
a vessel was going to Manilla I decided
to go there.

" It was Potts who found out this, I
now know that he engaged the vessel,
put the crew on board, who were all
creatures of his own, and took the route
to Manilla for the sake of carrying out
his designs on me. To give everything
a fair appearance the vessel was laden
with stores and things of that sort, for
which there was a demand at Manilla.
It wrs with the most perfect indifference
that i embarked. I cared not where I
went, and hoped that the novelty of the
sea voyage might benefit me>

" The captain was an Italian namej
Cigole, a low-browed, evil-faced villain
The mate was named Clark. Then
were three Lascars, ./ho formed the smai
crew. Potts came with me, and also at
old servant of mine, a Malay, whost
life I had saved years before. His natnt
was Uracao. It struck me that tkt
crew was a small one, but I thought tlit
captain knew his business better than I,
and so I gave myself no concern.

"After we embarked Potts' mannti
Changed very greatly. I remember this
now, though I did not notice it at tht
time, for I was almost in a kind of stupor,
He was particularly insolent to Uracao
I remember once thinking indifferentlj
that Potts would have ^o be repri
manded, or kicked, or something of thai
sort, but was not capable of any action

" Uracao had for years slept in fion;
of my door when at home, and whet
travelling, in the same room. Ik
always waked at the slightest noise.
He regarded his life as mine, and
thought that he was bound to watd
over me till I died. Although this
was often inconvenient, yet it would
have broken the affectionate fellow's
heart if I had forbidden it, so it went on.
Potts made an effort to induce him to
sleep forward among the Lascars, but
though Uracao had borne insolence
from him without a murmur, this pro-
posal made his eyes kindle with a
menacing fire which silenced the other [
into fear.

"The passage was a quick one, and;
at last we were only a few days' sail
from Manilla. Now our quiet came to
an end. One night I was awakened u]
a tremendous struggle in my cabin.
Starting up, I saw in the gloom twoi
figures struggling desperately. It was I
impossible to see who they were* li

iiang frm th
Sstois. They
What the
[ercely.

No answer
loment there
nil one of the
;hoin he helc
rom niy berth,
ut in the cab

" ' You can't

recognized a
listois.'

" ' He hasn't,"
Potts took thei

"'Who are
he man who
[own.

"'Uracao,' s;
ir you're lost I
What the
;ried angrily,
I suspicion.

" ' Feel aroun

" Hastily 1 pt
)f horror pass
he Thuggee C(

" ' Who is thi

lan who had fi

' Potts,' crie

ire under youi

:ried to Strang

he Lascars .

ark on their i
ani in Hindu I
All the tru
cross me. 1 1
:o look under
stooped there
: "'Help! CI
voice of Potts.
mV

^ "At this a tu
allien. Uracao
ose to his feet,

MANUSCRIPT FOUND IN A BOTTLE

ilian name^
iced villain
rk. Then
ed the smi
and also at
ilay, whosf

His naint
e that tilt
thought ttt
tter than 1
ern.

tts' mannti
lember this
:e it at tht
id of stupor
to Uracao.
indifferentlj

be repri'

ling of thai

any action,

;pt in fion;

and when
room. He
itest noise.
mine, and
1 to watcli
hough this
t it would
ite fellow's
it went on,
uce him to
.ascars, bul
I insolence
r, this pro-
lie with a
1 the other'

:k one, arid I
days' sail
et came to
krakened bj,.
my cabin, ■.
gloom two
ty. It was
y were, ll

[ji

;

anng frcn the berth and felt for my
iistols. They were gone.
" ' What the devil is this ? ' I roared

lercely.

No answer came ; but the next

oment there was a tremendous fall,
nd one of the men clung to the other,
^honi he held downward. I sprang
roin my berth. There were low voices
ut in the cabin.

" ' You can't,' said one voice, which

recognized as Clark's. * He has his
iistols.'

" ' He hasn't,' said the voice of Cigole.
Potts took them away. He's unarmed.'

"'Who are you?' I cried, grasping
he man who was holding the other
own.

" ' Uracao,' said he. ' Get your pistols
n you're lost ! '

What the devil is the matter?' I
:ried angrily, for I had not even yet

suspicion.

" ' Feel around your neck,' said he.

" Hastily I put my hand up. A thrill
)f horror passed through me. It was
he Thuggee cord.

" ' Who is this ? ' I cried, grasping the
nan who had fallen.

Potts,' cried Uracao. ' Your pistols
re under your berth. Quick ! Potts
ried to strangle you. There's a plot.
he Lascars are Thugs. I saw the

ark on their arms, the name of Bow-
ani in Hindu letters.'

All the truth now seemed to flash
cross me. I leaped back to the berth
look under it for my pistols. As I
%tooped there was a rush behind me.

•"Help! Clark! quick!' cried the

oice of Potts. ' This devil's strangling
r

" At this a tumult arose round the two

en. Uracao was dragged off. Potts

ose to his feet, At that moment I found

my pistols. I could not distinguish per-
sons, but I ran the risk and fired. A
sharp cry followed. Somebody was
wounded.

"'Damn him!' cried Potts, 'he's got
the pistols.'

" The next moment they had all rushed
out, dragging Uracao with them. The
door was drawn to violently with a bang
and fastened on the outside. They had
captured the only man who could help
me, and I was a prisoner at the mercy of
these miscreants.

" All the remainder of the night and
until the following morning I heard noises
and trampling to and fro, but had no idea
whatever of what was going on. I felt
indignation at the treachery of Potts, who,
I now perceived, had deceived me all
along, but had no fear whatever of any-
thing that might happen. Death was
rather grateful than otherwise. Still I
determined to sell my life as dearly as
possible, and, loading my pistol once
more, I waited for them to come. The
only anxiety which I felt was about my
poor faithful Malay.

" But time passed, and at last all was
still. There was no sound either of
voices or of footsteps. I waited for what
seemed hours in impatience, until finally
I could endure it no longer. I was not
going to die like a dog, but determined
at all hazards to go out armed, face
them, and meet my doom at once.

" A few vigorous kicks at the door
broke it open and I walked out. There
was no one in the cabin. I went out on
deck. There was no one there. I saw
it all. I was deserted. Moreover, the
brig had settled down so low in the
water that the sea was up to her gun-
wales. I looked out over the ocean to
see if I could perceive any trace of them
— Potts and the rest. I saw nothing.

u.,
o

l.U

4«

CORD AND CREESE

They must have left long before. A
faint smoke in the hatchway attracted my
attention. Looking there, I perceived
that it had been burned av^ray. The
villains had evidently tried to scuttle the
brig, and then, to make doubly sure, had
kindled a fire in the cargo, thinking that
the wooden materials of which it was
composed would kindle readily. But the
water had rushed in too rapidly for the
flames to spread ; nevertheless, the water
was not able to do its work, for the wood
cargo kept the brig afloat. She was
water-logged, but still floating.

" The masts and shrouds were all cut
away. The vessel was now little better
than a raft, and was drifting at the mercy
of the ocean currents. For my part I
did not much care. I had no desire to
go to Manilla or anywhere else ; and the
love of life which is usually so strong did
not exist. I should have preferred to
have been killed or drowned at once.
InF*e;^d of that I lived.

*' w.ie died on June 15. It was the 2d
of July when this occurred which I have
narrated. It is now the loth. For a week
I have been drifting I know not where.
I have seen no land. There are enough
provisions and water on board to sustain
me for months. The weather has been
fine thus far.

" I have written this with the wish that
whoever may find it will send it to Ralph
Brandon, Esq., of Brandon Hall, Devon-
shire, that he may see that justice is done
to Potts, and the rest of the conspirators.
Let him also try, if it be not too late, to
save Uracao. If this fall into the hands
of anyone going to England let it be de-
livered to him as above, b'ji if the finder
be going to India let him place it in the
hands of the Governor General ; if to
China or any other place, let him give it
to the authorities, enjoining then., how-

ever, after using it, to send it to Ralp ,
Brandon as above.

" It will be seen by this that John Toti ;
was in connection with the Thugs, prot!.|
ably for the sake of plundering thost
whom they murdered ; that he conspire j
against me and tried to kill me ; and tha
he has wrought my death (for I expect t
die). An examination of my desk shows
that he has taken papers and bank bjlli
to the amount of four thousand pounds
with him. It was this, no doubt, that in
duced him to make this attempt againsi'
me.

" I desire also hereby to appoint Heiin
Thornton, Sen., Esq,, of Holby Pembroke
Solicitor, my executor and the guanliar;
of my son Courtenay, to whom I bequeatt
a father's blessing and all that I possess
Let him try to secure my money in Cape
Town for my boy, and, if possible, to re.
gain for him the four thousand pounds
which Potts has carried off.

" Along with this manuscript I also en-
close the strangling cord.

" May God have mercy upon my soul'
Amen.

" Lionel Despard."

"July 28. — Since I wrote this thert
has been a series of tremendous storms,
The weather has cleared up again. I
have seen no land and no ship.

"July 31. — Land to-day visible at a
great distance on the south. I know not
what land it may be. I cannot tell in
what direction I am drifting.

"August 2. — Land visible toward the
southwest. It seems like the summit o(
a range of mountains, and is probably
fifty miles distant.

"August 5. — A sail appeared on the-
horizon. It was too distant to perceive r
me. It passed out of sight.

"August 10. — A series of severe gales, |

MANUSCRIPT FOUND IN A BOTTLE

The sea always rolls over the brig in
these storms, and sometimes seems about
to carry her down.

" August 20.— Storms and calms alter-
nating. When will this end ?

•'August 25. — Land again toward the
west. It seems as though I may be
drifting among the islands of the Indian
Archipelago.

" September 2. — I have been sick for a
week. Unfortunately I am beginning
to recover again. A faint blue streak in
the north seems like land.

" September 10. — Open water.

"September 23. — A series of storms.
How the brig can stand it I cannot see.
I remember Potts telling me that she was
built of mahogany and copper- fastened.
She does not appear to be much injured.
I am exceedingly weak from want and
exposure. It is with difficulty that I can
move about.

" October 2. — Three months adrift. My
God have mercy on me, and make haste
to deliver me ! A storm is rising. Let all
thy waves and billows overwhelm me,
Lord !

" October 6. — A terrific storm. Raged
three days. The brig has run aground.
It is a low island, with a rock about five
miles away. Thank God, my last hour
is at hand ! The sea is rushing in with
tremendous violence, hurling sand upon
the brig. I shall drift no more. I can
scarcely hold this pen. These are my
last words. This is for Ralph Brandon.
My blessing for my loved son. I feel

death coming. Whether the storm takes
me or not, I must die.

" Whoever finds this will take it from
my hand, and, in the name of God, I
charge him to do my bidding."

This was the last. The concluding
pages of the manuscript were scarcely
legible. The entries were meagre and
formal, but the handwriting spoke of the
darkest despair. What agonies had this
man not endured during those three
months !

Brandon folded up the manuscript
reverentially, and put it into his pocket.
He then went back into the cabin. Tak-
ing the bony skeleton hand he exclaimed,
in a solemn voice, " In the name of God,
if I am saved, I swear to do your bid-
ding ! "

He next proceeded to perform the last
offices to the remains of Colonel Despard.
On removing the sand something bright
struck his eye. It was a gold locket.
As he tried to open it the rusty hinge
broke, and the cover came of?.

It was a painting on enamel, which
was as bright as when made — the por-
trait of a beautiful woman, with pensive
eyes, and delicate, intellectual expression ;
and appeared as though it might have
been worn around the colonel's neck.
Brandon sighed, then putting this in his
pocket with the manuscript he proceeded
to his task. In an hour the remains
were buried in the grave on Coffin
Island.

O
O

r"*

u.,
o

CO
i'C

CHAPTER VIII

THE SIGNAL OF FIRE

The wreck broke in upon the mo-
notony of Brandon's island life and
changed the current of his thoughts.
The revelations contained in Despard's
manuscript came with perfect novelty to
his mind. Potts, his enemy, now stood
before him in darker colors, the foulest
of miscreants, one who had descended to
an association with Thuggee, one who
bore on his arm the dread mark of Bow-
hani. Against such an enemy as this he
would have to be wary. If this enemy
suspected his existence could he not
readily find means to effect his destruc-
tion forever? Who could tell what
mysterious allies this man might have ?
Cigole had tracked and followed him
with the patience and vindictiveness of a
bloodhound. There might be many
such as he. He saw plainly that if he
ever escaped his first and highest neces-
sity would be to work in secret, to con-
ceal his true name, and to let it be sup-
posed that Louis Brandon had been
drowned, while another name would
enable him to do what he wished.

The message of Despard was now a
sacred legacy to himself. The duty
which the murdered man imposed upon
his father must now be inherited by him.
Even this could scarcely add to the obli-
gations to vengeance under which he
already lay ; yet it freshened his passion
and quickened his resolve.

The brig was a novelty to him here,
and as day succeeded to day he found
occupation in searching her. During the

hotter part of the day he busied himself
in shovelling out the sand from the cabin
with a board. In the cool of the morn-
ing or evening he worked at the hatch-
way. Here he soon reached the cargo,

This cargo consisted of staves and
short boards. All were blackened, and
showed traces of fire. The fire seemed
to have burned down to a depth of four
feet, and two or three feet under the
sides; then the water coming in had
quenched it.

He drew out hundreds of these staves
and boards, which were packed in bundles,
six boards being nailed together as box
shooks, and thirty or forty staves. These
he threw out upon the deck and on the
sand. What remained he drew about
and scattered loosely in the hold of the
vessel. He did this with a purpose, for
he looked forward to the time when some
ship might pass, and it would then be
necessary to attract her attention. There
was no way of doing so. He had no
pole, and if he had it might not be noticed.
A fire would be the surest way of draw-
ing attention, and all this wood gave
him the means of building one. He scat-
tered it about on the sand, so that it
might dry in the hot sun.

Yet it was also necessary to have some
sort of a signal to elevate in case of need,
He had nothing but a knife to work
with ; yet patient effort will do much, and
after about a week he had cut away the
rail that ran along the quarter-deck,
which gave him a pole some twenty feet

THE SIGNAL OF FIRE

in length. The nails that fastened the
boards were all rusted so that they could
not be used in attaching anything to
this. He decided when the time came to
tic his coat to it, and use that as a Hag.
It certainly ought to be able to attract
attention.

Occupied with such plans and labors
and purposes as these, the days passed
quickly for two weeks. By that time the
tierce rays of the sun had dried every
board and stave so that it became like
tinder. The ship itself felt the heat ; the
seams gaped more widely, the boards
warped and fell away from their rusty
nails, the timbers were exposed all over
it, and the hot, dry wind penetrated every
cranny. The interior of the hold and the
cabin became free from damp, and hot
and dry.

Then Brandon flung back many of the
boards and staves loosely ; and after
enough had been thrown there he worked
luboriously for days cutting up large
numbers of the boards into fine splints,
until at last a huge pile of these shavings
were accumulated. With these and his
pistol he would be able to obtain light
and fire in the time of need.

The post which he had cut off was
then sharpened at one end, so that he
could fix it in the sand when the time
came, should it ever come. Here, then,
these preparations were completed.

After all his labor in the cabin nothing
was found. The bedding, the mattresses,
the chests, the nautical instruments had
all been ruined. The tables and chairs
fell to pieces when the sand was removed ;
the doors and wood-work sank away ;
the cabin, when cleared, remained a
wreck.

The weather continued hot and dry.
At night Brandon flung himself dow
wherever he happened to be, either A

the brig or at the rock. Every day he
had to go to the rock for water, and also
to look out toward the sea from that side.
At first, while intent upon his woik at the
ship, the sight of the barren horizon every
day did not mjiterially affect him ; he rose
superior to despondency ard cheered
himself with his task. But at length, at
the end of about three weeks, all this
work was r!one and nothing more re-
mained. His only idea was to labor to
effect his escape, and not to ensure his
cortifort during his stay.

Now as day succeeded to day all his
old gloom returned. The excitement of
the last few weeks had acted favorably
upon his bodily health, but when this was
removed he began to feel more than his
old weakness. Such diet as his might
sustain nature, but it could not preserve
health. He grew at length to loathe the
food which he had to take, and it was
only by a stern resolve that he forced
himself to swallow it.

At length a new evil was superadded
to those which had already afflicted him.
During the first part of his stay the hol-
low or pool of water on the rock had
always been kept filled by the frequent
rains. But now for three weeks, in fact
ever since the uncovering of the Vishnu,
not a single drop of rain had fallen. The
sun shone with intense heat, and the
evaporation was great. The wind at
first tempered this heat somewhat, but at
last this ceased to blow by day, and often
for hours there was a dead calm, in which
the water of the sea lay unruffled and
all the air was motionless.

If there could only have been some-
thing which he could stretch over that
precious pool of water he might then have
arrested its flight. But he had nothing,
and could contrive nothing. Every day
saw a perceptible decrease in its volume,

CD
O

cx:

I'.C

CORD AND CREESE

and at last it went down so low that he
thought he could count the number of
days that were left him to live. But his
despair could not stay the operation of
the laws of nature, and he watched the
decrease of that water as one watches
the failing breath of a dying child.

Many weeks passed, and the water of
the pool still diminished. At last it had
sunk so low that Brandon could not hope
to live more than another week unless
rain came, and that now he could scarcely
expect. The lookout became more hope-
less, and at length his thoughts, instead
of turning toward escape, were occupied
with deliberating whether he would prob-
ably die of starvation or simple physical
exhaustion. He began to enter into that
state of mind which he had read in Des-
pard's MSS., in which life ceases to be a
matter of desire, and the only wish left is
to die as quickly and as painlessly as
possible.

At length one day, as his eyes swept
the water mechanically out of pure habit,
and not expecting anything, he saw far
away to the northeast something which
looked like a sail. He watched it for an
hour before he fairly decided that it was
not some mocking cloud. But at the
end of that time it had grown larger, and
had assumed the form which no cloud
could keep so long.

Now his heart beat fast, and all the
old longing for escape, and the old love
of I'fe, returned with fresh vehemence.
This new emotion overpowered him,
and he did not try to struggle with
it.

Now had come the day and the hour
when all life was in suspense. This was
his first hope, and he felt that it must be
his last. Experience had shown that the
island must lie outside the common track
of vessels, and, in the ordinary course of

things, if this passed by he could not
hope to see another.

Now he had to decide how to attract
her notice. She was still far away, yet
she was evidently drawing nearer. 1 lie
rock was higher than the mound and
more conspicuous. He determined to
carry his signal there, and erect it sonu-
where on that place. So he took up the
heavy staff, and bore it laboriously over
the sand till he reached the rock.

By the time that he arrived there, the
vessel had come nearer. Her topsails
were visible above the horizon. Her
progress was very slow, for there was
only very little wind. Her studding-sails
were all set to catch the breeze, and lier
course was such that she came gradually
nearer. Whether she would come near
enough to see the island was another
question. Yet if they thought of keeping
a lookout, if the men in the tops had
glasses, this rock and the signal could
easily be seen. He feared, however, tliat
this would not be thought of. The
existence of Coffin Island was not gener-
ally known, and if they supposed that
there was only open water here they
would not be on the lookout at all.

Nevertheless Brandon erected his sig-
nal, and as there was no place on the
solid rock where he could insert it he
held it up in his own hands. Hours
passed. The ship had come very much
nearer, but her hull was not yet visible,
Still he stood there under the burning
sun, holding aloft his signal. Fearing
that it might not be sufficiently conspicu-
ous he fastened his coat to the top, and
then waved it slowly backward and for-
ward.

The ship moved more slowly than
ever ; but still it was coming nearer;
for after some time, which seemed to
that lonely watcher like entire days, her

THE SIGNAL OF FIRE

hull l)rcame visible, and her course still
l;iy nearer.

Now Urandon felt that he must be
noticed. He waved his signal incessantly.
He even leaped in the air, so that he
miglit be seen. He thought that the
rocl< would surely be perceived from the
ship, and if they looked at that they
would see the figure upon it.

Tiicn despondency came over him.
The luill of the ship was visible, but it
was only the uppermost line of the hull.

; He was standing on the very top of the

'' rock, on its highest point. From the
deck they could not see the rock itself.

■ He stooped down, and perceived that
the hull of the ship sank out of sight.
Then he knew that the rock would not
be visible to them at all. Only the upper
half of his body could by any possibility

I be visible, and he knew enough of the sea
to understand that this would have the
(lark sea for a background to observers
in the ship, and therefore could not be
seen.

Still he would not yield to the dejection
that was rapidly coming over him, and
deepening into despair every minute.
Never before had he so clung to hope —
never before had his soul been more
indomitable in its resolution, more vigo-
rous in its strong self-assertion.

He stood there still waving his staff as
though his life now depended upon that
dumb yet eloquent signal — as though, like
Moses, as long as his arms were erect, so
long would he be able to triumph over
the assault of despair. Hours passed.
Still no notice was taken of him. Still
the ship held on her course slowly, yet
steadily, and no change of direction, no
movement of any kind whatever, showed
that he had been seen. What troubled
him now was the idea that the ship did
not come any nearer. This at first he

refused to believe, but at List he saw it
beyond doubt, for at length the hull was
no longer visible above the horizon.

The ship was now due north from the
rock, sailing on a line directly parallel
with the island. It came no nearer. It
was only passing by it. And now Bran-
don saw that his last hope of attracting
attention by the signal was gone. The
ship was moving onward to the west, and
every minute would make it less likely
that those on board could see the rock.

During the hours in which he had
watched the ship he had been busy con-
jecturing what she might be, and from
what port she might have come. The
direction indicated China almost un-
doubtedly. He depicted in his mind a
large, commodious, and swift ship, with
many passengers on their way back to
En , and. He imagined pleasant soci-
ety, and genial intercourse. His fancy
created a thousand scenes of delightful
association with " the kindly race of men."
All earthly happiness seemed to him at
that time to find its centre on board that
ship which passed before his eyes.

The seas were bright and sparkling,
the skies calm and deeply blue, the
winds breathed softly, the white swelling
sails puffed out like clouds against the
blue sky beyond. That ship seemed to
the lonely watcher like heaven itself.
Oh, to pass beyond the limits of this
narrow sandy waste ! to cross tne waters
and enter there ! Oh, to reach that
ship which moved on so majestically, to
enter there and be at rest !

It was not given to him to enter there.
Brandon soon saw this. The ship moved
farther away. Already the sun was
sinking, and the sudden night of the
tropics was coming swiftly on. There
was no longer any hope.

He flung the staff down till it broke

LJLI

o
E:

LjUI

CORD AND CREESE

asunder on the hard rock, and stood for
a few moments looking^ out at sea in mute
despair.

Yet could he have known what was
shortly to be the fate of that ship— shortly,
only in a few days — he would not have
despaired, he would have rejoiced, since
if death were to be his lot it were better
to die where he was than to be rescued
and gain the sweet hope of lie afresh,
nnd then have that hope extinguished in
blood.

But Brandon did not renkain long in
idleness. There was yet one resource —
one which he had already thought of
through that long day, but hesitated to
try, since he would have to forsake his
signal-station ; and to remain there with
his statf seemed to him then the only
purpos : of his life. Now since the signal-
staff had failed, he had broken it, as some
magican night break the wand which
had failed to work its appropriate spell,
and other thingf, were before him. He
took his coat and descended from the
rock to make a last effort for life. He
walked back through the gathering gloom
toward the wreck. He did not run, nor
did he in any way exhibit any excitement
whatever. He walked with a firm step
over the sand, neither hastening on nor
lagging back, but advancing calmly.

Before he had gone half-way it was
cV^rk. The sun had gone down in a sea
of iire, and the western sky, after flaming
for a time, had sunk into darkness. There
was no moon. The stars shone dimly
from behind a kind cf haze that over-
spread the sky. The wind came up
more freshly from the east, and Brandon
knew that this wind would carry the ship
which he wished to attract further and
further away. That ship had now died
out in the dark of the ebon sea ; the
chances that he could catch its notice

were all against him, ytt he never
faltered.

He had come to a fixed resolution,
which was at all hazards to kindle his
signal-fire, whatever the chances against
him might be. He thought that the
flames flaring up would of necessity at-
tract attention, and that the vessel might
turn, or lie-to, and try to discover what
this might be. If this last hope failed, he
was ready to die. Death had now be-
come to him rather a thing to be desired
thaii avoided. For he knew that it was
only a change of life; and how much
better would life be in a spiritual world
than life on this lonely isle.

This decision to die took away despair.
Despair is only possible to those who
value this eartaly life exclusively. To
the soul that looks forward to endless
lite despair can never come.

It was with this solemn purpose that
Brandon went to the wreck, seeking by a
last chance after life, yet now prepared to
relinquish it. He had struggled for life
all these wer!:s ; he had fought and
wrestled for life with unutterable spiritual
agony, all day long, on the summit ol
that rock, and now the bitterness ol
death was past.

An hour and a half was occupied in
the walk over the sand to the wreck.
Fresh waves of dark had come over all
things, and now, though there were no
clouds, yet the gloom was intense, and
faint points of light in the sky above
showed where the stars might be,
Where now was the ship for which
Brandon sought ? He cared not. He
Wcs going to kindle his signal-fire. The
wino was blowing freshly by the time that
he reached the place. Such a wind had
not blown for weeks. It would take the
ship away farther. What mattered it?
He would seize his last chance, if it were

THE SIGNAL OF FIRE

only to put that last chance away for-
ever, and thus make an end to sus-
pense.

All his prepar^'tions had long since
been made ; the dry wood lay loosely
thrown about the hold ; the pile of shav-
ings and fine threadlike splinters was
there awaiting him. He had only to
apply the fire.

He took his linen handkerchief and
tore it up into fine threads ; these he tore
apart again and rubbed in his hand till
they were olmost as loose as lint. He
then took these loose fibres, and descend-
ing into the hold, put them underneath
the pile which he had prepared. Then
he took his pistol, and holding it close to
the lint fired it.

The explosion rang out with startling
force in the narrow hull of the ship ; the
lint received the fire and glowed with the
sparks into spots of red-heat. Brandon
blew with his breath, and the wind
streaming down lent its assistance.

In a few moments the work was done.

It blazer i

But scarcely had the first flame ap
peared than a puff of wind came down
and extinguished it. The sparks, how-
ever, were there yet. It was as though
the fickle wind were tantalizing him — at
one time helping, at another baffling him.
Once more Brandon blew. Once more
the blaze arose. Brandon flung his coat
skirts in -.ront of it till it might gather
strength. The blaze ran rapidly through
the fine splints, it extended itself toward
the shavings, it threw its arms upward
I to the larger sticks.

The dry wood kindled. A million
j sparks flew out as it crackled under the
assault of the devouring fire. The flame
spread itself out to a larger volume ; it
widened, expanded, and clasped the kind-
ling all around in its fervid embrace.

The flame had been baffled ai f rst ; but
now, as if to assert its own supremacy, it
rushed out in all directions, with some-
thing that seemed almost like exultation.
That flame had once been conquered by
the waters in this very ship. The wood
had saved the ship from the v aters. It
was as though the WOOD had once in-
vited the Fire to union, but the Water
had stepped in and prevented the union
by force ; as though the Wood, resent-
ing the interfereiiv,e, had baffled the
assault? of the Water, and saved itself
intact through the long years for the
embrace of its first love.

Now the Fire sought the Wood once
more after so many years, and in ardor
unspeakable embraced its bride.

Such fantastic notions passed through
Brandon's fancy as he looked at the
triumph of the flame. But he could not
stay there long, and as he had not made
up his mind to give himself to the flames
he clambered up quickly out of the
hatchway and stood upon the sand
without.

The smoke was ^(ouring through the
hatchway, the black voluminous folds
being rendered visible by the glow of the
flames beneath, which now had gained
the ascendency, and set ai. *he winds at
defiance. Indeed it was so now that
whatever wind came only as listed the
flames, and Brandon, as he joked on,
amused himself with the thouf ht that the
wind was like the world of man, which,
when anyone is first struggling, has a
tendency to crush him, but when he has
once gained a foothold exerts all its
efforts to help him along. In this mood,
half cynical, half imaginative, he watched
the progress of the flames.

Soon all the fine kindling had crumbled
away at the touch of the fire, and commu-
nicating its own heat to the wood around,

CD
CO

CORD AND CREESE

it sank down, a glowing mass, the foun-
dation of the rising fires.

Here, from this central heart of fire,
the flames rushed on upon the wood
which lay loosely on all sides, filling the
hull. Through that wood the dry hot
wind had streamed for many weeks, till
every stave and every board had become
dry to its utmost possibility. Now at
the first breath of the flame the wood
yielded; at the first touch it flared up,
and prepared to receive the embrace of
the fire in every fibre of its being.

The flame rolled on. It threw its long
arms through the million interstices of
the loose piles of wood, it penetrated
everywhere with its subtle, far-reaching
power, till within the ship the glow
broadened and widened, the central heart
of fire enlarged its borders, and the
floods of flame that flowed from it
rushed with consuming fury through the
whole body of the ship.

Glowing with bright lustre, increasing
in that brightness every moment, leaping
up as it consumed and flashing vividly
as it leaped up, a thousand to.igues
of flame streamed upward through th*^
crannies of the gaping deck, and between
the wide orifices of the planks and timbers
the dazzling fi;;me.s gleamed ; a thousand
resistless arms seemed extended forward
to grasp the fabric now completely at
their mercy, and 'he hot breath of the fire
shrivelled up all in its path before yet its
hands were laid upon it.

And fast and furious, with eager
advance, thft flames rushed on devour-
ing everything. Through the hatchway,
around which the fiercest fires gathered,
the stream of flame rose impetuously on
high, in a straight upward torrent, hurl-
ing a vaijt pyramid of fire to the ebon
skies, a ^p^oydf fiiyav nuyuva which, like
that which once illumed the Slavonic

strait with the signal-fire first caught
from burning Troy, here threw its radi-
ance far ov . the deep.

While the lighter wood lasted the
flame was in the ascendant, and nobly jt
did its work. Whatever could be done
by bright radiance and far-penetrating
lustre was done here. If that ship
which had passed held any men on
board capable of feeling a human interest
in the visible signs of calamity at sea,
they would be able to read in this flame
that there was disaster somewhere upon
these waters, and if they had human
hearts they would turn to see if there
was not some suffering which they might
relieve.

But the lighter and the dryer wood
was at last consumed, and now there
remained that which Brandon had never
touched, the dense masses which still
lay piled where they had been placed
eighteen years before. Upon these the
fire now marched. But already the long
days and weeks of scorching sun and
fierce wind had not been without their
effects, and the dampness had been sub-
dued. Besides, the fire that advanced
upon them had already gained immense
advantage ; for one-half of the brig was
one glowing mass of heat, which sent
forth its consuming forces, and withered
up, and blighted, and annihilated all
around. The close-bound and close-
packed masses of staves and boards re-
ceived the resistless embrace of the fire,
and where they did not flame they still |
gave forth none the less a blazeless glow,

Now from the burning vessel the flame |
arose no more, but in its p'xe there ap- 1
peared that which sent forth as vivid a
gleam, and as far-flashing alight. The
fire had full sway, though it gave forth |
no blaze, and, while it gleamed but little,
still it devoured. From the sides of the I

, i , . I ; I . I ( I

THE SIGNAL OF FIRE

ship the planks, blasted by the intense
heat and by the outburst of the flames,
had sprung away, and now for nearly all
the length of the vessel the timbers were
exposed without any covering. Between
these flashed forth the gleam of the fire in-
side, which now in one pure mass glowed
with dazzling brightness and intense heat.

But the wood inside, damp as it was,
and solid in its fibre, did not allow a very
swift progress to the fire. It burned, but
it burned slowly. It glowed like the
charcoal of a furnace from behind its
wooden bars.

The massive timbers of mahogany
wood yielded slowly and stubbornly to
the conflagration. They stood up like
iron bars long after all the interior was
one glowing mass. But, though they
yielded slowly, still they had to yield with
the passage of hours to the progress of
the fire. And so it came to pass that at
length the strong sides, sapped by the
steady and resistless assault, surrendered.
One by one the stout timbers, now wasted
and weakened, gave way and sank down
into the fervid mass beneath. At last the
whole centre was one accumulation of
glowing ashes, and all that remained
were the bow, covered with sand, and the
stern, with the quarter-deck.

The fire spread in both directions. The
stern yielded first. Here the strong deck
sustained for a time the onset of the fire
that had consumed everything beneath,
but at last it sunk in ; the timbers of the
sides followed next, and all had gopj.
With the bow there was a longer p,id a
harder struggle. The fire had penetrated
far into that part of the vessel ; the flames
smouldered there, but the conflagration
went on, and smoke and blue flames
issued from every part of that sandy
mound, which, fiercely assailed by the
heat, gave way in every direction, broke in-

to a million crevices, and in places melted
and ran together in a glowing molten
heap. Here the fires burned longest, and
here they lived and gleamed until morning.

Long before morning Brandon had
fallen asleep. He had stood first near
the burning wreck. Then the heat
forced him to move away, and he had
gone to a ridge of sand, where this penin-
sula joined the island. There he sat
down, watching the conflagration for a
long time. There the light flashed, and
if that ship for which he was signalling
had noticed this sign, and had examined
the island, his figure could be seen by any-
one that chose to examine.

But hours passed on. He strained his
eyes through the gloom in the direction
in which the ship had vanished to see if
there were any sign there. None ap-
peared. The progi ess of the fire was slow.
It went on burning and glowing with won-
derful energy all through the night, till at
last, not long before dawn, the stern fell
m, and nothing now was left but the sand-
mound that covered the bows, which, burn-
ning beneath, gave forth smoke and fire.

Then, exhausted by fatigue, he sank
down on the sand and fell into a sound
sleep.

In the midst of thronging dreams, from
the depths of that imaginary land where
his weary spirit wandered in sleep, he
was suddenly roused. A hand was laid
on his shoulder, which shook him
roughly, and a hoarse voice shouted in
his ear, " Messmate ! Hallo, messmate !
Wake up!"

Brandon started up and gazed with
wild, astonished eyes around. It was
day. The sun was two or three hou -s
above the horizon. He was surroundc^
by half a dozen seamen, who were regard-
ing him with wondering but kindly faces.
The one who spoke appeared to be their

CD
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'K
„.>-

€C
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•"•■'■"•in

\.y

leader. He held a spy-glass in his hand.
He was a sturdy, thick-set man of about
fifty, whose grizzled hair, weather-beaten
face, groggy nose, and whiskers, coming
all round under his chin, gave him the
air of old Benbow as he appears on the
stage—" a reg'lar old salt," " sea-dog," or
whatever other name the popular taste
loves to apply to the British tar.

" Hard luck here, messmate," said this
man, with a smile. " But you're all right

Won't you
held out a

CORD AND CREESE

now. Come ! Cheer up !
take a drink? " And he
brandy-flask.

Brandon rose mechanically in a kind of
maze, not yet understanding his good for-
tune, not yet knowing whether he was
alive or dead. He took the flask and
raised it to his lips. The inspiriting
draught gave him new life. He looked
earnestly at the captain as he handed it
back, and then seized both his hands.

"God Almighty bless you for this,
noble friend, whoever you are ! But how
and when did you get here ? Who are
you ? Did you not see my signal on the
rock yesterday ? "

" One question at a time, messmate,"
said the other laughingly. " I'm Captain
Corbet, of the ship Falcon, bound from
Sydney to London, and these are some of
my men. We saw this light last night
about midnight, right on our v/eather
bow, and came up to see what it was.
We found shoal water, and kept off till
morning. There's the Falcon, sir."

The captain waved his hand proudly to
where a large, handsome ship lay, about
seven miles away to the south.

" On your bow ? Did you see the fire
ahead of you ? " asked Brandon, who
now began to comprehend the situation.

"Yes."

" Then you didn't pass me toward the
north yesterday?"

" No ; never was near this place before
this morning."

" It must have been some other ship,
then," said Brandon musingly.

" But how did you get here, and how
long have you been here ? "

Brandon had long since decided on the
part he was to play. His story was all
ready :

" My name is Edward Wheeler, i
came out supercargo in the brig Argo,
with a cargo of hogshead staves and box
shooks from London to Manilla. On the
i6th of September last we encountered a
tremendous storm and struck on this
sand-bank. It is not down on any of the
charts. The vessel stuck hard and fast,
and the sea made a clean breach over us,
The captain and crew put out the boat,
and tried to get away, but were swamped
and drowned. I stayed by the wreck till
morning. The vessel stood the storm
well, for she had a solid cargo, was
strongly built, and the sand formed
rapidly all about her. The storm lasted
for several days, and by the end of that
time a shoal had formed. Several storms
have occurred since, and have heaped the
sand all over her. I have lived here ever
since in great misery. Yesterday a vessel
passed, and I put up a signal on the rock
over there, which she did not notice. In
despair I set fire to the brig, which was
loaded with wood and burned easily. I
watched till morning, and then fell asleep.
You found me so. That's all I have to
say."

On hearing this story nothing could I
exceed the kindness and sympathy oi
these honest-hearted seamen. The cap-
tain insisted on his taking another drink,
apologized for having to carry him back
to England, and finally hurried him oil
to the boat. Before two hours Brandon |
I stood on the deck of the Falcon.

CHAPTER IX

THE MALAY PIRATE

Two days had passed since Brandon's
rescue. The light winu which had
brought up the Falcon soon died out,
and before the island had been left far
behind a calm succeeded, and there was
nothing left but to drift.

A calm in other seas is stillness, here
on the Indian Ocean it is stagnation.
The calmness is like Egyptian darkness.
It may be felt. The stagnation of the
waters seems deep enouq[h to destroy all
life there. The air is thick, oppressive,
feverish ; there is not a breath or a
murmur of wind ; even the swell of
ocean, which is never-ending, here ap-
proaches as near as possible to an end.
j The ocean rolled but slightly, but the
light undulations gave a lazy, listless
motion to the ship, the spars creaked
I monotonously, and the great sails flapped
I idly in the air.

At such a time the calm itself is suffi-
Iciently dreary, but now there was some-
thing which made all things still more
drear. For the calm was attended by a
thick fog; not a moist, drizzling fog like
[those of the North Atlantic, but a sultry,
[dense, dry fog ; a fog which gave greater
[emphasis to the heat, and, instead of
[alleviating it, made it more oppressive.
It was so thick that it was not possible
[while standing at the wheel to see the
jforecastle. Aloft, all the heavens were
Ihidden in a canopy of sickly gray;
Ibeneath, the sea showed the same color.
[its glassy surface exhibited not a ripple.
Ia small space only surrounded the vessel.

and beyond all things were lost to
view.

The sailors were scattered about the
ship in groups Some had ascended to
the tops with a faint hope of finding more
air ; some were lying flat on their faces
on the forecastle ; others had sought
those places which were under the sails
where the occasional flap of the broad
canvas sent down a slight current of air.

The captain was standing on the
quarter-deck, while Brandon was seated
on a stool near the wheel. He had been
treated by the captain w'*h unbounded
hospitality, and supplied with everything
that he could wish.

" The fact is," said the captain, who
had been conversing with Brandon, " I
don't like calms anywhere, still less
calms with fogs, and least of all, calms
off these infernal islands."

"Why?"

" Because to the north'ard is the Strait
of Sunda, and the Malay pirates are
always cruising about, often as far as
this. Did you ever happen to hear of
Zangorri ? "

" Yes."

" Well, all I can say is, if you hadn't
been wrecked, you'd have probably had
your throat cut by that devil."

" Can't anybody catch him ?"

" They don't catch him at any rate.
Whether they can or not is another
question."

" Have you arms ? "

'•Yes. I've got enough to give Zan-

>•■>

c.->
v-

'V,

■^ -O-

%"'.

--.III

CORD AND CREESE

i-orii a pleasanter reception than he
usually gets from a merchant-ship ; and
my lads are the boys that can use
them."

"I wonder what has become of that
other ship that passed me on the island,"
said Brandon, after a pause.

"She can't be \ery far away from us,"
replied the captain, " and we may come
up with her before we get to the Cape."

A silence followed. Suddenly the cap-
tain's attention was arrested by some-
thing. He raised his hand to his ear and
listened very attentively. " Do you hear
that? " he asked quickly.

Brandon arose and walked to where
the captain was. Then both listened.
And over the sea there came unmistaka-
ble sounds. The regular movement of
vars ! Oars out on the Indian Ocean !
Yet the sound was unmistakable.

" It must be some poor devils that have
escaped from shipwreck," said the cap-
tain, half to himself.

"Well, fire a gun."

" No," said the captain cautiously,
after a pause. " It may be somebody
else. Wait a bit."

So they waited a little while. Sud-
denly there came a crv of human voices
— a volley of guns ! Shrieks, yells of
defiance, shouts of triumph, howls of
rage or of pain, all softened by the dis-
tance, and all in their unison sounding
appallingly as they were borne through
the gloom of the fog.

Instantly every man in the ship
bounded to his feet. They had not heard
the first sounds, but these they heard,
and in that superstition which is natural
to the sailer, each man's first thought
was that the noises came from the sky,
and so each looked with a stupefied
countenance at his neighbor.

But the captain did not share the

common feeling. " I knew it ! " he cried,
" I expecteu it, and blow my old eyes
out if I don't catch 'em this time!"

" What.? " cried Brandon.

But th: captain did not hear. In.
stantly his whole demeanor was changed.
He sprang to the companion-way. He
spoke but one word, not in a loud voice,
but in tones so stern, so startling, that
every man in the ship heard the word :

" Zangorri ! "

All knew what it meant. It meant
that the most bloodthirsty pirate of
these Eastern seas was attacking some
ship behind that veil of fog.

And what ship ? This was the thought
that came to Brandon. Could it by any
possibility be the one which passed by
him when he strove so earnestly to gain
her attention ?

" Out with the long-boat ! Load (lie
carronade ! Man the boat ! Hurry up,
lads, for God's sake ! " And the captain
dashed down into the cabin. In an in-
stant he was back again, buckling on a
belt with a couple of pistols in it, and
calling to his men, " Don't shout, don't
cheer, but hurry, for God's sake ! "

And the men rushed about, some col-
lecting arms, others laboring at the boat.
The Falcon was well supplied with arms,
as the captain had said. Three guns,
any CjUantity of smaller arms, and a Long
Tom, formed her armament, while the
long-boat had a carronade in her bows,
Thanks to the snug and orderly arrange-
ment ot the ship, everything was soon
ready. The long-boat was out and atloat,
All the seamen except four were on board,
and the captain went down last.

" Now, pull away, lads ! " he cried ; "no
talking," and he took the tiller ropes. As I
he seated himself he looked toward the
bows, and his eyes encountered the calm j
face of Brandon.

THE MALAY PIRATE

" What ! you here ? " he cried, with un-
mistakable delight.

Brandon's reply consisted simply in
drawing a revolver from his pocket.

" You're a brick ! " said the captain.

Not another word was spoken. The
captain steered the boat toward the direc-
tion from which the sounds came. These
grew louder every moment — more men-
acing and more terrible.

The sailors put all their strength to the
oars, and drove the great boat through
the water. To their impatience it seemed
as though they would never get there.
Yet the place which they desired so much
to reach was not far away ; the sounds
were now very near; and at length, as
they drove onward, the tall sides of a ship
burst on their sight through the gloom.
By its side was a boat of the kind that is
used by the Malays. On board the ship
a large number of savage figures were
rushing about in mad ferocity.

In a moment the boat was seen. A
shout rose from the Malays. A score of
them clambered swiftly down the ship's
side to their boat, and a panic seemed to
seize all the rest, who stood looking
around irresolutely for some way of
escape.

The boatswain was in the bows of the
long-boat, and as the Malays crowded
i into their craft he took aim with the
carronade, and fired. The explosion
thundered through the air. A terrific
shriek followed. The next instant the
Malay boat, filled with writhing dusky
figures, went down beneath the waters.

The long-boat immediately after

touched the side of the ship. Brandon

I grasped a rope with his left hand, and,

t holding his revolver in his right, leaped

I upward. A Malay with uplifted knife

J struck at him. Bang 1 went the revolver,

;and the Malay fell dead. The next in-

stant Brandon was on board, followed by
all the sailors, who sprang upward and
clambered into the vessel before the Ma-
lays could rally from the first shock of
surprise.

But the panic was arrested by a man
who bounded upon deck through the
hatchway. Roused by the noise of the
gi'n he had hurried up, and reached the
d'.'ck just as the sailors arrived. In fierce,
siorn words he shouted to his men, and
the ivlalays gathered new courage from
his words. There were about fifty of
these, and not more than thirty English
sailors; but the former had carelessly
dropped their arms about, and most of
their pieces were unloaded ; the latter,
therefore, hud it all their own way.

The first thing that they did was to
pour a volley into the crowd of Malays,
as they stood trying to face their new
enemy. The next moment the sailors
rushed upon them, some with cutlasses,
some with pistols, and some with clubbed
muskets.

The Malays resisted desperately. Some
fought with their creeses, others snatched
up muskets and used them vigorously,
others, unarmed, flung themselves upon
their assailants, biting and tearing like
wild beasts.

In the midst of the scene stood the
chief, wielding a clubbed musket. He
was a man of short stature, broad chest,
and great muscular power. Three or
four of the sailors had already been
knocked down beneath his blows.

" Down with him !" yelled the captain.
"It's Zangorri ! "

A venomous smile passed over the
dark face of the Malay. Then he shouted
to his men, and in an instant they rushed
to the quarter-deck and took up a posi-
tion there, A few of them obtained some
more muskets that lay about.

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The captain shouted to his men, who
were pursuing the Malays, to load once
more. They did so, poured in a volley,
and then rushed to the quarter-deck.
Now a fiercer fight took place. Tlie
captain with his pistol shot one man
dead , the next instant ae was knocked
down. The boatswain was grappled by
two powerful men. The rest of the sailors
were driving all before them.

Meanwhile Brandon had been in the
very centre of the fight. With his re-
xolvec in hi? left hand he held a cutlass in
his right, and every blow that he ^^ave
told. He had sought all through the
struggle to reach th i: spOt where Zangorri
stooi.but had hitherto been unsuccessful.
At the retreat which the Malays made he
hastily loaded three of the chambers of
his revolver which he had emptied into
the hearts of three Malays, an 'i sp* ^ng
upon the quarter-deck first. The man
who struck down the captain fell dead
from Brandon's pistol, just as h^ stooped
to plunge his knife into the heart of the
prostrate man. Another shot sent over
one of the boatswain's assailants, and the
other assailant was kicked up into the
air and overboard by the boatswain
himself.

After this Brandon had no more trouble
to get at Zangorri, for the Malay chief
with a howl of fury called on his men,
and sprang at him. Two quick flashes,
two sharp reports, and down went twc of
them. Zangorri grasped Brandon's hand,
and raised his knife ; the next instant
Brandon had shifted his pistol to his
other hand ; he fired, Zangorri's arm fell
by his side, broken and the knife rang on
the ship's deck.

Brandon bounded at his throat. He
wound his arms around him, and with a
tremendous jerk hurled Zangoni to the
deck, and heUi him there.

CORD AN' CREESE

A cry of terror and dismay arose from
the Malays as they saw their chief fall,
The sailors shouted ; there was no
further fighting; some of the piratts
were killed, others leaped overboard and
tried to swim away. The sailors, in
their fury, shot at these wretches as they
swam. The cruelty of Zangorri had
stimulated such a thirst for vengeance
that none thought of giving quarter.
Out of all the Malays the only one alive
was Zangorri himself, who now lay gasp.
in,q[, with a mighty hand on his throat.

t\t last, as his strojjgles grew feebler,
Brandon relaxed his grasp. Some of the
sailors came up with uplifted knives to
put an end to Zangorri. " Back ! " cried
Brandon fiercely. " Don' touch him,
He's mine! '

" He must die!"

" That's for me to say," cried Brandon
in a stern voice that forbade reply. In
fact, the sailors seemed to feel that he
had the best claim here, since he harl not
only captured Zangorri with his own
hands, but had borne the chief share in
the fight,

" Englishman," said a voice, " I thank
you."

Brandon started.

It was Zangorri who had spoken ; and
in very fair English too.

" Do you speak English ? " was all
that he could say in his rurprise.

" I ought to. I've seen enough of
them/' growled the other.

" Vou scoundrel i " cried Brdmloii,
" you have nothing to thank me for,
You must die a worse death."

" Ah ! " sneered Zane:orri. " Wei, it's
about time.' But my death m 11 not pay
for the hundreds of English lives that 1
have taken. I thank you, though, for
you will Rive me time yet to tell the Eng-
lishmen how I h^te them."

*r^,

THE MALAY PIRATE

And the expression of hate that
gleamed from the eyes of the Malay was
appalling.

" Why do you hate them ? " asked
IJrandon, whose curiosity was excited.

" My brother's blood was shed by
them, and a Malay never forgives. Yet I
have never found the man I sought. If I
had found him I would not have killed
any more."

" The man — what man ? "

"The one whom I have sought for
fifteen years through all these seas," said
the other hoarsely.

" What is his name ? "

" I will not speak it. I had it carved
on my creese, which hangs around my
neck."

Brandon thrust his hand into the
bosom of the Malay where he saw a cord
which passed around his neck. He drew
forth a creese, and holding it up saw this
name cut upon the handle : " JOHN
POTTS."

The change that came over the severe,
impassive face of Brandon was so extra-
ordinary that even Zangorri in his pain
and fury saw it. He uttered an exclama-
tion. The brow of Brandon grew as
black as night, his nostrils quivered, his
eyes seemed to blaze with a terrific lustre,
nnd a slight foam spread itself over his
quivering lips. But he commanded him-
self by a violent effort.

He looked all around. The sailors

•^ere busy with the captain, who still lay
senseless. No one observed him. He
turned to Zangorri.

" This shall be mine," said he, and he
threw the rord around his own neck, and
put the creese under his waistcoat. But
the sharp eye of the Malay had been
watching him, and as he raised his arm
carelessly to put the weapon where he
(lesire(}, he thoughtlessly loosed bis bold.

That instant Zangorri took advantage
of it. By a tremendous effort he dis-
engaged himself and bounded to his feet.
The next instant he was at the taffrail.
One hasty glance all around showed him
all that he wished to see. Another
moment and he was beneath the water.
Brandon had been taken unawares, and
the Malay was in the water before he
could think. But he drew his revolver,
in which there yet remained two shots,
and, stepping to the taffrail, watched for
Zangorri to reappear.

During the fight a change had come
over the scene. The fog had begun to be
dissipated and a wider horizon appeared.
As Brandon looked he saw two vessels
upon the smooth surface of the sea.
One was the Falcon. The other was a
large Malay proa. On the decks of this
last was a crowd of men, perhaps about
fifty in number, who stood looking to-
ward the ship where the fight had been.
The sweeps were out, and they were
preparing to move away. But the escape
of Zangorri had aroused thetn, and they
were evidently waiting to see the result.
That result lay altogether at the disposal
of the man with the revolver, who stood
at the stern from which Zangorri had
leaped.

And now Zangorri's head appeared
above the waves, while he took a long
breath ere he plunged again. The re-
volver covered him. In a moment a
bullet could have plunged into his brain.
But Brandon did not fire. He could
not. It was too cold-blooded. True,
Zangorri was sta'ned with countless
crimes ; but all his crimes at that moment
were forgotten ; he did not appear as
Zangorri, *he merciless pirate, but simply
as a woumied wretch, trying to escape
from death, .^hat death Brandon could
not def^l him,

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The sailors were still intent upon the
captain, whose state was critical, and
Brandon alone watched the Malay. Soon
he saw those on board the proa send
down a boat and row quickly toward
him. They reached him, dragged him
on board, and then rowed back.

Brandon turned away. As yet no one
had been in the cabin. He hurried
thither to see if perchance anyone was
there who might be saved.

He entered the cabin. The first look
which he gave disclosed a sight which
was enough to chill the blood of the
stoutest heart that ever beat.

All around the cabin lay human bodies
distorted by the agonies of death, twisted
and twined in different attitudes, and
still lying in the position in which death
had found them.

One, whose appearance showed him
to be the captain, lay grasping the hair
of a Malay, with his sword through his
enemy's heart, while a knife still re-
mained buried in his own. Another lay
with his head cut open ; another with his
face torn by the explosion of a gun. There
were four whites here and about ten Ma-
lays, all dead. But the fourth white was
a woman, who lay dead in front of a door
that led to an inner caui.i, and which was
now closed. The woman appeared to be
about fifty years of age, her venerable
gray hair was stained with blood, and her
hand clutched the arm of a Malay who lay
dead by her side.

While Brandon stood looking at this
sight he became aware of a movement in
a corner of the cabin where there were
five or six bodies heaped together. He
hurried over to the place, and, pulling
away the bodies of several Malays, found
at length a Hindu of large stature, in
whom life was by no means extinct, for
he was pushing with hands and feet and

CORD AND CREESE

making faint efforts to rise. He had
been wounded in many places, and was
now quite unconscious.

Brandon dragged away all the bodies,
laid him in as easy a posture as possible,
and then rushed up to the deck for some
water. Returning, he dashed it over the
Hindu, and bound up one or two wounds
which seemed most dangerous.

His care soon brought the Hindu to
consciousness.

The man opened his eyes, looked upon
Brandon first with astonishment, then
with speechless gratitude, and clafiping
his hand moaned faintly, in broken
English :

" Bless de Lor' ! Sahib!"

Brandon hurried up on deck, and calling
some of the sailors had the Hindu con-
veyed there. All crowded around himto
' ask him questions, and gradually found
; out about the attack of the pirates, The
ship had been becalmed the day before,
' and the Malay proa was in sight, evidently
with evil intentions. They had kept a
I good watch, and when the fog came had
some hope of escape. But the Malay
, boats had sought them through the fog,
and had found them. They had resisted
well, but were overpowered by numbers,
The Hindu had been cook of the ship,
j and had fought till the last by the side of
his captain.

Withou. waiting to hear the Hindu's
story Brandon went back to the cabin.
The door that opened into the inner
cabin was shut. He tried it. It was
locked. He looked into the keyhole. It
was locked from the inside.

" Is anyone there? " he asked.

A cry of surprise was the sole answer,

" You are safe. We are friends,
Open ! " cried Brandon.

Then came the sound of light footsteps,
the key was turned, the door slided back,

THE MALAY PIRATE

and there appeared before the astonished
eves of Brandon a young girl, who, the
iiioi.'icnt that she saw him, flung herself
on lu r knees in a transport of gratitude
and raised her face to Heaven, while her
lips Littered inaudible words of thanks-
giving.

Siie was quite a young girl, with a deli-
cate, slender frame, and features of ex-
treme loveliness. Her complexion was
singularly colorless. Her eyes were large,
dark, and luminous. Her hair fell in rich
masses over her shoulders. In one hand
she held a knife, to which she clung with
a deathlike tenacity.

" Poor child ! " murmured Brandon, in
accents of tenderest commiseration. " It
is but little that you could do with that
knife."

She looked up at him as she knelt, then
looked at the keen, glittering steel, and,
with a solemnity of accent which showed
how deeply she was in earnest, mur-
mured, half to herself :

" It could at least have saved me ! "

Brandon smiled upon her with such a
smile as a father might give at seeing the
spirit or prowess of some idolized son.

"There is no need," he said, with a
voice of deep feeling, " there is no need
of that now. You are saved. You are
avenged. Come with me." The girl
rose. " But wait," said Brandon, and he
looked at her earnestly and most pity-
ingly. '< There are things here which
you should not see. Will you shut your
eyes and let me lead you ? "

" I can bear it," said the girl. " I will
not shut my eyes."

" You must," said Brandon firmly, but
still pityingly, for he thought of that ven-
erable woman who lay in blood outside
the door. The girl looked at him and
seemed at first as though about to refuse.
There was something in his face so full

of compassion, and entreaty, and calm
control that she consented. She closed
her eyes and held out her hand. Bran-
don took it and led her through the place
of horror and up to the deck.

Her appearance was greeted by a cry
of joy from all the sailors. The girl
looked around. She saw the Malays
lying dead upon the deck. She saw the
ship that had rescued, and the proa that
had terrified her. But she saw no fa-
miliar face.

She turned to Brandon with a face of
horror, and with white lips asked :

" Where are they all ? "

" Gone," said Brandon.

" What ! All ? " gasped the girl.

" All — except yourself and the cook."

She shuddered from head to foot ; at
last, coming closer to Brandon, she
whispered : " And my nurse ? "

Brandon said nothing, but, with a face
full of meaning, pointed upward. The
girl understood him. She reeled, and
would have fallen had not Brandon sup-
ported her. Then she covered her face
with her hands, and staggered away to a
seat, sank down, and wept bitterly.

All were silent. Even the rough sailors
respected that grief. Rough ! Who does
not know that sailors are often the most
tender-hearted of men, and always the
most impulsive, and most quick to sym-
pathy ?

So now they said nothing, but stood in
groups sorrowing in her sorrow. The
captain, meanwhile, had revived, and was
already on his feet looking around upon
the scene. The Hindu also had gained
strength with every throb of his heart and
every breath of the air.

But suddenly a cry arose from one of
the men who stood nearest the hatchway.

"The ship is sinking!"

Everyone started. Yes, the Srbip was

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CORD AND CREESE

sinking. No one had noticed it ; but the
water was already within a few feet of
the top. No doubt Zangorri had been
scuttling her when he rushed out of the
hold at the noise of the attack.

There was nothing left but to hasten
away. There was time to save nothing.
The bodies of the dead had to be left
with the ship for their tomb. In a short
time they had all hurried into the boat
and were pulling away. But not too
soon. For scarcely had they pulled away
half a dozen boat-lengths from the ship
when the water, which had been rising
higher and higher, more rapidly every
moment, rushed madly with a final onset
to secure its prey ; and with a groan like

that of some living thing the ship went
down.

A yell came from over the water. It
rose from the Malay proa, which was
moving away as fast as the long sweeps
could carry her. But the dead were not
revenged only. They were remembeixd.
Not long after reaching the Falcon the
sailors were summoned to the side wliich
looked toward the spot where the ship
had sunk, and the solenm voice of
Brandon read the burial service of the
Church.

And as he read that service he under-
stood the fate which he had escaped
when the ship passed Coffin Island with-
out noticing his signal.

CHAPTER X

BEATRICE

It was natural that a young girl who
had gone through so fearful an ordeal
should for some time feel its effects. Her
situation excited the warmest sympathy
of all on board the ship ; and her appear-
ance was such as might inspire a chival-
rous respect in the hearts of those rough
but kindly and sensitive sailors who had
taken part in her rescue.

Her whole appearance marked her as
one of no common order. There was
about her an air of aristocratic grace
which inspired involuntary respect ; an
elegance of manner and complete self-
possession which marked perfect breed-
ing. Added to this, her face had some-
thing which is greater even than beauty
— or at least something VMthout which
beauty itself is feeble — namely, character
and expression. Her soul spoke out in

every lineament of her noble features, and
threw a.ound her the charm of spiritual
exaltation.

To such a charm as this Brandon did
not seem indifferent. His usual self-
abstraction seemed to desert him for a
time. The part that he had taken in her
rescue of itself formed a tie between
them ; but there was another bond in the
fact that he alone of all on board could
associate with her on equal terms, as a
high-bred gentleman with a high-bred
lady.

The Hindu had at once found occupa-
tion, for Brandon, who had seen the stuff
that was in him, offered to take him for
his servant. He said that his name was
Assgeelo, but he was commonly called
Cato, and preferred that name to any
other. He regarded Brandon as his

BEATRICE

saviour, with all the superstition which
Hindus can feel, and looked up to this
saviour as a superior being. The offer of
employment was eagerly accepted, and
Cato at once entered upon the few duties
which his situation could require on ship-
board.

Meanwhile the young lady remained
unknown. At first she spent the greater
part of her time in her room, and only
came out at meal-times, when the sadness
of her face prevented anything except the
most distant and respectful courtesy.
No one knew her name, and no one asked
it. Cato was ignorant of it. She and the
old nurse had only been known to him as
the young missus and the old missus.

Brandon, roused from his indifference,
did all in his power to mitigate the gloom
of this fair young creature, whom fate
had thrown in his way. He found that
his attentions were not unacceptable. At
length she came out more frequently, and
they became companions on the quarter-
deck.

Brandon was touched by the exhibition
which she had made of her gratitude to
himself. She persisted in regarding him
alone as the one to whom she owe' her
life, and apologized to him for her selfish-
ness in giving way so greatly to her grief.
After a time she ventured to tell him the
story of the voyage which she had been
making. She was on her way from
China to England. Her father lived in
England, but she had" passed her life in
Hong Kong, having been brought up
there by the old nurse, who had accom-
panied her on her voyage until that fear-
ful calamity.

She told him at different times that her
father was a merchant ;vho had business
all over the world, ?»nd that he had of
late taken up his station in his own home
and sent for her.

Of her father she did not say much, and
did not seem to know much. She had
never seen him. She had been in Hong
Kong ever since she could remember.
She believed, however, that she was born
in England, but did not know for certain.
Her nurse had not known her till she had
gone to China.

It was certainly a curious life, but quite
natural, when a busy merchant devotes
all his thoughts to business, and but little
attention to his family. She had no
mother, but thought she must have died
in India. Yet she was not sure. Of all
this, however, she expected to hear when
she reached home and met her father.

By the time that she had been a month
on board Brandon knew much of the
events of her simple life. He saw the
strange mixture of fear and longing with
which she looked forward to a meeting
with her father. He learned that she had
a brother, also, whom she had never seen,
for her father kept his son with himself.
He could not help looking with inex-
pressible pity on one so lovely, yet so
neglected.

Otherwise, as far as mere money was
concerned, she had never suffered. Her
accomplishments were numerous. She
was passionately fond of music, and was
familiar with all the classic compositions.
Her voice was finely trained, for she had
enjoyed the advantage of the instructions
of an Italian maestro, who had been
banished, and had gone out to Hong
Kong as band-master in the Twentieth
Regiment. She could speak French
fluently, and had read almost everything.

Now after finding out all this Brandon
had not found out her name. Embarrass-
ments arose sometimes, which she could
not help noticing, from this very cause,
and yet she said nothing about it. Bran-
don did not like to ask her abruptly, since

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CORD AND CREESE

he saw that she did not respond to his
hints. So he conjectured ar.d wondered.
He thought that her name must be of the
lordliest kind, and that she for some
reason wished to keep it a secret ; perhaps
she was noble, and did not like to tell
that name wh'.ch had been staiaed by the
occupations of trade. All this Brar<don
thought.

Yet as he thought this, he was not in-
sensible to the music of her soft, low
voice, the liquid tenderness of her eye,
and the charm of her manner. She
seemed at once to confide herself to
him— to own the superiority of his nature,
and seek shelter in it. Circumstances
threw them exclusively ir.to one another's
way, and they found each other so con-
genial that they took advantage of r.ir-
cumstances to the utmost.

There were others as wjII as Brandon
who found it awkward not to have any
name by which to address her, and chief
of these was the good captain. After
calling her ma'am and miss indifferently
for about a month he at last determined
to ask her directly ; co, one day at the
dinner table, he said :

" I most humbly beg your pardon,
ma'am ; but I do not know your name,
and have never had a chance *.o find it
out. If it's no offense, perhaps you
woulil be so good as to tell it ? "

The young lady thus addressf'd flushed
crimson, then looked at Brandon, who
was gazing fixedly on his plate, and with
visible embarrassment said, very softly,
" Beatrice."

" B. A. Treachy," said the captain.
" Ah ! I hope, Miss Treachy, you will
pa. Ion me ; but I really found it so ever-
lasting confusing."

A faint smile crossed the lips of Bran-
don. Pat Beatrice did not smile. She
looked a little frightened, and then said :

" Oh, that is only my Christian
name ! "

" Christian name ! " said the captain.
" How can that be a Christian name ? "

" My surname is" — she hesitated, and
then, with an effort, pronounced the woitl
" Potts."

" ' Potts ! ' " said the captain quickly
and with evident surprise. " Oh — well, I
hope you will excuse me."

But the face of Beatrice turned to an
ashen hue as she marked the effect which
the mention of that name had produced
on Brandon. He had been looking at
his plate like one involved in thought.
As he heard the name his head fell for-
ward, and he caught at the table to
steady himself. He then rose abruptly
with a cloud upon his brow, his lips
firmly pressed together, and his wlcole
face seemingly transformed, and hurried
from the cabin.

She did not see him again for a week,
He pleaded illness, shut himself in his
state-room, and was seen by no one but
Cato.

Beatrice could not help associating this
change in Brandon with the knowledge
of her name. That name was hateful to
herself. A fastidious taste had prevented
her from volunteering to tell it ; and as
no one asked her directly it had not been
known. And now, since she had told it,
this was the result.

For Brandon's conduct she could
imagine only one cause. He had felt
shocked at such a plebeian name.

The fact that she herself hated her
name, and saw keenly how ridiculously it
sounded after such r name as Beatrice,
only made her feel the more indignant
with Brandon. " His own name," she
thought bitterly, " is plebeian— not so bad
as mine, it is true, yet still it is plebeian.
Why should he feel so shocked at

BEATRICE

mine?" Of course, she knew him only
as " Mf. W- heeler." " Perhaps he lias
imagined tha* I had some grand name,
and, learning my true one, has lost his
illusion. He formerly esteemed me.
He now despises me."

Beatrice was cut to the heart ; but she
was too proud to show any feeling what-
ever. She frequented the quarter-deck
as before ; though now she had no com-
panion except, at turns, the good-natured
captain and the mate. The longer Bran-
don avoided her the more mdignant she
felt. Her outraged pride made sadness
impossible.

Brandon remained in the state-room
for about two weeks altogether. When
at length he made his appearance on
the quarter-deck he found Beatrice
there who greeted him with a distant
bow.

There was a sadness in his face, as he
approached and took a seat near her,
which at once disarmed her, drove away
all indignation, and aroused pity.

" You have been sick," she said
kindly, and with some "motion.

" Yes," said Brandon, in a low voice,
" but now that I am able to go about
again my first act is to apologize to you
(or my rudeness in quitting the table so
abruptly as to make it seem like a per-
sonal insult to you. Now I hope you
will believe me when I say that an insult
to you from me is impossible. Some-
thing- like a spasm passed over my
nervous system, and I had to hurry to
my room."

" I confess," said Beatrice frankly,
"that I thought your sudden departure
had something to do with the conversa-
tion about me. I am very sorry indeed
that I did you such a wrong ; I might
have icflown you better. Will you for-
give me ? "

Brandon smiled faintly. " You are
the one who must forgive."

" But I hate my name so ! " burst out
Beatrice. Brandon said nothing.

" Don't you } Now confess."

" How can I ? " he began.

"You do, you do!" she cried vehe-
mently : " but I don't care — for I hate it."

Brandon looked at her with a sad,
weary smile, and said nothing. " You
are sick," she said ; " I am thoughtless.
I see that my name, in some way or other,
recalls painful thoughts. How wretched
it is for me to give pain to others ! "

Brandon looked at her appealingly,
and said, " You give pain ? Believe me !
believe me! there is nothing but happi-
ness where you are."

At this Beatrice looked confused and
changed the conv<.rsation. There seemed
after this to be a mutual understanding
between the two to avoid the subject of
her name, and although it was a constant
mortification to Beatrice, yet she believed
that on his part there was no contempt
for the name, but something very differ-
ent, something associated with bitter
memories.

They now resumed their old walks and
conversations. Every day bound them
more closely to one another, and each
took it for granted that the other would
be the constant companion of every hour
in the day.

Both had lived unusual lives. Beatrice
had much to say about her Hong Kong
life, the Chinese, the British officers, and
the festivities of garrison life. Brandon
had lived for years in Australia, and was
familiar with all the round of events
which may be met with in that country.
He had been born in England, and had
lived there, as has already been mentioned,
till he was almost a man, so that he had
much to say about that mother-land con-

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CORD AND CREESE

cerning which Beatrice felt such curiosity.
Thus they settled down again naturally
and inevitably into constant association
with each other.

Whatever may have been the thoughts
of Brandon during the fortnight of his
seclusion, or whatever may have been the
conclusion to which he came, he care-
fully refrained from ♦he most remote hint
at the home or the prospects of Beatrice.
He found her on the seas, and he was
content to take her as she was. Her
name was a common one. She might be
connected with his enemy, or she might
not. For his part, he did not wish to
know.

Beatrice also showed equal care in
avoiding the subject. The effect which
had been produced by the mention of her
name was still remembered, and, what-
ever the cause may have been, both this
and her own strong dislike to it pre-
vented her from ever making any allusion
either to her father or to any one of her
family. She had no scruples, however,
about talking of her Hong Kong life, in
which one person seemed to have
figured most prominently — a man who
had lived there for years, and given her
instruction in music. He was an Italian,
of whom she knew nothing whatever but
his name, with the exception of the fact
that he had been unfortunate in Europe,
and had come out to Hong Kong as
band-master of the Twentieth Regiment.
His name was Paolo Langhetti.

" Do you like music ? " asked Brandon
abruptly.

" Above all things," said Beatrice, with
an intensity of emphasis which spoke of
deep feeling.

" Do you play ? "

" Somewhat."

" Do you sing ? "

" A little. I was considered a good

singer in Hong Kong ; but that is nothing.
I sang in the cathedral. Langhetti was
kind enough to praise me ; but then he
was so fond of me that whatever I did
was right."

Brandon was silent for a little whi; >
" Langhetti was fond of you ? " he re-
peated interrogatively, and in a voice of
singular sweetness.

" Very," returned Beatrice musingly.
" He always called me 'Bice ' — sometimes
' Bicetta,' ' Bicinola,' ' Bicina ' ; it was his
pretty Italian way. But oh, if you could
hear him play ! He could make the
violin speak like a human voice. He
used to think in music. He seemed to
me to be hardly human sometimes."

"And he lovtd to hear you sing?"
said Brandon, in the same voice.

" He used to praise me," said Beatrici
meekly. " His praise used to gratify,
but it did not deceive me. I am not con-
ceited, Mr. Wheeler."

" Would you sing for me ? " asked
Brandon, in accents almost of entreaty,
looking a. her with an imploring ex-
pression.

Beatrice's head fell. "Not now— not
yet — not here," she murmured, with a
motion of her hand. " Wait till we pass
beyond this ocean. It seems haunted."

Brandon understood her tone and
gesture.

But the weeks passed, and the months,
and they went over the seas, touching at
Mauritius, and afterward at Cape Town,
till finally they entered the Atlantic Ocean,
and sailed north. During all this time
their association was close and continu-
ous. In her presence Brandon softened ;
the sternness of his features relaxed, and
the great purpose of his life grew gradu-
ally fainter.

One evening, after they had entered
the Atlantic Ocean, they were standing

BEATRICE

7 ' I

. )

by the stern of the ship looking at the
waters, when Brandon repeated his
request.

" Would you be willing to sing now ? "
he asked gently, and in the same tone
of entreaty which he had used be-
fore.

Beatrice looked at him for a moment
without speaking. Then she raised her
face and looked up at the sky. with a
deep abstraction in her eyes, as though
in thought. Her face, usually colorless,
now, in the moonlight, looked like mar-
ble ; her dark hair hung in peculiar folds
over her brow — an arrangement which
was antique in its style, and gave her the
look of a statue of one of the Muses.
Her straight Grecian features, large eyes,
thin lips, and well-rounded chin — all had
the same classic air, and Brandon, as he
looked at her, wondered if she knew how
fair she was. She stood for a moment in
silence, and then began. It was a mar-
vellous and a memorable epoch in Bran-
don's life. The scene around added its
inspiration to the voice of the singer.
The ocean spread afar away before them
till the verge of the horizon seemed to
blend sea and sky together. Overhead
the dim sky hung, dotted with innumer-
able stars, prominent among which, not
far above the horizon, gleamed that glori-
ous constellation, the Southern Cross.
Beatrice, who hesitated for a moment as
if to decide upon her song, at last caught
her idea from this scene around her, and
began one of the most magnificent of
Italian compositions :

"I cieli immensi narrano
Del grand' Iddio la gloria."

Her first notes poured forth with a sweet-
ness and fulness that arrested the atten-
tion of all on board the ship. It was the
first time she had sung, as she afterward

said, since Langhetti had left Hong Kong,
and she gave herself entirely up to the
joy of song. Her voice, long silent,
instead of having been injured by the
sorrow through which she had passed,
was pure, full, marvellous, and thrilling,
A glow like some divine inspiration
passed over the marble beauty of her
classic features; her eyes themselves
seemed to speak of all that glory of which
she sang, as the sacred fire of genius
flashed from them.

At those wonderful notes, so generous
and so penetrating with their sublime
meaning, all on board the ship looked
and listened with amazement. The
hands of the steersman held the wheel
listlessly. Brandon's own soul was filled
with the fullest effects. He stood watch-
ing her figure, with its inspired linea-
ments, and thought of the fabled prodi-
gies of music spoken of in ancient story.
He thought of Orpheus hushing all ani'
mated nature to calm by the magic of
his song. At last all thoughts of his own
left him, and nothing remained but that
which the song of Beatrice swept over
his spirit.

But Beatrice saw nothing and heard
nothing except the scene before her, with
its grand inspiration and her own utter-
ance of its praise. Brandon's own soul
was more and more overcome ; the divine
voice thrilled over his heart ; he shud-
dered and uttered a low sigh of rapture.

" My God ! " he exclaimed as she
ended ; " I never before heard anything
like this. I never dreamed of such a
thing. Is there on earth another such a
voice as yours? Will I ever again hear
anything like it ? Your song is like a
voice from those heavens of which you
sing. It is a new revelation."

He poured forth these words with
passionate impetuosity. Beatrice smiled.

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CORD AND CREESE

" Langhetti used to praise me," she
simply rejoined.

" You terrify me," said he.

" Why ? " asked Beatrice, in wonder.

" Because your song works upon me
like a spell, and all my soul sinks away,
and all my will is weakened to nothing-
ness."

Beatrice looked at him with a mourn-

ful smile. " Then you have the true
passion for music," she said, " if this be
so. For my part it is the joy of my life,
and I hope to give up all my life to
it."

" Do you expect to see Langhetti when
you reach England ? " asked Brandon
abruptly.

" I hope so," said she musingly.

CHAPTER XI

THE IMPROVISATORE

The character of Beatrice unfolded
more and more every day, and every new
development excited the wonder of
Brandon.

She said once that music was to her
like the breath of life, and indeed it
seemed to be ; for now, since Brandon
had witnessed her powers, he noticed
how all her thoughts took a coloring
from this. What most surprised him
was her profound acquirements in the
more difficult branches of the art. It
was not merely the case of a great natural
gift of voice. Her whole soul seemed
imbued with those subtle influences
which music can most of all bestow.
Her whole life seemed to have been
passed in one long intercourse with the
greatest works of the greatest masters.
All their works were perfectly well known
to her. A marvellous memory enabled
her to have their choicest productions
at command ; and Brandon, who in the
early part of his life had received a care-
ful musical education, knew enough about
it to estimate rightly the full extent of the
genius of his companion, and to be aston-
ished thereat.

Her mind was also full of stories about
the lives, acts, and words of the great
masters. For her they formed the only
world with which she cared to be ac-
quainted, and the only heroes whom she
had power to admire. All this flowed
from one profound central feeling—
namely, a deep and all-absorbing love of
this most divine art. To her it was more
than art. It was a new faculty to liim
who possessed it. It was the highest
power of utterance— such utterance as
belongs to the angels ; such utterance as,
when possessed by man, raises him al-
most to an equality with them.

Brandon found out everyday some new
power in her genius. Now her voice
was unloosed from the bonds which she
had placed upon it. She sang, she said,
because it was better than talkinjj.
Words were weak — song was all expres-
sion. Nor was it enough for her to take
the compositions of others. Those were
infinitely better, she said, than anything
which she could produce ; but each one
must have his own native expression ; and
there were times when she had to sing
from herself. To Brandon this seemed

THE IMPROVISATORE

the most amazing of her powers. In
Italy the power of improvisation is not
uncommon, and Englishmen generally
imagine that this is on account of some
peculiar quality of the Italian language.
This is not the case. One can improvise
in any language ; and Brandon found
that Beatrice could do this with the
English.

" It is not wonderful," said she, in an-
swer to his expression of astonishment,
"it is not even difficult. There is an art
in doing this, but, when you once know
it, you find no trouble. It is rhythmic
prose in a series of lines. Each line
must contain a thought. Langhetti
found no difficulty in making rhyming
lines, but rhymes are not necessary.
This rhythmic prose is as poetic as any-
thing can be. All the hymns of the Greek
Church are written on this principle. So
are the Te Deum and the Gloria. So
were all the Ancient Jewish psalms. The
Jews improvised. I suppose Deborah's
song, and perhaps Miriam's, are of this
order."

" And you think the art can be learned
by everyone ? "

" No, not by everyone. One n.ust
have a quick and vivid imagination,
and natural fluency — but these are all.
Genius makes all the difference between
what is good and what is bad. Some-
times you have a song of Miriam that
lives while the world lasts, sometimes
a poor little song like one of mine."

"Sing to me about music," said Bran-
don suddenly.

Beatrice immediately began an impro-
visation. But the music to which she
sang was lofty and impressive, and the
marvellous sweetness of her voice pro-
duced an indescribable effect. And
again, as always when she sang, the
fashion of her face was changed, and

she became transfigured before his eyes.
It was the same rhythmic prose of which
she had been speaking, sung according to
the mode in which the Gloria is chanted,
and divided into bars of equal time.

Brandon, as always, yielded to the
spell of hev song. To him it was an
incantation. Her own strains varied to
express the changing sentiment, and at
last, as the song ended, it seemed to die
away in melodious melancholy, like the
dying strain of the fabled swan.

"Sing on!" he exclaimed fervently;
" I would wish to stand and hear your
voice forever

A smile of ineffable sweetness came
over her face. She looked at him, and
said nothing. Brandon bowed his head,
and stood in silence.

Thus ended many of their interviews.
Slowly and steadily this young g'rl gained
over him an ascendency which lie felt
hourly, and which was so strong vhat he
did not even struggle against it. Her
marvellous genius, so subtle, so delicate,
yet so inventive and quick, amazed him.
If he spoke of this, she attributed every-
thing to Langhetti. " Could you but see
him," she would say, " I should seem
like nothing ! "

" Has he such a voice ? "

" Oh ! he has no voice at all. It is his
soul," she would reply. " He speaks
through the violin. But he taught me all
that I know. He said my voice was God's
gift. He had a strange theory that the
language of heaven and of the angels was
music, and that he who loved it best on
earth made his life and his thoughts ir.ost
heavenly."

" You must have been fond of such a
man."

" Very," said Beatrice, with the utmost
simplicity. " Oh, I loved him so dearly ! "

But in this confession, so artlessly

113

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CORD AND CREESE

made, lira'ulon saw only a love that was
filial or sisterly. " He was the first one,"
said Beatrice, " who showed me the true
meaning of life. He exalted his art above
all other r rts, and always maintained that
it was thi purest and best thing which
the world possessed. Tliis cor.soled him
for exile poverty, and sorrow of many
kinds."

" Was he married ? "

Beatrice looked at Brandon with a
singular smile. " Married ! Langhetti
married ! Pardon me ; but the idea of
Langhetti in domestic life is so ridicu-
lous."

" Why ? The greatest musicians have
married."

Beatrice looked up to the sky with a
strange, serene smile. " Langiietti has
no passion out of art," slie said. " As
an artist he is all fire, and vehemence,
and enthusiasm. He is aware of all
human passions, but only as an artist.
He has only one love, and that is music.
This is his idol. He seems to me him-
self like a song. But all the raptures
which poets and novelists apply to lovers
are felt by him in his music. He wants
nothing while he has this. He thinks
the musician's life the highest life. He
says those to wliom the revelations of
God were committed were musicians.
As David and Isaiah received inspiration
to the strains of the harp, so. he says,
have Bach and Mozart, Handel and
Haydn, Beethoven and Mendelssohn.
And where, indeed," she continued, in
a musing tone, half soliloquizing, "where,
indeed, can man rise so near heaven as
when he listens to the inspired strains of
these lofty souls? "

" Langhetti," said Brandon, in a low
voice, " does not understand love, or he
would not put music in its place."

" Yes," said Beatrice, " We spoke

once about that. He has his own ideas,
which he expressed to me."

"What were they? "

" I will have to say them as he said
them," said she. " For on this theme he
had to express himself in music."

Brandon waited in rapt expectation.
Beatrice began to sing :

" F.iirest of .ill most fair,
Young Love, how comest thou

Unto the soul ?
Still as the evening breeze
Over the starry wave —
The moonlit wave —

" The heart lies motionless ;
So still, so sensitive ;

Love fans the breeze.
Lo ! at his slightest touch,
The myriad ripples rise,

And murmur on.

" And ripples rise to waves,
And waves to rolling seas,

Till, far and wid ",
The endless billows roll,
In undulations long,

For evermore ! "'

Her voice died away into a scarce
audible tone, which sank into Brandon s
heart, lingering and dying about the last
word, with touching and unuttenihk'
melancholy. It was like the lament o{
one who loved. It was like the cry o(
some yearning heart.

In a moment Beatrice looked at Bian-
don with a swift, bright smile. She had
sung these words as an artist. For a
moment Brandon had thought that she
was expressing her own feelings. But the
bright smile on her face contrasted so
strongly with the melancholy of her voue
that he saw this was not so.

" Thus," she said, " Langhetti sail,;,'
about it ; and I have never forgotten
his words."

The thought came to Brandon, is it
not truer than she thinks, that " she Inyes
him very dearly " ? as she said.

THE IMl'ROVISATORE

" You were born (o be an artist," he

said at last.

lieatrice sighed lightly. " 'l hat's what
I never can be, I am afraid," said she.
" Yet I hope I may be able to gratify my
love 'or it. Art," she continued nius-
iiinly, " is open to women as well as to
men ; and of all arts none is so much
so as music. The interpretation of great
masters is a blessing to the world.
Lan<;lietti used to say that these are the
only ones of modern times that have
received heavenly inspiration. They cor-
respond to the Jewish prophets. He
used to declare that the interpretation of
each was of equal importance. To man
is given the interpretation of the one, but
to women is given the interpretation of
much of the other Why is not my voice,
if it is such as he said, and especially the
feeling within me, a Divine call to go
forth upon this mission of interpreting
the inspired utterances of the great masters
of iiKKlern days ?

" You," she continued, " are a man,
and you have a purpose." Biandon
started, but she did not notice it. " You
have a purpose in life," she repeated.
"Your intercourse with me will iiereafter
be but an episode in the life that is before
you. I am a girl, but 1 too may wish to
have a purpose in li'^e — suited to my
powers ; and if I am iiot able to work
toward it I shall not be isatisfied."

"How do you knovv' that I have a pur-
pose, as you call it ? " asked Brandon,
after a pause.

"lly the expression of your face, and
your whole manner when you are alone
and subside into yourself," she replied
simply.

" And of what kind ? " he continued.

"That 1 do not seek to know," she re-
plied ; " but I know that it must be deep
and ttll-absorbing. It seems to me to be

too stern for Love ; you are not the man
to devote yourself to Avarice ; possibly it
may be Ambition, yet somehow I do not
think so."

'* What do you think it is, then ?" asked
Brandon, in a voice which had died away,
alriost to a whisper.

She looked at him earnestly ; she looked
at him pityingly. She looked at him also
with that sympathy which might be
evinced by one's Guardian Angel, if that
Being might by any chance become
visible. She leaned toward him, and
spoke low in a voice only audible to
him :

"Something stronger than Love, and
Avarice, and Ambition," said she.
" Ther;) can be only one thing."

" What ? "

" Vengeance ! " she said, in a voice of
inexpressible mournfulncss.

Brandon looked at her wonderingly,
not knowing how this young girl could
have divined his thoughts. He long
remained silent.

Beatrice folded her hands together, and
looked pensively at the sea.

" You are a marvellous being," said
Brandon, at length. "Can you tell me
any more ? "

" I might." said she hesitatingly ; " but
I am afraid you will think me imperti-
nent."

" No." said Brandon. " Tell me, for
perhaps you are mistaken."

" You will not think me impertinent,
then .'' You will only think that I said so
because you asked me ? "

" I entreat you to believe that it is im-
possible for me to think otherwise of you
than you yourself would wish."

" Shall I say it, then ? "

" Yes."

Her voice again sank to a whisper.

*' Your name is not Wheeler."

1"]Q

l«tK«l-4 Mil

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CORH AND CREESE

Brandon looked at her earnestly.
" How did you learn that ? "
" Ey nothing more than observation."
" What is my nan e ? "
"Ah, that is beyond my power to
know," said she, with a smile. " I have
only discovered what you are not. Now
you will not think me a spy, will you ? "
she continued, in a pleading voice.

Brandon smiled on her mournfully as
she stood looking at him wi '" her drr'c
ey; •.. upr-iised.

"A spy ! " he repeated. ' T<^ ui; \i r,
the sweetest thought co -leivc' 'l t!:, i
you could take the trouble to nouca me
sufficiently." He checked himself sud-
denly, for Beatrice looked away, and her
hands, which had been folded together,
clutched each other nervously. " It is
always flattering for a gentleman to be
the object of a lady's notice," he con-
cluded, in a light tone.

Beatrice smiled. " But where," he
continued, " could you have gained that
power of divination which you possess ;
you who have always lived a secluded
life in so remote a place ? "

" You did not think that one like me
could come out of Hong Kong, did you ? "
said she laughingly.

" Well, I have seen much of the world ;
but I have not so much of this power as
you have."

"You might have more if — if" — she
hesitated. " Well," she continued, " they
say, you know, that men act by reason,
women by intuition."

" Have you any more intuitions } "
asked Brandon earnestly.

" Yes," said she mournfully.

"Tell e some."

"T will not do to tell," said Bea-
trice, in the same mournful tone.

" Why not ? "

" They are painful."

" Tell them at any rate."

"No."

" Hint at them."

Beatrice looked at him earnestly,
Their eyes met. In hers there was a
glance of anxious enquiry, as though her
soul were putting forth a question by tliat
look which was stronger thiMi words, in
his there was a glance of anxious expec-
tancy, as though his soul were spcakiiij^r
into hers, saying: " TH.I ail; let mc
k\o\v if you susp ct that of which I am
afraid to think."

" We have met with ships at sea," siie
. urned, in low, deliberate tones.

" Its."

" Sometimes we have caught up with
them, we have exchanged signals ; wt
have sailed in sight of one another for
hours or for days, holding intercours-j all
the while. At last a new morning has
come, and we looked out over the sea, and
the other ship has gone from sight. \Vc
have left it forever. Perhaps we have
drifted away, perhaps a storm has parted
us, the end is the same — separation for
evermore."

She spoke nDurnfully, looking away,
her voice insensibly took up a cadence,
and the words seemed to fall of themselves
into rhythmic pauses.

" I understand you," said Brandon,
with a more profound mournfulness in
his voice. " You speak like a Sibyl. I
pray Heaven that your words may not
be a prophecy."

Beatrice still looked at him, and in her
eyes he read pity beyond words; and
sorrow also as deep as that pity.

" Do you read my thoughts as I read
yours .^ " asked Brandon abruptly.

" Yes," she answered mournfully.

He turned his face away.

"Did Langhetti teach you this alsu? "
he asked, at last.

THE STRUGGLE FOR LIFE

"He taught me many things," was the
.inswcr.
Day succeeded to (hiy, and week to

Storms came — some moderate, some
severe; but the shij) escaped tliem all with
no casualties, and with but little delay.

1 *

wcL'k. ^till the ship went on l.olding i At last tiicy passed the equator, and
steadii t / her course nori.! waul,. -uul , very seen ed to have entered the last stage of
clay flf 'Hg nearer and n< irer her goal. 1 their journey.

CHAPTER XII

THE STRUGGLE FOR LIFE

At lenj,th the ship came within the
latitude of the Guinea coast.

?'or some days there had been alter-
nate winds and calms, and the weather
was so fitful and so fickle that no one
could tell in one hour what would
happen in the next. All this was at last
teiiiiiiMited by a dead, dense, oppressive
calm like those of the Indian Jcean, in
which exertion was almost impossible
and breathing difBcult. The sky, how-
ever, instead of being clear and bright,
as in former calms, was now overspread
with menacing clouds ; the sea looked
black, and spread out before them on
every side like an illimitable surface of
polished ebony. There was something
appalling in the depth and intensity of
this calm with such accompaniments.
All felt this influence. Although there
was every temptation to inaction and
sleep, yet no one yielded to it. The
men looked suspiciously and expectantly
at every quarter of the heavens. The
cajitain said nothing, but cautiously had
all his preparations made for a storm.
Every half hour he anxiously consulted
the barometer, and then cast uneasy
glances at the sea and sky.

But the calm that had set in at mid-

night, and had become confir id f
dawn, extended itself through M-.,; 1:- .
day. The ship drifted idly, kecj Hg . u
course, her yards creaking 1; ' _,■ a she
slowly rose and fell at the movet rit of
the ocean undulations. IIou' after hour
passed, and the day endec, ! 1 night
came once more.

The captain did not turn in that night.
In anxious expectation he waited and
watched on deck, while all around there
was the very blackness of darkness.
Brandon began to see from the captain's
manner that he expected something far
more violent than anything which the
ship had yet encount .red, but, thinking
that his presence wculd be of no conse-
quence, he retired at the usual hour.

The deep, dense calm continued until
nearly midnight. The watchers on deck
still waited in the same anxious expecta-
tion, thinking that the night would bring
on the change which they expected.

Almost half an hour before midnight a
faint light was seen in the thick mass of
clouds overhead— it was not lightning,
but a whitish streak, as though p' 'uced
by some movc.iicnt in the cloucis. All
looked up in mute expectation.

Suddenly a faint puff of wind came

C3>

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CORD AND CUEESE

from the west, blowing gently for a few
monnents, then stopping, and then coining
on in a stronger blast. Afar off. at what
seemed like an immeasurable distance, a
low, dull roar arose, a heavy moaning
sound, like the menace of the mighty At-
lantic, which was now advancing in wrath
upon them.

In the midst of this the whole scene
burst forth into dazzling light at the flash
of a vast mass of lightning, which secmi-d
to blaze from every part of the heavens on
every side simultaneously. It threw forth
all things— ship, sea, and sky — into the
dazzled eyes of the watchers. They saw
the ebon sky, the black and lustrous sea,
the motionless ship. They saw also, far
off to the west, a long line of white which
appeared to extend along the whole
horizon.

But the scene darted out of sight in-
stantly, and instantly there fell the volley-
ing discharge of a tremendous peal of
thunder, at whose reverberations the air
and sea and ship all vibrated.

Now the sky lightened again, and sud-
denly, as the ship lay there, a vast ball of
fire issued from the black clouds immedi-
ately overhead, descending like the light-
ning straight downward, till all at once
it struck the main-truck. With a roar
louder than that of the recent thunder it
exploded ; vast sheets of fire flashed out
into the air, and a stream of light passed
down the entire mast, shattering it as a
tree is shattered when the lightning strikes
it. The whole ship was shaken to its
centre. The deck all around the n ast
was shattered to splinters, and along its
extent and around its base a burst of
vivid flame started into light.

Wild confusion followed. At once all
the sailors were ordered up, and began to
extinguish the fires, and to cut away the
shattered mast. The blows of the axes

resounded through the ship. The rigginjj
was severed ; the mast, already shattered,
needed but a few blows to loosen its last
fibres.

But suddenly, and furiously, and irre-
sistibly, it seemed as though the whoi«
tempest which they had so long expected
was at last let loose upon them. There
was a low moan, and, while they were
yet trying to get rid of the mast, a
tremendous squall struck the ship. It
yielded and turned far over to that awful
blow. The men started back from their
work. The next instant a flash of ligjii-
ning came, and toward the west, close
over them, rose a long white wall of
foam. It was the vanguard of the sicini,
seen shortly before from afar, which was
now upon them, ready to fall on their
devoted heads.

Not a word was spoken. No order
came from the captain. The men awaited
some word. There came none. Then
the waters, which thus rose up like a heap
before them, struck the ship with all the
accumulated fury of that resistless onset,
and hurled their utmost weight upon her
as she lay before them.

The ship, already reeling far over at
the stroke of the storm, now, at this new
onset, yielded utterly, and rolled far over
on her beam-ends. The awful billows
dashed over and over her, sweeping her
in their fury from end to end. The men
clung helplessly to whatever rigging lay
nearest, seeking only in that first moment
of dread to prevent themselves from
being washed away, and waiting for some
order from the captain, and wonilering
while they waited.

At the first peal of thunder Brandon
had started up. He had lain down in Ins
clothes, in order to be prepared for any
emergency. He called Cato. The Hindu
was at hand. " Cato, keep close to me

THE STRUGGLE FOR LIFE

whatever happens, for you will be
needed." "Yes. Sahib." He then
iiuiried to Beatrice's room and knocked.
It was opened at once. She came forth
with her pale, serene face, and looked at

him.

" I did not lie down," said she. " I
knew that there would be something
frightful. But I am not afraid. At any
rate," she added, " I know I will not be
deserted."

iirandon said nothing, but held out
to her an India-rubber life-preserver,
"What is this for ?" " For you. I wish
you to put it on. It may not be needed,
l)ut it is best to have it on." " And what
will you do ? " " I — oh ! I can swim, you
know. But you don", know how to fasten
it. Will you allow me to do so ? " She
raised her arms. He passed the belt
around her waist, encircling her almost
in his arms while doing so, and his
hand, which had boldly grasped the head
of the " dweller in the wreck," now
treml)Ied as he fastened the belt around
that delicate and slender waist.

But scarcely had this been completed
when the squall struck the ship, and the
waves followed till the vessel was thrown
far over on her side ; and Brandon, seiz-
ing Beatrice in one arm, clung with the
other to the edge of the skylight, and
thus kept himself upright.

He rested now for a moment. " I
must go on deck," he said. " I do not
wish you lo leave me," was her answer.
Nothing more was said. Brandon at
once lifted her with one arm as though
she were a child and clambered along,
grasping such fixtures as afforded any-
thing to which he could cling ; and thus,
with hands and feet, groped his way to
the door of the cabin, which was on the
windward side. There were two doors,
and between them was a seat.

" This," said he, " is the safest place
for you. Can you hold on for a short
lime? If I take you on deck you will be
exposed to the waves."

" I will do whatever you say," she re-
plied ; and clinging to the arm of the
almost perpendicular seat, she was able to
sustain herself there amid the tossing
and swaying of the ship,

Brandon then clambered out on deck.
The ship lay far over. The waves came
leaping upon her in successive surges.
All around the sea was glistening with
phosphorescent lustre, and when at times
the lightning flashed forth it lighted up
the scene, and showed the ocean stirred
up to fiercest commotion. It seemed as
though cataracts of water were rushing
over the doomed ship, which now lay
helpless, and at the mercy of the billow*.
The force of the wind was tremendous,
exceeding anything that Brandon had
ever witnessed before.

What most surprised him now was the
inaction of the ship's company. Why
was not something being done? Where
was the captain ?

He called out his name ; there was no
response. He called after the mate;
there was no answer. Instantly he con-
jectured that in the first fierce onset of
the storm both captain and mate had
been swept away. How many more of
that gallant company of brave fellows
had j^erished he knew not. The hour
was a perilous and a critical one. He
himself determined to take the lead.

Through the midst of the storm, with
its tumult and its fury, there came a
voice as full and clear as a trumpet-peal,
which roused all the sailors, and inspired
them once more with hope. " Cut away
the masts ! " The men obeyed, without
caring who gave the order. It was the
command which each man had been

CORD AND CREESE

cxpccliiig, and which he knew was the
thing that sliould be done. At once tiiey
sprang to tlieir work. The mainmast
had already been cut loose. Some went
to the foremast, others to the mizzen.
The vast waves rolled on ; the sailors
guarded as best they could against the
rush of each wave, and then sprang in
the intervals to their work. It was
perilous in the highest degree, but each
man felt that his own life and the lives
of all the others depended upon the
accomplishment of this work, and this
nerved the arm of each to the task.

At last it was done. The last strand
of rigging had been cut away. The
ship, disencumbered, slowly righted, and
at last rode upright.

But her situation was still dangerous.
She lay in the trough of the sea, and the
gigantic waves, as they rolled up, still
beat upon her with all their concentrated
energies. Helpless, and now altogether
at the mercy of the waves, the only hope
left those on board lay in the strength of
the ship herself.

None of the officers were left. As the
ship righted Brandon thought that some
of them might make their appearance,
but none came. The captain, the mate,
and the second mate, all had gone. Per-
haps all of them, as they stood on the
quarter-deck, had been swept away
simultaneously. Nothing could now be
done but to wait. Morning at last came
to the anxious watchers. It brought no
hope. Far and wide the sea raged with
all its waves. The wind blew with un-
diminished and irresistible violence. The
ship, still in the trough of the sea, heaved
and plunged in the overwhelming waves,
which howled madly around and leaped
over her like wolves eager for their prey.
The wind was too fierce to permit even
an attempt to rig a jurymast.

The ship was also deeply laden, uul
this contributed to her peril. Had lui
cargo been smaller she would have htea
more buoyant ; but her full cargo, aildid
to her dangerous position as she lay at
the mercy of the waves, made all hope of
escape dark indeed.

Another night succeeded. It was a
night of equal horror. The men stood
watching anxiously for some sign of
abatement in the storm, but none came.
Sea and sky frowned over them darkly,
and all the powers which they contruiled
were let loose unrestrained.

Another day and night came and went,
Had not the Falcon been a ship of un-
usual strength she would have yielded
before this to the storm. As it was, siie
began to show signs of giving way to the
tremendous hammering to which she had
been exposed, and her heavy Australian
cargo bore her down. On the morning of
the third day Brandon Law that she was
deeper in the water, and suspected a leak.
He ordered the pumps to be sounded.
It was as he feared. There were four
feet of water in the hold.

The men went to work at the pumps
and worked by relays. Amid the rush
of the waves over the ship it was difficuh
to work advantageously, but they toiltJ
or.. Still, in spite of their efforts, the
leak seemed xo have increased, for the
water did not lessen. With their utmost
exertion they could do little more than
hold their own.

It was plain that this sort of thing could
not last. Already three nights and tliree
days of incessant toil and anxiety, in
which no one had slept, had produced
their natural effects. The men had be-
come faint and weary. But the brave
fellows never murmured ; they did every-
thing which Brandon ordered, and worked
uncomplainingly.

THE STRUOGLl. FOR LIFE

TIuis, through the third clay, they
labored on, and into the fourth ni>;ht.
That night the storm secujed to have
readied its climax, if, indeed, any climax
could be found to a storm which at the
very outset hid burst upon them with
such appalling suddenness and fury, and
had sustained itself all along with such
unremitting energy. But on that night
it was worse for those on board, since the
ship which had resisted so long began to
exhil)it signs of yielding ; her planks and
timbers so severely assailed began to give
way, and through the gaping seams the
ocean waters permeated, till the ocean,
like some beleaguering army, failing in
direct assault, began to succeed by open-
ing secret mines to the very heart of the
besieged ship.

On the morning of the fourth day all
hands were exhausted from night-long
work, and there were ten feet of water in
the hold.

It now became evident that the ship
was doomed. Brandon at once began
to take measures for the safety of the
men.

On the memorable day of the calm
previous to the outbreak of the storm, the
captain had told Brandon that they were
about five hundred miles to the westward
of the coast of Senegambia. He could
not form any idea of the distance which
the ship had drifted during the progress
of the storm, but justly considered that
whatever progress she had made had
been toward the land. 1 eir prospects
in that direction, if th'^y cou.l only reach
it, were not hopeless. Sierra Leone and
Liberia were there ; and if they struck
the coast anywhere about they might
make their way to either of those places.

lUit the question was how to get there.
There was only one way, and that was by
taking to the boats. This was a desper-

ate undertaking, but it was the only way
of escape now left.

There were three boats on board— viz.,
the long-boat, the cutter, and the gi;^.
These were the only hope now left them.
By venturing in these there would be a
chance of escape.

On the morning of the fourth day, when
it was found that the water was increas-
ing, Brandon called the men together and
stated this to them. He then told them
that it would be necessary to divide
themselves so that a sufficient number
should go in each boat. He offered to
give up to them the two larger boats, and
take the gig for himself, his servant, and
the young lady.

To this the men assented with great
readiness. Some of them urged him to
go into the larger boat, and even offered
to exchange with him ; but Brandon de-
clined.

They then prepared for their desperate
venture. All the provisions and water
that could be needed were put on board
of each boat. Fire-arms were not for-
gotten. Arrangements were made for
a long and arduous voyage. The men
still worked at the pumps; and though
the water gained on them, yet time was
gained for completing these important
preparations.

About midday all was ready. Fifteen
feet of water were in the hold. The ship
could not last much longer. There was
no time to lose.

But how could the boats be put out ?
How could they live in such a sea?
This was the question to be decided.

The ship lay as before in the trough
of the sea. On the windward side the
waves came rushing up, beating upun
and sweeping over her. On the leew.-u(!
the water was calmer, but the waves
tossed and raged angrily even theje.

CORD AND CREESE

Only twenty were left out of the ship's
company. 7 lie rest were all missing.
Of these, fourteen were to go in the long-
boat, v.i«\ six in the cutter. Brandon,
Beatrice, and Cato were to take the

gig-
The sailors put the gig out first. The

light boat floated buoyantly on the

waters. Cato leaped into her, and she

was fastened by a long line to the ship.

The nimble Hindu, trained for a lifetime

to encounter the giant surges of the

Malabar coast, managed the little boat

w'th marvellous dexterity — avoiding the

sv ^ep of the waves which dashed around

and keeping sufficiently under the lee to

escape the rougher waves, yet not so

much so as to be hurled against the

vessel.

Then the sailors put out the long-boat.
This was a difficult undertaking, but it
was successfully accomplished, and the
men were all on board at last. Instantly
they prepared to row away.

At that moment a wilder wave came
pouring over the ship. It was as though
the ocean, enraged at the escape of these
men, had made a final effort to grasp its
prey. Before the boat with its living
freight had got rid of the vessel, the
sweep of this gigantic wave, which had
passed completely over the ship, struck
it where it lay. Brandon turned away
his eyes involuntarily.

There was a wild shriek — the next
moment the black outline of the long-
boat, bottom upward, was seen amid
the foaming billows.

The men who waited to launch the
cutter were at first paralyzed by this
tragedy, but there was no time to lose.
Derth threatened them behind as well as
before ; behind, death was certain ; be-
fore, there was still a chance. They
launched the cutter in desperation. The

six men succeeded in getting into her,
and in rowing out at some distance. As
wave after wave rose and fell she dis-
appeared from view, and then reappeared,
till at last Brandon thought that she at
least was safe.

Then he raised his hand and made a
peculiar signal to Cato.

The Hindo understood it. Brandon
had given him his directions l)efore.
Now was the time. The roll of the
waves coming up was for the present
less dangerous.

Beatrice, who during the whole storm
had been calm, and had quietly done
v.hatever Brandon told her, was now
waiting at the cabin door in obedience to
his directions.

As soon as Brandon had made the
signal he hurried to the cabin door and
assisted Beatrice to the quarter-deck.
Cato rowed his boat close up to the ship,
and was waiting for a chance to cone
within reach. The waves were still more
moderate. It was the opportunity for
which Cato had been watching so long.
He held his oars poised, and, as a sudden
swell of a wave rose near the ship, he
forced his boat so that i*. came close be-
side it, rising high on the crest of t!ie
swell.

As the wave rose Brandon also had
watched his opportunity as well as the
action of Cato. It was the moment too
for which he had been watching. In an
instant, and without a word, he caught
Beatrice in his arms, raised her high in
the air, poised himself for a moment on
edge of the quarter-deck, and sprang for-
ward into the boat. His foot rested
firmly on the seat w^ /e it struck. He
set Beatrice down, .ind with a knife
severed the line which connected the
boat with the ship.

Then, seizing an oar, he began to row

THE STRUGGLE FOR LIFE

with all his strength. Cato had the bow
oar. The next wave came, and it,> sweep,
communicating itself to the water, rolled
on, dashing against the ship and moving
under it, rising up high, lifting the boat
with it, and bearing it along. But the
boat was now under command, and the
two rowers held it so that while it was
able to avoid the dash of the water, it
jould yet gain from it all the momentum
that could be given.

Brandon handled the oar with a dex-
terity equal to that of the Hindu, and
under such management, which was at
once strong and skilful, the boat skimmed
lightly over the crests of the rolling
waves, and passed out into the sea be-
yond. There the great surges came
sweeping on, rising high beyond the boat,
each wave seeming about to crush the
little bark in its resistless grasp, but not-
withstanding the threat the boat seemed
always able by some good luck to avoid
the impending danger, for as each wave
came forward the boat would rise up till
it was on a level with the crest, and the
flood of waters would sweep on under-
neath, bearing it onward.

After nearly half an hour's anxious and
careful rowing Brandon looked all about
to find the cutter. It was nowhere to be
seen. Again and again he looked for it,
seeking in all directions. But he dis-
covered no sign of it on the raging waters,
-'.nd at last he could no longer doubt
that the cutter also, like the long-boat,
had perished in the sea.

All day long they rowed before the
wind and wave — not strongly, but lightly,
so as to husband their strength. Night
came, when Brandon and Cato took turns
at the oars— not overexerting themselves,
at seelving chiefly to keep the boat's
nead in a pre, ^'* direction, and to evade
ihe rush of the waves. This last was

their constant danger, and it required the
utmost skill and the most incessant
watchfulness to do so.

All this time Beatrice sat in the stern,
with a heavy oilcloth coat around her,
which Brandon directed her to put on,
saying nothing, but seeing everything
with her watchful, vigilant eyes.

" Are you afraid ? " said Brandon once,
just after they had evaded an enormous
wave.

" No ! " was the reply, in a calm, sweet
voice ; " 1 trust in you."

" I hope your trust may not be in vain,"
replied Brandon.

" You have saved my life so often,"
said Beatrice, " that my trust in you has
now become a habit."

She smiled faintly as she spoki , There
was something in her tone which sank
deep into his soul.

The night passed and morning came.

For the last half of the night the wind
had been much less boisterous, and
toward morning the gale had very greatly
subsided. Brandon's foresight had se-
cured a mast and sail on board the gig,
and now, as soon as it could be erected
with safety, he put it up, and the little
boat dashed bravely over the waters.
The waves liad lessened greatly as the
day wore on ; they no longer ro^e in such
giant masses, but showed merely the
more common proportions. Brandon
and Cato now had an opportunity to get
some rest from their exhausting labors.
Beatrice at iust yielded to Brandon's
earnest request, and, finding that the
immediate peril had passed, and that his
toil for the present was over, she obtained
some sleep and rest for herself.

For all that day, and all that night,
and all the next day, the little boat sped
over the waters, heading due east, so as
to reach land wherever they might find

ill""
CO

€.£:

t.u
""- »,^

CORD AND CREESE

it, in the hope that the land might not be
very far away from the civiHzed settle-
ments of the coast. The provisions and
water which had been put in the boat
formed an ample supply, which would
last for a long time. Brandon shared
with Cato in the management of the
boat, not allowing his man to have more
of the labor than himself.

During these days Brandon and
Beatrice were of course thrown into a
closer intimacy. At such a time the
nature of man or woman becomes most
apparent, and here Beatrice showed a
noble calm and a simple trust which to
Brandon was most touching. He knew
that she must feel most keenly the
fatigue and the privations of such a life ;
but her unvarying cheerfulness was the
same as it had been on shipboard. He,
too, exhibited that same constancy and
resolution which he had always evinced,
and by his consideration for Cato showed
his natural kindness of heart.

" How sorry I am that I can do noth-
ing ! " Beatrice would say. " You are
killing yourself, and I have to sit idle and
gain my safety at your expense."

" The fact that you are yet safe,"
Brandon would reply, " is enough for nie.
As long as I see you sitting there I can
work."

" But can I do nothing ? It is hard for
me to sit idle while you wear out your
life."

" You can sing," said Brandon.

" What ? "

" Langhetti's song," he said, and
turned his face away.

She sang at once. Her tones rose in
marvellous modulations ; the words were
not much, but the music with which she
clothed them seemed again to utter forth
that longin<j which Brandon had heard
before.

Now, as they passed over the seas,
Beatrice sang, and Brandon did not wish
that this life should end. Through the
days, as they sailed on, her voice arose
expressive of every changeful feeling, now
speaking of grief, now swelling in sweet
strains of hope.

Day thus succeeded to day until the
fourth night came, when the wind died
out and a calm spread over the waters.

Brandon, who waked at about two in
the morning so as to let Cato sleep, saw
that the wind had ceased, and that
another one of those treacherous calms
had come. He at once put out the oars,
and, directing Cato to sleep till he waked
him, began to pull,

Beatrice remonstrated, " Do not,"
said she, in an imploring tone. " You
have already done too much. Wliy
should you kill yourself.'"

" The wind has stopped," answered
Brandon. " The calm is treacherous, and
no time ought to be lost."

" iJut wait till you have rested."

" I have been resting for days,"

" Why do you not rest during the
night and work in the daytime ? "

" Because the daytime is so frightfully
hot that work will be diflicult. Night is
the time to work now."

Brandon kept at his oars, and Beatrice
saw that remonstrances were useless.
He rowed steadily until the break of day ;
then, as day was dawning, he rested for a
while, and looked earnestly toward the
east.

A low, dark cloud lay along the eastern
horizon, well-defined against the sky,
which now was growing brighter and
brighter every hour. Was it cloud, or
was it something else ? This was the
question that rose in Brandon's mind.

The sky grew brighter, the scene far
and wide opened up before the gathering

THE STRUGGLE FOR LIFE

light until at last the sun began to appear.
Then there was no longer any doubt.
It was Land.

This he told to Beatrice ; and the
Hindu, waking at the same time, looked
earnestly toward that shore which they
had been striving so long and so ear-
nestly to reach. It was land, but what
land ? No doubt it was some part of the
coast of Senegambia, but what one }
Along that extensive coast there were
many places where landing might be
certain death, or something worse than
death. Savage tribes mipht dwell there
—either those which were demoralized
by dealings with slave-traders, or those
which were flourishing in native barbar-
ism. Yet only one course was now ad-
visable ; namely, to go on till they
reached the shore.

It appeared to be about fifty miles
away. So Brandon judged, and so it
proved. The land which they had seen
was the summit of lofty hills which were
visible from a great distance. They
rowed on all that day. The water was
calm and glassy. The sun poured down
its most fervid beams, the air was sultry
and oppressive. Beatrice entreated Bran-
don now to desist from rowing and wait
till the cool of the night, but he was
afraid that a storm might come up sud-
denly. " No," he said, " our only hope
now is to get near the land, so that if a
storm does come up we may have some
place of shelter within reach."

After a day of exhaustive labor the
land was at last reached.

High hills, covered with palm-trees, rose
before them. There was no harbor
■villiiii sight, no river outlet, but a long,
uninterrupted extent of high, wooded
shores. Here in the evening they rested
on their oars, and looked earnestly at the
shore.

Brandon conjectured that they were
somewhat to the north of Sierra Leone;
and did not think that they could be to
the south. At any rate, a southeasterly
course was the surest one for them, for
they would reach either Sierra Leone or
Liberia. The distance which they might
have to go was, however, totally uncertain
to him.

So they turned the boat's head south-
east, and moved in a line parallel with
the general line of the shore. That shore
varied in its features as they passed
along ; sometimes depressed into low,
wide savannas ; at others, rising into a
rolling country, with hills of moderate
height, behind which appeared the
summits of lofty mountains, empurpled
by distance.

It was evening when they first saw the
land, and then they went on without
pausing. It was arranged that they
should row alternately, as moderately as
possible, so as to husband their strength.
Cato rowed for the first part of that night,
then Brandon rowed till morning. On the
following day Cato took the oars again.

It was now just a week since the wreck,
and for the last two days there had not
been a breath of wind in the air; nor the
faintest ripple on that burning water.
To use even the slightest exertion in such
torrid heat was almost impossible. Even
to sit still under that blighting sun, with
the reflected glare from the dead, dark
sea around, was painful.

Beatrice redoubled her entreaties to
Brandon that he should rest. She
wished to have her mantle spread over
their heads as a kind of canopy, or fix the
sail in some way and float idly through
the hottest part of the day. But Bran-
don insisted that he felt no evil effects as
yet ; and promised, when he did feel such,
to do as she said.

CORD AND CREESE

At last they discovered that their water
was almost out, and it was necessary to
get a fresh supply. It was the afternoon
of the seventh day. Brandon had been
rowing ever since midday. Beatrice had
wound her mantle about his head in the
style of an Eastern turban, so as to pro-
tect him from the sun's rays. Looking
out for some place along the shore where
they might obtain water, they saw an
opening in the line of coast where two
hills arose to a height of several hundred
feet. Toward this Brandon rowed.

Stimulated by the prospect of setting
foot on shore Brandon rowed somewhat
more vigorously than usual ; and in
about an hour the boat entered a beauti-
ful little cove shut in between two hills,
which formed the outlet of a river. Far
up its winding course could be traced by
the trees along its borders. The hills
rose on each side with a steep slope, and
were covered with palms. The front of

the harbor v as shut in from the sea by
a beautiful little wooded island. H-re
Brandon rowed the boat into this cove :
and its prow grated against the pebbles
of the beach.

Beatrice had uttered many exclama-
tions of delight at the beauty of this
scene. At length, surprised at Bran-
don's silence, she cried :

"Why do you not say sometiiing?
Surely this is a Paradise after the
sea ! "

She looked up with an enthusiastic
smile.

He had risen to his feet. A strange,
vacant expression was in his eyes. He
made a step forward as if to land. His
unsteady foot trembled. He reeled, and
stretched out his arms like someone
groping in the dark.

Beatrice shrieked and sprang forwaid,
Too late : for the next moment he fell
headlong into the water.

CHAPTER Xni

THE BADINAGE OF OLD FRIENDS

The town of Holby is on the co'.st of
Pembroke. It has a small harbor, with a
lighthouse, and the town itself contains
a few thousand people, most of them
belonging to the poorer class. The chief
house in the town stands on a rising
ground a little outside, looking toward
the water. Its size and situation render
it the ;i!Ost conspicuous object in the
neigiibo'i" ad

This hou ;'-om 'w appearance, must
have be?n huur more than a century
befc 'v iuion,ft«.! a) an (Ad fnn.ily

which i'"i' '.ecornc extintf, and nowv was

j occupied by a new owner, who had given
^ it another name. This new owner was
I William Thornton, Esq., solicitor, who
I had an oflice in Holby, and who, though
very wealthy, still attended to his busi-
ness with undiminished application. The
house had been originally p'jrchased by
the father of the present occupant, Henry
Thornton, a well-known lawyer in these
parts, who had settled here orij^.iially a
poor young man, but had finally grown
gray aiul rich in his adopted home. He
i had boiiglit the pl.)ce when it was
I exposed for sale, with the intention o(

THE BADINAGE OV OLD FRIENDS

founding a new seat for his own family,
and iiad given it the name of Tliornlon
Grange.

Generations of care and tasteful cul-
ture had made Thornton Grange one of
the most beautiful places in the county.
All around were wide parks dotted witli
ponds and clumps of trees. An avenue
of elms led up to the door, A well-kept
lawn was in front and behind was an
extensive grove. Everything spoke of
wealth and elegance.

On an afternoon in February a gentle-
man in clerical dress walked up the
avenue, rang at tb.e door, and entering
he gave his name to the servants as the
Rev. Courtenay Despard. He was the
new rector of Holby, and had only been
there one week.

He entered the drawing room, sat
down upon one of the many lounging
chairs with which it was tilled, and waited.
He dill not h.ave to wait long. A rapid
step was soon heard descending the
slairs, and in a few minutes a lady
entered. She came in with a bright
smile of welcome on her face, and
greeted him with much warmth.

Mrs. Thornton was very striking in her
appearance. A clear olive c()m|)lexion
and large dark hazel eyes marked
Southern blood. Her hair was black,
wavy, and exceedingly luxuiiaiit. Her
mouth was small, her iiands and fret deli-
cately shaped, and her figure slender and
elegant. Her whole air had tli.it indflin-
ahle grace which is the sign of high-breed-
ing ; to this there was added excee'ling
loveliness, with great animation of face and
elegance of maimer. She was a perfect
lady, yet not of the English stam|) ; for her
looks and manner had not that cold and
phlegmatic air which England fosters.
She looked rather lik'; some Italian beauty
—like those which enchant us as they

smile from the walls of the picture gal-
leries of Italy.

" I am so glad you liave come ! " said
she. " It is so stupid here, and I expected
you an hour ago,"

" Oh, if I h;id only known that !" said
Despard. " For, do you know, I have
been dying of ennui."

" I hope that I may be the means of
dispelling it."

" As sureiy so as the sun disperses the
clouds."

" You are never at a loss for a com-
plijuent."

" Never when I am witli yju."

These few words were spoken with a
smile by each, and a slightly melodi.imatic
gesture, as though each was conscious
of a little extra\agaiice.

" You nuist be glad to get to your
Ad home," she resumed. " \'c)U lived
1 V re fifteen, ro, sixteen years, you
know."

" I'jglileen."

" So it was. I was sixteen when you
left."

"Never to see )'ju again till I came
back," said Despard, witii some luouru-
fulness, looking at the lli Ji'.

■' And since then all has ch.angi'il."

"But I ha\c not," rejoined Desi ril, in
the same tone.

Mrs. Thornton said nothiii tor a
moment.

" By the way, I've been read:!! such a
nice book." she lesumed. " 1 as just
come out, antl is m iking n nsatioii.
It would suit you, 1 know."

" What is it ? "

She rose and lifted a biuk Mom the
table, which she handed t' im. He
took it, and read the title on: loud.

" ' Christian's Cross." '

A str.mge expression passed over his
face. He looked at her, ho'dmg the

COKl) AM) CKKKSK

book out at aiii) s-lcn;^th with feigned
coiistcniatioii.

" And do you have tlic heart to recom-
mend tills 1joo1< to me, Mrs. 'Hiornlon? "

•' Why not?"

" Wliy, it's relii;ious. Rehgioiis |joul<s
are my terror. I low coulii I possibly
open a book like tliis .'' "

She laugtied.

" Vou are mistaken," she said. " It is
an ordinary novel, and for the .sake of
your peace of mind I assure you that
there is not a particle of religion in it.
But why should you look with such re-
pugnance upon it ? The expression of
your face is simply hoiror."

" Pietistic books h;ne beeii the bane of
my life. The emotional, the rha])sotlical,
the meditati\e style of book, in which one
garrulously addresses one's soul fiom be-
ginning to end, is siiiii)Iy torture to me,
You see religion is a different thing.
The rhapsody may do fur the Tabernacli-
people, but ihouglitful men and women
need something ditTerent."

•' I am so tlelightetl to Ihmt sucli senti-
ments from a cleigyman I They entin Iv
accord with my own. .Still 1 must uwn
that your horrur struck me ,is n(_)\el, tu
say the least of it."

" Would y(ju like me to try tw prosely-
tize you .' "

" You may tiy if you wish. 1 am ()[)en
to conviction; but the Ciiurch of all the
ages, the Apostolic, the Catiiolic. h.is ;i
strong hold on me."

"You need not fear tli;it I will e\er
try to loostai it. I only wiili lii.it I ni.'u-
see your face in Trmity Cl.ui'cli everv
Sunday,"

" That happiness shall l)e yours,"
answered Mis. ThornioM. " \s tlnre

" If that is tiie case it will be a \)hc.(t
of worship to me."

He smiled away the extravagance of
this last remaik, and she only sliuij|<
her head.

"That is a compliment, but ii is
awfully profane."

" Not profanity ; say rather justifMhlc
idolatry."

" Really, I feel overcome ; 1 do not
know what to say. At. any rate, I liiipc
you will like the book ; I know you aIH
t'md it pleasant."

" Anything that comes from you enuld
not be otherwise," said Despard. 'At
the same tiitie it is not my habit to [■ -j
novels sijigly."

"Singlv ! Whv, how else can one n '!
them } "

" 1 always le.id sevend at a tinu'."

.Mrs. Tlujrnton laughed at the w' ; ■
sical ide.a.

" N'ou see," said Desp.'ird, "one m : •
ki'e[) up with the hleiatuic of the '
I u^eil to read each book as it c ,
out, but .It ki-a found s.'itiety. The •
novel palls, for my own comfort I
tc; in\ent a new i)l,ui to stimukiti
interest. I will tell you about it. 1 ' •.
ten ;it .1 liiiie, spiead tliem on the ;
in flout of nu', and re.ad e.ich i ha] ■' 'i
sueceN.Mon. "

" Isn't that ,1 little confuting? "

"Not ,it .ill." s.iid Htspard gi,
"I'laetice enables one to keep .'ill

tilRt."

" I'.Mf wh.'it is the good of it .•' "
" Tlii>," replied Despanl; "you ^ .;
eaeh novel theie .ire certain siti;"
Teiiiaps on ;in .average there me •:
forty e;icli. Interesting (di.iracters .;/■
in i\' a\'eiM<'(' ten e.ieh. Tluillin" m .!-

i 1 no C'.il! olic ( Iiiii I h

1 w

M\e tW t nt\ e.K il. < >\ CI'W luimiii'

C.U

vou the honor

>i I

ny jiiesence at phes hlueii (■.iidi.

Now bv I'

Trinity,

novels singly

the effect of all tl

weakened, f

carh in its

wlieie you n

h.ive the agj^

one combiii

books which

hiimlied thi

and fifty ovt

luiiulred int(

hundred situ

tioii. Do y(

tage there is

this rule I h;

somewhat j;

abreast of t

" What ar

you read all

one eould w

thi' same prii

write very mi

" ! thiid< I

pi'fieiit I an

learned treati

nf tl,e Mos.aie

" The-wh,

ilie.ilhlcsily.

" riie.Syml

Keo.'i'iiny," sa

•■ .\nd is th

" Ail my ov

" 'I'iicn pr.iy

title is I'liougl

I tl' ' s not

unliiiary nu-i

laaie. '

" i'\e been
"0," said Desp
tli.it 1 ni.ay ft
^.i^e ;,(inic' trc
''I jna .as nun
'■ And i\o yt
lain les .-* "

" N'o, fi.iid<
that liM,- the c
, '■ Ijut do n

THE BADINAOF, OF Ol.I) FRIENDS

l;it<: ;;:y
1 I '.c
ic t ■ :o

nil ^< iii

Ilia;, i"-'
tcis .■'■-o

S( ' in'S

cat I .'Ki

wiMkoncd, for you only li;ive the work of
^■■li\\ in its divided, isolated state, but
win le you read aecordini; to my plan you
h.ivc the aggregate of all these effects in
one combined — that is to say, in ten
l)oi)ks which I read at once I have two
humlied thrilling scenes, one hundred
ami lifly overwhelming catastrophes, one
luiiulrod interesting characters, and four
luiailred situations of absorbing fascina-
tion. Do you not see what an advan
ta;a.- there is in my i)lan ? l]y followin..^
till-, rule I have been able to stimulate a
somewhat jaded api^ctite, and to keep
abreast of the literature of the day."

" What an admirable plan I And do
you read all books in that way ? Why,
one lanild write ten no^'els at a tinu' im
the ^ame princii)le, and i' so he ought to
wild' very much better."

" 1 think I will try it some day. At
piTi'.iit I am busily engaged with a
liMir.cd treatise on the Synd)ulical Nature
nfil.r Mosaic Economy, and "

" I'he— what ? " cried Mrs, Thornton
lii'Mihlrssly. " What was that ? "

■■ 1 he SvmboHial Nature of the Mosaic
F,. (jiininv," said Dt'sjjard placidly.

■■ .\iid is the title all ytnir own ? "

" Aii my own."

" Tht-'n pray don't write thebook. The
title is t'liough. l'nbli-.h that, and see if
1! il' ' s not of itself, by its own extra-
onlinuy merits, bring you undymg
t.ina'. ■

"i'\','l)een tiiiid<mg si 1 iouslv of doing
CO, " said Despard, " and 1 don't know but
that 1 in.ay follow your advice. It will
sa'' f some trouble, and peilKijis amount
til jii^l as nuicli in the end."

'■ .\nd do you oftt'u havi' such bi illiant

(.IIU Us .'' "

" N'o. frankly, not oft- n. 1 consider

lli:ilti:i!- the one great idt\i of mv life."

" Liut tlo nut dwell too much u|)on

that," said IMrs. Thornton, in a warning
voice. " It might make you conceiteil."

" Do you think so?" rejoined the other,
with a shudder. " Do you really think
so ? I hope not. At any rate I hope you
do not like conceited people ? "

" No."

" Am I conceited ? "

" No. 1 like you," continued Mrs.
Thornton, with a slight bow and a wave
of the hand, which she accompanied with
a smile.

" And I like you," said Despard in the
same tone.

" Von could not do less."

" This," said Despard, with an air of
thoughtful seriousness, "is a solemn
occasion. After such a tender confession
from each of us what remains to be done ?
What is it that the novels lay down .'' "

"I'm sure," returned Mrs. Thornton,
with the same assumed '-'enuiity, " it is
not for me to say. \ ai -ii^st make the
proposition."

" We cannot du anything less than tly
together,"

" I should think not."

I hit \vlier(

J "

"And not oiiK where, but how.'' By
rail. i)y steamboat, 01 by canal.' A
cinal strikes me as the best moile of
Ihght. It is secluded,"

'■ free from ol)ser\ .ition," said Despard.

" <]uiet." rejoined Mis, Thornton.

'■ I'oetic,"

" Remote."

" L'nfrieniled."

" Solilarv."

" Slow."

" And, best of all, hitherto untried."

" \ !•>-. lis novelty is undeniable."

" S<.j much so, " said Mrs. Thornton,
" that it overwhelms one. It is a bright'
original iilea, and in these days of com-
monplace is il not cretlilable? The idea

COKD AND CREESE

is mine, sir, and I will match it with your
— wliat ?— your Symbolical Nature of the
Mosaic Cosmogony."

"Economy."

" But Cosniogoiny is better. Allow
me to suggest it by way of a change."

"It must be so, since you say it; but
I have a weakness for the word Economy.
It is derived from the Greek "

" Greek ! " exclaimed Mrs. Thornton,
raising her hands. " You surely are not
going to be so ungenerous as to quote
Gree'f ! Am I not a lady } Will you be
so base as to tare me at a disadvantage
in that way ?"

" I am thoroughly ashamed of myself,
and you may consiacr that a tacit apology
is going on within my mind whenever I
see you."

" You are forgiven," said Mrs. Thorn-
ton. I

" I cannot conceive how I could have
so iu: iorgotten myself. I do not usually
speak Greek to ladies. 1 consider it my
duty to make myself agreeable. And
you have no idea how agrecal)le I can j
make myself, if I '.'"y." '

" I ? I have no i lea ? Is it you who
say that, and to m.' ? ' exclaimed Mrs.
Thornton, in that siiglit melodramatic
tone which she had employed thus far, '
somewhat exaggerated. " After what I \
told you— of my feelings } " '■

" I see I shall have to devote all the
rest of my life to making apologies."

" No. Do not make apologies. Avoid
your besetting sins. Otherwise, fond as
I am of you"— and she s|)okc wilh
exaggerated solemnity—" I must regard
you as a failure."

The conversation went on uninter-
ruptedly in this style for some time. It
ajjpeared to suit each of them. Des-
pard's face, naturally grave, assisted him
toward maintaining the mock-serious

tone whicli he chose to adopt ; and Mrs.
Thornton's peculiar style of face gave
her the same advantage. It pleased
each to express for the other an exag.
gerated sentiment of regard. They con.
sidered it banter and badinage. How
far it was safe was another thing, Hut
they had known one another years befuie,
and were only resuming the manner of
earlier times.

Yet, after all, was it safe for the gravp,
rector of Holby to adopt ihe inflated
style of a troubadour in addressing the
Lady of Thornton Grange? Neither of
them thought of it. They simply ini-
proved the shinn>g hour after this fasiiion,
until at length the conversation was
interrupted by the opening of fijlding.
doors, and the entrance of a servant who
announced — dinner.

On entering the dining room Desjiard
was greeted with respectful formality hy
the master of the house. He was a man
of about forty, with the professional air
of the lawyer about him, and an abstracted
expression of face, such as usually belongs
to one who is deeply engrossed in the cares
of business, llis tone, in spite of its
friendliness, w.is naturally stiff, and was
in marked contrast to the warmth of
Mrs. Thornton's greeting.

" How do you like your new quarters?"
he asked, as they sat down.

" Very well," said Despard. " It is
more my home, you know, than any
other place. I lived there so many years
as schoolboy with Mr. Carson that it
seems natural to take up my station there
as home."

Mr. Thornton relapsed into his abstrac-
tion while Desp.'ird was speaking, who
directetl the remainder of his conversa-
tion to Mrs. Thornton.

It was light, idle chat, in thesam>''one
as that in which they iiad before indulged,

Once or twi
travagant rei
u|) in perplexi
on seeing thei
They had .
meaning of
to-morrow."
meant the sar
insisted that i
lo-niurrow cai
coming, and
still the day
theory witli <
Thornton, aft
took the troul
length Into th(
eluded it triuiT
'I'lion the si
and a probab
considered. I
no interest in
an invasion to
do nothing. ]
military duty
The mention
discussion as
ganger. Des
knew how it v
the necessities
simi)ly impossi
giiugi:y or gu
Thornton agai
law papers in
correctly writt(
challenged hii
Thornton hac
not examined
hand, he clain
Thornton, a
the smile of a
telligible thing;
Then follow
hetween Desp
ahout religion
cdlaneous assi

THE nADINAG^. OF OI,D FRIENDS

Once or twice, at some unusually ex-
ti;iv;i|,'ant reniaik, Mr. Thornton looked
u[) ill perplexity, which was not lessened
on seeing their perfect gravity.

They had a long discussion as to the
meaning of the phrase " the day after
to-morrow." Despard asserted that it
iiicaiif the same as eternal duration, and
insisted that it must be so, since when
to-morrow came the day after it was still
coming, and when that caine there was
still the day after. He supported his
theory with so much earnestness that
Thornton, after listening for a while,
took the trouble to go heavily and at
length into the whole question, and con-
cluded it triumphantly against Despard,

Then the subject of jjolitics came up,
and a probable war with France was
considered. Despard professed to take
no interest in the subject, since, even if
an invasion took place, clergymen could
do nothing. They were exempt from
niihtaiy duty in common with gangers.
The mention of this brought on a long
discussion as to the spelling of the word
ganger. Despard asserted that nobody
knew how it was spelled, and that, from
the necessities of human nature, it was
simply impossible to tell whether it was
i;iXUi;cr or guager. This brought out
Thornton again, who mentioned several
law papers in which the word had been
correctly written by his clerks. Despard
challenged him on this, and, because
Thornton had to confess that he had
not examined the word, dictionary in
hand, he claimed a victory over him.

Thornton, at this, looked away, with
the smile of a man who is talking unin-
telligible things to a child.

Then followed a long conversation
bulween Despard antl Mrs. Thornton
about religion, art, m.usic, and a mis-
cellaneous assemblage of other things,

which lasted for a long tin\e. At length
he rose to go. Mrs. Thornion went to a
side table aiul took up a book.

" Here," said she, " is the little book
you lent me ; I ought to have sent it,
but I thought you would come for it."

"And so I will," said he, "some day."

" Come for it to-morrow."

"Will you be at home?"

" Yes."

"Then of course I'll come. And now
I must tear myself away. Good-night ! "

On the following day, at about two
o'clock, Despard called again. Mrs.
Thornton had been writing, and the desk
was strewn with papers.

" I know I am disturbing you," said he,
after the usual greetings. " I see that
you are writing, so I will not stay but a
moment. I have come, you know, after
that little book,"

" Indeed, you are not disturbing me at
all, I have been trying to continue a let-
ter which I began to my brother a month
ago. There is no hurry about it."

"And how is Paolo?"

" I have not heard for some time, I
ought to hear soon. He went to America
last summer, and I have not had a word
from him since. My letter is of no im-
portance, I assure you, and now, since
you are here, you shall not go. Indeed,
I only touched it a minute ago. I have
been looking at some pictures till I am so
begrimed and inundated with dust that I
feel as though I had been resolved into
my original element." And she held up
her hands with a pretty gesture of horror,

Despard looked at her for a moment as
she stood in her bright beauty before him,
A sudden expression of pain flashed over
his face, succeeded by his usual smile,

" Dust never before took so fair a
form," he said, and sat down, looking on
the floor.

— f

• -*■

cxr

11: .ij

■ *••••*

CORD AND CREESE

" For unfailing power of compliment,
for an unending supply of neat and pretty
speeches, commend mc to the Rev.
Courteiiay Despard."

" Yet, singularly enough, no one else
ever dreamed that of me."

•' You were always so."

" With you."

" In the old days."

" Now lost forever."

Their voices sank low and expressive
of a deep melancholy. A silence followed.
Despard at last, with a sudden effort,
began talking in his usual extravagant
strain about badgers till at last Mrs.
Thornton began to laugh, and the radi-
ancy of their spirits was restored.
" Strange," said he, taking up a prayer-
book with a pecuha/ binding, on which
there was a curiously intertwisted figure
in gilt. " That pattern has been in my
thoughts and dreams for a week."

" How so ? "

" Why, I saw it in your hands last
Sunday, and my eyes were drawn to it
till its whole figure seemed to stamp itself
on my mind. See ! I can trace it from
memory," And, taking his cane, he
traced the curiously involved figure on
the carpet.

" And were your thoughts fixed on
nothing better than that ? "

" I was engaged in worship," was the
reply, with marked empliasis.

"I must take another book next time."

" Do not. You will only force me to
study another pattern."

Mrs. Thornton laughed lightly, and
Despard looked at her with a smile.

"I'm afraid your thoughts wander,"
she said lightly, "as mine do. There is
no excuse for you. There is for me.
For you know I'm like Naaman ; I have
to bow my head in the temple of Baal.
After all," she continued, in a more seri-

ous voice, " I suppose I shall be .ihli
some day to worship before my own alt.ir,
for, do you know, I expect to end my days
in a convent."

"And why?"

" For the purpose of perfect religious
seclusion."

Uespard looked at her earnestly for a
moment. Then his usual smile broke
out.

" Wherever you go let me know, and
I'll take up my abode outside the walls
and come and look at you every ilay
through the grating."

" And would that be a help to a reli-
gious lifp ? "

" Perhaps not ; but I'll tell you what
would be a help. Be a Sister of Cliaiiiy,
I'll be a Paulist. I'll devote myself lo the
sick. Then you and I can go togethn ;
and when you are tired I can assist you.
I think that idea is much better than
yours."

"Oh, very much, indeed!" said Mi>,
Thornton, with a strange, sad look.

" I remember a boy and girl who once
used to go hand in hand over yonder

shore, and " He stopped suddenly,

and then hastily added, " and now it would
be very sad, and therefore very absuid. in
one of them to bring up old menioiics."

Mrs. Thornton suddenly rose, and,
walking to the window, looked out. "I
wonder if it will rain to-day ! " she said,
in a sweet voice, full of a tremulous
melancholy.

" There are very dark clouds about, '
returned Despard mournfully.

" I hope there will not be a storm,"
she rejoined, with the same sadness.
Her hands were held tightly together.
" Some things will perish if a storm
comes."

" Let us pray that there may be calm
and peace," said Despard.

)C ,ll)li

n alt. If,
ny (lays

TWO LETTERS 8y

She turned and looked at him for ^-loom ! Their eyes met, and each read

a moment. Strange that these two
should pass so quickly from gayety to

in the face of the other sadness beyond
words.

eligious

ly (or a
; broke

CHAPTER XIV

low, and
he walls
^ery day

to a icli-

TWO LEITERS

Despard did not go back to the
(Iiangc for some days. About a week
had passed since the scenes narrated in
the preceding chapter when one ir jrning,
haviiij,' finished his breakfast, he went
into his library and sat down at the taljle
to write. A litter of papers lay all around.
The walls were covered with slielves
filled with books. The table was piled
hi[;!i with ponderous tomes. Manuscripts
weie strewn around, and books were
scattered on the floor. Yet, amid all
this disorder, some order was apparent,
for many of these books lay open in cer-
tain places, and others were arranged so
as to be within reach.

.Several sheets of paper, covered with
writing, lay before him, licaded, " The
Byzantine Poets." The books were all
in Greek. It was the library of a hard-
working student.

Very different was the Despard of the
lihrary from the Despard who had
visited the Grange. A stern and
thoughtful expression was read in his
face, and his eyes had an abstraction
which would have done credit to Mr.
Thoiiiton himself.

Taking his seat at the table, he re-
mained for a while leaning his head on
his hand in deep thought. Then he
look up a pen and drew a piece of paper
before him to try it. He began to draw

upon it the same figure which he had
marked with his ca le on Mrs. Thorn-
ton's carpet. He traced this figure over
and over until at last the whole sheet
was f^overed.

Suddenly he flung down the pen, and
taking up the paper, leaned back in his
chair with a melancholy face. " What a
poor, weak thing 1 am ! " he muttered at
last, and let the paper fall to the floor.
He leaned his li.id on his hand, then
resumed his pen and began to make
some idle marks. At length he began
to draw.

Under the fine and delicate strokes of
his pen, which were as neat and as ex-
quisite as the most subtle touches of an
engraving, a picture gradually rose to
view. It was a seaside scene. The
place was Holby Beach. In the distance
was the lighthouse ; and cri one side a
promontory, which protected the harbor.
Upon the shore, looking out toward the
sea, was a beautiful girl of about sixteen
years of age, whose featui s, as they grew
beneath his tender touches, were those of
Mrs. Thornton. Then beside her there
gradually rose another figure, a youth of
about eighteen, with smooth face and
clustering locks, who looked exactly like
what the Rev. Courtenay Despard might
have been some seven or eight years be-
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her arm was thrown up till it touched his
shoulder, and his right hand held hers.
Her head leaned against him, and ' oth of
them, with a subdued expression of per-
fect happiness, tinged with a certain pen-
sive sadness, were looking out upon the
setting sun.

As soon as he finished he looked at the
sketch, and then, with a sudden impulse,
tore it into a thousand small fragments.
He drew the written manuscript before
him with a long and deep-drawn sigh,
and began writing with great rapidity
upon the subject of the Byzantine poets.
He had just written the following
words :

" The Anacreontic hymns of John Dam-

ascenus form a marked contrast to "

when the sentence was interrupted
by a knock at the door. " Come in ! "
It was the servant with letters from the
post-otidce. Despard put down his pen
gravely, and the man laid two letters on
the table. He waited till the servant had
departed, then seizing one of them, a
small one, addressed in a lady's hand, he
pressed it vehemently to his lips and tore
it open.

It was as follows :

" Dear Mr. Despard : I suppose I
may never expev,! to see you again. Yet
I must see you, for yesterday I received
a very long letter from Paolo of so singu-
lar a character that you will have to
explain it tu me. I shall expect you this
afternoon, and till then, I remain,
" Yours ililcerely,

" Teresa Thornton.

" Thornton Grange, Friday."

Despard read this letter a score of
times, and placed it reverently in an inner
drawer of his desk. He then opened
the other, and read as follows :

"Halifax. Nova Scotia,
"January 12, 1847.

" Mv Dear Courtenay : I was
very glad to hear of your appointment
as rector of Holby, your old home, and
hope that by this time you are fully
established in the old rectory, where
you spent so many years. I was there
often enough in poor old Carson's days
to know that it was a fine old place.

"You will see by this that I am in
Halifax, Nova Scotia. My regiment was
ordered off here last November, and I am
just beginning to feel settled. It is not
so cold here as it was in Quebec. There
is capital moose hunting up the country,
I don't admire my accommodations
much ; but it is not a bad little town,
considering all things. The people are
pleasant, and there is some stir and
gayety occasionally.

" Not long before leaving Quebec, who
do you think turned up ? No less a per-
son than Paolo Langhetti, who in the
course of his wanderings came out here.
He had known some extraordinary adven-
tures on his voyage out ; and these are
the immediate cause of this letter.

" He took passage early in June last in
the ship Tecumseh, from Liverpool for
Quebec. It was an emigrant ship, and
crammed with passengers. You have
heard all about the horrors of that
middle passage, which occurred last year,
when thoae infernal Liverpool merchants,
for the sake of putting a few additional
pounds in their pockets, sent so many
thousands to destruction.

" The Tecumseh was one of these. It
was crammed with emigrants. You
know Langhetti's extraordinary pluck,
and his queer way of devoting himself for
others. Well, what did he do but this :
as soon as the ship fever broke out he
left the cabin and took up his abode in

■ >
1,

TWO LETTERS

the steetage with the sick emigrants. He
is very quiet about this, and merely says
that lie helped to nurse the sick. I know
what that means.

"The mortality was terrific. Of all
the ships that came to Quebec in that
fatal summer the Tecumseh showed the
largest record of deaths. On reaching
the quarantine station Langhetti at once
insisted on continuing his attendance on
the sick. Hands were scarce, and his
offer was eagerly accepted. He stayed
down there ever so long till the worst of
the sickness was over.

"Among the passengers on the Te-
cumseh were three who belonged to the
superior class. Their name was Bran-
don. He took a deep interest in them.
They suffered very much from sickness
both during the voyage and at quarantine.
The name at once attracted him, being
one well known both to him and to us.
At last they all died, or were supposed
to have died, at the quarantine station.
Langhetti, however, found that one of
them was only in a ' trance state,' and
his efforts for resuscitation were success-
ful. This one was a young girl of not
more than sixteen years of age. After
her restoration he left the quarantine
bringing her with him, and came up to
the city. Here he lived for a month or
so, until at last he heard of me and came
to see me.

" Of course I was delighted to see him,
for I always thought him the noblest
fellow that ever breathed, though most
undoubtedly cranky if not crazy. I told
iiim we were going to Halifax, and as he
had no settled plan I made him come
here with me.

" The girl remained for a long time in
a state of mental torpor, as though her
brain had been affected by disease, but
ihc journey here had a beneficial effect ni

her, and during her stay she has steadily
improved. About a week ago Langhetti
ventured to ask her all about her-
self.

" What will you say when I tell you
that she is the daughter of poor Ralph
Brandon, of Brandon Hall, your father's
friend, whose wretched fate has made us
all so miserable. You know nothing of
this, of course ; but where was Thorn-
ton ? Why did not he do something to
prevent this horror, this unutterable
calamity ? Good God ! what suffering
there is in this world !

" Now, Courtenay, I come to the point.
This poor Edith Brandon, still half dead
from her grief, has been able to tell us
that she has still a relative living. Her
eldest brother Louis went to Australia
many years ago. A few weeks before
her father's death he wrote to his son
telling him everything, and imploring him
to come home. She thinks that her
brother must be in England by this
time.

" I want you to hunt up Louis Brandon.
Spare no trouble. In the name of God,
and by the memory of your father, whose
most intimate friend was this poor old
Brandon, I entreat you to search after
Louis Brandon till you find him, and let
him know the fate of his friends. I
think, if she could see him, the joy of
meeting one relative would restore her to
health.

" My boy, I know I have said enough.
Your own heart will impel you to do all
that can be done for the sake of this poor
young girl. You can find out the best
ways of learning information. You had
better go up at once to London and make
arrangements for finding Brandon. Write
me soon, and let me know.

" Your affectionate uncle,

"Henry Despard."

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CORD AND CREESE

Despard read this letter over and over.
Then he put it in his pocket, and walked
up and down the room in deep thought.
Then he took out Mrs. Thornton's note
and studied it for a long time. So the
hours passed away, until at length two
o'clock came and he set out for Thornton
Grange.

On entering the drawing room, Mrs.
Thornton was there.

" So you have come at last," said she,
as they shook hands.

" As if I would not come ten times a
day if I could," was the answer, in an
impetuous voice.

" Still there is no reason why you
should persistently avoid the Grange."

" What would you say if I followed my
own impulse, and came here every day ? "

" I would say, Good-morning, sir.
Still, now that you are here, you must stay."

" I will stay, whether I must or not."

"Have you recovered from the effect
of my prayer-book yet ? "

" No, nor ever will I. You brought
the same one last Sunday."

"That was in order to weaken the
effect. Familiarity breeds contempt,
you know."

" Then all I can say is, that contempt
has very extraordinary manifestations.
Among other strange things, it makes
me cover my paper with that pattern
when I ought to be writing on the
Mosaic Economy."

" Cosmogony, you mean."

" Well then, Cosmogony."

" Cosmogony is such a delicious word !
It has been the hope of my life to be
able to introduce it in a conversation.
There is only one other word that com-
pares with it."

"What is it?"

" I'm afraid to pronounce it."

•' Try, at any rate."

" Idiosyncrasy," said Mrs. Thornton.
"For five or six years I have been on
the lookout for an opportunity to use
that word, and thus far I have been
unsuccessful. I fear that, if the oppor-
tunity did occur, I would call it 'idio-
cracy.' In fact, I know I would."

" And what would be the difference ?
Your motive would be right, and it is to
motives that we must look, not acts."

After some further badinage, Mrs.
Thornton drew a letter from her pocket.

" Here," said she gravely, " is Paolo's
letter. Read it, and tell me what you
think of it."

Despard took the letter and beg^u to
read, while Mrs. Thornton, sitting oppo-
site to him, watched his face.

The letter was in Italian, and was
accompanied by a large and closely
written manuscript of many pages.

" Halifax, Nova Scotia,
"January 2, 1847.

"My Sweetest Little Sister: I
send you my diary, as I promised you,
my Teresella, and you will see all my
adventures. Take care of yourself, be
happy, and let us hope that we may see
one another soon. I am well, through
the mercy of the good God, and hope to
continue so. There is no such thing as
music in this place, but I have found an
organ where I can play. My Cremona
is uninjured, though it has passed through
hard times — it sends a note of love to my
Teresina. Remember your Paolo to the
just and upright Thornton, whom you
love. May God bless my little sister's
husband, and fill his heart with love for
the sweetest of children !

"Read this manuscript carefully,
Teresuola mia dolcissima, and pray for
the souls of those unhappy ones who
perished by the pestilence,"

CHAPTER XV

/ M

JOURNAL OF PAOLO LANGHETTI

Liverpool, June 2, 1846. — I promised
you, my Teresina, to keep a diary of all
my wanderings, and now I begin, not
knowing whether it will be worth read-
ing or not, but knowing this: that my
corellina will read it all with equal in-
terest, whether it be trivial or important.

I have taken passage in the ship
Tectimseh from Liverpool to Quebec. I
have embarked in her for no better reason
than this, that she is the first that will
sail, and I am impatient. The first New
York ship does not leave for a fortnight.
A fortnight in Liverpool ! Horror !

I have been on board to secure my
room. I am told that there is a large
number of emigrants. It is a pity, but it
cannot be helped. All ships have emi-
grants now. Ireland is being evacuated.
There will soon be no peasants to till the
soil. What enormous misery must be
in that most wretched of countries ! Is
Italy worse ? Yes, far worse ; for Italy
has a past to contrast with the present,
whereas Ireland has no past.

At Sea, June 4. — We are many miles
out in the Irish Channel. There are
six hundred emigrants on board — men,
women, and children. I am told that
most of these are from Ireland, unhappy
Ireland ! Some are from England, and
are going to seek their fortune in America.
As I look on them I think, my God !
what misery there is in this world ! And
yet what can I do to alleviate it ? I am
lielpless. Let the world suffer. All will
be right hereafter.

June 10.— Six hundred passengers !
They are all crowded together in a man-
ner that is frightful to me. Comfort is
out of the question ; the direst distress is
everywhere present ; the poor wretches
only try to escape suffering. During
storms they are shut in ; there is little
ventilation ; and the horror that reigns
in that hold will not let me either eat
or sleep. I have remonstrated with the
captain, but without effect. He told me
that he could do nothing. The owners
of the ship put them on board, and he
was employed to take then to their
proper destination. My God 1 what will
become of them ?

June 15. — There have been a few days
of fine weather. The wrelchec emigrants
have all been on deck. Am jng them I
noticed three who, from thei» appearance,
belonged to a different class. They were
a lady with a young man and a young
girl, who were evidently her children.
The lady has once been beautiful, and
still bears the traces of that beauty,
though her face indicates the extreme of
sadness. The son is a man of magnifi-
cent appearance, though as yet not full-
grown. The daughter is more lovely
than any being whom I have ever seen.
She is different from my Bicetta. Bice is
Grecian, with a face like that of a marble
statue, and a soul of purely classic mould.
Bice is serene. She reminds me of
Artemis. Bice is an artist to her inmost
heart. Bice I love as I love you, my
Teresina, and I never expect to meet with

L-J.-.,

CORD AND CREESE

one who can so interpret my ideas with
so divine a voice. But this girl is more
spiritual. Bice is classic, this one ii:
mediaeval. Bice is a goddess, this one a
saint. Bice is Artemis, or one of the
Muses ; this one is Holy Agnes or Saint
Cecilia. There is in that sweet and holy
face the same depth of devotion which
our painters portray on the face of the
Madonna. This little family group stand
amic! all the other passengers, separated
by the wide gulf of superior rank, — for
they are manifestly from among the upper
classes,— but still more so by the solemn
isolation of grief. It is touching to see
the love of the mother for her children and
the love of the children for their mother.
How can I satisfy the longings which I
feel to express to them my sympathy ?

June 2\, — I have at length gained my
desire. I have become acquainted with
that little group, I went up to them this
morning in obedience to a resistless
impulse, and with the most tender sym-
pathy that I could express ; and, with
many apologies, offered the young man a
bottle of wine for his mother. He took it
gratefully and frankly. He met me half-
way in my advances. The poor lady
looked at me with speechless gratitude,
as though kindness and sympathy were
unknown to her, " God will reward you,
sir," she said, in a tremulous voice, " for
your sympathy with the miserable."

" Dear madame," said I, " I wish no
other reward than the consciousness that
I may have alleviated your distress."

My hv.irt bled for these poor creatures.
Cast down from a life which must have
once been one of luxury, they were now
in the foulest of places, the hold of an
emigrant ship. I went back to the cap-
tain to see if I could not do something in
their behalf. I wished to give up my
room to them. He said I could do so if I

wished, but that there was no room left
in the cabin. Had there been I would
have hired one and insisted on their going
there.

I went to see the lady, and made this
proposal as delicately as I coul . There
were two berths in my room. I urged
her and her daughter to take them. At
first they both refused most positively,
with tears of gratitude. But I would not
be so put off. To the mother I portrayed
the situation of the daughter in that den
of horror ; to the daughter I pointed out
the condition of the mother : to the son
I showed the position of his mother and
sister, and thus I worked upon the holiest
feelings of their hearts. For myself I
assured them that I could get a place
among the sailors in the forecastle, and
that I preferred doing so. By such
means as these I moved them to con-
sent. They did so with an expression of
thankfulness that brought tears to my
eyes.

"Dear madame," said I, "you will
break my heart if you talk so. Take the
room and say nothing. I have been a
wanderer for years, and can live any-
where."

It was not till then that I found out
their names. I told them mine. They
looked at one another in astonishment.
" Langhetti ? " said the mother.

•* Yes."

" Did you ever live in Holby ? "

" Yes. My father was organist in
Trinity Church, and I and my sister
lived there some years. She lives there
still."

" My God ! " was her ejaculation.

" Why ? " I asked with eager curiosity.
" What do you know about Holby, and
about Langhetti ? "

She looked at me with solemn earnest-
ness. " I/' said she, " am the wife, and

am now, i

JOURNAL OP PAOLO LANOHETTl

these are the children of one who was
your father's friend. He who was my
husband, and the father of these children,
was Ralph Brandon, of Brandon Hall."

I stood for a moment stupefied. Then
I burst into tears. Then I embraced
them all, and said I know not what of
pity and sympathy and affection. My
God! to think of such a fate as this
awaiting the family of Ralph Brandon.
Did you know this, O Teresina? If so,
why did you keep it secret ? But no —
you could not have known it. If you had
this would not have happened.

They took my room in the cabin — the
dear ones — Mrs. Brandon and the sweet
Edith. The son Frank and I stay
together among the emigrants. Here I
am now, and I write this as the sun is
getting low, and the uproar of all these
hundreds is sounding in my ears.

June 30. — There is a panic in the ship*
The dread _ pestilence known as ''ship
fever " has appeared. This disease is the
tenor of emigrant ships. Surely there
was never any vessel so well adapted to
be the prey of the pestilence as this of
ours ! I have lived for ten days among
the steerage passengers, and have wit-
nessed their misery. Is God just ? Can
he look down unmoved upon scenes like
these ? Now that the disease has come,
where will it stop ?

July 3. — The disease is spreading.
Fifteen are prostrate. Three have died.

July 10. — Thirty deaths have occurred,
and fifty are sick. I am assisting to
nurse them.

July 1 5. — Thirty-four deaths since my
last. One hundred and thirty are sick.
I will labor here if I have to die for it.

July 18. — If this is my last entry let
this diary be sent to Mrs. Thornton, care
of William Thornton, Holby, Pembroke,
England — [the above entry was written

in English, the remainder was all in
Italian as before]. More than two hun-
dred are sick. Frank Brandon is down.
I am afraid to let his mother know it. I
am working night and day. In three
days there have been forty-seven deaths.
The crew are demoralized and panic-
stricken.

Jtily 23. — Shall I survive these horrors ?
More than fifty new deaths have occurred.
The disease has spread among the
sailors. Two are dead, and seven are
sick. Horror prevails. Frank Brar >n
is recovering slowly. Mrs. Brat, tn
does not know that he has been su .
We send word that we are afraid to come
for fear of communicating the disease to
her and to Edith.

July 27. — More than half of the sailors
are sick. Eleven dead. Sixty-seven pas-
sengers dead since last report. Frank
Brandon almost well, and helping me
in my work.

July 30. — Nearly all the sailors more
or less sick — five new deaths among them.
Ship almost unmanageable. In the Gulf
of St. Lawrence. Talk of putting into
some port. Seventy passengers dead.

August 2. — Worse yet. Disease has
spread into the cabin. Three cabin pas-
sengers dead. God have mercy upon
poor M.s Brandon and sweet Edith!
All the steerage passengers, with a few
exceptions, prostrate. Frank Brandon is
weak, but helps me. I work night and
day. The ship is like a floating pest-
house. Forty new deaths since last
report.

August 7. — Drifting along, I know not
how, up the St. Lawrence. The weather
calm, and iwo or three sailors able to
manage the ship. Captain and mate
both dead. Ten cabin passengers dead.
Three more sailors dead. Only thirty-
two steerage passengers dead since last

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CORD AND CREESE

report, but nearly all are sick. Hardly
anyone to attend them.

Au^fust lo. — Mrs. Brandon and Edith
both sick. Frank prostrate again. God
in heaven, have mercy !

August 15. — Mrs. Brandon and Edith
very low. Frank better.

August 16, Quarantine Station, Gosxe
Island. — I feel the fever in my veins. If
I die, farewell, sweetest sister.

December 28, Halifax, Nova Scotia. —
More than four months have elapsed
since my last entry, and during the
interval marvellous things have occurred.
These I will now try to recall as I best
can.

My last entry was made on the day of
the arrival of the Tecumseh at the Quar-
antine Station, Gosse Island, Quebec.
We were delayed there for two days.
Everything was in confusion. A large
number of ships had arrived, and all were
filled with sick. The authorities were
taken by surprise ; and as no arrange-
ments had ever been made for such a
state of things the suffering was extreme.
The arrival of the Tecumseh with her
frightful record of deaths, and with
several hundred sick still on board, com-
pleted the confusion. At last the pas-
sengers were removed somehow, I know
not how or when, for I myself on the
evening of our arrival was struck down
by the fever. I suppose that Frank
Brandon may have nursed me at first ;
but of that I am not sure. There was
fearful disorder. There were few nurses
and fewer doctors ; and as fast as the
sick died they were hurried hastily into
shallow graves in the sand. I was sick
for two or three weeks, and knew noth-
ing of what was going on. The first
thing that I saw on coming to my senses
was Edith Brandon.
She was fearfully changed. Unutter-

able grief dwe. upon her sweet young
face, which also was pale and wan from
the sickness through which she haci
passed. An awful feeling shot throiij^h
me. My first question was, " Is your
mc :her on shore ? "

She looked at me for a moment in
solemn silence, and, slowly raising iier
hand, pointed upward.

" Your brother ? " I gasped.

She turned her head away. I was
silent. They were dead, then. O God !
and this child— what had she not been
suffering? My mind at once, in its
agony of sympathy with her, burst
through the clouds which sickness had
thrown around it. " Poor child ! " I said.
" And why are you here ? "

" Where else can I go ? " she answered
mournfully.

" At least, you should not wear yourself
out by my bedside."

" You are the only one left whom I
know. I owe you far more than tiie
small attendance which I have given
you."

•' But will you not take some rest ? "

" Hush ! Wait till you are stronger.
You are too weak now to think of tliese
things."

She laid her thin hand on my forehead
gently. I turned my head away, and
burst into a flood of tears. Why was it
that this child was called upon to endure
such agony ? Why, in the midst of ihat
agony, did she come to me to save my
life?

I did not resist her any longer on that
day; but the next day I was stronger,
and made her go and repose herself.

For two successive days she came
back. On the third day she did not
fppear. The fourth day also she was
absent. Rude nurses attended to me.
They knew nothing of her. My* anxiety

JOURNAL OF PAOLO LANGHETTI

inspired me with such energy that on the
fourth day I rose from my bed and
staggered about to find her if possible.

All was still confusion. Thousands of
sick were on the island. The mistake of
the first week had not yet been repaired.
No one knew anything of Edith. I
sought her through all the wards. I
went to the superintendent, and forced
him to make enquiries about her. No
one could tell anything.

My despair was terrible. I forced the
superintendent to call up all the nurses
and doctors, and question them all, one
by one. At last an old Irishwoman,
with an awful look at me, hinted that she
could tell something about her, and
whispered a word or two in the supern-
tenclent's ear. He started back, with a
fearful glance.

" What is it ? Tell, in God's name ! "

" The dead-house," he murmured.

" Where , is it ? Take me there ! " I
cried to the woman. I clutched her arm
and staggered after her.

It was a long, low shed, open on all
sides. Twelve bodies lay there. In the
middle of the row was Edith. She was
more beautiful than an angel. A smile
wreathed her lips ; her eyes looked as
though she slumbered. I rushed up to
her and caught her in my arms. The
next moment I fell senseless.

When I revived I was lying in one of
the sick-sheds, with a crowd of sufferers
around me. I had only one thought, and
that was Edith. I rose at once, weak
and trembling, but the resolve of my soul
gave strength to my body. An awful
fear had taken possession of me, which
was accompanied by a certain wild hope.
I hurried, with staggering feet, to the
dead-house.

All the bodies were gone. New ones
had con^e in.

" Where is she ? " I cried to the old
woman who had charge there. She
knew to whom I reft^rred.

•' Buried," said she.

I burst out into a torrent of impreca-
tions. "Where havi they buried her?
Take me to the place ! " I cried, as I
flung a piece of gold to the woman. She
grasped it eagerly. " Bring a spade, and
come quick, for God's sake ! She is not
dead!"

How did I have such a mad fancy ? I
will tell you. This ship fever often ter-
minates in a sort of stupor, in which
death generally takes place. Sometimes,
however, the patient who has fallen into
this stupor revives again. It is known
to the physicians as the " trance state."
I had seen cases of this at sea. Several
times people were thrown overboard
when I thought that they did not have
all the signs of death, and at last, in
two cases of which I had charge, I de-
tained the corpses three days, in spite
of the other passengers. These two re-
vived. By this I knew that some of
those who were thrown overboard were
not dead. Did I feel horror at this, my
Teresa? No. "Pass away," I said,
" unhappy ones. You are not dead.
You live in a better life than this. What
matters it whether you died by the fever
or by the sea ? "

But when I saw Edith as she lay there
my soul felt assured that she was not
dead, and an unutterable convulsion of
sorrow overwhelmed me. Therefore I
fainted. The horror of that situation
was too much for me. To think of that
angelic girl about to be covered up alive
in the ground ; to think of that sweet
young life, which had begun so brightly,
terminating amid such black darkness !

" Now God help me ! " I cried, as I
hurried on after the woman ; " and bring

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CORD AND CREESB

i !

me there in time." There! V'»>ere?
To the place of the dead. It wa. there
I had to seek her.

" How long had she been in that house
before I fainted ? " I asked fearfully.

" Twenty-four hours."

"And when did I faint 1"

" Yesterday."

A pang shot through me. " Tell me,"
I cried hoarsely, " when she was buried."

•' Last night."

" O God ! " I groaned, and I could say
no more ; but with new strength given
me in that hour of agony I rushed on.

It was by the eastern shore of the
island. A wide flat was there, washed
on one side by the river. Here more
than a thousand mounds arose. Alas!
could I ever hope to find her !

"Do you know where they have laid
her ? " I asked tremblingly.

" Yes," said the woman confidently.

Hope returned faintly. She led the
way.

The moon beamed out brightly from
behind a cloud, illumining the waste of
mounds. The river murmured solemnly
along the shore. All my senses were
overwhelmed in the madness of that
hour. The moon seemed enlarged to the
dimensions of a sky ; the murmur of the
river sounded like a cataract, and in the
vast murmur I heard voices which seemed
then like the voices of the dead. But
the lustre of that exaggerated glow, and
the booming concord of fancied spirit
voices, were all contemned as trifles. I
cared for nothing either natural or super-
natural. Only one thought was present
— the place where she was laid.

We reached it at last. At the end of
a row of graves we stopped. " Here,"
said the woman, *' are twelve graves.
These were made last night. These are
those twelve which you saw."

" And where— v/here, O God, is she?"

" There," replied the woman, pointing
to one which was the third from the end.

" Do not deceive me ! " I cried implor-
ingly. •' Are you sure ? For I will tear
up all these till I find her."

" I am sure, for I was the one who
buried her. I and a man "

I seized the spade and turned up the
soil. I labored incessantly for what
seemed an endless period. I had thrown
out much earth, but had not yet reached
her. I felt my fitful strength failing me,
My mind, too, seemed entering into a
state of delirium. At last my knees gave
way, and I sank down just as my spade
touched something which gave back a
hollow sound.

My knees gave way, and I sank down.
But I would not give up. I tore up
handfuls of earth and threw them into
the air.

I cred, " I am here !
I aiTi coming ! "

" Come, sir," said the woman sud-
denly, in her strong voice, yet pityingly.
" You can do nothmg. I will dig her
out in a minute."

"God forever bless you!" I cried,
leaping out and giving place to her.
I watched her as she threw out the
earth. Hungrily I gazed, devouring the
dark aperture with my eyes till at last
the rough boards appeared.

Then I leaped down. I put my fingers
at the edge and tore at it till it gave way.
The lid was only fastened with a few
nails. My bleeding fingers clutched it.
It yielded to my frantic exertions.

Oh, my God ! was there ever a sight
on earth like that which now met my
eyes as I raised the lid and looked below ?
The moon, which was high in the sky,
streamed down directly into the narrow
cell. It showed me the one whom I

"O Edith!"
I am coming !

JOURNAL OF PAOLO LANGHETTI

sought. Its bright beams threw a lustre
ruuiul that face which was upturned t
wart! me. Ah. me! how white was that
face; like tl.c face of some sleeping
maiden carved in alabaster. Bathed in
the moonbeams it lay before me, all
softened and refined and made pure ;
a face of unearthly beauty. The dark
hair caught the moon's rays, and
encircled the head like a crown of im-
moi'tality. Still the eyes were closed as
though in slumber: still the lips were
fixed ir'o a smile. She lay as one who
had fallen into a deep, sweet sleep— as
one who in that sleep has dreams, in
which are visions of more than earthly
beauty, and scenes of more than mortal
happiness.

Now it was with me as though at that
unequalled vision I had drawn into my
inmost being some sudden stimulus— a
certain rapture of newborn strength ;
strength np longer fitful and spasmodic,
but firm, well fortified, and well sustained.

I took her in my arms and brought
her forth from the grave into the life of
earth.

Ah, me! how light a thing was that
frail and slender figure which had been
worn down by the unparalleled suffering
through which she had passed. This
thought transfixed me with a pang of
anguish — even awed the rapture that I
felt at clasping her in my arms.

But now that I had her, where was I
to seek for a place of shelter ? I turned
to the woman and asked : " Is there any
secluded place where she may sleep un-
disturbed till she wakes ? "

" No : there is none but what is crowded
with the sick and dying in all this island."

" I must have some place."

"Theie is only one spot that is quiet."

" What one ? "

"The dead-house."

I shuddered. " No, not there. See,"
said I, and I handed her a piece of gold.
" Find me some place and you shall have
still more."

" Well," she said hesitatingly, " I have
the room where me and my man live. I
suppose we could give up that."

" Take me there, then ? "

" Shall I help you carry her ? "

" No," I answered, drawing back my
pure Edith from her outstretched hands.
" No, I will carry her."

The woman went on without a word.
She led the way back to the low and dis-
mal sheds which lay there like a vast
charnel-house, and thence to a low hut
some distance away from all, where she
opened a door. She spoke a few words
to a man, who finally withdrew. A light
was burning. A rude cot was there.
Here I laid the one whom I carried.

" Come here," said I, " three times a
day. I will pay you well for this."

The woman left. All night long I
watched. She lay unmoved and un-
changed. Where was her spirt wander-
ing ? Soared i. among the splendors of
some far-off world ? Lingered it amid
the sunshine of heavenly glory ? Did
her seraphic soul move amid her peers
in the assemblage of the holy ? Was she
straying amid the trackless paths of
ether with those whom she had loved in
life, and who had gone before ?

All night long I watched her as si.e lay
with her marble face ?nd her changeless
smile. There seemeci to be communi-
cated to me an influence from her which
opened the eyes of my spiritual sense ;
and my spirit sought to force itself upon
her far-off perceptions, that so it might
catch her notice and bring her back to
earth.

The morning dawned. There was no
change. Midday came, and still there

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was no change. I know not how It was,
but the super intenilent had heard about
the grave being opened, and found nic in
the hut. He tried to induce me to give
back to the grave the one whom I had
rescued. The horror of that request was
so tremendous that it forced me into
passionate calm. When I refused he
threatened. At his menace I rejoined in
such language that he turned pale.

" Murderer ! " said I sternly, " is it not
enough that you have sent to the grave
many wretches who were not dead ? Do
you seek to send back to death this
single one whom I have rescued? Do
you want all Canada and all the world to
ring with the account of the horrors done
here, where people are burled alive?
See, she is not dead. She is only sleep-
ing. And yet you put her in the grave."
"She Is dead! "he cried, in mingled
fear and anger—" and she must be
buried."

" She is not dead," said I sternly, as I
glared on him out of my intensity of
anguish — " she is not dead ; and if you
try to send her to death again you must
first send me. She shall not pass to the
grave except over my corpse, and over
the corpse of the first murderer that dares
to lay hands on her."

He started back — he and those who
were with him. " The man is mad,"
they said.

They left me in peace. I grow ex-
cited as I write. My hand trembles.
Let me be calm.

She awoke that night. It was mid-
night, and all was still. She opened her
eyes suddenly, and locked full at me with
an earnest and steadfast stare. At last a
long, deep-drawn sigh broke the stillness
of that lone chamber.

" Back again " — she murmured, in a
scarce audible voice — "among men, and

CORD AND CREESE

to earth. Oh, friends of the Realm of
Light, must I be severed from your lofty
communion ! "

As she spoke thus the anguish which
I had felt at the grave was renewed.
" You have brought me back," said she
mournfully.

" No," I returned sadly—" not I. It
was not God's will that you should leave
this life. He did not send death to yoii.
You were sleeping, and I brought you to
this place."

" I know all," she murmured, closing
her eyes. " I heard all while my spirit
was away. I know where you found
me.

" I am weary," she said, after a silence.
Her eyes closed again. But this time tlie
trance was broken. She slept with long,
deep breathing, interrupted by frequent
sighs. I watched her through the long
night. At first fever came. Then it
passed. Her sleep became calm, and she
slumbered like a weary child.

Early in the morning the superintend-
ent came, followed by a dozen armed
men. He entered with a frown. I met
him with my hand upraised to hush him,
and led him gently to the bedside.

" See," I whispered — " but for me she
would have been buried alive!"

The man seemed frozen into dumbness.
He stood ghastly white with liorror, thick
drops started from his forehead, his teeth
chattered, he staggered away. He looked
at me with a haunted face, such as be-
longs to one who thinks he has seen a
spirit.

" Spare me," he faltered ; " do not ruin
me. God knows I have tried to do my
best ! "

I waved him off. " Leave me. You
have nothing to fear." He turned away
with his white face, and departed in
silence with his men.

JOURNAL OF PAOLO LANGHETTl

After a long sleep Edith vvnkcd ngain.
She said nothing. I did not wish her to
speak. She lay awake, yet with closed
eyes, thinking such thoughts as belong to
one, and to one alone, who had known
what she h.id known.

I did not speak to her, for she was to
me a holy being, not to be addressed
lightly. Yet she did not refuse nourish-
ment, and grew stronger, until at last I
was able to have her moved to Quebec.
There I obtained proper accommodations
for her and good nurses.

I have told you what she was before
this. Subsequently there came a change.
The nurses and the doctors called it a
stupor.

There was something in her face which
inspired awe among all who saw her. If
it is the soul of man that gives expression
to the features, then her soul must have
been familiar with things unknown to us.
How often have I seen her in walking
across the room stop suddenly and stand
fixed on the spot, musing and sad ! She
commonly moved about as though she
saw nothing, as though she walked in a
dream, with eyes half closed, and some-
times murmuring inaudible words. The
nurses half loved and half feared her.
Yet there were some little children in the
house who felt all love and no fear, for I
have seen her smiling on them with a
smile so sweet that it seemed to me as
if they stood in the presence of their
guardian angel. Strange, sad spirit, what
thoughts, what memories are these which
make her life one long revery, and have
taken from her all power to enjoy the
beautiful that dwells on earth I

She fills all my thoughts with her
loneliness, her tears, and her spiritual
face, bearing the marks of scenes that
can never be forgotten. She lives and
moves amid her recollections. What is

it that so overwhelms <nll her thoughti ?
That face of hers appears as though it
had bathed* itself in the atmosphere of
some diviner world than this ; and her
eyes seem as if they may have gazed upon
the Infinite Mystery.

Now from the few woru3 which she has
casually dropped I gather this to be her
own belief. That when she fell into the
state of trance her soul was parted from
her body, though still by an inexplicable
sympathy she was aware of what was
passing around her lifeless form. Yet
her soul had gone forth into that spiritual
world toward which we look from this
earth with such eager wonder. It had
mingled there with the souls of others.
It had put forth new powers, and learned
the use of new faculties. Then that soul
was called back to its body.

This maiden — this wonder among mor-
tals — is not a mortal, she is an exiled soul.
I have seen her sit with tears streaming
down her face, tears such as men shed in
exile. For she is like a banished man
who has only one feeling, a longing,
yearning homesickness. She has been
once in that radiant world for a time
which we call three days in our human
calculations, but which to her seems in-
definite ; for as she once said — and it is a
pregnant thought, full of meaning — there
is no time there, all is infinite duration.
The soul has illimitable powers ; in an in-
stant it can live years, and she in those
three days had the life of ages. Her
former life on earth has now but a faint
hold upon her memory in comparison
with that life among the stars. The sor-
row that her loved ones endured has be-
come eclipsed by the knowledge of the
blessedness in which she found them.

Alas ! it is a blessing to die, and it is
only a curse to rise from the dead. And
now she endures this exile with an aching

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100

CORD AND CREESE

heart, with memories thai irrepressi-
ble, with longings unutterau:»-,ancl yearn-
ings that cannot be expressed for that
starry world and that bright companion-
ship from which she has been rec; lied.
So she sometimes speaks. And little else
can she say amid her tears. Oh, sub-
lime and mysterious exile, could I but
know what you know, and have but a
small part of that secret which you can-
not explain !

For she cannot tell what she witnessed
there. She sometimes wishes to do so,
but cannot. When asked directly, she
sinks into herself and is lost in thought.
She finds no wo.ds. It is as when we try
to explain to a man who has been always
blind the scenes before our eyes. We
cannot explain them to such a man. And
so with her. She finds in her memory
things which no human language has
been made to express. These languages
were made for the earth, not for heaven*
In order to tell me what she knows, she
would need the language of that world,
and then she could not explain it, for I
could not understand it.

Only once I saw her smile, and that
was when one or the nurses casually
mentioned, with horror, the death of
some acquaintance. " Death ! " she mur-
mured, and her eyes lighted up with a
kind of ecstasy. " Oh, that I might
die ! " She knows no blessing on earth
•:.< jept that which we consider a curse,
and to her the object of all her wishes is
this onr thing — Death. I shall not soon
forge", that smile. It seemed of itself to
give a new meaning to death.

Do I believe this, so wild a theory,
the very mention of which has carried me
beyond myself? I do not know. All
my reason rebels. It scouts the mon-
strous idea. But here she stands before
me, with her memories and thoughts, and

her wonderful words, few, but full of
deepest meaning — words which I shall
never forget — and I recognize something
before which Reason falters. Whence
this deep longing of hers ? Why, when
she thinks of death, does her face grow
thus radiant, and her eyes kindle with
hope } Why does she so pine and grow
sick with desire? Why does her heart
thus ache as day succeeds to day, and
she finds herself still under the sunlight,
with the landscapes and the music of this
fair earth still around her ?

Once, in some speculations of mine,
which I think I mentioned to you, Teresina,
I thought that if a man could reach that
spiritual world he would look with con-
tempt upon the highest charms that
belong to this. Here is one who believes
that she has gone through this experience,
and all this earth, with all its beauty, is
now an object of indifference to her.
Perhaps you may ask. Is she sane ? Yes,
dear, as sane as I am, but with a pro-
found d experience and a diviner knowl-
edge.

After I had been in Quebec about a
month I learned that one of the regiments
stationed here was commanded by Colonel
Henry Despard. I called on him, and he
received me with unbounded delight. He
made me tell him all about myself, and I
imparted to him as much of the events
of the voyage and quarantine as was
advisable. I did not go into particulars
to any extent, of course. I mentioned
nothing about the grave. That, dearest
sister, is a secret between you, and me,
and her. For if it should be possible
that she should ever be restored to
ordinary human sympathy and feeling, it
will not be well that all the world should
know what has happened to her.

His regiment was ordered to Halifax,
and I concluded to comply with his urgent

HUSBAND AND WIFE

lOI

solicitations and accompany him. It is
better for her at any rate that there
should be more friends than one to pro-
tect her. Despard, like the doctors, sup-
poses that she is in a stupor.

The journey here exercised a favorable
influence over her. Her strength in-
creased to a marked degree, and she has
once or twice spoken about the past.
She told me that her father wrote to his
son Louis in Australia some weeks before
his death, and urged him to come home.
She thinks that he is on his way to Eng-
land. The colonel and I at once thought
that he ought to be sought after without
delay, and he promised to write to his
nephew, your old playmate, who, he tells
me, is to be a neighbor of yours.

If he is still the one whom I remem-

ber — intellectual yet spiritual, with sound
reason yet a strong heart, if he is still
the Courtenay Despard who, when a boy,
seemed to me to look out upon the world
before him with such lofty poetic enthu-
siasm—then, Teresella, you should show
him this diary, for it will cause him to
understand things which he ought to
know. I suppose it would be unintel-
ligible to Mr. Thornton, who is a most
estimable man, but who, from the nature
of his mind, if he read this, would only
conclude that the writer was insane.

At any rate, Mr. Thornton should be
informed of the leading facts, so that he
may see if something can be done to
alleviate the distress, or to avenge the
wrongs of one whose father was the
earliest benefactor of his family.

CHAPTER XVI

HUSBAND AND WIFE

" It is now the middle of February,"
said Despard, after a long pause, in
which he had given himself up to the
strange reflections which the diary was
calculated to excite. " If Louis Brandon
left Australia when he was called he
must be in England now."

"You are calm," said Mrs. Thornton.
"Have you nothing more to say than
that ? "

Despard looked at her earnestly. " Do
you ask me such a question ? It is a
story so full of anguish that the heart
might break out of pure sympathy, but
what words could be found ? I have
nothing to say. I am speechless. My
God ! what horror thou dost permit ! "

"But somet4iing must be done," said
Mrs. Thornton impetuously.

" Yes," answered Despard slowly,
" but what ? If we could reach our
hands over the grave and bring back
those who have passed away, then the
soul of Edith might find peace; but
now — now — we can give her no peace.
She only wishes to die. Yet something
must be done, and the first thing is to
find Louis Brandon. I will start ''^r
London to-night. I will go and seek
him ; not for Edith's sake, but for his
own, that I may save one at least of this
family. For her there is no comfort.
Our efforts are useless there. If we
could give her the greatest earthly

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CORD AND CREESE

happiness it would be poor and mean,
and still she would sigh after that starry
companionship from which her soul has
been withdrawn."

" Then you believe it."

" Don't you ? "

" Of course ; but I did not know that
you would."

" Why not ? and if I did not believe it
this at least would be plain, that she her-
self believes it. And even if it be a
hallucination, it is a sublime one, and so
vivid that it is the same to her as a
reality. Let it be only a dream that has
taken place— still that dream has made
all other things dim, indistinct, and
indifferent to her.

" No one but you would read Paolo's
diary without thinking him insane."

Despard smiled. "Even that would
be nothing to me. Some people think
that a great genius must be insane.

" Great wits are sure to madness near allied,

you know. For my part, I consider
Paolo the sublimest of men. When I
saw him last I was only a boy, and he
came with his seraphic face and his
divine music to give me an inspiration
which has biassed my life ever since. I
have only known one spirit like his
among those whom I have met."

An indescribable sadness passed over
his face. " But now," he continued sud-
denly, " I suppose Thornton must see my
uncle's letter. His legal mind may dis-
cern some things which the law may do
in this case. Edith is beyond all conso-
lation from human beings, and still far-
ther beyond all help from English law.
But if Louis Brandon can be found the
law may exert itself in his favor. In this
respect he may be useful, and I have no
doubt he would take up the case ear-
nestly, out of his strong sense of justice."

When Thornton came in to dinner
Despard handed him his uncle's letter.
The lawyer read it with deep attention,
and without a word.

Mis. Thornton looked agitated — some-
times resting her head on her hand, at
others looking fixedly at her husband.
As soon as he had finished she said, in a
calm, measured tone :

" I did not know before that Brandon
of Brandon Hall and all his family had
perished so miserably."

Thornton started, and looked at her
earnestly. She returned his gaze with
unutterable sadness in her eyes.

" He saved my father's life," said she.
" He benefited him greatly. Your father
also was under slight obligations to
him. I thought that things like these
constituted a faint claim on one's grati-
tude, so that if one were exposed to
misfortune he might not be altogether
destitute of friends."

Thornton looked uneasy as his wife
spoke.

" My dear," said he, " you do not
understand."

" True," she answered ; " for this
thing is almost incredible. If my father's
friend has died in misery, unpitied and
unwept, forsaken by all, do I not share
the guilt of ingratitude ? How can I
absolve myself from blame ? "

" Set your mind at rest. You never
knew anything about it. I told you
nothing on the subject."

" Then you knew it ! "

*' Stop ! You cannot understand this
unless I explain it. You are stating bald
facts; but these facts, painful as they
are, are very much modified by circum-
stances."

" Well, then, I hope you will tell me all,
without reserve, for I wish to know how
it is that this horror has happened, and I

HUSBAND AND WIFE

103

■ I

dinner
i letter,
tention,

— sonie-
land, at
lusband,
lid, in a

Brandon
nily had

d at her
;aze with
s.

said she.
ur father
itions to
ike these
le's gvati-
:posed to
altogether

his wife

i do not

for this

^y father's

jitied and

not share

ow can I

Vou never
told you

stand tliis
ating baUl
as they

)y circum-

tell me all,
nUnow how
Ined, and I

have stood idly and coldly aloof. My
God ! " she cried, in Italian ; " did /le
not — did f/iey not in their last moments
think of me, and wonder how they could
have been betrayed by Langhetti's daugh-
ter!"

" My dear, be calm, I pray. You are
blaming yourself unjustly, I assure you."
Despard was ghastly pale as this con-
versation went on. He turned his face
away.

"Ralph Brandon," began Thornton,
" was a man of many high qualities, but
of unbounded pride, and utterly impractic-
able. He was no judge of character, and
therefore was easily deceived. He was
utterly inexperienced in business, and he
was always liable to be led astray by ?ny
sudden impulse. Somehow or other a
man named Potts excited his interest
about twelve or fifteen years ago. He
was a mere vulgar adventurer ; but Bran-
don became infatuated with him, and ac-
tually believed that this man was worthy
to be intrusted with the management of
large business transactions. The thing
went on for years. His friends all remon-
strated with him. I, in particular, went
there to explain to him that the specula-
tion in which he was engaged could not
result in anything except loss. But he
resented all interference, and I had to
leave him to himself.

" His son Louis was a boy full of
energy and fire. The family were all in-
dignant at the confidence which Ralph
put in this Potts — Louis most of all.
One day he met Potts. Words passed
between them, and Louis struck the
scoundrel. Potts complained. Brandon
had his son up on the spot ; and after
listening to his explanations gave him the
alternative either to apologize to Potts or
to leave the house forever. Louis indig-
nantly denounced Potts to his father

as a swindler. Brandon ordered him
to his room, and gave him a week to
decide.

" The servants whispered till the mat-
ter was noised abroad. The county
gentry had a meeting about it, and felt
so strongly that they did an unparalleled
thing. They actually waited on him to
assure him that Potts was unworthy of
trust, and to urge him not to treat his son
so harshly. All Brandon's pride was
roused at this. He said words to the
deputation which cut him off forever
from their sympathy, and they left in a
rage. Mrs. Brandon wrote to me, and I
went there. I found Brandon inflexible.
I urged him to give his son a longer
time, to send him to the army for a while,
to do anything rather than eject him.
He refused to change his sentence. Then
I pointed out the character of Potts, and
told him many things that I had heard.
At this he hinted that I wished to have
the management of his business, and was
actuated by mercenary motives. Of
course, after this insult, nothing more
was to be said. I went home and tried
to forget all about the Brandons. At the
end of the week Louis refused to apolo-
gize, and left his father forever."

" Did you see Louis ? "

" I saw him before that insult to ask if
he would apologize."

" Did you try to make him apologize ? "
asked Mrs. Thornton coldly.

" Yes. But he looked at me with such
an air that I had to apologize myself for
hinting at such a thing. He was as in-
flexible as his father."

" How else could he have been ? "

" Well, each might have yielded a little.
It does not do to be so inflexible if one
would succeed in life."

" No," said Mrs. Thornton. " Success
must be gained by flexibility. The mar-

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104

CORD AND CREESE

tyrs were all inflexible, and they were all
unsuccessful."

Thornton looked at his wife hastily.
Despard's hand trembled, and his face
grew paler still with a more livid pallor.

" Did you try to do anything for the
ruined son ? "

" How could I, after that insult ? "

" Could you not have got him a
government office, or purchased a com-
mission for him in the army ? "

•' He would not have taken it from
me."

'• You could have co-operated with his
mother, and done it in her name."

•' I could not enter the house after be-
ing insulted."

•' You could have written. From what
I have heard of Brandon, he was just the
man who would have blessed anyone
who would interpose to save his son."

•' His son did not wish to be saved.
He has all his father's inflexibility, but
an intellf'ct as clear as that of the most
practical man. He has a will of iron,
dauntless resolution, and an implacable
temper. At the same time he has the
open generosity and the tender heart of
his father."

" Had his father a tender heart ? "

" So tender and affectionate that this
sacrifice of his son must have over-
whelmed him with the deepest sorrow."

" Did you ever after make any ad-
vances to any of them ? "

"No, never. I never went near the
house."

" Did you ever visit any of the county
gentry to see if something could be
done ? "

" No. It would have been useless.
Besides, the very mention of his name
would have been resented. I should
have had to fling myself headlong
against the feelings of the whole

public. And no man has any right
to do that,"

"No," said Mrs. Thornton. "No
man has. That was another mistake
that the martyrs made. They would
tling themselves against public opinion."

" All men cannot be martyrs. Be-
sides, the cases are not analogous."

Thornton spoke calmly and dis-
passionately.

"True. It is absurd in me; but I
admire one who has for a moment for-
gotten his own interests or safety in
thinking of others."

" That does very well for poetry, but
not in real life."

" In real life, such as that on board
the Tecumseh ? " murmured Mrs.
Thornton, with drooping eyelids.

"You are getting excited, my dear,"
said Thornton patiently, with the air of
a wise father who overlooks the petulance
of his child. " I will go on. I had busi-
ness on the Continent when poor Bran-
don's ruin occurred. You were with
me, my dear, at Berlin when I heard
about it. I felt shocked, but not sur-
prised. I feared that it would come to
that."

"You showed no emotion in par-
ticular."

"No. I was careful not to trouble
you."

"You were in Berlin three months.
Was it at the beginning or end of your
stay?"

" At the beginning,"

" And you stayed ? "

"I had business which I could not
leave."

" Would you have been ruined if you
had left ? "

" Well, no— not exactly ruined, but it
would have entailed serious conse*
quences."

HUSBAND AND WIFE

lOS

t ' !

right

"No
aistake
would
linion."
i. Be-
ous."
d dis-

; but I
ent for-
afety m

etry, but

m board
i Mrs.
:lids.
ty dear,"
he air of
petulance
had busi-
)or Bran-
ere with
I heard
not sur-
come to

in par-

|o trouble

months-
of your

could not

led if you

led, but it
U conse-

" Would those consequences have been
as serious as the Tecumseh tragedy ? "

" My dear, in business there are rules
which a man is not permitted to neglect.
There are duties and obligations which
are imperative. The code of honor there
is as delicate, yet as rigid, as elsewhere."
"And yet there are times when all
obligations of this sort are weakened.
When friends die, this is recognized.
Why should it not be so when they are
in danger of a fate worse than death ? "
Thornton elevated his eyebrows, and
made no reply.

"You must have heard about it in
March, then } "

" Yes, at the end of January. His ruin
took place in December, 1845. It was
the middle of May before I got home. I
then, toward the end of the month, sent
my clerk to Brandon village to make
enquiries. He brought word of the death
of Brandon, and the departure of his
family to parts unknown."
" Did he rnake no particular enquiries ?"
" No."

" And you said not a word to me ! "
" I was afraid of agitating you, my
dear."

"And therefore you have secured for
me unending self-reproach."

"Why so? Surely you are blaming
yourself without a shadow of a cause."

" I will tell you why. I dare say I feel
unnecessarily on the subject, but I can-
not help it. It is a fact that Brandon
was always impulsive and culpably care-
less about himself. It is to this quality,
strangely enough, that I owe my father's
life, and my own comfort for many years.
Paolo also owes as much as I. Mr.
Brandon, with a friend of his, was sailing
through the Mediterranean in his own
yacht, making occasional tours into the
couptry at eyejy place where they hap-

pened to land, and at last they ame to
Girgenti, with the intention of examining
the ruins of Agrigentum. This was in
181 8, four years before I was born. My
father was stopping at Girgenti, with his
wife and Paolo, who was then six years
old. My father had been very active
under the reign of Murat, and had held
a high post in his government. This
made him suspected after Murat's over-
throw.

"On the day that these Englishmen
visited Girgenti, a woman in deep dis-
tress came to see them, along with a
little boy. It was my mother and Paolo.
She flung herself on the floor at their
feet, and prayed them to try and help her
husband, who had been arrested on a
charge of treason and was now in prison.
He was suspected of belonging to the
Carbonari, who were just beginning to
resume their secret plots, and were show-
ing great activity. My father belonged
to the innermost degree, and had been
betrayed by a villain named Cigole. My
mother did not tell them all this, but
merely informed them of his danger.

" At first they did not know what to do,
but the prayers of my mother moved
their hearts. T hey went to see the cap-
tain of the guard, and tried to bribe him,
but without efteot. They found out,
however, where my father was confined,
and resolved upon a desperate plan.
They put my mother and Paolo on board
of the yacht, and by paying a heavy bribe
obtained permission to visit my father in
prison. Brandon's friend was about the
same height as my father. When they
reached his cell they urged my father
to exchange clothes with him and escape.
At first he positively refused, but when
assured that Brandon's friend, being an
Englishman, would be set free in a few
days, he consented. Brandon then took

;>bM»

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io6

CORD AND CREESE

him away unnoticed, put him on board
of the yacht, and sailed to Marseilles,
where he gave him money enough to get
to England, and told him to stop at
Brandon Hall till he himself arrived.
He then sailed back to see about his
friend.

" He found out nothing about him for
some time. At last he induced the
British ambassador to take the matter in
hand, and he did so with such effect that
the prisoner was liberated. He had been
treated with some severity at first, but
he was young and the government was
persuaded to look upon it as a youth-
ful freak. Brandon's powerful influence
with the British ambassador obtained his
unconditional release.

" My father afterward obtained a situ-
ation here at Holby, where he was organ-
ist till he died. Through all his life he
never ceased to receive kindness and
delicate acts of attention from Brandon.
When in his last sickness Brandon came
and stayed with him till the end. He
then wished to do something for Paolo,
but Paolo preferred seeking his own
fortune in his own way."

Mrs. Thornton ended !\er little narra-
tive, to which Despard had listened with
the deepest attention.

•' Who was Brandon's friend ?" asked
Despard.

" He was a British officer," said Mrs.
Thornton. " For fear of dragging in his
government, and perhaps incurring dis-
missal from the army, he gave an assumed
name — Mountjoy. This was the reason
why Brandon was so long in finding
him."

" Did your father not know it ? "

" On the passage Brandon kept it
secret, and after his friend's deliverance
he came to see my father under his
assunoed nz^me, My father always spoke

of him as Mountjoy. After a time he
heard that he was dead."

" I can tell you his true name," said
Mr. Thornton. "There is no reason
why you should not know it."

" What ? "

"Lionel Despard— your father, and
Ralph Brandon's bosom friend."

Despard looked transfixed. Mrs.
Thornton gazed at her husband, and
gave an unutterable look at Despard,
then, covering her face with her hands,
she burst into an agony of tears.

" My God," cried Despard, passing his
hand over his forehead, " my father died
when I was a child, and nobody was ever
able to tell me anything about him.
And Brandon was his friend. He died
thus, and his family have perished thus,
while I have known nothing and done
nothing."

" You at least are not to blame," said
Thornton calmly, " for you had scarcely
heard of Brandon's name. You were in
the north of England when this happened,
and knew nothing whatever about it."

That evening Despard went home with
a deeper trouble in his heart. He was
not seen at the Grange for a month. At
the end of that time he returned. He had
been away to London during the whole
interval.

As Mrs. Thornton entered to greet him
her face was overspread with an expres-
sion of radiant joy. He took both her
hands in his and pressed them without a
word. " Welcome back," she murmured
— " you have been gone a long time."

" Nothing but an overpowering sense
of duty could have kept me away so
long," said he, in a deep, low voice.

A few similar commonplaces followed :
but with these two the tone of the voice
invested the feeblest commonplaces with
some hidden meaning.

HUSBAND AND WIFE

107

At last she asked : " Tell nie what
success you had ? " He made no reply ;
but taking a paper from his pocket
opened it, and pointed to a marked para-
graph. This was the month of March.
The paper was dated January 14, 1847.
The paragraph was as follows :

" Distressing Casualty.— The ship
Java, which left Sydney on the 5th of
August last, reports a stormy passage.
On the 1 2th of September a distressing
casualty occurred. They were in S. Lat.
11° 1' 22", E. long. 105" 6' 36", when a
squall suddenly struck the ship. A pas-
senger, Louis Brandon, Esq., of the firm
of Compton & Brandon, Sydney, was
standing by the lee-quarter as the squall
struck, and, distressing to narrate, he
was hurled violently overboard. It was
impossible to do anything, as a monsoon
was beginning, which raged for twenty-
four hours. Mr. Brandon was coming
to England on business.

" The captain reports a sand-bank in
the latitude and longitude indicated
above, which he names ' Coffin Island,'
from a rock of peculiar shape at the
eastern extremity. Ships will do well in
future to give this place a wide berth."

Deep despondency came over Mrs.
Thornton's face as she read this. " We
can do nothing," said she mournfully.
" He is gone. It is better for him. We
must now wait till we hear more from
Paolo. I will write to him at once."
" And I will write to my uncle."
There was a long silence. " Do you
know," said Despard finally, " that I
have been thinking much about my father
of late. It seems very strange to me that
my uncle never told me about that Sicilian
affair before. Perhaps he did not wish

me to know it, for fear that through all
my life I should brood over thoughts of
that noble heart lost to me forever. But
I intend to write to him, and obtain
afresh the particulars of his death." I
wish to know more about my mother.
No one was ever in such ignorance of his
parents as I have been. They merely
told me that my father and mother died
suddenly in India, and left me an orphan
at the age of seven under the care of Mr.
Henry Thornton. They never told me
that Brandon was a very dear friend of
his. I have thought also of the circum-
stances of his death, and they all seemed
confused. Some say he died in Calcutta,
others say in China, and Mr. Thornton
once said in Manilla. There is some
mystery about it."

" When Brandon was visiting my
father," said Mrs. Thornton, "you were
at school, and he never saw you. I think
he thought you were Henry Despard's
son."

" There's some mystery about it," said
Despard thoughtfully.

When Mr. Thornton came in that
night he read a few extracts from the
London paper which he had just received.
One was as follows :

"Foundered at Sea.— The ship
H. B. Smith, from Calcutta, which arrived
yesterday, reports that on the 28th
January they picked up a ship's long-
boat near the Cape Verde Islands. It was
floating bottom upward. On the stern
was painted the word Falcon. The ship
Falcon has now been expected for two
months, and it is feared from this that
she may have foundered at sea. The
Falcon was on her way from Sydney to
London, and belonged to Messrs, Ring-
wood, Flaxman & Co."

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■' ■ ''■■'•■""''tai

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CHAPTER XVII

THE SHADOW OF THE AFRICAN FOREST

Let us return to the castaways.

It was morning on the coast of Africa —
Africa the mysterious, the inhospitable
Africa, leomim arida ntitrix.

There was a little harbor into which
flowed a shallow, sluggish river, while on
each side rose high hills. In front of the
harbor was an island which concealed
and protected it.

Here the palm-trees grew. The sides
rose steeply, the summit was lofty, and
the towering palms afforded a deep,
dense shade. The grass was line anu
short, and being protected from the
withering heat was as fine as that of an
English lawn. Up the palm-trees there
climbed a thousand parasitic plants,
covered with blossoms — gorgeous, golden,
rich beyond all description. Birds of
starry plumage flitted through the air, as
they leaped from tree to tree, uttering a
short, wild note ; through the spreading
branches sighed the murmuring breeze
that came from off the ocean ; round the
shore the low tones of the gently washing
surf were borne as it came in in faint un-
dulations from the outer sea.

Underneath the deepest shadow of the
palms lay Brandon. He had lost con-
sciousness when he fell from the boat ;
and now for the first time he opened his
eyes and looked around upon the scene,
seeing these sights and hearing the mur-
muring sounds.

In front of him stood Beatrice, looking
with drooped eyelids at the grass, her
arms half folded before her, her head

uncovered, her hair bound by a sort of
fillet around the crown, and then
gathered in great black curling masses
behind. Her face was pale as usual,
and had the same marble whiteness
which always marked it. That face
was now pensive and sad ; but there
was no weakness there. Its whole ex-
pression showed manifestly the self-con-
tained soul, the strong spirit evenly
poised, willing and able to endure.

Brandon raised himself on one arm
and looked wonderingly around. She
started A vivid flash of joy spread
over her face in one bright smile. She
hurried up and knelt down by him.

" Do not move — you are weak," she
said, ^s tenderly as a mother to a sick
child.

Brandon looked at her fixedly for a
long time without speaking, She placed
her cool hand on his forehead. His eyes
closed as though there were a magnetic
power in her touch. After a while, as
she removed her hand, he opened his
eyes again. He took her hand and held
it fervently to his lips. " I know," said
he, in a low, dreamy voice, " who you
are, and who I am — but nothing more.
I know that I have lost all memory ; that
there has been some past life of great
sorrow; but I cannot think what that
sorrow is — I know that there has been
some misfortune, but I cannot remem-
ber what."

Beatrice smiled sadly. "It will all
come to you in time."

xo8

THE SHADOW OF THE AFRICAN FOREST

109

" At first when I waked," he mur-
mured, " and looked around on this scene,
I tliought that I had at last entered the
spirit world, and that you had come with
me; and I felt a deep joy that I can
never express. But I see, and I know
now, that I am yet on the earth. Though
\vliat shore of all the earth this is, or how
1 got here, I know not."

" You must sleep," said she gently.

" And you — you — you," he murmured,
with indescribable intensity — " you com-
panion, preserver, guardian angel — I feel
as though, if I were not a man, I could
weep my life out at your feet."

" Do not weep," said she calmly.
"The time for tears may yet come ; but
it is not now,"

He looked at her long, earnestly, and
enquiringly, still holding her hand, which
he had pressed to his lips. An unutter-
able longing to ask something was evi-
dent ; but it was checked by a painful
embarrassment.

" I know nothing but this," said he at
last, " that I have felt as though sailing
for years over infinite seas. Wave after
wave has been impelling us on. A Hindu
servant guided the boat. But I lay weak,
with my head supported by you, and your
arms around me. Yet, of all the days
and all the years that ever I have known,
these were supreme, for all the time was
one long ecstasy. And now, if there is
sorrow before me," he concluded, " I will
meet it resignedly, for I have had my
heaven already."

" You have sailed over seas," said she
sadly ; " but I was the helpless one, and
you saved me from death."

" And are you — to me — what I
thought ? " he asked, with painful vehe-
mence and imploring eyes.

" I am your nurse," said she, with a
melancholy smile.

He sighed heavily. " Sleep now," said
she, and she again placed her hand upon
his forehead. Her touch soothed him.
Her voice arose in a low song of surpass-
ing sweetness. His senses yielded to the
subtle incantation, and sleep came to him
as he lay.

When he awaked it was almost even-
ing. Lethargy was still over him, and
Beatrice made him sleep again. He slept
into the next day. On waking there was
the same absence of memory. She gave
him some cordial to drink, and the
draught revived him. Now he was far
stror rr, and he sat up, leaning against a
tree, while Beatrice knelt near him. He
looked at her long and earnestly.

" I would wish never to leave this place,
but to stay here," said he. " I know
nothing of my past life. I have drunk
of Lethe. Yet I cannot help struggling
to regain knowledge of that past."

He put his hand in his bosom, as if
feeling for some relic.

" I have something suspended about
my neck," said he, " which is precious.
Perhaps I shall know what it is after a
time."

Then, after a pause, " Was there not a
wreck ?" he asked.

" Yes ; and you saved my life."

" Was there not a fight with pirates ? "

" Yes ; and you savct! my life," said
Beatrice again.

" I begin to remember," said Brandon.
" How long is it since the wreck took
place?"

" It was January 15."

" And what is this ? "

" February 6. It is about three weeks."

" How did I get away ? "

" In a boat with me and the servant."

" Where is the servant ? "

" Away providing for us. You had a
sunstroke. He carried you up here."

i I

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"!>..'! J

V I ••insH.i.iiSW

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CORD AND CREESE

" How long have I been in this place ? "
"A fortnight."

Numerous questions followed. Bran-
don's memory began to return. Yet, in
his efforts to regain knowledge of him-
self, Beatrice was still the most promi-
nent object in his thoughts. His dream
life persisted in mingling itself with his
real life.

"But you," he cried earnestly — "you,
how have you endured all this? You
are weary ; you have worn yourself out
for me. What can I ever do to show my
gratitude ? You have watched m*^ night
and day. Will you not have more care
of your own life ? "

The eyes of Beatrice kindled with a
soft light. " What is my life ? " said
she. " Do I not owe it over and over
again to you ? But I deny that I am
worn out."

Brandon looked at her with earnest,
longing eyes.

His recovery was rapid. In a few days
he was able to go about. Cato procured
fish from the waters and game from the
woods, so as to save the provisions of the
boat, and they looked forward to the time
when they might resume their journey.
But to Brandon this thought was repug-
nant, and an hourly struggle now went
on within him. Why should he go to
England ? What could he do ? Why
should he ever part from her ?

" Oh, to bursi all links of habit, and to wander far
away,
On from island unto island at the gateways of the
day ! "

In her presence he might find peace, and
perpetual rapture in her smile.

In the midst of such meditations as
these her voice once arose from afar. It
was one of her own songs, such as she
could improvise. It spoke of summer
isles amid the sea; of soft winds and

spicy breezes; of eternal rest beneath
overshadowing palms. It was a soft,
melting strain— a strain of enchantment,
sung by one who felt the intoxication of
the scene, and whose genius imparted It
to others. He was like Ulysses listenin<j
to the song of the sirens. It seemed to
him as though all nature there joined in
that marvellous strain. It was to him as
though the very winds were lulled into
calm, and a delicious languor stole upon
all his senses.

" Sweet, sweet, sweet god Pan,
Sweet in the fields by the river,
Blinding sweet, oh, great god Pan,
The sun on the hills forgot to die.
And the lily revived, and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream by the river."

It was the fuXiyrjpw bna, the bna K&Tihfxov
of the sirens.

For she had that divine voice which of
itself can charm the soul ; but, in addi-
tioa she had that poetic genius which of
itself could give words which the music
might clothe.

Now, as he saw her at a distance
through the trees and marked the
statuesque calm of her classic face, as she
stood there, seeming in her song rather
to soliloquize than to sing, breathing foitli
her music " in profuse strains of unpre-
meditated art," the very beauty of the
singer and the very sweetness of the song
put an end to all temptation.

" This is folly," he thought. " Could
one like that assent to my wild fancy ?
Would she, with her genius, give up her
life to me ? No ; that divine music must
be heard by larger numbers. She is one
who thinks she can interpret the inspira-
tion of Mozart and Handel. And who
am I ? "

Then there came amid this music a
still small voice, like the voice of those
helpless ones at home ; and this voice

THE SHADOW OF THE AFRICAN FOREST

III

scorned one of entreaty and of despair.
So the temptation passed Hut it passed
only to be renewed again. As for Hca-
trice, she seemed conscious of no such
effect as this. Cahnly and serenely she
bore herself; singing as she thought, as
the birds sing, because she could not
help it. Here she was like one of the
classic nymphs — like the genius of the
spot — like Calypso, only passionless.

Now, the more Brandon felt the power
of her presence the more he took refuge
within himself, avoiding all dangerous
topics, speaking only of external things,
calling upon her to sing of loftier themes,
such as those " cieli immensi " of which
she had sung when he first heard her.
Thus he fought down the struggles of
his own heart, and crushed out those
rising impulses which threatened to
sweep him helplessly away.

As for Beatrice herself she seemed
changeless, moved by no passion and
swayed by no impulse. Was she alto-
gether passionless, or was this her mati 'n-
less self-control ? Brandon thought that
it was her nature, and that she, like her
master Langhetti, found in music that
which satisfied all passion and all desire.

In about a fortnight after his recovery
from his stupor they were ready to leave.
The provisions in the boat were enough
for two weeks' sail. Water was put on
board, and they bade adieu to the island
which had sheltered them.

This time Beatrice would not let Bran-
don row while the sun was up. They
rowed at night, and by day tried to get
under the shadow of the shore. At last
a wind sprang up ; they now sailed along
swiftly for two or three days. At the end
of that time they saw European houses,
beyond which arose some roofs and
spires. It was Sierra Leone. Brandon's
conjectures had been right. On landing

here Brandon simply said that they had
been wrecked in the Falcon, and had
escaped on -the boat, all the rest having
perished. He gave his name as Wheeler.
The authorities received these unfortunate
ones with great kindness, and Brandon
heard that a ship would leave for Eng-
land on the 6th of March.

The close connection which had ex-
isted between them for so many weeks
was now severed, and Brandon thought
that this might perhaps remove that
extraordinary power which he felt that
she exerted over him. Not so. In her
absence he found himself constantly
looking forward toward a meeting with
her again. When with her he found the
joy that flowed from her presence to be
more intense, since it was more con-
centrated. He began to feel alarmed
at his own weakness.

The 6th of March came, and they left
in the ship/w/w for London.

Now their intercourse was like that of
the old days on board the Falcon.

" It is like the Falcon," said Beatrice,
on the first evening. " Let us forget all
about the journey over the sea, and our
stay on the island."

" I can never forget that I owe my life
to you," said Brandon vehemently.

" And I," rejoiced Beatrice, with kin-
dling eyes, which yet were softened by a
certain emotion of indescribable tender-
ness — " I — how can I forget ? Twice
you saved me from a fearful death, and
then you toiled to save my life till your
own sank under it."

" I would gladly give up a thousand
lives " — said Brandon, in a low voice,
while his eyes were illumined with a
passion which had never before been
permitted to get beyond control, but now
rose visibly, and irresistibly.

'• If you have a life to give," said

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CORD AND CREESE

Beatrice calmly, returning his fevered
g.' ze with a look full of tender sympathy
—"if you have a life to give, let it be
given to that purpose of yours to which
you are devoted."

" You refuse it, then ! " cried Brandon
vehemently and reproachfully.

Beatrice returned his reproachful gaze
with one equally reproachful, and raising
her calm eyes to Heaven, said in a tremu-
lous voice.

" You have no right to say so— least of
all to me, I said what you feel and
know ; and it is this, that others require
your life, in comparison with whom I am
nothing. Ah, my friend," she continued,
in tones of unutterable sadness, " let us
be friends here at least, on the sea, for
when we reach England we must be
separated for evermore ! "

" For evermore } " cried Brandon, in
agony.

" For evermore ! " repeated Beatrice,
in equal anguish.

" Do you feel very eager to get to Eng-
land ? " asked Brandon, after a long
silence.
" No."

" Why not ? "

" Because I know that there is sorrow
for me there."

'• If our boat had been destroyed on
the shore of that island," he asked, in
almost an imploring voice, " would you
.' ve grieved?"
" No."

" The present is better than the future.
Oh, that my dream had continued forever,
and that I had never awaked to the bit-
terness of life I "

" That," said Beatrice, with a mournful
smile, " is a reproach to me for watching
you."

"Yet that moment of awaking was
sweet beyond all thought," continued

Brandon, in a musing tone, *• for 1 hnd
lost all memory of all things except
you."

They stood in silence, sometimes look-
ing at one another, sometimes at the sea,
while the dark shadows of the Future
swept gloomily before their eyes.

The voyage passed on until at last tlie
English shores were seen, and they sailed
up the Channel amid the thronj,nn^;
ships that pass to and fro from the
metropolis of the world.

" To-morrow we part," said Beatrice,
as she stood with Brandon on the
quarter-deck.

"No," said Brandon; "there will be
no one to meet you here. I must take
you to your home."

"To my home! You?" cried Bca-
trice, starting back. "You dare not."

"I dare."

" Do you know what it is ? "

" I do not seek to know. I do not
ask; but yet I think I know."

" And y^Xyoti offer to go? "

" I must go. 1 must see you to the
very last."

" Be it so," said Beatrice, in a solemn
voice, " since it is the very last."

Suddenly she looked at him with the
solemn gaze of one whose soul was
filled with thoughts that overpowered
every common feeling. It was a glance
lofty and serene and unimpassioned, like
that of some spirit which has passed
beyond human cares, but sad as that of
some prophet of • oe.

" Louis Brandon ! "

At this mention of his name a flash of
unspeakable surprise passed over Bran-
don's face. She held out her hand.
"Take my hand," said she calmly, "and
hold it so that I may have strength to
speak."

" Louis Brandon ! " said she, " there

THE SHADOW OF THE AFRICAN FOREST

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I 1

■ I hnd
except

:s look-
ihe sea,

Future
;.

last the
;y saileil

roin tite

Beatrice,
on the

B will l)e
lUSt take

ied liea-
are not."

I do not

)U to the

with the
soul was
erpowered
5 a glance
lioned, like
as passed
as that of

was a time on that African island when
you iiiy under the trees and I was sure
that you were dead. There was no
heating to your heart, and no percep-
tible breath. The last test failed, the
last hope left me, and I knelt by your
head, and took you in my arms and wept
iti my despair. At your feet Cato knelt
and mourned in his Hindu fashion.
Then, mechanically and hopelessly, he
made a last trial to see if you were
really dead, so that he might prepare
your grave. He put his hand under
your clothes, against your heart. He
held it there for a long time. Your
heart gave no answer. He withdrew it,
and in doing so took something away
that was suspended about your neck.
This was a metallic case and a package
wrapped in oiled silk. He gave them to
me."

Beatrice had spoken with a sad, meas-
ured tone — such a tone as one sometimes
uses in prayer — a passionless monotone,
without agitation and without shame.
Brandon answered not a word.
" Take my hand," she said, " or I can-
not go through. This only can give me
strength."

He clasped it tightly in both of his.
She drew a long breath, and continued :
" I thought you dead, and knew the
full measure of despair. Now, when
these were given me, I wished to know
the secret of the man who had twice
rescued me from death, and finally laid
down his life for my sake. I did it not
through curiosity. I did it," and her
voice rose slightly, with solemn empha-
sis—" I did it through a holy feeling
that, since my life was due to you, there-
fore, as yours was gone, mine should
replace it, and be devoted to the purpose
which you had undertaken.
" I opened first the metallic case. It

was under the dim sh.idc ol the African
forest, and while holding un my knees
the head of the man who had laid down
his life for me. You know what I read
there. I read of u father's love and
agony. I read there the name of the one
who had driven him to death. The
shadows of the forest grew darker around
me ; as the full meaning of that revela-
tion came over my soul they deepened
into blackness, and I fell senseless by
your side.

"Better had Cato left us both lying
there to die, and gone off in the boat
himself. But he revived me. I laid "du
down gently, and propped up your head,
but never again dared to defile you with
the touch of one so infamous as I.

" There still remained the other pack-
age, which I read — how you reached that
island, and hov/ you got that MS., I
neither know nor seek to discover ; I only
know that all my spirit awaked within
me as I read those words. A strange,
inexplicable feeling arose. I forgot all
about you and your griefs. My whole
soul was fixed on the figure of that
bereaved and solitary man, who thus
drifted to his fate. He seemed to speak
to me. A fancy, born out of frenzy, no
doubt, for all that horror well-nigh drove
me mad— a fancy came to me that this
voice, which had come from a distance of
eighteen years, had spoken to me ; a
wild fancy, because I was eighteen years
old, that therefore I was connected with
these eighteen years, filled my whole
soul. I thought that this MS. was mine,
and the other one yours. I read it over
and over, and over yet again, till every
word forced itself into my memory— till
you and your sorrows sank into oblivion
beside the woes of this man.

" I sat near you all that night. The
palms sigiievi in the air. I dared not

1" 'i'""

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Hi:

114

CORD AND CREESE

touch you. My brain whirled. I thought
I heard voices out at sea, and figures
appeared in the gloom. I thought I saw
before me the form of Colonel Despard.
He looked at me with sadness unutter-
able, yet with soft pity and affection, and
extended his hand as though to bless
me. Madder fancies than ever then
rushed through my brain. But when
morning came and the excitement had
passed I knew that I had been delirious.

" When that morning came I went
over to look at you. To my amaze-
ment, you were breathing. Your life
was renewed of itself. I knelt down and
praised God for this, but did not dare to
touch you. I folded up the treasures,
and told Cato to put them again around
your neck. Then I watched you till you
recovered.

" But on that night, and after reading
thope MSS., I seemed to have passed
into another stage of being. I can say
things to you now which I would not
have dared to say before, and strength is
given me to tell you all this before we
part for evermore.

" I have awakened to infamy ; for what
is infamy if it be not this, to bear the
name I bear? Something more than
pride or vanity has been the foundation
of that feeling of shame and hate with
which I have always regarded it. And I
have now died to my former life, and
awakened to a new one.

"Louis Brandon, the agonies which
may be suffered by those whom you seek
to avenge I can conjecture but I wish
never to hear. I pray God that I may
never know what it might break my
heart to learn. You must save them,
you must also avenge them. You are
strong, and you are implacable. When
you strike your blow will be crushing.

" But I must g ) and bear my lot among

those you strike ; I will wait on among
them, sharing their infamy and their fato.
When your blow falls I will not turn
away. I will think of those dear ones of
yours who have suffered, and for their
sakes will accept the blow of revenge."

Brandon had held her hand in silence,
and with a convulsive pressure during
these words. As she stopped she made
a faint effort to withdraw it. He would
not let her. He raised it to his lips and
pressed it there.

Three times he made an effort to speak,
and each time failed. At last, with a
strong exertion, he uttered, in a hoarse
voice and broken tones :

*' O Beatrice ! Beatrice ! how I love
you ! "

" I know it," said she, in the same
monotone which she had used before a
tone of infinite mournfulness — " I have
known it long, and I would say also,
' Louis Brandon, I love you,' if it were
not that this would be the last infamy ;
that you, Brandon, of Brandon Hall,
should be loved by one who bears my
name."

The hours of the night passed away.
They stood watching the English shores,
speaking little. Brandon clung to her
hand. They were sailing up the Thames.
It was about four in the morning.

"We shall soon be there," said he;
" sing to me for the last time. Sing, and
forget for a moment that we must part."

Then, in a low voice, of soft but pene-
trating tones, which thrilled through
every fibre of Brandon's being, Beatrice
began to sing :

" Love made us one ; our unity
Is indissoluble by act of thine,
For were this mortal being ended,
And our freed spirits in the world above,
Love, ppssing o'er the grave, would join us tlierf
As once he joined us here ;
And the sad memory of the life below

ENQUIRIES

Would but unite us closer evermore.
No act of thine may loose
Thee from the eternal bond,
Nor shall Revenge have power
To disunite us there ! "

On that same day they landed in Lon-
don. The Governor's lady at Sierra
Leone had insisted on replenishing Bea-
trice's wardrobe, so that she showed no
appearance of having gone through the
troubles which had afflicted her on sea
and shore.

Brandon took her to a hotel and then
went to his agent's. He also examined
tiie papers for the last four months. He
read in the morning journals a notice
which had already appeared of the arrival
of the ship off the Nore, and the state-
ment that three of the passengers of the
Falcon had reached Sierra Leone. He
communicated to the owners of the
Falcon the particulars of the loss of the
ship, and earned their thanks, for they

were able to get their insurance without
waiting a year, as is necessary where
nothing is heard of a missing vessel.

He travelled with Beatrice by rail and
coach as far as the village of Brandon.
At the inn he engaged a carriage to
take her up to her father's house. It
was Brandon Hall, as he very well
knew.

But little was said during all this time.
Words were useless. Silence formed the
best communion for them. He took
her hand at parting. She spoke not a
word ; his lips mov_J, but no audible
sound escaped. Yet in their eyes, as
they fastened themselves on one another
in an intense gaze, there was read all that
unutterable passion of love, of longing,
and of sorrow that each felt. The car-
riage drove off. Brandon watched it.
" Now farewell. Love, forever," he mur-
mured, " and welcome Vengeance ! "

CHAPTER XVHI

ENQUIRIES

So many years had elapsed since Bran-
don had last been in the village which
bore the family name that he had no fear
of being recognized. He had been a boy
then, he was now a man. His features
had passed fiom a transition state into
their mature form, and a thick beard and
mustache, the growth of the long voyage,
covered the lower part of the face like a
mask. His nose, which, when he left,
had a boyish roundness of outline, had
since become refined and chiselled into
the straight, thin Grecian type. His eyes
alone remained the same, yet the expres-
sion had grown different, even as the soul

that look' 1 forth through them had been
changed by experience and suffering.

He gave himself out at the inn as an
American merchant, and went out to be-
gin his enquiries. Tearing two buttons
off his coat, he entered the shop of the
village tailor.

"Good-morning," said he civilly.

" Good-morning, sir ; fine morning,
sir," answered the tailor volubly. He
was a little man, with a cast in his eye,
and on l-oking at Brandon he had to put
his head on one side, which he did with
a quick, odd gesture.

" There are two buttons off my coat,

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ii6

CORD AND CREESE

and I want to know if you can repair it
for me ? "

"Certainly, sir; certainly. Take off
your coat, sir, and sit down."

"The buttons," said Brandon, "are a
little odd ; but if you have not got any
exactly like them, anything similar will do."

" Oh, I think we'll fit you out, sir. I
think we'll fit you out," rejoined the tailor
briskly.

He bustled about among his boxes and
drawers, pulled out a large number of
articles, and finally began to select the
buttons which were nearest like those on
the coat.

" This is a fine little village," said
Brandon carelessly.

" Yes, sir; that's a fact, sir; that's just
what everybody says, sir."

" What old Hall is that which I saw
just outside the village ? "

" Ah, sir, that old Hall is the very best
in the whole county. It is Brandon Hall,
sir."

" Brandon Hall ? "

"Yes, sir."

" I suppose this village takes the name
from the Hall — or is it the Hall that is
named after the village ? "

"Well, neither, sir. Both of them
were named after the Brandon family."

" Is it an old family ? It must be, of
course."

"The oldest in the county, sir."

" I wonder if Mr. Brandon would let a
stranger go through his grounds ? There
is a hill back of the house that I should
like to see."

" Mr. Brandon ! " exclaimed the tailor,
shaking his head ; " Mr. Brandon !
There aint no Mr. Brandon now!"

" How is that ? "

" Gone, sir — ruined — died out."

" Then the man that lives there now is
not Mr. Brandon ? "

" Nothing of the kind, sir ! He, sir !
Why he isn't fit to clean the shoes of any
of the old Brandons ! "

"Who is he?"

" His name, sir, is Potts."

" Potts ! That doesn't sound like one
of your old county names."

" I should think not, sir. Potts ! Why,
sir, he's generally believed in this here
community to be a villain, sir," said the
little tailor mysteriously, and with the
look of a man who would like very well
to be questioned further.

Brandon humored him. " How is
that?"

" It's a long story, sir."

" Oh, well— tell it. I have a great
curiosity to hear any old stories current
in your English villages. I'm an Ameri-
can, and English life is new to me."

" I'll bet you never heard anything like
this in all your born days."

" Tell it, then, by all means.

The tailor jumped down from his seat,
went mysteriously to the door, looked
cautiously out, and then returned.

" It's just as well to be a little careful, "
said he, " for if that man knew that I was
talking about him he'd take it out of me
quick enough, I tell you."

" You seem to be afraid of him."

" We're all afraid of him in the village,
and hate him r but I hope to God he'll
catch it yet!"

" How can you be afraid of him ?
You all say that this is a free country."

" No man, sir, in any country, is free,
except he's rich. Poor people can be
oppressed in many ways; and most of
us are in one way or other dependent
on him. We hate him all the worse
though. But I'll tell you about him."

" Yes, go on."

" Well, sir, old Mr. Brandon, about
twenty years ago, was one of the richest

ku ■

ENQUIRIES

117

men in the county. About fifteen years
ago tlie man Potts turned up, and how-
ever the old man took a fancy to him I
never could see, but he did take a fancy
to him, put all his money in some tin
mines that Potts had started, and the end
of it was Potts turned out a scoundrel,
as everyone said he would, swindled the
old man out of every penny, and ruined
him completely. Brandon had to sell
his estate, and Potts bought it with the
very money out of which he had cheated
the old man."

" Oh ! impossible ! " said Brandon.
" Isn't that some village gossip ? "

" I wish it was, sir — but it aint. Go
ask any man here, and he'll tell you the
same."

•' And what became of the family ? "
asked Brandon calmly.

" Ah, sir ! that is the worst part of it."

" Why ? "

" I'll tell you, sir. He was ruined.
He gave up all. He hadn't a penny left.
He went out of the Hall and lived for a
short time in a small house at the other
end of the village. At last he spent
what little money he had left, and they
all got sick. You wouldn't believe what
happened after that."

" What was it ? "

"They were all taken to the alms-
house."

A burst of thunder seemed to sound in
Brandon's ears as he heard this, which
he had never even remotely imagined.
The tailor was occupied with his own
thoughts, and did not notice the wildness
that for an instant appeared in Brandon's
eyes. The latter for a moment felt
paralyzed and struck down into nothing-
ness by the shock of that tremendous
intelligence.

" The people felt dreadfully about it,"
continued the tailor, " but they couldn't

do anything. It was Potts who had the
family taken to the almshouse. Nobody
dared to interfere."

" Did none of the county families do
anything?" said Brandon, who at last,
by a violent effort, had regained his
composure.

*' No. They had all been insulted by
the old man, so now they let him suffer."

" Had he no old friends, or even ac-
quaintances? "

" Well, that's what we all asked our-
selves, sir; but at any rate, whether he
had or not, they didn't turn up — that is,
not in time. There was a young man
here when it was too late."

" A young man ? "

" Yes, sir."

•' Was he a relative ? "

"Oh, no, sir, only a lawyer's clerk;
wanted to see about business, I dare say.
Perhaps to collect a bill. Let me see ;
the lawyer who sent him was named
Thornton."

"Thornton!" said Brandon, as the
name sank into his soul.

•' Yes ; he lived at Holby."

Brandon drew a long breath.

" No, sir ; no friends came, whether he
had any or not. They were all sick at
the almshouse for weeks."

" And I suppose they all died there? "
said Brandon, in a strange, sweet voice.

** No, sir. They were not so happy."

" What suffering could be greater."

" They do talk dreadfully in this town,
sir ; and I dare say it's not true, but if it
is it's enough to make a man's blood run
cold."

•' You excite my curiosity. Remember
I am an American, and these things
seem odd to me. I always thought your
British aristocrats could not be ruined."

" Here was one, sir, that was, any-
how."

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ii8

CORD AND CREESE

"Go on."

" Well, sir, the old man died in the
almshouse. The others got */ell. As
soon as they were well enough they went
away."

" How did they get away ? "

"Potts helped them," replied the tailor
in a peculiar tone. "They went away
from the village."

" Where did they go ? "

" People say to Liverpool. I only tell
what I know. I heard young Bill Potts,
the old fellow's son, boasting one night
at the inn where he was half drunk, how
they had served the Brandons. He said
they wanted to leave the village, so his
father helped them away to America."

" To America ? "

" Yes, sir."

Brandon made no rejoinder.

" Bill Potts said they went to Liver-
pool, and then left for America to make
their fortunes."

" What part of America ? " asked Bran-
don indifferently. " I never saw or
heard of them."

"Didn't you, sir? "asked the tailor,
who evidently thought that America was
like some English county, where every-
body may hear of everybody else.
"That's odd, too. I was going to ask
you if you had."

"I wonder what ship they went out
in?"

"That I can't say, sir. Bill Potts
kept dark about that. He said one thing,
though, that set us thinking."

" What was that ? "

" Why, that they went out in an emi-
grant ship as steerage passengers."

Brandon was silent.

" Poor people ! " said he at last.

By this time the tailor had finished his
coat and handed it back to him. Having
obtained all the information that the

man could give Brandon paid him and
left.

Passing by the inn he walked on till
he came to the almshouse. Here he
stood for a while and looked at it.

Brandon almshouse was small, badly
planned, badly managed, and badly
built, everything done there was badly
and meanlv done. It was whitewashed
from the topmost point of every chimney
down to the lowest edge of the basement.
A whited sepulchre. For there was the
foulness there, in the air, in the surround-
ings, in everything. Squalor and dirt
reigned. His heart grew sick as those
hideous walls rose before his sight.

Between this and Brandon Hall there
was a difference, a distance almost im-
measurable ; to pass from one to the
other might be conceived of as incredible ;
and yet that passage had been made.

To fall so far as to go the whole dis-
tance between the two ; to begin in one
and end in the other; to be born, brought
up, and live and move and have one's
being in the one, and then to die in the
other; what was more incredible than
this ? Yet this had been the fate of his
father.

Leaving the place, he walked directly
toward Brandon Hall.

Brandon Hall was begun, nobody
knows exactly when ; but it is said that the
foundations were laid before the time
of Egbert. In all parts of the old man-
sion the progress of English civilization
might be studied ; in the Norman arches
of the old chapel, the slender pointed
style of the fifteenth century doorway
that opened to the same, the false Grecian
of the early Tudor period, and the wing
added in Elizabeth's day, the days of that
old Ralph Brandon who sank his ship
and its treasure to prevent it from falling
into the hands of the enemy.

Aro

scenes
savt. i
green
rose gi
to inn
bounde
The bt
went uj
scenei'y
meadov
Before
three ni
an emin
vening
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country ;
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promontc
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A little cc
and arou
Brandon.
Brando
and most
England,
it rose bi
six hundn
rising ou
speaking

ENQUIRIES

119

m and

on till
ere he
t it.
, badly
badly
s badly
washed
;himney
.sement.
was the
irround-
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as those
ght.

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lan arches
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the wing
ays of that
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rem falling

Around this grand old Hall were
scenes which could be found nowhere
savt, in England. Wide fields, forever
green with grass like velvet, over which
rose groves of oak and elm, giving shelter
to innumerable birds. There the deer
bounded and the hare found a covert.
The broad avenue that led to the Hall
went up through a world of rich sylvan
scenery, winding through groves and
meadows and over undulating ground.
Before the Hall lay the open sea about
three miles away ; but the Hall was on
an eminence and overlooked all the inter-
vening ground. Standing there one
might see the gradual decline of the
country as it sloped downward toward the
margin of the ocean. On the left a bold
promontory jutted far out, on the nearer
side of which there was an island with
a lighthouse ; on the right was another
promontory, not so bold. Between ther-e
two the whole country was like a garden.
A little cove gave shelter to small vessels,
and around this cove was the village of
Brandon.

Brandon Hall was one of the oldest
and most magnificent of the gieat halls of
England. As Brandon looked upon it
it rose before him amid the groves of
six hundred years, its many-gabled roof
rising out from amid a sea of foliage,
speaking of wealth, luxury, splendor,
power, influence, and all that men hope
for, or struggle for, or fight for ; from all
of which he and his had been cast out ;
and the one who had done this was even
now occupying the old ancestral seat of
his family.

Brandon entered the gate, and walked

up the long avenue, till he reached the

Hall. Here he rang the bell, and a

servant appeared. " Is Mr. Potts at

home ? "

"Yes," said the man brusquely.

" I wish to see him."

'* Who shall I say ? "

" Mr. Hendricks, from America."

The man -showed him into the drawing
room. Brandon seated himself and
waited. The room was furnished in the
most elegant manner, most of the furniture
being old, and all familiar to him. He
took a hasty glance around, and closed
his eyes as if to shut it all out from sight.

In a short time a man entered.

He appeared to be between fifty and
sixty years of age, of medium size, broad-
shouldered and stout. He had a thor-
oughly plebeian air ; he was dressed in
black, and had a bunch of large seals
dangling from beneath his waistcoat.
His face was round and fleshy, his eyes
were small, and his head was bald. The
general expression of his face was that of
good-natured simplicity. As he caught
sight of Brandon a frank smile of wel-
come arose on his broad, fat face.

Brandon rose and bowed.

" Am I addressing Mr. John Potts ? "

" You are, sir. John Potts of Potts
Hall."

" Potts of Potts Hall ! " repeated Bran-
don. Then, drawing a card from his
pocket he handed it to Potts. He had
procured some of these in London. The
card read as follows :

BEAMISH & HENDRICKS,

Fiour Merchants &' Provision Dealers^

88 Front Street, Cincinnati,

OHIO.

" I, sir," said Brandon, " am Mr. Hen-
dricks, junior partner in Beamish &
Hendricks, and I hope you are quite
well."

" Very well, thank you," answered
Potts, smiling and sitting down. " I am
happy to see you."

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I30

CORD AND CREESE

" Do you keep your health, sir? "
" Thank you, I do," said Potts. " A
touch of rheumatism at odd times, that's
all."

Brandon's manner was stiff and formal,
and his voice had assumed a slight nasal
intonation. Potts had evidently looked
on him as a perfect stranger.

" I hope, sir, that I am not taking up
your valuable time. You British noble-
men have your valuable time, I know, as
well as we business men."

" No, sir, no, sir, not at all," said Potts,
evidently greatly delighted at being con-
sidered a British nobleman.

" Well, Sir John— or is it my lord ? "
said Brandon interrogatively, correcting
himself, and looking enquiringly at Potts.
" Sir John '11 do," said Potts.
" Well, Sir John. Being in England
on business, I came to ask you a few
questions about a matter of some impor-
tance to us."

" Proceed, sir ! " said Potts, with great
dignity.

" There's a young man that came into
our employ last October whom we took
a fancy to, of rather my senior did, and
we have an idea of promoting him. My
senior thinks the world of him, has the
young man at his house, and he is even
making up to his daughter. He calls
himself Brandon — Frank Brandon."

At this Potts started from an easy
lounging attitude, in which he was trying
to " do " the British noble, and with
startling intensity of gaze looked Brandon
full in the face.

" I think the young man is fairish,"
continues Brandon, " but nothing extra-
ordinary. He is industrious and sober,
but he aint quick, and he never had any
real business experience till he rame to
us. Now, my senior from the very first
was infatuated with him, gave him a large

salary, and, in spite of my warnings that
he ought to be cautious, he wants to
make him head clerk, with an eye to
making him partner next year. And so
bent on this is he that I know he would
dissolve partnership with me if I refused,
take the young man, let him marry his
daughter, and leave him all his money
when he dies. That's no small sum, for
old Mr. Beamish is worth in real estate
round Cincinnati over two millions of
dollars. So, you see, I have a right to
feel anxious, more especially as I don't
mind telling you. Sir John, who under-
stand these matters, that I thought I had
a very good chance myself with old
Beamish's daughter."

Brandon spoke all this very rapidly,
and with the air of one who was trying
to conceal his feelings of dislike to the
clerk of whom he was so jealous. Potts
looked at him with an encouraging smile,
and asked, as he stopped :

" And how did you happen to hear of
me?"

" That's just what I was coming to.
Sir John ! " Brandon drew his chair
nearer, apparently in deep excitement,
and in a more nasal tone than ever, with
a confidential air, he went on :

" You see, I mistrusted this young man
who was carrying everything before him
with a high hand, right in my very teeth,
and I watched him. I pumped him to
see if I couldn't get him to tell some-
thing about himself. But the fellow was
always on his guard, and always told the
same story. This is what he tells : He
says that his father was Ralph Brandon
of Brandon Hall, Devonshire, and that he
got very poor— he was ruined, in fact,

by I beg your pardon, Sir John, but

he says it was you, and that you drove
the family away. They then came over
to America, and he got to Cincinnati,

The (

left, bi

others

lie, an<

place £

to find

when t

Pottj

"We

giving \

You s(

am ! "

ENQUIRIES

121

's that
mts to
eye to
\nd so
; vvouUl
refused,
irry his

money
ium, for
il estate
lions of
right to

I don't
D undcr-
rht 1 had
N\ih old

rapidly,
as trying
ke to the
IS. Potts
ing smile,

,0 hear of

aming to,
his ch.air
Kcitemcnt,
ever, with

oung man
efore him
rery teeth,
ed him to
tell some-
fellow was
^s told the
tells: He
, Brandon
nd that he
ed. in fact.
r John, hut
you drove
came over
Cincinnati.

The old man, he says, died before they
left, but he won't tell what became of the
others. I confess I believed it was all a
lie, and didn't think there was any such
place as Brandon Hall, so I determined
to find out ; naturally enough. Sir John,
when two millions were at stake."

Potts winked.

" Well, I suddenly found my health
giving way, and had to come to Europe.
You see what a delicate creature I
am ! "

Potts laughed with intense glee.

"And I came here after wandering
about, trying to find it. I heard at last
that there was a place that used to be
Brandon Hall, though most people call it
Potts Hall. Now, I thought, my fine
young man, I'll catch you ; for I'll call on
Sir John himself and ask him."

" You did right, sir," said Potts, who
had taken an intense interest in this nar-
rative. " I'm the very man you ought to
have come, to. I can tell you all you
want. This Brandon is a miserable
swindler."

"Good ! I thougnt so. You'll give
me that. Sir John, over your own name,
will you? "cried Brandon, in great ap-
parent excitement.

" Of course I will," said Potts, " and a
good deal more. But tell me, first, what
that young devil said as to how he got to
Cincinnati ? How did he find his way
there ? "

" He would never tell."

" What became of his mother and
sister?"

" He wouldn't say."

" All I know," said Potts, " is this : I
got ofificial information that they all died
at Quebec."

Brandon looked suddenly at the floor
and t^asped. In a moment he had
recovered.

" Curse him ! then this fellow is an
impostor? "

"No," said Potts, "he must have
escaped. It's possible. There was
some confusion at Quebec about
names."

" Then his name may really be Frank
Brandon ? "

"It must be," said Potts. "Anyhow,
the others are all right."

" Are what ? "

"All right; dead, you know. That's
why he don't like to tell you about them."

*' Well, now. Sir John, could you tell me
what you know about this young man,
since you think he must be the same
one ? "

" I know he must be, and I'll tell you
all about him and the whole cursed lot.
In the first place," continued Potts,
clearing his throat, "old Brandon was
one of the cursedest old fools that ever
lived. He was very well off, but wanted
to get richer, and so he speculated in a
mine in Cornwall. I was acquainted
with him at the time and used to respect
him. He persuaded me — I was always
off-handed about money, and a careless,
easy fellow — he persuaded me to invest
in it also. I did so, but at the end of a
few years I found out that the tin mine
was a rotten concern, and sold out. I
sold at a very high price, for people
believed it was a splendid property.
After this I found another mine and
made money hand over fist. I warned
old Brandon, and so did everybody, but
he didn't care a fig for what we said, and
finally, one fine morning, he waked up
and found himself ruined.

" He was more utterly ruined than any

man I ever knew of, and all his estates

were sold. I had made some money,

few others in the county had any ready

I cash, the sale was forced, and I bought

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123

CORD AND CREESE

the whole establishment at a remarkably
low figure. I got old Brandy— Brandy
was a nickname I gave the old fellow —
I got him a house in the village, and
supported him for a while with his wife
and daughter and his great lubberly boy.
I soon found out what vipers they were.
They all turned against their benefactor,
and dared to say that I had ruined their
father. In fact, my only fault was buy-
ing the place, and that was an advantage
to old Brandy rather than an injury.
It shows, though, what human nature
is.

" They all got sick at last, and as they
had no one to nurse them, I very con-
siderately sent them ?11 to the alms-
house, where they had good beds, good
attendance, and plenty to eat and drink.
No matter what I did for them they
abused me. They reviled me for send-
ing them to a comfortable home, and
old Brandy was the worst of all. I used
to go and visit him two or three times
a day, and he always cursed me. Old
Brandy did get awfully profane, that's
a fact. The reason was his infernal
pride. Look at me, now! I'm not
proud. Put me in the almshouse, and
: curse you ? I hope not.
last old Brandy died, and of
I had to look out for the family.
They seemed thrown on my hands, you
know, and I was too good-natured to let
them suffer, although they treated me
so abominably. The best thing I could
think of was to ship them all off to
America, where they could all get rich.
So I took them to Liverpool."

" Did they want to go ? "

" They didn't seem to have an idea
in their heads. They looked and acted
just like three born fools."

" Strange ! "

" I let a friend of mine see about them,

would

"At

course

as I had considerable to do, and he got
them a passage."

" I suppose you paid their way out."

" I did, sir," said Potts, with an air
of munificence ; " but, between you and
me, it didn't cost much."

" I should think it must have cost a
considerable sum."

'• Oh, no ! Clark saw to that. Clark
got them places as steerage pas-
sengers."

"Young Brandon told me once that
he came out as cabin passenger."

" That's his cursed pride. He went
out in the steerage, and a devilish hard
time he had too."

"Why?"

" Oh, he was a little crowded, I think !
There were six hundred emigrants on
board the Tecumseh "

"The what?"

" The Tecumseh. Clark did that
business neatly. Each passenger had to
take his own provisions, so he supplied
them with a lot. Now what do you
think he gave them ? "

" I can't imagine."

" He bought them some damaged
bread at one-quarter the usual price.
It was all mouldy, you know," said Potts,
trying to make Brandon see the joke.
" I declaie Clark and I roared over it
for a couple of months, thinking how
surprised they must have been when
they sat down to eat their first dinner."

" That was very neat," replied Brandon.

" They were all sick when they left, "
said Potts ; " but before they got to
Quebec they vere sicker, I'll bet."

" Why so ? '

" Did you ever hear of ship fever ? "
said Potts, in a low voice which sent a
sharp thrill through every fibre of Bran-
don's being. He could only nod his
head.

ENQUIRIES

123

"Well, the Tecumseh, with her six
hundred passengers, afforded an uncom-
mon fine field for the ship fever. That's
what I was going to observe. They had
a great time at Quebec last summer ;
but it was unanimously voted that the
Tcctimseh was the worst ship of the lot.
I sent out an agent to see what had be-
come of my three friends, and he came
back and told me all. He said that
about four hundred of the Tecumseh' s
passengers died during the voyage, and
ever so many more after landing. He
obtained a list of the dead from the
quarantine records, and among them
were those of these three Brandons.
Yes, they joined old Cognac pretty
soon— lovely and pleasant in their lives,
and in death not divided. But this
young devil that you speak of must
have escaped. I dare say he did, for
tlie confusion was awful."

" But couldn't there have been another
son ? "

" Oh, no. There was another son, the
eldest, the worst of the whole lot, so
infernally bad that even old Brandy him-
self couldn't stand it, but packed him off
to Botany Bay. It's well he went of his
own accord, for if he hadn't the law
would have sent him there at last, trans-
ported for life."

" Perhaps this man is the same one."

" Oh, no. This eldest Brandy is dead."

" Are you sure ? "

" Certain — best authority. A business
friend of mine was in the same ship with
him. Brandy was coming home to see
his friends. He fell overboard and my
friend saw him drown. It was in the
Indian Ocean."

" When was that ? "

" Last September."

" Oh, then this one must be the other
of course ! "

" No doubt of that, I think," said Potts
cheerily.

Brandon rose. " I feel much obliged.
Sir John," said he stiffly, and with his
usual nasal tone, " for your kindness.
This is just w' at I want. I'll put a stop
to my young man's game. It's worth
coming to England to find out this."

" Well, when you walk him out of your
office, give him my respects and tell him
I'd be very happy to see him. For I
would, you know. I really would."

'♦ I'll tell him so," said Brandon, "and
if he is alive perhaps he'll come here."

'• Ha ! ha ! ha ! " roared Potts.

" Ha ! ha ! " laughed Brandon, and
pretending not to see Potts' outstretched
hand, he bowed and left. He walked
rapidly down the avenue. He /elt stifled.
The horrors that had been revealed to
him had been but in part anticipated.
Could there be anything worse ?

He left the gates and walked quickly
away, he knew not where. Turning into
a by-path he went up a hill and finally
sat down. Brandon Hall lay not far
away. In front was the village and the
sea beyond it. All the time there was
but one train of thoughts in his mind.
His wrongs took shape and framed them-
selves into a few sharply defined ideas.
He muttered to himself over and over the
things that were in his mind : " Myself
disinherited and exiled ! My father ruined
and broken-hearted ! My father killed !
My mother, brother, and sister banished,
starved, and murdered ! "

He, too, as far as Potts' will was con-
cerned, had been slain. He was alone
and had no hope that any of his family
could survive. Now, as he sat there
alone, he needed to make his plans for
the future. One thing stood out promi-
nently before him, which was that he
must go immediately to Quebec to find

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134

CORD AND CREESE

1
I

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out finally and absolutely the fate of the
family.

Then could anything else be done in
England ? He thought over the names
of those who had been the most intimate
friends of his father — Thornton, Lan-
ghetti, Despard. Thornton had neglected
his father in his hour of need. He had
merely sent a clerk to make enquiries
after all was over. The elder Langhetti,
Brandon knew, was dead. Where were
the others? None of them, at any rate,
had interfered.

There remained the family of Despard.
Brandon was aware that the colonel had
a brother in the army, but where he was he
knew not nor did he care. If he chose to
look in the army register he might very
easily find out ; but why should he ? He
had never known or heard much of him
in any way.

There remained Courtenay Despard,
the son of Lionel, he to whom the MS. of
the dead might be considered after all as
chiefly devolving. Of him Brandon knew
absolutely nothing, not even whether he
was alive or dead.

For a lime he discussed the question in
his mind whether it might not be well to
seek him out so as to show him his
father's fate and gain his co-operation.
But after a few moments' consideration
he dismissed this thought. Why should
he seek his help ? Courtenay Despard,
if alive, might be very unfit for the pur-
pose. He might be timid, or indifferent,
or dull, or indolent. Why make any ad-
vances to one whom he did not know ?
Afterward it might be well to find him,
and to see what might be done with or
through him ; but as yet there could be
no reason whatever why he should take
up his time searching for him or in win-
ning his confidence.

The end of it all was that he concluded

whatever he did to do it by himself, with
no human being as his confidant.

Only one or two persons in all the
world knew that he was alive, and they
were not capable, under any circum-
stances, of betraying him. And where
now was Beatrice ? In the power of this
man whom Brandon had just left. Had
she seen him as he came and went ?
Had she heard his voice as he spoke
in that assumed tone ? But Brandon
found it necessary to crush down all
thoughts of her.

One thing gave him profound satisfac-
tion, and this was that Potts did not sus-
pect him for an instant. And now how
could he deal with Potts ? The man had
become wealthy and powerful. To cope
with him needed wealth and power. How
could Brandon obtain these } At the ut-
most he could only count upon the fifteen
thousand pounds which Compton would
remit. This would be as nothing to help
him against his enemy. He had written
to Compton that he had fallen overboard
and been picked up, and had toUl the
same to the London agents under the
strictest secrecy, so as to be able to get
the money which he needed. Yet after
he got it all, what would be the benefit?
First of all, wealth was necessary.

Now more than ever there came to his
mind the ancestral letter which his father
had enclosed to him — the message from
old Ralph Brandon in the treasure ship.
It was a wild, mad hope ; but was it un
attainable? This he felt was now the
one object that lay before him ; this must
first be sought after, and nothing else
could be attempted or even thought of till
it had been tried. If he failed, then other
things might be considered.

Sitting there on his lonely height, in
sight of his ancestral home, he took out
his father's last letter and read it again,

THE DKAD ALIVE

Itg

iself, with

in all the

and they
J circuni-
nd where
ver of this
left. Had
,nd went r

he spoke
t Brandon

down all

k1 satisfac-
lid not sus-
:l now how
le man had
I. To cope
)wer. How
At the ut-
n the fifteen
ipton would
ling to help
lad written
n overboard
id told the
under the
able to get
Yet after
he benefit?
iary.

ame to his
|h his father
issage from
lasure ship.
was it i;n
ls now the
this must
lothing else
light of till
, then other

height, in
le took out
id it again,

after which he once more read the old
message from the treasure ship :

"One league due northe of a smalle
islet northe of y" Islet of Santa Cruz,

northe of San Salvador 1 Ralphe

Brandon in my shippe Phoenix am be-
calmd and surrounded by a Spanish

I'lcete My shippe is filld with spoyle

the Plunder of HI galleons wealthe

w** niyghte purchasse a kyngdom

tresure equalle to an Empyr's revenue

Gold and jewelcs in countless

store and God forbydde that itt

shall falle into y** hands of y« Enemye

1 therefore Ralphe Brandon out of

mine cwne good wyl and intente and

that of alle my men sink this shippe

rather than be taken alyve I send

this by my trusty seaman Peter Leggit
who with IX others tolde off by lot will

irye to escape in y** Boate by nighte

If this Cometh haply into yo hands of my
Sonne Philij) let him herebye knowe that

in this place is all this tresure w^

haply may yet be gatherd from y" sea

y" Islet is knowne by III rockes

that be pushed up like III needles from
yo sande

" Ralphe Brandon."

Five days afterward Brandon, with his
Hindu servant, was sailing out of the
Mersey River on his way to Quebec.

CHAPTER XIX

THE DEAD ALIVE

It was early in the month of August
when Brandon visited the quarantine
station at Gosse Island, Quebec. A low,
wooden building stood near the landing,
with a sign over the door containing only
the word "OFFICE." To this building
Brandon directed his steps. On entering
he saw only one clerk there.

" Are you ihe superintendent ? " he
asked, bowing courteously.

" No," said the clerk. " He is in
Quebec just uow."

" Perhaps you can give me the infor-
mation that I want."

" What is it ? "

" I have been sent to enquire after
some passengers that came out here last
year."

" Oh, yes ; I can tell all that can be
tokl," said the clerk readily. " We have

the registration books here, and you are
at liberty to look up any names you wish.
Step this way, please." And he led the
way to an inner office.

"What year did they come out in?"
asked the clerk.

" Last year."

" Last year — an awful year to look up.
1846 — yes, here is the book for that year —
a year which you are aware was an un-
paralleled one."

"I have heard so."

" Do you know the name of the ship ? "

" The Tecumseh."

" The Tecumseh/ " exclaimed the clerk,
with a startled look. " That is an awful
name in our records. I am sorry you
have not another name to examine, for
the Tecumseh was the worst of all."

Brandon bowed.

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136

CORD AND CREESE

Ik "

" The Tecumseh" continurd the clerk,
turning over the leaves of the book as it
lay on the desk ; " the Tecumseh, from
Liverpool, sailed June 2, arrived August
10. Here you see the names of those
who died at sea, copied from the ship's
books, and those who died on shore. It
is a frightful mortality. Would you like
to look over the list? "

Brandon bowed and advanced to the
desk.

" The deaths on board ship show
whether they were seamen or passengers,
and the passengers are marked as cabin
and steerage. But after landing it was
impossible to keep an account of classes."

Brandon carefully ran his eye down the
long list, and read each name. Those for
which he looked did not appear. At last
he came to the list of those who had died
on shore. After reading a few names his
eye was arrested by one :

" Brandon, Elizabeth."

It was his mother. He read on. He
soon came to another :

" Brandon, Edith" It was his sister.

" Do you find any of the names ? "
asked the clerk, seeing Brandon turn his
head.

" Yes," said Brandon ; " this is one,"
and he pointed to the last name. " But
I see a mark opposite that name. What
is it ? • B ' and ' A.' What is the mean-
ing?"

" Is that party a relative of yours ? "

" No," said Brandon.

"You don't mind hearing something
horrible, then ? "

•• No."

The clerk drew a long breath.

"Well, sir, those letters were written
by the late superintendent. The poor
man is now a lunatic. He was here last
year.

"You see this is how it was: The

ship fever broke out. The number of
sick was awful, and there were no prepa-
rations for them hi.re. The disease in
some respects was worse than cholera,
and there was nothing but confusion.
Very many died from lack of nursing
But the worst feature of the whole thing
was the hurried burials.

" I was not here last year, and all who
were iiere then have left. But I've heard
enough to make me sick with horror.
You perhaps are aware that in this sliip
fever there sometimes occurs a total loss
of sense, which is apt to be mistaken for
death?"

The clerk paused. Brandon regarded
him steadily for a moment. Then he
turned, and looked earnestly at the bool<.

" The burials were very hastily made."

" Well ? "

" And it is now believed that some
were buried in a state of trance."

"Buried alive?"

" Buried alive ! "

There was a long silence. Brandon's
eyes were fixed on the book. At last he
pointed to the name of Edith Brandon.

" Then, I suppose," he said, in a steady
voice, which, however, was in a changed
key, " these letters ' B ' and * A ' are in-
tended to mean something of that de-
scription ? "

" Something of that sort," replied the
clerk.

Brandon drew a long breath.

" But there is no certainty about it in
this particular case. I will tell you how
these marks happened to be made. Tiie
clerk that was here last told me.

" One morning, according to him, the
superintendent came in, looking very
much excited and altered. He went to
his book, where the entries of burials had
been made on the preceding evening.
This name was third from the last,

lii

THE DEAP ALIVE

127

imbcr of
10 prcp.i.
iseasc in

cholera,
onfusiun.

nursinj;
ole thing

d all who
I've heard
h horror,
this ship
, total loss
stakeik for

I regarded

Then he

; the book.

ily made."

that some
e."

Brandon's
At last he
•ran don.
|in a steady
a changed
A ' are in-
»f that de-
replied the

J about it in
[ll you how

mde. The

ke.

|to him, the

^king very
le went to

jurials had

|g evening.
the last.

Twelve had been buried. He pencilled
ili(!sc letters there and left. People did
not notice hirn ; everybody was sick or
busy. At last in the evening of the next
(lay, when they were to bury a new lot,
tlicy found the superintendent digging at
tlu: grave the third from the last. They
tried to stop him, but he shouted and
moaned alternately ' Buried alive ! '
• IJuried alive ! ' In fact they saw that
he was crazy, and had to confine him
at once."

" Did they examine the grave ? "

" Yes. The woman told my prede-
cessor that she and her husband— -who
did the burying — had examined it, and
found the body not only dead, but cor-
rupt. So there's no doubt of it. That
party must have been dead at any rate."

" Who was the woman ? "

" An old woman that laid them out.
Slie and her husband buried them."

" Where is she now ? "

" I doi^'t know."

" Does she stay here yet ? "

"No. She left last year."

" What became of the superintend-
ent?"

" He was taken home, but grew no
better. At last he had to be sent to an
asylum. Some examination was made
by the authorities, but nothing ever came
of it. The papers made no mention of
the affair, and it was hushed up."

Brandon read on. At last he came to
another name. It was simply this :
" Brandon." There was a slight move-
ment on the clerk's part as Brandon
came to this name. " There is no Christ-
ian name here," said Brandon. " I sup-
pose they did not know it."

" Well," said the clerk, " there's some-
thing peculiar about that. The former
clerk never mentioned it to anybody but
me. That man didn't die at all."

" What do you mean ? " said Brandon,
who could scarcely speak for the tre-
mendous, struggle between hope and de-
spair that was going on within him.

"It's a false entry."

"How?"

" The superintendent wrote that. See,
the handwriting Is different from the
others. One is that of the clerk who
made all these entries; the other is the
superintendent's."

Brandon looked and saw that this was
the case.

" What was the cause of that ? "

" The clerk told me that after making
these next fifteen entries of buried
parties — buried the evening after these
last twelve — he went away to see about
something. When he came back the
next morning this name was written in
the superintendent's hand. He did not
know what to think of it, so he concluded
to ask the superintendent ; but in the
course of the day he heard that he was
mad and in confinement, as I have told
you."

" Then you mean that this is not an
entry of a death at all."

" Yes. The fact is, the superintendent
for some reason got it into his head that
this Brandon" — and he pointed to Edith's
name — " had been buried alive. He
brooded over the name, and among other
things wrote it down here at the end of
the list for the day. That's the way in
which my predecessor accounted for it."

" It is a very natural one," said Bran-
don.

" Quite so. The clerk let it stand.
You see, if he had erased it, he might
have been overhauled, and there would
have been a committee. He was afraid
of that ; he thought it bi-tter to say noth-
ing about it. He wouldn't have told me,
only he said that a party came here once

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128

CORD AND CREESE

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for a list of all the dead of the Teciimseh,
and he copied all out, including this
doubtful one. He thought that he had
done wrong, and therefore told me, so
that if any particular enquiries were ever
made I might know what to say."

" Are there many mistakes in these
records ? "

"I dare say there are a good many in
the list for 1846. There was so much
confusion that names got changed, and
people died whose names could only be
conjectured by knowing who had re-
covered. As some of those that recovered
or had not been sick slipped away
secretly, of course there was inaccuracy."

Brciiidon had nothing more to ask.
He thanked the clerk and departed.

There was a faint hope, then, that
Frank might yet be alive. On his way
up to Quebec he decided what to do.
As soon as he arrived he inserted an
advertisement in the chief papers to the
following effect :

NOTICE !

I NFORM ATION of anyone of the name of " BRAN-
DON," who came out in the ship Tecumseh in 1846,
from Liverpool to Quebec, is earnestly desired by
friends of the family. A liberal reward will be given
to anyone who can give the above information. Ap-
ply to Henry Peters,

22 Place d'Annes,

Brandon waited in Quebec six weeks
without any result. He then went to
Montreal and inserted the same notice in
the papers there, and in other towns in
Canada, giving his Montreal address.
Aftet waiting five or six weeks in Mon-
treal he went to Toronto, and advertised
again, giving his new address. He
waited here tor some time, till at length
the month of November began to draw
to a closi-. \\o\ yet despondent, he
began to fom a plan for advertising in
every ci'^^y of the United States.

Meanwhile he had receive many com-
munications, all of which, however, were
made with the vague hope of getting a
reward. None were at all reliable. At
length he thought that it was useless to
wait any longer in Canada, and con-
cluded to go to New York as a center
of action.

He arrived in New York at the end of
December, and immediately began to
insert his notices in all parts of the coun-
try, giving his address at the Aster
House.

One day, as he came in from the street,
he was informed that there was someone
in his room who wished to see him. He
went up calmly, thinking that it was some
new pers jn with intelligence.

On entering the room he saw a man
standing by the window, in his shirt-
sleeves, dressed in coarse clothes. The
man was very tall, broad-shouldered, with
large Roman features, and heavy beard
and mustache. His face was marked l^y
profound dejection ; he looked like one
whose whole life had been one long mis-
fortune. Louis Brandon had never seen
any face which bore so deep an impress
of suffering.

The stranger turned as he came in
and looked at him with his sad eyes
earnestly.

" Sir," said he, in a voice which thrilled
through Brandon, " are you Henry
Peters ? "

A strange feeling passed over Brandon.
He stepped forward.

" Frank ! " he cried, in a broken voice.

" Merciful Heavens ! " cried the other.
" Have you too come up from the dead?
Louis!"

In this r^jeeting between the two
brothers, after so many eventful years of
separation, each had much to tell. Kndi
had a story so marvellous that the other

FRANK S STORY

might have doubted it, had not the
marvels of his own experience been
equally great. Frank's story, however, is

129

the only one that the reader will care
to hear, and that must be reserved for
another chapter.

CHAPTER XX

FRANK'S STORY

" After you left," said Frank, " all
went to confusion. Potts lorded it with
a higher hand than ever, and my father
was more than ever infatuated, and
seemed to feel that it was necessary to
justify his harshness toward you by
publicly exhibiting a greater confidence
in Potts. Like a thoroughly vulgar and
base nature, this man could not be con-
tent with having the power, but loved to
exhibit that power to us. Life to me for
years became one long death ; a hundred
times I would have turned upon the
scoundrel and taken vengeance for our
wronj^s. but the tears of my mother
forced me to use self-control. You had
been driven off; I alone was left, and she
implored me by my love for her to stand
by lier. I wished her to take her own
little property and go with me and Edith
where we might all live in seclusion
together ; but this she would not do for
fear of staining the proud Brandon name.

" Potts grew worse and worse every
year. There was a loathsome son of his
whom he used to bring with him, and
my father was infatuated enough to treat
the younger devil with the same civility
which he sht ved to the elder one. Poor
father ! he really believed, as he after-
ward told me, that these nen were put-
ting millions of money in his hands, and
that he would be the Beckford of h.s
generation.

" After a while another scoundrel, called
Clark, appeared, who was simply the
counterpart of Potts. Of this man some-
thing very singular was soon made known
to me.

"One day I was sLroUing through the
grounds when suddenly, as I passed
throujjh a grove which stood by a fish-
pond, I beard voices and saw the two
men I hated most of all on earth standing
near me. They were both naked. They
had the audacity to go bathing in the
fish-pond. Clark had his back turned
toward me, and I saw on it, below the
neck, three marks, fiery red, as though
they had been made by a brand. They
were these ; " and taking a pencil Frank
made the following marks :

Louis looked at this with intense excite-
ment.
" You have been in New South Wales,"

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130

CORD AND CREESE

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said Frank, " and perhaps know whether
it is true or not that these are brands on
convicts?"

" It is true, and on convicts of the very
worst kind."

" Do you know what they mean ? "

" Yes."

•• What ? "

"Only the worst are branded with a
single mark, so you may imagine what a
triple mark indicates. But I will tell you
the meaning of each. Ihe first (/]^) is
the king's mark, put on those who are
totally irreclaimable and insubordinate.
The second ( |^) means runaway, and
is put on those who have attempted to
escape. The third (-{-) indicates a
murderous attack on the guards. When
they are not hung, they are branded with
this mark ; and those who are branded
in this way are condemned to hard work,
in cnains, for life."

" That's about what I supposed," said
Frank quietly, "only of course you are
more particular. After seeing this I told
my father. He refused to believe me. I
determined to bring matters to a crisis,
and charged Potts, in my father's pres-
ence, with associating with a branded
felon. Potts at once turned upon me
and appealed to my father's sense of
justice. He accused me of being so far
carried away by prejudice as not to hesi-
tate to invent a foul slander against an
honest man. He said that Clark would
be willing to be put to any test ; he could
not, however, ask him to expose himself —
it was too outrageous — but would simply
assert that my charge was false.

" My father as usual believed every
word and gave me a stern reprimand.
Louis, in the presence of ly mother and
sister I cursed my father on that day.
Poor man ! the blow soon fell. It was in
1845 that the crash came. I have not

the heart to go into details now. I will
tell you from time to time hereafter. It is
enough to say that every penny was lost.
We had to leave the Hall and took a
little cottage in the village.

" All our old friends and acquaintances
stood aloof. My father's oldest friends
never came near him. Old Langhetti was
dead. His son knew nothing about this.
I will tell you more of him presently.

" Colonel Lionel Despard was dead.
His son, Courtenay, was ignorant of all
this, and was away in the North of Eng-
land. There was Thornton, and I can't
account for his inaction. He married
Langhetti's daughter too. That is a
mypiery."

"They are all false, Frank."

Frank looked up with something like a
smile.

" No, not all ; wait till you hear me
through."

Frank drew a long breath. " We got
sick there, and Potts had us taken to the
almshouse. There we all prayed for
death, but only my father's prayer was
heard. He died of a broken heart. The
rest of us lived on.

"Scarcely had my father been buried
when Potts came to take us away. He
insisted that we should leave the country,
and offered to pay our way to America.
We were all indifferent ; we were paral-
yzed by grief. The almshouse was not
a place that we could cling to, so we
let ourselves drift, and allowed Potts to
send us where he wished. We did not
even hope for anything better. We only
hoped that somewhere or other we u'ight
all die. What else could we do? What
else could I do ? There was no friend to
whom I could look ; and if I ev'^r thought
of anything, it was thr.t America might
possibly afford us a chance to get a liv-
ing till death c: me.

^*i'r;

FRANK S STORY

131

/. I will
:er. It is
was lost.
1 took a

aintances
it friends
yhetti was
.bout this,
resently.
vas dead.
•ant of all
h of Eng-
nd I can't
e married
rhat is a

hiug like a
u hear me

" So tve allowed ourselves to be sent
wherever Potts chose, since it could not
possibly make things worse than they
were. He availed himself of our stolid
indifference, put us as passengers in the
steerage on board of a crowded em'grant
ship, the Tecumsehy and gave us for our
provisions some mouldy bread.

" We simply lived and suffered, and
were all waiting for death, till one day an
angel appeared who gave us a sharp
respite, and saved us for a while from
misery. This angel, Louis, was Paolo,
the son of Langhetti.

"You look amazed. It was certainx^
an amazing thing that he should be on
board the same ship with us. He was in
the cabin. He noticed our misery with-
out knowing who we were. He came to
give us his pity and help us. When at
last he found out our names he fell on
our necks, kissed us, and wept aloud.

" He gave up his room in the cabin to
my mother and sister, and slept and
lived with me. Most of all he cheered us
by the lofty, spiritual words with which
ht bade us look with contempt upon the
troubles of life and aspire after immortal
happiness. Yes, Louis; Langhetti gave
us peace.

" There were six hundred passengers.
The plague broke out among us. The
deaths every day increased, and all were
filled with despair. At last the sailors
themselves began to die.

" 1 believe there was only one in all
that S\^ who preserved calm reason and
stood without fear during those awful
weeks. That one was Langhetti. He
found the officers of the ship panic-
stricken, so he took charge of the steer-
age, organized nurses, watched over
everything, encouraged everybody, and
labored night and day. In the midst of
all I fell sick, and he nursed me back to

life. Most of all, that man inspired
fortitude by the hope that beamed in his
eyes, and by the radiancy of his smile.
• Never mind, Brandon,' said he as I lay,
I thought, doomed. ' Death is nothing.
Life goes on. You will leave this pest-
ship for a realm of light. Keep up your
heart, my brother immortal, and praise
God with your latest breath.'

" I recovered, and then stood by his
side as best I might. I found that he had
never told my mother of my sickness.
At last m.y mother and sister in the cabin
fell sick. I heard of it some days after,
and wpa prostrated again. I grew better
after a time ; but just as we reached
quarantine, Langhetti, who had kept him-
self up thus far, gave out completely, and
fell before the plague."

" Did he die ? " asked Louis, in a falter-
ing voice.

" Not on shipboard. He was carried
ashore senseless. My mother and sister
were very low, and were also carried
on shore. I, though weak, was able
to nurse them all. My mother died
first."

There was a long pause. At last
Frank resumed :

" My sister gradually recovered ; and
then, through grief and fatigue, I fell sick
for the third time. I felt it >-oming on.
My sister nursed me ; for a time I
thought I was going to die. ' O Edith,'
T said, ' when I die, devote your life
while it lasts to Langhetti, whom God
sent to us in our despair. Save his life
even if you give up your own.'

" After that I became delirious, and
remained so for a long time. Weeks
passed ; and when at la^t I revived the
plague was stayed, and but few sick were
on the island. My case was a lingering
one, for this was the third attack of the
fever. Why I didn't die I can't under-

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132

CORD AND CREESE

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Stand. There was no attendance
was confusion, horror, and death.

" When I revived the first question was
after Langhetti and Edith. No one
knew anything about them. In the con-
fusion we had been separated, and Edith
had died alone."

" Who told you that she died ? " asked
Louis, with a troubled look.

Frank looked at him with a face of
horror.

" Can you bear what I am going to
say ? "

" Yes."

" When I was able to move about I
went to see if anyone could tell me about
Edith and Langhetti. I heard an awful
storv ; that the superintendent had gone
mad and had been found trying to dig
open a grave, saying that someone was
buried alive. Who do you think ? oh,
my brother ! "

" Speak ! "

"Edith Brandon was the name he
named."

*' Be calm, Frank ; I made enquiries
myself at the island registry office. The
clerk told me this story, but said that the
woman who had charge of the dead
asserted that the grave was opened, and
it was ascertained that absolute death had
taken place."

" Alas ! " said Frank, in a voice of
despair, " I saw that woman— the keeper
of the dead-house — the grave-digger's
wife. She told me this story, but it was
with a troubled eye. I swore vengeance
on her unless she told me the truth. She
was alarmed, and said she would reveal
all she knew if I swore to keep it to my-
self. I swore it. Can you bear to hear
it, Louis? "

" Speak ! "

" She said only this : ' When the grave
was opened it was found that Edith

Brandon had not been dead when she
was buried.' "

Louis groaned, and, falling forward,
buried his head in both his hands.

It was a long time before either of
them spoke. At last Louis, without lift-
ing his head, said :

" Go on."

" When I left the island I went to
Quebec, but could not stay there. It
was too near the place of horror. I went
up the river, working my way as a
laborer, to Montreal. I then sought for
work, and obtained employment as porter
in a warehouse. What mattered it?
What was rank or station to me ? I only
wanted to keep myself from starvation
and get a bed to sleep on at night.

" I had no hope or thought of anything.
The horrors through which I had passed
were enough to fill my mind. Yet above
them all one horror was predominant,
and never through the days and nights
that have since elapsed has my soul
ceased to quiver at the echo of two terri-
ble words which have never ceased to
ring through my brain — ' Buried alive ! '

" I lived on in Montreal, under an
assumed name, as a common porter, aiui
might have been living there yet ; hut
one day as I came in I heard the name of
' Brandon.' Two of the clerks who were
discussing the news in the morning paper
happened to speak of an advertisement
which had long been in the papers in all
parts of Canada. It was for information
about the Braiidon family.

" I read the notice. It seemed to me
at first that Potts was still trying to get
control of us, but a moment's reflection
showed that to be improbable. Then the
mention of * the friends of the family '
made me think of Langhetti. I concluded
that he had escaped death and was trying
to find me out.

FRANK S STORY

133

rhen she

forward,
ancls.
either of
hout lift-

went, to
there. It
r. I went
vay as a
iought for
t as porter
.ttered it?
e ? I only
starvation
it night,
if anything,
had passed
Yet above
edominant,
land nights
i my soul
f two teni-
• ceased to
-ied alive!'
, under an
porter, aiul
le yet ; but
he name of
s who were
rning paper
Ivertisemeiit
apers in all
linformation

emed to me
lying to get
Is reflection
Then the
Ithe family'
]l concluded
was trying

" I went to Toronto, and found that
you had gone to New York. I had saved
much of my wages, and was able to come
here. I expected Langhetti, but found
you."

" Why did you not think that it might
be me ? "

" Because I heard a threat of Potts
about you, and took it for granted that
he would succeed in carrying it out."

" What was the threat ? "

"He found out somehow that my
father had written a letter to you. I sup-
pose they told him so at the village post-
olifice. One day when he was in the
room he said, with a laugh, alluding to
the letter, ' I'll uncork that young Brandy-
flask before long.' "

"Well— the notice of my death ap-
peared in the English papers."

Frank looked earnestly at him.

" And I accept it, and go under an
assumed name."

" So do I. It is better."

"You thought Langhetti alive. Do
you think he is ? "

" I do not think so now."

"Why not?"

"The efforts which he made were
enough to kill any man without the
plague. He must have died."

After hearing Frank's story Louis gave
a full account of his own adventures,
omitting, however, all mention of Beatrice,
That was something for his own heart.
and not for another's ear.

" Have you the letter and MS.? "

"Yes."

" Let me read them."

Louis took the treasures and Iianded
them to Frank. He read them in
silence.

" Is Cato with you yet ? "

"Yes."

" It is well."

" And now, Frank," said Louis, " you
have something at last to live for."

" What is that ? "

" Vengeance ! " cried Louis with burn-
ing eyes.

" Vengeance ! " repeated Frank, with-
out emotion—" Vengeance ! What is
that to me ? Do you hope to give peace
to your own heart by inflicting suffering
on our enemies? What can they possi-
bly suffer that can atone for what they
have inflicted ? All that they can feel is
as nothing compared with what we have
felt. Vengeance ! " he repeated mus-
ingly ; "and what sort of vengeance?
Would you kill them ? What would that
effect ? Would he be more miserable than
he is ? Or would you feel any greater
happiness ? Or do you mean something
more far-reaching than death ? "

" Death," said Louis, " is nothing for
such crimes as his."

" You want to inflict suffering, then,
and you ask me. Well, after all, do I
want him to suffer ? Do I care for this
man's sufferings ? What are they or
what can they be to me ? He stands on
his own plane, far beneath me ; he is a
coarse animal, who can, perhaps, suffer
from nothing but physical pain. Should
I inflict that on him, what good would it
be to me ? And yet there is none other
that I can inflict."

" Langhetti must have transformed
you," said Louis, " with his spiritual
ideas."

" Langhetti ; or perhaps the fact that I
three times gazed upon the face of death
and stood upon the threshold of that
place where dwells the Infinite Mystery.
So when you speak of mere vengeance
my heart does not respond. But there
is still something which may make a pur-
pose as strong as vengeance."
I " Name it."

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134

CORD AND CREESE

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" The sense of intolerable wrong ! "
cried Frank, in vehement tones; "the
presence of that foul pair in the home of
our ancestors, our own exile, and all the
sufferings of the past ! Do you think
that I can endure this ? "

" No — you must have vengeance."

" No ; not vengeance."

" What then ? "

" Justice ! " cried Frank, starting to his
feet. " Justice — strict, stern, merciless ;
and that justice means to me all that you
mean by vengeance. Let us make war
against him from this time forth while life
lasts ; let us cast him out and get back
our own ; let us put him into the power
of the law, and let that take satisfaction
on him for his crimes ; let us cast him
out and fling him from us to that power
which can fittingly condemn. I despise
him, and despise his sufferings. His
agony will give me no gratification. The
anguish that a base nature can suffer is
only disgusting to me — he suffers only
out of his baseness. To me, and with a
thing like that, vengeance is impossible,
and justice is enough."

" At any rate you will have a purpose,
and your purpose points to the same
result as mine."

" But how is this possible ? " said Frank.

It is desperate~it
but we are botli

" He is strong and we are weak. What
can we do ? "

" We can try," said Louis. " You are
ready to undertake anything. You do
not value your life. There is one thing
which is before us.
is almost hopeless ;
ready to try it."

" What is that ? "

"The message from the dead," said
Louis, spreading before Frank that letter
from the treasure ship which he had so
often read.

" And are you going to try this ? "

" Yes."

" How ? "

" I don't know. I must first find out
the resources of science."

" Have you Cato yet ? "

"Yes."

" Can he dive ? "

" He was brought up on the Malabar
coast, among the pearl fishers, and can
remain under water for an incrediljle
space of time. But I hope to find means
which will enable me myself to go
down under the ocean depths. This
will be our object now. If it suc-
ceeds, then we can gain our purpose;
if not, we must think of something
else."

CHAPTER XXI

THE DIVING BUSINESS

In a little street that runs from Broad-
way, not far from Wall Sueet, there was
a low doorway with dingy panes of glass,
over which was a sign which bore the
following letters, somewhat faded :

BROCKET & CO.,
CONTRACTORS.

About a month after his arrival at New
York Brandon entered this place and
walked up to the desk, where a stout,
thick-set man was sitting, with his chin
on his hands and his elbows on the desk
before him.

" Mr. Brocket ? " said Brandon enquir-
ingly.

THE DIVING BUSINESS

135

k. What

" You are
You do

one thing

iperate — it

are both

lead," said
: that letter
I he had so

this?"

rst find out

the Mala1)ar
ers, and can
1 incredible
find means
lyself to go
epths. This
If it suc-
ur purpose;
something

Irrival at New

Is place and

lere a stout,

nth his cliin

on the desk

Indon enquir-

" Yes, sir," answered the other, descend-
ing from his stool and stepping forward
toward Hrandon, beliind a low table which
stood by the desk.

" I am told that you undertake con-
tracts fur raising sunken vessels?"

" We are in that line oi business."

" You have to make use of diving ap-
paratus ? "

" Yes."

" I understand that you have gone into
this business to a larger extent than any-
one in America?"

"Yes, sir," said Brocket modestly,
"I think we do the leading business in
that line."

"I will tell you frankly my object in
calling upon you. I have just come from
the East Indies for the purpose of organ-
izing a systematic plan for the pearl fish-
eries. You are aware that out there they
still cling to the old fashion of diving,
which was begun three thousand years
ago. I wish to see if I cannot bring
science tobear upon it, so as to ra'se the
pearl-oysters in larger quantities."

" That's a good idea of yours," re-
marked Mr. Brocket thoughtfully.

" I came to you to see if you could
inform me whether it would be practi-
cable or not."

" Perfectly so," said Brocket.

" Do you work with the diving bell in
your business or with armor ? "

''With both. We use the diving-bell
for stationary purposes ; but when it is
necessary to move about we employ
armor."

" Is the armor adapted to give a man

any freedom of movement ? "

" The armor is far better than the bell.

The armor is so perfect now that a

practiced hand can move about under

water with a freedom that is surprising.

My men go down to examine sunken
10

ships. They go in and out and all
through them. Sometimes this is the
most protitable part of our business."

"Why so?"

'* Why, because there is often money
or valuable articles on board, and tliese
always are ours. See," said Brocket,
opening a drawer and taking out some sil-
ver coin, " here is some money that we
found in an old Dutch vessel that was
sunk up the Hudson a hundred years
ago. Our men walked about the bed
of the river till they found her, and in
her cabin they obtained a sum of money
that would surprise you — all old coin."

" An old Dutch vessel ! Do you often
find vessels that have been sunk so long
ago?"

" Not often. But we are always on the
lookout for them," said Brocket, who had
now grown quite communicative. " You
see, those old ships always carried ready
cash— they didn't use banknotes and
bills of exchange. So if you can only find
one you're sure of money."

" Then this would be a good thing to
bear in mind in our pearl enterprises?"

" Of course. I should think that out
there some reefs must be full of sunken
ships. They've been sinking about those
coasts ever since the first ship was
built."

" How far down can a diver go in
armor ? "

" Oh, any reasonable depth, when the
pressure of the water is not too great.
Some pain in the ears is felt at first from
the compressed air, but that is temporary.
Men can easily go down as far as fifteen
or sixteen fathoms."

" How long can they stay down ? "

" In the bells, you know, they go down
and are pulled up only in the middle
of the day and at evening, when their
work is done."

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" How with the men in armor ? "
" Oh, they can stand it ahnost as well.
They come up oftener, though. There
is one advantage in the armor : a man
can fling off his weight and come up
whenever he likes."
" Have you ever been down yourself ? "
" Oh, yes— oftener than any of my men.
I'm the oldest diver in the country, I
think. But I don't go down often now.
It's hard work, and I'm getting old."
*' Is it much harder than othervvork.? "
" Well, you see, it's unnatural sort of
work, and is hard on the lungs. Still, I
always was healthy. The real reason
why I stopped was a circumstance that
happened two years ago."
" What was that ? "
Brocket drew a long breath, looked
for a moment meditatively at the floor,
and then went on :

" Well, there happened to be a wreck
of a steamer called the Saladin down off
the North Carolina coast, and I thought
I would try her as a speculation, for I
supposed that there might be consider-
able money on hoard one way or another.
It was a very b.igular affair. Only two
men had escaped ; it was so sudden.
They said the vessel struck a rock at
night when the water was perfectly still,
and went down in a few minutes, before
the passengers could even be awakened.
It may seem horrid to you, but you must
know that a ship-load of passengers is
very profitable, for they all carry money.
Besides, there are their trunks, and the
clerk's desk, and so on. So, this time,
I went down myself. The ship lay on
one side of the rock which had pierced
her, having floated off just before sink-
ing ; and I had no difficulty in getting on
board. After walking about the deck I
went at once into the saloon. Sir," said
Brocket, with an awful look at Brandon,

" if I should live for a hundred years I
should never forget the sight that I saw.
A hundred passengers or more had been
on board, and most of them had rushed
out of their state-rooms as the vessel
began to sink. Very many of them
lay on the floor, a frightful multitude of
dead."

" But there were others," continued
Brocket, in a lower tone, *' who had
clutched at pieces of furniture, at the
doors, and at the chairs, and many of
these had held on with such a rigid
clutch that death itself had not unlocked
it. Some were still upright, with dis-
torted features, and staring eyes, cling-
ing, with frantic faces, to the nearest
object that they had seen Several of
them stood around the table. The most
frightful thing was this : that they were
all staring at the door.

*' But the worst one of all was a corpse
that was on the saloon table. Tlie
wretch had leaped there in his first mad
impulse, and his hands had clutched a
brass bar that ran across. He was facing
the door; his hands were still clinging,
his eyes glared at me, his jaw had fallen.
The hideous face seemed grimacing at
and threatening me. As I entered the
water was disturbed by my motion. An
undulation, set in movement by my
entrance, passed through the length of the
saloon. All the corpses swayed for a
moment. I stopped in horror. Scarcely
had I stopped when the corpses, agitated
by the motion of the water and swaying,
lost their hold ; their fingers slipped, and
they fell forward simultaneously. Above
all, that hideous figure on the table, as its
fingers were loosened, in falling forward,
seemed to take steps, with his demon
face still staring at me. My blood ran
cold. It seemed to me as though these
devils were all rushing at me, led on by

THE DIVING BUSINESS

137

d years 1
hat I saw.

had been
lad rushed
the vessel

of tliem
ultitude of

continued
' who had
ire, at the
\ many of
ch a rigid
it unlocked
with dis-
eyes, cling-
Lhe nearest

Several of

The most

t they were

^as a corpse
able. The
is first mad
clutched a
e was facing
;ill clinging,
/ had fallen,
rimacing at
entered the
notion. An
nt by my
ength of the
rayed for a
Scarcely
ses, agitated
nd swaying,
slipped, and
sly. Above
table, as its
ng forward,
his demon
y blood ran
hough these
e, led on by

that fiend on the table. For the first
time in my life, sir, I felt fear under the
the sea. I started back, and rushed out
quaking as though all hell was behind me.
When I got up to the surface I could not
speak. 1 instantly left the Sa/adm, came
home with my men, and have never been
down myself since."

A long conversation followed about
the general condition of sunken ships.
Brocket had no fear of rivals in business,
and as his interlocutor did not pretend to
be one he was exceedingly communica-
tive. He described to him the exact
depth to which a diver in armor might
safely go, the longest time that he could
safely remain under water, the rate of
travel in walking along a smooth bottom,
and the distance which one could walk.
He told him how to go on board of a
wrecked ship with the least risk or diffi-
culty, and the best mode by which to
secure any valuables which he might
find. At last he became so exceedingly
friendly that Brandon asked him if he
would be willing to give personal instruc-
tions to himself, hinting that money was no
object, and that any price would be paid.

At this Brocket laughed. " My dear
sir, you take my fancy, for I think I see
in you a man of the right sort. I should
be very glad to show anyone like you
how to go to work. Don't mention
money ; I have actually got more now
than I know what to do with, and I'm
thinking of founding an asylum for the
poor. I'll sell you any number of suits
of armor, if you want them, merely in
the way of business ; but if I give you
instructions it will be merely because
I like to oblige a man like you."

Brandon of course expressed all the grati-
tude that so generous an offer could excite.

" But there's no use trying just yet ;
wait till the month of May, and then you

can begin. You have nerve, and I have
no doubt that you'll learn fast."

After this interview Brandon had
many others. To give credibility to
his pretended plan for the pearl fisiiers,
he bought a dozen suits of diving armor
and various articles which Brocket as-
sured him that he would need. He also
brought Cato with him one day, and the
Hindu described the plan which the
pearl divers pursued on the Malabar
coast. According to Cato each diver
had a stone which weighed about thirty
pounds tied to his foot, and a sponge
filled with oil fastened around his neck.
On plunging into the water, the weight
carried him down. When the diver
reached the bottom the oiled sponge was
used from time to time to enable him to
breathe by inhaling the air through the
sponge applied to his mouth. All this
was new to Brocket. It excited his ardor.

The month of May at last came.
Brocket showed them a place in the
Hudson, about twenty miles above the
city, where they could practice. Under
his direction Brandon put on the armor
and went down. Frank v^orked the
pumps which supplied him with air, and
Cato managed the boat. The two Bran-
dons learned their parts vapidly, and
Louis, who had the hardest task, im-
proved so quickly, and caught the idea
of the work so readily, that Brocket en-
thusiastically assured him that he was a
natural-born diver.

All this time Brandon was quietly mak-
ing arrangements for a voyage. He
gradually obtained everything which
might by any possibility be required, and
which he found out by long deliberations
with Frank and by hints which he gained
by well-managed questions to Brocket.

Thus the months of May and June passed
until at length they were ready to start.

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CHAPTER XXII

THE ISLET OF SANTA CRUZ

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It was July when Brandon left New
York for San Salvador.

He had purchased a beautiful little
schooner, which he had fitted up like a
gentleman's yacht, and stored with all
the articles which might be needed. In
cruising about the Bahama Isles he
intended to let it be supposed that he
was travelling for pleasure. True, the
month of July was not the time of the
year which pleasure-seekers would choose
for sailing in the West Indies, but of this
he did not take much thought.

The way to the Bahama Isles was
easy. They stopped for a while at
Nassau, and then went to San Salvador.

The first part of the New World which
Columbus discovered is now but seldom
visited, and few inhabitants are found
there. Only six hundred people dwell
upon it, and these have in general but
little intelligence. On reaching this
place Brandon sailed to the harbor
which Columbus entered, and made
many enquiries about that immortal land-
ing. Traditions still survived among the
people, and all were glad to show the
rich Englishman the lions of the place.

He was thus enabled to make enquiries,
without exciting suspicion, about the
islands lying to the north. He was in-
formed that about four leagues north
there was an island named Guahi, and as
there was no island known in that direc-
tion named Santa Cruz, Brandon thought
that this might be the one. He asked if
there were any small islets or sand-banks

near there, but no one could tell him.
Having gained all the information that
he could, he pursued his voyage.

In that hot season there was but little
wind. The seas were visited by profound
calms which continued long and rendered
navigation slow and tedious. Sometimes,
to prevent themselves from being swept
away by the currents, they had to cast
anchor. At other times they were forced
to keep in ciose by the shore. They
waited till the night came on, and then,
putting out the sweeps, they rowed the
yacht slowly along.

It was the middle of July before they
reached the island of Guahi, which Bran-
don thought might be Santa Cruz. If
so, then one league due north of this
there ought to be the islet of the Three
Needles. Upon the discovery of that
would depend their fate.

It was evening when they reached the
southern shore of Guahi. Now was the
time when all the future depended upon
the fact of the existence of an islet to the
north. That night on the south shore
was passed in deep anxiety. They rowed
the vessel on with their sweeps, but the
island was too large to be passed in one
night. Morning came, and still they
rowed.

The morning passed, and the hot sun
burned down upon them, yet they still
toiled on, seeking to pass beyond a point
which lay ahead, so as to see the open
water to the north. Gradually they
neared it, and the sea-vievv in fioiu

<38

THE ISLKT or SANTA CRUZ

•39

opened up more and more widely. There
was nothing but water. More and more
of the view exposed itself, until at last
the whole horizon was visible. Vet there
was no land the.e — no island— no sign of
those three rocxs which they longed so
much to find.

A li^jht wind arose which enabled
tlicm to sail over all the space that lay
one league to the north. They sounded
as they v;ent, but found only deep
water. They looked all around, but
found not so much as the smallest
point of land above the surface of the
ocean.

That evening they cast anchor and
went ashore at the island of Guahi, to see
if anyone knew of other islands among
which might be found one named Santa
Cruz. Their disappointment was pro-
found. Brandon for a while thought
that perhaps some other San Salvador
was meant in the letter. This very idea
had occurred to him before, and he had
made himself acquainted with all the
places of that name that existed. None
of them seemed, however, to answer the
requirements of the writing. Some must
have gained the name since : others were
so situated that no island could be men-
tioned as lying to the north. On the
whole, it seemed to him that this San
Salvador of Columbus could alone be
meant. It was alluded to as a well
known place, of which particular descrip-
tion was unnecessary, and no other place
at that day had this character except the
one on which he had decided.

One hope yet remained, a faint one,
but still a hope, and this might yet be
realized. It was that Guahi was not
Santa Cruz ; but that some other island
lay about here, which might be considered
as north from San Salvador. This could
be ascertained here in Guahi better per-

haps than anywhere else. With this
faint hope he landed.

Guahi is only a small island, and there
are but few inliabitants upon it, who sup-
port themselves partly by tlshing. In
this delightful climate their wants arc not
numerous, and the rich soil produces
almost anything which they desire. The
fish about here are not plentiful, and
what they catch have to be sought for at
a long distance off.

" Are there any other islands near
this ? " asked Brandon of some people
whom he met on landing.

" Not very near."

" Which is the nearest ? "

" San Salvador."

" Are there any others in or about this
latitude?"

" Well, there is a small one about
twelve leagues east. There are no
people on it though."

" What is its name ? "

" Santa Cruz."

Brandon's heart beat fast at the sound
of that name. It must be so. It must
be the island which he sought. It lay to
the north of San Salvador, and its name
was Santa Cruz.

*' Is it not down on the charts? "

'* No. It is only a small islet."

Another confirmation, for the message
said plainly an islet, whereas Guahi was
an island.

" How large is it ? "

" Oh, perhaps a mile and a half long."

" Is there any other island near it ? "

"I don't enow."

" Have you ever been there ? "

" No."

Plainly no further information could he
gathered here. It was enough to have
hope strengthened and an additional
chance for success. Brandon obtained
as near as possible the exact direction of

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Santa Cruz, and, going hack to the
yacht, took advantage of the hght l)ieeze
whicl) still was hlowing and set sail.

Night came on very dark, but the
breeze still continued to send its light
breath, and before this the vessel gently
glided on. Not a thing could be seen in
that intense darkness. Toward morn-
ing Louis Brandon, who had remained
up all night in his deep anxiety, tried to
pierce through the gloom as he strained
his eyes, and seemed as though he would
force the darkness to reveal that which
he sought. But the darkness gave no
token.

Not Columbus himself, when looking
out over these waters, gazed with greater
eagerness, nor did his heart beat with
greater anxiety of suspense, than that
which Brandon felt as his vessel glided
slowly through the dark waters, the same
over which Columbus had passed, and
moved amid the impenetrable gloom.
But the long night of suspense glided by
at last ; the darkness faded, and the
dawn came.

Brandon, on waking about sunrise,
came up and saw his brother looking with
fixed intensity of gaze at something di-
rectly in front. He turned to see what it
might be.

An island covered with palm-trees lay
there. Its extent was small, but it was
filled with the rich verdure of the tropics.
The gentle breeze ruffled the watel-s, but
did not altogether efface the reflection of
that beautiful islet.

Louis pointed toward the northeast.

Frank looked.

It seemed to be about two miles away.
It was a low sand island about a quarter
of a mile long. From its surface pro-
jected three rocks thin and sharp. They
were at unequal distances from each
other, and in the middle of the islet. The

tallest one might have been about twelve
feet in height, the others eight and ten
feet respectively.

Louis and Frank exchanged one lon^
look, but said not a word. That look
was an eloquent one.

This then was unmistakably the place
of their search.

The islet with the three rocks like
needles lying north of Santa Cruz. One
league due north of this was the spot
where now rested all their hopes.

The island of Santa Cruz was, as had
been told them, not more than a mile aiul
a half in length; the sand island with the
needles lay about two miles north of it.
On the side of Santa Cruz which lay
nearest to them was a small cove just
large enough for the yacht. Here, after
some delay, they were able to enter and
land.

The tall trees that covered the island
rose over beautiful glades and grassy
slopes. Too small and too remote to
give support to any number of inhabit-
ants, it had never been touched by the
hand of man, but stood before them in
all that pristine beauty with which nature
had first endowed it. It reminded Bran-
don in some degree of that African island
where he had passed some time with
Beatrice. The recollection of this
brought over him an intolerable melan-
choly, and made the very beauty of this
island painful to him. Yet hope was
now strong within his heart, and as he
traversed its extent his eye wandered
about in search of places where he might
be able to conceal the treasure that lay
under the sea, if he were able to recover
it from its present place. The island
afforded many spots which were well
adapted to such a purpose.

In the centre of the island a rock jutted
up, which was bald and flat on its summit.

THE OCEAN DEPTHS

t4t

On the western sule it showed a precipice | horhood it would not do even to make a

of some forty or fifty feet in height, antl
on the eastern side it descended to the
water in a steep slope. The tall trees
which grew all around shrouded it from
the view of those at sea, but allowed the
sea to be visible on every side. Climbing
to this place, they saw something which
sliowcd them that they could not hope
to carry on any operations for that
(lay.

On the other side of the island, about
ten miles from the shore, there lay a large
brig becalmed. It looked like one of
those vessels that are in the trade between
the United States and the West Indies.
As long as that vessel was in the neigh-

Ixginning. nor did Hiandon caic about
letting his yacht be seen. Whatever he
did he wished to do secretly.

The brig continued in sight all day,
and they remained on the island. Toward
evening they took the small boat and
rowed out to the sand-bank which they
called Needle Islet. It was merely a low
spit of sand, with these three singularly
shaped rocks projecting upward. There
was nothmg else whatever to be seen
upon it. The moon came up as they
stood there, and their eyes wandered
involuntarily to the north, to that place,
a league away, where the treasure lay
beneath the waters.

;?»/**■

CHAPTER XXIII

THE OCEAN DEPTHS

; »"••«••

The next morning dawned and Bran-
don hurried to the rock and looked
around. During the night a slight wind
had sprung up, and was still gently
breathing. Far over the wide sea there
was not a sail to be seen. The brig had
passed away. They were finally left to
themselves.

Now at last the time of trial had come.
They were eager to make the attempt,
and soon the yacht was unmoored, and
moved slowly out to sea in the direction
of Needle Island. A light breeze still
blew fitfully, but promised at any mo-
ment to stop ; yet while it lasted they
passed onward under its gentle impulse,
and so gradually reached Needle Island,
and went on into the sea beyond.

Before they had come to the spot
which they wished to attain the breeze

had died out, and they were compelled
to take to the oars. Although early in
the morning the sun was burning hot,
the work was laborious, and the progress
was slow. Yet not a murmur was heard,
nor did a single thought of fatigue enter
the minds of any of them. One idea
only was present — one so overwhelming
that all lesser thoughts and all ordinary
feelings were completely obliterated.
After two hours of steady labor they at
last reached a place which seemed to
them to be exactly one league due north
of Needle Islet. Looking back they saw
that the rocks on the island seemed from
this distance close, together, and thinner
and sharper, so that they actually bore a
greater resemblance to needles from this
point than to anything else.
Here they sounded. The water was

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Pfteen fathoms deep — not so great a
depth as they had feared. Ti^en they
put down the anchor, for altliou^jh there
was no wind, yet the yacht might be
caught in some rurre.it, and drift gradu-
ally away from the iigiit position.

The small boat had all this time been
floating astern with the pumping appara-
tus in it, so that the adventurous diver
might readily be accomoanied in his
search and his wanderings at the bottom
of the sea.

But there was the prospect that this
search would be long and arduous, and
Brandon was not willing to exhaust him-
self too soon. He had already resolved
that the first exploration should be made
by Asgeelo. The Hindu had followed
Brandon in all his wanderings wilh that
silent submission and perfect devotion
which are more common among Hindus
than any other people. He had the air
of one who was satisfied with obeying
his master, and did not ask the end of any
commands which might be given. He
v.'2s :iware that they were about to explore
the ocean depths, but showed no curiosity
about the object cf their search. It was
Brandon's purpose to send him down first
at different points, so that he might see if
there was anything there which locked
like what they sought.

Asgeelo — cr Cato, as Brandon com-
monly called him — had made those simjile
preparations which are common among
his class — the apparatus which the pearl-
divers have used ever since pearl-diving
first commenced. Twelve or fifteen
stones were in the boat, a flask of oil, and
a sponge which was fastened around his
neck. These were all that he required.
Each stone weighed about thirty pounds.
One of these he tied around one foot ; he
saturated the sponge with oil, so as to
use it to inhale air beneath the water ;

and then, standing on the edge of the
boat and flinging his arms straight up
over his head, he leaped into the water
and went down feet foremost.

Over the smooth water the ripples
flowed from the spot where Asgeelo had
disappeared, extending in successive con-
centric circles, and radiating in long un-
dulations far and wide. Louis and Frank
waited in deep suspense. Asgeelo re-
mained long beneath the water, but to
them the time seemed frightijl in its
duration. Profound anxiety began to
mingle v/ith the suspense, for fear lest
the faithful servant in his devotion had
overrated his powers — lest the disuse of
his early practice had weakened his
skill — lest the weight bound to his foot
had dragged him down and kept him
there forever.

At last, when the susr cnse had become
intolerable and the two had already begun
to exchange glances almost of despair, a
plash was heard, and Asgeelo emerged
far to the right. He struck out strongly
toward the boat, which was at once
rowed toward him. In a few minutes he
was taken in. He diu not appear to be
much exhausted.

He had seen nothing.

They then rowed about a hundred
yards further, and Asgeelo prepared to
descend once more. He squeezed tlie
oil out of the sponge and renewed it
again. But this time he took a knife in
his hand.

" What is that for? " asked Frank and
Louis.

" Sharks ! " answered Cato, in a terri-
ble tone.

At this Louis and Frank exchanj,red
glances. Cculd they let this devoted
servant thus tempt so terrible a death ?

" Did ycu see any sharks ? " asked
Louis.

THE OCEAN DEPTHS

143

" No, Sahib."

" Why do you fear them, then ? "

" I don't fear them. Sahib."

"Why do you take this knife ? "

" One may come, Sahib."

After some hesitation Asgeelo was
allowed to go. As before he plunged
into the water, and remained underneath
quite as lonj- ; but now they had become
familiarized with his powers and the
suspense was not so dreadful. At the
expiration of the usual time he reappeared,
and on being taken into the boat he again
announced that he had seen nothing.

They now rowed a hundred yards
farther on ij; the same direction, toward
the east, and Asgeelo made another
descent. He came back with the same
result.

It began to grow discouraging, but
Asgeelo was not yet fatigued, and they
tiierefore determined to let him work as
long as he was able. He went down
seven times more. They still kept the
boat on toward the east till the line of
" needles " on the sand island had
become thrown farther apart and stood
at long distances. Asgeelo came up each
time unsuccessful.

He at last went down for the eleventh
time. They were talking as usual, not
expecting that he would reappear for
some minutes, when suddenly a shout
was heard, and Asgeelo's head emerged
from the water not more than twenty
yards from the boat. He was swimming
with one hand, and in the other he held
an uplifted knife, which he occasionally
brandished in the air and splashed in the
water.

Immediately the cause of this became

manifest. Just behind him a sharp black

tin appeared cutting the surface of the

water.

It was a shark! But the monster, a

coward like all his tribe, deterred by the
plashing of the water made by Asgeelo,
circled round him and hesitated to seize
his prey.

The moment was frightful. Yet
Asgeelo appeared not in the least
alarmed. He swam slowly, occasion-
ally turning his head and watching the
monster, seeming by his easy dexterity to
be almost as much in his imtive element
as his pursuer, keeping his eyes fixed on
him and holding his knife in a firm clasp.
The knife was a long, keen blade, which
Asgeelo had c I'^ried with him for years.

Louis and Frank could do nothing.
A pistol ball could not reach this mon-
ster, who kept himself untier the water,
where a ball would be spent before strik-
ing him if indeed any aim could direct a
bullet toward that swift darting figure.
They had nothing to do but to look on
in an agony of horror.

Asgeelo, compelled to watch, to guard,
to splash the water, and to turn fre-
quently, made but a slow passage over
those twenty yards which separated him
from the boat. At last it seemed as if
he chose to sIrv there. It seemed to
those who watched him with such awful
horror that he might have escaped had
he chosen, but that he had some idea
of voluntarily encounvC'ing the monster.
This became evident at kst, as the shark
pcvssed before him, wh^n they saw
Asgeelo's face turned to t^ard it ; a face
full of fierce hate and ve igeance ; a face
such as one turns toward some mortal
enemy.

He made a quick, fierce stroke with his
long knife. The shark gave a leap up-
ward. The water was tinged with blood.
The next moment Asgeelo went down.

" What now ? " was the thought of the

brothers. Had he been dragged down ?

1 Impossible ! And yet it seemed equally

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impossible that he could have gone down
of his own accord.

In a moment their suspense was ended.
A white flash appeared near the surface.
The next instant a dark sinewy arm
emerged from beneath, armed with a long,
keen knife, which seemed to tear down
with one tremendous stroke that white,
shining surface.

It was Asgeelo's head that emerged in
a sea of blood and foam. Triumph was
in his dark face, as with one hand he
waved his knife exultantly.

A few moments afterward the form of a
gigantic shi rk floated upward to the sur-
face, dyeing fhe sea with the blood which
had issued from the stroke dealt by
Asgeelo. Not yet, however, was the
vindictive fury of the Hindu satiated.
He swam up to it. He dashed his knife
over and over the white belly till it be-
came a hideous mass of gaping entrails.
Then he came into the boat.

He sat down, a hideous figure. Blood
covered his tawny face, and the fury of
his rage had not left the features.

The strength which this man had
shown was tremendous, yet his quickness
and agility, even in the water, had been
commensurate with his strength. Bran-
don had once seen proofs of his courage
in the dead bodies of the Maiay pirates
which lay around him in the cabin of
that ill-fated Chinese ship ; but all that
he had done then was not tci be compared
to this.

They could not help asking him why
he had not at once made his escape to
the boat, instead of staying to fight the
monster.

Asgeelo's look was as gloomy as death
as he replied :

" They tore in pieces my son. Sahib —
my only son — when he first went down,
and I have to avenge him. I killed a

hundred on the Malabar coast before I
left it forever. That shark did not attack
me ; I attacked him."

" If you saw one now would you attack
him ? "

" Yes, Sahib."

Brandon expressed some apprehension,
and wished him not to risk his life.

But Asgeelo explained that a shark
could be successfully encountered by a
skilful swimmer. The shark is long,
and has to move about in a circle which
is comparatively large; he is also a
coward, and a good swimmer can strike
him if he only chooses. He again re-
peated triumphantly that he had killed
more than a hundred to avenge his
son.

In his last venture Asgeelo had been
no more successful than before. Needle
Island was now to the southwest, and
Brandon thought that their only chance
was to try farther over toward the west,
where they had not yet explored.

They rowed at once back to the point
from which they had set out, and then
went on about a hundred and fiftj- yards
to the west. From this place, as they
looked toward the islet, the three rocks
seemed so close together that they
appeared blended, and the three sharp,
needlelike points appeared to issue from
one common base. This circumstance
had an encouraging effect, for it seemed
to the brothers as though their ancestor
might have looked upon those rocks from
this point of view rather than from any
other which had as yet come upon the
field of their observation.

This time Brandon himself resolved to
go down ; partly because he though that
Asgeelo had worked long enough, and
ought not to be exhausted on that first
day, and partly on account of an 'ntolcr-
able impatience, and an eagerness to see

THE OCEAN DEPTHS

for himself rather than entrust it to
others.

There was the horror of the shark,
which might have deterred any other
man. It was a danger which he had
never taken into account. But the re-
solve of his soul was stronger than any
fear, and he determined to face even this
danger. If he lost his life, he was indif-
ferent. Let it go ! Life was not so
precious to him as to some others.
Fearless by nature, he was ordinarily
ready to run risks ; but now the thing
that drew him onward was so vast in its
importance that he was willing to en-
counter peril of any kind.

Frank was aware of the full extent of
this new danger, but he said nothing,
nor did he attempt in any way to dis-
suade his brother. He himself, had he
been able, would have gone down in his
place ; but as he was not able, he did
not suppose that his brother would
hesitate. '

The apparatus was in the boat. The
pumping-machine was in the stern ; and
this, with the various signal-ropes, was
managed by Frank. Asgeelo rowed.
These arrangemerits had long since been
made, and they had practised in this
way on the Hudson River.

Silently Brandon put on his diving
armor. The ropes and tubes were all
carefully arranged. The usual weight
was attached to his bell, and he was
slowly lowered down to the bottom of
the sea.

The bottom of the ocean was coMposed
of a smooth, even surface of fine sand
and eravel, along which Brandon moved
witl'out difficulty. The cumbrous armor
of the diver, which on land is so heavy,
beneath the water loses its excessive
weight, and by steadying the wearer
assists him to walk. The water was

marvellously transparent, as is usually the
case in the southern seas, and through
the glass plate in his helmet Brandon
could look forward to a greater distance
than was possible in the Hudson.

Overhead he could see the bottom of
the boat, as it floated and moved on in
the direction which he wished ; signals,
which were communicated by a rope
which he held in his hand, told them
whether to go forward or backward, to
the right or to the left, or to stop alto-
gether. Practice had enabled him to
command, and them to obey, with ease.

Down in the depths to which he had
descended the water was always still, and
the storms that affected the surface never
penetrated there. Brandon learned this
from the delicate shells and the still more
delicate forms of marine plants which
lay at his feet, so fragile in their struc-
ture, and so delicately poised in their
position, that they must have formed
themselves in deep, dead stillness and
absolute motionlessness of waters. The
v^ry movement which was caused by his
passage displaced them in all directions,
and cast them down everywhere in ruins.
Here, in such depths as these, if the
sounding lead is cast it brings up these
fragile shells, and shows to the observer
what profound calm must exist here, far
away beneath the ordinary vision of man.

Practice had enabled Brandon to move
with much ease. His breathing was
without difficulty. The first troubles
arising from breathing this confined air
had long since been surmounted. One
tube ran down from the boat, through
which the fresh air was pushed, and an-
other tube ran up a little d. nee,
through which the air passed and leti it
in myriad bubbles that ascended to the
surface.

He walked on, and soon came to a

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CORD AND CREESE

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place where things changed their appear-
ance. Hard sand was here, and on every
side there arose curiously shaped coral
structures, which resembled more than
anything else a leafless forest. These
coral treelike forms twisted their
branches in strange involutions, and in
some places formed a perfect barrier of
interlaced arms, so that he was forced to
make a detour in order to avoid them.
The chief fear here was that his tube
might get entangled among some of the
loftier straggling branches, and impede
or retard his progress. To avoid this
caused much delay.

Now, among the coral rocks, the vegeta-
tion of the lower sea !)egan to appear
of more vivid colors and of far greater
variety than any which he had ever seen.
Here were long plants which clung to
the coral-like ivy, seeming to be a species
of marine parasite, and as it grew it
throve more luxuriantly. Here were
some which threw out long arms, termi-
nating in vast, broad, palmlike leaves,
the arms intertwined among the coral
branches and the leaves hanging down-
ward. Here were long streamers of fine,
silklike strings, that were suspended
from many a projecting branch, and hil-
locks of spongy substance that looked
like moss. Here, too, were plants which
threw forth long ribbonlike leaves of
variegated color.

It was a forest under the sea, and it
grew denser at every step.

At last his progress in this direction
was terminated by a rock which came
from a southerly direction, like a spur
from the islands. It arose to a height of
about thirty feet overhead, and descended
gradually as it ran north. Brandon
turned aside, and walked by its base along
its entire extent.

At its termination there arose a long

vista, where the ground ascended and an
opening appeared through this marine
" forest." On each side the involuted
corals flung their twisted arms in more
curious and intricate folds. The vegeta-
tion was denser, more luxuriant, and moie
varied. Beneath him was a growth of
tender substance, hairy in texture, and
of a delicate green color, which looked
more like lawn grass of the upper world
than anything else in nature.

Brandon walked on, and even in the
intense desire of his soul to find what he
sought he felt himself overcome by the
sublime influence of this submarine world.
He seemed to have intruded into some
other sphere, planting his rash footsteps
where no foot of man had trodden before,
and using the resources of science to
violate the hallowed secrecy of awful na-
ture in her most hidden retreats. Here,
above all things, his soul was oppressed
by the universal silence around. Through
that thick helmet, indeed, no sound under
a clap of thunder could be heard, and
the ringing of his ears would of itself
have prevented consciousness of any other
noise, yet none the less was he aware of
the awful stillness ; it was silence that
could be felt. In the sublimity of that
lonely pathway he felt what Hercules is
imagined to have felt when passing to
the underworld after Cerberus,

Stupent ubi iindae segne torpescit fretum,

and half expected to hear some voice
from the dweller in this place :

" Quo pergis audax ? Siste proserentem gradutn."

There came to him only such dwellers
as belonged to the place. He saw them
as he moved along. He saw them dart-
ing out from the hidden penetralia around,
moving swiftly across and sometimes
darting in shoals before him. They

THE OCEAN DEPTHS

147

scit fretum,

r some voice

ntem gradum."

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began to appear in such vast numbers
that Brandon thought of that monster
which lay a mangled heap upon the sur-
face above, and fancied that perhaps his
kindred were here waiting to avenge his
death. As this fear came full and well
defined before him he drew from his belt
the knife which Asgeelo had given him,
and Frank had urged him to take, feeling
himself less helpless if he held this in his
hand.

The fishes moved about him, coming
on in new and more startled crowds,
some dashing past, others darting up-
ward, and others moving swiftly ahead.
One large one was there with a train of
followers, which moved up and floated
for a moment directly in front of him, its
large, staring eyes seeming to view him
in wonder, and solemnly working its gills.
But as Brandon came close it gave a
sudden turn and drrted off with all its
attendants.

At last, amid all these wonders, he
saw far ahead something which drove all
other thoughts away, whether of fear, or
of danger, or of horror, and filled all his
soul with an overmastering passion of
desire and hope.

It was a dark object, too remote as yet
to be distinctly visible, yet, as it rose
there, his fancy seemed to trace the out-
line of a ship, or what might once have
heen a ship. The presentation of his
hope before him thus, in what seemed
like a reality, was too much. He stood
still, and his heart beat with fierce
tlirobs.

The hope was so precious that for a
time he hesitated to advance, for fear lest
the hope might be dispelled forever.
And then to fail at this place, after so
long a search, when he seemed to have
reached the end, would be an intolerable
grief.

There, too, was that strange pathway
which seemed made on purpose. How
came it there ? He thought that perhaps
the object .lying before him might have
caused some current which set in there
and prevented the growth of plants in
that place. These and many other
thoughts came to him as he stood,
unwilling to move.

But at last he conquered his feelings,
and advanced. Hope grew strong
within him. He thought of the time cn
Coflfin Island when, in like manner, he
had hesitated before a like object.
Might not this, like that, turn out to be
a ship ? And now, by a strange revul-
sion, all his feelings urged him on ; hope
was strong, suspense unendurable.
Whatever that object was, he must
know.

It might indeed be a rock. He had
passed one shortly before, which had
gradually declined into the bottom of the
sea ; this might be a continuation of the
same, which after an interval had arisen
again from the bottom. It was long
and high at one end, and rounded for-
ward at the other. Such a shape was
perfectly natural for a rock. He tried to
crush down hope, so as to be prepared
for disappointment. He tried to con-
vince himself that it must be .t rock, and
could by no possibility be anything else.
Yet his efforts were totally fruitless.

Still the conviction remained that it
was a ship, and if so, it could be no
other than the one he sought.

As he went on all the marine vegeta-
tion ceased. The coral rocks continued
no further. Now all around the bottom
of the sea was flat, and covered with
fine gravel like that which he had
touched when he first came down. The
fishes had departed. The sense of
solemnity left him ; only one thing was

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148

CORD AND CREESE

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perceptible, and that was the object
toward which he walked.

And now he felt within him such an
uncontrollable impulse that even if he
had wished he could neither have
paused nor gone back. To go forward
was only possible. It seemed to him as
though some external influence had
penetrated his body, and forced him
to move. Again, as once before, he
recalled the last words of his father,
so well remembered :

" If in that other world to which I am
going the disembodied spirit can assist
man, then be sure, oh, my son, I will
assist you, and in the crisis of your fate
I will be near, if it is only to communicate
to your spirit what you ought to do "

It was Ralph Brandon who had said
this. Here in this object which lay
before him, if it were indeed the ship,
he imagined the spirit of another Ralph
Brandon present, awaiting him.

Suddenly a dark shadow passed over
his head, which forced him involuntarily
to look up. In spite of his excitement
a shudder passed through him. Far
overhead, at the surface of the sea, the
boat was floating. But half-way up
were three dark objects moving slowly
and lazily along. They were sharks.

To him, in his loneliness and weak-
ness, nothing ever seemed so menacing
as these three demons of the deep as he
stared up at them. Had they seen him ?
that was now his thought. He clutched
his knife in a firmer hold, feeling all the
while how utterly helpless he was, and
shrinking away into himself from the
terror above. The monsters moved
leisurely about, at one time grazing the
tube, and sending down a vibration which
thrilled like an electric shock through him.
For a moment he thought that they were
malignantly tormenting him, and had

done this on purpose in order to send
down to him a message of his fate.

He waited.

The time seemed endless. Yet at last
the end came. The sharks could not
have seen him, fi r they gradually moved
away until they were out of sight.

Brandon did not dare to advance for
some time. Y-i now, since the spell of
this presence was removed, his horror
left him, and his former hope animated
all his soul.

There lay that object before him.
Could he advance again after that warn-
ing? Dared he? This new realm into
which he had ventured had indeed those
who were ready and able to inflict a
sudden and frightful vengeance upon the
••ash intruder. He had passed safely
among the horrors of the coral forest ;
but here, on this plateau, could he hope to
be so safe? Might not the slightest
movement on his part create a disturb-
ance v>f water sufficient to awaken tlie
attention of those departed enemies and
bring them back?

This was his fear. But hope, and a
resolute will, and a determination to risk
all on this last hazard, alike impelled him
on. Danger now lay everywhere, above
as well as below. An advance was not
more perilous than an ascent to the boat,
Taking comfort from this last thought he
moved onward with a steady, determined
step.

Hope grew stronger as he drew nearer.
The dark juass gradually formed itself
into a more distinct outline. The uncer-
tain lines became defined into more cer-
tain shape, and a resemblance to a ship
became greater and greater. He could
no longer resist the conviction that this
must be a ship.

Still he tried feebly to prepare for dis-
appointment, and made faint fancies as to

THE OCEAN DEPTHS

149

:nemies and

the reason why a rock should be formed
licre in this shape. All the time he
scouted those fancies and felt assured
that it was not a rock.

Nearer and nearer. Doubt no longer
remained. He stood close beside it. It
was indeed a ship! Its sides rose higli
overhead. Its lofty stern stood up like a
tower, after the fashion of the ship of the
days of Queen Elizabeth. The masts had
fallen and lay, encumbered with the rig-
ging, over the side.

Brandon walked all around it, his heart
beating fast, seeing at every step some
new proof that this must be no other, by
any conceivable possibility, than the one
which he sought. On reaching the bows
he saw the outline of a bird carved for
the figurehead, and knew that this must
be the Phoenix.

He walked around. The bottom was
sandy, and the ship had settled down to
some depth. Her sides were covered
with fine dark shells, like an incrustation,
to a depth of an inch, mingled with a
short growth of a green, slimy sea-weed.

At last he could delay no longer. One
of the masts lay over the side, and this
afforded an easy way by which he could
clamber upward upon the deck.

In a few moments Brandon stood upon
the deck of the Phoenix,

The ship had thus lain here through
centuries, saturated with water that had
penetrated to its inmost fibre, still held
together sturdily. Beneath the sea the
water itself acted as a preservative, and
retarded or prevented decay. Brandon
looked around as he stood there, and the
light that came from above, where the
surface of the sea was now much nearer
than before, showed him all the extent
of the ship.

The beams which supported the deck
had lost their stiffness and sunk down-

ward ; the masts, as before stated, had
toppled over for the same reason, yielding
to their own Vvcight, which, as the vessel
was slightly on one side, had gradually
borne them down ; the bowsprit also had
faiien. The hatchways had yielded, and,
giving way, had sunk down within the
hold. The doors which led into the
cabin in the lofty poop were lying pros-
trate on the deck. The large skylight
which once had stood there had also fol-
lowed the same fate.

Before going down Brandon had
arranged a signal to send to Frank in
Ci se he found the ship. In his excitement
he had not yet given it. Before ventur-
ing further he thought of this. But he
decided not to give the signal. The
idea came, and was rejected amid a
world of varying hopes and fears. He
thought Ihat if he was successful he
himself would be the best messenger of
success; and, if not, he would be the
best messenger of evil.

He advanced towaid the cabin. Turn-
ing away from chi; door he clambered
upon the poop, and, looking down, tried
to see what Oepth there might be be-
neath. He saw something which looked
as though it had once been a table.
Slowly and cautiously he let himself
down through the opening, and his feet
touched bottom. He moved downward,
and let his feet slide till they touched the
floor.

He was within the cabin.

The light here was almost equal to
that without, for the skylight was very
wide. The floor was sunken in like the
fleck of the ship. He looked around to
see where he might 'irst search for the
treasure. Suddenly his eye caught sight
of something which drove away every
other thought.

At one end was a seat, and there.

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propped up a^^ainst the wall, was a skele-
ton in a sitting posture. Around it was a
belt with a sword attached. The figure
had partly twisted itself round, but its
head and shoulders were so propped up
against the wall that it could not fall.

Brandon advanced, filled with a thou-
sand emotions. One hand was lying
down in front. He lifted it. There was
a gold ring on the bony finger, tie took
it off. In the dim light he saw, cut in
bold relief on this seal-ring, the crest of
his family — a Phoenix.

It was his ancestor himself who was
bel'^'-e him.

Here he had calmly taken his scat when
the ship was settlin;; slowly down into
the embrace of the waters. Ileit he had
taken his scut, calmly and sternly, await-
ing his death — perhaps with a feeling of
grim triumph that he could thus elude
his foes. This was the man, and this the
hand which had written the message that
had drawn the descendant here.

Such were the thoughts that passed
through Brandon's mind. He put 'he
ring on his own finger and turned away.
His ancestor had summoned him hither,
and here he was. Where was the treas-
ure that was promised ?

Brandon's impatience now rose to a
fever. Only one thought filled his mind.
All aroimd the cabin were little rooms,
into each of which he looked. The doors
had all fallen away. Yet 'ie saw nothing
in any of them.

He stood for a moment in deep doubt.
Where could he look ? Could he venture
down into the dark hold and explore ?
How could he hope to find anyihing
there, amid the ruins of that interior
where guns and chains lay, perhaps all
mingled together v/here they had fallen ?
It would need a lonjjer time to find it
than he had at first supposed. Yet would

he falter? No ! Rather than give up he
would pass years here, till ne had dismcin
bered ♦ .e whole ship and strewn eviiy
particle of her piecemeal over the bottom
of the sea. Yet he had hoped to solve
the whole mystery at the first visit ; aiul
now, since he saw no sign of anything
like treasure, he was for a while at a loss
what to do.

His ancestor had summoned him, and
he had come. Where was the treasure?
Where ? Why could not that figuie
arise and show him ?

Such were his thoughts. Yet these
thoughts, the result of excitement that
was now a frenzy, soon gave rise to others
ihat v/ere calmer.

He reflected that perhaps some other
feeling than what he had at first imagined
might have inspired that grim old Eng-
lishman when he took his seat here and
chose to drown on that seat rather than
10V2 av/ay. Some other feeling, and
what feeling? Some feeling which must
have been the strongest in his heart.
What was that ? The one which liad
inspired the message, the desire to secure
still more that treasure for which he liad
toiled and fought. His last act was to
send the message; why should he not
have still borne that thought in his mind
and carried it till he died ?

The skeleton was at one end, supported
by the wall. Two posts projected on
each side. A heavy oaken chair stood
there, which had once perhaps been fas-
tened to the floor. Brandon thought that
he would first examir: that wall. Per-
haps the'-e m'ght be some opening 'iieie,

He took the skeleton in his arms
reverently, and proceeded to lift it from
the chair. Fe could r.ot. He lo( ked
more narrowly, and saw a cha'n which
had been fastened around it and bound it
to the chair.

THE OCEAN DEPTHS

151

What was the meaning of this ? Had
the crew mutinied, bound the captain,
ami run ? Had the Spaniards seized the
ship after all? H:u| they recovered the
.s|)oil, and punished in ihis way the
plunderer of three galleons, by binding
him here to the chair, scuttling the ship
and sending him down to the bottom of
the sea?

Tiie idea of the possibility of this made
Hrandon sick with anxiety. He pulled
the chair away, put it on one side, and
began to examine the wooden wall by
running his hand along it. There was
nothing whatever perceptible. The wall
was on the side farthest from the stern,
and almost amidships. He pounded it,
and, by the feeling, knew that it was
hollow behind. He walked to the door
which was on one side, and passed in
behind this very wall. There was nothing
there. It had once perhaps been used as
part of the cabin. He came back dis-
consolately, and stood on the very place
where the chair had been.

" Let me be calm," he said to himself.
" This enterprise is hopeless. Yes, the
Spaniards captured the ship, recovered
the treasure, and drowned my ancestor.
Let me not be deceived. Let me cast
away hope, and search here without any
idle expectation."

Suddenly, as he thought, he felt the
floor gradually giving way beneath him.
lie started, but before he could move or
even think in what direction to go the
floor sank in, and he at once sank with it
f'ownward.

Had it not been that the tube was
of ample extent, and had been carefully
managed so as to guard against any
abrupt descent among rocks atthebotton.
of the sea, this sudden fall might havv,
ended Brandon's career forever. As
it was he only sank quickly, but without

accident, until his breast was on a level
with the cabin floor.

In a moment the truth flashed upon
him. He had been standing on a trap-
door which opened from the cabin floor
into the hold of the ship. Over this
trap-door old Ralph Brandon had seated
and bound himself. Was it to guard the
treasure ? Was it that he might await
his descendant, and thus silently indicate
to him the place where he must look.''
I And now the fever of Brandon's con-
flicting hope and fear grew more intense
I than it had ever yet been through all
this day of days. He stooped down
to feel what it was that lay under his
! feet. His hands grasped something, the
I very touch of which sent a thrill sharp
! and sudden through every fibre of his
I being.

They %vere metallic bars !
He rose up again overcome. He
hardly dared to take one up so as to see
what it might be. For the actual sight
would realize hope or destroy it forever.
Once more he stooped down. In a
sort of fury he grasped a bar in each
hand and raised it up to the light.

Down under the sea the action of
water had not destroyed the color of
those bars which he held up in the dim
light that came through the waters. The
dull yellow of those rough ingots seemed
to gleam with dazzling brightness before
his bewildered eyes, and filled his whole
soul with a torrent of rapture and of
triumph.

His emotions overcame him. The bars
of gold fell down from his trembling
hands. He sank back and leaned against
the wall.

But what was it that lay under his feet ?
What were all these bars? Were they
all gold ? Was this indeed all here — the
plunder of the Spanish treasure ships —

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the wealth which might purchase a king-
dom—the treasure equal to an empire's
revenue — the gold and jewels in countless
store ?

A few moments of respite were needed
in order to overcome the tremendous
conflict of feeling which raged within his
breast. Then once more he stooped
down. His outstretched hand felt overall
this space which thus was piled up with
treasure.

It was about four feet square. The
ingots lay in the centre. Around the
sides were boxes. One of these he took
out. It was made of thick oaken plank,
and was about ten inches long and eight
wide. The rusty nails gave but little
resistance, and the iron bands which
once bound them peeled off at a touch.
He opened the box.

Inside was a casket.

He tore open the casket.

// was filled with jewels !

His work was ended. No more search,
no more fear. He bound the casket

tightly to the end of the signal-line, added
to it a bar of gold, and clambered to tlic
deck.

He cast off the weight that was at liis
waist, which he also fastened to the IIul',
and let it go.

Freed from the weight he rose buoy-
antly to the top of the water.

The boat pulled rapidly toward him
and took him in. As he removed his
helmet he saw Frank's eyes fixed on his
in mute enquiry. His face was ashen, his
lips bloodless.

Louis smiled.

" Heavens ! " cried Frank, " can it
be?"

" Pull up the signal-line and see for
yourself," was the answer.

And, as Frank pulled, Louis uttered a
cry which made him look up.

Louis pointed to the sun. "Good
God ! what a time I must have been
down ! "

"Time!" said Frank. "Don't say
time — it was eternity I "

CHAPTER XXIV

-EATRICE'S JOURNAL

iili

Brandon Hall.
September i, 1848. — Paolo Langhetti
used to say that it was useful to keep a
diary ; not one from day to day, for each
day's events are generally trivial, and
therefore not worthy of record ; but
rather a statement in full of more impor-
tant events in one's life's which may be
turned to in later years. I wish I had
begun this sixteen months ago, when
I first came here. How full would have

been my melancholy record by tliis
time !

Where shall I begin ?

Of course, with my arrival here, for
that is the time when we separated,
There is no need for me to put down in
writing the events that took place when
he was with me. Not a word that he
ever spoke, not a look that he ever gave,
has escaped my memory. This much I
may set down here.

HEATRICE S JOURNAL

«53

le ever gave,

Alas ! the shadow of the African forest
fell deeply and darkly upon ine. Am I
stronger than other women, or weaker ?
I know not. Yet I can be calm while my
heart is breaking. Yes, I am at once
stronger and weaker ; so weak that my
heart breaks, so strong that I can hide it.

I wil' begin from the time of my arrival
here.

I came knowing well who the man was
and what he was whom I had for my
father. I came with every word of that
despairing voyager ringing in my ears —
that cry from the drifting Vtshnu, where
Uespard laid down to die. How is it
that his very name thrills through me?
1 am nothing to him. I am one of the
hateful brood of murderers. A Thug
was my father — and my mother who ?
Aiul who am I, and what ?

At least my soul is not his, though I
am his daughter. My soul is myself, and
life on earth cannot last forever. Here-
after I may stand where that man may
never approach.

How can I ever forget the first sight
which I had of my father, who before I
saw him had become to me as abhorrent
as a demon ! I came up in the coach to
the door of the Hall and looked out. On
the broad piazza there were two men,
one was sitting, the other standing.

The one who was standing was some-
what elderly, with a broad, fat face,
which expressed nothing in particular but
vulgar good-nature. He was dressed in
blac!:, and looked like a serious butler, or
perliaps still more like some of the Dis-
senting ministers whom I have seen. He
stood with his hands in his pockets, look-
ing at me with a vacant smile.

The other man was younger, not over
thirty. He was thin, and looked pale
from dissipation. His face was covered
with spots, his eyes were gray, his eye-

lashes white. He was smoking a very
large pipe, and a tumbler of some kind of
diink stood on the stone pavement at his
feet. He stared at me between the puffs
of his pipe, aiul neither moved nor spoke.

If I had not already touched the bitter-
ness of despair I should have tasted it as
I saw these men. Something told me
that they were my father and brother.
My very soul sickened at the sight — the
memory of Despard's words came back —
and if it had been possible to have felt
any tender natural affection for them, this
recollection would have destroyed it.

" I wish to see Mr. Potts,' said I
coldly.

My father stared at me.

" I'm Mr. Potts," he answered.

" I am Beatrice," said I ; " I have just
arrived from China."

By this time the driver had opened the
door, and I got out and walked up on the
piazza.

"Johnnie," exclaimed my father, " what
the devil is the meaning of this ? "

" Gad, I don't know," returned John,
with a puff of smoke.

" Didn't you say she was drowned off
the African coast ? "

" I saw so in the newspapers."

" Didn't you tell me about the Falcon
rescuing her from the pirates, and then
getting wrecked with all on board .' "

" Yes, but then there was a girl that
escaped."

" Oh, ho! " said my father, with a long
whistle. " I didn't know that."

He turned and looked at me hastily,
but in deep perplexity.

"So you are the girl, are you?" said
he at last.

" I am your daughter," I answered.

I saw him look at John, who winked in
return.

He walked up and down for a few

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minutes, and at last stopped and looked
at me again. "That's all very well,"
said he at last, " hut how do I know that
you're the party ? Have you any proof
of this?"

"No."

" You have nothing but your own
statement ? "

"No."

" And you may be an impostor. Mind
you — I'm a magistrate — and you'd better
be careful."

" You can do what you choose," said
I coldly.

" No, I can't. In this country a man
can't do what he chooses."

I was silent.

"Johnnie," said my father, " I'll have
to leave her to you. You arrange it."

John looked at me lazily, still smoking,
and for some time said nothing.

" I suppose," said he at last, " you've
got to put it through. You began •:,
you know. You would send for her.
I never saw the use of it."

" But do you think this is the party ? "

" Oh, I dare say. It don't make any
difference any way. Nobody would take
the trouble to come to you with a sham
story."

" That's a fact," said my father.

" So I don't see but you've got to take
her."

" Well," said my father, " if you think
so, why all right."

" I don't think anything of the kind,"
returned John snappishly. " I only think
that she's the party you sent for."

" Oh, well, it's all the same," said my
father, who then turned to me again.

" If you're the girl," he said, " you can
get in. Hunt up Mrs. Compton, and
she'll take charge of you."

Compton ! At the mention of that
name a shudder passed through me.

She had been in the family of the mur-
dered man, and had ever since lived with
his murderer. I went in without a word,
prepared for the worst, and expecting' to
see some evil-faced woman, fit companion
for the pair outside.

A servant was passing along. " Where
is Mrs. Compton ? " I asked.

"Somewhere or other, I suppose,"
growled the man, and went on.

I stood quietly. Had I not been pre-
pared for some such thing as this I mi^^ht
perhaps have broken down under grief,
but I had read the MS., and nothing
could surprise or wound me.

I waited there for nearly half an hour,
during which time no notice was taken
of me. 1 heard my father and John walk
down the piazza steps and go away. They
had evidently forgotten all about me.
At last a man came toward the door who
did look like a servant. He was dressed
in black. He was a slender, pale, sham-
bling man, with thin, light hair, and a
furtive eye and a weary face. He did not
look like one who would insult me, so 1
asked him where I could find Mrs,
Compton.

He started as I spoke and looked at
me in wonder, yet respectfully.

" I have just come from China," said I,
" and my father told me to find Mrs,
Compton."

He looked at me for some time without
speaking a word. I began to think that
he was imbecile.

" So you are Mr. Potts' daugliter, '
said he at last, in a thin, weak voice,
'• I — I didn't know that you had come— I
— I knew that he was expecting you— but
heard you were lost at sea — Mrs. Comp-
ton — yes — oh, yes — I'll show you where
you can find Mrs. Compton."

He was embarrassed, yet not unkind.
There was wonder in his face, as though

-'; jih:

nF.ATRICF.S JOURNAI,

he was surprised at my appearance. i*er-
haps it was because he found me so
unlike my father. He walked toward
the j;rcat stairs, from time to time turn-
hi^f his head to look at me, and ascended
them. I followed, and after going to the
tliiid story we came to a room.

" That's the place," said he.

Me then turned, without replying to
my thanks, and left me. I knocked at
llic door. After some delay it was
opened, and I went in A thin, pale
woman was there. Her hair was perfectly
wiiile. Her face was marked by the
traces of great grief and suffering, yet
overspread by an expression of surpassing
gentleness and sweetness. She looked
like one of these women who live lives of
devotion for others, who suffer out of
the spirit of self-sacrifice, and count their
own comfort and happiness as nothing
in comparison with that of those whom
they love. My heart warmed toward her
at the tirst glance ; I saw that this place
could not be Jiltogether corrupt since she
was here.

" I am Mr. Potts' daughter," said I ;
"are you Mrs. Compton ? "

She stood mute. An expression of
deadly fear overspread her countenance,
which seemed to turn her white face to a
grayish hue, and the look that she gave
me was such a look as one may cast upon
some object of mortal fear.

" You look alarmed," said I, in sur-
prise ; " and why ? Am I then so
frightful?"

She seized my hand and covered it
with kisses. This new outburst sur-
prised me as much as her former fear. I
(lid not know what to do. " Ah ! my
sweet child, my dearest ! " she murmured.
" How did you come here, here of all
places on earth ? "

I was touched by the tenderness and

»S5

It was full of the
you come

did

sympathy of her tone,
gentlest love. " How
here ? " I asked.

She started .and turned on me her
former look of fear.

" Do not look at me so," said I, " dear
Mrs. Compton. You are timid. Do not
be afraid of me. I am incapable of
inspiring fear." I pressed her hand.
" Let us say nothing more now about the
place. We each seem to know what it
is. Since I find one like you living here
it will not seem altogether a place of
despair."

" Oh, dear child, what words are
these? You speak as if you knew all."

" I know much," said I, "and I have
suffered much."

" Ah, my dearest ! you are too young
and too beautiful to suffer." An agony
of sorrow came over her face. Then I
saw upon it an expression which 1 have
often marked since, a strange struggling
desire to say something, which that
excessive and ever-present terror of hers
made her incapable of uttering. Some
secret thought was in her whole face,
but her faltering tongue was paralyzed
and could not divulge it.

5'he turned away with a deep sigh. I
looked at her with much interest. She
was not the woman I expected to find.
Her face and voice won my heart. She
was certainly one to be trusted. But
still there was this mystery about her.

Nothing could exceed her kindness and
tenderness. She arranged my room.
She did everything that could be done to
give it an air of comfort. It was a very
luxuriously furnished chamber. All the
house was lordly in its style and arrange-
ments. That first night I slept the sleep
of the weary.

The next day I spent in my room,
occupied with my own sad thoughts. At

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about three in ci;e afternoorf I saw /n'm
come up the avenue. My heart throbbed
violently. My eyes were riveted upon
that well-known face, how loved ! how
dear ! In vain I tried to conjecture the
reason why he should come. Was it to
stW e the first blow in his just, his implac-
able vengeance ? I longed that I might
receive that blow. Anything that came
from Aim would be sveet.

He stayed a long time and then left.
What passed I cannot conjecture. But
it had evidently been an agreeable visit
to my father, for I heard him lauguing
uproariously on the piazza about some-
thing not long after he had gone.

I have nov seen him since.

For several weeks I scarcely moved
from my room. I ate with Mrs. Comp-
ton. Her reserve was impenetrabi". It
was with painful fear and trembling that
she touched upon anything connected
with the affairs of the house or the family.
I saw it and spared her Poor thinj,, she
has always been too timid for such a life
as this.

At the end of a month I began to
think that I could live here in a state
of obscurity without being molested.
Strange that a daughter's feelings toward
a father and brother should be those of
horror, and that her desire with reference
10 them should be merely to keep out of
their sight. I had no occupation, and
needed none, for I had my thfughts and
my memories. These memories were
bitter, yet sweet. I took the sweet, and
tried to solace myself with them. The
days are gone forever ; no longer does
the sea spread wide; no Linger can I
hear his voice ; I can hold him in my
arms no more ; yet I can remember —

"Das siisseste Gliick fiii' die trauernde Brust,
Nach der schonen Liebe vsrschwundener Lust,
Sind dcr Liebe Schmerzen und Klagen."

I think I had lived this sort of life for
three months without seeing either my
father or brother.

At the end of that time my father sent
for me. He informed me that he intended
to give a grand entertainment to the
county families, and wanted me to dc the
honors. He had ordered dressmakers
for me; he wished me to wear some
jewels which he had in the house, and
informed me that it would be the grandest
thin]; of the kind that had ever taken
place. Fire-works were going to be let
off ; the grounds were to be illuminated,
and nothing that money could effect
would be spared to render it the most
splendid festival that could be imagined.

I did as he said. The dressmakers
came, and I allowed them to array me
as they chose. My father informed me
that be would not give me the jewels till
the erne came, hinting a fear that I
might steal them.

At last the evening arrived. Invita-
tions had been sent everywhere. It
was expected that the house would be
crowded. My father even ventured to
make a personal request that I would
adorn myself as well as possible. I
did the best I could, and went to the
drawing room to receive the expected
crowds.

The hour came and passed, but no
one appeared. My father looked a little
troubled, but he and John waited in the
drawing room. Servants were sent
down to see if anyone was approach-
ing. An hour passed. My father
looked deeply enraged. Two hours
passed. Still no one came. Three
hours passed. I waited calmly, hut
my father and John, who had all
the time been drinking freely, he-
came furious. It was now midnight,
and all hope hat) left them. They iiad

BEATRICES JOURNAL

157

been treated with scorn by the whole
county.

The servants were laughing at my
father's disgrace. The proud array in
the different rooms was all a mockery.
The elaborate fiie-works could not be
used.

My father turned Ii's eyes, iniiamed by
anger and strong drink, toward me.

" She's a d d bad investment," I

heard him say.

" I told you so," said John, who did
not deign to look at me : " but you were
determined."

They then sat drinking in silence for
some time.

" Sold ! " said my father suddenly,
with an oath.

John made no reply.

" I thought the county would take to
her. She's one of their own sort," my
father muttered.

" If it weren't for you they might,"
said John ; " but they aint overfond of
her dear father."

" But I sent out the invites in her
name."

" No go anyhow."

" I thought I'd get in with them all
right away, hobnob with lo.ds and baro-
nets, and maybe get knighted on the
spot."

John gave a long scream of laughter.

" You old fool ! " he cried ; " so that's
what you're up to, is it ? Sir John — ha,
ha, ha ! You'll never be made Sir John
hy parties, I'm afraid."

"Oh, don't you be too sure. I'm not
put down. I'll try again," he continued,
after a pause. " Next year I'll do it.
Why, she'll marry a lord, and then won't
I be a lord's father-in-law ? What do
you say to that ? "

" When did you get these notions in
your blessed head ? " asked John.

"Oh, I've had them It's not so

much for myself, Johnnie — but for you.
For if I'm a lord you'll be a lord too."

" Lord Potts ! Ha, ha, ha ! "

" No," said . my father, with some
appearance of vexation, " not that ; we'll
take our title the way all the lords do,
from the estates. I'll be Lord Brandon,
and when I die you'll get the title."

" And that's your little game. Well,
you've played such good little games in
your life that I've got nothing to say,
except—' Go it ! ' "

" She's the one that '11 give me a lift."

" Well, she ought to be able to do
something."

By this time I concluded that I had
done my duty and prepared to retire.
I did not wish to overhear any of their
conversation. As I Vv'alked out of the
room I still heard their remarks :

"Blest if she don't look as if she
thought herself the Queen," said John.

" It's the diamonds, Johnnie."

" No, it aint ; it's the girl herself. I
don't like the way she has of looking
at me and through me."

" Why, that's the way with that kind.
It's what the lords like."

"I don't like it, then, and I tell you
she's got to be took down ! "

This was the last I heard. Yet one
thing was evident to me from their
conversation. My father had some wild
plan of effecting an entrance into society
through me. He thought that after he
was once recognized he might get suffi-
cient influence to gain a title and found
a family. I also might marry a lord.
He thus dreamed of being Lord Bran-
don, and one of the great nobles of the
land.

Amid my sadness I almost smiled at
this vain dream ; but yet John's words
affected me strongly. " You've played

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such good little games in your life."
Well I knew with whom they were
played. One was with Despard, the
other with Brandon.

This then was the reason why he had
sent for me from China. The knowl-
edge of his purpose made my life neither
brighter nor darker. I still lived on as
before.

During these months Mrs. Compton's
tender devotion to me never ceased. I
respected her, and forbore to exrite that
painful fear to which she was subject.
Once or twice I forgot myself and began
speaking to her about her strange posi-
tion here. She stopped me with her look
of alarm.

" Are you not afraid to be kind to me ? "
I asked.

She looked at me piteously.

" You are the only one that is kind to
me," I continued. " How have you the
courage ? "

" I cannot help it," she murmured,
"you are so dear to me."

She sighed and was silent. The
mystery about her remained unchanged ;
her gentle nature, her tender love, and
her ever-present fear. What was there
in her past that so influenced her life ?
Had she too been mixed up with the
crime on the Vishnu? She? impossible!
Yet surely something as dark as that
must have been required to throw so
black a cloud over her life. Yet what —
what could that have been ? In spite of
myself I associate her secret with the
tragedy of Despard. She was in his
family long. His wife died. She must
have been with her at the time.

The possibilities that have suggested
themselves to my mind will one day
drive me mad. Alas, how my heart
yearns over that lonely man in the drift-
ing ship ! And yet, merciful God I who

am I that I should sympathize with him ?
My name is infamy, my blood is pollu-
tion.

I spoke to her once in a general way
about the past. Had she ever been out
of England } I asked.

" Yes," she murmured dreamily.

"Where?"

She looked at me and said not a word,

At another time I spoke of China, and
hinted that perhaps she too knew some-
thing about the East. The moment that
I said this I repented. The poor creature
was shaken from head to foot with a
sudden convulsion of fear. This convul-
sion was so terrible that it seemed to nie
as though another would be death. I
tried to soothe her, but she looked fear-
fully at me for a long time after.

At another time I asked her directly
whether her husband was alive. Slie
looked at me with deep sadness and
shook her head. I do not know what po-
sition she holds here. She is not house-
keeper; non'i of the servants pay any at-
tention to her whatever. There is an
impudent head servant who manages the
rest. I noticed that t'>e man who showed
me to her room when I first came treats
her differently from the rest. Once or
twice I saw them talking in one of the
halls. There was deep respect in his
manner. What he does I have not yet
found out. He has always shown great
respect to me, though why I cannot
imagine. He has the same timidity of
manner which marks Mrs. Complon.
His name is Philips.

I once asked Mrs. Compton who
Philips was, and what he did. She
answered m ickly that he was a kind of
clerk to Mr. Potts, and helped him to
keep his accounts.

" Has he been with him long ? " I
continued.

BEATRICE r? JOURNAL

159

" Yes, a considerable time," she said ;
l)iit I saw that the subject distressed
her, so I changed it.

For more than three months I remained
in my room, but at last, through utter
despair, I longed to go out. The noble
grounds were there, high hills from which
the wide sea was visible — that sea which
shall be associated with his memory till
I die. A great longing came over me to
look upon its wide expanse, and feed my
soul with old and dear memories. There
it would lie, the same sea from which he
so often saved me, over which we saiied
till he laid down his noble life at my
feet, and I gave back that life to him
again.

I used to ascend a hill which was half
a mile behind the Hall within the
grounds, and pass whole days there un-
molested. No one took the trouble to
notice what I did — at least I thought so
till afterward. There for months I used
to go. I would sit and look fixedly upon
the blue water, and my imagmation
would carry me far away to the South,
to that island on the African shore where
he once reclined in my arms, before the
day when I learned that my touch was
pollution to him — to that island where I
afterward knelt by him as he lay sense-
less, slowly coming back to life, when if
I might but touch the hem of his gar-
ment it was bliss enough for one day.
Ah, me ! how often I have wet his feet
with my tears — poor, emaciated feet —
and longed to be able to wipe them with
my hair, but dared not. He lay uncon-
scious. He never knew the anguish of
my love.

Then I was less despairing. The air
around was filled with the echo of his
voice ; I could shut my eyes, and bring
him before me. His face was always
visible to my soul.

One day the idea came into my head
to extend my ramble into the country
outside, in order to get a wider view. I
went to the gate. The porter came out
and asked what I wanted. I told him.

" You can't go out," said he rudely.

" Why not ? "

"Oh, them's Potts' orders— that's
enough, I think."

" He never said so to me," I replied
mildly.

" That's no odds ; he said so to me,
and he told me if you made any row to
tell you that you were watched, and
might just as well give up at once."

" Watched ! " said I wonderingly.

" Yes — for fear you'd get skittish, and
try and do something foolish. Old Potts'
is bound to keep you under his thumb."

I turned away. I did not care much.
1 felt more surprise than anything else to
think that he would take the trouble to
watch me. Whether he did or not was
of little consequence. If I could only be
where I had the sea before me it was
enough.

That day, on going back to the Hall,
I saw John sitting on the piazza. A
huge bull-dog which he used to take
with him everywhere was lying at his
feet. Just before I reached the steps a
Malay servant came out of the house.

He was about the same age as John.
I knew him to be a Malay when I first
saw him, and concluded that my father
had picked him up in the East. He was
slight but very lithe and muscular, with
dark glittering eyes and glistening white
teeth. He never looked at me when I
met him, but always at the ground, with-
out seeming to be aware of my existence.

The Malay was passing out when
John called out to him :

" Hi, there, Vijal ! "

Vijal looked carelessly at him.

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" Here ! " cried John, in the tone with
which he would have addressed his
dog.

Vijal stopped carelessly.

" Pick up my hat, and hand it to me."

His hat had fallen down behind him.
Vijal stood without moving and regarded
him with an evil smile.

" D n you, do you hear ? " cried

John. " Pick up my hat."

But Vijal did not move.

" If you don't, I'll set the dog on you,"
cried John starting to his feet in a rage.

Still Vijal remained motionless.

" Nero ! " cried John furiously, point-
ing to Vijal, " seize him, sir."

The dog sprang up and at once leaped
upon Vijal. Vijal warded off the assault
with his arm. The dog seized it, and
held on, as was his nature. Vijal did
not utter a cry, but seizing the dog, he
threw him on his back, and flinging him-
self upon him, fixed his own teeth in the
dog's throat.

John burst into a torrent of the most
frightful curses. He ordered Vijal to let
go of the dog. Vijal did not move ; but
while the dog's teeth were fixed in his
arm, his own were still fixed as tena-
ciously in the throat of the dog,

John sprang forward and kicked him
with frightful violence. He leaped on
him and stamped on him. At last, Vijal
drew a knife from his girdle and made a
dash at John. This frightened John,
who fell back cursing. Vijal then raised
his head.

The dog lay motionless. He was dead.
Vijal sat down, his arm running blood,
with the knife in his hand, still glaring at
John.

During this frightful scene I stood
rooted to the spot in horror. At last
the sight of Vijal's suffering aroused me.
I rushed forward, and tearing the scarf

from my neck, knelt down and reached
out my hand to rtinch the blood.

Vijal drew back. •' Poor Vijal," said
I, " let me stop this blood. I can dress
wounds. How you suffer ! "

He looked at me in bewilderment.
Surprise at hearing a kind word in tliis
house of horror seemed to deprive him
of speech. Passively. he let me take his
arm, and I bound it up as well as I
could.

All this time John stood cursing, first
me, and then Vijal. I said not a word,
and Vijal did not seemed to hear him,
but sat regarding me with his fiery black
eyes. When at last I had finished, he
rose and still stood staring at me. I
walked into the house.

John hurled a torrent of imprecations
after me. The last words that I heard
were the same as he had said once
before: "You've got to be took down ;

and I'll be d d if you don't get took

down precious soon ! "

I told Mrs. Compton of what had hap-
pened. As usual, she was seized with
terror. She looked at me with a glance
of fearful apprehension. At last she
gasped out :

" They'll kill you."

" Let them," said I carelessly ; " it
would be better than living."

" Oh, dear ! " groaned the poor old
thing, and sank sobbing in a chair, t
did what I could to soothe her, but to
little purpose. She afterward told me
that Vijal had escaped further punish-
ment in spite of John's threats, and
hinted that they were half afraid of
him.

The next day, on attempting to go out,
Philips told me that I was not to be per-
mitted to leave the house. I considered
it the result of John's threat, and yielded
without a word.

REATRICES JOURNAL

i6i

After this I had to seek distraction
from my thoughts within liie house.
Now there came over nie a great longing
for music. Once, when in the drawing
room on that famous evening of the
the abortive fete, whicli was the only
time I ever was there, I had noticed a
magnificent grand piano of most costly
workmanship. Tire thought of this came
to my mind, and an unconquerable de-
sire to try it arose. So I went down and
began to play.

It was a little out of tune, but the tone
was marvellously full and sweet. I threw
myself with indescribable delight into the
charm of the hour. All the old joy
which music once used to bring came
hack. Imagination, stimulated by the
swelling harmonies, transported me far
away from this prison-house and its
liateful associations to that happier time
of youth when not a thought of sorrow
came over me. I lost myself therein.
Then that passed, that life vanished, and
the sea voyage began. The thoughts of
my mind and tne emotions of my heart
passed down to the quivering chords and
trembled into life and sound.

I do not know how long I had been
playing when suddenly I heard a sob
behind me. I started and turned. It
was Philips.

He was standing with tears in his eyes
and a rapt expression on his emaciated
face, his hands hanging listless, and his
whole air that of one who had lost all
senses save that of hearing. But as I
turned and stopped, the spell that bound
him was broken. He sighed and looked
at me earnestly.

"Can you sing? "

" Would you like me to do so ? "

" Yes," he said, in a faint, imploring
voice.

I began a low song — a strain associ-

ated with that same childhood of which I
had just then been thinking — a low, sad
strain, sweet to my ears and to my soul ;
it spoke of peace and innocence, quiet
home joys and calm delights. My own
mind brought before me the image of the
house where I had lived, with the shadow
of great trees around, and goigeous
flowers everywhere, where the sultry air
breathed soft, and beneath the hot noon
all men sank to rest and slumber.

When I stopped I turned again. Philips
had not changed his attitude. But as I
turned he uttered an exclamation and
tore out his watch.

" Oh, Heavens ! two hours ! " he ex-
claimed. "He'll kill me for this."

With these words he rushed out of the
room.

I kept up my music for about ten days,
when one day it was stopped forever. I
was in the middle of a piece when I heard
heavy footsteps behind me. I turned and
saw my father. I rose and looked at
him with an effort to be respectful. It
was lost on him, however. He did not
glance at me.

" I came up .o say to you," said he,
after a little hesitation, " that I can't stand
this infernal squall and clatter any longer.
So in future you just shut up."

He turned and left me. I closed the
piano forever, and went to my room.

The year ended, and a new year began.
January passed away. My melancholy
began to affect my health. I scarcely
ever slept at night, and to eat was diffi-
cult. I hoped that I was going to die.
Alas ! death will not come when one
calls.

One day I was in my room lying on the
couch when Mrs. Compton came. On
entering she looked terrified about some-
thing. She spoke in a very agitated
voice: "They want you downstairs."

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" Who ? "

" Mr. Potts and John."

" Well," said I, and I prepared to get
ready. " When do they want me ? "

" Now," said Mrs. Coirpton, who by
this time was crying.

" Why are you so agitated ? " I asked.

" I am afraid for you."

" Why so ? Can anything be worse ? "

" Ah, my dearest ! you don't know —
you don't know."

I said nothing more, but went down.
On entering the room i saw my father
and John seated at a table with brandy
before them. A third man was there.
He was a thick-set man of about the
same height of my father, but more
muscular, with a strong, square jaw, thick
neck, low brow, and stern face. My
father did not show any actual ferocity in
his face, whatever he felt, but this man's
face expressed relentless cruelty.

On entering the room I walked up a
little distance and stood looking at them.

" There, Clark, what do you think of
that ? " said my father.

The name, Clark, at once made known
to me who this man was — that old asso-
ciate of my father — his assistant on board
the Vishnu. Yet the name did not add
one whit to the abhorrence which I felt
— my father was worse even than he.

The man Clark looked at me scrutiniz-
ingly for some time.

" So that's the gal," said he at last.

" That's the gal," said my father.

Clark waved his hand at me. " Turn
round sideways," said he.

I looked at him quietly without moving.
He repeated the order, but I took no
notice of it.

" D n her ! " said he. " Is she

deaf?"

"Not a bit of it," said John; "but
she's plucky. She'd just as soon you'd

There isn't any way of
father

kill her as not,
moving her."

" Turn round ! " cried my
angrily.

I turned as he said. " You see," said
he with a laugh, " she's been piously
brought up ; she honors her father."

At this Clark burst into a loud laugh.

Some conversation followed about nie
as I stood there. Clark then ordered me
to turn round and face him. I took no
notice ; but on my father's ordering it,
I obeyed as before. This appeared to
amuse them all very greatly, just as tlie
tricks of an intelligent poodle might have
done. Clark gave me many commands
on purpose to see my refusal, and have
my father's order which followed obeyed.

" Well," said he, at last, leaning back
in his chair, " she is a showy piece of
furniture. Your idea isn't a bad one
either."

He rose from his chair and came
toward me. I stood looking at hinr. 's\\.\\
a gaze so fixed and intense that it seemed
as if all my being were centred in my eyes.

He came up and reached out to take
hold of my arm. I stepped back. He
looked up angrily. But, for some reason,
the moment that he caught sight of my
face, an expression of fear passed over
his.

" Heavens ! " he groaned ; " look at that
face ! "

I saw my father look at me. The same
horror passed over his countenance. An
awful thought came to nie. As these
men turned their faces away from nie in
fear I felt my strength going. I turned
and rushed from the room. I do not
remember anything more.

It was early in February when this
occurred. Until the begiiming of August
I lay senseless. For the first four montlis
I hovered faintly between life and death.

THE nVZANTINE HYMNISTS

Why did they not let me die ? Why
(lid I not die " /Jas ! had I died I
might now have been beyond this
SOI row; I have waked to meet it all
again.

Mrs. Compton says she found me on
the floor of my own room, and that I was
in u kind of stupor. I had no fevei or
delirium. A doctor came, who said it
was a congestion of the brain. Thoughts

163

hke mine might well destroy the brain
forever.

For a month I have been slowly rerov-
ering. I can now walk about the room.
I know nothing of what is going on in
the house, and \Vish to know nothing.
Mrs. Compton is as devoted as ever.

I have got thus far, and will stop here.
I have been several days writing this. I
must stop till I am stronger.

CHAPTER XXV

THE BYZANTINE HYMNISTS

More than a year had passed since
that visit to Thornton Grange which has
aln:ady been mentioned. Despard had
no* forgotten or neglected the melancholy
case of the Brandon family. He had
written in all directions, and had gone
on frequent visits.

On his return from one of these he
went to the Grange. Mrs. Thornton was
sitting in the drawing room, looking pen-
sively out of the window, when she saw
his well-known figure advancing up the
avenue. His face was sad, and pervaded
by a melancholy expression, which was
noticeable now as he walked along.

But when he came into the room that
melancholy face suddenly lijjhted up with
the most radiant joy. Mrs. Thornton
advanced to meet him, and he took her
hand in both of his.

" I ought to say, welcome back again,"
said she, with forced liveliness, " but you
may have been in iolby a week for all I
know. When did you come back } Con-
fess now that you have been secluding
yourself in your study instead of paying
your respects in the proper quarter."

Despard smiled. " I arrived home at
eleven this morning. It is now 3 P. M.
by my watch. Shall I say how impa-
tiently I have waited till three o'clock
should come? "

" Oh, no ! don't say anything of the
sort. I can imagine all that you would
say. But tell me where you have been on
this last visit ? "

" Wandering like an evil spirit, seeking
rest and finding none."

" Have you been to London again ? "

" Where have I not been ? "

By this time they had seated them-
selves. " My last journey," said Des-
pard, " like my former ones, was, of
course, about the Brandon affair. You
know *hat I have had long conversations
with Mr. Thornton about it, and he in-
sists that nothing whatever can be done.
But you know, also, that I could not sit
down idly and calmly under this convic-
tion. I have felt most keenly the pres-
ence of intolerable vvrong. Every day
I have felt as if I had shr.red in the
infamy of those who neglected that dying
man. That was the reason why I wrote

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to Australia to see if the Brandon who
was (hownetl was really the on'j I sup-
posed. I heard, you know, that he was
the same man, and there is no doubt
about that. Then you know, as I told
you, that I went arouiKl among different
lawyers to see if anything could be done.
Nearly all asserted that no redress was
possible. That is what Mr. Thornton
said. There was one who said that if I
were rich enough I might begin a prose-
cution, but as I am not rich that did me
no good. That man would have been
glad, no doubt, , ha''e undertr.k^n such
a task."

" What is there in law that so harde. j
the heart ? " said Mrs. Thornton, after a
pause. '* Why should it kill all senti-
ment, and destroy so utterly all the more
spiritual qualities ? "

" I don't think that the law does this
necessarily. It depends after all on the
man himself. If I were a lawyer, I
should still love music above all
things."

" But did you ever know a lawyer who
loved music ? "

" I have not known enough of them to
answer that. But in England music is
not loved so devotedly as in other coun-
tries. Is it inconceivable that an Italian
lawyer should love music ? "

" I don't know. Law is abhorrent to
me. It seems to be a profession that kills
the finer sentiments."

" Why so, more than medicine ? The
fact is, where ordinary men are concerned,
any scientific profession renders art dis-
tasteful. At least this is so in England.
After all, most depends on the man him-
self, and one who is born with a keen
sensibility to the charms of art will carry
it through life, whatever his profession
may be."

'• But suppose the man himself has

neither taste, not sensibility, nor any ap-
preciation of the beautiful, nor any sym-
pathy whatever with those vho love such
things, what then ? "

Mrs. Thornton spoke earnestly as she
asked this.

" Well," said Despard, " that question
answers itself. As a man is born, so he
is; and if nature denies him taste or
sensibility it makes no difference what
is his profession."

Mrs. Thornton made no reply.

" My >.st ourney," said Despard, " was
rdiou 5 ;c T> • .ndon rase, I /ent to Lon-
dua uiH. o see if something could not be
dojie,, i iiad been there before on the
same errant it without success. I was
equally unsuccessful this time.

" I tried to find out about Potts, the
man who had purchased the estate, but
learned that it was necessary to go to the
village of Brandon. I went there, and
made enquiries. Without exception tlie
people sympathized with the unfortunate
family, and looked with detestation upon
the man who had supplanted them.

"I heard that a young lady went there
last year who was reputed to be his
daughter. Everyone said that she was
extraordinarily beautiful, and looked
like a lady. She stopped at the inn
under the care of a gentleman who
accompanied her, and went to the
Hall. She has never come out of it
since.

" The landlord told me that the gentle-
man was a pale, sad-looking man, with
dark hair and beard. He seemed very
devoted to the young lady, and parted
with her in melancholy silence. His
account of this young lady moved ine
very strangely. He was not at all a
sentimental man, but a burly John
Bull, which made his story all the
more touching. It is strange, I must

THE BYZANTINE HYMNISTS

'65

lor any ap-
r any syiu-
love such

istly as slic

at question
born, so he
m taste or
rence wliat

ply.

spard, " was
teni to Lon-
:ould not be
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:ess. I was

t Potts, the
e estate, but

to go to the
t there, and
xception the

unfortunate
station upon

them.

y went there
to be his

lat she was
and loolced
at the inn

tleman who

ent to the

le out of it

it the gentle-
man, with
seemed very

and parted

ilence. His

moved me

lot at all a

burly John
;ory all the
nge, I must

say, that one like her should go into
tliat place and never be seen again.
i do not know what to think of it,
nor did any of those with whom I
spoi<e in the village.'

" Do you suppose that she really went
there and nev ; came back ? "

" That is \v t thf»y say."

" Then the> must believe that she is
kept there."

" Yes, so II. V do.

•Why do ney not take some steps in
tiic matter ? "

" What can they do ? She is his
daughter. Some of the villagers who
have been to the Hall at different times
say that they heard her playing and
singing."

" That does not sound like imprison-
ment."

" The caged bird sings."

" Then you think she is a prisoner? "

" I think it odd that she has never come
out, not evei to go to church."

"It is odd." '

" This man Potts excited sufhcient
interest in my mind to lead me to make
manyenquirits. I found, throughout the
county, that everybody utterly despised
him. They all thought that poor Ralph
Brandon had been almost mad, and by
his madness had ruined his family.
Everybody believed that Potts had some-
how deceived him, but no one could tell
how. They could not bring any direct
proof against him.

" But I found out in Brandon the sad
particulars of the final fate of the poor
wife and her unfortunate children. They
had been sent away or assisted away by
this Potts to America, and had all died
either on the way out or shortly after they
had arrived, according to the villagers.
I did not tell them what I knew, but left
them to believe what they chose. It

seemed to me that they must have
received this information from Potts him-
self, who alone in that poor community
would have been able to trace the fortunes
of the unhappy emigrants."

There was a long silence.

" I have done all that I could," said
Despard, in a disconsolate tone, " and I
suppose nothing now remains to be done.
When 'vc hear again from Paolo there
may be some new information upon which
we can act."

" And you can go back to your Byzan-
tine poets."

" Yes, if you will assist me."

" You know I shall only be too
happy."

"And I shall be eternally gra -ul
You see, as I told you before, th^ie i*-
a field of labor here for the lf^.\.' of
music which is like a new \v .«.', i
will give you the grandest niu cal
compositions that you have »• '- stv;n.
I will let you have the old Ir.i .3 of
the saints who lived when Constan-
tinople was the only civilized spot in
Europe, and the Christians there were
hurling back the Mohammedans. You
shall sing the noblest songs that you
have ever seen."

" How — in Greek } You must teach
me the alphabet then."

"No; I will translate them for you.
The Greek hymns are all in rhythmical
prose, like the Te Deum and the Gloria.
A literal translation can be sung as well
as the originals. You will then enter
into the mind and spirit of the ancient
Eastern Church before the days of the
schism.

"Yes," continued Despard, with an
enthusiasm which he did not care to
conceal, " we wil' go together at this
sweet task, and we will sing the Kad' EKda-
TTfv Tjfiipav, which hold the same place in

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the Greek Church that the Te Deitin
does in ours. We will chant together
the Golden Canon of St. John Damas-
cene — the queen of canons, the
grandest song of ' Christ is risen ' that
mortals ever composed. Your heart
and mine will beat together with one
feeling at the sublime choral strain.
We will sing the ' Hymn of Victory.'
We will go together over the songs of
St. Cosmas, St. Theophanes, and St.
Tlieodore ; St. Gregory, St. Anatobus,
and St. Andrew of Crete shall inspire
us ; and the thoughts that have kindled
the hearts of martyrs at tlie st;ike shall
exalt our souls to heaven. IJut I have
more than this. I have some com-
positions of my own ; poor ones, in-
deed, yet an effort in the right way.
They are a collection of those hynnis
of the Primitive Church which are
contained in the New Testament. I
have tried to set them to music. They
are : 'Worthy is the Lamb,' 'Unto Him
that loved us,' ' Great and marvellous
are thy works,' and the ' Trisagion.'
Yes, we will go together at this lofty
and heavenly work, and I shall be able
to gain a new interpretation from your
sympathy."

Despard spoke with a vehement enthu-
siasm that kindled his eyes with unusual
lustre and spread a glow over his pale
face. He looked like some devotee under
a sudden i.ispiration. Mrs. Thornton
caught all his enthusiasm ; her eyes
brightened, and her face also flushed
with excitement.

" Whenever you are ready to lead me
into that new world of music,'* said shci
" I am ready to follow."

" Are you willing to begin next
Monday ? "

" Yes. All my time is my own."

" Then I will come for you."

"Then I will be waiting fur you. By-
the-way, are you engaged for to-night ? '

" No ; why } "

" There isgoing to beafcte chanipt-tn ,
It is a ridiculous thing for the llolliy
people to do ; but I have to go to play
the patroness. Mr. Thornton does not
want to go. Would you sacrifice your-
self to my necessities, and allow me your
escort ? "

" Would a thirsty man be willing to
accept a cooling draught ? " said Despard,
eagerly. " You open heaven before inc,
and ask me if I will enter."

His voice trembled, and he paused.

" You never forget yourself," said Mis.
Thornton, with slight agitation, looking
away as she spoke.

" I will be back at any hour you
say."

" You will do no such thing. Since
you are here you must remain and dine,
and then go with me. Do you suppose
I would trust you } Why, if I let you go,
you might keep me waiting a wiiole
hour."

" Well, if your will is not law to me,
what is .-* Speak, and your servant obeys,
To stay will only add to my happiness."

" Then let me make you happy by
forcing you to stay."

Despard's face showed his feelings, and
to judge by its expression his language
had not been extravagant.

The afternoon passed quietly. Dinner
was v^erved up. Thornton came in, and
greeted Despard with his usual abstrac-
tion, leaving his wife to do the agreeable,
After dinner, as usual, he prepared for a
nap, and Despard and Mrs. Thornton
started for the fete.

It was to be in some gardens at the
other end of Holby, along the sbore.
The townspeople had recently formed a
park there, and this was one of the

Ei| :!

THE BYZANTINE HYMNISTS

167

preliminaries to its formal inauguration.
Tiie trees were hung with iniuimeral)lc
lamps of varied colors. Tlicre were
hands of music, and triumphal arches,
and gay festoons, and wreaths of flowers,
and everything that is usual at such a
time.

On arriving, Despard assisted Mrs.
Thornton from the carriage and offered
his arm. She took it, but her hand rested
so lightly on it that its touch was scarce
perceptible. They walked around
through the illuminated paths. Great
crowds of people were there. All looked
with respectful pleasure at Mrs. Thornton
and the rector.

" You ought to be glad that you have
come," said she. " See how these poor
people feel it ! We are not persons of
very great consequence, yet our presence
is marked and enjoyed."

" All places are alike to me," answered
Despard, " when I am with you. Still,
liiere are circumstances about this which
will make it forever memorable to me."

" Look at those lights," exclaimed
Mrs. Thornton suddenly ; " what varied
colors? "

" Let us walk into that grotto," said
Despard, turning toward a cool, dark
place which lay before them.

Here, at the end of that grotto, was a
tree, at the foot of which was a seat.
They sat down and stayed for hours. In
the distance the lights twinkled and
music arose. They said little, but lis-
tened to the confused murmur which in
the pauses of the music came up from
afar.

Then they rose and walked back.
Entering the principal path a great
crowd streamed on which they had to
face.

Despard sighed. "You and I," said
he, stooping low and speaking in a sad

voice, " arc compelled to go against the
tide."

" Shall we turn back and go with it ? "

" We cannot."

" Do you wish 'to turn aside ? "

" We cannot. We must walk against
the tide, and against the rusli of men.
If we turn aside there is nothing but
darkness."

They walked on in silence till they
reached the gate.

" The carriage has not come," said
Mrs. Thornton.

" Do you prefer riding ? "

"No."

" It is not far. Will you walk ? "

"With pleasure."

They walked on slowly. About half-
way they met the carriage. Mrs. Thorn-
ton ordered it back, saying that she would
walk the rest of the way.

They walked on slowly, saying so little
that at last Mrs. Thornton began to
speak about the music which they had
proposed to undertake. Despard 's en-
thusiasm seemed to have left him. His
replies were vague and general. On
reaching the gate he stood still for a
moment under the trees and half turned
toward her. " You don't say anything
about the music ? " said she.

" That's because I am so stupid. I
have lost my head. I am not capable of
a single coherent idea."

" You are thinking of something else
all the time."

"My brain is in a whirl. Yes, I am
thinking of something else."

"Of what?"

" I'm afraid to say."

Mrs. Thornton was silent. They en-
tered the gate and walked up the avenue,
slowly and in silence. Despard made
one or two efforts to stop, and then con-
tinued. At last they reached the door.

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The lights were streaming brightly from
the window. Desparci stood silently.

" Will you not come in ? "

" No, thank you," said he dreamily.
" It is rather too late, and I must go.
Good-night."

He held out his hand. She offered
hers, and he took it. He held it long
and half stooped as though he wished to
say something. She felt the throbbing
of his heart in his hand as it clasped hers.
She said nothing. Nor did Despard
seem able to say anything. At last he
let go her hand slowly and reluctantly.

•' You will not forget the music ? "
said he.

" No."

"Good-night."

He took her hand again in both of his.
As the light shone through the windows
she saw his face — a face full of longing
beyond words, and sadness unutterable.

"Good-night," she faltered.

He let go her hand, and turning away,
was lost amid the gloom. She waited
till the sound of his footsteps had died
away, and then went into the house.

On ihe following morning Despard
was walking along when he met her sud-
denly at a corner of the street. He
stopped with a radiant face, and shaking
hands with her, for a moment was unable
to speak.

" This is too much happiness," he said
at last. " It is like a ray of light to a
poor captive when you burst upon me so
suddenly. Where are you going ? "

" Oh, I'm only going to do a little
shopping."

"I'm sure I wish that I could accom-
pany you to protect you."

" Well, why not ? "

" On the whole, I think that shopping
is not my forte, and that my presence
would not be essential."

He turned, however, and walked with
her some distance, as far as the farthest
shop in the town. They talked gayly
and pleasantly about the f<:te. " You
will not forget the music," said he, on
parting. " Will you come next Monday?
If you don't, I won't be responsible for
the consequences."

" Do you mean to say, sir, that you ex-
pect me to come alone ? "

" I did not hope for anytliing else."

" Why, of course, you must cull for me.
If you do not, I won't go."

Despard's eyes brightened.

"Oh, then, since you allow me so
sweet a privilege, I will go and accom-
pany you."

" If you fall me I will stay at home,"
said she laughingly.

He did not fail her, but at the ap-
pointed time went up to the Grange.
Some strangers were there, and Mrs.
Thornton gave him a look of deep disap-
pointment. The strangers were evidently
going to spend the day, so Despard, after
a short call, withdrew. Before he left,
Mrs. Thornton absented herself on some
pretext for a few moments, and as he
quitted the room she went to the door
with him and gave him a note.

He walked straight home, holding the
note in his hands till he reached his
study ; then he locked himself in, opened
the note, and read as follows :

" Dear Mr. Despard : How does it
happen that things turn out just as they
ought not ? I was so anxious to go with
you to the church to-day about our music.
I know my own powers ; they are not
contemptible; they are not uncultivated;
they are simply, and wholly, and irretriev-
ably commonplace. That much I deem
it my duty to inform you.

" These wretched people, who have

THE nVZANTINK HYMNISTS

169

)le, who have

spoiled a day's pleasure, dropped upon
mc as sudilenly as though they had come
from the skies. Tiiey leave on Thursday
nioiiiing. Come on Thursday afternoon.
If you do not I will never forgive you.
On that day give up your manuscripts
and books for music and the organ, and
allot some portion of your time to,
•' Yours,

On Thursday Despard called, and Mrs.
Thornton was able to accompany him.
The church was an old one, and had one
of the best organs in Wales. Despard
was to play and she to sing. He had his
music ready, and the sheets were care-
fully and legibly written out from the
precious old Greek scores which he loved
so dearly and prized so highly.

They began with the canon for Easter-
day of St. John Damascene, who, ac-
cording to Despard, was the best of the
Eastern hymnists. Mrs. Thornton's
voice was rich apd full. As she came to
the nvaaTdaeuf ^/lipa — Resurrection Day —
it took up a tone of indescribable exulta-
tion, blending with the triumph peal of
the organ. Despard added his own
voice — a deep, strong, full-toned basso —
and their blended strains bore aloft the
sublimest of utterances, " Christ is
.^risen ! "

Then followed a more mournful chant,
full of sadness and profound melancholy,
the nhvralov aairaofiov — the Last Kiss —
the hymn of the dead, by the same poet.

Then followed a sublimer strain, the
hynm of St. Theodore on the Ju 'gment
— r?}v 7j/Liipav rijv ^piKTijv — where a. I the
horrors of the day of doom are set forth.
The chant was commensurate with the
dread splendors of the theme. The
voices of the two singers blended in per-
fect concord, The sounds which were

thus wrought out bore themselves
through the vaulted aisles, rrturning
again to their own ears, imparting to
their own hearts something of the awe
with which in)aghiation has enshrouded
the Day of Days, and giving to their
voices that saddened cadence which the
sad spirit can convey to its material
utterance.

Despard then produced some composi-
tions of his own, made after the manner
of the Eastern chants, which he insisted
were the primitive songs of the early
Church. The words were those frag-
ments of hymns which are embedded in
the text of the New Testament. He
chose tirst the song of the angels, which
was first sung by " a great voice out of
heaven " — \M, 1) aKtjvij tov &eov — Behold,
the tabernacle of God is with men !

The chant was a marvellous one. It
spoke of sorrow past, of grief stayed, of
misery at an end forever, of tears dried,
and a time when " there shall be no
more death, neither sorrow nor crying."
There was a gentle murmur in the flow
of that solemn, soothing strain which
was like the sighing of the evening wind
among the hoary forest trees ; it soothed
and comforted : it brought hope, and
holy calm, and sweet peace.

As Despard rose from the organ Mrs.
Thornton looked at him with moistened
eyes.

" I do not know whether your song
brings calm or unrest," said she sadly,
" but after singing it I would wish to die."

" It is not the music, it is the words,"
answered Despard, " which bring before
us a time when there shall be no sorrow
or sighing."

" May such a time ever be ? " mur-
mured she.

" That," he replied, " it is ours to aim
after. There is such a world. In that

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world all wrongs will be righted, friends
will be reunited, and those severed here
through all this earthly life will be joined
for evermore."

Their eyes met. Their spirit lived and
glowed in that gaze. It was sad beyond
expression, but each one held commune
with the other in a mute intercourse, more
eloquent than words.

Despard's whole frame trembled.
" Will you sing the Ave Maria ? " he
asked, in a low, scarce audible voice.
Her head drooped. She gave a convul-
sive sigh. He continued : " We used to

sing it in the old days, the sweet, never-
forgotten days now passed forever. We
sang it here. We stooH hand in hand."

His voice faltered.

" Sing," he said, after a time.

"I cannot."

Despard sighed. " Perhaps it is better
not ; for I feel as though if you were to
sing it, my heart would break."

" Do you believe that hearts can
break ? " she asked gently, but with
indescribable pathos.

Despard looked at her mournfully, and
said not a word.

CHAPTER XXVI

CLASPED HANDS

Their singing went on.

They used to meet once a week and
sing in the church at the organ. Des-
pard always went up to the Grange
and pccompanied her to the chuvch.
Yet he scarcely ever went at any other
time. A stronger connection and a
deeper familiarity arose between them,
which yet was accompanied by a pro-
found reverence on Despard's part, that
never dimini^/ned, but as the familiarity
increased only grew more tender and
more devoted.

There were many things about their
music v/hich he had to say to her. It
constituted a common bond between
them on which they could talk, and to
which they could always revert. It
formed a medium for the communion of
sou) — a lofty, spiritual intercourse, where
they seemed to blend, even as their voices
blended, in a purer realm, free from the
trouble of earth.

Amid it all Despard had so much to
tell her about the nature of the Eastern
music that he wrote out a long letter
which he gave her as they parted after
an unusually lengthy practice. Part of ii
was on the subject of music, and tlie
rest of a different character.

The next time that they met she gave
him a note in response :

" Dear Mr. Despard : Why am I
not a seraph, endowed with musical
powers beyond mortal reach ? You tell
me many things, and never seem to
imagine that they are all beyond me.
You never seem to think that I am hope-
lessly commonplace. You are kind in
doing what you do, but where is the
good where one is so stupid as I am ?

" I suppose you have given n" visiting
the Grange forever. I don't call your
coming to take me to the church v/s//s.
I suppose I may as well give you up. It

CLASPED HANDS

171

is as difficult to get you here as if you

were the Grand Lama of Thibet.

"Amid all my stupidities I have two

or three ideas which may be useful in our

music, if I can only put them in practice.

Bear with me, and deal gently with

" Yours despondingly,

u 'Y 'p >>

To this Despard replied in a note
which he gave her at their next meeting,
calling her "Dear Seraph," and signing
himself " Grand Lama." After this they
always called each other by these names.
Gr^Md Lama was an odd name, but it
became the sweetest of sounds to Des-
pard since it was uttered by her lips — the
sweetest, the most musical, and the
tenderest. As to himself he knew not
what to call tltis dear companion of his
youth, but the name Seraph came into
use, and grew to be associated with her,
until at last he never called her tnything
else.

Yet after this he used to go to the
Grange more frequently. He could not
stay away. His steps wandered there
irresistibly. An uncontrollable impulse
forced him there. She was always alone
awaiting him, generally with a sweet con-
fusion of face and a tenderness of greeting
which made him feel ready to fall on his
knees before her. How else could he feel ?
Was she not always in his thoughts ?
Were not all his sleeping hours one long
dream of her.> Were not all his waking
thought?, filled with her radiant presence ?

" How is it under our control
To love or not to love * "

Did he know what it was that he felt
for her? He never thought. Enough
that he felt. And that feeling was one
long agony of intense longing and yearn-
ing after her. Had not all his life been
filled by that one bri<»-h'. image ?

Youth gave it to him. After-years
could not efface it. The impress of her
face was upon his heart. Her voice was
always in his ears. Every word that she
had ever spoken to him was treasured up
in his memory and heart with an avarice
of love which prevented any one word
from even being forgotten.

At church and at home, during service
and out of it, in the street or in the study,
he saw only one face, and heard only one
voice. Amid the bustle of committee
meetings he was conscious of her image —
a sweet face smiling on him, a tender
voice saying " Lama." Was there ever so
musical and so dear a word as " Lama " ?
For him, never.

The hunger of his longing grew
stronger every day. That strong, proud,
self-secluded nature of his was most in-
tense in all its feelings, and dwelt with
concentrated passion upon this one object
of its idolatry. He had never had any
other object but this one.

A happy boyhood passed in the society
of this sweet playmate, then a young
girl of his own age ; a happy boyhood
here in Holby, where they had always
been inseparable, wandering hand in
hand along the shore or over the hills ;
a happy boyhood where she was the one
and only companion whom he knew or
cared for — this was the sole legacy of his
early life. Leaving Holby he hrd left
her, but had never forgotten her. He
had carried with him the tender memory
of this bright being, and cherisiied his
undying fondness, not knowing what that
fondness meant. He had returned to
find her married, and severed from him
forever, at least in this life. When he
found that he had lost her he began to
understand how dear she was. All life
stood before him aimless, pointless, and
meaningless without her. He came back,

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CORD AND CREESE

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but the old intercourse could not be re-
newed ; she could not be his, and he could
only live, and love, and endure. Perhaps
it would have been wiser if he had at
once left Holby and sought out some
other abode. But the discovery of his
love was gradual ; it came through suffer-
ing and anguish ; and when he knew
that his love was so intense it was then
impossible to leave. To be near her, to
breathe the same air, to see her face
occasionally, to nurse his old memories,
to hoard up new remembrances of her
words and looks — these now became the
chief occupation of his hours of solitude,
and the only happiness left him in his
life.

One day he went up with a stronger
sense of desolation in his heart tnan
usual, going up to see her in order to gel
consolation from the sight of her face
and the sound of her voice. Their former
levity had given place to a seriousness
of manner which was very different. A
deep, intense joy shone in the eyes of
each at meeting, but that quick repartee
and light badinage which they had used
of old had been dropped.

Music was the one thing of which they
could speak without fear. Despard could
lalk of his Byzantine poets, and the
chants of the Eastern Church, without
being in danger of reawakening painful
memories. The piano stood close by,
and always afforded a convenient mode
of distracting attention when it became
too absorbed in one another.

For Mrs. Thornton did not repel
him ; she did not resent his longing ;
she did not seem forgetful of what
he so well remembered. How was it
with her who had given her hand to
another ?

•' What she felt the while
Dare he think?"

Yet there were times when he thought
it possible that she might feel as he did.
The thought brought joy, but it also
brought fear. For, if the struggle against
this feeling needed all the strength of his
nature, what must it cost her ? If she had
such a struggle as he, how could she en-
dure it } Then, as he considered this, he
thought to himself that he would rather
she would not love him than love him at
such a cost. He was willing to sacrifice
his own heart. He wished only to adore
her, and was content that she should
receive, and permit, and accept his
adoration, herself unmoved— a passion-
less divinity.

In their intercourse it was strange how
frequently there were long pauses of per-
fect silence, during which neither spoke
a word. Sometimes each sat looking at
the f^oor ; sometimes they looked at one
another, as though they could read eacli
other's thoughts, and by the mere gaze
of their earnest eyes could hold ample
spiritual communion.

On one such occasion they stood by
the window looking out upon the lawn,
but seeing nothing in that abstracted
gaze. Despard stood facing her, close to
her. Her hand was hanging by her side.
He stooped and took that little slender
hand in his. As he did so he trembled
from head to foot. As he did so a faint
flush passed over her face. Her head fell
forward. Despard held her hand and
she did not withdraw it. Despard drew
her slightly toward him. She looked up
into his face with large, eloquent eyes,
sad beyond all description, yet speaking
things which thrilled his soul. He looked
down upon her with eyes that told her
all that was in his heart. She turned her
head away.

Despard clung to her hand as though
that hand were his life, his hope, his joy—

JOURNAL OF PAOLO LANGHETTI

173

as though that alone could save him from
some abyss of despair into which he was
falling. His lips moved. In vain. No
audible sound broke that intense stillness
in which the beating and throbbing of
those two forlorn hearts could be heard.
His lips moved, but all sound died away
upon them.

At last a stronger effort broke the
silence.

" Teresa 1 "

It was a strange tone, a tone of long-
ing unutterable, a tone like that which a
dying man might use in calling before
him one most dear. And all the pent-up
feeling of years rushed forth in concen-
trated energy, and was born*^ to iier ea's
in the sound of that one word. She
looked up with the same glance as
before.

" Little playmate," said he, in a tone
of infinite sweetness, " have you ever for-
gotten the old days ? Do you remember
when you and I last stood hand in
hand ? "

His voice sounded like the utterance of
tears, as though, if he could have wept,
he would then have wept as no man

wept before ; but his eyes were dry
through his manhood, and all that tears
can express were shown forth in his
tone.

As he began to speak her head fell
again. As he ended she looked up as
before. Her lips moved. She whispered
but one word :

" Courtenay ! "

She burst into a flood of tears and
sank into a chair. And Despard stood,
not daring even to soothe her, for fear
lest in that vehement convulsion of his
soul all his self-command should give
way utterly.

At hngth Mrs. Thornton rose.
" Lama," said she, at last, in a low,
sad voice, "let us go to the piano."

" Will you sing the Ave Maria ?" he
asked mournfully.

" I dare not," said she hastily. " No,
anything but that. I will sing Rossini's
Ctijtis Am'majH."

'1 hen followed those words which tell
in lofty strains of a broken heart.

" Cujiis aniniam geincntem
Contrislatetn et dolentem
Pertransivit gladius ! "

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CHAPTER XXVII

JOURNAL OF PAOLO LANGHETTI

When Mrs. Thornton saw Despard
next she showed him a short note which
she had just received from her brother,
accompanying his journal. Nearly two
years !iad elapsed since she had last
heard from him.

His journal was written as before at
long intervals, and was as follows :

Halifax, April 10, 1847. — I exist here,
but nothing more. Nothing is offered by
this small colonial town that can afford
interest. Life goes on monotonously.
The officers and their families arc what
they are everywhere. They are amiable
and pleasant, and try to get the best out
of life. The townspeople are hospitable.

\ .

174

CORD AND CREESE

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and there is much refinement among
them.

But I live for the most part in a cottage
outside of the town, where I can be
secluded and free from observation.
Near my house is the Northwest Arm.
I cross it in a boat, and am at once in a
savage wilderness. From the summit of
a hill, appropriately named Mount Misery,
I can look down upon this city which is
bordered by such a wilderness.

The winter has passed since my last
entry, and nothing has occurred. I have
learned to skate. I went out on a moose-
hunt with Colonel Despard. The gigantic
horns of a moose which I killed are now
over the door of my studio. I have joined
in some festivities, and have done the
honors of my house. It is an old-
fashioned wooden structure which they
call the Priory.

So the winter has passed, and April
is now here. In this country there is no
spring. Snow is yet on the ground.
Winter is transformed gradually into
summer. I must keep up my fires till
June, they say.

During the winter I have guarded my
treasure well. I took a house on purpose
to have a home for her. But her melan-
choly continued, and the state of mind in
which I found her still endures. Will
it ever change? I gave out here that
she was a relative who was in ill health.
But the winter has passed, and she re-
mains precisely the same. Can she live
on long in this mood ?

At length I have decided to try a change
for her. The Holy Sisterhood of Mercy
have a convent here, a here she may find
a higher and purer atn c> ,>hf f: t'.m any-
where else. There I ha- 1 placeu her.
I have told nothing of her storv. They
think she is in guf lor t.ie death uf
friends. They have et ;v^ed her wiih

that warm sympathy and holy love which
it is the aim of their life to cherish.

" O mater alma Christ! carriss>ma,
Te nunc flagitant devota corda et ora,
Ora pro nobis ! "

August 5, 1847. — The summer goes on
pleasantly. A bracing climate, a cool
sea breeze, fishing and hunting in the
forests, sailing in the harbor — these are
the amusements which one can find if he
has the leisure.

She has been among the Sisterhood
of Mercy for some months. The deep
calm of that holy retreat has soothed her,
but only this much that her melancholy
has not lessened, but grown more placid.
She is in the midrt of those whose
thoughts are habitually directed to that
world which she longs after. The home
from which she has been exiled is the
desire of their hearts. They aim after
that place for which she longs with so
deep a longing. There is sympathy in
all those hearts with one another. Siie
hears in their chants and prayers those
hopes and desires, and these are but the
utterances of what she feels.

Here they sing the matchless Rhythm
of Bernard de Morlaix, and in these
words she finds the highest expression
that human words can give of the
thoughts and desires of her soul. They
tell me that the first time they sang it,
as they came to this passage she burst
into tears and sank down almost sense-
less :

" O bona p.itria ! Iiimina sobria te speculantnr,
Ad tua nomina sobria liimina collacrimantur ■
Est tua mentio pectoris unctis, cura doloris,
Concipientibus aethera mentibus ignis amoris."

November 17. — The winter must soon
be here again.

Mv t5 dasure is well guarded by the
Holy Sisterhood. They revere her and

i !ii,i-

JOURNAL OF PAOLO LANGHETTI

must soon

look upon her as a saint. They tell me
wonderful things about her which have
sunk into my soul. They think that she
is another Saint Cecilia, or rather Saint
Teresa, the Saint of Love and Longing.

She told them once that she was not
a Catholic, but that any form of worship
was sweet and precious to her — most of
all, the lofty utterances of the prayers
and hymns of the Church. She will not
listen to dogmas, but says that God
wishes only love and praise. Yet she
joins in all their rites, and in this house,
where Love is chiefly adored, she sur-
passes all in the deep love of her heart.

January 2, 1848. — I have seen her for
the first time in many months. She
smiled. I never saw her snhile before,
except once in the ship, when I told my
name and made her mother take my
place in the cabin.

She smiled. It was as if an angel from
heaven had smiled on me. Do I not be-
lieve that she is one ?

They all say that she is unchanged.
Her sadness has had no abatement. On
that meeting she made an effort for my
sake to stoop to me. Perhaps she saw
how my very soul entreated her to speak.
So she spoke of the Sisterhood, and said
she loved them all. I asked her if she
was happier here than at my house. She
said " No." I did not know whether to
feel rejoiced or sorrowful. Then she
told me something which has filled me
with wonder ever since.

She asked me if I had been making
enquiries about her family, for I had said
that I would. I told her that I had.
She asked what I had heard. I hesitated
for a moment, and at last, seeing that she

»75

his uncle here. She listened without
emotion, and at last, looking earnestly at
mc, said :

" He is not dead ! "

I stood amazed. I had seen the very
newspapers which contained an account
of his death. I had read the letters of
Courtenay Despard, which showed how
painstaking his search had been. Had
he not travelled to every place where he
could hear anything of the Brandons ?
Had he not written at the very outset
wherever he could hope to hear any-
thing.? I did not know what to iay.

For Louis Brandon is known to have
fallen overboard from the ship Java dur-
ing a tremendous monsoon, several hun-
dred miles away from any land. How
could he possibly have escaped death ?
The captain, whom Courtenay Despard
foun ' out and questioned, said he threw
over . hencoop and a pail. These could
not sa\ :; him. Despard also enquired for
months from every ship that arrived from
those parts, but could learn nothing.
The next ship that came from New
South Wales foundered off the coast
of Africa, Three pasij^ngers escpped
to Sierra Leone, and thence 10 England.
Despard learned their names, but they
were not Brandon. The information
which one of them, named Wheeler, g e
to the ship owners afforded no hope of s
having been found by this ship, even it
had been possible. It was simply impos-
sible, however, for the Falcon di' not
pass the spot where poor Brand' fell
overboard till months had elap ^^u

All these things I knew, a, J they
came to my mind. She did not notice
my emotion, but after a pause she U oked

I J

was superior to any sorrow of bereave- at me again witli the same earnestness,
ment, I told her all about the sad fate of and said :

)•»

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.«»

her brother Louis, which your old friend
Courtenay Despard had communicated to

" My brother Frank is not dead. "
This surprised me as much as tin ulier.

176

CORD AND CREESE

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" Are you sure ? " said I reverently.

" I am."

" How (lid you learn this ? All who
have enquired say that both of your
brothers arc dead."

" 77/^/ told me," said she, "many
times. T/iey said that my brothers had
not come among them to their own place
as they would have had to come if they
had left the earth."

She spoke solemnly and with mysteri-
ous emphasis. I said nothing, for I
knew not what to say.

On going home and thinking over this,
I saw that she believed herself to have
the power of communicating with the
departed. I did not know whether this
intelligence, which she believed she had
received, had been gained in her trance,
or whether she thought that she had
recent interviews with those on high. I
went to see her again, and asked this.
She told me that once since her re-
covery she had fallen into that state,
and had been, as she called it, "in her
home."

I ventured to ask her more about what
she considered a communion with the
departed. She tried to speak, but looked
like one who could not find words. It
was still the same as before. She has in
her mind thoughts which cannot be ex-
pressed by any human language. She
will not be able to express them till such
a language is obtained. Yet she gave
me one idea, which has been in my mind
ever since.

She said that the language of those
among whom she has been has nothing
on earth which is like it except music.
If our music could be developed to an
indefiniie extent it might at last begin to
resemble it. Yet she said that she some-
times heard strains here in the Holy
Mass which reminded her of that lan-

guage, and might be intelligible to an
immortal.

This is the idea which she imparted to
me, and I have thought of it ever since.

August 23. — Great things have haj)-
pened.

When I last wrote I had gained the
idea of transforming music into a lan-
guage. The thought came to me that I,
who thirst for music, and love it and
cherish it above all things — to whom it is
an hourly comfort and solace — that I
might rise to utter forth to her sounds
which she might hear, I had already
seen enough of her spiritual tone to know
what sympathies and emotions might
best be acted upon. I saw her several
times, so as to stimulate myself to a
higher and purer exercise of whatever
genius I may have.

I was encouraged by the thought that
from my earliest childhood, as 1 began to
learn to speak so I began to learn to sinL;.
As I learned to read printed type so I
read printed music. The thoughts of
composers in music thus became as lej^i-
ble to me as those of composers in words,
So all my life my knowledge has widened,
and with that knowledge my love has
increased. This has been my one aim
in life — my joy and my delight. Thus it
came to pass that at last, when alone
with my Cremona, I could utter all my
own thoughts, and pour forth every feel-
ing that was in my heart. This was a
language with me, I spoke it, yet there
was no one who could understand it fully.
Only one had I ever met with to whom I
told this besides yourself — she could ac-
company me— she could understand and
follow me wherever I led, I could sjicnk
this language to her, and she could hear
and comprehend. This one was my
Bice,

Now that she had told me this I grasped

'\ li

JOURNAL OF PAOLO LANflHElTI

jible to an

imparted to
ever since.
have liap-

gaincd the
into a lan-
o nie tliat 1,
love it and
o whom it is
lace — that 1
> her sounds
had already
tone to know
)tions might
V her seveial
myself to a
of whatencr

thought that
as 1 began to
learn to sing.
ed type so I
thoughts of
;came as Icf^i-
»sers in wonls.
; has widened,
my love has
i my one aim
ight. Thus it
t, when alone
I utter all my
rth every fed-
This was a
;e it, yet there
M-stand it fully.
ith to whom 1
she could ac-
nderstand and
I could si^ealc
she could hear
one was my

at the thought. Never before had the
idea entered my mind of trying upon her
the effect of my music. I had given it up
for her sake while she was with me, not
hking to cause any sound to disturb her
rapt and melancholy mood.

But now I began to understand how it
was with her. She had learned the lan-
ouage of the highest places and had heard
the New Song. She stood far above me,
and if she could not understand my music
it would be from the same reason that
a grown man cannot comprehend the
words of a lisping, stammering child.
She had that language in its fulness. I
had it only in its crudest rudiments.

Now Bice learned my words and fol-
lowed me. She knew my utterance. I
was the master — she the disciple. But
he'e was one who could lead me. I
,vould be the follower and disciple.
From her I could learn more than in all
my life I could ever discover by my ov.'n
unassisted efforts.

It was mine, therefore, to struggle to
overcome the lisping, stammering utter-
ance of my purely earthly music ; to gain
from her some knowledge of the mood of
that holier, heavenly expression, so that
at last I might be able in some degree to
speak to this exile the language of the
home which she loved ; that we, by hokl-
ing commune in this language, might
rise together to a higher spiritual realm,
and that she in her solitude might re-
ceive at least some associate.

So I proposed to her to come back and
stay with me again. She consented at
once.

Before that memorable evening I
purilied my heart by fasting and prayer.
1 was like one who was seeking to ascend
into heaven to take part in that celestial
communion, to join in the New Song, the
music of the angels.

By fasting and prayer I sought so to
ascend, and to find thoughts anil fit
utterance for those thoughts. I looked
upon my office as« similar to that of the
holy prophets of old. I felt that I had a
power of utterance if the Divine One
would only inspire.

I fasted and prayed that so I might
reduce this grosser material frame, and
sharpen and quicken every nerve, and
stimulate every fibre of the brain. So
alone could I most nearly approach to the
com'Tune of spirits. Thus had those
sainu and prophets of old done when
they had entered upon the search after
this communion, and they had received
their reward, even the visitation of angels
and the vision of the blessed.

A prophet — yes — now, in these days,
it is left for the prophet to utter forth his
inspiration by no other way than t!;at of
music.

So I fasted and prayed. I took up the
words from the holy prie? iioo(.\ and I
said, as they say :

" Miinda cor ineiim, ac labia mea, Omnipotens Deus,
(jui labia Isaia; prophetae, calculo mundasti ignito ! "

For so Isaiah had been exalted till he
heard the language of heaven, the music
of the seraphim.

She, my divinity, my adored, enshrined
again in my house, bore herself as before
— kind to me and gentle beyond all
expression, but with thoughts of her own
that placed between us a gulf as wide as
that which separates the mortal from the
immortal.

On that evening she was with me
in the parlor which looks out upon
the Northwest Arm. The moon shone
down there, the dark, rocky hills on the
opposite side rose in heavy masses. The
servants were away in the city. We
were alone.

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178

CORD AND CREESE

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Ah, my Cremona ! if a material instru-
ment were ever able to utter forth sounds
to which immortals might listen, thou
best gift of my father, thou canst utter
them !

" You are pale," said she, for she was
always kindly and affectionate as a mother
with a child, as a guardian angel with his
ward. " You are pale. You always for-
get yourself for others, and now you
suffer anxiety for me. Do not suffer. I
have my consolations."

I did not make any reply, but took my
Cremona, and sought to lift up all my
soul to a level vith hern, to that lofty
realm where her spirit ever wandered,
that so I might not be comfortless. She
started at the first tone that I struck forth,
and looked at me with her large, earnest
eyes. I found my own gaze fixed on hers,
rapt and entranced. Now there came
at Ip t the inspiration so longed for, so
s'^Uj^;, ' . It came from where her very
soul looked fc^*^ into mine, out of the
glory of her luotrous, spiritual eyes.
They grew brighter with an almost
immortal radiance, and all my heart rose
up till it seemed ready to burst in the
frenzy of that inspired momtj t.

Now I felt the spirit of proph';cy, I felt
the afflatus of the inspired sibyl or seer,
and the voice of music, which for a life-
time I had sought to utter forth, now at
last sounded as I longed that it should
sound.

I exulted in that sound. I knew that at
last T had caught the tone, and from her.
I knew its meaning and exulted, as the
poet or the musician must always exult
when some idea sublimer than any which
he has ever known is wafted over his
upturned spiritual gaze.

She shared my exultation. There
came over her face swiftly, like the light-
ning flash, an expression of surprise and

joy. So the face of the exile lightens up
at the throbbing of his heart,, when, in
some foreign land, he suddenly and unex-
pectedly hears the sound of his own
language. So his eyes light up, and his
heart beats faster, and even amid the
very longing of his soul after home, the
desire after that home is appeased by
these its most hallowed associations.

And the full meaning of that eloquent
gaze of hers, as her soul looked into inine,
became all apparent to me. " Speak on,"
it said; "sound on, oh, strains of the
language of my home. Unheard so long,
now heard at last."

I knew that I was compreheiulecl.
Now all the feelings o*^ the melanciioly
months came rushing over my heart, and
all the holiest ideas which had animated
my life came thronging into my mind,
bursting forth into tones, as though of
their own accord, involuntanly, as words
come forth in a dream.

" Oh, thou," I said, in that language
which my own lips could not utter — " oh,
thou whom I saved from the tomb, the
life to which I restored thee is irksome;
but there remains a life to which at last
thou shalt attain.

" Oh, thou," I said, " whose spirit
moves among the immortals, I am mortal
yet immortal! My soul seeks commune
with them. I yearn after that com-
munion. Life here on earth is not more
dear to me than to thee. Help me to
rise above it. Thou hast been on high,
show me too the way.

" Oh, thou," I said, " who hast seen
things ineffable, impart to me thy con-
fidence. Let me know thy secret.
Receive me as the companion of thy soul
Shut not thyself up in solitude. Listen,
I can speak thy language.

" Attend," I cried, " for it is not for
nothing that the Divine One has sent

JOURNAL OF PAOLO LANGHF.TTl

179

thee back. Live not these mortal clays
in loneliness and in uselessness. Regard
thy fellow-mortals and seek to bless them.
Thou hast learned the mystery of the
higiiest. Let me be thine interpreter
All that thou hast learned I will commu-
nicate to man.

" Rise up," I cried, " to happiness and
to labor. Behold ! I give thee a purpose
in life. Blend thy soul with mine, and let
me utter thy thoughts so that men shall
hear and understand. For I know that
the highest truth of highest Heaven
means nothing more than love. Gather
up all thy love, let it flow forth to thy
fellow-men. This shall be at once the
labor and the consolation of thy life."

Now all this, and much more — far
more — was expressed in the tones that
flowed from my Cremona. It was all in
my heart. It came forth. It was appre-
hended by her. I saw it, I knew it, and
I exulted. Her eyes dilated more widely
—my words wore not unworthy of her
hearing. I then was able to tell some-
thing which could rouse her from her
stupor. Oh, Music ! Divine Music I
What power thou hast over the soul !

There came over her face an expression
which I never saw before ; one of peace
intffable — the peace that passeth under-
standing. Ah, me ! I seemed to draw her
to myself. For she rose and walked
toward me. And a great calm came
over my own uoul. My Cremona spoke
of peace — soft, sweet, and deep ; the pro-
found peace that dvvelleth in the soul
which has its hope in fruition. The tone
widened into sweet modulation — sweet
beyond all expression.

She was so close that she almost
touched me. Her eyes were still fixed on
mine. Tears were there, but not tears
of sorrow. Her face was so close to
mine that my strength left me. My arms

dropped downward. The music was
over.

She held out her hand to mr.. I caught
it in both of mine, and wet it with my
tears.

"Paolo," said she, in a voice of musical
tone ; " Paolo, you are already one of us.
You speak our language.

" You have taught me something which
flows from love — duty. Yes, we will
labor together: and they who live on
high will learn even in their radiant home
to envy us poor mortals."

I said not a word, but knelt, and hold-
ing her hand still, I looked up at her in
grateful adoration.

November 28. — For the last three
months I have lived in heaven. She is
changed. Music has reconciled her to
exile. She has found one who speaks,
though weakly, the language of that
home.

We hold together through this divine
medium a lofty spiritual intercourse. I
learn from her of that starry world in
which for a brief time she was permitted
to dwell. Her seraphic thoughts have
become communicated to me. I have
made them my own, and all my spirit
has risen to a higher altitude.

So I have at last received that revela-
tion for which I longed, and the divine
thoughts with which she has inspired me
I will make known to the world. How ?
Description is inadequate, but it is enough
to say that I have decided upon an Opera
as the best mode of making known these
ideas.

I have resorted to one of those
classical themes which, though as old
as civilization, are yet ever new, be-
cause they are truth.

My Opera is on the theme of Prome-
theus. It refers to Prometheus De-
livered. My idea is derived from her.

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Prometheus represents Divine Love —
since he is the Clod who suffers unen-
durable agonies through his love for
man. Zeus represents the old austere
god of the sects and creeds — the
gloomy God of Vengeance — the stern
— the inexorable— the cruel.

Love endures through the ages, but
at last triumphs. The chief agent in
in his triumph is Athene. She represents
Wisdom, which, by its life and increase,
at last detlirones the God of Vengeance
and enthrones the God of Love.

For so the world goes on ; and thus
it shall be that Human Understanding,
which I have personified under Athene,
will at last exalt Divine Love over all,
and cast aside its olden adoration of
Divine Vengeance.

I am trying to give to my Opera the
severe simplicity of the classical form,
yet at the same time to pervade it all
with the warm atmosphere of love in
its widest sense. It opens with a
chorus of seraphim. Prometheus
laments ; but the chief part is that
of Athene. On that I have exhausted
myself.

But where can I get a voice that can
adequately render my thoughts — our
thoughts ? Where is Bice ? She
alone has this voice ; she alone has
the power of catching and absorbing
into her own mind the ideas which
I form ; and, with it all, she alone
could express them. I would wander
over the earth to find her. But perhaps
she is in a luxurious home, where her
associates would not listen to such
a proposal.

Patience ! perhaps Bice may at last
bring her marvellous voice to my aid.

December 15. — Every day our com-
munion has grown more exalted. She
breathes upon me the atmosphere of that

radiant world, and fills my soul with
rapture. I live in a sublime entl.usiasrn.
We hold intercourse by means of music.
We stand upon a higher plane than that
of common men. She has raised me
there, and has made me to be a p;u--
taker in her thoughts.

Now I begin to understand somethiii};
of the radiant world to which sh'^ was
once for a brief time borne. 1 know hn
lost joys; I share in her longings. In
me, as in her, there is a deep, unquen( li-
able thirst aftc" those glories that are
present there. All here seems poor and
mean. No material pleasure can for a
moment allure.

I live in a freniy. My soul is on fire.
Music is my sole thought and utterance.
Colonel Despard thinks that 1 am mad.
My friends here pity me. I smile vvilhin
myself when I think of pity being givdi
by them to me. Kindly souls ! could
they but have one faint idea of tlic
unspeakable joys to which I have at-
tained !

My Cremona is my voice. It ex-
presses all things for me. Ah, sweet
companion of my soul's flight ! my Guide,
my Guardian Angel, my Inspirer ! Ikk!
ever before two mortals while on earth a
lot like ours? Who else beside us in
this life ever learned the joys of pure
spiritual communion ? We rise on high
together. Our souls are borne up in
company. When we hold commune we
cease to be mortals.

My Opera is finished. The radiancy
of that Divine Love which has inundated
all the being of Edith has been imparted
to me in some measure sufificient to
enable me to breathe forth to human
ears tones which have been caught from
immortal voices. She has given me
ideas. I have made them audible and
intelligible to men.

al I

JOURNAL OF PAOLO LANCUL I 1 I

ibl

I have had one performance of my
work, or rather our work, for it is all hers,
llcis are the thoughts, mine is only the
expression.

I sought out a place of solitude in
which I might perform undisturbed and
withuut interruption the theme which I
have tried to unfold.

Opposite my house is a wild, rocky
shore covered with the primeval woods.
Here in one place there rises a barren
rock, perfectly bare of verdure, which is
called Mount Misery. I chose this place
as the spot where I might give my re-
hearsal.

She was the audience — I was the or
chestra — we two were alone.

Mount Misery is one barren rock with-
in out a blade of grass on all its dark iron-
like surface. Around it is a vast accu-
mulation of granite boulders and vast
rocky ledges. The trees are stunted, the
very ferns can scarcely find a place to

grow.

It was night. There vas not a cloud
ill the sky. The moon shone with
iiiarvel'ous lustre.

Down in front of us lay the long arm
of the sea that ran up between us and
the city. On the opposite side were
woods, and beyond them rose the citadel,
on the other side of which -the city lay
nestling at its base like those Rhenish
towns which lie at the foot of feudal
castles.

On the left hand all was a wilderness ;

on the right, close by, was a small lake,

I which seemed like a sheet of silver in the

I moon's rays. Farther on lay the ocean,

stretching in its boundless extent away

to the horizon. There lay islands and

sand banks with lighthouses. There,

under the moon, lay a broad path of

golden light — molten gold — unruffled —

{undisturbed in that dead calm.

My Opera begins with an Alleluia
Chorus. I have borrowed words from
the Angel Song at the opening of "I-aust "
for my score, liiit the music has an
expression of its own, and the words are
feeble; and the only comfort is that
these words will be lost in the trimnph
strain of the tones that accompany Hum

She was with me, exulting where 1
was exultant, sad where I was sorrow-
ful ; still with her air of guide and
teacher. She is my Lgcria, She is iny
Inspiring Muse. I invoke her when I
sing.

But my song carr-ed her away. Her
own thoughts expressed by my utterance
were returned to her, and she yielded
herself up altogether to their power,

Ah, me! there is one language common
to all on earth, and to all in heaven, and
that is music.

I exulted then on that bare, blasted
rock. I triumi)hed. blie joined me in
it all. We exulted together. We tri-
umphed. We mourned, we rejoiced, we
despaired, we hoped, we sung alleluias in
our hearts. The very winds were still.
The very moon seemed to stay her course.
All nature was hushed.

She stood before me, white, slender,
aerial, like a spirit from on high — as pure,
as holy, as stainless. Her soul and mine
were blended. We moved to one com-
mon impulse. We obeyed one common
motive.

What is this } Is it love .'' Yes, but
not as men call love. Ours is heavenly
love, ardent, but yet spiritual; intense,
but without passion ; a burning love like
that of the cherubim ; all-consuming, all-
engrossing, and enduring forever more.

Have I ever told her my admiration ?
Yes; but not in words. I have told her
so in music, in every tone, in every strain.
She knows that 1 am hers. She is my

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CORD AND CREESE

divinity, my muse, my better genius —
the nobler half of myself.

I have laid all my spirit at her feet, as
one prostrates himself before a divinity.
She has accepted that adoration and has
been pleased.

We are blended. We are one, but not
after an earthly fashion, for never yet
have I even touched her hand in love.
It is our spirits, our real selves — not our
merely visible selves — that love ; yet that
love is so intense that I would die for
evermore if my death could make her life
more sweet.

She has heard all this from my Cre-
mona.

Here, as we stood under the moon, I
thought her a spirit with a mortal lover.
I recognized the full meaning of the sub-
lime legend of Numa and Egeria. The
mortal aspires in purity of heart, and the
immortal comes down and assists and re-
sponds to his aspirations.

Our souls vibrated in unison to the
expression of heavenly thoughts. We
threw ourselves into the rapture of the
hour. We trembled, we thrilled, till at
last frail mortal nature could scarcely
endure the intensity of that perfect joy.

So we came to the end. The end is a
chorus of angels. They sing the divinest
of songs that is written in Holy Revela-
tion. All the glory of that song reaches
its climax in the last strain :

"And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes ! "

We wept together. But we dried our
tears and went home, musing on that
" tearless eternity " which lies before us.

Morning is dawning as I write, and all
the feeling of my soul can be expressed
in one word, the sublimest of all words,
which is intelligible to many of different
languages and different races. I will end
with this:

"Alleluia!"

CHAPTER XXVHI

THIS MUST END

The note which accompanied Lan-
ghetti's journal was as follows :

" Halifax, December 18, 1848.

" Teresuola Mia Dolcissima : I
send you my journal, sorella carissima,
I have been silent for a long time. For-
give me. I have been sad and in afflic-
tion. But affliction has turned to joy,
and I have learned things unknown be-
fore.

" Teresina mia, I am coming back to
England immediately. You may expect

to see me at any time during the next
three months. She will be with me ; but
so sensitive is she — so strange would she
be to you — that I do not know whether
it will be well for you to see her or not,
I dare not let her be exposed to the
gaze of anyone unknown to her. Yet,
sweetest sorelltna, perhaps I may be able
to tell her that I have a dearest sister,
whose heart is love, whose nature is
noble, and who could treat her with 1
tenderest care.
" I intend to offer my Opera to the |

THIS MUST END

"83

nison to the
loughts. We
rapture of the
:hrilled, till at
:oul(l scarcely
at perfect joy.
The end is a
ng the divinest
1 Holy Revela-
t song reaches
\ :

rs from their eyes!"

at we dried our
lusing on that
, lies before us.
, 1 write, and all
in be expressed
ist of all words,
nany of different
aces. I will end

during the next
be with me ; but
itrange would she
lot know whether
to see her or not,
exposed to the
»wn to her. Yet,
laps I may be able
e a dearest sister,
whose nature is
:1 treat her witti

world at London. I will be my own
impresario. Yet I want one thing,
and that is. a Voice. Oh, for a Voice
like that of Bice! But it is ^dle to
wish for her.

"Never have I heard any voice like
hers, my Teresina. God grant that
I may find her!

" Expect soon and suddenly to see
your most loving brother,

" Paolo."

Mrs. Thornton showed this note to
Despard the next time they met. He
had read the journal in the mean-
time.

" So he is coming back ? " said he.

"Yes."

" And with this marvellous girl ? "

"Yes."

" fhe seems to me like a spirit."

"And to me."

" Paolo's own nature is so lofty and
so spiritual that one like her is intelli-
gible to him. Happy is it for her that
he found her."

" Paolo is more spiritual than human.
He has no materialism. He is spiritual.
I am of the earth, earthy; but my
brother is a spirit imprisoned, who
chafes his bonds and longs to be free.
And think what Paolo has done for
her in his sublime devotion!"

"I know others who would do as
much," said Despard, in a voice that
seemed full of tears; "I know others
who, like him, would go to the grave
to rescue the one they loved, and make
all life one long devotion. I know
others," he continued, "who would
gladly die, if by dying they could gain
what he has won — the possession of
the one they love. Ah, me! Paolo is
happy and blessed beyond all men.
Between him and her there is no in-

»3

superable barrier, no gulf as deep as
death."

Despard spoke impetuously, but sud-
denly checked himself.

" I received," said he, " by the last
mail- a letter from my uncle in Halifax.
He is ordered off to the Cape of Good
Hope. I wrote him a very long time
ago, as I told you, asking him to tell me
without reserve all that he knew about
my father's death. I told him plainly
that there w^s a mystery about it which
I was determined to solve. I reproached
him for keeping it secret from me, and
reminded him that I was now a mature
man, and that he had no right nor any
reason to maintain any further secrecy.
I insisted on knowing all, no matter
what it might be.

" I received his letter by the last mail.
Here it is;" and he handed it to her.
" Read it when you get home. I have
written a few words to you, little play-
mate, also. He has told me all. Did
you know this before ? "

" Yes, Lama," said Mrs. Thornton
with a look of sorrowful sympathy.

" You knew all my father's fate ? "

" Yes, Lama."

" And you kept it secret ? "

"Yes, Lama. How could I bear to
tell you and give you pain ? "

Her voice trembled as she spoke.
Despard looked at her with an inde-
scribable expression.

" One thought," said he slowly, " and
one feeling engrosses ail my nature, and
even this news that I have heard cannot
drive it away. Even the thought of my
father's fate, so dark and so mysterious,
cannot weaken the thoughts that have
all my life been supreme. Do you know,
little playmate, what those thoughts
are ? "

She was silent. Despard's hand wan-

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184

CORD AND CREESE

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dered over the keys. They always spoke
in low tones, which were almost whispers;
tones which were inaudible except to each
other. And Mrs. Thornton had to bow
her head close to his to hear what he said.
" I must go," said Despard, after a
pause, " and visit Brandon again. I do
not know what I can do, but my father's
death requires further examination. This
man Potts is intermingled with it. My
uncle gives dark hints. I must make an
examination."

"And you are going away again?"
said Mrs. Thornton sadly.

Despard sighed.

" Would it not be better," said he, as
he took her hand in his — " would it not
be better for you, little playmate, if I
went away from you forever ? "

She gave him one long look of sad re-
proach. Then tears filled her eyes.

"This cannot go on forever," she
murmured. " It must come to that at
last ! "

CHAPTER XXIX

BEATRICE'S JOURNAL

October 30, 1848. — My recovery has
been slow, and I am still far from well.
I stay in my room almost altogether.
Why should I do otherwise ? Day suc-
ceeds day, and each day is a blank.

My window looks on the sea, and I
can sit there and feed my heart on the
memories which that sea calls up. It is
company for me in my solitude. It is
music, though I cannot hear its voice.
Oh, how I should rejoice if I could get
down by its margin and touch its waters !
Oh, how I should rejoice if those waters
would flow over me forever !

November 15. — Why I should write
anything now I do not know. This
uneventful life offers nothing to record.
Mrs. Compton is as timid, as gentle, and
as affectionate as ever. Philips, poor,
timorous, kindly soul, sends me flowers
by her. Poor wretch, how did he ever
get here ? How did Mrs. Compton ?

December 28. — In spite of my quiet
habits and constant seclusion I feel that I

am under some surveillance, not from
Mrs. Compton, but from others. I have
been out twice during the last fortnight
and perceived this plainly. Men in the
walks who were at work quietly followed
me with their eyes. I see that I am
watched. I did not know that I was of
sufficient importance.

Yesterday a strange incident occurred.
Mrs. Compton was with me, and by some
means or other my thoughts turned to
one about whom I have often tried to
form conjectures — my mother. How
could she ever have married a man like
my 'ather ? What could she have been
like ? Suddenly I turned to Mrs. Comp-
ton, an) said :
" Did you ever see my mother ? "
What there could have been in my
question I cannot tell, but she treml^led
and looked at me with greater fear in her
face than I had ever seen there before,
This time she seemed to be afraid of me,
I .-nyself felt a cold chill run through my

BEATRICE S JOURNAL

185

frame. That awful thought which I
had once before known flashed across
my mind.

" Oh ! " cried Mrs. Compton suddenly,
" oh, don't look at me so ; don't look at
nie so ! "

"I don't understand you," said I
slowly. She hid her face in her hands
and began to weep. I tried to soothe
her, and with some success, for after a
time she regained her composure.
Nothing more was said. But since then
one thought, with a long series of attend-
ant thoughts has weighed down my
mind. Wno am I? What am I?
What am I doing here? What do
these people want with me? Why do
they gttard me ?

I can write no more.

January 14, 1849. — The days drag on.
Nothing new has happened. I am tor-
mented by strange thoughts. I see this
plainly, that there are times when I
inspire fear in this house. Why is this ?

Since that day, many, many months
ago, when they all looked at me in horror,
I have seen none of them. Now Mrs.
Compton has exhibited the same fear.
There is a restraint over her. Yes, she
too fears me. Yet she is kind ; and poor
Philips never forgets to send me flowers.

I could smile at the idea of ar.yone
fearing me, if it were not for the terrible
thoughts that arise within my mind.

February 12. — Of late all my thoughts
have changed, and I have been inspired
with an uncontrollable desire to escape.
I live here in luxury, but the meanest
house outside would be far preferable.
Every hour here is a sorrow, every day a
misery. Oh, me ! if I could but escape !

Once in that outer world I care not
what might happen. I would be willing
to do menial labor to earn my bread.
Yet it need not come to that. The

lessons which Paolo taught me have been
useful in more ways than one. I know
that I at least need not be dependent.

He used to say to me that if I chose to
go on the stage and sing, I could do
something better than gain a living or
make a fortune. He said I could inter-
pret the ideas of the Great Masters, and
make myself a blessing to the world.

Why need I stay here when I have a
voice v.'hich he used to deign to praise ?
He did not praise it because he loved me ;
but I think he loved me because he loved
my voice. He loves my voice better than
me. And that other one ! Ah, me —
will he ever hear my voice again ? Did
he know how sweet his voice was to me ?
Oh, me ! its tones ring i . my ears and in
my heart night and day.

March 5. — My resolution is formed.
This may be my last entry. I pray to
God that it may be. I will trust in him
and fly. At night they cannot be watch-
ing me. There is a door at the north
end, the key of which is always in it. I
can steal out by that direction and gain
my liberty.

Oh, Thou who hearest prayer, grant
deliverance to the captive !

Farewell now, my journal ; I hope
never to see you again ! Yet I will
secrete you in this chamber, for if I am
compelled to return I may be glad to
seek you again.

March 6. — Not yet I Not yet !

Alas ! and since yesterday what things
have happened ! Last night I was to
make my attempt. They dined at eight,
and I waited for them to retire. I waited
long. They were longer than usual.

At about ten o'clock Mrs. Compton
came into my room, with as frightened a
face as usual. " They want you," said she.

I knew whom she meant. " Must I
go ? " said I,

I ! i

1 86

CORD AND CREESE

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" Alas, dear child, what can you do ?
Trust in God. He can save you."

" He alone can save nie," said I, " if
he will. It has come to this that I have
none but him in whom I can trust."

She began to weep. I said no more,
but obeyed the command and went down.

Since I was last there months had
passed — months of suffering and anguish
in body and mind. The remembrance of
my last visit there came over me as I
entered. Yet I did not tremble or falter.
I crossed the threshold and entered the
room, and stood before them in silence.

I saw the three men who had been
there before. He and his son, and the
man Clark. They had all been drinking.
Their voices were loud and their laughter
boisterous as I approached. When I
entered they became quiet, and all three
stared at me. At last he said to his son :

"She don't look any fatter, does she,
Johnnie? "

" She gets enough to eat, anyhow,"
answered John.

"She's one of them kind," said the
man Clark, " that don't fatten up. But
then, Johnnie, you needn't talk — you
haven't much fat yourself, lad."

" Hard work," said John, whereupon
the others, thinking it an excellent joke,
burst into hoarse laughter. This put
them into great good humor v.rith them-
selves, and they began to turn their
attention to me again. Not a word
was said for some time.

" Can you dance ? " said he at last,
speaking to m'' abruptly.

" Yes," I answered.

"Ah 1 I thought so. I paid enough
for your education, anyhow. It would
be hard if you hadn't learned anything
else except squalling and banging on the
piano."

I said nothing.

" Why do you stare so, d n you ? "

he cried, loc king savagely at me.

I looked i't the floor.

" Come now," said he. " I sent for you
to see if you can dance. Dance ! "

I stood still. " Dance ! " he repeated
with an oath. " Do you hear ? "

" I cannot," said I.

" Perhaps you want a partner," con-
tinued he, with a sneer. " Here, Johnnie,
go and help her."

" I'd rather not," said John.

" Clark, you try it — you were always
gay," and he gave a hoarse laugh.

"Yes, Clark," cried John. " Now's
your chance."

Clark hesitated for a moment, and then
came toward me. I stood with my arms
folded, and looked at him fixedly. I was
not afraid. For I thought in that hour
of who these men were, and what they
were. My life was in their hands, but I
held life cheap. I rose above the fear
of the moment, and felt myself their
superior.

Clark came up to me and stopped. I
did not move.

" Curse her ! " said he. " I'd as soon
dance with a ghost. She looks like one,
anyhow."

He laughed boisterously.

"He's afraid. He's getting supersti-
tious ! " he cried. " What do you think
of that, Johnnie ? "

" Well," drawled John, " it's the first
time I ever heard of Clark being afraid of
anything."

These words seemed to sting Clark to
the quick.

" Will you dance ? " said he in a hoarse
voice.

I made no answer.

" Curse her ! make her dance ! " he
shouted, starting up from his chair,
"Don't let her bully you, you fool!"

SMITHERS & CO.

187

I nyou?"

t me.

' I sent for you
>ance ! "
" he repeated
hear ? "

partner," con-
Here, Johnnie,

)hn.

a were always
oarse laugh,
ohn. " Now's

oment, and then
:1 with my arms

fixedly. I was
ht in that hour

and what they
leir hands, but I

above the fear
;lt myself their

and stopped. I

1. " I'd as soon
e looks like one,

,ly.

etting supersti-
lat do you think

n, " it's the first
being afraid of

to sting Clark to

iid he in a hoarse

her dance!" fn
from his chair.
you, you fool!"

Clark stepped toward me and laid one
heavy hand on mine, while he attempted
to pass the other round my waist. At
the horror of his polluting touch all my
nature seemed transformed. I started
back. There came something like a
frenzy over me. I neither knew nor
cared what I said.

Yet I spoke slowly, and it was not like
passion. All that I had read in that
manuscript was in my heart, the very
spirit of the murdered Despard seemed
to inspire me.

"Touch me not," I said. "Trouble
ine not. I am near enough to death
already. And you," I cried, stretching
out my hand to /urn, " ThuG ! never
again will I obey one command of yours.
Kill me if you choose, and send me after
Colonel Despard "

These words seemed to blast and wither
them. Clark shrank back, /fe gave a
groan, and clutched the arm of his chair.
John looked in fear from one to the other,
and stammered with an oath :

" She knows all ! Mrs. Compton told
i.er."

" Mrs. Compton never knew it, about
the Thug," said he, and then looked up
fearfully at me. They all looked once
more. Again that fear which I had seen
in ' them before was shown upon their
faces.

I looked upon these wretches as though
I had surveyed them from some lofty
height. That one of them was my
father was forgotten. I seemed to
utter words which were inspired within
me.

" Colonel Despard has spoken to me
from the dead, and told me all," said I.
" I am appointed to avenge him."

I turned and went out of the room.
As I left I heard John's voice :

" If she's the devil himself, as I believe
she is," he cried, " sAe's got to be took
down / "

I reached my room. I lay awake all
night long. A fever seemed raging in all
my veins. Now with a throbbing head
and trembling hands I write this. Will
these be my last words ? God grant it,
and give me safe deliverance. Amen !
amen!

CHAPTER XXX.

SMITHERS & CO.

The Brandon Bank, John Potts, Presi-
dent, had one day risen suddenly before
the eyes of the astonished county and
filled all men with curious speculations.

John Potts had been detestable, but
now, as a Bank President, he began to
be respectable, to say the least. Wealth
has a charm about it v/hich fascinates all
men, even those of the oldest families,

and now that this parvenu showed that
he could easily employ his superfluous
cash in a banking company, people began
to look upon his name as still undoubtedly
vulgar, yet as undoubtedly possessing the
ring of gold.

His first effort to take the county by
storm, by an ordinary invitation to Bran-
don Hall, had been sneered at every-

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where. But this bank was a different
thing. Many began to think that perhaps
Potts had been an ill-used and slandered
man. He had been Brandon's agent,
but who could prove anything against
him after all ?

There were very many who soon felt
the need of the peculiar help which a
b'lnk can give if it only chooses. Those
who went there found Potts marvellously
accommodating. He did not seem so
grasping or so suspicious as other bankers.
They got what they wanted, laughed at
his pleasant jokes, and assured every-
body that he was a much-belied man.

Surely it was by some special inspira-
tion that Potts hit upon this idea of a
bank ; if he wished to make people look
kindly upon him, to "be to his faults a
little blind, and to his virtues very kind,"
he could not have conceived any better
or shorter way toward the accomplish-
ment of so desirable a result.

So lenient were these people that they
looked upon all those who took part in
the bank with equal indulgence. The
younger Potts was considered as a very
clever man, with a dry, caustic humor,
but thoroughly good-hearted. Clark,
one of the directors, was regarded as
bluff, and shrewd, and cautious, but full
of the milk of human kindness; and
Philips, the cashier, was univerhclly liked
on account of his gentle, obsequious
manner.

So wide-spread and so active were the
operations of this bank that people stood
astonished and had nothing to say. The
amount of their accommodations was
enormous. Those who at first considered
it a mushroom concern soon discovered
their mistake ; for the Brandon Bank had
connections in London which seemed to
give the command of unlimited means,
and any sum whatever that might be

needed was at once advanced where the
security was at all reliable. Nor was the
bank particular about security. Jolin
Potts professed to trust much to people s
faces and to *heir character, and there
were times when he would take the secu-
rity without looking at it, or even decline
it and be satisfied with the name.

In less than a year the bank had suc-
ceeded in gaining the fullest confidence
even of those who had at first been most
skeptical, and John Potts had grown to
be considered without doubt one of the
most considerable men in the county.

One day in March John Potts was sit-
ting in the parlor of the bank when a
gentleman walked in who seemed to be
about sixty years of age. He had a slight
stoop, an*' carried a gold-headed cane.
He was dressed in black, had gray hair,
and a very heavy gray beard and mus-
tache.

" Have I the honor of addressing Mr,
Potts ? " said the stranger in a peculiarly
high, shrill voice.

" I'm Mr. Potts," said the other.

The stranger thereupon drew a letter

! from his pocket-book and handed it to

Potts. The letter was a short one, and

the moment Potts had read it he sprang

up and held out his hand eagerly.

"Mr. Smithers, sir! — you're welcome,
sir, I'm sure, sir ! Proud and happy,
sir, to see you, I'm sure!" said Potts
with great volubility.

Mr. Smithers, however, did not seem to
see his hand, but seated himself leisurely
on a chair, and looked for a moment at
the opposite wall like one in thought.

He was a singular looking old man.
His skin was fresh ; there was a grand,
stern air upon his brow when it was in
repose. The lower part of his face was
hidden by his beard, and its expression
was therefore lost. His eyes, however,

SMITHRRS & CO.

189

were sin.Tularly large and luminous, al-
thou£ " wore spectacles and generally
looked ... the floor.

" I have but recently returned from a
tour," said he in the same voice ; " and
my junior partner has managed all the
business in my absence, which has lasted
more than a year. I had not the honor
of being acquainted with your banking-
house when I left, and as I had business

up this way I thought I would call on

It
you.

" Proud, sir, and most happy to wel-
come you to our modest parlor," said
Potts obsequiously. " This is a pleasure
—indeed I may say, sir, a privilege—
which I have long wished to have. In
fact, I have never seen your junior part-
ner, sir, any more than yourself. I have
only seen your sgents, sir, and have
gone on and done my large business with
you by writing."

Mr. Smithers bowed.

"Quite so," said he. "We have so
many connections in all parts of the
world that it is impossible to have the
pleasure of a personal acquaintance with
them all. There are some with whom
we have much larger transactions than
yourself whom I have never seen."

" Indeed, sir ! " exclaimed Potts with
great surprise. " Then you must do a
larger business than I thought."

" We do a large business," said Mr.
Smithers thoughtfully.

" And all over the world, you said.
Then you must be worth millions."

" Oh, of course, one cannot do a busi-
ness like ours, that commands money,
without a large capital."

" Are there many who do a larger
business '.han I do ? "

" Oh, yes. In New York the house
of Peyton Brothers do a business of ten
times the amount — yes, twenty times.

In San Francisco a new house, just
started since the gold discoveries, has
done a business with us almost as large.
In Bombay Messrs. Nickerson, Bolton &
Co. are our correspondents ; in Calcutui
Messrs. Hostermann, Jennings & Black ;
in Kong Kong Messrs. Naylor & Tib-
betts ; in Sydney Messrs. Sandford &
Perley. Besides these, we have corre-
spondents through Europe and in all parts
of England who do a much larger busi-
ness tuan yours. But I thought you
were aware of this," said Mr. Smithers,
looking with a swift glance at Pot^s.

" Of course, of course," said Potts
hastily ; " I knew your business was
enormous, but I thought our dealings
with you were considerable."

" Oh, you are doing a snug business,"
said Smithers in a patronizing tone. " It
is our custom whenever we have corre-
spondents who are sound men to encour-
age them to the utmost. This is the
reason why you have always found us
liberal and prompt."

" You have done great service, sir,"
said Potts. " In fact, you have made
the Brandon Bank what it is to-day."

" Well," said Smithers, " we have
agents everywhere ; we heard that this
bank was talked about, and knowing the
concern to be in sure hands, we took it up.
My Junior has made arrangements with
you which he says have been satisfactory."

" Very much so to me," replied Potts.
" You have always found the money."

" And you, I suppose, have furnished
the securities."

" Yes, and a precious good lot of them
you are now holding."

" I dare say," said Smithers ; " for my
part I have nothing to do with the books.
I merely attend to the general affairs, and
trust to my Junior for particulars."

" And you don't know the exact state

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of our business ? " said Potts in a tone
of disappointment.

"No. How should I ? The only ones
with which I am familiar are our Ameri-
can, European, and Eastern agencies.
Our English correspondents are managed
by my Junior."

" You must be one of the largest houses
in London," said Potts in a tone of deep
admiration.

" Oh, yes."

" Strange I never heard of you till two
years ago or so."

" Very likely."

" There was a friend of mine who was
telling me something about some Sydney
merchants who were sending consign-
ments of wool to you : Compton & Br.in-
don. Do you know them ? "

•' I have heard my Junior speak of
them."

" You were in Sydney, were you not ? "

"Yes, on my last tour I touched
there."

" Do you know Compton & Brandon ? "

" I looked in to see them. I think
Brandon is dead, isn't he? Drowned at
sea — or something of that sort ? " said
Smithers indifferently.

" Yes," said Potts.

"Are you familiar with the banking
business? " asked Smithers suddenly.

" Well, no, not very. I haven't had
much experience; but I'm growing into it."

" Ah ! I suppose your directors are
good business men ? "

" Somewhat ; but the fact is I trust a
good deal to my cashier."

" Who is he ? "

" His name is Philips, a very clever
man ; a lirst-rate accountant."

" That's right. Very much indeed de-
pends on the cashier."

" He is a most useful and reliable
man."

" \our business appears to be growing,
from what I have heard."

" Very fast indeed, sir. Why, sir, in
another year I expect to control this
whole county financially. There is no
reason why I shouldn't. Every one of
my moves is successful."

" That is right. The true mode of
success in a business like yours is bold-
ness. That is the secret of my success.
Perhaps you are not aware," continued
Mr. Smithers in a conf lential tone,
•• that I began with very little. A few
thousands of pounds formed my capit.il.
But my motto was boldness, and now I am
worth I will not say how many millions.
If you want to make money fast you must
be bold."

" Did you make your money by bank-
ing ? " dsked Potts eagerly.

" No. Much of it was made in that
way, but I have eml nrked in all kinds of
enterprises : foreign loans, railway scrip,
and ventures in stock of all sorts. I have
lost millions, but I have made ten times
more than ever I lost. If you want to
make money, you must go on the same
plan."

"Well, I'm sure," said Potts, "I'm
bold enough. I'm enlarging my business
every day in all directions."

" That's right."

" I control the county now, and hope
in another year to do so in a different
way."

" How so ? "

" I'm thinking of setting up for Parlia-
ment "

" An excellent idea, if it will not injure
the business."

" Oh, it will not hurt it at all. Philips
can manage it all under my directions.
Besides, I don't mind telling a friend like
you that this is the dream of my life."

" A very laudable aim, no doubt, to

SMITHERS tt CO.

191

tliose who have a genius for statesman-
ship. But that is a thing which is alto-
gether out of my line. I l< j) to busi-
ness. And now, as my time is limited,
I must not stay longer. 1 will only add
that my impressions are favorable about
your bank, and you may rely upon us to
any extent to co-operate with you in any
sound enterprise. Go on and enlarge
your business, and draw on us for what
you want as before. VI were you I
would embark all my available means in
this bank."

" Well, I'm gradually coming to that,
I think," said Potts.

" Then, when you get large deposits,
as you must expect, that will give you
additional capital to work on. The best
way when you have a bank is to use
your cash in speculating in stocks.
Have you tried that yet ? "

" Yes, but not much."

" If you wish anything of that kind
done we will do it for you."

" But I don't know what are the best
investments."

" Oh, that is very easily found out.
But if you can't learn, we will let you
know. The Mexican Loan just now is
the most promising. Some of the Cali-
fornia companies are working quietly,
and getting enormous dividends."

" California ? " said Potts ; " that ought
to pay."

" Oh, there's nothing like it. I cleared
nearly half a million in a few months."

" A few months ! " cried Potts, opening
his eyes.

"Yes, we have agents who keep us
well up ; and so, you know, we are able
to speculate to the best advantage."

" California ! " said Potts thoughtfully.
" I should like to try that above all things.
It has a good sound. It is like the chink
of cash."

"Yes, yon »et the pure gold out of
that. There's nothing like it."

" Do you know any chances for specu-
lation there ? "
. " Yes, one or two."

" Would you have any objection to let
me know ? "

" Not in the least — it will extend your
business. I will ask my Junior to send
you any particulars you may desire."

" This California business must be the
best there is, if all I hear is true."

" You haven't heard the real truth."

" Haven't I ? " exclaimed Potts in won-
der. " I thought it was exaggerated,"

" I could tell you stories far more won-
derful than anything you have heard."

" Tell me ! " cried Potts breathlessly.

" Well," said Smithers confidentially, " I
don't mind telling you something which
is known, I'm sorry to say, in certain
circles in London, and is already being
acted on. One-half of our fortune has
been made it California operations."

" You don'i iay so ! "

" You see, I've always been bold," con-
tinued Smithers with an air of still
greater confidence. " I read some time
since in one of Humboldt's books about
gold being there. At the first news of
the discovery I chartered a ship and went
out at once. I took everything that
could be needed. On arriving at San
Francisco, where there were already very
many people, I sold the cargo at an enor-
mous profit, and hired the ship as a
warehouse at enormous prices. I then
organized a mining company, and p^^t a
first-rate man at the head of it. They
found a place on the Sacramento River
where the gold really seems inexhaustible.
I worked it for some months, and
forwarded two million sterling to Lon-
don. Then I left, and my company is
still working."

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CORD AND CREESE

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" Why (lid you leave ? " asked Potts,
brc.illilfssly.

" Because I could make more money
by being in London. My man there is
reliable. I have bound him to us by
giving him a share in the business.
I'cojjle soon found out that Smithers &
Co. had made enormous sums of money
in California, but they don't know exactly
how. The immense expansion of our
business during the last year has filled
them with wonder. F'or you know every
piece of gold that I sent home has been
utilized by my Junior,"

Potts was silent, and sat looking in
breathless admirauon at this millionaire.
All his thoughts were seen in his face.
His whole heart was laid bare, and the
one thing visible was an intense desire to
share in that golden enterprise.

" I have organized two companies on
the same principle as the last. The
shares are selling at a large premium
in the London market. I take a lead-
ing part in each, and my name gives
stability to the enterprise. If I find the
thing likely to succeed I continue; if
not, why, I can easily sell out. I am
on the point of organizing a third com-
pany."

" Are the shares taken up ? " cried
Potts eagerly.

" No, not yet."

" Well, could I obtain some ? "

" I really can't say," replied Smithers.
" You might make an application to my
Junior. I do nothing whatever with the
details. I don't know what plans or
agreements he may have been making.''

" I should like exceedingly to take
stock. How do the shares sell ? "

" The price is high, as we wish to con-
fine our shareholders to the richer classes.
We never put it at less than one thousand
pounds a share,"

" I would take any quantity."

" I dare say some may be in the mar-
ket yet," said Smithers calmly. " They
probably sell at a high premium,
though."

" I'd pay it," said Potts.

" Well, you may write and see ; I know
nothing about it."

" And if they're all taken up, what
then ? "

"Oh— then— I really don't know.
Why can't you organize a company
yourself ? "

" Well, you see, I don't know anything
about the place."

" True ; that is a disadvantage. But
you might find some people who do
know."

" That would be very difiicult. I do
not see how we could begin. And if
I did find anyone, how could I trust
him?"

" You'd have to do as I did — give him
a share of the business."

" It would be much better if I could
get some stock in one of your companies.
Your experience and credit would make
it a success."

" Yes, there is no doubt that our com-
panies would all be successful since we
have a man on the spot."

" And that's another reason why I
should prefer buying stock from you.
You see, I might form a company, but
what could I do ? "

" Could not your cashier help you ? "

" No, not in anything of that sort."

" Well, I can say noihing about it.
My Junior will tell you what chances
there are."

" But while I see you personally I
should be glad if you would consent
to give me a chance. Have you any
objection ? "

" Oh, no. I will mention your case the

SMITIIIikS \ CO.

193

know anything

I did— give him

dit would make

u personally I
would consent
Have you any

on your case the

ncxi thne I write, if you wish it. Still I
cannot control the particular operations
of the ofTicc. My control is supreme in
jjeneral matters, and you see it would not
l)c possible for me to interfere witij the
smaller details."

" Still you might mention me."

" I will do so," saiil Smithers, and tak-
ing out his pockei-book he prepared to
write.

" Let me see," said he, " your Christian
name is — what ? "

"John— John Potts."

"John Totts," repeated the other as he
wrote it down.

Smithers rose. " You may continue to
draw on us as before, and any purchases
of stock which you wish will be made."

Potts thanked him profusely.

" I wish to see your cashier, to learn
his mode of managing the accounts.
Much depends on that, and a short con-
versation will satisfy me."

" Certainly, sir, certainly," said Potts
obsequiously. " Philips ! " he called.

rhilips came in as timid and as shrink-
ing as usual.

" This is Mr. Smithers, the great Smith-
ers of Smithers & Co., Bankers ; he wishes
to have a talk with you."

Philips looked at the great man with
deep respect and made an awkward bow.

" You may come with me to my hotel,"
said Smithers ; and with a slight bow to
Potts he left the bank, followed by
Philips.

He went upstairs and into a large par-
lor on the second story, which looked
into the street. He motioned Philips to
a chair near the window, and seated him-
self in an armchair opposite.

Smithers looked at the other with a
searching glance, and said nothing for
some time. His large, full eyes, as they
fixed themselves on the face of the other,

seemed to read his inmost thoughts and
study every part of his weak and irreso-
lute character.

At length he said abruptly, in a slow,
rneasured voice, " Edgar Lawton ! "

At the sound of this name Philips
started from his chair, and stood on his
feet ttonibling. His face, always pale,
now became ashen, his lips turned white,
his jaw fell, his eyes seemed to start
froni their sockets. He stood for a few
seconds, then sank back into a chair.

Smithers eyed him steadfastly. " You
see I know you," said he after a time.

Philips cast on him an imploring look.

*' The fact that I know your name,"
continued Smithers, "shows also that I
must know something of your history.
Do not forget that ! "

" My— my history ? " faltered Philips.

" Yes, your history. I know it all,
wretched man ! I knew your father
whom you ruined, and whose heart you
broke."

Philips said not a word, but again
turned an imploring face to this man.

" I have brought you here to let you
know that there is one who holds you
in his power, and that one is myself.
You think Potts and Clark have you at
their mercy. Not so. I alone hold your
fate in my hands. They dare not do
anything against you for fear of their
own necks."

Philips looked up now in wonder, which
was greater than his fear.

" Why," he faltered, " you are Potts'
friend. You got him to start the bank,
and you have advanced him money."

"You are the cashier," said Smithers
calmly. " Can you tell me how much
the Brandon Bank owes Smithers &
Co. ? "

Philips looked at the other and
hesitated.

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194

CORD AND CREESE

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" Speak ! "

" Two hundred and eighty-nine thou-
sand pounds."

" And if Smithers & Co. chose to
demand payment to-morrow, do you
think the Brandon Bank would be
prompt about it ? "

Philips shook his head.

" Then you see that the man whom
you fear is not so powerful as some
others."

*' I thought you were his friend ? "

** Do you know who I am ? "

'* Smithers & Co.," said Philips wearily.

" Well, let me tell you the plans of
Smithers & Co. are beyond your com-
prehension. Whether they are friends to
Potts or not, it seems that they are his
creditors to an amount which it would be
difficult for him to pay if they chose to
demand it."

Philips looked up. He caught sight of
the eyes of Smithers, which blazed like
two dark, fiery orbs as they were fastened
upon him. He shuddered.

" I merely wished to show you the
weakness of the man whom you fear.
Shall I tell you something else ? "

Philips looked up fearfully.

" I have been in York, in Calcutta, and
in Manilla ; and I know what Potts did in
each place. You look frightened. You
have every reason to b( so. I know what
was done at York. I know that you were
sei'V t"- Botany Bay. I know that you ran
away f - t your father to India, i know
you;' ■ ''j tiiere. I know how narrowly
ycr, e? ?aped going on board the Vishnu,
anil V'Ci'g ir.iplicated in the Manilla
4r»urder. Madman that you were, why
did you not ^ake your poor mother and
fly from these wretches forever ? "

Philips trembled from head to foot.
He said not a word, but bowed his head
upon his knees and wept.

" Where is she now ? " said Smithers
sternly. Philips mechanically raised his
head, and pointed over toward Brandon
Hall.

" is she conhned against her will ? "

Philips shook his head.

"She stays, then, through love of
you ? "

Philips nodded.

'* Is anyone else there ? " said Smithers
after a pause, and in a strange, sad voice,
in which ther€ was a faltering tone which
Philips, in his fright, did not notice.

" Miss Potts," he said.

" She is treated cruelly," said Smithers.
" They say she is a prisoner ? "

Philips nodded.

" Has she been sick ? "

" Yes."

" How long ? "

" Eight months, last year."

" Is she well now } "

" Yes."

Smithers bowed his head in silence,
and put his hand on his heart. Philips
watched him iii an agony of fright, as
though every instant he was apprehen-
sive of some terrible calamity.

" How is she ? " continued Smithers
after a time. " Has she ever been happy
since she went there ? "

Philips shook his head slowly and
mournfully.

"Does her father ever show her any
affection ? "

" Never."

" Does her brother ? "

" Never."

" Is there anyone who does ? "

"Yes."

" Who ? "

" Mrs. Compton."

" Your mother ? "

"Yes."

"I will not forget that. No, I will

SMITHERS & CO.

«95

lat. No, I will

never forget that. Do you think that
she is exposed to any danger ? "

" Miss Potts ? "

Smithers bowed.

" I don't know. I sometimes fear so."

" Of what kind ? "

" I don't know. Almost any horrible
thing may happen in that horrible place."

A pang of agony shot across the
sombre brow of Smithers. He was
silent for a long time.

" Have you ever slighted her ? " he
asked at last.

" Never," cried Philips. " I could
worship her "

Smithers smiled upon him with a smile
so sweet that it chased all Philips' fears
away. He took courage and began to
show more calm.

" Fear nothing," said Smithers in a
gentle voice. " I see that in spite of
your follies and crimes there is some-
tliing good in you yet. You love your
mother, do you not ? "

Tears came into Philips' eyes. He
sighed. " Yes," he said humbly.

" And you are kind to her — that other

" I love her as my mother," said Phil-
ips earnestly.

Smithers again relapsed into silence
for a long time. At last he looked up.
Philips saw his eyes this time, no longer
stern and wrathful, but benignant and
indulgent.

" You have been all your life under the
power of merciless men," said he. " You
have been led by them into folly and
crime and suffering. Often you have
been forced to act against your will.
Poor wretch ! I can save you, and I in-
tend to do so in spite of yourself. You
fear these masters of yours. You must
know now that I, not they, am to be
feaiecl, They know your secret, but dare

not use it against you, I know it, and
can use it if I choose. You have been
afraid of them all your life. Fear them
no longer, but fear me. These men whom
you fear are in my power as well as you
are. I know all their secrets — there is
not a crime of theirs of which you know
that I do not know also, and I know far
more.

" You must from this time forth be my
agent. Smithers «S: Co. have agents in
all parts of the world. You shall be
their agent in Brandon Hall. You shall
say nothing of this interview to anyone,
not even to your mother ; you shall not
dare to communicate with me unless you
are requested, excent about such things
as I shall specify. If you dare to shrink
in any one point from your duty, at that
instant I will come down upon you with
a heavy hand. You, too, are watched. I
have other agents here in Brandon besides
yourself. Many of those who go to the
bank as customers are my agents. You
cannot be false without my knowing it ;
and when you are false, that moment you
shall be handed over to the authorities.
Do you hear?"

The face of Smithers was mild, but his
tone was stern. It was the warning of a
just yet merciful master. All the timid
nature of Philips bent in deep subjection
before the powerful spirit of this man.
He bowed his head in silence.

" Whenever an order comes to you
from Smithers & Co. you must obey ; if
you do not obey instantly, whatever it is,
it will be at the risk of your life. Do you
hear?"

Philips bowed.

" There is only one thing now in which
I wish you to do anything. You must
send every month a notice directed to
Mr. Smithers, senior, about the health
of his daughter. Shou'd any sudden

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196

CORD AND CREESE

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danger impend you must nt once com-
municate it. You understand ? "

Philips bowed.

"Once more I warn you always to
remember that I am your master. Fail
in one single thing, and you perish.
Obey me, and you shall be rewarded.
Now go ! "

Philips rose, and, more dead than alive,
tottered from the room.

When he left Smithers locked the
door. He then went to the window
and stood looking at Brandon Hall,
with his stern face softened into sad-
ness. He hummed low words as he
stood there — words which once had
been sung far away. Among them

were these, with which the strain
ended :

" And the sad memory of our life below
Shall but unite us closer evermore ;
No act of thine shall loose
Thee from the eternal bond,
Nor shall Revenge have power
To disunite us t/iere I "

With a sigh he sat down and buried his
face in his hands. His gray hair loosened
and fell off as he sat there. At last he
raised his head, and revealed the face of
a young man whose dark hair showed the
gray beard to be false.

Yet when ho once more put on his wig
none but a most intimate friend with the
closest scrutiny could recognize there the
features of Louis Brandon.

CHAPTER XXXI

PAOLO LANGHETTI

Many weeks passed on, and music still
formed the chief occupation in life for
Despard and Mrs. Thornton. His jour-
ney to Brandon village had been without
result. He knew not what to do. The
enquiries which he made everywhere
turned out useless. Finally Thornton
informed him that it was utterly hope-
less, at a period so long after the event,
to attempt to do anything whatever.
Enough had been done long ago. Now
nothing more could possibly be effected.

Baffled, but not daunted, Despard fell
back for the present from his purpose,
yet still cherished it and wrote to different
quarters for information. Meantime he
had to return to his life at Holby, and
Mrs. Thornton was still ready to assist
him.

So the time went on, and the weeks

passed, till one day in March Despard
went up as usual.

On entering the parlor he heard voices,
and saw a stranger. Mrs. Thornton
greeted him as usual and sat down smil-
ing. The stranger rose, and he and Des-
pard looked at one another.

He was of medium size and slight in
figure. His brow was very broad and
high. His hair was black, and clustered
in curls over his head. His eyes were
large, and seemed to possess an un-
fathomable depth, which gave them a
certain undefinable and mystic meaning-
liquid eyes, yet lustrous, where all the
soul seemed to live and show itself—
benignant in their glance, yet lofty, like
the eyes of a being from some superior
sphere. His face was thin and shaven
close, his lips also \yere thin, wjth a per-

i y

PAOLO LANGHETTI

1 the Strain

life below
ermore ;

I,
)wer

and buried his
y hair loosened
e. At last he
led the face of
lair showed the

put on his wig
friend with the
agnize there the

March Despard

he heard voices,
Mrs. Thornton
\ sat down sniil-
and he and Des-
ler.

ze and slight in
very broad and
ck, and clustered
His eyes were
possess an un-
ch gave them a
nystic meaning-
is, where all the
lid show itself—
ice, yet lofty, like
m some superior
thin and shaven
thin, with a per-

petual smile of marvellous sweetness and
gentleness hovering about them. It was
buch a face as artists love to give to the
Apostle John — the sublime, the divine,
the loving, the inspired.

"You do not know him," said Mrs.
Thornton. " It is Paolo ! "

Despard at once advanced and greeted
him with the warmest cordiality.

" I was only a little fellow when I saw
you last, and you have changed some-
what since then," said Despard. '' But
when did you arrive ? I knew that you
were expected in England, but was not
sure that you would come here."

" What ! Teresuola mia" said Lan-
ghetti, with a fond smile at his sister.
"Were you really not sure, sorellina,
that I would come to see you first of all }
Infidel ! " and he shook his head at her
playfully.

A long conversation followed, chiefly
about Langhetti's plans. He was going
to engage a place in London for his
opera, but wished first to secure a singer.
Oh, if he only could find Bice — his Bicina,
the divinest voice that mortals ever
heard.

Despard and Mrs. Thornton exchanged
glances, and at last Despard told him
that there was a person of the same name
at Brandon Hall. She was living in a
seclusion so strict that it seemed confine-
ment, and there was a mystery about her
situation which he had tried without suc-
cess to fathom.

Langhetti listened with a painful sur-
prise that seemed like positive anguish.

"Then I must go myself. Oh, my
Bicina — to what misery have you come !
But do you say that you have been there ?"

" Yes."

" Did you go to the Hall ? "

" No."

"Why not?"

" Because I know
villain indescribable —

197

the man to be a

( ;

Langhetti thought for a moment, and
then said :

" True, he is all that, and perhaps more
than you imagine."

" I have done the utmost that can be
done ! " said Despard.

" Perhaps so ; still each one wishes
to try for himself, and though I can
scarce hope to be mere successful than
you, yet I must try, if only for my own
peace of mind. Oh, Bicina cara! to
think of her sweet and gentle nature
being subject to such torments as those
ruffians can inflict !

" You do not kpow how it is," said he
at last very solemnly ; " but there are
reasons of transcendent importance why
Bice should be rescued. I cannot tell
them ; but if I dared mention what I
hope, if I only dared to speak my
thoughts, you — you," he cried with
piercing emphasis, and in a tone that
thrilled through Despard, to whom he
spoke, " you would make it the aim
of all your life to save her."

" I do not understand," said Despard
in astonishment.

" No, no," murmured Langhetti.
" You do not ; nor dare I explain what
I mean. It has been in my thoughts for
years. It was brought to my mind first
in Hong Kong, when she was there.
Only one person besides Potts can ex-
plain ; only one."

" Who ? " cried Despard eagerly.

" A woman named Compton."

" Compton ! "

"Yes. Perhaps she is dead. Alas,
and alas, and alas, if she is ! Yet could I
but see that woman I would tear the
truth from her if I perished in the
attempt ! "

And Langhetti stretched out his long,

198

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slender hand, as though he were plucking
out the very heart of some imaginary
enemy.

" Think, Teresuola," said he after a
while, " if you were in captivity, what
would become of my opera? Could I
have the heart to think about operas,
even if I believed that they contributed to
the welfare of the world, if your welfare
was at stake ? Now you know that next
to you stands Bice. I must try and save
her — I must give up all. My opera must
stand aside till it be God's will that I give
it forth. No, the one object of my life
now must be to find Bice, to see her or to
see Mrs. Compton, if she is alive."

" Is the secret of so much importance ?"
asked Despard.

Langhetti looked at him with mournful
meaning.

" If you but suspected it," said he,
" your peace of mind would be lost. I
will therefore on no account tell it."

Despard loo I' J at him wonderingly.
What could he mean ? How could any-
one affect him ? His peace of mind !
That had been lost long ago. And if
this secret was so terrible it would dis-
tract his mind from its grief, its care,
and its longing. Peace would be re-
stored rather than destroyed.

" I must find her. I must find her,"
said Langhetti, speaking half to himself.
" I am weak ; but much can be done by
a resolute will."

" Perhaps Mr. Thornton can assist
you," said Despard.

Langhetti shook his head.

" No ; he is a man of law, and does
not understand the man who acts from
feeling. I can be as logical as he, but I
obey impulses which are unintelligible to
him. He would simply advise me to give
up the matter, adding, perhaps, that I
would do myself no good. Whereas he

cannot understand that it makes no dif-
erence to me whether I do myself good
or not ; and again, that the highest good
that I can do myself is to seek after her."

Mrs. Thornton looked at Despard, but
he avoided her glance.

"No," said Langhetti, "I will ask
assistance from another— from you, Des-
pard. You are one who acts as I act.
Come with me."

" When ? "

" To-morrow morning."

" I will."

" Of course you will. You would not
be a Despard if you did not. You would
not be the son of your father — your
father!" he repeated in thrilling tones
as his eyes flashed with enthusiasm.
" Despard," he cried after a pause, "your
father was a man whom you might pray
to now. I saw him once. Shall I ever
forget the day when he calmly went to
lay down his life for my father? Des-
pard, I worship your father's memory.
Come with me. Let us emulate those
two noble men who once before rescued
a captive. We cannot risk our lives as
they did. Let us at least do what we
can."

" I will do exactly what you say. You
can think and I will act." ,

" No, you must think too. Neither of
us belong to the class of practical men
whom the world now delights to honor ;
but no practical man would go on our
errand. No practical man would have
rescued my father. Generous and lofty
acts must always be done by those who
are not practical men.

"But I must go out. I must think,"
he continued. " I will go and walk about
the grounds."

Saying this he left the room.

"Where is Edith Brandon?" asked
Despard after he had gone.

FLIGHT

makes no dif-
myself good
e highest good
leek after her. "
t Despard, but

, " I will ask

from you, Des-

acts as I act.

" She is here," said Mrs. Thornton.

" Have you seen her ? "

"Yes."

" Is she what you anticipated f "

199

" More. She is indescribable. She is

almost unearthly. I feel awe of her, but

not fear. She is too sweet to inspire
fear."

CHAPTER XXXII

\ 1

FLIGHT

You would not
ot. You would
ar father— your

thrilling tones
ith enthusiasm,
r a pause, " your
you might pray
ce. Shall I ever

calmly went to
y father? Dts-
ather's memory.
emulate those
e before rescued
risk our lives as
ast do what we

It you say. You

too. Neither of
of practical men
elights to honor;
vould go on our
man would have
;nerous and lofty
)ne by those who

I must think,"
to and walk about

e room.

Jrandon?" asked
rone.

The last entry in Beatr'ce's journal was
made by her in the hope that it might be
the last.

In her life at Brandon Hall her soul
had grown stronger and more resolute.
Besides, it had now come to tiiis, that
henceforth she must either stay and ac-
cept the punishment which they might
contrive or fly instantly.

For she had dared them to their faces ;
slie had told them of their crimes ; she
had threatened punishment. She had
said that she was the avenger of Despard.
If she had desired instant death she
could have said no more than that.
Would they pass it by ? She knew their
secret— the secret of secrets ; she had
proclaimed it to their faces. She had
called Potts a Thug and disowned him
as her father ; what now remained ?

But one thing — flight. And this she
was fully resolved to try. She prepared
notliing. To gain the outside world was
all she wished. The need of money was
not thought of ; nor if it had been would
it have made any difference. She could
not have obtained it.

The one idea in her mind was there-
fore flight. She had concealed her jour-
nal under a loose piece of the flooring in
one of the closets of her room, being un-
willing to encumber herself with it, and

dreading the result of a search in case
she was captured.

She made no other preparations what-
ever. A light hat and a thin jacket were
all that she took to resist the chill air of
March. There was a fever in her veins
which was heightened by excitement and
suspense.

Mrs. Compton was in her room during
the evening. Beatrice said but little.
Mrs. Compton talked drearily about the
few topics on which she generally spoke.
She never dared talk about the affairs of
the house.

Beatrice was not impatient, for she had
no idea of trying to escape Lefore mid-
night. She sat silently while Mrr>. Comp-
ton talked or prosed, absorbed in her
own thoughts and plans. The hours
seemed to her interminable. Slowly and
heavily they dragged on. Beatrice's sus-
pense and excitement grew stronger
every moment, yet by a violent effort she
preserved so perfect an outward calm
that a closer observer than Mrs. Compton
would have failed to detect any emotion.

At last about ten o'clock Mrs. Comp-
ton retired, with many kind wishes to
Beatrice, and many anxious counsels as
to her health. Beatrice listened patiently,
and made some general remarks, after
which Mrs. Compton withdrew.

200

CORD AND CREESE

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She was now left to herself, and two
hours still remained before she could
dare to venture. She paced the room
fretfully and anxiously, wondering why it
was that the time seemed so long, and
looking from time to time at her watch
in the hope of finding that half an hour
had passed, but seeing to her disappoint-
ment that only two or three minutes had
gone.

At last eleven o'clock came. She stole
out quietly into the hall and went to the
top of the grand stairway. There she
stood and listened.

The sound of voices came up from the
dining room, which was near the hall
door. She knew to whom those voices
belonged. Evidently it was not yet the
time for her venture.

She went back, controlling her excite-
ment as best she might. At last, after
a long, long suspense, midnight sounded.

Again she went to the head of the
stairway. The voices were still heard.
They kept late hours down there. Could
she try now while they were still up ?
Not yet.

Not yet. The suspense became agon-
izing. How could she wait? Bi c she
went back again to her room, and
smothered her feelings until one o'clock
came.

Again she went to the head of the
stairway. She heard nothing. She could
see a light streaming from the door of
the dining hall below. Lights also were
burning in the hall itself ; but she heard
no voices.

Softly and quietly she went downstairs.
The lights flashed out through the door
of the dining room into the hall ; and as
she arrived at the foot of the stairs she
heard subdued voices in conversation.
Her heart beat faster. They were all
there ! What if they now discovered

her? What mercy would they show
her, even if they were capable of mercy ?

Fear lent wings to her feet. She was
almost afraid to breathe for fear that
they might hear her. She stole on quietly
and noiselessly up the passage that led to
the north end, and at last reached it.

All was dark there. At this end there
was a door. On each side was a kind of
recess formed by the pillars of the door-
way. The door was generally used by
the servants, and also by the inmates of
the house for convenience.

The key was in it. There was no
light in the immediate vicinity. Around
it all was gloom. Near by was a stair-
way, which led to the servants' hall.

She took the key in her hands, which
trembled violently with excitement, and
turned it in the lock.

Scarcely had she done so when she
heard footsteps and voices behind her.
She looked hastily back, and, to her
horror, saw two servants approaching
with a lamp. It was impossible for her
now to open the door and go out. Con-
cealment was her only plan.

But how? There was no time for
hesitation. Without stopping to think
she slipped into one of the niches formed
by the projecting pillars, and gathered
her skirts close about hef so aL to be as
little conspicuous as possible. There she
stood awaiting the result. She half
wished that she had turned back. For if
she were now discovered in evident con-
cealment what excuse could she give?
She could not hope to bribe them, for she
had no money. And, what was worst,
these servants were the two who had
been the most insolent to her from the
first.

She could do nothing, therefore, but
wait. They came nearer, and at last
reached the door.

FLIGHT

aoi

^g, therefore, but
arer, and at last

" Hallo I " said one, as he turned the
key. " It's been unlocked ! "

" It haint been locked yet," said the
other.

" Yes, it has. I locked it myself,
an hour ago. Who could have been
here ? "

" Anyone," said the other quietly.
" Our blessed young master has, no doubt,
been out this way."

"No, he hasn't. He hasn't stirred
from his whisky since eight o'clock."

" Nonsense ! You're making a fuss
about nothing. Lock the door and come
along."

"Anyhow, I'm responsible, and I'll
get a precious overhauling if this thing
goes on. I'll take the key with me this
time."

And saying this, the man locked the
door and took out the key. Both of
them then descended to the servants'
hall.

The noise of that key as it grated in the
lock sent a thrill through the heart of
the trembling listener. It seemed to take
all hope from her. The servants de-
parted. She had not been discovered.
But what was to be done ? She had not
been prepared for this.

She stood for some time in despair.
She thought of other ways of escape.
There was the hall door which she did
not dare to try, for she would have to
pass directly in front of the dining room.
Then there was the south door at the
oilier end of the building, which was sel-
dom used. She knew of no others. She
determined to try the south door.

Quietly and swiftly she stoh away, and
glided, like a ghost, along the entire
length of the building. It was quite dark
at the south end as it had been at the
north. She reached the door without
accident.

There was no key in it. It was locked.
Escape by that way was impossible.

She stood despairing. Only one way
was now left, and that lay through the
hall-door itself.

Suddenly, as she stood there, she heard
footsteps. A figure came down the long
hall straight toward her. There was not
the slightest chance of concealment here.
There were no pillars behind which she
might crouch. She must stand, then,
and take the consequences. Or, rather,
would it not be better to walk forward
and meet this new-comer ? Yes ; that
would be best. She determined to do so.

So, with a quiet, slow step she walked
back through the long corridor. About
half-way she met the other. He stopped
and started back.

" Miss Potts ! " he exclaimed in sur-
prise.

It was the voice of Philips.

" Ah, Philips," said she quietly, " 1 am
walking about for exercise and amuse-
ment. I cannot sleep. Don't be startled.
It's only me."

Philips stood like one paralyzed.

" Don't be cast down," he said at last
in a trembling voice. " You have friends,
powerful friends. They will save you,"

" What do you mean ? " asked Beatrice
in wonder,

" Never mind," said Philips myster-
iously. " It will be all right. I dare not
tell. But cheer up."

" What do you mean by friends ? "

" You have friends who are more
powerful than your enemies, that's all,"
said Philips hurriedly. " Cheer up."

Beatrice wondered. A vague thought
of Brandon came over her mind, but she
dismissed it at once. Yet the thought
gave her a delicious joy, and at once dis-
pelled the extreme agitation which had
thus far disturbed her. Could Philips

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302

CURU AND CREESE

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be connected with /im ? Was //^ in
reality considerate about her while shap-
ing the course of his gloomy vengeance ?
These were the thoughts which Hashed
across her mind as she stood.

" I don't understand," said she at last ;
" but I hope it may be as you say. God
knows I need friends ! "

She walked away, and Philips also went
onward. She walked slowly until at last
his steps died out in the distance. Then
a door banged. Evidently she had
nothing to fear from him. At last she
reached the main hall, and stopped for a
moment. The lights from the dining
room were still flashing out through the
door. The grand entrance lay before her.
There was tiie door of the hall, the only
way of escape that now remained. Dare
she try it }

She deliberated long. Two alterna-
tives lay before her — to go back to
her own room, or to try to pass that
<loor. To go back was as repul-
sive as death, in fact m( re so. If the
choice had been placed full before her
then, to die on the spot or to go back
to her room, she would have deliberately
chosen death. The thought of returning,
therefore, was the last upon which she
could dwell, and that of going forward
was the only one left. To this she gave
her attention.

At last she made up her mind and
advanced cautiously, close by the wall,
toward the hall-door. After a time she
reached the door of the dining room.
Could she venture to pass it, and how ?
She paused. She listened. There were
low voices in the room. Then they were
still awake, still able to detect her if she
passed the door.

She looked all around. The hall was
wide. On the opposite side the wall was
but feebly lighted. The hall lights had

been put out, and those which shone
from the room extended forward liut a
short distance. It was just possible
therefore to oscape observation by cross-
ing the doorway along the wall that was
most distant from it.

Yet before she tried this she ventured to
put forward her head so as to peep intu
the room. She stooped low, and looked
cautiously and slowly.

The three were then at the farthest end
of the room. Bottles and glasses stooil
before them, and they were conversing in
low tones. Those tones, however, wcie
not so low but that they reached her ears.
They were speaking about her.

" How could she have found it out ? "
said Clark.

" Mrs. Compton only knows one thing y
said Potts, "and that is the secret about
her. Sne knows nothing more. How
could she ? "

" Then how could that cursed girl have
found out about the Thug business ? "
exclaimed John.

There was no reply.

" She's a deep one," said John, " d d

deep— deeper than I ever thought. I
always said she was plucky — cursed
plucky— but now I see she's deep too
— and I begin to have my doubts about
the way she ought to be took down."

" I never could make her out," said
Potts. *' And now I don't even begin
to understand how she could know that
which only we have known. Do you
think, Clark, that the devil could have
told her of it?"

" Yes," said Clark. " Nobody but the
devil could have told her that, and my
belief is that she's the devil himself.
She's the only person I ever felt afraid

of. D n it, I can't look her in the

face."

Beatrice retreated and passed across to

;rii:

FLIGHT

203

id passed across I

the opposite wall. She did not wish to
licar or see more. She glided by. She
was not noticed. She heard John's voice
—sharp and clear :

" We'll have to begin to-morrow and
t;ike her down — that's a fact." This was
followed by sMence.

lieatrice reached the door. She turned
the knob. Oh, joy I it was not locked.
It opened.

Noiselessly she passed through ; noise-
lessly she shut it behind her. She was
outside. She was free.

The moon shone brightly. It illumined
the lawn in front and the tops of the
clumps of trees whose dark foliage rose
before her. She saw all this ; yet, in her
eagerness to escape, she saw nothing
more, but sped away swiftly down the
steps, across the lawn, and under the
shade of the trees.

Which way should she go ? There
was the main avenue, which led in a
winding direction toward the gate and
the porter's lodge. There vvar> also
another path which the servants gener-
ally took. This led to the gate also.
Beatrice thought that by going down
this path she might come near the gate
and then turn off to the wall and try and
climb over.

A few moments of thought were suffi-
cient for her decision. She took the path
and went hurriedly along, keeping on the
side where the shadow was thickest.

She walked swiftly, until at length she
came to a place where the path ended.
It was close by the porter's lodge. Here
she paused to consider.

Late as it was there were lights in the
lodge and voices at the door. Someone
was talking wi^h the porter. Suddenly
the voices ceased and a man came walk-
ing toward the place where she stood.
To dart into the thick trees where the

shadow lay deepest was the work of a
moment. She stood and watched. Hut
the underbrush was dense, and the crack-
ling which she made attracted the man's
attention. He stopped for a moment,
and then rushed straight toward the
place where she was.

Beatrice gave herself up for lost. She
rushed on wildly, not knowing where she
went. Behind her was the sound of her
pursuer. He followed resolutely and
relentlessly. There was no refuge for
her but continued flight.

Onward she sped, and still onward,
through the dense uni' brush, which at
every step gave notice of the direction
which she had taken. Perhaps if she
had been wiser she would have plunged
into some thick growth of trees into the
midst of absolute darkness and there
remained still. As it was she did not
think of this. Escape was her only
thought, and the only way to this seemed
to bi by flight.

Su she fled ; and after her came her
remorseless, her unpitying pursuer. Fear
lent wings to her feet. She fled on
through the underbrush that crackled as
she passed and gave notice of her track
through the dark, dense groves ; yet still
amid darkness and gloom her pursuer
followed.

At last, through utter weakness and
weariness, she sank down. Despair
came over her. She could do no more.

The pursuer came up. So dense was
the gloom in that thick grove that for
some time he could not find her. Beatrice
heard the crackling of the underbrush all
around. He was searching for her.

She crouched down low and scarcely
dared to breathe. She took refuge in the
deep darkness, and determined to wait
till her pursuer might give up his search.
At last all was still.

304

CORD AND CRKKSE

CI -III

"••-It*

Beatrice thought that he had gone.
Yet in her fear she waited for what seemed
to her an interminable period. At last
she ventured to make a movement.
Slowly and cautiously she rose to her
feet and advanced. She did not know
what direction to take ; but she walked
on, not caring where she went so long as
she could escape pursuit.

Scarcely had she taken twenty steps
when she heard a noise. Someone was
moving. She stood still, breathless.
Then she thought she had been mis-
taken. After waiting a long time she
went on as before. She walked faster.
The noise came again. It was close by.
She stood still for many minutes.

Suddenly she bounded up, and ran as
one runs for life. Her long rest had re-
freshed her. Despair gave her strength.
But the pursuer was on her track. Swift-
ly, and still more swiftly, his footsteps
came up behind her. He was gaining on
her. Still she rushed on.

At last a strong hand seized her by the
shoulder, and she sank down upon the
moss that lay under the forest trees.

" Who are you ? " cried a familiar voice.

" Vijal ! " cried Beatrice.

The other let go his hold.

" Will you betray me ? " cried Beatrice
in a mournful and despairing voice,

Vijal was silent.

" What do you want ? " said he at last.
"Whatever you want to do I will help
you. I will be your slave."

" I wish to escape."

" Come, then — you shall escape," said
Vijal.

W'thout uttering another word he
walked on and Beatrice followed. Hope
rose once more within her. Hope gave
strength. Despair and its weakness had
left her. After about half an hour's walk
they reached the park wall.

" I thought it was a poacher," said
Vijal sadly ; " yet I am glad it was
you, for I can help you. I will help
you over the wall,"

He raised her up. She clambered to
the top, where she rested for a moment.

" God bless you, Vijal, and good-by ! "
said she.

Vijal said nothing.

The next moment she was on the
other side. The road lay there. It ran
north away from the village. Along this
road Beatrice walked swiftly.

CHAPTER XXXIII

PICKED UP ADRIFT

On the morning following two travellers
left a small inn which lay on the road-side,
about ten miles north of Brandon. It
was about eight o'clock when they took
their departure, driving in their own
carriage at a modeiate pace along the
road.

" Look, Langhetti," said the one who
was driving, pointing with his whip to an
o!>ject in the road directly in front of
them.

Langhetti raised his head, which had
been bowed down in deep abstraction, to
look in the direction indicated. A figure

"picked up adrift

205

was approaching them. It looked like u
woman. She walked very slowly, and
appeared rather to stagger thap to walk.

" She appears to be drunk, Despard,"
said Langhetti. " Poor wretch, and on
tills bleak March morning too ! Let us
stop and see if we can do anything for
her."

They drove on, and as they met the
woman Despard stopped.

She was young and extraordinarily
beautiful. Her face was thin and white.
Her clothing was of fine materials, but
scanty and torn to shreds. As they
stopped she turned her large eyes up de-
spairingly and stood still, with a face
which seemed to express every conceiv-
able emotion of anguish and of hope.
Yet as her eyes rested on Langhetti a
change came over her. The deep and
unutterable sadness of her face passed
away, and was succeeded by a radiant
flash of joy. She threw out her arms
toward him with a cry of wild entreaty.

The moment that Langhetti saw her
he started up and stood for an instant as
if paralyzed. Her cry came to his ears.
He leaped from the carriage toward her,
and caught her in his arms.

" O Bice ! Alas, my Bicina ! " he
cried, and a thousand fond words came
to his lips.

Beatrice looked up with eyes filled
with grateful tears ; her lips murmured
some inaudible sentences ; and then, in
this full assurance of safety, the resolu-
tion that had sustained her so long gave
way altogether. Her eyes closed, she
gave a low moan and sank senseless
upon his breast.

Langhetti supported her for a moment,
then gently laid her down to try and
restore her. He chafed her hands, and
(lid all that is usually done in such
emergencies. But here the case was

different — it was more than a common
faint, and the animation now suspended
was not to be restored by ordinary
efforts.

langhetti bowed over her as he chafed
her hands. " Ah, my Bicina," he cried ;
" is it thus I find you I Ah, poor thin
hand ! Alas, white, wan face ! What
suffering has been yours, pure angel,
among those tiends of hell ! "

He paused, and turned a face of agony
toward Despard. But as he looked at
him he saw a grief in his countenance
that was only second to his own. Some-
thing in Beatrice's appearance had struck
him with a deeper feeling than that merely
human interest which the generous heart
feels in the sufferings of others.

" Langhetti," said he, " let us not leave
this sweet angel exposed to this bleak
wind. We must take her back to the
inn. We have gained our object. Alas I
the gain is worse than a failure."

" What can we do ? "

" Let us put her in the carriage be-
tween us, and drive back instantly."

Despard stooped as he spoke, raised
her reverently in his arms, and lifted her
upon the seat. He sprang in and put his
arms around her senseless form, so as to
support her .^gainst himself. Langhetti
looked on with eyes that were moist with
a sad yet mysterious feeling.

Then he resumed his place in the car-
riage.

" O Langhetti ! " said Despard, " what
is it that I saw in the face of this poor
child that so wrings my heart ? What
is this mystery of yours that you will not
tell?"

" I cannot solve it," said Langhetti,
" and therefore I will not tell it."

" Tell it, whatever it is."

" No, it is only conjecture as yet, and I
will not uiter it."

I I !

306

CORD AND CRBESB

•^Tr

-^31

" And it affects me ? "

" Deeply."

"Therefore tell it."

'* Therefore I must not tell it ; for if it
prove baseless I shall only excite your
feeling in vain."

" At any rate let me know. For I have
the wildest fancies, and I wish to know if
it is possible that they are like your own."

" No, Despard," said Langhetti. " Not
now. The time may come, but it has
not yet."

Beatrice's head leaned against Des-
pard's shoulder as she reclined against
him, sustained by his arm. Her face was
upturned, a face as white as marble, her
pure Grecian features showing now their
faultless lines like the sculptured face of
some goddess. Her beauty was perfect
in its classic outline. But her eyes were
closed, and her wan, white lips parted ;
and there was sorrow on her face which
did not seem appropriate to one so young.

" Look," said Langhetti in a mournful
voice. " Saw you ever in all your life
anyone so perfectly and so faultlessly
beautiful ? Oh, if you could but have
seen her, as I have done, in her moods of
inspiration, when she sang ! Could I
ever have imagined such a fate as this
for her ?

" O Despard ! " he continued after a
pause, in which the other had turned his
stern face to him without a word — " O
Despard you ask me to tell you this
secret. 1 dare not. It is so wide-spread.
If my fancy be true, then all your life
must at once be unsettled, and all your
soul turned to one dark purpose. Never
will I turn you to that purpose till I
know the truth beyond the possibility of
a doubt."

" I saw that in her face," said Des-
pard, " which I hardly dare acknowledge
to myself."

" Do not acknowledge it, then, I
implore you. Forget it. Do not open
up once more that old and now ulriio t
forgotten sorrow. Think not of it even
to yourself."

Langhetti spoke with a wild and vehe-
ment urgency which was wonderful.

" Do you not see," said Despard," that
you rouse my curiosity to an intolerable
degree ? "

" Be it so ; at any rate it is better to
suffer from curiosity than to feel what you
must feel if I told you what I suspect."

Had it been any other man than Lan-
ghetti, Despard would have been offended,
As it was he said nothing, but began to
conjecture as to the best course for them
to follow.

" It is evident," said he to Langhetti,
" that she has escaped from Brandon
Hall during the past night. She will, no
doubt, be pursued. What shall we do?
If we go back to this inn they will wond; r
at our bringing her. There is another
inn a mile further on."

" I have been thinking of that," re-
plied Langhetti. " It will be better to po
to the other inn. But what shall we say
about her? Let us say she is an invalid
going home."

" And am I her medical attendant ? "
asked Despard.

"No; that is not necessary. You are
her guardian — the rector of Holby, of
course — your name is sufficient guaran-
tee."

" Oh," said Despard after a pause,
" I'll tell you something better yet. I am
her brother and she is my sister — Miss
Despard."

As he spoke he looked down upon her
marble face. He did not see Langhetti's
countenance. Had he done so he would
have wondered. For Langhetti's eyes
seemed to seek to pierce the very soul of

" PICKED UP ADRIFT "

ao7

cal attendant?"

Despard. His face became tninsformcd.
Its usual serenit anished.nnd there was
L'.ijjer wonder, intense and ankious curi-
osity—an endeavor to see if there was not
some deep meaning underlying Despard's
words. But Despard showed no emo-
tion. He was conscious of no deep
meaning. He merely murmured to him-
self as he looked down upon the uncon-
scious face :
" My sick sister— my sister Beatrice."
Langhetti said not a word, but sat in
silence absorbed in one intense and won-
dering gaze. Uespard seemed to dwell
upon this idea fondly and tenderly.

" She is not one of that brood," said
he after a pause. " It is in name only
that she belongs to them."

" They are fiends and she is an angel,"
said Langhetti.

" Heaven has sent her to us ; we must
preserve her forever."

" If she lives," said Langhetti, " she
must never go back."

" Go back ! " cried Despard. " Better
far for her to die."

" I myself would die rather than give
her up."

"And I too. But wr will not. I will
adopt her. Yes, she shall cast away the
link that binds her to these accursed
ones— her vile name. I will adopt her.
She shall have my name— she shall be my
sister. She shall be Beatrice Despard.

" And surely," continued Despard,
looking tenderly down, " surely, of all the
Despard race there was never one so
beautiful and so pure as she."

Langhetti did not say a word, but
looked at Despard and the one whom he
thus called his adopted sister with an
emotion which he could not control.
Tears started to his eyes ; yet over his
brow there came something which is not
generally associated with tears — a lofty.

exultant expression, an air of joy and
peace.

"Your sister," said Despard, "shall
ntirse her back to health. She wid do so
for your sake, Langhetti —or rather from
her own noble and generous instincts.
In Thornton Grange she will, perhaps,
find some alleviation for the sorrows
which she may have endured. Our care
shall be around her, and we can all labor
together for her future welfare."

They at length reached the inn of
which they had spoken, and Beatrice was
tenderly lifted out and carried upstairs.
She was mentioned as the sister of the
Rev. Mr. Despard of Holby, who was
bringing her back from the seaside,
whither she had gone for her health.
Unfortunately, she had been too weak
for the journey.

The people of the inn showed the
kindest attention and warmest sympathy.
A doctor was sent for, who lived at a
village two miles further on.

Beatrice recovered from her faint, but
remained unconscious. The doctor con-
sidered that her brain was affected. He
shook his head solemnly over it, as
doctors always do when they have
nothing in particular to say. Both Lan-
ghetti and Despard knew more about
her case than he did.

They saw that rest was the one thing
needed. But rest could be better at-
tained in Holby than here ; and besides,
there was the danger of pursuit. It was
necessary to remove her ; and that, too,
without delay. A close carriage was
procured without much difficulty and the
patient was deposited therein.

A slow journey brought them by easy
stages to Holby. Beatrice remained un-
conscious. A nurse was procured, who
travelled with her. The condition of
Beatrice was the same w.iich she de-

208

CORD AND CREESE

ILL
CC-

scribed in her diary. Great grief and ex-
traordinary suffering and excitement had
overtasked the brain and it had given way.
So Despard and Langhetti conjectured.

At last they reached Holby. They
drove at once to Thornton Grange.

" What is this ? " cried Mrs. Thornton,
who had heard nothing from them, and

ran out upon the piazza to meet them as
she saw them coming.

" I have found Bice," said Langhetti,
" and have brought her here."

" Where is she ? "

" There," said Langhetti. " I give hoi
to your care — it is for you to give iin
back to me."

CHAPTER XXXIV

ON THE TRACK

Beatrice's disappearance was known
at Brandon Hall on the following day.
The servants first made the discovery.
They found her absent from her room,
and no one had seen her about the house.
It was an unusual thing for her to be out
of the house early in the day, and of late,
for many months she had scarcely ever
left her room, so that now her absence at
once excited suspicion. The news was
communicated from one to another among
the servants. Afraid of Potts, they did
not d;ire to tell him, but first sought to
find her by themselves. They called
Mrs. Compton, and the fear which per-
petually possessed the mind of this poor,
till '(< creature now rose to a positive
frenzy of anxiety and dread. She told all
that she knew, and that was that she had
seen her the evening before as usual, and
had left her at ten o'clock.

No satisfaction therefore could be
gained from her. The servants tried to
find traces of her, but were unable. At
length toward evening, on Potts' return
from the bank, the news was communi-
cated to him.

The rage of Potts need no* be described

here. That one who had twice defied
should now escape him filled him with
fury. He organized all his servants into
bands, and they scoured the grounds till
darkness put an end to these operations.

That evening Potts and his two com-
panions dined in moody silence, only con-
versing by fits and starts.

" I don't think she's killed herself,"
said Potts, in reply to an observation of
Clark. " She's got stuff enough in her to
do it, but I don't believe she has. Slie's
playing a deeper game. I only wish we
could fish up her dead body out of some
pond ; it would quiet matters down very
considerably."

" If she's got off she's taken with her
some secrets that won't do us any good,"
remarked John.

" The devil of it is," said Potts, " we
don't know how much she does know.
She must know a precious lot, or she
never would have dared to say what she
did."

" But how could she get out of the
park ? " said Clark. " That wall is too
high to climb over, and the gates are all
locked."

ON THE TRACK

209

meet them as

said Langhetti,
ire."

li. " I give her
ou to give liLi

lad twice defied
I filled him with
his servants into
I the grounds till
these operations,
-id his two coni-
silence, only con-
killed herself,"
.n observation of
enough in her to
eshe has. She's
I only wish we
body out of some
latters down very

s taken with her
do us any good,"

said Potts, " we

she does know.

cious lot, or she

to say what she

,e get out of the
That wall is too
the gates are all

" It's my opinion," exclaimed John,
" that she's in the grounds yet."

Potts shook his head.

" After what she told me it's my belief
she can do anything. Why, didn't she
tell us of crimes that were committed
l)efore she was born? I begin to feel
shaky, and it is the girl that has made me
so.

Potts rose to his feet, plunged his
hands deep into his pockets, and walked
lip and down. The others sat in gloomy
silence.

"Could that Hong Kong nurse of
hers have told her anything?" asked
John.

" She didn't know anything to tell."

" Mrs. Compton must have blown,
then."

" Mrs. Compton didn't know. I tell
you that there is not one human being
living that knows what she told us be-
sides ourselves and her. How the devil
she picked it up I don't know."

" I didn't like the cut of her from the
first," said John. " She had a way of
looking that made me feel uneasy, as
though there was something in her that
would some day be dangerous. I didn't
want you to send for her."

"Well, the mischief's done now."

" You're not going to give up the
search, are you ? " asked Clark.

"Give it up! Not I."

" We must get her back."

" Yes ; our only safety now is in catch-
ing her again at all hazards."

There was a long silence.

■' Twenty years ago," said Potts mood-
ily, " the Vishnu drifted away, and since
the time of the trial no one has mentioned
it to me till that girl did."

" And she is only twenty years old,"
rejoined John.

" I tell you, lads, you've got the devil

to do with when you tackle her," re-
marked Clark ; " but if she is the devil
we must fight it out and crush her."

" Twenty-three years," coniinued Potts,
in the same gloomy tone — " twenty-three
years have passed since I was captured
with my followers. No one has men-
tioned that since. No one in all the world
knows that I am the only Englishman
that ever joined the Thugs, except that
girl."

" She must know everything that we
have done," said Clark.

" Of course she must."

" Including our Brandon enterprise,"
said John.

" And including your penmanship,"
said Clark ; " enough, lad, to stretch
a neck."

" Come," said Potts, " don't let lis talk
of this, anyhow."

Again they relapsed into silence.

" Well ! " exclaimed John at last,
" what are you going to do to-morrow ? "

" Chase her till I find her," replied
Potts savagely.

" But where ? "

" I've been thinking of a plan which
seems to me to be about the thing."

"What?"

" A good old plan," said 'otts. " Your
pup, Johnnie, can help us."

John pounded his fist on the table
with savage exultation.

" My bloodhound ! Good, old Dad,
what a trump you are to think of that ! "

" He'll do it ! "

" Yes," said John, " if he gets on her
track and comes up with her, I'm a little
afraid that we'll arrive at the spot just
too late to save her. It's the best way
that I know of for getting rid of the
difficulty handsomely. 0/ course we are
going after her through anxiety, and
the dog is an innocent pup who comes

.' i

2IO

CORD AND CRKESE

^■-^'^

C— ,■-#

»>ia> lit

as::

It:-
or 3

cc-

«««^ '••

with us ; and if any disaster happens we
will kill him on the spot."

Potts shook his head moodily. He
had no very hopeful feeling about this.
He was shaken to the soul at the thought
of this stern, relentless girl carrying out
into the world his terrible secret.

Early on the following morning they
resumed their search after the lost girl.
This time the servants were not employed,
but the three themselves went forth to
try what they could do. With them was
the " pup " to which allusion had been
made on the previous evening. This
animal was a huge bloodhound, which
John had purchased to take the place of
his bulldog, and of which he was extrav-
agantly proud. True to his instinct, the
hound understood from smelling an article
of Beatrice's apparel what it was that
he was required to seek, and he went off
on her trail out through the front door,
down the steps, and up to the grove.

The others followed after. The dog
led them down the path toward the gate,
and thence into the thick grove and
through the underbrush. Scraps of her
dress still clung in places to the brush-
wood. The dog led them round and
round wherever Beatrice had wandered
in her flight from Vijal. They all believed
that they would certainly find her here,
and that she had lost her way or at least
tried to conceal herself. But at last, to
their disappointment, the dog turned away
out of the wood and into the path again.
Then he led them along through the
woods until In reached the Park wall.
Here the anim'il squatted on his haunches,
and, lifting up his head, gave a long deep
howl.

" What's this ? " said Potts.

" Why, don't you see ? She's got over
the wall somehow. All tiiat we've got to
do is to put the dog over, and follow on."

The others at once understood that
this must be the case. In a short time
they were on the other side of the wall,
where the dog found the trail again, and
led on while they followed as before.

They did not, however, wish to seem
like pursuers. That would hardly be tin;
thing in a country of law and order.
They chose to walk rather slowly, and
John held the dog by a strap which he
had brought with him. They soon found
the walk much longer than they had
anticipated, and began to regret that they
had not come in a carriage. They had
gone too far, however, to remedy this
now, so they resolved to continue on their
way as they were.

"Gad!" said John, who felt fatigued
first, " what a walker she is ! "

"She's the devil!" growled Clark
savagely.

At last, after about three hours' walk,
the dog stopped at a place by the road-
side, and sniffed in all directions. The
others watched him anxiously for a long
time. The dog ran all around sniffing at
the ground, but to no purpose.

He had lost the trail. Again and again
he tried to recover it. But his blood-
thirsty instinct was completely at fault.
The trail had gone, and at last the animal
came up to his master and crouched down
at his feet with a low moan.

" Sold ! " cried John with a curse.

" What can have become of her," said
Potts.

" I don't know," said John. " I dare
say she's got took up in some waj;on,
Yes, that's it. That's the reason why
the trail is gone."

"What shall we do now? We can't
follow. It may have been the coach, and
she may have got a lift to the nearest
railway station."

" Well," said John, "I'll tell you what

BEATRICE'S RECOVERY

211

lerstood that
a short time
e of the wall,
ail again, and
IS before,
wish to seem
I hardly be tlu:
,w and order.
er slowly, and
itrap which he
iiey soon found
han they had
regret that they
Lge. They had
to remedy this
ontinue on their

ho felt fatigued

: is!
growled Clark

iree hours' walk,
ace by the road-
directions. The
.iously for a long
around sniffing at
arpose.

Again and again
But his blood-
mpletely at fault.

at last the animal
nd crouched down

loan.

with a curse.

come of her," said

,d John. " I <l^'e

in some wa^on.

the reason why

now? We can't
,een the coach, and
lift to the nearest

" I'll tell you what

we can do. Let one of us go to the inns
tliat are nearest, and ask if there was a
girl ill the coach that looked ,like her, or
make any enquiries that may be needed.
We cuuld find out that much at any rate."

The others assented. John swore he
was too tired. At length, after some
conversation, they all determined to go
on and to hire a carriage back. Accord-
ingly on they went, and soon reached an
inn.

Here they made enquiries, but could
learn nothing whatever about any girl
that had stopped there. Potts then hired
a carriage and drove off to the next inn,
leaving the others behind. He returned
in about two hours. His face bore an
expression of deep perplexity.

" Well, what luck, dad? " asked John.

" There's the devil to pay," growled
Potts.

" Did you find her ? "

" There is a girl at the next inn, and
it's her. Now what name do you think
lliey call her by ? "

" What ? "

" Miss Despard."

Clark turned pale and looked at John,
who gave a long, low whistle.

" Is she alone ? " asked John.
• "No — that's the worst of it. A rev-
evend gent is with her, who has charge
of her, and says he is her brother."

"Who?"

" His name is Courtenay Despard, son
of Colonel Lionel Despard," said Potts.

The others returned his look in utter
bewilderment.

" I've been thinking and thinking," said
Potts, " but I haven't got to the bottom
of it yet. We can't do anything just
now, that's evident. I found out that
this reverend gent is on his way to
Holby, where he is rector. The only
thing left for us to do is to go quietly
home and look about us."

" It seems to me that this is like the
beginning of one of those monsoon
storms," said Clark gloomily.

The others said nothing. In a short
time they were on their way back, moody
and silent.

CHAPTER XXXV

BEATRICE S RECOVERY

It was not easy for the overtasked and
overworn powers of Beatrice to rally.
Weeks passed before she opened her
eyes to a recognition of the world around
her. It was March when she sank down
by the road-side. It was June when she
began to recover from the shock of the
terrible evcitement through which she
had passed.

Loving hearts sympathized with her.

tender hands cared for her, vigilant
eyes watched her, and all that love and
care could do were unremittingly exerted
for her benefit.

As Beatrice opened her eyes after her
long unconsciousness she looked around
in wonder, recognizing nothing. Then
they rested in equal wonder upon one
who stood by her bedside.

She was slender and fragile in

212

CORD AND CREESE

at"

"^5

form, with delicate features, whose fine
Unes seemed rather like ideal beauty
than real life. The eyes were large,
dark, lustrous, and filled with a wonder-
ful but mournful beauty. Yet all
the features, so exquisite in their
loveliness, were transcended by the ex-
pression that dwelt upon them. It was
rure, it was spiritual, it was holy. It
was the face of a saint, such a face as
appears to the rapt devotee when fasting
has done its work, and the quickened
imagination grasps at ideal forms till the
dwellers in heaven seem to become visible.

In her confused mind Beatrice at first
had a faint fancy that she was in another
state of existence, and that the form be-
fore her was one of those pure intelli-
gences who had been appointed to wel-
come her there. Perhaps there was
some such thought visible upon her
face, for the stranger came up to her
noiselessly, and stooping down, kissed
her.

" You are among friends," said she
in a low, sweet voice. " You have been
sick long."

" Where am I ? "

" Among loving friends," said the
other, " far away from the place where
you suffered."

Beatrice sighed.

" I hoped that I had passed away for-
ever," she murmured.

" Not yet, not yet," said the stranger,
in a voice of tender yet mournful sweet-
ness, which had in it an unfathomable
depth of meaning. "We must wait on
here, dear friend, till it be His will to call

us.

" And who are you ? " asked Beatrice,
after a long and anxious look at the face
of the speaker.

" My name is Edith Brandon," said the
other gently.

" Brandon !— Edith Brandon ! " cried
Beatrice, with a vehemence which con-
trasted strangely with the scarce audible
words with which she had just spoken.

The stranger smiled with the same
melancholy sweetness which she had
shown before.

" Yes," said she ; " but do not agitate
yourself, dearest."

" And have you nursed ntje ? "

" Partly. But you are in the house of
one who is like an angel in her loving care
of you."

" But you — you ? " persisted Beatrice ;
" you did not perish, then, as they said ?"

"No," replied the stranger; "it was
not permitted me."

" Thank God ! " murmured Beatrice
fervently. " He has one sorrow less.
Did Ae save you ? "

" He," said Edith, " of whom you speai{
does not know that I am alive, nor do 1
know where he is. Yet some day we
will perhaps meet. And now you must
not speak. You will agitate yourself too
much. Here you have those who love
you. For the one who brought you here
is one who would lay down his life for
yours, dearest — he is Paolo Langhetti."

" Langhetti ! " said Beatrice. " Oh,
God be thanked ! "

" And she who has taken you to her
heart and home is his sister."

" His sister Teresa, of whom he used to
speak so lovingly ? Ah ! God is kinder
to me than I feared. Ah, me ! it is as
though I had died and had awakened in
heaven."

" But now I will speak no more, and
you must speak no more, fo«- you will
only increase your agitation. Rest, and
another time you can ask what you please."

Edith turned away and walked to one
of the windows, where she looked out
pensively upon the sea.

BEATRICE'S RECOVERY

2»3

indon!" cried
ce which con-
! scarce audible
I just spoken,
with the same
vhich she had

t do i\ot agitate

I me?"

in the house of
n her loving cai e

rsisted Beatrice;
n, as they said?"
;ranger ; " it was

irmured Beatrice
one sorrow less.

f whom you speak
im alive, nor do 1
ret some day we
id now you must
gitate yourself too

those who love
brought you here
down his life for
'aolo Langhetti."

Beatrice. " Oh,

taken you to her
sister."

whom he used to
\.h! God is kinder

Ah, me ! it is as
1 had awakened in

peak no more, and
more, fo.- you will
itation. Rest, and
sk what you please,"
and walked to one
sre she looked out
ea,

From this time Beatrice began to re-
cover rapidly. Langhetti's sister seemed
to her almost like an old friend since she
had been associated with some of her
most pleasant memories. An atmos-
phere of love was around her ; the poor
sufferer inhaled the pure and life-giving
air, and strength came with every breath.

At length she was able to sit up, and
then Langhetti saw her. He greeted her
with all the ardent and impassioned
warmth which was so striking a charac-
teristic of his impulsive and affectionate
nature. Then she saw Despard.

There was something about this man
which filled her with indefinable emo-
tions. The knowledge which she had of
the mysterious fate of his father did not
repel her from him. A wonderful and
subtle sympathy seemed at once to arise
between the two. The stern face of
Despard assumed a softer and more
genial expression when he saw her. His
tone was gentle and affectionate, almost
paternal.

What was the feeling that arose within
her heart toward this man ? With the
one for her father who had inflicted on
his father so terrible a fate, how did she
dare to look him in the face or exchange
words with him ? Should she not rather
shrink away as once she shrank from
Brandon ?

Yet she did not shrink. His presence
brought a strange peace and calm over
her soul. His influence was more potent
over her than that of Langhetti. In this
strange company he seemed to her to be
the centre and the chief.

To Beatrice Edith was an impene-
trable mystery. Her whole manner
excited her deepest reverence and at the
same time her strongest curiosity. The
fact that she Was his sister would of
itself have won her heart; but there

were other things about her which
affected her strangely.

Edith moved among the others with
a strange, far-off air, an air at once full
of gentle affection, yet preoccupied. Her
manner indicated love, yet the love of
one who was far above them. She was
like some grown person associating with
young children whom he loved. " Her
soul was like a star and dwelt apart."

Paolo seemed more like an equal ; but
Paolo himself approached equality only
because he could understand her best.
He alone could enter into communion
with her. Beatrice noticed a profound
and unalterable reverence in his manner
toward Edith, which was like that which
a son might pay a mother, yet more
delicate and more chivalrous. All this,
however, was beyond her comprehen-
sion.

She once questioned Mrs. Thornton,
but received no satisfaction. Mrs. Thorn-
ton looked mysterious, but shook her
head.

" Your brother treats her like a divinity."

" I suppose he thinks she is something
more than mortal."

" Do you have that awe of her which I
feel ? "

" Yes ; and so does everyone. I feel
toward her as though she belonged to
another world. She takes no interest in
this."

" She nursed me."

" Oh, yes ! Every act of love and kind-
ness which she can perform she seeks
out and does, but now, as you grow better,
she falls back upon herself."

Surrounded by such friends as these
Beatrice rapidly regained her strength.
Weeks went on, and at length she began
to move about, to take long rides and
drives, and to stroll through the Park.

During these weeks Paolo made known

214

CORD AND CREESE

SSI*

J *

to her his plans. She embraced them
eagerly.

"You have a mission," said he. "It
was not for nothing that your divine voice
was given to you. I have written my
opera under the most extraordinary cir-
cumstances. You know what it is. Never
have I been able to decide how it should
be represented. I have prayed for a
Voice. At my time of need you were
thrown in my way. My Bice, God has
sent you. Let us labor together."

Beatrice grasped eagerly at this idea.
To be a singer, to interpret the thoughts
of Langhetti, seemed delightful to her.
She would then be dependent on no
friend. She would be her own mistress.
She would not be forced to lead a life
of idleness, with her heart preying upon
itself. Music would come to her aid. It
would be at once the purpose, the em-
ployment, and the delight of her life. If
there was one thing to her which could
alleviate sorrow and grief it was the ex-
ultant joy which was created within her
by the Divine Art — that art which alone
is common to earth and heaven. And
for Beatrice there was this joy, that she
had one of those natures which was so
sensitive to music that under its power
heaven itself appeared to open before
her.

All these were lovers of music, and
therefore had delights to which common
mortals are strangers. To the soul
which is endowed with the capacity for
understanding the delights of tone there
are joys peculiar, at once pure and endur-
ing, which nothing else that this world
gives can equal.

Langhetti was the high-priest of this
charmed circle. Edith was the presiding
or inspiring divinity. Beatrice was the
medium of utterance — the Voice thut
brought down heaven to earth.

Mrs. Thornton and Despard stood
apart, the recipients of the sublime effects
and holy emotions which the others
wrought out within them.

Edith was like the soul.

Langhetti like the wind.

Beatrice resembled the material ele-
ment by which the spiritual is communi-
cated to man. Hers was the Voice which
spoke.

Langhetti thought that they as a trio
of powers foi med a means of communi-
cating new revelations to man. It was
natural indeed that he in his high and
generous enthusiasm should have some
such thoughts as these, and should look
forward with delight to the time when his
work should first be performed. Editli,
who lived and moved in an atmosphere
beyond human feeling, was above tlie
level of his enthusiasm; but Beatrice
caught it all, and in her own generous
and susceptible nature this purpose of
Langhetti produced the most powerful
effects.

In the church where Mrs. Thornton and
Despard had so often met there was
now a new performance. Here Lan-
ghetti played, Beatrice sang, Edith smiled
as she heard the expression of heavenly
ideas, and Despard and Mrs. Thornton
found themselves borne away from all
common thoughts by the power of that
sublime rehearsal.

As time passed and Beatrice ^rcvi
stronger Langhetti became more impa-
tient about his opera. The voice of Ika-
trice, always marvellous, had not suffered
during her sickness. Nay, if anything, it
had grown better ; her soul had gained
new susceptibilities since Langhetti last
saw her, and since she could understand
more and feel more, her expression itself
had become more subtile and refined.
So that Voice which Langhetti had always

Mm,

BEATRICE'S RECOVERY

)espard stood

sublime effects

:h the others

il.

J material ele-

lal is communi-

the Voice which

It they as a trio
ns of cominuni-
o man. It was
in his high and
lould have some
and siiould look
:he time when his
irformed. EiVa'i-
,n ar\ atmosphere
r, was above the
Im; but Beatrice
her own generous
■e this purpose d
he most powerful

Mrs.Thornton and
n met there was
bnce. Here Lan-
sang, Edith smiled
ession of heavenly
md Mrs. Thornton
me away from ^'H
the power of ih;"

ind Beatrice Rrew
)ecame more iniF"
The voice of Bca-
)us, had not suffered

Nay. if anything.it
ler soul had gained
since Langhetti l;ist
,e could understand

her expression ilseli
subtile and refined,
Langhetti had always

called divine had put forth new powers,
and he, if he believed himself the High-
priest and Beatrice the Pythian, saw that
lier inspiration had grown moVe delicate
and more profound.

" We will not set up a new Delphi,"
said he. " Our revelations are not new.
We but give fresh and extraordinary em-
phasis to old and eternal truths."

In preparing for the great work before
them it was necessary to get a name for
Beatrice. Her own name was doubly
abhorrent — first, from her own life-long
hate of it which later circumstances
had intensified ; and, secondly, from the
damning effect which such a name would
have on the fortune of any artiste.
Langhetti wished her to take his name,
but Despard showed an extraordinary
pertinacity on this point.

" No," said he, " I am personally con-
cerned in this. I adopted her. She is
my sister. Her name is Despard. If
she takes any other name I shall consider
it as an intolerable slight."

He expressed himself so strongly that
Beatrice could not refuse. Formei'y she
woulvi have considered that it was infa-
mous for her to take that noble name;
but now this idea had become weak, and
it was with a strange exultation that
she yielded to the solicitations of Des-
pard.

Langhetti himself yielded at once.
His face bore an expression of delight
which seemed inexplicable to Beatrice.
She asked him why he felt such pleasure.
Was not an Italian name better for a
singer? Despard was an English name,
and, though aristocratic, was not one
which a great singer might have.

"I am thinking of other things, my
Bicina," said Langhetti, who had never
given up his old, fond, fraternal manner

toward her. " It has no connection with
15

art. I do not consider the mere effect of
the name for one moment."

" What is it, then, that you do con-
sider?"

"Other things."
■" What other things ? "

" Not connected with art," continued
Langhetti evasively. " I will tell you
some day, when the time comes."

" Now you are exciting my curiosity,"
said Beatrice, in a low and earnest tone.
" You do not know what thoughts you
excite within me. Either you ought not
to excite such ideas, or if you do, it is
your duty to satisfy them."

" It is not time yet."

" What do you mean by that ? "

'* That is a secret."

" Of course ; you make it one ; but if
it is one connected with me, then surely I
ought to know."

" It is not time yet for you to know."

" When will it be time ? "

"I cannot tell."

" And you will therefore keep it a se-
cret forever ? "

" I hope, my Bicina, that the time will
come before long."

" Yet why do you wait, if you know or
even suspect anything in which I am con-
cerned ? "

*' I wish to spare you."

" That is not necessary. Am I so weak
that I cannot bear to hear anything which
you may have to tell ? You forget what
a life I have had for two years. Such a
life might well prepare me for anything."

'• If it were merely something which
might create sorrow I would tell it. I
believe that you have a self-reliant nature,
which has grown stronger through afflic-
tion. But that which I have to tell is
different. It is of such a character that
it would of necessity destroy any peace of
I mind which you have, and fill you with

2l6

CORD AND CREESE

a-*

«:{

■«cr*..

hopes and feelings that could never be
satisfied."

" Yet even that I could bear. Do you
not see that by your very vagueness you
are exciting my thoughts and hopes ?
You do not know what I know."

" What do you know ? " asked Lan-
ghetti eagerly.

Beatrice hesitated. No; she could
not tell. That would be to tell all the
holiest secrets of her heart. For she
must then tell about Brandon, and the
African island, and the manuscript which
he carried and which had been taken
from his bosom. Of this she dared not
speak.

She was silent.

"You cannot know anything," said

Langhetti. *' You may suspect much. I
only have suspicions. Yet it would not
be wise to communicate these to you,
since they would prove idle and without
result."

So the conversation ended, and Lan-
ghetti still maintained his secret, though
Beatrice hoped to find it out.

At length she was sufficiently recovered
to be able to begin the work to which
Langhetti wished to lead her. It was
August, and Langhetti was impatient to
be gone. So when August began he
made preparations to depart, and in a few
days they were in London. Edith was
left with Mrs. Thornton. Beatrice had
an attendant who went with her, half
chaperon, half lady's maid.

CHAPTER XXXVI

THE AFFAIRS OF SMITHERS & CO.

For more than a year the vast opera-
tions of Smithers & Co. had astonished
business circles in London. Formerly
they had been considered as an eminently
respectable house, and as doing a safe
business ; but of late all this had been
changed in so sudden and wonderful a
manner that no one could account for it.
Leaving aside their old cautious policy,
they undertook without hesitation the
largest enterprises. Foreign railroads,
national loans, vast joint-stock com-
panies — these were the things that now
occupied Smithers & Co. The Barings
themselves were outrivalled, and Smithers
& Co. reached the acme of their sudden
glory on one occasion, when they took
the new Spanish loan out of the grasp of
even the Rothschilds themselves.

How to account for it became the
problem. For, allowing the largest pos-
sible success in their former business to
Smithers & Co., that business had never
been of sufficient dimensions to allow of
this. Some said that a rich Indian had
become a sleeping partner, others declared
that the real Smithers was no more to be
seen, and that the business was managed
by strangers who had bought them out
and retained their name. Others again
said that Smithers & Co. had made large
amounts in California .nining specula-
tions. At length the ^^neral belief was
that some individuals who had made
millions of money in California had
bought out Smithers & Co., and were
now doing business under their name,

As to their soundness there was no

THE AFFAIRS OF SMITHERS & CO.

2tJ

pect much. 1

it would not

these to you,

e and without

ided, and Lan-
secret, though

ut.

ently recovered
work to whicli
:\ her. It was
as impatient to
gust began he
art, and in a few
on. Edith was
Beatrice had
with her, half
laid.

• it became the
T the largest pos-
jrmer business to
usiness had never
nsions to allow of
a rich Indian had
ler, others declared
was no more to be
ness was managed
bought them out
me. Others a^ain
:o. had made large
mining specula-
^.neral belief was
Is who had made
in California had
& Co., and were
under their name.
ness there was no

question. Their operations were such as
demanded, first of all, ready money in
unlimited quantities. This they were
always able to command. Between them
and the Bank of England there seemed
to be the most perfect understanding
and the most enviable confidence. The
Rothschilds spoke of them with infinite
respect. People began to look upon
them as the leading house in Europe.
The sudden apparition of this tremendous
power in the commercial world threw
that world into a state of consternation
which finally ended in wondering awe.

But Smithers & Co. continued calmly,
yet successfully, their great enterprises.
The Russian loan of fifteen millions was
negotiated by them. They took twenty
millions of the French loan, five millions
of the Austrian, and two and a half of
the Turkish. They took nearly all the
stock of the Lyons and Marseilles Rail-
road. They owned a large portion of
the stock of the Peninsular and Oriental
Steam Navigation Company. They had
ten millions of East India stock. Cali-
fornia alone, which was now dazzling the
world, could account to the common
mind for such enormous wealth.

The strangest thing was that Smithers
himself was never seen. The business
was done by his subordinates. There
was a young man who represented the
house in public, and who called himself
Henderson. He was a person of distin-
guished aspect, yet of reserved and some-
what melancholy manner. No one pre-
tended to be in his confidence. No one
pretended to know whether he was clerk
or partner. As he was the only repre-
sentative of Smithers & Co., he was
treated with marked respect wherever he
appeared.

The young man, whether partner or
clerk, had evidently the supreme control

of affairs. He swayed in his own hands
the thunderbolts of this Olympian
power. Nothing daunted him. The
grandeur of his enterprises dazzled the
public mind. His calm antagonism to
the great houses of London filled them
with surprise. A new power had seized
a high place in the commercial world,
and the old gods— the Rothschilds, the
Barings, and others — looked aghast.
At first they tried to despise this inter-
loper ; at length they found him at least
as strong as themselves, and began to
fancy that he might be stronger. A few
experiments soon taught them that there
was no weakness there. On one occa-
sion the Rothschilds, true to their ordi-
nary selfish policy, made a desperate
attempt to crush the new house which
dared to enter into rivalry with them.
Widespread plans were arranged in such
a way that large demands were made
upon them on one day. The amount
was nearly two millions. Smithers &
Co. showed not the slightest hesitation.
Henderson, their representative, did not
even take the trouble to confer with the
Bank of England. He sent his orders to
the Bank. The money was furnished.
It was the directors of the Bank of Eng-
land who looked aghast at this struggle
between Rothschild and Smithers & Co.
The gold in the Bank vaults sank low,
and the next day the rates of discount
were raised. All London felt the result
of that struggle.

Smithers & Co. waited for a few
months, and then suddenly retorted with
terrific force. The obligations of the
Rothschilds were obtained from all
quarters — some which were due were
held over and not presented till the ap-
pointed day. Obligations in many
forms — in all the forms of indebtedness
that may arise in a vast business — all

3l8

CORD AND CREESE

a**
--»

■«:-];-

■»»», •■1
"—"Sim

;«■' :.<

these had been collected from various
quarters with untiring industry and extra-
ordinary outlay of care and money. At
last in one day they were all poured upon
the Rothschilds. Nearly four millions
of money were required to meet that
demand.

The great house of Rothschild reeled
under the blow. Smithers & Co. were
the ones who administered it. James
Rothschild had a private interview with
the directors of the Bank of England.
There was a sudden and enormous sale
of securities that day on 'Change. In
selling out such large amounts the loss
was enormous. It was difficult to find
purchasers, but Smithers & Co. stepped
forward and bought nearly all that was
offered. The Rothschilds saved them-
selves, of course, but at a terrible loss,
which became the profits of Smithers &
Co.

The Rothschilds retreated from the
conflict utterly routsd, and glad to escape
disaster of a worse kind. Smithers &
Co. came forth victorious. They had
beaten the Rothschilds at their own game,
and had made at least half a million.
All London rang with the story. It was
a bitter humiliation for that proud Jew-
ish house which for years had never met
with a rival. Yet there was no help, nor
was there the slightest chance of revenge.
They were forced to swallow the result
as best they could, and to try to regain
what they had lost.

After this the pale and melancholy
face of Henderson excited a deeper inter-
est. This was the man who had beaten
the Rothschilds — the strongest capitalist
in the world. In his financial operations
he continued as calm, as grave, and as
immovable as ever. He would risk mill-
ions without moving a muscle of his
countenance. Yet so sagacious was he,

so wide-spread were his agencies, so
accurate was his secret information, that
his plans scarcely ever failed. His capi-
tal was so vast that it often gave him
control of the market. Coming into the
field untrammelled as the older houses
were, he had a larger control of money
than any of them, and far greater free-
dom of action.

After a time the Rothschilds, the Bar-
ings, and other great bankers began to
learn that Smithers & Co. had vast funds
everywhere, in all the capitals of Europe,
and in America. Even in the West
Indies their operations were extensive.
Their old Australian agency was enlarged,
and a new banking house founded by
them in Calcutta began to act on the same
vast scale as the leading house at Lon-
don. Smithers & Co. also continued to
carry on a policy which was hostile to
those older bankers. The Rothschilds
in particular felt this, and were in per-
petual dread of a renewal of that tre-
mendous assault under which they had
once nearly gone down. They became
timid, and were compelled to arrange
their business so as to guard against this
possibility. This, of course, checked their
operations, and widened and enlarged
the field of action for their rivals.

No one knew anything whatever about
Henderson. None of the clerks could
tell anything concerning him. They were
all new hands. None of them had ever
seen Smithers. They all believed that
Henderson was the junior partner, and
that the senior spent his time abroad.
From this it began to be believed tiiat
Smithers stayed in California digging
gold, which he diligently remitted to the
London house.

At length the clerks began to speak
mysteriously of a man who came from
time to time to the office, and whose

1 :!• ' : ','ii|lffi>

THE AFFAIRS OF SMITHERS & CO.

319

lis agencies, so
nformation, that
tiled. His capi-
often gave him
Coming into the
the older houses
ontrol of money
far greater free-

lischilds, the Bar-
jankers began to
:o. had vast funds
apitals of Europe,
;n in the West
s were extensive,
ency was enlarged,
louse founded l)y
to act on the same
ing house at Lon-

also continued to
ch was hostile to

The Rothschilds

and were in per-
nevval of that tie-
er which they had
wn. They became
npelled to arrange
3 guard against tliis
:ourse, checked their
ened and enlarged
• their rivals,
ling whatever about
of the clerks could
ling him. They were
le of them had ever
ey all believed that

junior partner, and
nt his time abroad,

to be believed that

California digging

;ently remitted to the

erks began to speak
nan who came from
he office, and whose

whole manner showed him to possess
authority there. The treatment which he
received from Henderson — at once cordial
and affectionate — showed them to be
most intimate and friendly ; and from
words which were dropped they all
thought him to be the senior partner.
Yet he appeared to be very little older
than Henderson, if as old, and no one
even knew his name. If anything could
add to the interest with which the house
of Smithers & Co. was regarded it was
this impenetrable mystery, which baffled
not merely outsiders but even the clerks
themselves.

Shortly after the departure of Langhetti
and Beatrice from Holby two men were
seated in the inner parlor of the office
of Smithers & Co. Cne was the man
known as Henderson, the other the
mysterious senior partner.

They had just come in and letters were
lying on the table.

" You've got a large number this morn-
ing, Frank ? " said the senior partner.

" Yes," said Frank, turning them over ;
" and here, Louis, is one for you." He
took out a letter from the pile and handed
it to Louis. " It's from your Brandon
Hall correspondent," he added.

Louis sat down and opened it. The
let'.er was as follows :

" Augitst 15, 1849.
"Dear Sir: I have had nothing in
partirnlar to write since the flight of Miss
Potts, except to tell you what they were
doing. I have already informed you that
they kept three spies at Holby to watch
her. One of these returned, as I told you
in my last letter, with the information
that she had gone to London with a
party named Langhetti. Ever since then
they have been talking it over, and have
come to the conclusion to get a detective.

and keep him busy watching her with the
idea of getting her back, I think. I hope
to God they will not get her back. If you
take any interest in her, sir, as you appear
to-do, I hope you will use your powerful
arm to save her. It will be terrible if she
has to come back here. She will die, I
know. Hoping soon to have something
more to communicate,

" I remain, yours respectfully,

" E. L.
" Mr. Smithers, Sen., London."

Louis read this letter over several
times and fell into deep thought.

Frank went on reading his letters,
looking up from time to time. At last
he put down the last one.

" Louis ! " said he.

Louis looked up.

" You came so late last night that I
haven't had a chance to speak about any-
thing yet. I want to tell you something
very important."

"Well?"

" Langhetti is alive."

" I know it."

"You knew it! When? Why did
you not tell me?"

"I didn't want to tell anything that
might distract you from your purpose."

" I am not a child, Louis ! After my
victory over Rothschild I ought to be
worthy of your confidence."

"That's not the point, Frank," said
Louis ; " but I know your affection for
the man, and I thought you would give
up all to find him."

" Well ? "

"Well, I thought it would be better
to let nothing interpose now between us
and our purpose. No," he continued,
with a stern tone, " no — no one, however
dear, however loved — and therefore I said
nothing about Langhetti. I thought

aao

CORD AND CREESE

a-*

that your generous heart would only be
distressed. You would feel like giving
up everything to find him out and see
hin>, and, therefore, I did not wish you
even to know it. Yet 1 have kept an
account of his movements, and know
where he is now."

" He is here in London," said Frank,
with deep emotion.

" Yes, thank God ! " said Louis. " You
will see him, and we all will be able to
meet some day."

" But," asked Frank, " do you not
think Langhetti is a man to be
trusted ? "

" That's not the point," replied Louis.
" I believe Langhetti is one of the noblest
men that ever lived. It must be so from
what I have heard. All my life I will
cherish his name and try to assist him
in every possible way. I believe also
that, if we requested it, he might perhaps
keep our secret. But that is not the
point, Frank. This is the way I look
at it : We are dead. Our deaths have
been recorded. Louis Brandon and
Frank Brandon have perished. I am
Wheeler, or Smithers, or Forsyth, or
anybody else ; you are Henderson. We
keep our secret because we have a pur-
pose before us. Our father calls us from
his tomb to its accomplishment. Our
mother summons us. Our sweet sister
Edith, from her grave of horror unutter-
able, calls us. All personal feeling must
stand aside, Frank — yours and mine —
whatever they be, till we have done our
duty."

" You are right, Louis," said Frank
sternly.

" Langhetti is in London," continued
Louis. " You will not see him, but you
can show your gratitude, and so can L
He is going to hire an opera house to
bring out an opera ; I saw that in the

papers. It is a thing full of risk, but he
perhaps does not think of that. Let us
enable him to gain the desire of his heart,
Let us fill the house for him. You can
send your agents to furnish tickets to
people who may make the audience ; or
you can send around those who can
praise him sufficiently. I don't know
what his opera may be worth. I know,
however, from what I have learned, that
he has musical genius ; and I think if wc
give him a good start he will succeed.
That is the way to show your gratitude,
Frank."

" I'll arrange all that," said Frank.
" The house shall be crowded. I'll stud
an agent to him — I can easily find out
where he lives, I suppose — and make iiim
an offer of Covent Garden theatre on his
own terms. Yes, Langhetti shall have a
fair chance. I'll arrange a plan to en-
force success."

" Do so, and you will keep him per-
manently in London till the time comes
when we can arise from the dead."

They were silent for a long time.
Louis had thoughts of his own, excited
by the letter which he had received, and
these thoughts he did not care to utter.
One thing was a secret even from Frank.

And what could he do ? That Ik . ice
had fallen among friends he well knew.
He had found this out when, after re-
ceiving a letter from Philips about her
flight, he had hurried there and learned
the result. Then he had himself gone to
Holby and found that she was at Mrs.
Thornton's. He had watched till she
had recovered. He had seen her as slie
took a drive in Thornton's carriage. He
had left an agent there to v. rite him about
her when she left.

What was he to do now ? He read
the letter over again. He paused at that
sentence: "They have been talking it

THE AFFAIRS OF SMITHERS & CO.

aai

of risk, but he
if that. Let us
sire of his heart,
him. You can
rnish tickets to
le audience ; or
those who can
I don't know
worth. I know,
ive learned, that
ind I think if wc
he will succeed.
r your gratitude,

it," said Frank.
)wded. I'll send
\ easily find out
»— and make liim
en theatre on his
lietti shall have a
ge a plan to cn-

ill keep him pcr-
1 the time coi\ics

the dead."
t)r a long time.

his own, excited
had received, and
not care to utter.
even from Frank.
o? That Ik .Ice
ds he well knew.
Lit when, after re-
Philips about her
there and learned
ad himself gone to
. she was at Mrs.

watched till she
id seen her as she
en's carriage. He

to v.rite him about

) now? He read

He paused at that

re been talking it

over, and have come to the conclusion to
get a detective, and keep him busy watch-
ing her with the idea of getting her
hack."

What was the nature of this danger ?
Ikatrice was of age. She was with Lan-
j^hetti. She was her own mistress. CouUl
there be any danger of her being taken
hack against her will? The villains at
Hrandon Hall were sufficiently unscrupu-
lous, but would they dare to commit any
violence ? and if they did would not Lan-
ghetti's protection save her?

Such were his thoughts. Yet, on the
other hand, he considered the fact that
she was inexperienced, and might have
peculiar ideas about a father's authority.
If Potts came himself, demanding her
return, perhaps, out of a mistaken sense
of filial duty, she might go with him. Or,
even if she was unwilling to do so, she
might yield to coercion, and not feel jus-
tified in resisting. The possibility of this
tilled him with horror. The idea of her
heing taken back to live under the power
of those miscreants from whom she had
escaped was intolerable. Yet he knew
not what to do.

Between him and her there was a gulf
unfathomable, impassable. She was one
of that accursed brood which he was
seeking to exterminate. He would spare
her if possible ; he would gladly lay down
his life to save her from one moment's
misery; but if she stood in the way of
his vengeance, could he — dared he stay
that vengeance? For that he would
sacrifice life itself! Would he refuse
to sacrifice even /ler, if she were more
dear than life itself?

Yet here was a case in which she was
no longer connected with, but striving
to sever herself from them. She was
flying from that accursed father of hers.
Would he stand idly by, and see her in

danger ? That were impossible. All
along, ever since his return to liiiglaiul,
he had watched over her, unseen himself
and unsuspected by her, and had fol-
lywed her footsteps when she fled. To
desert her now was impossible. The
only question with him was — how to
watch her or guard her.

One thing gave him comfort, and that
was the guardianship of Langhetti.
This he thought was sufficient to ensure
her safety. For surely Langhetti would
know the character of her enemies as
well as Beatrice herself, and so guard
her as to ensure her safety from any
attempt of theirs. He therefore placed
his chief reliance on Langhetti, and
determined merely to secure someone
who would watch over her, and let him
know from day to day how she fared.
Had he thought it necessary, he would
have sent a band of men to watch and
guard her by day and night ; but this
idea never entered his mind for the
simple reason that he did not think the
danger was pressing. England was
after all a country of law, and even a
father could not carry off his daughter
against her will when she was of age.
So he comforted himself.

" Well," said he at last, rousing him-
self from his abstraction, " how is Potts
now?"

" Deeper than ever," answered Frank
quietly.

" The Brandon Bank "

" The Brandon Bank has been going at
a rate that would have foundered any
other concern long ago. There's not a
man that I sent there who has not been
welcomed and obtained all that he
wanted. Most of the money that they
advanced has been to men that I sent.
They drew on us for the money and sent
us various securities of their own, hold-

333

CORD AND CREESE

w:5

ing the securities of these applicants. It
is simply bewildering to think how easily
that scoundrel fell into the snare."

"When a man has made a fortune
easily he gets rid of it easily," said Louis
laconically.

"Potts thinks that all his applicants
are leading men of the county. I take
good care that they go there as baronets
at least. Some are lords. He is over-
powered in the presence of these lords,
and gives them what ihey ask on their
own terms. In his letters he has made
some attempts at an expression of grati-
tude for our great liberality. This I en-
joyed somewhat. The villain is not a
difficult one to manage, at least in the
financial way. I leave the denouement
to you, Louis."

' The denouement must not be long
delayed now."

"Well, for that matter things are so
arran^jed that we may have ' the begin-
ning of the end ' as soon as you choose."

" What are the debts of the Brandon
jBanIc to us now ? "

" Five hundred and fifteen thousand
one hundred and fifty pounds," said
Frank.

" Five hundred thousand — very good,"
rett'rned Louis thoughtfully. " And how
is t je sum secured ? "

"Chiefly by acknowledgments from
th : bank with the indorsement of John
VoA:, President."

" What are the other liabilities ? "

" He i:as implored me to purchase for
him or sell him some California stock.
I have relucfa':tly consented to io so,"
continued Frank, with a sardonic smile,
" entirely through the request of my
senior, and he has taken a hundred
shares at a thousand pounds each."

" One hundred t'lousand pounds," said
Louis.

" I consented to take his notes," con-
tinued Frank, "purely out of regard to
the recommendations of my senior."

" Anything else? "asked Louis.

" He urged me to recommend him
to a good broker who might purchase
stock for him in reliable companies. 1
created a broker and recommended liiin.
He asked me also confidentially to tell
him which stock were best, so I kindly
advised him to purchase the Mexican
and the Guatemala loan. I also recom-
mended the Venezuela bonds. I threw
all these into the market, and by dextrous
manipulation raised the price to three per
cent, premium. He paid ;£i03 for every
;^ioo. When iie wants to sell out, as
he may one day wish to do, he will be
lucky if he gets thirty-five per cent."

" How much did he buy ? "

" Mexican loan, fifty thousand ; Guate-
mala, fifty thousand ; and Venezuela
bonds, fifty thousand."

" He is quite lavish."

" Oh, quite. That makes it so pleasant
to do business with him."

" Did you advance the money for
this?"

" He did not ask it. He raised the
money somehow, perhaps from v^ur old
advances, and bought them from the
broker. The broker was of course my-
self. The beauty of all this is that I
send applicants for money, who give
their notes ; he gets money from Tie and
gives his notes to me, and then advances
the money to these applicants, who
bring it back to me. It's odd, isn't
it?"

Louis smiled.

" Has he no bono fide debtors in his
own county? "

" Oh, yes, plenty of them ; but more
t'lan half of his advances have been
made to my men."

THE "PROMETHEUS'

223

[lis notes," con-
it of regard to
ny senior."
:cl Louis,
ecommend him
might purchase
; companies. 1
ommended hini.
identially to tell
jest, so I kindly
ise the Mexican
1. I also reconi-
bonds. I threw
;, and by dextrous
price to three per
id ;£io3 for every
s to sell out, as
to do, he will be
ve per cent."

thousand ; Guate-
: and Venezuela

kes it so pleasant

the money for

He raised the
aps from ^nir old
them from the
vas of course my-
all this is that I
loney, who give
oney from ^e aiul
nd then advances
applicants, who
It's odd, isn't

fide debtors in his

them; but more
ances have been

" Did you hint anything about issuing
notes ? "

" Oh, yes, and the bait took wonder-
fully. He made his bank a bank of issue
at once, and sent out a hundred and fifty
Miousand pounds in notes. I think it
was in this way that he got the money
(or all that American stock. At any
rate, it helped him. As he has only
a small supply of gold in his vaults,
you may very readily conjecture his
peculiar position."

Louis was silent for a time.

" You have managed admirably, Frank,"
said he at last.

" Oh," rejoined Frank, " Potts is very
small game, financially. There is no
skill needed in playing with him. He
is such a clumsy bungler that he does
whatever one wishes. There is not even
excitement. Whatever I tell him to do
he does. Now if I were anxious to
crush the Rothschilds, it would be very
difi'erent. There would then be a chance
for skill."

" You have had the chance."

" I did not wish to ruin them," said
Frank. " Too many innocent people
would have suffered. I only wished to
alarm them. I rather think, from what I
hear, that they were a little disturbed on
that day when they had to pay four mil-
lions. Yet I could have crushed them if
I had chosen, and I managed things so
as to let them see this."

" How ? "

" I controlled other engagements of
theirs, and on the same day I magnani-
mously wrote them a letter saying that I
would not press for payment: as their
notes were as good to me as money.
Had I pressed they would have gone
down. Nothing could have saved them.
But I did not wish that. The fact is
they have locked up their means very
much, and have been rather careless of
late. They have learned a lesson
now."

Louis relapsed into his reflections, and
Frank began to answer his letters.

CHAFTER XXXVn

THE "PROMETHEUS

It took some time for Langhetti to
make his preparations in London. Sep-
tember came before he had completed
them. To his surprise these arrange-
ments were much ep .ier than he had
supposed. People came to him of their
own accord before he thought it possible
that they could have heard of his prtject.
What most surprised him was a call from
the manager of Covent Garden Theatre,
who offered to put it into his hands for

a price so low as to surprise Langhetti
more than anything else that had occurred.
Of course he accepted the offer gratefully
and eagerly. The manager s.i. .1 that the
Duilding was on his hands, and he did
not wish to use it for the present, for
which reason he would be glad to turn
it over to him. He remarked also that
there wis very much stock in the theatre
that coald be made use of, for which he
would charge nothing whatever. Lan-

224

CORD AND CREESE

ghetti went to see it, and found a large
number of magnificently painted scenes,
which could be used in his piece. On
asking the manager how scenes of this
sort came to be there, he learned that
someone had been representing the
" Midsummer Night's Dream," or some-
thing of that sort.

Langhetti's means were very limited,
and, as he had risked everything on this
experiment, he was rejoiced to find events
so very greatly in his favor.

Another circumstance which was
equally in his favor, if not more so, was
the kind consideration of the London
papers. They announced his forthcoming
work over and over again. Some of their
writers came to see him so as to get the
particulars, and what little he told them
they d "cribed in the most attractive and
effective manner.

A large number of people presented
themselves to form his company, and he
also received applications by letter from
many whose eminence and fortunes
placed them above the need of any such
thing. It was simply incomprehensible
to Langhetti, who thoroughly understood
the ways of the musical world ; yet since
they offered he was only too happy to
accept. On having interviews with these
persons he was amazed to find that they
were one and all totally indifferent about
terms ; they all assured him that they
were ready to take any part whatever,
and merely wished to assist in the repre-
s intation of a piece so new and so original
as his was said to be. They all named
a price which was excessively low, and
assured him that they did so only for
form's sake ; positively refus'^ir to accept
anything more, and leaving it lo Langhetti
either to take them on their own terms or
to reject them. He, of course, could not
reject aid so powerful and s« unexpected.

At length he had his rehearsal. After
various trials he invited representatives
of the London press to be present at
the last. They all came, and all without
exception wrote the most glowing ac-
counts for their respective journals.

" I don't know how it is," said he to
Beatrice. " Everything has come into
my hands. I don't understand it. It
seems to me exactly as if there was some
powerful, unseen hand assisting me;
someone who secretly put everything in
my way, who paid these artists first and
then sent them to me, and influenced all
the journals in my favor. I should be sure
of this if it were not a more incredible
thing than the actual result itself. As it
is I am simply perplexed and bewildered.
It is a thing that is without parallel. I
have a company such as no one has ever
before gathered together on one stage.
I have eminent prima donnas who are
quite willing to sing second and third
parts without caring what I pay them, or
whether I pay them or not. I know the
musical world. All I can say is that ths
thing is unexampled, and I cannot com-
prehend it. I have tried to find out from
some of them what it all means, but they
give me no satisfaction. At any rate,
my Bicina, you will make your dt'l'nf
under the most favorable circumstances.
You saw how they admired your voice at
the rehearsal. The world shall admire
it still more at your first performance."

Langhetti was j uzzled, and, as he said,
bewildered, but he did not slacken a single
effort to make his opera successful. His
exertions were as unremitting as though
he were still struggling against difficulties,
After all that had been done for him he
knev; very well that he was sure uf a
good house, yet he worke I as hard as
though his audience was vny uncertain.

At length the appointed evening came,

THE " PROMETHEUS

225

ehearsal. After
1 representatives
) be present at
, cir.d all without
ost glowing ac-
ive journals.
,t is," said he to
has come into
nderstand it. It
if there was some
d assisting me;
put everything in
e artists first and
and influenced all
r. I should be sure
a more incredible
esult itself. As it
;d and bewildered,
vithout parallel. 1
as no one has ever
:her on one stage.
1 donnas who are
second and third
'hat I pay them, or
not. I know the
can say is that ths
nd I cannot com-
led to find out from
ill means, but they
ion. At any rate,
make your di'htit
ibie circumstances,
mired your voice at
world shall admire
Ifirst performance."
led, and, as he said,
not slacken a single
ira successful. His
•emitting as though
against dilfioulties.
;n done for him he
he was sure of a
'orke 1 as hard as
■as vny uncertain.
nted evening came.

Langhetti had certainly expected a good
house from those happy accidents which
had given him the co-operation of the
entire musical world and of the press.
Yet when he looked out and saw the
house that waited for the rising of tlie
curtain he was overwhelmed.

When he thus looked out it was long
before the time. A great murmur had
attracted his attention. He saw the
house crammed in every part. All the
boxes were filled. In the pit was a vast
congregation of gentlemen and ladies,
the very galleries were thronged.

The wonder that had all along filled
him was now greater than ever. He
well knew under what circumstances even
an ordinarily good house is collected
together. There must either be un-
doubted I'ame in the prima donna, or else
the most wide-spread and comprehensive
efforts on the part of a skilful impresario.
His efforts had been great, but not such
as to ensure anything like this. To
account for the prodigious crowd, which
filled every part of the large edifice, was
simply impossible.

He did not attempt to account for it.
He accepted the situation, and prepared
for the performance.

What sort of an idea that audience
may have had of the *' Prometheus " of
Langhetti need hardly be conjectured.
They had heard of it as a novelty. They
had heard that the company was the best
ever collected at one time, and that the
prima donna v»ras a prodigy of genius.
That was enough for them. They waited
in a state of expectation which was so
high-pitched that it would have proved
disastrous in the extreme to any piece,
or any singer, who should have proved to
be in the slightest degree inferior. Con-
summate excellence alone in every part
could now save the piece from ruin.

This Langhetti felt ; but he was calm,
for he had confidence in his work and in
his company. Most of all, he had con-
fidence in Beatrice.

At last the curtain rose.

The scene was such a one as had never
before been represented. A blaze of
dazzling light filled the stage, and before
it stood seven forms, representing the
seven archangels. They began one of
the subl'mest strains ever heard. Each
of these singers had in some v;ay won
emineui,^. T'ley had thrown themselves
into this work. The music which had
been given to them had produced an
exalted effect upon their own hearts, and
now they rendered forth that grand
"Chorus of Angels " which those who
heard the " Prometheus " have never for-
gotten. The words resembled, in some
measure, the opening song in Goethe's
"Faust," but the music was Langhetti's.

The effect of this magnificent opening
was wonderful. The audience sat spell-
bound—hushed into stillness by those
transcendent harmonies which seemed
like the very song of the angels them-
selves ; like that " new song " which is
spoken of in Revelation. The grandeur
of Handel's stupendous chords was
renewed, and everyone present felt its
power.

Then came the second scene. Prome-
theus lay s'lfTcring. The ocean nymphs
were around him, sympathizing with his
woes. The sufferer lay chained to a
bleak rock in the summit of frosty Cau-
casus. Far and wide extended an ex-
panse of ice. In the distance arose a vast
world of snow-covered peaks. In front
was a titer de glace, which extended all
along the stnge.

Prometheus addressed all nature —
" the divine ether, the swift-winged
winds, Earth the All-mother, a; 1 the

326

CORD AND CREESE

infinite la;ighter of the ocean waves."
The thoughts were those of yEschylus,
expressed by the music of Langhetti.

The ocean nymphs bewailed him in a
song of mournful sweetness, whose in-
describable pathos touched every heart.
It was the intensity of sympathy — sym-
pathy so profound that it became anguish,
for the heart that felt it had identified
itself with the heart of the sufferer.

Then followed an extraordinary strain.
It was the Voice of Universal Nature,
animate and inanimate, mourning over
the agony of the God of Love. In that
strain was heard the voice of man, the
sighing of the winds, the moaning of the
sea, the murmur of the trees, the wail of
bird and beast, all blending in extraordi-
nary unison, and all speaking of woe.

And now a third scene opened. It was
Athene. Athene represented Wisdom or
Human Understanding, by which the
God of Vengeance is dethroned, and gives
place to the eternal rule of the God of
Love. To but few of those present could
this idea of Langhetti's be intelligible.
The most of them merely regarded the
fable and its music, without looking for
any meaning beneath the surface.

To these, and to all, the appearance of
Beatrice was like a new revelation. She
came forward and stood in the costume
which the Greek has given to Athene, but
in her hand she held the olive — her
emblem — instead of the spear. From
beneath her helmet her dark locks flowed
down and were wreathed in thick waves
that clustered heavily about her head.

Here, as Athene, the pure classical
contour of Beatrice's features appeared in
marvellous beauty — faultless in their per-
fect Grecian mould. Her large dark
eyes looked with a certain solemn mean-
ing out upon the vast audience. Her
whole face was refined and sublimed by

the thought that was within her. In her
artistic nature she had appropriated this
character to herself so thoroughly that,
as she stood there, she felt herself to be
in reality all that she represented. The
spectators caught the same feeling from
her. Yet so marvellous was her beauty,
so astonishing was the perfection of her
form and feature, so accurate was the
living representation of the ideal goddess,
that the whole vast audience after one
glance burst forth into pealing thunders
of spontaneous and irresistible applause.

Beatrice had opened her mouth to
begin, but as that thunder of admiration
arose she fell back a pace. Was it the
applause that had overawed her ?

Her eyes were fixed on one spot at the
extreme right of the pit. A face was
there which enchained her. A face, pale,
sad, mournful, with dark eyes fixed on
hers in steadfast despair.

Beatrice faltered and fell back, but it
was not at the roar of applause. It was
that face — the one face among three
thousand before her, the one, the only
one that she saw. Ah. how in that
moment all the past came rushing before
her — the Indian Ocean, where that face
first appeared, the Malay pirate, the
Atlantic, the shipwreck, the long sail over
the seas in the boat, the African isle !

She stood so long in silence that the
spectators wondered.

Suddenly the face which had so trans-
fixed her sank dow n. He was gone, or he
had hid himself. Was it because he knew
that he was the cause of her silence ?

The face disappeared, and the spell was
broken. Langhetti stood at the side-
scenes, watching w'.h deep agitation the
silence of Beatrice. He was on the point
of taking the desperate step of going for-
ward when he saw that she had regained
her composure.

THE "PROMETHEUS"

327

lin her. In her
ppropriatecl this
:hoioughly that,
elt herself to be
presented. The
ime feeling from
was her beauty,
perfection of her
ccurate was the
the ideal goddess,
adience after one
pealing thunders
ssistible applause.
;d her mouth to
ider of admiration
pace. Was it the
awed her ?
on one spot at the
pit. A face was
her. A face, pale,
lark eyes fixed on
lir.

id fell back, but it
applause. It was
•ace among tliree
the one, the only
Ah. how in that
;ame rushing before
Ln, where that face
Malay pirate, the
;k, the long sail over
fhe African isle !
in silence that the

[which had so trans-
He was gone, or he

|s it because he knew
of her silence ?

fed, and the spell was

stood at the side-
.. deep agitation the
JHewas on the point

|ite step of going for-
lat she had regained

She regained it, and moved a step for-
ward with such calm serenity that no one
could have suspected her of having lost
it. She began to sing. In an opera words
are nothing — music is all in all. It is
sufficient if the words express, even in a
feeble and general way, the ideas which
breathe and burn in the music. Thus it
was with the words in the opening song
of Beatrice.

But the music I What language can
describe it?

Upon this all the richest stores of
Langhetti's genius had been lavished.
Into this all the soul of Beatrice was
thrown with sublime self-forgetfulness.
She ceased to be herself. Before the
audience she was Athene.

Her voice, always marvellously rich and
full, was now grander and more capacious
than ever. It poured forth a full stream
of matchless harmony that carried all
the audience captive. Strong, soaring,
penetrating, it rose easily to the highest
notes, and flung them forth with a lavish,
and at the same time far-reaching power
that penetrated every heart, and thrilled
all who heard it. Roused to the highest
enthnsiasm by the sight of that vast
assemblage, Beatrice gave herself up to
the intoxication of the hour. She threw
herself into the spirit of the piece ; she
took deep into her heart the thought
of Langhetti, and uttered it forth to the
listeners with harmonies that were almost
divine— such harmonies as they had never
before heard.
There was the silence of death as she

sang. Her voice stilled all other sounds.
Each listener seemed almost afraid to
breathe. Some looked at one another in
amazement, but most of them sat motion-
less, with their heads stretched forward,
unconscious of anything except that one
voice.

At last it ceased. For a moment there
was a pause. Then there arose a deep,
low thunder of applause that deepened
and intensified itself every moment till at
last it rose on high in one sublime out-
burst, a frenzy of acclamation such as is
heard but seldom, but, once heard, is
never forgotten.

Beatrice was called out. She came,
and retired. Again and again she was
called. Flowers were showered down
in heaps at her feet. The acclamations
went on, and only ceased through the
consciousness that more was yet to come.
The piece went on. It was one long tri-
umph. At last it ended, Beatrice had
been loaded with honors. Langhetti was
called out and welcomed with almost
equal enthusiasm. His eyes filled with
tears of joy as he received this well-
merited tribute to his genius. He and
Beatrice stood on the stage at the same
time. Flowers were flung at him. He
took them and laid them at the feet of
Beatrice.

At this a louder roar of acclamation
arose. It increased and deepened, and
the two who stood there felt overwhelmed
by the tremendous applause.

So ended the first representation of
the " Prometheus " I

CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE SECRET

The triumph of Beatrice continued.
The daily papers were filled with accounts
of the new singer. She had come sud-
denly before them, and had at one bound
reached the highest eminence. She had
eclipsed all the popular favorites. Her
sublime strains, her glorious enthusiasm,
her marvellous voice, her perfect beauty,
all kindled the popular heart. The
people forgave her for not having an
Italian name, since she had one which
was so aristocratic. Her whole appear-
ance showed that she was something
very different from the common order
of artistes, as different, in fact, as the
"Prometheus" was from the common
order of operas. For here in the *' Pro-
metheus " there were no endless iterations
of the one theme of love, no perpetual
repetitions of the same rhyme of amore
and cuore, or amor ' and cuor ' ; but
rather the effort of the soul after sublimer
mysteries. The " Prometheus " sought
to solve the problem of life and of human
suffering. Its divine sentiments brought
hope and consolation. The great singer
rose to the altitude of a sibyl ; she
uttered inspirations; she herself was
inspired.

As she stood with her grand Grecian
beauty, her pure classic features, she
looked as beautiful as a statue, and
as ideal and passionless. In one sense
she could never be a popular favorite.
She had no archr°ss or coquetry like
some, no voluptuousness like others, no
arts to win applause like others. Still

she stood up and sang as one who
believed that this was the highest mission
of humanity, to utter divine truth to
human ears. She sang loftily, thrillingly,
as an angel might sing ; and those who
saw her revered her while they listened.

And thus it was that the fame of this
new singer went quickly through Eng-
land, and foreign journals spoke of it half-
wonderingly, half-cynically, as usual ; for
Continentals never have any faith in Eng-
lish art, or in the power which any Eng-
lishman may have to interpret art. The
leading French journals conjectured that
the " Prometheus " was of a religious
character, and therefore Puritanical ; ami
consequently for that reason was popular.
They amused themselves with the idea of
a Puritanical opera, declared that the
English wished to Protestantize music,
and suggested " Calvin " or " The Sab-
bath" as good subjects for this new and
entirely English class of operas.

But soon the correspondents of some
of the Continental papers began to write
glowing accounts of the piece, and to put
Langhetti in the same class with Handel.
He was an Italian, they said, but in this
case he united Italian grace and versatil-
ity with German solemnity and melan-
choly. They declared that he was the
greatest of living composers, and prom-
ised for him a great reputation.

Night after night the representation of
the " Prometheus " went on with un-
diminished success ; and with a larger
and profounder appreciation of .is mean-

328

THE SECRET

229

ing as one wbo
e highest mission
divine truth to
loftily, thrillingly.
[ ; and those who
ile they listened.
L the fame of tl\is
kly through Eng-
ds spoke of it half-
:ally, as usual ; for
e any faith in Eng-
;r which any Eng-
interpret art. The
Is conjectured that
/as of a religious
e Puritanical ; and
eason was popular.
/es with the idea of
declared that tlie
Irotestantize music,
lin " or " The Sab-
,s for this new and
of operas,
ipondents of some
[lers began to write
le piece, and to put
class with Hiindcl.
jy said, but in this
grace and versatil-
■mnity and melan-
[l that he was the
iposers, and piom-
putation.

;e representation of

ent on with un-

and with a larger

iation of as mean-

ing among the better class of minds.
Langhetti began to show a stronger and
fuller confidence 'n the success of his
piece than he had yet dared to evince.
Yet now its success seemed assufed.
What more could he Wish ?

The weeks passed by, and every suc-
ceeding night only made the success
more marked. One day Langhetti was
with Beatrice at the theatre, and they
were talking of many things. There
seemed to be something on his mind, for
he spoke in an abstracted manner.
Beatrice noticed this at last, and men-
tioned it.

He was at first very mysterious. " It
must be that secret of yours which you
will not tell me," said she. " You said
once before that it was connected with
nie, and that you would tell it to me
when the time came. Has not the time
coine yet ? "

" Not yet," answered Langhetti.

" When will it come ? "

" I don't know."

" And will you keep it secret always? "

" Perhaps not."

" You speak undecidedly."

" I am undecided."

"Why not decide now to tell it.''"
pleaded Beatrice. " Why should I not
know it ? Surely I have gone through
enough suffering to bear this, even if
it bring something additional."

Langhetti looked at her long and
doubtfully.

"You hesitate," said she.

" Yes."

"Why?"

" It is of too much importance."

"That is all the more reason why I
should know it. Would it crush me if
I knew it ? "

" I don't know. It might."

"Then let me be crushed."

Langhetti sighed.

" Is it something that you know for
certain, or is it only conjecture ? "

" Neither," said he, " but half-way be-
tween the two."

Beatrice looked earnestly at him for
some time. Then she put her head
nearer to his and spoke in a solemn
whisper.

" It is about my mother ! "

Langhetti looked at her with a sta .led
expression.

" Is it not ? "

He bowed his head.

" It is — it is. And if so, I implore — I
conjure you to tell me. Look — I am
calm. Think — I am strong. I am not
one who can be cast down merely by bad
news."

" I snay tell you soon."

"Say you will."

" I will," said Langhetti after a struggle.

" Wnien ? "

"Soon "

" Why not to-morrow ? "

" That is too soon ; you are impatient."

" Of course I am," said Beatrice.
" Ought I not to be so ? Have you not
said that this concerns me ? and is not all
my imagination aroused in the endeavor
to form a conjecture as to what it may
be?"

She spoke so earnestly that Langhetti
was moved, and looked still more un-
decided.

" When will you tell me? "

" Soon, perhaps," he replied with some
hesitation.

"Why not now?"

" Oh, no ! I must assure myself first
about some things."

" To-morrow, then."

He hesitated.

" Yes," said she ; " it must be to-mor-
row. If you do not I shall think that

230

CORD AND CRF.KSE

you have little or no confidence in me.
I shall expect it to-morrow."

Langhetti was silent.

" I shall expect it to-morrow," repeated
Beatrice.

Langhetti still continued silent.

" Oh, very well ; silence gives con-
sent ! " said she in a lively tone.

" I have not consented."

" Yes you have, by your silence,"

" I was deliberating."

" I asked you twice and you did not
refuse ; surely that means consent."

" I do not say so," said Langhetti
earnestly.

" But you will do so."

*' Do not be so certain."

" Yes, I will be certain ; and if you do
not tell me you will very deeply disappoint
me."

" In telling you I could only give you
sorrow."

" Sorrow or joy, whatever it is, I can
bear it so long as I know this. You will
not suppose that I am actuated by simple
feminine curiosity You know me better.
This secret is one which subjects me
to the tortures of suspense, and I am
anxious to have them removed."

" The removal will be worse than the
suspense."

"That is impossible."

'* You would not say so if you knew
what it was."

" Tell me, then."

" That is what I fear to do."

" Do you fear for me, or for some
other person ? "

"Only for you."

" Do not fear for me, then, I beseech
you ; for it is not only my desire, but my
prayer, that I may know this."

Langhetti seemed to he in deep per-
plexity. Whatever this secret was with
which he was so troubled he seemed
afraid to tell it to Beatrice, either from
fear that it might not be anything in
itself or result in anything, or, as seemed
more probable, lest it might too greatly
affect her. This last was the motive
which appeared to influence him most
strongly. In either case, the secret of
which he spcke must have been one of
a highly important character, affectin;,'
most deeply the life and fortunes df
Beatrice herself. She had formed lur
own ideas and her own expectations
about it, and this made her all the more
urgent, and even peremptory, in her
demand. In fact, things had come to
such a point that Langhetti found liiiii-
self no longer able to refuse, and now
only sought how to postpone the di\ iil-
gence of his secret.

Yet even this Beatrice combated, and
would listen to no later postponement
than the morrow.

At length, after long resistance to
her demand, Langhetti assented, and
promised on the morrow to tell her
what it was that he had meant by his
secret.

For, as she gathered from his conver-
sation, it was something that he had first
discovered in Hong Kong, and had
never since forgotten, but had tried to
make it certain. His efforts had thus far
been useless, and he did not wish to
tell her till he could bring proof. That
proof, unfortunately, he was not able to
find, and he could only tell his conjec-
tures.

It was for these, then, that Beatrice
waited in anxious expectation.

-»e in deep per-
secret was with
)led he seemed
rice, either from
be anything ii)
ig, or, as sicemed
light too greatly
was the motive
luence him most
ise, the secret of
liave been one of
aracter, affectin,^^
and fortunes of
had formed lur
own expectations
e her all the more
Tcmptory, in her
ngs had come to
ighetti found luni-
o refuse, and now
postpone the divul-

;rice combated, and
later postponement

long resistance to
letti assented, and
iiorrow to tell her
had meant by his

red from his comer-
ling that he had first
[g Kong, and had
[n, but had tried to
efforts had thus far
le did not wish to
. bring proof. That
he was not able to
I only tell his conjee-

then, that Beatrice
jxpectation.

CHAPTER XXXIX

THE CAB

That evening Beatrice's performance
Iiad been greeted with louder applause
than usual, and, what was more gratify-
ing to one like her, the effective passages
had been listened to with a stillness which
spoke more loudly than the loudest ap-
plause of the deep interest of the audi-
ence.

Langhetti had almost always driven
home with her, but on this occasion he
luid excused himself on account of some
business in the theatre which required
his attention.

On going out Beatrice could not find
the cabman wiiom she had employed.
After looking around for him a long time
she found that he had gone. She was
surprised and vexed. At the same time
she could not account for this, but thought
that perhaps he had been drinking and
had forgotten all about her. On making
this discovery she was on the point of
going back and telling Langhetti, but a
cabman followed her persistently, promis-
ing to take her wherever she wished, and
she thought that it would be foolish to
trouble Langhetti about so small a matter ;
so that at length she decided to employ
the persevering cabman, thinking that he
could take her to her lodgings as well as
anybody else.

The cabman started off at a rapid pace,
and went on through street after street,
while Beatrice sat thinking of the evening's
performance.

At last it seemed to her that she had
been a much longer time than usual, and

she began to fear that the cabman had
lost his way. She looked out. They
were going along tiie upper part of Oxford
Street, a great distance from where she
lived. She instantly tried to draw down
the window so as to attract the cabman's
attention, but could not move it. She
tried the other, but all were fast and
would not stir. She rapped at the {.'lass
to make him hear, but he took no noi ice.
Then she tried to open the door, but
could not do so from the inside.

She sat down and thought. What
could be the meaning of this? They
were now going at a much faster rate
tiian is common in the streets of London,
but where she was going she could not
conjecture.

She was not afraid. Her chief feeling
was one of indignation. Either the cab-
man was drunk — or what ? Could he
have been hired to carry her off to her
enemies ? Was she betrayed ?

This thought flashed like lightning
through her mind.

She was not one who would sink down
into inaction at the sudden onset of ter-
ror. Her chief feeling now was one of
indignation at the audacity of such an
attempt. Obeying the first impulse that
seized her, she took the solid roll of mu-
sic which she carried with her, and dashed
it against the front window so violently
that she broke it in pieces. Then she
caught the driver by the sleeve and
ordered him to stop.

" All right," said the driver, and, tum-
931

232

CORD AND CRKESE

C3t-»

•Kir

c:3;

FT:

ing a corner, he wliipped up his horses,
and they galloped on faster than ever.

" If you don't stop I'll call for help! "
cried Beatrice.

The driver's only answer was a fresh
application of the whip.

The street up which they turned was
narrow, and as it had only dwelling
houses it was not so brightly lighted as
Oxford Street. There were but few foot
passengers on the sidewalk. As it was
now about midnight, most of the lights
were out, and the gas lamps were the
chief means of illuntinaticn.

Yet there was a chance that the police
might save her. With this hope she
dashed her music scroll against the win-
dows on each side of the cab and shivered
them to atoms, calling at the top of her
voice for help. The swift rush of the
cab and the sound of a woman's voice
shouting for aid aroused the police.
They started forward. But the horses
were rushing so swiftly that no one
dared to touch them. The driver seemed
to have lost control. They thought tliat
the horses were running away, and that
those within the cab were frightened.

Away they went through street after
street, and Beatrice never ceased to call.
The excitement which was created by the
runaway horses did not abate, and at
length, when the driver stopped, a police-
man hurried up.

The house before which the cab stopped
was a plain two-story one, in a quiet-look-
ing street. A light shone from the front-
parlor window. As the cab drew up the
door opened and a man came out.

Beatrice saw the policeman.

" Help I " she cried ; " I implore help.
This wretch is carrying me away."

" What's this ? " growled the policeman.

At this the man that had come out of
the house hurried forward.

" Have you found her ? " exclaimed a
well-known voice. " Oh, my child !
How could you leave your father's roof ! "

It was John Potts.

Beatrice was silent for a moment in
utter amazement. Yet she made a violent
effort against her despair.

" You have no control over me," said
she bitterly. " I am of age. And you,"
said she to the policeman, " I demaml
your help. I put myself under your
protection, and order you either to take
that man in charge or to let me go to my
home."

"Oh, my daughter!" cried Potts.
"Will you still be relentless?"

" Help me ! " cried Beatrice, and slie
opened the cab door.

" The policeman can do nothing," said
Potts. " You are not of age. He will
not dare to take you from me."

" I implore you," cried Beatrice, " save
me from this man. Take me to the
police-station — anywhere rather than
leave me here ! "

" You cannot," said Potts to the be-
wildered policeman. " Listen I She is
my daughter and under age. She ran
away with a strolling Italian vagabond
with whom she is leading an improper
life. I have got her back."

" It's false ! " cried Beatrice vehemently,
" I .Hed from this man's house because I
feared his violence."

" That is an idle story," said Potts,

" Save me ! " cried Beatrice.

" I don't know what to do — I suppose
I've got to take you to the station at any
rate," said the policeman hesitatingly.

"Well," said Potts to Beatrice, "if
you do go to the station-house you'll
have to be handed back to me. You are
under age."

" It's false I " cried Beatrice. " I am
twenty."

THi!, CAB

•33

' " exclaimed a
h, my child!
father's roof ! "

r a moment in
e made a violent

over me," said
ige. And you, "
nan, " 1 demand
ielf under your
)U either to take
I let me go to my

! " cried Potts.
Mitless ? "
Jeatrice, and she

do nothing," said
of age. He will
)m me."

:d Beatrice, " save
Take me to the
re rather than

Potts to the he-
Listen! She is

er age. She ran

Italian vagabond
ing an improper
back."

;atrice vehemently.

s house because I

y," said Potts.

eatrice.

to do— I suppose
the station at any

lan hesitatingly.
to Beatrice, "if

tation-house you'll

;k to me. You are

Beatrice. " I am

" No, you are not more than seven-
teen."

" Langhetti can prove that I am
twenty."

" How ? I have documents, arid a
father's word will be believed before a
paramour's."

This taunt stung Beatrice to the soul.

" As to your charge about my cruelty,
I can prove to the world that you lived in
splendor in Brandon Hall. Every one of
the servants can testify to this. Your
niorose disposition made you keep by
yourself. You always treated your father
with indifference, and finally ran away
with a man who unfortunately had won
your affections in Hong Kong."

" You well know the reason why i left
your roof," replied Beatrice, with calm |
and severe dignity. " Your foul asper-
sions upon my character are unworthy of
notice."

" And what shall I say about your
aspersions on my character ? " cried
I'otts, in a loud, rude voice, hoping by
a sort of vulgar self-assertion to brow-
beat Beatrice. " Do you remember the
names you called me and your threats
against me? When all this is brought
out in the police court, they will see what
kind of a daughter you have been."

" You will be the last one who will
dare to let it be brought into a police
court."

" And why ? Those absurd charges of
yours are worthless. Have you any
proof? " he continued, with a sneer, " or
lias your paramour any ? "

" Take me away," said Beatrice to the
policeman.

" Wait ! " exclaimed Polts ; " you are
Soing, and I will go to reclaim you. The
law will give you back to me ; for I will
prove that you are under age, and I have
never treated you with anything except

kindness. Now the law can do nothing
since you are mine. But as you are so
young and inexperienced I'll tell you
what will happen.

"The newspapers," he continued, after
a pause, " will be full of your story.
They will print what I shall prove to be
true — that you had an intractable dis-
position—that you had formed a guiiiy
attachinent for a dium-major at Hong
Kong — that you ran away with him, lived
for a while at Holby, and then went with
your paramour to London. If you had
only married him you would have been out
of my power ; but you don't pretend to be
married. You don't call yourself Lan-
ghetti, but have taken another name,
which the sharp newspaper reporters will
hint was given you by some other one
of your numerous favorites. They will
declare that you love every man but
your own father ; and you — you who
played the goddess on the stage and sang
about Truth and Religion will be known
all over England, and all over Europe too,
as the vilest of the vile."

At this tremendous menace Beatrice's
resolution was shattered to pieces. That
this would be so she well knew. To
escape from Potts was to have herself
made infamous publicly under the sanc-
tion of the law, and then, by that same
law to be handed back to him. At least,
whether it was so or not, she thought so.
There was no help, no friend.

" Go," said Potts ; " leave me now and
you become covered w th infamy. Who
would believe your story ? "

Beatrice was silent ; her slender frame
was rent by emotion.

" O God I " she groaned — but in her
deep despair she could not find thoughts
even for prayers.

■' You may go, policeman," said Potts ;

my Ir jghter will come with me."

»34

CORD AND CREESE

ec-
us

"Faith and I'm glad! It's the best
thing for her ; " and the pohceman, much
rcheved, returned to his beat.

" Some of you 'U have to pay for tliem
winders," said the cabman.

" All right." answered Potts quietly.

" There is your home for to-night, at

any rate," said Potts, pointing to the
house. " I don't think you have any
choice left. You had better go in."

His tone was one full nf bitter taunt.
Scarce conscious, with her brain reeling,
and her limbs trembling, Beatrice entered
the house.

CHAPTER XL

DISCOVERIES

The next morning, after Beatrice's last
performance, Langhetti determined to
fulfil his promise and tell her that secret
which she had been so anxious to know.
On entering into his parlor he saw a letter
lying on the table addressed to him. It
bore no postage stamp or post-office
mark.

He opened it and read the following :

"London, September $, 1849.
" SiGNORE : Cigole, the betrayer and
intended assassin of your late father, is
now in London. You can find out about
him by enquiring of Giovanni Cavallo, 16
Red Lion Street. As a traitor to the
Carbonari, you will know that it is your
duty to punish him, evei>if your filial piety
is not strong enough to avenge a father's
wrongs.

" Carbonaro."

Langhetti read this several times. Then
he called for his landlord.
" Who left this letter ? " he asked.
" A young man."
" Do you know his name ? "
" No."
"What did he look like?"

" He looked like a counting-house clerk
more than anything."

" When was it left ? "

" About six o'clock this morning."

Langhetti read it over and over. The
news that it contained filled his mind. It
was not yet ten o'clock. He would not
take any breakfast, but went out at once,
jumped into a cab, and drove off to Keil
Lion Street.

Giovanni Cavallo's office was in a low
dingy building, with a dark, narrow door-
way. It was one of those numerous
establishments conducted and supported
by foreigners whose particular business
it is not easy to conjecture. The build-
ing was full of offices, but this was on the
ground floor.

Langhetti entered, and found the in-
terior as dingy as the exterior. There
was a table in the middle of the room.
Beyond this was a door which opened
into the back room.

Only one person was here — a small,
bright-eyed man, with thick Vandyke
beard and sinewy though small frame.
Langhetti took off his hat and bowed.

" I wish to see Signore Cavallo," said
he in Italian,

lMS(OVF.R!F.S

«35

pointing to the
you have any

tier no >'^-"
1 of bitter tauni.
er brain reeliiiK,
, Beatrice enteral

unting-house clerk

his morning."
er and over. The
filled his mind. It
k. He would not
t went out at once,
drove off to Reil

)ffice was in a low
Idark, narrow door-
if those numerous
;ted and supported
Iparticular business
'Cture. The build-
but this was on tlie

land found the in-
lie exterior. There
liddle of the room.
lloor which opened

vas here— a small,
[th thick Vandyke
lough small frame.
lis hat and bowed.
Lore Cavallo," sai4

"I am Signore Cavallo," answered the
other blandly.

Langhetti made a peculiar motion with
his left arm. The keen eye of the qtiier
noticed it in an instant. He returned
;i gesture of a similar character. Lan-
ghetti and he then exchanged some more
secret signs. At last Langhetti made
one which caused the other to start and
to bow with deep respect.

" I did not know," said he in a low
voice, " that any of the Interior Council
ever came to London. . . lUit come in
here," and he led the way into the inner
room, the door of which he locked very
mysteriously.

A long conference followed, the details
of which would only be tedious. At the
close Cavallo said :

" There is some life in us yet, and
what life we have left shall be spent in
trapping that miscreant. Italy shall be
avenged on one of her traitors, at any
rate,"

" You will write as I told you, and let
me know.' "
"Most faithfully."

Langhetti departed, satisfied with the
result of this interview. What surprised
him most was the letter. The writer
must have been one who had been ac-
quainted with his past life. He was
amazed to find anyone denouncing Ci-
gole to him, but finally concluded that it
must be some old Carbonaro, exiled
through the afflictions which had be-
fallen that famous society, and cherish-
ing in his exile the bitter resentment
which only exiles can feel.

Cavallo himself had known Cigole for
years, but had no idea whatever of his
early career. Cigole had no suspicion
that Cavallo had anything to do with the
Carbonari. His firm were general agents,
who did business of a miscellaneous

character, now commission, now b.mking,
;in(l now shipping; and in vaiious ways
they had had dealings with this man,
and kept up an irregular correspondence
with him.

This letter had excited afresh within
his ardent and impetuous nature all the
remembrances of early wrongs. Gentle
though he was, and pure in heart, and
elevated in all his aspirations, he yet was
in all respects a true child of the South,
and his passionate nature was roused
to a storm by this prospect of just re-
taliation. All the lofty doctrines with
which he might console others were of
no avail here in giving him calm. He
had never voluntarily pursued Cigole ;
but now, since this villain had been pre-
sented to him, he could not turn aside
from what he considered the holy duty of
avenging a ( ither's wrongs.

He saw that for the present everything
would have to give way to this. He de-
termined at once to suspend the repre-
sentation of the " Prometheus," even
though it was at the height of its popu-
larity and in the full tide of its success.
He determined to send Beatrice under
his sister's care, and to devote himself
now altogether to the pursuit of Cigole,
even if he had to follow him to the
world's end. The search after him might
not be long aiier all, for Cavallo felt san-
guine of speedy success, and assured him
that the traitor was in his power, and
that the Carbonari in London were suffi-
ciently numerous to seize him and send
him to whatever punishment might be
deemed most fitting.

With such plans and purposes Lan-
ghetti went to visit Beatrice, wondering
how she would receive the intelligence of
his new purpose.

It was two o'clock in the afternoon be-
fore he reached her lodgings. On going

236

CORD AND CR?;ESE

up he rapped. A servant came, and on
seeing him looked ^rigo^ened.

" Is Miss Desparc' i;i r "

The servant said nothing, but ran off.
Langhetti stood waiting in surprise ; but
in a short time the landlady came. She
had a troubled look, and did not even
return his salutation.

" Is Miss Despard in ? "

'• She is not here, sir."

" Not here i '"

" No, sir. I'm frighttiied. There vvasi
a man here early this morning, too."

" A n.:m here. What for ? "

" Vx"-._,, to ask after her."

" And did he see her ? "

"She wasi;'. hei ^."

" Wasn't here ! What do you mean ? "

"She didn't com? home at all last
night. I waited up for her till four."

" Didn't come home ! " cried Langhetti,
as an awful fear came o/er him.

"No, sir."

" Do you mean to tell we that she
didn't come home at her usual hour ? "

" No, sir, not at r.ll ; and as I was say-
ing, I sat up nearly all night."

" Heavens ! " cried Langhetti. in je-
wilderment. " What is the meaning of
this? But take me to her room. Let
me see with my own eyes."

The landlady led the way up, and
Langhetti followed anxiously. The
rooms were empty. Everything re-
mained just as she had left it. Her music
was lying loosely around. The landlady
said that she had touched nothing.

Langhetti asked about the man who
had called in the morning. The land-
lady could tell nothing about him, except
that he was a gentleman with dark hair
and very stern eyes that terrified her.
He seemed to be very angry or very ter-
rible in some way about Beatrice.

Who could this be ? thought Langhetti.

The landlady did not know his name.
Someone was certainly interesting him-
self very singularly about Cigole, and
someone else, or else the same person,
was very much interested about Beatrice.
For a moment he thought it might be
Despard. This, however, did not seem
probable, as Desparu would have written
him if he were coming to town.

Jeeply perplexed, and almost in de-
spair, Langhetti left the house and drove
home, thinking on the way what ought
I ) be done. He thought he would wait
till evening, and perhaps she would ap-
pear. He did thus wait, and in a fever
of excitement and suspense, but on going
to the lodging-house again there was
nothing more known about hfr.

Leaving this he drove to the police-
office. It seemed to him now that she
must have been foully dealt with in some
way. He could think of no one but Potts ;
yet how Potts could manage it was a
mystery. That mystery he himself could
not hope to unravel. The police might.
With that confidence in the police which
is Qf mmon to all Continentals he wi iit
and made known his troubles. The
officials at once promised to make enqui-
ries, and told him to call on the follow-
ing evening.

The next evening he went there. Tlie
policeman was present who had been ;it
the place when Potts met Beatrice. He
told the whole story— the horses runnin;;
furiously, the screams from the cab, nnd
the appeal of Beatrice for help, together
with her final acquiescence in the will of
her father.

Langhetti was overwhelmed. The offi-
cials evidently believed that Potts was an
injured father, and showed some coldness
to Langhetti.

" He is her father ; what better could
she do ? " asked one.

THEY MEET AGAIN

237

low his name,
iteresting hiin-
xt Cigole, and
; same person,
about Beatrice.
;ht it might be
, did not seem
lid have written

town.

1 almost in de-
house and drove
vay what (>uglu
t he would wait
i she would ap-
t. and in a fever
nse, but on going
igain there was
bout hfr.
ve to the police-
\m now that she
lealt with in some
■ no one but Potts;
manage it was a
he himself could

he police mi^lit.
the police which

tinentals he wint

Is troubles. Tlie

d to make enqui-

:all on the follow-

Iwent there. The
who had been at
Inet Beatrice. He
Ihe horses running
ifrom the cab, and
for help, togethei-
lence in the will of

[rhelmed. The offi-
that Potts was an
ved some coldness

" Anything would be better," said
Langhetti mournfully. " He is a villain
so remorseless that she had to fly. Some
friends received her. She went to get
her own living since she is of age. Can
nothing be done to rescue her ? "

" Well, she Plight begin a lawsuit ; if
she really is of age he cannot hold her.
But she had much better stay with him."

Such were the opinions of the officials.

They courteously granted periiiisal^i to
Langhetti to take the policeman to the
house.

On knocking, an old woman came to
the door. In answer to his enquiries she
stated that a gentleman had been living
there three weeks, but that on the arrival
of his daughter he had gone home.

" When did he leave ? "

" Yesterday morning."

CHAPTER XLI

THEY MEET AGAIN

what better c

oulii

At four o'clock on the morning of
Beatrice's capture Brandon was roused
hy a rap at his bedroom door. He rose
at once, and slipping on his dressing-
gown, opened it. A man entered.

" Well ? " said Brandon.

" Something hns happened."

"What?"

" She didn't get home last night. The
landlady is sittmg up for her, and is
terribly frightened."

" Did you make any enquiries? "

" No, sir ; I came straight here in
obedience to yoir directions."

" Is that all yo'i know ? "

"All."

" Very well," said Brandon calmly,
" you may go."

The man retired. Brandon sat down
and buried his head in his hands. Such
news as this was sufficient to overwhelm
anyone. The ir..".i knew nothing more
than this, that she had not returned
home and that the landlady was fright-
ened. In his opinion only one of two
things could have happened : cither

Langhetti had taken her somewhere, or
she had been abducted.

A thousand fancies followed one
another in quick succession. It was too
early as yet to go forth to make enquiries,
and he therefore was forced to sit still
and form conjectures as to what ought to
i)e done in case his conje' ture might be
true. Sitting there, he took a rapid
survey of all the possibilities of the occa-
sion, and laid liis plans accordingly.

Brandon had feared some , -'lamity,
and with this fear had arranged to have
someone in the house who might give lim
information. The information whic 1 he
most dreaded hai. come ; it had come too,
in the midst of a time of triumph^ when
she had become one of the supreme singers
of the age, and had gained all that her
warmest admirer might desire for her.

If she had not been foully dealt with
she must have gone with Langhetti.
But if so — where — and why? Wiiat
possible reason might Langhetti have for
taking her away ? This conjecture was
impossible.

i I

238

CORD AND CREESE

1:9
■J

■iiiv

Yet if this was impossible, and if she
had not gone with Langhetti, with whom
could she have gone ? If not a friend,
then it must have been an enemy. But
with what enemy? There was only
one.

He thought of Potts. He knew that
this wretch was capable of any villainy,
and would not hesitate at anything to
regain possession of the one who had
fled from him. Why he should wish to
take the trouble to regain possession of
her except out of pure villainy, he could
not imagine.

With such thoughts as these the time
passed heavily. Six o'clock at last came,
and he set out for the purpose of making
enquiries. He went first to the theatre.
Here, after some trouble, he found those
who had the place in charge, and, by
questioning them, he learned that Bea-
trice had left by herself in a cab for her
home, and that Langhetti had remained
some time later. He then went to
Beatrice's lodgings to question the land-
lady. From there he went to Langhetti's
lodgings, and found that Langhetti had
come home about one o'clock and was
not yet up.

Beatrice, therefore, had left by herself,
and had not gone anywhere with
Langhetti. She had not rciurned home.
It seemed to him most probable that
either voluntarily or involuntarily she
had come under the control of Potts.
What to do under these circumstances
was now the question.

One course seemed to him the most
direct and certain ; namely, to go up to
Brandon at once and make enquiries
there. From the letters which Philips
had sent he had an idea of the doings
of Potts. Other sources of information
had also been secured. It was not his
business to do anything more than to

see that Beatrice should fall into no
harm.

By ten o'clock he had acted upon this
idea, and was at the " .Ilway station to
take the express train. He reached
Brandon village about dusk. He went
to the inn in his usual disguise as Mr.
Smithers, and sent up to the Hall for Mr.
Potts.

Potts was not there. He then sent
for Philips. After some delay Philips
came. His usual timidity was now if
possible still more marked, and he was
at first too embarrassed to speak.

" Where is Potts ? " asked Brandon
abruptly.

" In London, sir."

" He has been there about three weeks,
hasn't he ? "

•• Yes, sir."

"So you wrote me. You thought
when he went that he was going to
hunt up his daughter ? "

"So I conjectured."

" And he hasn't got back yet ? "

" Net yet."

" His he written any word ? "

" None that I know of."

" Did you hear any of them say why he
went to get her ? "

" Not particularly ; but I guessed from
what they said that he was afraid of hav-
ing her at large."

"Afraid.? Why.?"

" Because she knevN' some secret of
theirs."

" Secret ! What secret ? " asked Bran-
don.

" You know, sir, I suppose," said
Philips meekly.

Brandon had carried Asgeelo with iiim
as he was often in the habit of doing on
his journeys. After his interview with
Philips he stood outside on the veranda
of the village inn for some time, and then

THEY MEET AGAIN

"39

fall into no

cted upon this
way station to
He reached
isk. He went
lisguise as Mr.
he Hall for Mr.

He then sent
J delay Philips
ty was now if
ed, and he was
, to speak,
asked Brandon

lOut three weeks,

, You thought
e was going to

ick yet ? "

/ord?"

them say why he

it I guessed from
Ivas afraid of hav-

some secret of
[et ? " asked Bran-

suppose,

said

lAsgeelo with him
Ihabit of doing on
lis interview with
le on the veranda
Ime tinrte, and then

went around through the village, stopping j
at a number of houses. Whatever it
was that he was engaged in, it occupied
liirn for several hours, and he did not gti
back to the inn till midnight.

On the following morning he sent up
to the Hall, but Potts had not yet re-
turned. Philips came to tell him that he
had just received a telegraphic despatch
informing him that Potts would be back
that day at one o'clock. This intelligence
at last seemed to promise something
definite.

Brandon found enough to occupy him
during the morning among the people of
the neighborhood. He seemed to know
everybody, and had something to say to
everyone. Yet no one looked at him or
spoke to him unless he took the initia-
tive. Last of all, he went to the tailor's,
where he spent an hour.

Asgeelo had been left at the inn, and
sat there upon a bench outside, appa-
rently idle and aimless. At one o'clock
Brandon returned and walked up and
down the veranda.

In about half an hour his attention was
attracted by the sound of wheels. It was
Potts' barouche which came rapidly up
the road. In it were Potts and a young
lady.

Brandon stood outside of the veranda,
on the steps, in such a position as to be
most conspicuous, and waited there till
the carriage should reach the place. Did
his heart beat faster as he recognized
that form, as he marked the settled
despair which had gathered over tiiat
young face — a face that had the fixed and
unalterable wretchedness whicli marks
the ideal face of the Mater Dolorosa?

Brandon stood in such a way that
Potts could not help seeing him. He
waved his arm and Potts stopped the
carriage at once.

Potts was seated on the front seat and
Beatrice on the back one. Brandon
walked up to the carriage and touched
his hat.

" Mr. Smithers ! " cried Potts with his
usual volubility. " Dear me, sir ! This
is really a most unexpected pleasure,
sir ! "

While Potts spoke Brandon looked
steadily at Beatrice, who cast upon him
a look of wonder. She then sank back
in her seat; but her eyes were still
fastened on his as though fascinated.
Then, beneath the marble whiteness of
her face a faint tinge appeared, a warm
flush, that was the sign of hope rising
from despair. In her eyes there gleamed
the flash of recognition ; for in that glance
both had made known their souls to
each other. In her mind there was no
perplexing question as to how or why he
came here, or wherefore he wore that
disguise ; the one thought that she had
was the consciousness that he was here —
here before her.

All this took place in an instant, and
Potts, who was talking, did not notice the
hurried glance ; or if he did, saw in it
nothing but a casual look cast by one
stranger upon another.

" I arrived here yesterday," said Bran-
don. " I wished to see you about a
matter of very little importance perhaps
to you, but it is one which is of interest
to me. But I am detaining you. By the
way, I am somewhat in a hurry, and if
this 1 idy will excuse me I will drive up
wi'.n you to the Hall, s»o as to lose no
time."

" Delighted, sir, delighted ! " cried
Potts. " Allow me, Mr. Smithers, to in-
troduce you to my daughter."

Brandon held out his hand. Beatrice
held out hers. It was cold as ice, but
the fierce thrill that shot through her

* I 'I

240

CORD AND CREESE

frame at the touch of his feverish hand
brought with it such an ecstasy that
Beatrice thought it was worth while to
have undergone the horror of the past
twenty-four hours for the joy of this one
moment.

Brandon stepped into the carriage and
seated iiimself by her side. Potts sat
opposite. He touched her. He could
iiear her breathing. How many months
had passed since they sat so near
together ! What sorrows had they not
endured ! Now they were side by side,
and for a moment they forgot that their
bitterest enemy sat before them.

There, before them, was the man who
was not only a deadly enemy to each,
but who made it impossible for them to
be more to one another than they now
were. Yet for a time they forgot this in
the joy of the ecstatic meeting. At the
gate Potts got out and excused himself to
Brandon, saying that he would be up
directly.

" Entertain this gentleman till I come,"
said he to Beatrice, " for he is a great
friend of mine."

Beatrice said nothing, for the simple
reason that she could not speak.

They drove on. Oh, joy ! that baleful
presence was for a moment removed.
The driver saw nothing as he drove under
the overarching elms — the elms under
which Brandon had sported in his boy-
hood. He saw not the long, fervid
glance that they cast at one another, in
which each seemed to absorb all the
being of the other ; he saw not the close
clasped hands with which they clung to
one another now as though they would
thus cling to each other forever and pre-
vent separation. He saw not the swift,
wild movement of Brandon when for one
instant he flung his arm around Beatrice
and pressed her to his heart. He heard

not the beating of that strong heart ; he
heard not the low sigh of rapture with
which but for one instant the head of
Beatrice sank upon her lover's breast. It
was but for an instant. Then she sat
upright again and their hands sought
each other, thus clinging, thus speakinjj
by a voice which was fully intelligible to
each, which told how each felt in the
presence of the other love unutterable,
rapture beyond expression.

They alighted from the carriage,
Beatrice led the way into the drawinj;
room. No one was there. Brandon
went into a recess of one of the windows
which commanded a view of the Park.

" What a beautiful view ! " said he in a
conventional voice.

She came up and stood beside him.

" Oh, my darling ! Oh, my darling ! "
he cried, over and over again ; and fiinj;-
ing his arms around her he covered lui
face with burning kisses. Her wiiole
being seemed in that supreme moment to
be absorbed in his. All consciousness
of any other thing than this unspeakable
joy was lost to her. Before all otiiois
she was lofty, high-soulcd, serene, self-
possessed — with him she was nothin},\
she lost herself in him.

"Do not fear, my soul's darling," said
he ; " no harm shall come. My power is
everywhere — even in this house. All in
the village are mine. When my blow
falls you shall be saved."

She shuddered.

" You will leave me here ? "

" Heavens ! I must," he groaned ; " we
are the sport of circumstances. Oh, my
darling I " he continued, " you know my
story, and my vengeance."

" I know it all," she whispered. " I
would wish to die if I could die by your
hand."

" I will save you. Oh, love— oh, soul

THEY MEET AGAIN

341

strong heart : he
of rapture with
mt the head of
)ver's breast. It
. Then she sat
T hands sought
g, thus speaking
\\y inteUigible to
each felt in (lie
love unutterable,

sion.

1 the carriage,
nto the drawing
there. Brandon
ne of the windows
ew of the Park,
lew ! " said he in a

lod beside him.
Oh, my darling ! "
• again ; and fling-
er he covered licr
sses. Her wliole
preme moment to
All consciousnoss
this unspeakable
Before all others
ulcd, serene, silf-
she was nothing,

Ill's darling," said

me. My power is

his house. AH i"
When my blow

ved."

here?"

• he groaned ; " we
mstances. Oh, my
d, •* you know my

ice.

he whispered. "I

I could die by your

Oh, love— oh, soul

of mine— my arms are around you !
You are watched— but watched by me."

" You do not know," she sighed.
" Alas ! your father's voice must be
obeyed, and your vengeance must be
taken."

" Fear not," said he ; " ! will guard

you.

She answered nothing. Could she con-
fide in his assurance ? She could not.
She thought with horror of the life before
her. What could Brandon do ? She
could not imagine.

They stood thus in silence for a long
time. Each felt that this was their last
meeting, and each threw all life and all
thought into the rapture of this long and
ecstatic embrace. After this the impas-
sable gulf must reopen. She was of the
blood of the accursed, "^hey must
separate forever.

He kissed her. He pressed her a
thousand times to his heart. His burn-
ing kisses forced a new and feverish life
into her, which roused all her nature.
Never before had he dared so to fling
open all his soul to her ; never before
had he so clasped her to his heart ; but
now this moment was a break in the
agony of a long separation — a short
interval which must soon end and give
way to the misery which had preceded
it— and so he yielded to the rapture of
the hour, and defied the future.

The moments extended themselves.
They were left thus for a longer time than
they hoped. Potts did not come. They
were still clinging to one another. She
had flung her arms around him in the
anguish of her unspeakable love, he had
clasped her to his wildly throbbing heart,
and he was straining her there recklessly
and despairingly, when suddenly a harsh
voice burst upon their ears.

" The devil ! "

Beatrice did not hear it. Brandon did,
and turned his face. Potts stood before
them.

" Mr. Potts I " said he, as he still held
Beatrice close to his heart, " this poor
young lady is in wretched health. She
nearly fainted. I had to almost carry
her to the window. Will you be good
enough to open it, so as to give her some
air.' Is she subject to these faints?
Poor child ! " he said ; " the air of this
place ought surely to do you good. I
sympathize with you most deeply,
Mr. Potts."

" Siie's sickly — that's a fact," said
Potts. " I'm very sorry that you have
had so much trouble — I hope you'll ex-
cuse me. I only thought that she'd en-
tertain you, for she's very clever. Has
all the accomplishments "

" Perhaps you'd better call someone to
take care of her," interrupted Brandon.

"Oh, I'll fetch someone. I'm sorry it
happened so. I hope you won't blame
me, sir," said Potts humbly, and he hur-
ried out of the room.

Beatrice had not moved. She heard
Brandon speak to someone, and at first
gave herself up for lost, but in an instant
she understood the full meaning of his
words. To his admirable presence of
mind she added her own. She did not
move, but allowed her head to rest where
it was, feeling a delicious joy in the
thought that Potts was looking on and
was utterly deceived. When he left to
call a servant she raised her head and
gave Brandon a last look expressive of
her deathless, her unutterable love.
Again and again he pressed her to his
heart. Then the noise of servants com-
ing in roused him. He gently placed her
on a sofa, and supported her with a grave
and solemn face.

" Here, Mrs. Compton, take charge of

34'

CORD AND CREESE

Si''

her," said Potts. " She's been trying to
faint."

Mrs. Compton came up, and kneeling
down kissed Beatrice's hands. She said
nothing.

" Oughtn't she to have a doctor ? " said
Brandon.

" Oh, no — she'll get over it. Take her
to her room, Mrs. Compton. '

" Can the poor child walk ? " asked
Brandon.

Beatrice rose. Mrs. Compton asked
her to take her arm. She did so, and
leaning heavily upon it, walked away.

" She seems very delicate," said Bran-
don. " I did not know that you had
a daughter."

Potts sighed.

" I have," said he, " to my sorrow."

" To your sorrow ! " said Brandon, with
exquisitely .imulated sympathy.

" Yes," replied the other. " I wouldn't
tell it to everyone— but you, Mr. Smithers,
are different from most people. You see
I have led a roving life. I had to leave
her out in China for many years with a
female guardian. I suppose she was not
very well taken care of. At any rate, she
got acquainted out there with a strolling
Italian vagabond, a drum-majot in one of
the regiments, named Langhetti, and
this villain gained her affections by his
hellish arts. He knew that I was rich,
and, like an unprincipled adventurer,
tried to get her, hoping to get a fortune.
I did not know anything about this till
after her arrival home. I sent for her
some time ago and she came. From the
first she was very sulky. She did not
treat me like a daughter at all. On one
occasion she actually al)used me and
called me names to my face. She called
me a Thug ! What do you tliinkof that,
Mr. Smithers ? "

The other said nothing, but there was

in his face a horror which Potts consid-
ered as directed toward his unnatural
offspring.

" She was discontented here, though
I let her have everything. I found out
in the end all about 't. At last she actu-
ally ran away. She joined this infamous
Langhetti, whom she had discovered in
some way or other. They lived togiether
for some time, and then went to London,
where she got a situation as an actress.
You can imagine by that," said Potts,
with sanctimonious horror, " how low she
had fallen.

" Well, I didn't know what to do. I was
afraid to make a public demand for licr
throjgh the law, for then it all would get
into the papers ; it would be an awful dis-
grace, and the whole county would know
it. So I waited, and a few weeks ago
I went to London. A chance occurred at
last which threw her in my way. I pointed
out to her the awful nature of the life she
was leading, and offered to forgive her all
if she would only come back. The poor
girl consented, and here she is. But I'm
very much afraid," said Potts in conclu-
sion, with a deep sigh, " that her consti-
tution is broken up. She's very feeble."
Brondon said nothing.
'* Excuse me for troubling you with my
domestic affairs ; but I thought I ought
to explain, for you have had such trouble
with her yourself."

" Ob, don't mention it. I quite pitied
the poor child, 1 assure you ; and I sin-
cerely hope that the seclusion of this
place, combined with the pure sea air,
may restore her spirits and invigorate her
in mind as well as in body. And now,
Mr. Potts, I will mention the little mat-
ter that brought me here. I have had
business in Cornwall, and was on my
way home when I received a letter sum-
moning me to America. I may have to

LANGHETTIS ATTEMPT

343

\ Potts consid-
, his unnatural

:d here, though
g. I found out
M last she actu-
ed this infamous
ad discovered in
ey lived togetlier
went to London,
m as an actress,
that," said Potls,
or, " how low slie

what to do. Iwas
,c demand for her
;n it all would get
Id be an awful dis-
Dunty would know
a few weeks ago
chance occurred at
my way. I pointed
iture of the life she
:d to forgive her all
e back. The poor
re she is. But I'm
Potts in conclu-
" that her consti-
She's very feeble."

ubling you with my

I thought I ought

Ire had such trouble

it. I quite pitied
e you; and I sin-

seclusion of this
the pure sea air,
s and invigorate her
body. And now,
ition the little mat-
here. I have had
11, and was on my
Lived a letter suiii-
Ica. I may have to

go to California. I have a very honest
servant, whom I have quite a strong re-
gard for, and I am anxious to put him in
some good country house till I get back.
I'm afraid to trust him in London, and
I can't take him with me. He is a Hindoo,
but speaks English and can do almost
anything. I at once remembered you,
especially as you were close by me, and
thought that in your large establishment
you might find a place for him. How
is it ? "

" My dear sir, I shall be proud and
happy. I should like, above all things, to
have a man here who is recommended by
one like you. The fact is, my servants
are all miserable, and a good one cannot
often be had. I shall consider it a favor
if I can get him."

"Well, that is all arranged — I have
a regard for him, as I said before,
and want to have him in a pleasant
situation. His name is Asgeelo, but

we are in the habit of calling him
Cato "

" Cato ! a very good name. Where
is he now ? "

" At the hotel. I will send him to you
at once," said Brandon, rising.

" The sooner t he better," returned Potts.

" By the way, my junior speaks very
encouragingly about the prospects of the
Brandon Bank "

•'Do°s he?" cried Potts gleefully.
" Well, I t'o believe we're going ahead of
everything."

"That's right. Boldness is the true
way to success."

" Oh, never fear. We are bold enough."

" Good. But I am hurried, and I must
go. I will send Asgeelo up, and give him
a letter."

With these words Brandon bowed an
adieu and departed. Before evening
Asgeelo was installed as one of the
servants.

CHAPTER XLII

LANGHETTI'S ATTEMPT

Two days after Brandon's visit to Potts
Langhetti reached the village.

A searching examination in London
had led him to believe that Beatrice might
now be sought for at Brandon Hall. The
police could do nothing for him. He
had no right to her. If she was of age,
she was her own mistress, and must make
application herself for her safety and
deliverance ; if she was under age, then
she must show that she was treated with
cruelty. None of these things could be
done, and Langhetti despaired of accom-
plishing anything.

The idea of her being once more in the
power of a man like Potts was frightful
to him. This idea filled his mind con-
tinually, to the exclusion of all other
thoughts. His opera was forgotten.
One great horror stood before him, and
all else became of no account. The only
thing for him to do was to try tc save her.
He could find no way, and therefore de-
termined to go and see Potts himself.

It was a desperate undertaking. From
Beatrice's descriptions he had an idea of
the life from which she had fled, and other
things had given him a true iciea of the

244

CORD AND CREESE

^••»

?vi.i. ■■.:•.

. I . i

character of Potts. lie knew that there
was scarcely any hope before him. Yet
he went, to satisfy himself by making a
last effort.

He was hardly the man to deal with
one like Potts. Sensitive, high-toned,
passionate, impetuous in his feelings, he
could not command that calmness which
was the first essential in such an inter-
view. Besides, he was broken down
by anxiety and want of sleep. His sor-
ro'v for Beatrice had disturbed all his
thou},!.LS. Food and sleep were alike
aoominable to him. His fine-strung
nerves and driicate organization, in which
every feeling had been rendeied more
rute fiy his mode of life, were of that
kind which could feel intensely wherever
the affections were concerned. His
material frame was too weak for the
presence of such an ardent soul. When-
ever any emotion of unusual power ap-
peared he SAnk rapidly.

So now, feverish, emaciated, excited to
an intense degree, lie appeared in Bran-
don to coniront a roo"., unemotional
villain, who scarcely ever lost his pres-
ence of mind. Such a contest could
scarcely be an equal one. What could
he bring forward which could in any way
affect such a man ? He had some ideas
in his own mind which he imagined
might be of service, and trusted more to
impulse than anything else. He wei;t
up early in the morning to Brandon
Hall.

Potts was at home, and did not keep
Langhetti long waiting.

There was a vast contrast between
these tv/o men — the one coarse, fat,
vulgar, and strong; the other refined,
slender, spiritual, and delicate, w:th
his Iruge eyes burning 'n their deep
sockets, and a stran[,e mystery in his
face.

" I am Paolo Langhetti," said he
abruptly — "the manager of the Covent
Garden Theatre."

" You are, are you ? " answered Potts
rudely ; " then the sooner you get out
of this the better. The devil himself
couldn't be more impudent. I have just
saved my daughter from your clutches,
and I'm going to pay you off, too, my
fine fellow, before long."

" Your daughter ! " said Langhetti.
" What she is, and who she is, you very
well know. If the dead could speak they
would tell v different story."

" What the devil do you mean," cried
Potts, " by the dead ? At any rate
you are a fool ; for very naturally the
dead can't speak ; but what conci ii
that has with my t.i'.ughter I den i
I know. Mind, you are playing a dan-
! ^erot' , game in trying to bully me."

Pi tls spoke fiercely and menacin{;ly.
Langhetti's impetuous soul kindled to
?. new fervor at this insulting language.
He stretched out his long, thin haiul
toward Potts, and said :

" I hold your life and fortune in my
hand. Give up that girl whom you call
! your daughter."

Potts stood for a moment staring.

" The devil you do ! " he cried at Inst.
"Come, I call that good, rich, racy!
Will your Sublime Excellency have the
kindness to explain yourself? If my life
is in your hand it's in a devilish lean and
weak one. It .' trikes me you've got some
kink in your brdin — some notio.i or other,
Out with it, and let us see what you're
driving at ! "

" Do you know a man named Cigolc? '
said Langhetti.

" Cigcie ! " replied Potts, after a pause,
ill which he had stired hard at Linghctii;
•' well, what if I lo ? Perhaps 1 do, and
perhaps I don't."

LANGHETTI S A TTEMl'T

245

hetti," said he
r of the Covent

answered Potts
ner you get out
he devil himself
:lent. I have just
m your clutches,

you off, too, luy

' said Langhetti.
10 she is, you veiy
:1 could speak tliey

Lory."
you mean," cried
I? At any rate
very naturally tlic
)Ut what conci u
c.c\ughter 1 il'J'i t
le playing a dati-
ng to bully me."
ly and meiiacinj;ly.
IS soul kindled t'>
insulting languai;e.
is long, thin haiul

aid :

and fortune in my

girl whom you call

loment staring.

! " he cried at Inst.

good, rich, racy!

excellency have the

'ourself ? If "iy lif^:

a devilish lean and

me you've got some

,ome notioiior other.

us see what you're

lan

named Cigole?

Potts, after a pause,
pd hard at L-^nglictii;
Perhaps 1 do, and

" He is in my power," said Langhetti
veliemently.

"Much good may he 'do you then, for
I'm sure when he was in my power he
never did any good to me."

" He will do good in this case, at any
rate," said Langhetti, with an effort at
calmness. " He was connected with
you in a deed which you must remem-
ber, and can tell to the world what he
knows."

" Well, what if he does ? " said Potts.

" He will tell," cried Langhetti excit-
edly, "the true story of the Despard
murder."

" Ah ! " said Potts, " now the murder's
out. That's what I thought. Don't you
suppose I saw through you when you
first began to speak so mysteriously ? I
knew that you had learned some wonder-
ful story, and that you were going to trot
it out at the right time. But if you think
you're going to bully me you'll find it
liard work."

" Cigole is in my power," said Lan-
glietti fiercely.

"And so you think I am, too ? " sneered
Tolts.

" Partly so."

" Why ? "

" Because he was an accomplice of
yours in the Despard murder."

"So he says, no doubt; but who'll be-
lieve him ? "

" He is going to turn Queen's evi-
(lei e," said Langhetti solemnly.

"Quteiii evidence!" returned Potts
contemptuously, " and what's his evidence
worth— the evidence of a man like that
against a gentleman of unblemished
character."

"He will be able to show what the
character of that gentleman is," replied
Linghetti.
' Who will believe him ? "

" No one can lielp it."

" You believe him, no doubt. You and
he are both Italians — both dear friends —
and both enemies of mine ; but suppose
I prove to the world conclusively that
Cigole is such a scoundrel that his testi-
mony is worthless?"

" You can't," cried Langhetti furiously.

Potts cast a look of contempt at him.

" Can't I ! " he resumed : " How very
simple, how confiding you must be, my
dear Langhetti ! Let me explain my
meaning. You get up a wild charge
against a gentleman of character and
position about a murder. In the first
place, you seem to forget that the real
murderer has long since been punished.
That miserable devil of a Malay was
very properly convicted at Manilla, and
hanged there. It was twenty years ago.
What English court would consider the
case again after a calm and impartial
Spanish court had settled it finally, and
punished the criminal ? They did so at
the time when the case was fresh, and
I came forth honored and triumphant.
You now bring forward a man who, you
hint, will make statements against me.
Suppose he does } What then } Why,
I 'ill show what this man is. And
you, my dear Langhetti, will be tli° first
one whom I will bring up against him.
I will bring you up under oath, and make
you tell how this Cigole — this man who
testifies against me — once made a certain
testimony in Sicily against a certain Lan-
ghetti, senior, by which that certain Lan-
ghetti, senior, was betrayed to the govern-
ment and was saved only by the folly of
two Englishmen, one of v.hom was this
same Despard. I will show that this
Langhetti, senior, was your father, and
that the son, inst.^ad of avenging, or at
any rate resenting, Ms father's wrong, is
now the bosom frieno of his father's in-

34^

CORD AND CRKKSF,

SSI

tended murderer — that he has urged him
on against me. I will show, my dear
Langhetti, how you have led a roving
life, and, when a drum-major at Hong
Kong, won the affections of my daugh-
ter ; how you followed her here, and se-
duced her away from a kind father ; how
at infinite risk I regained her; how you
came to me with audacious threats ; and
how only the dread of further scandal,
and my own anxious love for my daugh-
ter, prevented me from handing you over
to the authorities. I will prove you to
be a scoundrel of the vilest description,
and, after such proofs as this, what do
you think would be the verdict of an
English jury, or of any judge in any land;
and what do you think would be your
own fate ? Answer me that."

Potts spoke with savage vehemence.
The frightful truth flashed at once across
Langhetti's mind that Potts had it in his
power here to show all this to the world.
He was overwhelmed. He had never
conceived the possibility of this. Potts

watched him silently, with a sneer on his
face.

" Don't you think tiiat you had better
go and comfort yourself with your deai-
friend Cigole, your father's intended mur-
derer? " said he at length. "Cigole told
me all about this long ago. He told tne
many things about his life which would
be slightly damaging to his character as
a witness, but I don't mind telling you
that the worst thing against him in Eng-
lish eyes is his betrayal of your father.
But this seems to have been a very slight
matter to you. It's odd, too; I've al-
ways supposed that Italians understood
what vengeance means."

Langhetti's face bore an expression
of agony which he could n(>t conceal.
Every word of Potts stung him to the soul.
He stood for some time in silence. At last,
without a word, he walked out of the room.

His brain reeled. He staggered rather
than walked. Potts looked after liini
with a smile of triumph. He left the Hail
and returned to the village.

CHAPTER XLIII

THE STRANGER

A FEW weeks after Langhetti's visit
Potts had a new visitor at the bank.
The stranger entered the bank parlor
noiselessly, and stood quietly waiting for
P'jtts to be disengaged. That worthy
was making some entries in a small mem-
orandum book. Turning his head, he
saw the new-comer. Potts looked sur-
prised, and the stranger said, in a pecu-
liar voice, somewhat gruff and hesitating :

"Mr. Potts?"

" Yes," said Potts, looking hard at his
visitor.

He was a man of singular aspect,
His hair was long, parted in the middle,
and straight. He wore dark colored
spectacles. A thick black beard ran
under his chin. His linen was not over-
clean, and he wore a long surtout coat.

" I belong to the firm of Bigelow, Hig-
ginson & Co., Solicitors, London— I am
the Co."

THE STRANOER

I a sneer on bis

you had better
witb your dear
s intended muv-
1. "Cigoletold
ro. He told me
'ife wbich would
his cbaracter as
^ind telling you
linst bim in En^-
A of your father.
been a very sliglu
dd. too ; I've al-
alians understood

re an expression
ould not conceal,
ing bim to the soul.
in silence. At last.
redout of the room.
le staggered rather
looked after him
h. He left the Hall

village.

looking bard at his

of singular aspect.

arted in the nVuUlle,
■wore dark colored
\ black beard ran
Is linen was not over-
long surtout coat.

Irm of Bigelow. Hig-

litors, London-I am

••Well?"

" The business about which I have
come IS one of some .importance. Are
wc secure from interruption?"

"Yes," said Potts, " as much as I<:are
about being. I don't know anything in
particular that I care about locking the
doors for."

" Well, you know best," said the
stranger. " The business upon which I
have come concerns you somewhat, but
your son principally."

Potts started, and looked with eager
enquiry at the stranger.

" It is such a serious case," said the
latter, "that my seniors thought, before
taking any steps in the matter, it would
be best to consult you privately."

"Well," returned Potts with a frown,
" what is this wonderful case ? "

" Forgery," said the stranger.

Potts started to his feet with a ghastly
face, and stood speechless for some time.

" Do you know who you're talking
to.' " said he at last.

"John Potts of Brandon Hall, I pre-
sume," said the stranger coolly. " My
business concerns him somewhat, but his
son still more."

"What the devil do you mean?"
growled Potts in a savage tone.

" Forgery," said the stranger. " It is
an English word, I believe. Forgery, in
which your son was chief agent. Have I
made myself understood ? "

Potts looked at him again, and then
slowly went to the door, locked it, and
put the key in his pocket.

"That's right," said the stranger
quietly.

" You appear to take things easy," re-
joined Potts angrily; "but let me tell
you, if you come to bully me you've got
into the wrong shop."

" You appear somewhat heated. You
17

must be calm, or else we cannot get
to business ; and in that case I shall have
to leave."

" I don't see how that would be any
affliction," said Potts with a sneer.

" That's because you don't understand
my position, or the state of the present
business. For if I leave it will be the
signal for a number of interested parties
to make a combined attack on you."

" An attack ? "

"Yes."

" Who is there ? " said Potts defiantly.

" Giovanni Cavallo, for one ; my seniors.
Messrs. Bigelow & Higginson, and several
others."

" Never heard of any of them before."

" Perhaps not. But if you write to
Smithers & Co. they will tell you that
Bigelow, Higginson & Co. are their solic-
itors, and do their confidential business."

" Smithers & Co.? " said Potts, aghast.

" Yes. It would not be for your interest
for Bigelow, Higginson & Co. to show
Smithers & Co. the proofs which they
have against you, would it ? "

Potts was silent. An expression of
consternation came over his face. He
plunged his hands deep in his pockets
and bowed his head frowningly.

" It's all bosh," said he at last, rais-
ing his head. " Let them show and

be d d. What have they got to

show ? "

" I will answer your question regu-
larly," said the stranger, " in accordance
with my instructions" — and, drawing a
pocket-book from his pocket, he began
to read from some memoranda written
there :

" 1st. The notes to which the name of
Ralph Brandon is attached, 150 in num-
ber, amounting to ;^93,5oo,"

" Pooh ! " said Potts.

" These forgeries 'vere known to several

\ , I

a48

COKI) AND CREESE

ill

besides your son and yourself, and one
of these men will testify against yuu.
Others who know Brandon's signature
swear that this lacks an important point
of distinction common to all the Brandon
signatures handed down from father to
son. You were foolish to leave these
notes afloat. They have all been bought
up on a speculation by those who wished
to make the Brandon property a little
dearer."

" I don't think they'll make a fortune
out of the speculation," said Potts, who

was stifling with rage. " D n them !

who are they ? "

" Well there are several witnesses who
are men of such character that if my
seniors sent them to Smithers & Co.,
Smithers & Co. would believe that you
were guilty. In a court of law you would
have no better chance. One of these
witnesses says he can prove that your true
name is Briggs."

At this Potts bounded from his chair
and stepped forward with a terrific
oath.

"You see your son's neck is in very
considerable danger,"

*' Yours is in greater," said Potts, with
menacing eyes.

*• Not at all. Even supposing that you
were absurd enough to offer violence to
an humble subordinate like me, it would
not interfere with the policy of Messrs.
Bigelow, Higginson & Co., who are de-
termined to make money out of this
transaction. So you see it's absurd to
talk of violence."

The stranger took no further notice of
Potts, but looked again at his memoranda ;
while the latter, whose face was now ter-
rific from the furious passions which it
exhibited, stood like a wild beast in a
cage, " willing to wound, but yet afraid
to strike."

" The next case," said the stranger, " is
the Thornton forgery."

" Thornton ! " exclaimed Potts with
greater agitation.

" Yes," said the stranger. " In con-
nection with the Despard murder thtrc
were two sets of forgeries; one being
the Thornton correspondence, and the
other your correspondence with the Bank
of Good Hope."

" Heavens ! what's all this ? " cried
Potts. " Where have you been unearth-
ing this rubbish ? "

" First," said the stranger, without
noticing Potts' exclamation, "there are
the letters to Thornton, Senior, twenty
years ago, in which an attempt was made
to obtain Colonel Despard 's money fur
yourself. One Clark, an accomplice of
yours, presented the letter. The forgery
was at once detected. Clark might have
escaped, but he made an effort at bur-
glary, was caught and condemned to
transportation. He had been already out
once before, and this time received a new
brand in addition to the old ones."

Potts did not say a word, but sat
stupefied.

" Thornton, Junior, is connected with
us, and his testimony is valuable, as
he was the one who detected the forgery.
He also was the one who went to the Cape
of Good Hope, where he had the pleasure
of iTieeting with you. This brings nic to
the third case," continued the stranger.

" Letters were sent to the Cape of
Good Hope, ordering money to be paid
to John Potts. Thornton, Senior, fearing
from the first attempt that a similar one
would be made at the Cape, where the
deceased had funds, sent his son there.
Young Thornton reached the place just
before you did, and would have arrested
you, but the proof was not sufficient. '

" Aha ! " cried Potts, grasping at this

THE STRANGER

249

the stranger, " is

ned rolls with

ingcr. "In con-
,rd murder ll»t;re
eries; one bciuK
indence, and the
nee with the Bank

all this?" cried
you been uneartli-

stranger, without
nation, "there arc
on, Senior, twenty

attempt was nuulc
spard's money fur

an acconiplice of
etter. The forgery
Clark might have
le an effort at bui-
md condemned to
lad been already out
time received a new
the old ones."
J a word, but sat

r, is connected with
,ny is valuable, as
detected the forgeiy.
vho went to the Cape
he had the pleasure
This brings nie to
inued the stranger,
jnt to the Cape o(
g money to be paid
rnton, Senior, fearing
,t that a similar one
the Cape, where the
„ sent his son there,
lached the place just
would have arrested
vas not sufficient."
otts, grasping at this

I should think
husky and his

— " not snfTicient proof !
not." His voice was
manner nervous.

" I said ' was not '—but Messrs. Bige-
low, Higginson & Co. have informed me
tliat there are parlies now in communi-
cation with them who can prove how,
when, where, and by whom the forgeries
were executed."

" It's a d d infernal lie ! " ro.ired

I'otts, in a fresh burst of anger.

" I only repeat what they state. The
man has already written out a statement
in full, and is only waiting for my return
to sign it before a magistrate. This will
be a death warrant for your son ; for
Messrs. Bigelow, Higginson & Co. will
have him arrested at once. You are
.iware that he has no chance of escape.
The amount is too enormous and the
proof is too strong."

" Proof ! " cried Potts desperately ;
"who would believe anything against
a man like me, John Potts — a man of the
county ? "

" English law is no respecter of per-
sons," said the stranger. " Rank goes
for nothing. But if it did make class
distinctions, the witnesses about these
documents are of great influence. There
is Thornton of Holby, and Colonel Henry
Despard at the Cape of Good Hope, with
whom Messrs. Bigelow, Higginson & Co.
have had correspondence. There are
also others."

" It's all a lie ! " exclaimed Potts, in a
voice which was a little tremulous. " Who
is this fool who has been making out
papers ? "

" His name is Philips ; true name Law-
ton. He tells a very extraordinary story
—very extraordinary indeed."

The stranger's peculiar voicj was now
intensified in its odd, harsh intonations.
The effect on Potts was overwhelm-

ing. For a moment he was unable to
speak.

" Philips ! " he gasped at length.

" Yes. You sent him on business to
Smithers & Co. He has not yet returned.
He does not intend to, for he was found
out by Messrs. Bigelow, Higginson &. Co.,
and you know how timid he is. They
have succeeded in extracting the truth
from him. As I am in a hurry, and you,
too, must be busy," continued the stran-
ger, with unchanged accents, " I will now
come to the point. These forged papers
involve an amount to the extent of —
Brandon forgeries, ;^93,300; Thornton
papers, _;^5ooo; Bank of Good Hope,
^^4000 ; being in all ^102,500. Messrs,
Bigelow, Higginson & Co. have instructed
me to say that they will sell these papers
to you at their face without charging in-
terest. They will hand therr; over to you
and you can destroy them, in which case,
of course, the charge must be dropped."

" Philips ! " cried Potts, " I'll have that
devil's blood I "

" That would be murder," said the
stranger, with a peculiar emphasis.

His tone stung Potts to the quick.

" You appear to take me for a born
fool," he cried, striding up and down.

" Not at all. I am only an agent carry-
ing out the instructions of others."

Potts suddenly stopped in his walk.

"Have you all those papers about
you ? " he hissed.

"All."

Potts looked all around. The door
was locked. They were alone. The
stranger easily read his thought.

" No use," said he calmly. " Messrs.
Bigelow, Higginson & Co. would miss
me if anything happened. Besides, I may
as well tell you that I am armed."

The stranger rose up and faced Potts,
while from behind his dark spectacles his

25©

CORD AND CREESE

eyes seemed to glow like fire. Potts re-
treated with a curse.

'• Messrs. Bigelow, Higginson & Co. in-
structed me to say that if I am not back
with the money by to-morrow night, they
will at once begin act'on and have your
son arrested. They will also inform
Smithers & Co., to whom they say you
are indebted for over £fy30,ooo. So that
Smithers & Co. will at once come down
on you for payment."

"Do Smithers & Co. know anything
about this } " asked Potts, in a voice of
intense aixiety.

" They do business with you the same
as ever, do they not ? "

"Yes."

" How do you suppose they can know
it?"

" They would never believe it."

"They would believe any statement
made by Messrs. Bigelow, Higginson &
Co. My seniors have been on your track
for a long time, and have come into con-
nection with various parties. One man,
who is an Italian, they consider important.
They authorize me to state to you that
this man can also prove the forgeries."

" Who ? " gasped Potts.

" His name is Cigole."

" Cigole ! "

" Yes."

" D him ! "

" You may damn him, but that won't
silence him," remarked the other mildly.

" Well, what are you going to do ? "
growled Potts.

" Present you the offer oi Messrs. Bige-
low, Higginson & Co.," said the other,
with calm p' rtinacity. " Upon it depend
your fortune and your son's life."

** How long are you going to wait ? "

" Till evening. I leave to-night. Per-
haps you would like to think this over. I'll
give you till three o'clock. If you de-

cide to accept, all well ; if not, I go
back."

The stranger rose, and Potts unlocked
the door for him.

After he left. Potts sat down, buried in
his own reflections. In about an hour
Clark came in.

" ,Vell, Johnnie ! " said he, " what's
up ? You look down — any trouble ? "

At this Potts told Clark the story of the
recent interview. Clark looked grave,
and shook his head several times.

" Bad ! bad ! bad ! " said he slowly,
when Potts had ended. "You're in a
tight place, lad, and I don't see what
you've got to do but to knock under."

A long silence followed.

"When did that chap say he would
leave ? "

" To-night."

Another silence.

" I suppose," said Clark, "we can find
out how he goes ? "

" I suppose so," returned Potts gloom-

:iy.

"Somebody might go with him or
follow him," said Clark darkly.

Potts looked at him. The two ex-
changed glances of intelligence.

" You see, you pay your money, and
get your papers back. It would be fool-
ish to let this man get away with so
much money. One hundred and two
thousand five hundred isn't to be picked
up every day. Let us pick it up this
time, or try to. I can drop down to the
inn this evening and see the cut of the
man. I don't like what he said al)out
me. I call it backbiting."

" You take a proper view ot the mat-
ter," said Potts. " He's dangerous. He'll
be down on you next. What I don't
like about him is his cold-blooded-
ness."

" It does come hard."

THE STRANGER S STORY

251

11; if not, I go

d Potts unlocked

,t down, buried in
n about an hour

said he, "what's

■any trouble?"

irk the story of the

rk looked grave,

everal times.

• said he slowly.

;d. "You're in a

I don't see what

) knock under."

ved.

hap say he would

:iark, " we can find
urned Potts gloom-
go with him or
irk darkly,
im. The two ex-
[telligence.

your money, and
It would be fool-
get away with so
hundred and two
isn't to be picked
|us pick it up this
drop down to the
see the cut of the
rhat he said about

ling."

;r view ot the mat-
:'s dangerous. He'll
•xt. What I don't
his cold-blooded-

" Well, we'll arra.igQ it that way, shall
we?"

" Yes, you pay over and get your docu-
ments, and I'll try my hand at getting
the money back. I've done harder
things than that in my time, and so have
you — hey, lad ! "

" I remember a few. "

" I wonder if this man knows any of
them."

"No," said Potts confidently. "He
would have said something."

"Don't be too sure. The fact is, I've
been troubled ever since that girl came
out so strong on us. What are you
going to do with her ? "

" Don't know," growled Potts. " Keep
her still somehow."

" Give her to me."

"What '11 you do with her?" asked
Potts in surprise.

"Take her as my wife," said Clark
with a grin. " I think I'll follow your

example and set up housekeeping. The
girl's plucky, and I'd like to take her
down."

" We'll do it, and the sooner the better.
You don't want a minister, do you ? "

"Well, I think I'll have it done up ship
shape ; marriage in high life ; papers all
full of it ; lovely appearance of the bride —
ha, ha, ha ! I'll save you all further
trouble about her — a husband is better
than a father in such a case. If that
Italian comes round it '11 be his last
round."

Some further conversation followed in
which Clark kept making perpetual refer-
ences to his bride. The idea had taken
hold of his mind completely.

At one o'clock Potts went to the inn,
where he found the age.it. He handed
over the money in silence. The agent
gave him the documents. Potts looked
at them all carefully.

Then he departed.

CHAPTER XLIV

THE STRANGER S STORY

That evening a number of people
were in the principal parlor of tlie Bran-
don Inn. It was a cool evening in
October ; and there was a fire near which
the partner of Bigelow, Higginson & Co.
had seated himself.

Clark had come in at the first of the
evening and had been there ever since,
talking volubly and laughing boister'^usly.
The others were more or less talkative,
but none of them rivalled Clark. They
were nearly all Brandon people ; and in
their treatment of Clark there was a cer-

tain restraint which the latter did not
wish or care to notice. As for the
stranger he sat apart in silence without
regarding anyone in particular, and giv-
ing no indication whether he was lis-
tening to what was going on or was
indifferent to it all. From time to time
Clark threw glances in his direction, and
once or twice he tried to draw some of
the company out to make remarks about
him ; but the company seemed reluctant
to touch upon the subject, and merely
listened with patience.

«S2

CORD AND CREESE

liii

Clark had evidently a desire in his
mind to be very entertaining and lively.
With this intent he told a number of
stories, most of which were intermirgled
with allusions to the company present,
together with the stranger. At last he
};azed at the latter in silence for some
little time, and then turned to the
company.

"There's one among us that hasn't
opened his mouth this evening. I call it
unsociable. I move that the party pro-
ceed to open it forthwith. Who seconds
the motion ? Don't all speak at once."

The company looked at one another,
but no one made any reply.

" What ! no one speaks ! All right ;
silence gives consent ; " and with these
words Clark advanced toward the
stranger. The latter said nothing, but
sat in a careless attitude.

" Friend ! " said Clark, standing before
the stranger, " we're all friends here — we
wish to be sociable — we think you are
too silent — will you be kind enough to
open your mouth ? If you won't tell
a story, perhaps you will be good enough
to sing us a song ? "

The stranger sat upright.

" Well," said he, in the same peculiar
harsh voice and slow tone with which he
had spoken to Potts, " the request is a
fair one, and I shall be happy to open my
mouth. I regret to state that having no
voice I shall be unable to give you a
song, but I'll be glad to tell a story, if
the company will listen."

" The company will feel honored," said
Clark in a mocking tone, as he resumed
his seat.

The stranger arose, and, going to the
fireplace, picked up a piece of charcoal.

Clark stood in the midst of the circle,
looking at him with a sneering smile.

" It's rather an odd story," said the

stranger, " and I only heard i the other
day ; perhaps you won't believe it, but
it's true."

" Oh, never mind the truth of it ! " ex-
claimed Clark — " push along."

The stranger stepped up to the wall
over the fire-place.

'* Before I begin I wish to make a few
marks, which I will explain in proc-
ess of time. My story is connected with
these."

He took his charcoal and made upon
the wall the following marks :

He then turned, and stood for a mo-
ment in silence.

The effect upon Clark was appalling.
His face turned livid, his arms clutclied
violently at the seat of his chair, his jaw
fell, and his eyes were fixed on the marks
as though fascinated by them.

The stranger appeared to take no
notice of him.

" These marks," said he, " were, or
rather an . upon the back of a friend of
mine, about whom I am going to tell a
little story :

" The first (/IS) is the Queen's mark,
put on certain prisoners out in Botany
Bay who are totally insubordinate.

" The second ( j^ ) signifies 'run away,'
and is put on those who have attempted
to escape,

THE STRANOER S STORY

253

:arcl i the other
L believe it, but

truth of it ! " ex-

ong."

I up to the wall

ih to make a few
explain in prec-
is connected with

a and made upon
marks :

»d stood for a mo-

lark was appalling.
[, his arms clutched
If his chair, his jaw
fixed on the marks
w them,
[eared to take no

Lid he, " were, or

[back of a frientl of

am going to tell a

the Queen's mark,

Iners out in Botany

Insubordinate.

signifies 'run away,'

tho have attempted

"The third (-f) indjcates a murderous
assault on the guards. When they don't
hang the culprit they put this on; and
those who are branded in this way have
nothing but hard work, in chains, for life.

"These marks are on the back of a
friend of mine, whose name I need not
mention, but for convenience' sake I will
call him Clark."

Clark didn't even resent this, but sat
mute with a face of awful expectation.

"My friend Clark had led a life of
strange vicissitudes," said the stranger,
"having slipped through the meshes of
the law very successfully a great number
of times, but finally he was caught and
sent to Botany Bay. He served his
time out and left ; but, finally, after a
series of very extraordinary adventures
In India, and some odd events in the
Indian Ocean, he came to England. Bad
luck followed him, however. He made
an attempt at burglary and was caught,
convicted, and sent back again to his old
Station at Botany Bay.

" Of course he felt a strong reluctance
to stay in such a place, and therefore
began to plan an escape. He made one
attempt, which was unsuccessful. He
then laid a plot with two other notorious
offenders. Each of these three had been
branded with those characters which I
have marked. One of these was named
Slubbs, and another Wilson ; the third
was this Clark. No one knew how they
met to make their arrangements, for the
prison regulations are very strict ; but
they did meet, and managed to confer
together. They contrived to get rid of
the chains that were fastened around
their ankles, and one stormy night they
started off and made a run for it.

" The next day the guards were out in
pursuit with dogs. They went all day
long on their track over a very rough

country, and finally came to a river.
Here they prepared to pass the night.

"On rising early on the following
morning they saw something moving on
the top of a hill on the opposite side
of the river. On watching it narrowly
they saw three men. They hurried on at
once in pursuit. The fugitives kept well
ahead, however, as was natural; and,
since they were running for life and free-
dom, they made a better pace.

" But they were pretty well worn out.
1 hey had taken no provisions with them,
and had not calculated on so close a
pursuit. They kept ahead as best they
could, and at last reached a narrow river
that ran down between cliffs through a
gully to the sea. The cliffs on each side
were high and bold. But they had to
cross it ; so down on one side they went,
and up the other.

" Clark and Stubbs got up first. Wil-
son was just reaching the top when the
report of a gun was heard, and a bullet
struck him in the arm. Groaning in his
agony he rushed on, trying to keep up
with his companions.

" Fortunately for them night came on.
They hurried on all night, scarcely know-
ing where they were going, Wilson in
an agony trying to keep up with them.
Toward morning they snatched a little
rest under a rock near a brook and then
hurried forward.

" For two days more they hastened on,
keeping out of reach of their pursuers, yet
still knowing that they were followed, or
at least fearing it. They had gone over
a wild country along the coast, and keep-
ing a northward direction. At fength,
after four days of wandering, they came
to a little creek by the seashore. There
were three houses here belonging to
fishermen. They rushed into the first
hut and implored food and drink. The

I i

«54

CORD AND CREESE

■■ .'i'i

iiil

^j'i

men were off to Sydney, but the kind-
hearted women gave them what they had.
They were terrified at the aspect of these
wretched men, whose natural ferocity
had been heightened by hardship, fam-
ine, and suffering. Gaunt and grim as
they were, they seemed more terrible
than three wild beasts. The women
knew that they were escaped con-
victs.

•' There was a boat lying on the beach.
To this the first thoughts of the fugitives
were directed. They filled a cask with
water and put it on board. They de-
manded some provisions from the fisher-
man's wife. The frightened woman gave
them some fish and a few ship-biscuits.
They were about to forage for themselves
when Wilson, who had been watching,
gave the alarm.

" Their pursuers were upon them.
They had to run for it at once. They had
barely time to rush to the boat and get out
a little distance when the guard reached
the beach. The latter fired a few shots
after them, but the shots took no
effect.

" The fugitives put out to sea in the
open boat. They headed north, for they
hoped to catch some Australian ship and
be taken up. Their provisions were soon
exhausted. Fortunately it was the rainy
season, so that they had a plentiful supply
of water, with which they managed to
keep their cask filled ; but that did not
prevent them from suffering the agonies
of famine. Clark and Stubbs soon
began to look at Wilson with looks that
made him quiver with terror. Naturally
enough, gentlemen ; you see they were
starving. Wilson was the weakest of the
three, and therefore was at their mercy.
They tried, however, to catch fish. It
was of no use. There seemed to be no
fish in those seas, or else the bits of bread

crumb which they put down were not
attractive bait.

" The two men began to look at Wil-
son with the eyes of fiends — eyes that
flamed with foul desire, beaming from
deep, hollow orbits which famine had
made. The days passed. One morning
Wilson lay dead."

The stranger paused for a moment
amid an awful silence.

" The lives of those two were preser\'ed
a little longer," he added in slow,
measured tones.

"They sailed on. In a few days Clark
and Stubbs began to look at one another.
You will understand, gentlemen, that it
was an awful thing for these men to cast
at each other the same glances which
they once cast on Wilson. Each one
feared the other; each watched his
chance, and each guarded against his
companion.

" They could no longer row. The one
sat in the bow, the other in the stern,
glaring at one another. My friend Clark
was a man of singular endurance. But
why go into particulars? Enough; the
boat drifted on, and at last only one was
left.

" A ship was sailing from Australia,
and the crew saw a boat drifting. A
man was there. They stopped and
picked him up. The boat was stained
with blood. Tokens of what that blood
was lay around. There were other things
in the boat which chilled the blood of the
sailors. They took Clark on board. He
was mad at first, and raved in his delirimn,
They heard him tell of what he had done,
During that voyage no one spoke to him.
They touched at Cape Town and put
him ashore.

" My friend is yet alive and well. How
do you like my story ? "

The stranger sat down. A deep still-

BEATRICE'S JOURNAL CONCLUDED

»5S

lown were not

look at Wil-

inds— eyes that

beaming from

ch famine had

One morning

for a moment

o were preserved
idded in slow,

a few days Clark
k at one another,
rentlemen, that it
these men to cast
,e glances which
ilson. Each one
ich watched his
irded against his

rerrow. The one

ther in the stern.

My friend Clark

endurance. But

? Enough; the

last only one was

g from Australia,
boat drifting. A
hey stopped and
boat was stained
)f what that blood
_ were other things
ed the blood of the
ark en board. He
ved in his delirium.

what he had done.

one spoke to him.

e Town and put

ive and well. How
iwn. A deep still-

ness followed, which was suddenly broken
by something, half groan and half curse.
It was from Clark.

He lifted himself heavily from his
chair, his face livid and his eyes blood-
shot, and staggered out of the room.

CHAPTER XLV

BEATRICE'S JOURNAL CONCLUDED

September 7, 1849. — [This part begins
with a long account of her escape, her
fortunes at Holby and London, and her
recapture, which is here omitted, as it
would be to a large extent a repetition of
what has already been stated.] — After
Brandon left me my heart still throbbed
with the fierce impulse which he had
imparted to it. For the remainder of the
day I was upheld by a sort of conscious-
ness of his presence. I felt as though he
had only left me in person, and had sur-
rounded me in some way with his mys-
terious protection.

Night came, and with the night came
gloom. What availed his promise? Could
he prevent what I feared ? What power
could he possibly have in this house ?
I felt deserted, and my old despair
returned.

In the morning I happened to cross
the hall to go to Mrs. Compton's room,
when, to my amazement, I saw standing
outside the Hindoo Asgeelo. Had I seen
Brandon himself I could scarcely have
been more amazed or overjoyed. He
looked at mc with a warning gesture.

" How did you get here ? " I whispered.

" My master sent me."

A thrill passed through my veins.

" Do not fear," he said, and walked
mysteriously away.

I asked Mrs. Compton who he was,
and she said he was a new servant whom

he had just hired. She knew nothing
more of him.

September 12. — A week has passed.
Thus far I had been left aione. Perhaps
they do not know what to do with me.
Perhaps they are busy arranging some
dark plan.

Can I trust ? Oh, Help of the helpless,
save me !

Asgeelo is here — but what can one
man do ? At best he can only report to
his master my agony or my death. May
that Death soon come. Kindly will I
welcome him.

September 15. — Things are certainly
different here from what they used to be.
The servants take pains to put themselves
in my way, so as to show me profound
respect. What is the meaning of this?
Once or twice I have met them in the hall
and have marked their humble bearing.
Is it mockery ? Or is it intended to en-
trap me? I will not trust any of them.
Is it possible that this can be Brandon's
mysterious power?

Impossible ! It is rather a trick to win
my confidence. But if so, why ? They
do not need to trick me. I am at their
mercy.

I am at their mercy, and am without
defence. What will become of me?
What is to be my fate ?

Philips has been as devoted as ever. He
leaves me flowers every day. He tries to

256

CORD AND CREESE

"^Ijl

show sympathy. At least I have two
friends here — Philips and Asgeelo. But
Philips is timid, and Asgeelo is only one
against a crowd. There is Vijal — but I
have not seen him.

September 25. — To-day in my closet
I found a number of bottles of different
kinds of medicine, used while I was sick.
Two of these attracted my attention.
One was labelled " Laudanum," another
was labelled " Hydrocyanic Acid —
Poison," I suppose they used these
drugs for my benefit at that time. The
sight of them gave me more joy than any-
thing else that I could have found.

When the time comes which I dread,
I shall not be without resource. These
shall save me.

October 3. — They leave me unmolested.
They are waiting for some crushing blow,
no doubt. Asgeelo sometimes meets me,
and makes signs of encouragement.

To-day Philips met me and said:
" Don't fear — the crisis is coming." I
asked wliat he meant. As usual he
looked frightened and hurried away.

What does he mean? What crisis?
The only crisis that I can think of is one
which fills me with dread. When that
comes I will meet it firmly.

October 10. — Mrs. Compton told me
to-day that Philips had gone to London
on business. The poor old thing looked
very much troubled. I urged her to tell
me what was the matter, but she only
looked the more terrified. Why she
should feel alarm about the departure of
Philips for London I cannot imagine.
Has it anything to do with me ? No.
How can it ? My fate, whatever it is,
must be wrought out here in this place.

October 14. — The dreaded crisis has
come at last. Will not this be my last
entry ? How can I longer avoid the fate
that impends ?

This afternoon He sent for me to come
down. I went to the dining room expect-
ing some horror, and I was not disap-
pointed. The three were sitting there as
they had sat before, and I thought that
there was trouble upon their faces. It
was only two o'clock, and they had just
finished lunch.

John was the first to speak. He ad-
dressed me in a mocking tone.

" I have the honor to inform you," said
he, " that the time has arrived when you
are to be took down."

I paid no attention whatever to these
words. I felt calm. The old sense of
superiority came over me, and I looked
at him withoul a tremor.

My tyrant glanced at me with a dark
scowl. " After your behavior, girl, you
ought to bless your lucky stars that you
got off as you did. If I had done right,
I'd have made you pay up well for tlie
trouble you've given. But I've spared
you. At the same time I wouldn't have
done so long. I was just arranging a
nice little plan for your benefit when this
gentleman " — nodding his head to Clark
— " this gentleman saved mc the trouble."

I said nothing.

"Come, Clark, speak up — it's your
affair "

" Oh, you manage it," said Clark.
" You've got the ' gift of gab.' I never
had it."

" I never in all my born days saw so
bold a man as timid with a girl as you
are."

" He's doin' what I shouldn't like to
try on," said John.

" See here," said my tyrant sternly,
" this gentleman has very kindly con-
sented to take charge of you. He has
even gone so far as to consent to marry
you. He will actually make you his wife.
In my opinion he's crazy, but he's got his

BEATRICE S JOURNAL CONCLUDED

257

t for me to come
ing room expect-
was not cUsap-
e sitting there us
:1 I thought that
I their faces. It
nd they had just

» speak. He ad-
;ing tone,
inform you," said
arrived when you

jrhatever to these
The old sense of
me, and I loolicd
imor.

It me with a dark
behavior, girl, you
cky stars that you
i 1 had done right.
)ay up well for tlie

But I've spand
ne I wouldn't have

just arranging a
r benefit when this

his head to Clark

dmc the trouble. "

:ak up— it's your

it," said Clark.
|t of gab/ I never

born days saw so
[with a girl as you

|l shouldn't like to

ly tyrant sternly,

very kindly con-

of you. He has

consent to marry

make you his wife.

kzy, but he's got iiis

own ideas. He has vpromised to give
you a tip-top wedding. If it had beei.
left to me," he went on sternly, >' I'd
have let you have something very differ-
ent, but he's a soft-hearted fellow, and
is going to do a foolish thing. It's lucky
for you, though. You'd have had a
precious hard time of it with me, I tell
you. You've got to be grateful to him ;
so come up here, and give iiim a kiss, and
thank him."

So prepared was I for any horror that
tiiis did not surprise me.

" Do you hear ? " he cried, as I stood
motionless. I said nothing.

" Do as I say, d n you, or I'll make

you"

" Come," said Clark, " don't make a
fuss about the wench now — it '11 be all
right. She'll like kissing v>;ell enough,
and be only too glad to give me one
before a week."

" Yes, but she ought to be made to do
it now."

" Not necessary, Johnnie ; all in good
time."

My master was silent for some mo-
ments. At last he spoke again :

"Girl," said he, "you are to be mar-
ried to-morrow. There won't be any
invited guests, but you needn't mind
that. You'll have your husband, and
that's more than you deserve. You ucn'i
want any new dresses. Your ball dress
will do."
"Come, I won't stand that," said

Clark. " She's got to be dressed up in
tip-top style. I'll stand the damage."

" Oh, d n the damage. If you want

that sort of thing, it shall be done. But
there won't be time."

" Oh, well, let her fix up the best way
she can."

At this I turned and left the room.
None of them tried to prevent rne. I
went up to my chamber and sat down
thinking. The hour had come.

This is my last entry. My only refuge
from horror unspeakable is the Poison.

Perhaps one day someone will find
my journal where it is concealed. Let
them learn from it what anguish may be
endured by the innocent.

May God have mercy upon my soul !
Amen.

October 14, ii o'clock. — Hope!

Mrs. Compton came to me a few
minutes since. She had received a letter
from Philips by Asgeelo. She said the
Hindoo wished to see me. He was at my
door. I went there. He told me that
I was to fly from Brandon Hall at two
o'clock in the morning. He would take
care of me. Mrs. Compton said she was
to go with me. A place had been found
where we could get shelter.

Oh, my God, I thank thee ! Already
when I heard this I was mixing thedraught.
Twv> o'clock was the hour on which I had
decided for a different kind of flight.

O God, deliver the captive ! Save me,
as I put my trust in thee ! Amen.

CHAPTER XLVI

THE LAST ESCAPE

The hour which Beatrice had men-
tioned in her diai'y was awaited by h
with feverisi) laipatijnce. Sht: lia i coi t
dence in Asgeelo, and this contidcrct:
was heightened by tiie fact that Mis.
Compton was going to accompany her.
The very timidity of this poor old crea-
ture would have prevented her fronr.
thinking of escape on any ordinary occa-
sion ; but now the latter showed no fear.
She evinced a strange exaltation. She
showed Philips' letter to Beatrice, and
made her read it over and over again. It
contained only a few words :

" The time has come at last. I will
keep my word to you, dear old woman.
Be ready to-night to leave Brandon Hall
and those devils forever. The Hindoo
will help you.

"Edgar."

Mrs. Compton seemed to think far
more of the letter than of escaping. The
fact that she had a letter seemed to
absorb all her faculties, and no other idea
entered her mind. Beatrice had but few
preparations to make ; a small parcel
contained all with which she dared to
encumber herself. Hastily making it up
she waited in extreme impatience for the
time.

At last two o'clock came. Mrs. Comp-
ton was i<i her room. There was a faint
tap at the door. Beatrice opened it. It
was Asgei.'lo. The Hindoo stood with
his finger on his lips, and then moved

away slo^vly and stealthily. They ftl
lowt '

i .u !'■».. loo led the way, carrying a
iu \H !;• item. He did not show any very
fi'^'.'i. ca iti^n, but moved with a quiet
step, think;. kg it sufficient if he made
no noise. Beatrice followed, and Mrs.
Compton came last, carrying nothing but
the note from Philips, which she clutched
in her hand as though she esteemed it
the only thing of value which she pos-
sessed.

In spite of Beatrice's confidence in
A.sgeelo she felt her heart sink with
dread as she passed through the hall and
down the great stairway. But no sound
disturbed them. The lights were all out
and the house was still. The door of
the dining room was open, but no light
shone through.

Asgeelo led the way to the north door.
They went on quietly without any inter-
ruption, and at last reached it. Asgeelo
turned the key and held the door ball
open for a moment. Then he turned
and whispered to them to go out.

Beatrice took two or three steps for-
ward, when suddenly a dark figure
emerged from the stairway that led to the
servants' hall and with a sudden spring
advanced to Asgeelo.

The latter dropped the lamp, which
fell with a rattle on the floor but still
continued burning. He drew a long,
keen knife from his breast, and seized
the other by the throat.

Beatrice started back. By the light

aiS

THE LAST ESCAPE

259

thily. They fcl

; way, carrying a
lot show any very
;ed with a quiet
ient if he made
ilowed, and Mrs.
Tying nothing but
,'hich she clutched
1 she esteemed it
e which she pos-
e's confidence in
heart sink with
rough the hall and

But no sound
ights were all out
till. The door of
open, but no light

to the north door.
vithout any inter-
iched it. Asgeelo
,eld the door ball
Then he turned
m to go out.
ir three steps for-
a dark figure
■way that led to the
a sudden spring

the lamp, which
the floor but still
le drew a long,
jreast, and seized

Lck. By the light

that flickered on the floor she saw it all.
The gigantic fij^'ure of Asgeelo stood
erect, one arm c'liching the throat 0/ his
assailant, and t'.. )ther holding the knife
aloft.

Beatrice ruslip ' forward a.id caught
the uplifted am.

" Spare him ! she said in a low w lis-
pr>. " Kt is my friend. He ' lpv.\. nie
to escape once before."

She had recognized Vijal.

The Hindoo dropped his arm and re-
leased his hold. The Malay staggered
back and looked earnestly at Beatrice.
Recognizing her, he fell on her knees and
kissed her hand.

" I will keep your secret," he mur-
mured.

Beatrice hurried out, and the others
followed. They heard the key turn in
the door after 1 -em. Vijal had locked it
from the inside.

Asgeelo led the way with a swift
step. They v^ent down the main ave-
nue, and at length reached the gate
without any interruption. The gates
were shut.

Beatrice looked around in some dread
for fear of being discovered. Asgeelo
said nothing, but tapped at the door of
the porter's lodge. The door soon
opened, and the porter came out. He
said nothing, but opened the gates in
silence.

They went out. The huge gates shut
behind them. They heard the key turn
in the lock. In her excitement Beatrice
wondered at this, and saw that the porter
must also be in the secret. Was this the
work of Brandon ?

They passed down the road a little
distance, and at length reached a place
where there were two coaches and some
men.

One of these came up ^nd took Mrs.

Compton. " Come, old woman," said he ;
" you and I are to go in this coach." It
V ns too dark <o see who it was ; but the
voice sounded like that of Philips. He
led her into 'e coach and jumped in
after her.

There was another figure there. He
advanced in silence, and motioned to the
coach without a word. Beatrice followed;
the coach door was opened, and she
entered. Asgeelo mounted the box. The
stranger entered the coach and shut the
door.

Beatrice had not seen the face of this
man ; but at the sight of the outline of
his figure a strange, wild thought camr
to her mind. As he seated himself ' .
her side a thrill passed through every
nerve. Not a word was spoken.

He reached out one hand, and cau-;!t
hers in a close and fervid clasp. He threw
his arm about her waist, and drew her
toward him. Her head sank in a delicious
languor upon his breast ; and she felt the
fast throbbing of his heart as she lay
there. He held her pressed closely for
a long while, drawing quick and heavy
breaths, and not speaking a word. Then
he smoothed her brow, strrked her
hair, and caressed her chee'c. Every
touch of his made her blood tingle.

" Do you know who I am ? " said at
last a well-known voice.

She made no answer, but pressed his
hand and nestled more closely to his
heart.

The carriages rushed on swiftly. They
went through the village, passed the inn,
and soon entered the open country.
Beatrice, in that moment of ecstasy,
knew not and cared n'l whither they
were going. Enough that she was with
him.

" You have saved me from a fate of
horror," said she tremulously ; " or rather,

26o

CORD AND CREESE

you have prevented me from saving
myself."

" How could you have saved your-
self ? "

" I found poison."

She felt the shudder that passed through
his frame. He pressed her again to
his heart, and sat for a long time in
silence.

" How had you the heart to let me go
back when you could get me c^way so
easily ? " said she, after a time, in a re-
proachful tone.

" I could not save you then," answered
he, "without open violence. I wished to
defer that for the accomplishment of a
purpose which you know. But I secured
your safety, for all the servants at Brandon
Hall are in my pay,"

" What ! Vijal too ? "

" No, not Vijal ; he was incorruptible ;
but all the others. They would have
obeyed your slightest wish in any re-
spect. They would have shed their
blood for you, for the simple reason that
I had promised to pay each man an enor-
mous sum if he saved you from any trou-
ble. They were all on the lookoul. You
never were so watched in your life. If
you had chosen to run off every man of
them would have helped you, and would
have rejoiced at the chance of making
himself iich at the expense of Potts.
Under these circumstances I thought
you were safe."

" And why did you not tell me ? "

" Ah, love ! there are many things
which I must not tell you."

He sighed. His sombre tone brought
back her senses, which had been wander-
ing. She struggled to get away. He
would not release her.

" Let me go !" said she. " I'm of the
accursed brood— the impure ones ! You
are polluted by my touch ! "

" I will not let you go," returned he, in
a tone of infinite sweetness. " Not now.
This may be our last interview. How
can I let you go ? "

" I am a pollution."

" You are angelic. Oh, let us not
think of other things ! Let us banisli
from our minds the thought of that bar-
rier which rises between us. While wc
are here let us forget everything except
that we love one another. To-morrow
will come, and our joy will be at an
end forever. But you, darling, will |je
saved ! I will guard you to my life's
end, even though I cannot come near
you."

Tears fell from Beatrice's eyes. He
felt them hot upon his hand. He sigiud
deeply.

" I am of the accursed brood !— the
accursed !— the accursed! You dishonor
your name by touching me."

Brandon clung to her. He would not
let her go. She wept there upon his
breast, and still murmured the wonls,
"Accursed ! accursed ! "

Their carriage rolled on; behind tiiem
came the other ; on for mile after mile,
round the bays and creeks of the sea,
until at last they reached a village.

"This is our destination," said Bran-
don.

" Where are we ? " sighed Beatrice.

" It is Denton," he replied.

The coach stopped before a little cot-
tage. Asgeelo opened the door. Bran-
don pressed Beatrice to his heart.

" For the last time, darling," he mur-
mured.

She said nothing. He helped her out,
catching her in his arms as she descended,
and lifting her to the ground. Mrs.
Compton was already waiting, luning
descended first. Lights were burning in
the cottage window.

ROUSED A'l LASr

261

" returned he, in
ess. " Not now.
interview. How

Oh, let us not
Let us banish
lUght of that b;ii-
;n us. W hile \vc
everything except
her. To-morrow
)y will be at :in
, darling, will l)e

you to my life's
cannot come near

atrice's eyes. He
hand. He siglud

ursed brood!— ihc

ied! You dishonor

ig me."

er. He would not
t there upon his

mured the wouls,

on; behind them

or mile after mile,

creeks of the sua,

ed a village.

ation," said Brn-

sighed Beatrice,
[replied.

before a little cot-
Id the door. Bnm-

to his heart.

, darling," he mur-

He helped her out,
IS as she desccnclcd.
I the ground. I^hs.
ly waiting, having
Us were burning in

" This is your home for the present,"
said Brandon. " Here you are safe.
You will find everything that you want,
and the servants are faithful. You may
irust them."

He shook hands with Mrs. Compton,

pressed the hand of Beatrice, and leaped
into the coach.

" Good-by," he called, as Asgeelo
whipped the horses.

" Good-by forever," murmured Beatrice
through her tears.

CHAPTER XLVH

ROUSED AT LAST

About this time Despard received a
call from Langhetti. " I am going
away," said the latter, after the pre-
liminary greetings. " I am well enough
now to resume my search after Beatrice."

"Beatrice?"

" Yes."

" What can you do ? "

"1 haven't an idea; but I mean to try
to do something."

Langhetti certainly did not look like
a man who was capable of doing very
much, especiajly against one like Potts.
Thin, pale, fragile, and emaciated, his
slender form seemed ready to yield to
the pressure of the first fatigue which
he might encounter. Yet his resolution
was strong, and he spoke confidently of
being able in some mysterious way to
effect the escape of Beatrice. He had
no idea how he could do it. He had ex-
erted his strongest influence, and had
come away discomfited. Still he had
confidence in himself and trust in God,
and with these he determined to set out
once more, and to succeed or perish in
the attempt.

After he had left Despard sat moodily
in his study for some hours. At last
a visitor was announced. He was a man

whom Despard had never seen before,
and who gave his name as Wheeler.

The stranger, on entering, regarded
Despard for some time with an earnest
glance in silence. At last he spoke :

*' You are the son of Lionel Despard,
are you not ? "

" Yes," said Despard in some surprise.

" Excuse me for alluding to so sad an
event ; but you are, of course, aware of
the common story of his death."

" Yes," replied Despard in still greater
surprise.

"That story is known to the world,"
said the stranger. " His case was pub-
licly tried at Manilla, and a Malay was
executed for the crime."

" I know that," returned Despard,
" and I know, also, that there were some,
and that there still are some, who suspect
that the Malay was innocent."

" Who suspected this ? "

" My uncle Henry Despard and my-
self."

" Will you allow me to ask you if your
suspicions pointed at anyone? "

" My uncle hinted at one person, but
he had nothing more than suspicions."

" Who was the man ? "

" A man who was my father's valet or

263

CORD AND CREESE

Mil

I't-

aj^cnt, who accompanied him on that
voyagi!, and took an active part in the
conviction of the Malay."

" What was his name? "

"John Potts."

" Where does he live now ? "

" In Brandon."

" Very well. Excuse my questions,
but I was anxious to learn how much
you knew. You will see shortly that
they are not idle. Has anything ever
been done by any of the relatives to dis-
cover whether these suspicions were cor-
rect ? "

"At first nothing was done. They
accepted as an established fact the de-
cision of the Manilla court. They did
not even suspect then that anything else
was possible. It was only subsequent
circumstances that led my uncle to have
some vague suspicions."

" What were those, rnay I ask ? "

" I would rather not tell," said Des-
pard, who shrank from relating to a
stranger the mysterious story of Edith
Brandon.

" It is as well, perhaps. At any rate,
you say there were no suspicions expressed
till your uncle was led to form them ? "

" No."

" About how long ago was this ? "

" About two years ago — a little more,
perhaps. I at once devoted myself to the
task of discovering whether they could
be maintained. I found it impossible,
however, to learn anything. The event
had happened so long ago that it had
faded out of men's minds. The person
whom I suspected had become very rich,
influential, and respected. In fact, he
was unassailable, and I have been com-
pelled to give up the effort."

"Would you like to learn something
of the truth ? " asked the stranger in a
thrilling voice.

Dcspard's whole soul was roused hy
this question.

" More than anything else," replied he.

"There is a sand-bank," begari the
stranger, " three hundred miles south of
the island of Java, which goes by the
name of Cof)in Island. It is so called dii
account of a rock of peculiar shape at the
eastern extremity. I was coming from
the East, on my way to England, when
a violent storm arose, and I was cast
ashore alone upon that island. This may
seem extraor'linary to you, but what I
have to tell is still more extraordinary.
I found food and water there, and lived
for some time. At last another hurri-
cane came and blew away all the saiul
from a mound at the western end. This
mound had been piled about a wrecked
vessel— a vessel wrecked twenty years
ago — twenty years ago," he repeated with
startling emphasis, " and the name of the
vessel was the Vishnu."

" The Vishnu ! " cried Despard, start-
ing to his feet, while his whole frame was
shaken by emotion at this strange nar-
rative. "The Vishnu/"

"Yes, the Vishnu/" continued the
stranger. " You know what that means.
For many years that vessel had lain
there, entombed amid the sands, until
at last I — on that lon.;ly isle — saw the
sands swept away and the buried sliip
revealed. I went on board. I entered
the cabin. I passed through it. At last
I entered a room at the corner. A
skeleton lay there. Do you know whose
it was?"

" W^hose ? " cried Despard in a frenzy
of excitement.

" Vour father's /" said the stranger
in an awful voice.

" God in heaven ! " exclaimed Despard,
and he sank back into his seat.

"In his hand he held a manuscript

ROUSfcl) AT I.AST

-•t>3

il was roused by

Despard in a frenzy

said the stranger

whicli was his last message to Ins friends.
It was enclosed in a bottle. The storm
Ii;i(l prevented lilin from throwing it over-
lioard. lie held it tlierc as though wait-
in^r for someone to take it. I was the
one appointed to that task. I took it, I
ivad it, and now that I have arrived in
Kn^lard I have brought it to you."

" Where is it ? " cried Despard in wild
excitement.

" Here," said the stranger, and he laid
a package upon the table.

Despard seized it, and tore open the
coverings. At the first sight he recog-
nized the handwriting of his father,
familiar to him from old letters written to
liiin when he was a child — letters which
he had always preserved, and every turn
of which was impressed upon his memory.
The first glance was sufficient to impress
upon his mind the conviction that the
stranger's tale was true.

Without another word he began to read
it. And as he read all his soul became
associated with that lonely man, drifting
in his drifting ship. There he read the
villainy of the miscreant who had com-
passed his death, and the despair of the
castaway.

^hat suffering man was his own
father. It was this that gave intensity
to his thoughts as he read. The dying
man bequeathed his vengeance to Ralph
Brandon, and his blessing to his son.

Despard read over the manuscript
many times. It was his father's wo; Is
to himself.

" I am in haste," said the stranger.
" The manuscript is yours. I have made
enquiries for Ralph Brandon, and find
that he is dead. It is for you to do as
seems good. You are a clergyman, but
you are also a man ; and a father's wrongs
cry to Heaven for vengeance."

" And they shall be avenged ! " ex-

claimed Despard, striking his clenched
hand upon the table.

" I have something more before I go,"
continued the stranger mournfully—
" sonjething which you will prize more
than life. It was worn next your father's
heart till he died. I found it there."

Saying this he handed to Despard a
miniature, painted on enamel, represent-
ing a beautiful woman whose features
were like his own.

"My mother!" cried Despard pas-
sionately, and he covered the miniature
with kisses.

" I buried your father," said the
stranger after a long pause. " His
remains now lie on Cothn Island in their
last resting place."

" And who are you ? What are
you? How did you find me out?
What is your object?" cried Despard
eagerly.

" I am Mr. Wheeler," said the stranger
calmly ; " and I come to give you these
things in order to fulfil my duty to the
dead. It remains for you to fulfil
yours."

"That duty shall be fulfilled!" ex-
claimed Despard. " The law does not
help me ; I will help myself. I know
some of these men at least. I will do the
duty of a son."

The stranger bowed and withdrew.

Despard paced the room for hours. A
fierce thirst for vengeance had taken pos-
session of him. Again and again he read
the manuscript, and after each reading
his vengeful feeling became stronger.

At last he had a purpose. He was no
longer the imbecile — the crushed— the
hopeless. In the full knowledge of his
father's misery his own became en-
durable.

In the morning he saw Langhetti and
told him all.

a 64

CORD AND CREESE

" But who is the strarger ? " Pespard
asked in wonder.

" It can only be one person," said
Langhotti solemnly.

" Who ? "

" Louis Brandon. He and no other.
Who else could thus have been chosen
to find the dead ? He has his wrongs
also to avenge."

Despard was silent. Overwhelming

thoughts crowded upon him. Was this
man Louis Brandon ?

"We must find him," said he. "We
must gain his help in our work. We
must also tell him about Edith."

"Yes," replied Langhetti. "But no
doubt he has his own work before
him ; and this is but part of his plan,
to rouse you from inaction to ven-
geance."

CHAPTER XLVni

WHO IS HE?

On tht morning after the last escape of
Beatrice, Clark went up to Brandon Ha!!.
It was about nine o'cIock. A sullen
frown was on his face, which was per-
vaded by an expression of savage malig-
nity. A deeply preoccupied look, as
though he were altogether absorbed in
his own thoughts, prevented him from
noticing the half-smiles which the serv-
ants cast at one another.

Asgeelo opened the door. That valu-
able servant was at his post as usual.
Clark brushed past him with a growl
and entered the dining room.

Potts was standing in front of the fire
with a flushed face and savage eyes.
John was stroking his dog, and appeared
quite indifferent. Clark, however, was
too much taken up with his own thoughts
to notice Potts. He came in and sat
down in silence.

" Well," said Potts, " did you do that
business ? "

" No," growled Clark.

" No ! " cried Potts. " Do you mean to
say you didn't follow up the fellow ? "

" I mean to say it's no go," returned
Clark. " I did what I could. But when
you are after a man, and he turns oi:'- to
be the DEVIL HIMSELF, what can you
do?"

At these words, which were spoken
with unusual excitement, John gave a
low laugh, but said nothing.

" You've been getting rather soft lately,
it seems to me," said. Potts. " At any
rate, what did you do ? "

"Well," said Clark slowly, "I went
to that inn — to watch the fellow. He
was sitting by the fire, taking it very easy.
I tried to make out whether I had ever
seen him before, but could not. He sat
by the fire and wouldn't say a wor' I
tried to trot him out, and at last I did so,
He trotted out in good earnest, and if any
man was ever kicked at and ridden rough-
shod over, I'm that individual. He isn't
a man — he's Beelzebub. i-le knows
everything. He began in a playful way
by taking a piece of charcoal and writing
on the wall some marks which belong to
me, and which I'm a little delicate about

WHO IS HE ?

265

n him. Was this

letting people see; in fact the Botany
Bay marks."

" Did he know that ? " cried Potts,
aghast.

" Not only knew it, but, as I was say-
ing, marked it on the wall. That's a
sign of knowledge. And for fear they
wouldn't be understood, he kindly ex-
plained to about a dozen people present
the particular meaning of each."

" The devil ! " said John.

" That's what I said he was," rejoined
Clark dryly. "But that's nothing. I
remember when I was a little boy," he
continued pensively, " hearing the par-
son read about some handwriting on the
wall, that frightened Beelzebub himself ;
but I tell you this handwriting on the
wall used me up a good deal more than
the other. Still, what followed was
worse."

Clark T;ciused for a little while, and
then, taking a long breath, went on.

" He proceeded to give to the assem-
bled company an account of my life,
particularly that very interesting part of
it which I passed on my last visit to
Botany Bay. You know my escape ? "

He stopped for a while.

" Did he know about that too ? " asked
Potts, with some agitation.

"Johnnie," said Clark, "he knew a
precious sight more than you do, and
told some things which I had forgotten
myself. Why, that devil stood up there
and slowly told the company not only
what I did but what I felt. He brought
it all back. He told how I looked at
Stubbs, and how Stubbs looked at me in
the boat. He told how we sat looking
at each other, each in our own :nd of the
boai."

Clark stopped again, f»nd no one spoke
for a long time.

" I k'it my breath and ran out," he

i^sumcd, " and I was afraid to go back.
I did so at last. It was then almost mid-
night. I found him still sitting there.
He smiled at me in a way that fairly made
my blood run cold. ' Crocker,' said he,
' sit down.' "

At this Potts and John looked at each
other in horror.

" He knows that too ? " said John.

" Everything, ' returned Clark de-
jectedly. " Well, when he said that I
looked a little surprised, as you may be
sure.

" ' I thought you'd be back,' said he,
' for you want to see me, you know.
You're going to follow me,' says he.
' You've got your pistols all ready, so, as
I always like to oblige a friend, I'll give
you a chance. Come.'

" At this I fairly staggered.

" ' Come,' says he, ' I've got all that
money, and Potts wants it back. And
you're going to get it from me. Come.'

" I swear to you I could not move. He
smiled at me as before, and quietly got
up and left the house. I stood for some
time fixed to the spot. At last I grew
icckless. ' If he's the devil himself,' says
I, 'I'll have it out with him.' I rushed
out and followed in his pursuit. After
some time I overtook him. He was on
horseback, but his horse was walking.
He heard me coming. ' Ah, Crocker,"
says he, quite merrily, ' so you've come,
have you ? '

" I tc e my pistol (rovr. my pocket and
fired. The only reply was a loud laugh.
He went on without turning his head. I
V. as now sure that it was the devil, but I
fired my other pistol. He gave a tremen-
dous laugh, turned his horse, and rode
full at me. His horse seemed as large
as the village church. Everything swam
around, and I fell head foremost on the
ground. I believe I lay there all night,

266

CORD AND CREESE

When I came to it was morning, and I
hurried straight here."

As he ended Clarlc rose, and, going to
the sideboard, poured out a large glass
of brandy, which he drank raw.

" The fact is," said John, after long
thought, "you've been tricked. This
fellow has doctored your pistols and
frightened you."

" But I loaded them myself," replied
Clark.

" When ? "

"Oh, I always keep them loaded in
my room. I tried them, and found the
charge was in them."

" Oh, somebody's fixed them."

" I don't think half as much about the
pistols as about what he told me. What
devil could have put all that into his
head? Answer me that," said Clark.

"Somebody's at work around us," said
John. " I feel it in my bones."

" We're getting used up," said Potts.
" The girl's gone again."

" The girl ! Gone ! "

" Yes, and Mrs. Compton, too."

"The devil!"

" I'd rather lose the girl than Mrs.
Compton ; but when they botli vanish
the same night what are you to
think ? "

" I think the devil is loose."

" I'm afraid he's turned against us,"
said Potts in a regretful tone. " He's
got tired o' helping us."

" Do none of the servants know any-
thing about it?"

" No — none of them."

" Have you asked them all ? "

" Yes."

" Doesn't that new servant, the
Injin?"

" No ; they all went to bed at twelve.
Vijal was up as late as two. Tliey all
■wear that everything was quieti"

" Did they go out through the doors ? "

" The doors were all locked as usual."

" There's treachery somewhere ! " criecl
John, with more excitement than usual.

The others were silent.

" I believe that the girl's at the bottom
of it all," said John. " We've been try-
ing to take her down ever since she came,
but it's my belief that we'll end by getting
took down ourselves. I was against her
being sent for from the first. I scented
bad luck in her at the other side of the
world. We've been acting like fools.
We ought to have silenced her at first."

" No," rejoined Potts gloomily.
" There's somebody at work deeper than
she is. Somebody — but who? — who?"

"Nobody but the devil," said Clark
firmly.

" I've been thinking about that Italian,"
continued Potts. " He's the only man
living that would bother his head about
the girl. They know a good deal between
them. I thmk he's managed some of tiiis
last business. He's humbugged us. It
isn't the devil; it's this Italian. We
must look out ; he'll be around here
again perhaps."

Clark's eyes brightened.

" The next time," said he, " I'll load
my pistols fresh, and then see if he'll
escape me ! "

At this a noise was heard in the hall,
Potts went out. The servants had been
scouring the grounds as before, but with
no result.

" No use," said John. " I tried it with
my dog. He went straight down through
the gate, and a little distance outside the
scent was lost. I tried him with Mrs,
Compton too. They both went together,
and of course had horses or carriages
there."

" What does the porter say ? " asked
Clark,

THE RUN ON THE BANK

267

"He swears that he was up till two,
and then went to bed; and that nobody
was near the gate."

"Well, we can't do anything," 'said
Potts ; " but I'll send some of the
servants off to see what they can
hear. The scent was lost so soon

that we can't tell what direction they
took."

"You'll never get her again," said
John ; " she's gone for good this time."

Potts swore a deep oath and relapsed
into silence. After a time they all went
down to the bank.

CHAPTER XLIX

THE RUN ON THE BANK

heard in the hall,

servants had been

as before, but wiih

sorter say?" asked

Not long after the bank opened a
number of people came in who asked
for gold in return for some banknotes
which they offered. This was an
unusual circumstance. The people
also were strangers. Potts wondered
what it could mean. There was no
help for it, however. The gold was
paid out, and Potts and his friends
began to feel somewhat alarmed at ti.e
thought which now presented itself for
the first time, that their very large cir-
culation of notes might be returned
upon them. He communicated this
fear to Clark.

" How much gold have you ? "

" Very little."

"How much?"

" Thirty thousand."

" Phew ! " said Clark, " and nearly two
hundred thousand out in notes !"

Potts was silent.

" What '11 you do if there is a run on
the bank ? "

" Oh, there won't be."

" Why not ? "

" My credit is too good."

" Your credit won't be worth a rush if
people know this."

While they talked persons kept drop-
ping in. Most of the villagers and people
of the neighborhood brought back the
notes, demanding gold. By about twelve
o'clock tlie influx was constant.

Potts began to feel alarmed. He went
out, and tried to bully some of the
villagers. They did not seem to pay any
attention to him, however. Potts went
back to his parlor discomfited, vowing
vengeance against those who had thus
slighted him. The worst of these was
the tailor, who brought in notes to the
extent of a thousand pounds, and when
Potts ordered him out and told him to
wait, only laughed in his face.

" Haven't you got gold enough ? " said
the tailor, with a sneer. " Are you afraid
of the bank ? Well, old Potts, so am I."

At this there was a general laugh
among the people.

The bank clerks did not at all sym-
pathize with the bank. They were too
eager to pay out. Potts had to check
them. He called them in his parlor, and
ordered them to pay out more slowly.
They all declared that they couldn't.

The day dragged on till at last three
o'clock came. Fifteen thousand pounds

268

CORD AND CREESE

had been paid out. Potts fell into deep
despondency. Clark had remained
throughout the whole morning.

" There's going to be a run on the
bank," said he. " It's only begun."

Potts' sole answer was a curse.

" What are you going to do ? " he
asked.

" You'll have to help me," replied
Potts. " You've got something."

" I've got fifty thousand pounds in the
Plymouth bank."

" You'll have to let me have it."

Clark hesitated.

" I don't know," said he.

" D n it, man, I'll give you any

security you wish. I've got more secur-
ity than I know what to do with."

" Well," said Clark, " I don't know.
There's a risk."

" I only want it for a few days. I'll
send down stock to my London broker
and have it sold. It will give me hun-
dreds of thousands — twice as much as
all the bank issue. Then I'll pay up

these devils well, and that d n tailor

worst of all. I swear I'll send it all down
to-day, and have every bit of it sold. If
there's going to be a run, I'll be ready for
them."

" How much have you ? "

" I'll send it all down — though I'm
devilish sorry," continued Potts, " How
much ? why, see here ; " and he pencilled
down the following figures on a piece of
paper, which he showed to Clark :

California Company,
Mexican bonds, ....
Guatemala bonds, ...

Venezuela bonds, . . . ,

;^100,000
50,000
50,000
50,000

;C2SO,000

" What do you think ot ♦b'»t, mv boy ? "
said Potts.

"Well," retui ••.*<' Ciark cautiously,
" I don't like tvrm Avnchcan names."

" Why," said Potts, " the stock is at a
premium. I've been getting from twenty
to twenty-five per cent, dividends.
They'll sell for three hundred thousand
nearly. I'll sell them all— I'll sell them
all," he cried. •' I'll have gold enough
to put a stop to this sort of thing for-
ever."

" I thought you had some French and
Russian bonds," said Clark.

" I gave those to that devil who had
the — the papers, you know. He consent-
ed to take them, and I was very glad, for
they paid less than the others."

Clark was silent..

" Why, man, what are you thinking
about ? Don't you know that I'm good for
two millions, what with my estate and
my stock ? "

"But you owe an infernal lot."

" And haven't I notes and other securi-
ties from everybody } "

" Yes, from everybody ; but how can
you get hold of them ? "

" The first people of the county."

•' And as poor as rats."

" London merchants ! "

" Who are they ? How can you get
back your money ? "

" Smithers & Co. will let me have what
I want."

" If Smithers & Co. knew the present
state of affairs I rather think that they'd
back down."

" Pooh i What ! Back down from a
man with my means ! Nonsense ! They
know how rich I am, or they never wouli'
have begun. Come, don't be a fool,
It '11 take three days to get gold for my
stock, and if you don't help me the bank
may stop before I get it. If you'll help
me fcr three days I'll pay you well."

" 1 iow much will you give ? "

" I'll give ten thousand pounds — there!
i oon't mind."

THE RUN ON THE BANK

269

' the stock is at a
tting from twenty
cent, dividends,
undred thousand
all— I'll sell them
ave gold enough
jort of thing for-

some French and
lark.

at devil who had
low. He consent-
was very glad, for
others."

are you thinking
I that I'm good for
th my estate and

ernal lot."

3 and other secuii-

»dy ; but how can

the county."

s."

■low can you get

let me have wliat

cnew the present
think that they'd

ick down from a
Nonsense ! Tliey

they never would

don't be a fool.
) get gold for my
help me the bank

it. If you'll help
lay you well."

give? "
id pounds— there !

•• Done ! Give me your note for sixty
thousand pounds, and I'll let you have
the fifty thousand for three days."

" All right. You've goi me where
my hair is short, but I don't mind.
When can I have the money ? "

" The day after to-morrow. I'll go to
Plymouth now, get the money to morrow,
and you can use it the next day."

" All right ; I'll send down John to
London with the stock, and he'll bring up
the gold at once."

Clark started off immediately for Plym-
outh, and not long after John went
away to London. Potts remained to
await the storm which he dreaded.

The next day came. The bank opened
late on purpose. Potts put up a notice
that it was to be closed that day at
twelve, on account of the absence of
some of the directors.

At about eleven the crowd of people
began to make their appearance as be-
fore. Their demands were somewhat
larger than on the previous day. Before
twelve, ten thousand pounds had been
paid. At twelve the bank was shut in
the faces of the clamorous people, in
accordance with the notice.

Strangers were there from all parts of
the county. The village inn was crowded,
and a large number of carriages was
outside. Potts began to look forward to
the next day with deep anxiety. Only
five thousand pounds remained in the
bar'.. One man had come with notes to
the extent of five thousand, and had only
been got rid of by the shutting of the
bank. He left, vowing vengeance.

To Potts' immense relief Clark made
his appearance early on the following day.
He had brought the money. Potts gave
him his note for sixty thousand pounds,
and the third day began.

By ten o'clock the doors were besieged

by the largest crowd that had ever as-
sembled in this quiet village. Another
host of lookers-on had collected. When
the doors were opened they poured in
with a rush.

The demands on this third day were
very large. The man with the five thou-
sand had fought his way to the counter
first, and clamored to be paid. The
noise and confusion were overpowering.
Everybody was cursing the bank or
laughing at it. Each one felt doutitful
about getting liis pay. Potts tried to be
dignified for a time. He ordered them
to be quiet, and assured them that they
would all be paid. His voice was
drowned in the wild uproar. The clerks
counte>' out the gold as rapidly as possi-
ble, in s^ ite of the remonstrances of Potts,
who on 'iree occasions called them all
into the parlor, and threatened to dis-
miss them unless they counted more
slowly. His threats were disregarded.
They went back, and paid out as rapidly
as before. The amounts reiP-'ired ranged
from five or ten pounds to thousands of
pounds. At last, after paying cU thou-
sands, one man came up who had notes
to the amount of ten thousand pounds.
This WPS the largest demand that had yet
been made. It was doubtful whether
there was so large an amount left. Potts
came out to see him. There was no help
for it ; he had to parley with the enem

He told him that it was within a ftw
minutes of three, and that it would ike
an hour at least to count out so mucn —
would he not wait till the next day ?
There would be ar. pie time then.

The man had no objection. It was all
the same to him. He went out with his
bundle of notes through the crowd, tell-
ing them that the bank could not p.ii^
him. This intelligence made the excite-
ment still greater. There was a fierce

270

CORD AND CREESE

rush to the counter. The clerks worked
hard, and paid out what they could in
spite of the hints and even the threats of
Potts, till at length the bank clock struck
the hour of three. It had been put for-
ward twenty minutes, and there was
a great riot among the people on that
account, but they could not do anything.
The bank was closed for the day, and
they had to depart.

Both Potts and Clark now waited
eagerly for the return of John. He was
expected before the next day. He ought
to be in by midnight. After waiting
impatiently for hours they at lenp;lh drove
out to see if they could find hiin.

About twelve miles from Brandon they
met him at midnight with a team of
horses and a number of men, all of whom
were armed.

*' Have you got it ? "

"Yes," said John, "what there is of
it.

" What do you mean by that ? "

" I'm too tired to explain. Wait till
we get home."

It was four o'clock in the mornmg be-
fore they reached the bank. The gold
was taken out and deposited in the
vaults, and the three went up to the Hall.
They brought out brandy and refreshed
themselves, after which John remarked,
in his usual laconic style :

" You've been and gone and done it."

" What ? " asked Potts, somewhat
puzzled.

" With your speculations in stocks."

" What about them ? "

" Nothing," said John, " only they hap-
pen to be at a small discount."

"A discount?"

" .^lightly."

Potts was silent.

" How much ? " asked Clark.

" I have a statement here," said John,

"When I got to London, I saw the
broker. He said that American stocks,
particularly those which I held, had
undergone a great depreciation. He
assured me that it was only temporary,
that the dividends which these stocks paid
were enough to raise them in a short time,
perhaps in a few weeks, and that it was
madness to sell out now. He declared
that it would ruin the credit of the Bran-
don Bank if it were known that we sold
out at such a fearful sacrifice, and
advised me to raise the money at a less
cost.

" Well, I could only think of Smithers
& Co. I went to their office. They
were all away. I saw one of the clerks,
who said they had gone to see about
some Russian loan or other, so there was
nothing to do but to go back to the
broker. He assured me again that it
was an unheard-of sacrifice ; that these
very slocks which I held had fallen terri-
bly, he knew not how, anrl advised me to
do anything rather than make such a
sacrifice. But I could do nothing. Gold
was what I wanted, and since Smithers
& Co. were away this was the only way
to get it."

" Well ! " cried Potts eagerly, " Did
you get it ? "

" You saw that I got it. I sold out at
a cost that is next to ruin."

" What is it ? "

" Well," said John, " I wi'^ give you
the statement of the broker," and he drew
from his pocket a paper which he handed
to the others. They looked at it eagerly,

It was as follows :

100 shares California at ;£iooo each, 65 per

cent, discount,

50 shares Mexican, 75 per cent, discount, .
50 shares Guatemala. 80 per cent, disi:ount,
50 shares Venezuela, 80 per cent, discount.

12,500
10,000

10,000

/;ti7,500

THE RUN ON THE BANlC

271

tts eagerly. " Did

The faces of Pot^s and Clark grew
black as night as they read this. A deep
execration burst from Potts. Clark leaned
back in his chair.

"The bank's blown up!" said he.

" No, it aint," rejoined Potts.

" Why not ? "

" There's gold enough to pay all that's
likely to be offered."

" How much more do you think will
be offered } "

" Not much ; it stands to reason."

" It stands to reason that every note
which you've issued will be sent back to
you. So I'll trouble you to give me my
sixty thousand ; and I advise you as a
friend to hold on to the rest."

" Clark ! " said Potts, " you're getting
timider and timider. You aint got ?ny
more pluck these times than a kitten."

" It's a time when a man's got to be care-
ful of his earnings," said Clark. " How
much have you out in notes ? You told
me once you had out about _;^ 180,000,
l)erhaps more. Well, you've already had
to redeem about £7$,ooo. That leaves
^105,000 yet, and you've only got ^67,-
500 to pay it with. What have you got
to say to that ? "

" Well i " said Potts. " The Brandon
Bank may go — but what then ? You
forget that I have the Brandon estate.
That's worth two millions."

" You got it for two hundred thou-
sand ? "

" Because it was thrown away and
dropped into my hands."

" It '11 be thrown away again at this
rate. You owe Smithers & Co."

" Pooh ! that's all offset by securities
which I hold."

" Queer securities ! "

"Ail good," said Potts. "All first-
rate. It '11 be all right. We'll have to
put it through."

" But what if it isn't all right ?" asked
Clark savagely.

"You forget that I have Smithers &
Co. to fall back on."

" If your bank breaks, there is an end
of Smithers & Co."

" Oh, no. I've got this estate to fall back
on, and they know it, I can easily explain
to them. If they had only been in town
I she Idn't have had to make this sacri-
fice. You needn't feel troubled about
your money, I'll give you security on
the estate to any amount, I'll give
you security for seventy thousand," said
Potts,

Clark thought for a while,

" Well ! " said he, " it's a risk, but I'll
run it."

" There isn't time to get a lawyer now
to make out the papers; but "-henever
you fetch one I'll do it."

" I'll get one to-day and you .■ •;^n the
papers this evening. In my opinion by
that time the bank '11 be shut up for good
and you're a fool for your pains. You're
simply throwing away what gold you
have."

Potts went down not long after. It
was the fourth day of the run. Miscel-
laneous callers thronged the place, but
the amounts w'ere not large. In two
hours not more than five thousand were
paid out.

At length a man came in with a carpet-
bag. He pulled out a vast quantity of
notes.

" How much ? " asked the clerk
blandly.

" Thirty thousand pounds," said the
man.

Potts heard this and came out,

" How much ? " he asked.

" Thirty thousand pounds."

" Do you want it in gold? "

" Of course."

372

CORD AND CREESE

li-
es

"Will you take a draft on Messrs.
Smitliers & Co.?"

" No, I want gold."

While Potts was talking to this man
another was waiting patiently beside
him. Of course this imperative claimant
had to be paid or else the bank would
have to stop, and this was a casuiilty
which Potts could not yet face with
calmness. Before it came to that he
was determined to pay out his last
sovereign.

On paying the thirty thousand pounds
it was found that there were only two
bags left of two thousand pcnds each.

The other man who had waited stood
calmly, while the one who had been paid
was making arrangements about convey-
ing bis money away.

t ; , now two o'clock. The stranger
said quietly to ♦hf clerk opposite that he
wanted gold.

" How much ? " said the clerk, with
the same blandness.

"Forty thousand pounds." answered
the stranger.

" Sorry we can't accommodate you,
sir," returned the clerk.

Potts had heard this and came for-
ward.

" Won't you take a draft on London > "
said he.

" Can't," replied the man ; " I was
ordered to get gold."

" A draft on Smithers & Co. ? "

" Couldn't take even Bank of England
notes," said the stranger " I'm only an
agent. If you can't accommodate me
I'm sorry, I'm sure."

Potts was silent. His face was
ghastly. As much agony as such a
man could endure was feli by him at
that moment.

Half an hour afterward the shutters
were up; and outside the door stooil
a wild and riotous crowd, the most noisy
of whom was the tailor.

The Brandon Bank had failed.

CHAPTER L

THE BANK DIRECTORS

The bank doors were closed, and the
bank directors were left to their own re-
flections. Clark had been in through the
day, and at the critical moment his feelings
had overpowered him so much that he
felt compelled to go over to the inn to get
something to drink, wherewith he might
refresh himself and keep up his spirits.

Potts and John remained in the bank
parlor. The clerks had gone. Potts was
in that state of dejection in which even
liquor was not desirable. John showed
his usual nonchalance.

"Well, Johnnie," said Potts, after a
long silence, " we're used up 1 "

"The bank's bursted, that's a fact.
You were a fool for fighting it out so
long."

" I might as well. I was responsible,
at any rate."

" You might have kept your gold."

" Then my estate would have been
good. Besides, I hoped to tight througii
this difficulty. In fact, I hadn't anything
else to do."

" Why not ? "

THE BANK DIKLCTORS

373

inds," answered

commodate you,

; and came for-

aft on London > "

man ; " I was

was responsible,

" Smithers & Co."

" Ah, yes ! "

" They'll be down on me now. That's
what I was afraid of all along."

" How much do you owe them ? "

" Seven hundred and two thousand
pounds."

" The devil ! I thought it was only
live iiundred thousand."

" It's been growing every day. It's a
dreadful dangerous thing to have un-
limited credit."

" Well, you've got something as an off-
set — the debts due the bank."

"Johnnie," said Potts, taking a long
breath, "since Clark isn't here I don't
mind telling you that my candid opinion
is them debts isn't worth a rush. A
great crowd of people came here for
money. I didn't hardly ask a question.
I shelled out royally. I wanted to be
known, so as to get into Parliament some
day. I did what is called 'going it
blind.' "

*' How much is owing you ? "

" The books say five hundred and thir-
teen thousand pounds—but it's doubt-
ful if I can get any of it. And now
Smithers & Co. will be down on me
at once."

" What do you intend to do ? "

" I don't know."

" Haven't you thought ? "

" No, I couldn't."

" Well, I have."

" What ? "

" You'll have to try to compromise."

" What if they won't ? "

John shrugged his shoulders, and said
nothing.

" After all," resumed Potts hopefully,
" it can't be so bad. The estate is worth
two millions."

" Pooh ! "

" Isn't it ? "

You know what you

it was thrown

They

don't
I've

" Of course not
bought it for."

" That's because
away."

" Well, it '11 have to be thrown away
again."

"Oh, Smilhers& Co. 'II be easy,
don't care for money."

" Perhaps so. The fact is, I
understand Smithers & Co. at all
tried to see through their little game, but
can't begin to do it."

" Oh, that's easy enough ! They knew
I was rich, and let me have what money
I wanted."

John looked doubtful.

At this moment a rap was heard at
the back door,

" There comes Clark ! " said he.

Potts opened the door. Clark entered.
His face was flushed, and his eyes blood-
shot.

" See here," said he mysteriously, as
he entered the room.

" What } " asked the others anxiously.

" There's two chaps at the inn. One
is the /talian "

" Langhetti ! "

" Ay," said Clark gloomily ; " and the
other is his mate — that fellow that helped
him to carry off the gal. They've done
it again this time, and my opinion is
that these fellows are at the bottom of
all our troubles. You know whose son
he is."

Potts and John exchanged glances.

" I went after that devil once, and I'm
going to try it again. This time I'll
take someone who isn't afraid of the
devil. Johnnie, is the dog at the
Hall ? "

" Yes."

" All right ! " said Clark. " I'll be even
with this fellow yet, if he is in league with
the devil."

•74

CORD AND CREESE

With these words Clark went out, and | he, " all right, and if he doesn't, why
left the two together. A glance of sav- then "—he paused.

age exultation passed over the face of
Potts.
" If he comes back successful," said

" If he doesn't come back," said John,
finishing the sentence for him, " why
then — all righter."

CHAPTER LI

A STRUGGLE

At ; t!i.^ iVrMolution which for a time
had characterized Despard had vanished
before the shock of that great discovery
which his father's manuscript had re-
vealed to him. One purpose now lay
clearly and vividly before him — one which
to so loyal and devoted a nature as his
was the holiest duty, and that was ven-
geance or hi« father's murderers.

In this purpose he took refuge from
his own grief; he cast aside his own
longings, his anguish, his despair. Lan-
ghetti wished to search after his " Bice " ;
Despard wished to find those whom his
dead father had denounced to him. In
the intensity of his purpose he was care-
le.ss as to the means by which that ven-
geance should be accomplished. He
thought not whether it would be better
to trust to the slow action of the law, or
to take the task into his own hands.
His only wish was to be confronted
with either of these men, or both of
them.

It was with this feeling in his heart
that he set out with Langhetti, and the
two went once more in company to the
village of Brandon, where they arrived
on the last day of the " run on the
bank."

He did not know exactly what it would

be best to do first. His one idea was to go
to the Hall, and confront the murderers
in their own place. Langhetti, however,
urged the need of help from the civil
magistrate. It was while they were
deliberating about this that a letter was
brought in addressed to the I?£v. Court-
cnay Despard,

Despard did not recognize the hand-
writing. In some surprise how anyone
should know that he was here he opened
the letter, and his surprise was still
greater as he read the following :

" Sir : There are two men here whom
you seek — one Potts, the other Clark.
You can see them both at any time.

" The young lady whom you and Slg-
nor Langhetti formerly rescued has
escaped, and is now in safety at Denton,
a village not more than twenty miles
away. She lives in the last cottage on
the left-hand side of the road, close by
the sea. There is an American elm in
frcnt."

There was no signature.

Despard handed it in silence to
Langhetti, who read it eagerly. Joy
spread over his face. He started to his
feet.

A STRUGGLE

»7S

; doesn't, why

ck," said John,
or him, "why

^e idea was to go
t the murderers
ighetti, however,
I from the civil
;hile they were
that a letter was
the Jiev. Coin/-

»gr\ize the hand-
rise how anyone
s here he opened
rprise was still
ollowing :

men here whom
he other Clark.

at any time,
om you and Sig-
rescued has
afety at Denton,
an twenty miles

last cottage on
road, close hy
American elm in

re.

in silence to
it eagerly. Joy
le started to his

" I must go at once," said he excitedly.
"Will you?"

" No," replied Despard. " You had
better go. I must stay ; my purpose is
a different one."

" But do not you also wish to secure
the safety of Bice?"

"Of course ; but I shall not be needed.
You will be enough."

Langhetti tried to persuade him, but
Despard was immovable. For himself
he was too impatient to wait. He deter-
mined to set out at once. He could not
get a carriage, but he managed to obtain
a horse, and with this he set out. It
was about the time when the bank had
closed.

Just before his departure Despard saw
a man come from the bank and enter
the inn. He knew the face, ^or he had
seen it when here before. It was Clark.
At the sight of this face all his fiercest
instinct awoke within h m — a deep thirst
for vengeance arose. He could not lose
sight of this man. He determined to
track him, and thus by active pursuit to
do something toward the accomplish-
ment of his purpose.

He watched him, therefore, as he
entered the inn, and caught a hasty
glance which Clark directed at himself
and Langhetti. He did not understand
the meaning of the scowl that passed
over the ruffian's face, nor did Clark
understand the full meaning of that
gloomy frown which lowered over Des-
pard's brow as his eyes blazed wrathfuUy
and menacingly upon him.

Clark came out and went to the bank.
On quitting the bank Despard saw him
looking back at Langhetti, who was just
leaving. He then watched him till he
went up to the Hall.

In about half an hour Clark came back
«n horseback followed by a dog. He

t.^lkcd for a while with the landlord, and
then went off at a slow trot.

On questioning the landlord Despard
found that Clark had asked him abuut
the direction which Langhetti had taken.
The idea at once flashed upon him that
possibly Clark wished to pursue Lan-
ghetti, in order to fit. J out aboui Beatrice.
He determined on pursuit, lioth for
Langhetii's sake and his own.

He followed, therefore, i ')t far behind
Clark, riding at first ' pidly till he caught
sight of him at the summit of a hill in
front, and then keeping at about the
same distance behind him. He had not
detei mined in his mind what it was best
to do, but held himself prepared for any
course of action.

After riding about an hour he put spurs
to his horse, and went t . at a more rapid
pace. Yet he did not overtake Clark, and
therefore conjectured that Clark himself
must have gone on mort rapidly. He
now put his own horse to its fullest
speed, with the intention of coming up
with his enemy as soon as possible.

He rode on at a tremendous pace for
another half hour. At last the road took
a sudden turn ; and, whirling around
here at the utmost speed, he burst "ipon
a scene which was as startling as it
was unexpected, and which roused to
madness all the fervid passion of his
nature.

The road here descended, and in its
descent wound round a hill and led into
a gentle hollow, on each side of which
hills arose which were covered with
trees.

Within this glen was disclosed a fright-
ful spectacle. A man lay on the ground,
torn from his horse by a huge blood-
hound, which even then was rending him
with its huge fangs ! The dismounted
rider's foot was entangled in the stirrups.

IMAGE EVALUATICN
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

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WEftSTER.N.Y. US80

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6

V^o

876

CORD AND CREESE

ex:

and the horse was plunging and dragging
him along, while the dog was pulling him
back. The man himself uttered not a
cry, but tried to fight off the dog with his
hands as best he could.

In the horror of the moment Despard
saw that it was Langhetti. For an instant
his brain reeled. The next moment he
had reached the spot. Another horseman
was standing close by, without pretending
even to interfere. Despard did not see
him ; he saw nothing but Langhetti. He
flung himself from his horse, and drew a
revolver from his pocket. A loud report
rang through the air, and in an instant
the huge bloodhound gave a leap up-
ward, with a piercing yell, and fell dead
in the road.

Despard flung himself on his knees
beside Langhetti. He saw his hands
torn and bleeding, and blood covering
his face and breast. A low groan was
all that escapod from the sufferer.

" Leave me," he gasped. " Save Bice."

In his grief for Langhetti, thus lying
before him in such agony, Despard forgot
all else. He seized his handkerchief and
tried to stanch the blood.

" Leave me ! " gasped Langhetti again.
" Bice will be lost." His head, which
Despard had supported for a moment,
sank back, and life seemed to leave
him.

Despard started up. Now for the first
time he recollected the stranger ; and in
an instant understood who he was, and
why this had been done. Suddenly, as
he started up, he felt his pistol snatched
from his hand by a strong grasp. He
turned.

It was the horseman — it was Clark —
who had stealthily dismounted, and, in
his desperate purpose, had tried to make
sure of Despard.

But Despard, quick as thought, leaped

upon him and caught his hand. In the
struggle the pistol fell to the ground.
Despard caught Clark in his arms, and
then the contest began.

Clark was of medium size, thick-set,
muscular, robust, and desperate. Des-
pard was tall, but his frame was well-
knit, his muscles and sinews were like
iron, and he was inspired by a higher
spirit and a deeper passion.

In the first shock of that fierce em-
brace not a word was spoken. For
some time the struggle was maintained
without result. Clark had caught Des-
pard at a disadvantage, and this for a
time prevented the latter from putting
forth his strength effectually.

At last he wound one arm around
Clark's neck in a strangling grasp, and
forced his other arm under that of Clark.
Then with one tremendous, one resist-
less impulse, he put forth all his strength.
His antagonist gave way before it. He
reeled.

Despard disengaged one arm and dealt
him a tremendous blow on the temple.
At the same instant he twined his
legs about those of the other. At the
stroke Clark, who had already staggered,
gave way utterly and fell heavily back-
ward, with Despard upon him.

The next instant Despard had seized
his throat and h ^Id him down so that he
could not move.

The wretch gasped and groaned. He
struggled to escape from that iron hold in
vain. The hand which had seized him
was not to be shaken off. Despard had
fixed his grasp there, and there in the
throat of the fainting, suffocating wretch
he held it.

The struggles grew fainter, the arms
relaxed, the face blackened, the limbs
stiffened. At last all efforts ceased.

Despard then arose, and, turning Clark

FACE TO FACE

277

his hand. In the
11 to the ground.

in his arms, and
1.
im size, thick-set,

desperate. Des-
s frame was well-

sinews were like
pired by a higher
ission.

3f that fierce em-
/as spoken. For
rle was maintained
: had caught Des-
ige, and this for a
itter from putting
ectually.

one arm around
angling grasp, and
mder that of Clark.
indous, one resist-
)rth all his strength.
way before it. He

one arm and dealt
low on the temple.
it he twined his
the other. At the
already staggered,
fell heavily back-
upon him.
lespard had seized
im down so that he

and groaned. Me
lom that iron hold in
|ch had seized him

off. Despard had
;, and there in the

suffocating wretch

fainter, the arms
lickened, the limbs

efforts ceased.
, and, turning Clark

over on his face, took the bridle from
one of the horses, bound his hands be-
hind him, and fastened his feet securely.
In the fierce struggle Clark's coat
and waistcoat had been torn away,
and slipped down to some extent.
His shirt collar had burst and slipped
with them. As Despard turned him
over and proceeded to tie him, some-
thing struck his eye. It was a bright
red scar.

He pulled down the shirt. A mark
appeared, the full meaning of which he
knew not but could well conjecture.

There were three brands — fiery red — and
these were the marks :

CHAPTER LII

FACE TO FACE

On the same evening Potts, left the
bank at about five o'clock, and went up
to the Hall with John. He was morose,
gloomy, and abstracted. The great ques-
tion now before him was how to deal
with Smithers & Co. Should he write to
them, or go and see them, or what? How
could he satisfy their claims, which he
knew would now be presented ? Involved
in thoughts like these he entered the Hall,
and, followed by John, went to the dining
room, where father and son sat down
to refresh themselves over a bottle of
brandy.

They had not been seated half an hour
before the noise of carriage-wheels was
heard ; and on looking out they saw a
dog-cart drawn by two magnificent horses
which drove swiftly up to the portico. A
gentleman dismounted, and, throwing
the reins to his servant, came up the
steps.

The stranger was of medium size, with
an aristocratic air, remarkably regular
features, of pure Grecian outline, and
deep, black, lustrous eyes. His brow
was dark and stern, and clouded over by
a gloomy frown.

"Who the devil is he? "cried Potts.

" D n that porter ! I told him to let

no one in to-day."

" I believe the porter's playing fast and
loose with us. But, by Jove ! do you see
that fellow's eyes? Do you know who
else has such eyes ? "

"No."

" Old Smithers."

" Smithers ! "

" Yes."

" Then this is young Smithers ? "

"Yes; or else the devil," said John
harshly. " I begin to have an idea," he
continued. " I've been thinking about
for some time."

378

CORD AND CREESE

" What is it ? "

" Old Smithers had these eyes. That
last chap, that drew the forty thousand
out of you, kept his eyes covered. Here
comes this fellow with the same eyes.
I begin to trace a connection between
them."

" Pooh ! Old Smithers is old enough to
be this man's grandfather."

" Did you ever happen to notice that
old Smithers hadn't a wrinkle in his
face?"

" What do you mean ? "

" Oh, nothing — only his hair mightn't
have been natural ; that's all."

Potts and John exchanged glances, and
nothing was said for some time.

" Perhaps this Smithers & Co. have
been at the bottom of all this," continued
John. "They are the only ones who
could have been strong enough. "

"But why should they?"

John shook his head.

" Despard or Langhetti may have got

them to do it. Perhaps that d d girl

did it. Smithers & Co. will make money
enough out of the speculation to pay
them. As for me and you, I begin to
have a general but very accurate idea of
ruin. You are getting squeezed pretty
close up to the wall, dad, and they won't
give you time to breathe."

Before this conversation had ended the
stranger had entered, and had gone up to
the drawing room. The servant cam*?
down to announce him.

" What name ? " asked Potts.

*• He didn't give any."

Potts looked perplexed.

" Come now," said John. " This fellow
has overreached himself at last. He's
come here ; perhaps it won't be so easy
for him to get out. I'll have all the ser-
vants ready. Do you keep up your
spirits. Don't get frightened, but be

plucky. Bluff him, and when the time
comes ring the bell, and I'll march in
with all the servants."

Potts looked for a moment at his son
with a glance of deep admiration.

" Johnnie, you've got more sense in
your little finger than I have in my whole
body. Yes ; we've got this fellow, who-
ever he is ; and if he turns out to be what
I suspect, then we'll spring the trap on
him, and he'll learn what it is to play
with edged tools."

With these words Potts departed, and,
ascending the stairs, entered the drawing
room.

The stranger was standing looking out
of one of the windows. His attitude
brought back to Potts' recollection the
scene which had once occurred there,
when old Smithers was holding Bea-
trice in his arms. The recollection of
this threw a flood of light on Potts'
mind. He recalled it with a savage
exultation. Perhaps they were the
same, as John said — perhaps ; no, most
assuredly they must be the same.

" I've got him now, anyway," mur-
mured Potts to himself, " whoever he
is."

The stranger turned and looked at
Potts for a few moments. He neither
bowed nor uttered any salutation what-
ever. In his look there was a certain
terrific menace, an indefinable glance of
conscious power, combined with impla-
cable hate. The frown which usually
rested on his brow darkened and deep-
ened till the gloomy shadows tliat
covered them seemed like thunder-
clouds.

Before that awful look Potts felt him-
self cowering involuntarily ; and he be-
gan to feel less confidence in his own
power, and less sure that the stranger
had flung himself into a trap. How-

FACE TO FACE

279

ind when the time
and I'll march in

moment at his son
» admiration,
got more sense in
1 I have in my whole
got this fellow, who-
turnsouttobewhat

I spring the trap on
n what it is to play

Potts departed, and,
, entered the drawing

; standing looking out
ndows. His attitude
•otts' recollection the
once occurred there,
s was holding Bea-
The recollection of
d of light on Potts'
d it with a savage
aps they were tl\e
d— perhaps ; no, most
ist be the same,
now, anyway," mur-
limself, "whoever he

urned and looked at
moments. He neither
1 any salutation what-
: there was a certain
, indefinable glance of
combined with impla-
frown which usually
w darkened and deep-
loomy shadows that
'eemed like thundei-

[ul look Potts felt him-
[oluntarily ; and he be-
Iconfidence in his own
Isure that the stranger
llf into a trap. How-

ever, the silence was embarrassing; so
at last, with an effort, he said :

" Well ; is there anything you want of
me ? I'm in a hurry."

" Yes," said the stranger ; " I reached
tlie village to-day to call at the bank, but
found it closed."

" Oh ! I suppose you've got a draft
on me, too."

" Yes," said the stranger mysteriously.
" I suppose I may call it a draft."

' There's no use in troubling your head
p'jout it, then," returned Potts ; " I won't
pay."

" You won't ? "

" Not a penny."

A sharp, sudden smile of contempt
flashed over the stranger's face.

" Perhaps if you knew what the draft
is, you would feel differently."

" I don't care what it is."

"That depends upon the drawer."

" I don't care who the drawer is. I
won't pay it. I don't care even if it's
Sniithers & Co. I'll settle all when I'm
ready. I'm not going to be bullied any
longer. I've borne enough. You needn't
look so very grand," he continued pet-
tishly ; " I see through you, and you
can't keep up this sort of thing much
longer."

"You appear to hint that you know
who I am } "

" Something of that sort," said Potts
rudely. " And let me tell you I don't care
who you are."

" That depends," rejoined the other
calmly, " very much on circumstances."

"So you see," continued Potts, "you
won't get anything out of me — not this
time," he added.

"My draft," said the stranger, "is
different from those which were pre-
sented at the bank counter."

He spoke in a tone of deep solemnity,

with a tone which seemed like the tread
of some inevitable Fate advancing upon
its victim. Potts felt an indefinable fear
stealing over him in spite of himself.
He said not a word.

" My draft," continued the stranger, in
a tone which was still more aggressive
in its dominant and self-assertive power
— " my draft was drawn twenty years
ago.

Potts looked wonderingly and half
fearfully at him.

" My draft," said the other, " was
drawn by Colonel Lionel Despard."

A chill went to the heart of Potts.
With a violen' effort he shook off his
fear.

" Pooh ! " said he, " you're at that old
story, are you ? That nonsense won't
do here."

" It was dated at sea," continued the
stranger, in tones which still deepened
in awful emphasis — "at sea, when tf^e
writer was all alone."

"It's a lie!" cried Potts, while his
face grew white.

" At sea," continued the other, rinf.ing
the changes on this one word, " at sea —
on board that ship to which you had
brought him — the Vishnu ! "

Potts was like a man fascinated by
some horrid spectacle. He looked
fixedly at his interlocutor. His jaw
fell.

"There he died," said the stranger.
" Who caused his death ? Will you
answer ? "

With a tremendous effort Potts again
recovered command of himself.

" You've — you've been reading up old
papers," replied he in a stammering
voice. " You've got a lot of stuff in
your head which you think will frighten
me. You've come to the wrong shop."

But in spite of these words the pale

38o

CORD AND CREESE

'■'■iWi

■W-

face and nervous manner of Potts
showed how deep was his agitation.

" I myself was on board the VtsAnu,"
said the other.

"You?"

•* Yes, I."

" You ! Then you must have been
precious small. The Vishnu went down
twenty years ago."

" I was on board of the Vishnu, and
I saw Colonel Despard."

The memory of some awful scene
seemed to inspire the tones of the speaker
— they thrilled through the coarse, brutal
nature of the listener.

" I saw Colonel Despard," continued
the stranger.

" You lie ! " cried Potts, roused by ter-
ror and horror to a fierce pitch of excite-
ment.

" I saw Colonel Despard," repeated the
stranger, for the third time, " on board
the Vishnu in the Indian Sea, I learned
from him his story "

He paused.

" Then," cried Potts quickly, to whom
there suddenly came an idea which
brought courage with it ; " then, if you
saw him, what concern is it of mine?
He was alive, then, and the Despard
murder never took place."

" It did take place," said the other.

" You're talking nonsense. How could
it if you saw him ? He must have been
alive."

" He was dead! " replied the stranger,
whose .' ;2S had never withdrawn them-
selves from those of Potts, and now
seemed like two fiery orbs blazing wrath-
fully upon him. The tones penetrated to
the very soul of the listener. He shud-
dered in spite of himself. Like most
vulgar natures, his was accessible to
superstitious horror. He heard and
trembled.

" He was dead," repeated the stranger,
" and yet all that I told you is true. I
learned from him his story."

"Dead men tell no tales," mutt ad
Potts in a scarce articulate voice.

" So you thought when you locked him
in, and set fire to the ship, and scuttled
her ; but you see you were mistaken, for
here at least was a dead man who did tell
tales, and I was the listener."

And the mystic solemnity of the man's
face seemed to mark him as one who
might indeed have held commune with
the dead.

" He told me," continued the stranger,
" where he found you, and how."

Awful expectation was manifest on the
face of Potts.

" He told me of the mark on your arm.
Draw up your sleeve, Briggs, Potts, or
whatever other name you choose, and
show the indelible characters which
represent the name of Bowhani."

Potts started back. His lips grew
ashen. His teeth chattered.

" He gave me this," cried the stranger
in a louder voice ; " and this is the draft
which you will not reject."

He strode forward three or four paces
and flung something toward Potts.

It was a cord, at the end of which was
a metallic ball. The ball struck the table
as it fell, and rolled to the floor, but the
stranger held the other end in his hand.

"Thug!" cried he; "do you know
what that is?"

Had the stranger been Olympian Jove,
and had he flung forth from his right hand
a thunderbolt, it could not have produced
a more appalling effect than that which
was wrought upon Potts by the sight of
this cord. He started back in horror,
uttering a cry half-way between a scream
and a groan. Big drops of perspiration
started from his brow. He trembled and

FACE TO FACE

281

^peated the stranger,
told you is true. 1
story."

no tales," mutt --ed
articulate voice,
vhen you locked him
le ship, and scuttled
1 were mistaken, for
lead man who did tell
listener."

•lemnity of the man's
rk him as one who
held commune with

ntinuedthe stranger,

lu, and how."

1 was manifest on the

he mark on your arm.

:ve, Briggs, Potts, or

,me you choose, and

le characters which

le of BowhanH'

ack. His lips grew

ihattered.

s," cried the stranger

' and this is the draft

reject."

d three or four paces

g toward Potts.

the end of which was
le ball struck the table

to the floor, but the

ler end in his hand.

he; "do you know

been Olympian Jove,
th from his right hand
uld not have produced
iffect than that which

Potts by the sight of
jted back in horror,
way between a scream

drops of perspiration
■)w. He trembled and

shuddered from head to foot. His jaw
fell. He stood speechless.

" That is my draft," said the stranger.

•' What do you want ? " gasped Potts.

"The title-deeds of the Brandon
estates ! "

" The Brandon estates ! " said Potts in
a faltering voice.

"Yes, the Brandon estates; nothing
less."

" And will you then keep silent?"

" I will give you the corci."

" Will you keep silent ? "

"I am your master," said the other
haughtily, as his burning eyes fixed them-
selves with a consuming gaze upon the
abject vretch before him ; " I am your
master. I make no promises. I spare
you or destroy you as I choose."

These words reduced Potts to despair.
In the depths of that despair he found
hope. He started up, defiant. With an
oath he sprang to the bell-rope and
pulled again ai d again, till the peals
reverberated through the house.

The stranger stood with a scornful
smile on his face. Potts turned to him
savagely :

" I'll teach you," he cried, " that you've
come to the wrong shop. I'm not a
child. Who you are I don't know and
don't care. You are the cause of my
ruin, and you'll repent of it."

The stranger said nothing, but stood
witli the same fixed and scornful smile.
A noise was heard outside, the tramp of a
crowd of men. They ascended the stairs.
At last John appeared at the door of the
room, followed by thirty servants. Prom-
inent among these was Asgeelo. Near
him was Vijal. Potts gave a triumphant
smile. The servants ranged themselves
around the room.

" Now," cried Potts, " you're in for it.
You're in a trap, I think. You'll find

that I'm not a born idiot. Give up that
cord."

The stranger said nothing, but wound
up the cord coolly, placed it in his pocket,
and still k-egarded Potts with a scornful
smile.

" Here ! " cried Potts, addressing the
servants. " Catch that man, and tie his
hands and feet."

The servants had taken their station
around the room at John's order. As
Potts spoke they stood there looking at
the stranger, but not one of them moved.
Vijal only started forward. The stranger
turned toward him and looked in his
face.

Vijal glanced around in surprise, wait-
ing for the other s'^rvants.

" You devils ! " cried Potts, " do you
hear what I say ? Seize that man I "

None of the servants moved.

"It's my belief," said John, "that
they're all ratting."

•' Vijal ! " cried Potts savagely, " tackle
him!"

Vijal rushed forward. At that instant
Asgeelo bounded forward also with one
tremendous leap, and seizing Vijal by
the throat hurled him to the floor.

The stranger waved his hand.

" Let him go " said he.

Asgeelo obeyed

" What the devil's the meaning of
this?" cried John, looking around in
dismay. Potts also looked around.
There stood the servants — motionless,
impassive.

" For the last time," roared Potts, with
a perfect volley of oaths, " seize that man,
or you'll be sorry for it ! "

The servants s'ood motionless. The
stranger remained in the same attitude
with the same sneering smile.

" You see," said he at last, " that you
don't know me, after all. You are in my

aSa

CORD AND CREESE

power, Briggs~you can't get away, nor
can your son."

Potts rushed, with an oath, to the door.
Half a dozen servants were standing
there. As he came furiously toward
them they held out their clenched fists.
He rushed upon them. They beat him
back. He fell, foaming at the lips.

John stood cool and unmoved, looking
around the room, and learning from the
face of each servant that they were all
beyond his authority. He folded his arms,
and said nothing.

"You appear to have been mistaken
in your man," said the stranger coolly.
" These are not your servants ; they're
mine. Shall I tell them to seize you ? "

Potts glared at him with bloodshot
eyes, but said nothing.

"Shall I tell them to pull up your
sleeve and display the mark of Bowhani,
sir ? Shall I tell who and what you are ?
Shall I begin from your birth and give
them a full and complete history of your
life ? "

Potts looked around like a wild beast
in the arena, seeking for some opening
for escape, but finding nothing except
hostile faces.

" Do what you like ! " he cried des-
perately, with an oath, and sank down
into stolid despair.

" No ; you don't mean that," said the
other. " For I have some London po-
licemen at the inn, and I might like best
to hand you over to them on charges
which you can easily imagine. You don't
wish me to do so, I think. You'd prefer
being at large to being chained up in a
cell, or sent to Botany Bay, I suppose ?
Still, if you prefer it, I will at once ar-
range an interview between yourself and
these gentlemen."

" What do you want ? " anxiously
^sked Potts, who now thought that he

might come to terms, and perhaps
gain his escape from the clutches of his
enemy.

" Jhe title-deeds of the Brandon es-
tate," said the stranger.

" Never ! "

" Then off you go. They must be
mine, at any rate. Nothing can pr^-vent
that. Either give them now and be-
gone, or delay, and you go at once to
jail."

" I won't give them," said Potts des-
perately.

"Cato!" said the stranger, "go and
fetch the policemen."

" Stop !" cried John.

At a sign Asgeelo, who had already
i .ken two steps toward the door, paused.

" Here, dad," said John, " you've got
to do it. You might as well hand over
the papers. You don't want to get into
quod, I think."

Potts turned his pale face to his son.

" Do it ! " exclaimed John.

" Well," he said with a sigh, " since
I've got to, I've got to, I suppose. You
know best, Johnnie. I always said you
had a long head."

" I must go and get them," he con-
tinued.

" I'll go with you ; or no— Cato shall
go with you, and I'll wait here."

The Hindoo went with Potts, holding
his collar in his powerful grasp, and
taking care to let Potts see the hilt of a
knife which he carried up his sleeve, in
the other hand.

After about a quarter of an hour they
returned, and Potts handed over to the
stranger some papers. He looked at
them carefully, and put them in his
pocket. He then gave Potts the cord.
Potts took it in an abstracted way, and
said nothing.

" You must leave this H^U to-night, "

li-i

I 3

FACE TO FACE

283

go. They must be

Nothing can pr»,vent

them now and be-

you go at once to

em," said Potts des-

le stranger, "go and

hn.

;lo, who had already
^ard the door, paused,
id John, " you've got
ht as well hand over
lon't want to get into

get them," he con-

I ; or no— Cato shall
11 wait here."
It with Potts, holding

powerful grasp, and
Potts see the hilt of a
rried up his sleeve, in

aid the stranger sternly — "you and
your son. I remain here."

" Leave the Hall ? " gasped Potts.

" Yes."

For a moment he stood overwhelmed.
He looked at John. John nodded his
head slowly.

" You've got to do it, dad," said he.

Potts turned savagely at the stranger.
He shook his clenched fist at him.

" D n you ! " he cried. " Are you

satisfied yet ? I know you. I'll pay you
up. What complaint have you against
me, I'd like to know? I never harmed
you."

" You don't know me, or you wouldn't
say ihat."

" I do. You're Smilhers & Co."

" True ; and I'm several other people.
I've had the pleasure of an extended
intercourse with you. For I'm not only
Smithers & Co., but I'm also Beamish &
Hendricks, American merchants. I'm
also Bigelow, Higginson & Co., solicitors
to Smithers & Co. Besides, I'm your
London broker, who attended to your
speculations in stocks. Perhaps you
think that you don't know me after all."

As he said this Potts and John ex-
changed glances of wonder.

" Tricked ! " cried Potts—" deceived !
humbugged ! and ruined ! Who are
you ? What have you against me ?
Who are you? Who?"

And he gazed with intense curiosity
upon the calm face of the stranger, who.

in his turn, looked upon him with the air
of one who was surveying from a superior
height some feeble creature fai beneath
him.

" Who am I ? " he repeated. " Who ?
I am the one to whom all this belongs.
I am one whom you have injured so
deeply that what I have done to you is
nothing in comparison."

" Who are you ? " cried Potts, with
feverish impatience. " It's a lie. I never
injured you. I never saw you before till
you came yourself to trouble me. Those
whom I have injured are all dead, except
that parson, the son of — of the officer."

" There are others."

Potts said nothing, but looked as if
some fearful discovery were dawning
upon him.

" You know me now ? " cried the
stranger. "I see it in your face."

" You're not him ! " exclaimed Potts
in a piercing voice.

•• I am Louis Brandon ! "

" I knew it ! I knew it ! " cried John,
in a voice that was almost a shriek.

*' Cigole played false. I'll make him
pay for this," gasped Potts.

" Cigole did not play false. He killed
me as well as he could. But away, both
of you. I cannot breathe while you are
here. I will allow you an hour to be
gone."

At the end of the hour, Brandon of
Brandon Hall was at last master in the
home of his ancestors.

this H^ll to-night, "

CHAPTER LIII

THE COTTAGE

When Despard h^d bound Clark he
returned to look after Langhetti. He lay
feeble and motionless upon the ground.
Despard carefully examined his wounds.
His injuries were very severe. His arms
were lacerated, and his shoulder torn ;
blood also was issuing from a wound on
the side of his neck. Despard bound
these up as best he could, and then sat
wondering what could be done next.

He judged that he might be four or
five miles from Denton, and saw that this
was the place to which he must go. Be-
sides. Beatrice was there, and she could
nurse Langhetti. But how could he get
there ? — that was the question. It was
impossible for Langhetti to go on horse-
back. He tried to form some plan by
which this might be done. He began to
make a sort of litter to be hung between
two horses, and had already cut down
with his knife two small trees, or rather
bushes, for this purpose, when the noise
of wheels on the road before him at-
tracted his attention.

It was a farmer's wagon, and it was
coming from the direction of Denton.
Despard stopped it, explained his situa-
tion, and offered to pay anything if the
farmer would turn back and convey his
friend and his prisoner to Denton. It
did not take long to strike a bargain ; the
farmer turned his horses, some soft shrubs
and ferns were strewn on the bottom of
the wagon, and on these Langhetti was
deposited carefully. Clark, who by this

time had come to himself, was put at one
end, where he sat grimly and sulkily ;
the three horses were led behind, and
Despard, riding on the wagon, supported
the head of Langhetti on his knees.

Slowly and carefully they went to the
village. Despard had no difficulty in
finding the cottage. It was where the
letter had described it. The village inn
stood near, on the opposite side of the
road.

It was about nine o'clock in the even-
ing when they reached the cottage.
Lights were burning in the windows.
Despard jumped out ha: tily and knocked.
A servant came. Desp ird asked for the
mistress, and Beatrice appeared. As she
recognized him her face lighted up with
joy. But Despard's face was sad and
gloomy. He pressed her hand in silence
and said :

" My dear adopted sister, I bring you
our beloved Langhetti."

*' Langhetti ! " t)he exclaimed fearfully.

" He has met with an accident. Is
there a doctor in the place ? Send your
servant at once."

Beatrice hurried in and returned with a
servant.

" We will first lift him out," said Des-
pard. " Is there a bed ready ? "

" Oh, yes ! Bring him in ! " cried
Beatrice, who was now in an agony of
suspense.

She hurried after them to the wagon.
They lifted Langhetti out and took him

384

THE WORM « .RN3

a85

self, was put at one
rimly and sulkily i
re led behind, and
le wagon, supported
i on his knees,
ly Ihey went to the
id no difficulty in
It was where the
it. The village inn
jpposite side of the

o'clock in the even-
;achr;d the cottage,
ig in the windows,
haj tily and knocked,
esp ird asked for the
:e appeared. As she
face lighted up wiili
face was sad and
her hand in silence

Id sister, I bring you

Iti."

exclaimed fearfully.
tth an accident. Is

place ? Send your

and returned with a

him out," said Des-
jbed ready?"
|vg him in!" cried
low in an agony of

I them to the wagon.
\i out and took him

into a room whi' . Beatrice showed
them. They tenderly laid him on the
bed. Meanwhile the servant had hur-
ried off for a doctor, who soon appeared.

Beatrice sat by his bedside ; she kissed
the brow of the almost unconscious
sufferer, and tried in every possible way
to alleviate his pain. The doctor soon
arrived, dressed his wounds, and left
directions for his care, which consisted
chiefly in constant watchfulness.

Leaving Langhetti under the charge of
Beatrice, Despard went in search of a
magistrate. He found one without any
difficulty, and before an hour Clark was
safe in jail. The ir.'ormation which Des-
pard lodged against him was corroborated
by the brands on his back, which showed
him to be a man of desperate character,
who had foirmerly been transported for
crime.

Despard next wrote a letter to Mrs.
Thornton. He told her about Langhetti,
and urged her to come on immediately
and bring Edith with her. Then he re-
tured to the cottage and wished to sit
up with Langhetti. Beatrice, however,
would not let him. She said that no one
should deprive her of the place by his
bedside. Despard remained, however,
and the two devoted equal attention to
the sufferer. Langhetti spoke only once.
He was so faint that his voice was scarce
audible. Beatrice put her ear close to his
mouth.

" What is it ? " asked Despard.

" He wants Edith," said Beatrice.

" I have written for her," said Des-
pard.

Beatrice whispered this to Langhetti.
An ecstatic smile passed over his face.

" It is well," he murmured.

CHAPTER LIV

THE V.' O R M TURNS

Potts departed from the Hall in deep
dejection. The tremendous power of his
enemy had been shown all along; and
now that this enemy turned out to be
Louis Brandon, he felt as though some
supernatural being had taken up arms
against him. Against that being a
struggle seemed as hopeless as it would
be against Fate. It was with some such
feeling as this that he left Brandon Hall
forever.

All of his errand projects had broken
down, suddenly and utterly. He had not
a ray of hope left of ever regaining the
position which he had but recently

occupied. He was thrust back to the
obscurity from which he had emerged.

One thing troubled him. Would the
power of his remorseless enemy be now
stayed — would his vengeance end here ?
He could scarce hope for this. He
judged that enemy by himself, and he
knew that he would not stop in the search
after vengeance, that nothing short of the
fullest and direct ruin — nothing, in fact,
short of death itself would satisfy him.

John was with him, and Vijal, who
alone out of all the servants had followed
his fortunes. These three walked down
and passed through the gates together.

aS6

CORD AND CREESE

and emerged into the outer world in si-
lence. But when they had left the gates
the silence ended.

" Well, dad ! " said John, " what are
you going to do now ? "

" I don't know."

" Have you any money ? "

" Four thousand pounds in the bank."

" Not much, dad," said John slowly,
" for a man who last month was worth
millions. You're coming out at the little
end of the horn."

Potts made no reply.

" At any rate there's one comfort,"
said John, " even about that."

" What comfort ? "

" Why, you went in at the little end."

They walked on in silence.

" You must do something," said John
at last.

"What can I do?"

" You won't let that fellow ride the
high horse in this style, will you ? "

" How can I help it ? "

" You can't help it ; but you can strike
a blow yourself."

"How?"

" How ? You've struck blows before
to some purpose, I think."

"But I never yet knew anyone with
such tremendous power as this man has.
And where did he get all his money ?
You said before that he was the devil, and
I believe it. Where's Clark? Do you
think he has succeeded ? "

" No," said John.

" No more do I. This man has every-
body in his pay. Look at the servants !
See how easily he did what he wished ! "

" You've got one servant left."

" Ah, yes— that's a fact."

"That servant will do something for
you."

" What do you mean ? "

" Brandon is a man, after all — and can

die" said John with deep emphasis.
" Vijal," he continued in a whisper,
" hates me, but he would lay down his
life for you."

" I understand," said Potts, after a
pause.

A long silence followed.

" You go on to the inn," said Potts at
last. " I'll talk with Vijal."

" Shall I risk the policemen ? "

" Yes, you run no risk. I'll sleep in the
bank."

" All right," said John, and he walked
away.

" Vijal," said Potts, dropping back so
as to wait for the Malay, " you are
faithful to me?"

" Yes," answered Vijal.

" All the others betrayed me, but you
did not ? "

" Never ! "

"Do you know when you first saw
me?"

" Yes."

" I saved your life."

" Yes."

" Your father was seized at Manilla
and killed for murder, but I protected
you, and promised to take care of you.
Haven't I done so?"

" Yes," said Vijal humbly, and in a
reverent tone.

" Haven't I been another father? "

"You have."

" Didn't I promise to tell you some
day who the man was that killed your
father ? "

" Yes," exclaimed Vijal fiercely.

"Well, I'm going to tell you."

" Who ? " cried Vijal, in excitement so
strong that he could scarce speak.

" Did you see that man who drove me
out of the Hall ? "

"Yes."

" Well, that was the man. He killed

ON THE ROAD

«87

laid Potts, after a

ohn, and he walked

vhen you first saw

your father. He has ruined me — your
other father. What do you say to
that .' ••

" He shall die," returned Vijal sol-
emnly. "He shall die."

" I am an old man," resumed Potts.
"HI were as strong as I used to be 1
would not talk about this to you. I
would do it all myself."

"I'll do it!" cried Vijal. "I'll do it!"

His eyes flashed, his nostrils dilated —
all the savage within him was aroused.
Potts saw this and rejoiced.

" Do you know how to use this ? " he
asked, showing Vijal the cord which
Brandon had given him.

Vijal's eyes dilated, a wilder fire shone
ill them. He seized the cord, turned it
round his hand for a moment, and then
liurled it at Potts. It passed round and
round his waist.

" Ah ! " said Potts, with deep gratifica-
tion. "You have not forgotten. You
can throw it skilfully."

Vijal nodded, and said nothing.

" Keep the cord. Follow up that man.
Avenge your father's death and my
ruin."

" I will," said Vijal sternly.

" It may take long. Follow him up.
Do not come back to me till you come to
tell me that he is dead."

Vijal nodded.

" Now I am going. I must fiy and
hide myself from this man. As long as
he lives I am in danger. But you will
always find John at the inn when you
wish to see me."

" I will lay down my life for you," said
Vijal.

" I don't want your life," returned
Potts. " I want his."

" You shall have it," exclaimed Vijal.

Potts said no more. He handed Vijal
his purse in silence. The latter took it
without a word. Potts then went toward
the bank, and Vijal stood alone in the
road.

seized at Manilla

er, but I protected

take care of you.

CHAPTER LV

ON THE ROAD

to tell you some
fas that killed your

Vijal fiercely.

to tell you."
jal, in excitement so
1 scarce speak.

man who drove me

man. He killed

On the following morning Brandon
started from the Hall at an early hour.
He was on horseback. He rode down
through the gates. Passing through the
village he went by the inn and took the
road to Denton.

He had not gone far before another
horseman followed him. The latter rode
at a rapid pace. Brandon did not pay
any especial attention to him, and at
length the latter overtook him. It was
when they were nearly abreast that

Brandon recognized the other. It was
Vijal.

" Good-morning," said Vijal.

" Good-morning," replied Brandon.

" Are you going to Denton ? "

" Yes."

" So am I," said Vijal.

Brandon was purposely courteous,
although it was not exactly the thing for
a gentleman to be thus addressed by
a servant. He saw that this servant had
overreached himself, and knew that he

s88

CORD AND CREESE

must have some motive for joining him
and addressing him in so familiar a
manner.

He suspected what might be Vijal's
aim, and therefore kept a close watch on
him. He saw that Vijal, while holding
the reins in his left hand, kept his right
hand concealed in his breast. A sus-
picion darted across his mind. He
stroked his mustache with his own right
hand, which he kept constantly upraised,
and talked cheerfully and patronizingly
with his companion. After a while he
fell back a littk and drew forth a knife,
which he concealed in his hand, and then
he rode forward as before abreast of the
other, assuming the appearance of per-
fect calm and indifference.

" Have you left Potts ? " said Brandon,
after a short time.

" No " replied Vijal.

" Ah ! Then you are on some busi-
ness of his now ? "

" Yes."

Brandon was silent.

" Would you like to know what it is ? "
asked Vijal.

" Not particularly," said Brandon
coldly.

" Shall I tell you ? "

" If you choose."

Vijal raised his hand suddenly and
gave a quick, short jerk, A cord flew
,M,rth — there was a weight at the end.
The cord was flung straight at Brandon's
neck.

Ma Brandon had been on his guard.
At the movement of Vijal's arm he had
raised his own ; the cord passed around
liiin, but his arm was within its embrace.
In his hand he held a knife concealed.
In an instant he slashed his knife through
the windings of the cord, severing them
all ; then dropping the knife he plunged
his hand into the pocket of his coat, and

before Vijal could recover from his sur-
prise he drew forth a revolver and pointed
it at him.

Vijal saw at once that he was lost. He
nevertheless plunged his spurs into his
horse and made a desperate effort to
escape. As his horse bounded off Bran-
don fired. The animal gave a wild neigli,
which sounded almost like a shriek, and
fell upon the road, throwing Vijal over
his head.

In an instant Brandon was up with
him. He leaped from his horse before
Vijal had disencumbered himself from
his, and seizing the Malay by the collar,
held the pistol at his head.

"If you move," he cried sternly, " I'll
blow your brains out ! "

Vijal lay motionless.

" -Scoundrel ! " exclaimed Brandon, as
he held him with the revolver pressed
against his head ; " who sent you to do
this?"

Vijal in sullen silence answered noth-
ing.

"Tell me or I'll kill you. Was it
Potts?"

Vijal made no reply.

" Speak out," cried Brandon. " Fool
that you are, I don't want your life. "

"You are the murderer of my father,"
said Vijal fiercely, " and therefore I
sought to kill you."

Brandon gave a low laugh.

"The murderer of your father?" he
repeated.

"Yes," cried Vijal wildly; "and 1
sought your death."

Brandon laughed again.

" Do you know how old I am ? "

Vijal looked up in amazement. He
saw by that one look what he had not
thought of before in his excitement, that
Brandon was a younger man than him-
self by several years. He was silent.

ON THE ROAD

289

ttce answered noth-

kill you. Was it

al wildly; "and 1

" How many years is it since your
father died?"

Vijal said nothing.

"Fool!" exclaimed Brandon. "It's
twenty years. You are false to your
fath. * You pretend to avenge his death,
and you seek out a young man who had
no connection with it. I was in Eng-
land when he was killed. I was a child
only seven years of age. Do you believe
now that I am his murderer ? "

Brandon, while speaking in this way,
had relaxed his hold, though he still held
his pistol pointed at the head of his pros-
trate enemy. Vijal gave a long, low
sigh.

" You were too young," he said at last.
" You are younger than I am. I was only
twelve."

" I could not have been his murderer,
then ? "

" No."

" Yet I know who his murderer was,
for I have found out."

"Who?"

" The same man who killed my own
father."

Vijal looked at Brandon with awful
eyes.

"Your father had a brother?" said
Brandon.

" Yes."

" Do you know his name ? "

"Yes. Zangorri."

" Right. Well, do you know what
Zangorri did to avenge his brother's
death ? "

" No ; what ? "

" For many years he vowed death to
all Englishmen, since it was an English-
man who had caused the death of his
brother. He had a ship ; he got a crew
and sailed through the Eastern seas,
capturing English ships and killing the
crews. This was his vengeance."

Vijal gave a groan.

"You see he has done more than you.
He knew better than you who it was
that had killed your father."

" Who was it ? " cried Vijal fiercely.

" I saw him twice," continued Bran-
don, without noticing the question of
the other. " I saw him twice, and twice
he told me the name of the man whose
death he sought. For year after year he
had sought after that man, but had not
found him. Hundreds of Englishmen
had fallen. He told me the name of the
man whom he sought, and charged me
to carry out his work of vengeance. I
promised to do so, for I had a work of
vengeance of my own to perform, and on
the same man, too."

" Who was he ? " repeated Vijal, with
increased excitement.

" When I saw him last he gave me
something which he said he had worn
around his neck for years. I took it, and
promised to wear it till the vengeance
which he sought should be accomplished.
I did so, for I too had a debt of ven-
geance stronger than his, and on the
same man."

"Who was he?" cried Vijal p^ain,
with restless impetuosity.

Brandon unbuttoned his vest and drew
forth a Malay creese, which was hung
around his neck and worn under his coat.

"Do you know what this is?" he
asked solemnly.

Vijal took it and looked at it earnestly.
His eyes dilated, his nostrils quivered.

" My father's ! " he cried in a tremulous
voice.

" Can you read English letters ? "

"Yes."

" Can you read the name that is cut
upon it ? "

And Brandon pointed to a place where
some letters were carved.

290

CORD AND CREESE

Vijal looked earnestly at it. He saw
these words :

JOHN POTTS.

" That," said Brandon, " is what your
father's brother gave to me."

" It's a lie ! " growled Vijal fiercely.

"It's true," said Brandon calmly,
" and it was carved there by your father's
own hand."

Vijal said nothing for a long time.
Brandon arose, and put his pistol in his
pocket. Vijal, disencumbering himself
from his horse, arose also.- The two
stood together on the road.

For hours they remained there talking.
At last Brandon remounted and rode on
to Denton. But Vijal went back to the
village of Brandon. He carried with
him the creese which Brandon had given
him.

o
o

CHAPTER LVI

FATHER AND SON

Vijal, on going back to Brandon vil-
lage, went first to the inn, where he saw
John. To the enquiries which were
eagerly addressed to him he answered
nothing, but simply said that he wished
to see Potts. John, finding him imprac-
ticable, cursed him and led the way to
the bank.

As Vijal entered Potts locked the
door carefully, and then anxiously ques-
tioned him. Vijal gave a plain account
of what had happened, but with some
important alterations and omissions. In
the first place, he said nothing what-
ever of the long interview which had
taken place and the startling infor-
mation which he had received. In the
second place, he assured Potts that
he must have attacked the wrong man.
For when this man had spared his life he
looked at him closely and found out that
he was not the one that he ought to have
attacked.

"You blasted fool," cried Potts.
" Haven't you got eyes ? D n you ;

I wish the fellow, whoever he is, had
seized you, or blown your brains out."

Vijal cast down his eyes humbly.

" I can try again," said he. " I have
made a mistake this time ; the next time
I will make sure."

There was something in the tone of
his voice so remorseless and so vengeful
that Potts felt reassured.

" You are a good lad," said he, " a
good lad. And you'll try again?"

"Yes," said Vijal, with flashing eyes.

" You'll make sure this time ? "

" I'll make sure this time. But I must
have someone with me," he continucfl.
" You need not trouble yourself. Send
John with me. He won't mistake. If he
is with me I'll make sure."

As the Malay said this a brighter and
more vivid flash shone from his eyes.
He gave a malevolent smile, and his
white teeth glistened balefully. Instantly
he checked the smile and cast down his
eyes.

" Ah I " said Potts. " That's very good.

FATHER AND SON

291

ling in the tone of

ess and so vengeful

red.

1 lad," said he. "a

I'll try again?"

with flashing eyes.

this time ? "
is time. But I must

me," he continued,
able yourself. Send
von't mistake. If he
sure."

this a brighter and
lone from his eyes.
(lent smile, and liis

balefully. Instantly
; and cast down his

" That's very good.

John shall go. Johnnie, you don't mind
going, do you ? "

" I'll go," said John languidly.

" You'll know the fellow, won't you ? "

" I rather think I should."

" But what will you do first ? "

' Go to Denton," said John.

" To Denton ? " '

" Yes."

" Why ? "

" Because Brandon is there."

" How can he be ? "

" Simply," said John, " because I know
the man that Vijal attacked must have
been Brandon. No other person answers
to the description. No other person
would be so quick to dodge the cord, and
so quick with the revolver. He has hum-
bugged Vijal somehow, and this fool of
a nigger has believed him. He was
Brandon, and no one else, and I'm going
on his track."

"Well, you're right perhaps," said
Potts ; " but take care of yourself,
Johnnie."

John gave a dry smile.

" I'll try to do so ; and I hope to take
care of others also," said he.

"God bless you, Johnnie," said Potts
affectionately, not knowing the blas-
phemy of invoking the blessing of God
on one who was setting out to commit
murder.

"You're spoony, dad," returned John,
and he left the bank with Vijal.

John went back to the inn first, and
after a few preparations started for Den-
ton. On the way he amused himself
with coarse jests at Vijal's stupidity in
allowing himself to be deceived by Bran-
don, taunted him with cowardice in yield-
ing so easily, and assured him that one
who was so great a coward could not

possibly succeed in any undertaking.
Toward evening they reached the inn

at Denton. John was anxious not to
show himself, so he went at once to the
inn, directing Vijal to keep a lookout
for Brandon and let him know if he saw
anyone who looked like him. These
directions were accompanied and inter-
mingled with numerous threats as to
what he would do if Vijal dared to fail
in any particular. The Malay listened
calmly, showing none of that impatience
and haughty resentment which he for-
merly used to manifest toward John, and
quietly promised to do what was ordered.

About ten o'clock John happened to
look out of the window. He saw a figure
standing where the light from the win-
dows flashed out, which at once attracted
his attention. It was the man whom he
sought — it was Brandon. Was he stop-
ping at the same inn ? If so, why had
not Vijal told him ? He at once sum-
moned Vijal, who came as calm as ever.
To John's impatient questions as to why
he had not told him about Brandon, he
answered that Brandon had only come
there half an hour previously, and that he
had been watching him ever since to see
what he was going to do.

" You must keep on watching him,
then; do you hear?"

" Yes."

" And if you let him slip this time, you
infernal nigger, you'll pay dear for it."

" I'll not make a mistake this time,"
was Vijal's answer. And as he spoke
his eyes gleamed, and again that baleful
smile passed over his face.

" That's the man," said John. " You
understand that ? That's the man you've
got to fix, do you hear ? Don't be a fool
this time. You must manage it to-night,
for I don't want to wait here forever. I
leave it to you. I only came to make
sure of the man. I'm tired, and I'm
going to bed soon. When I wake tg-

29a

CORD AND CREESE

o
o

morrow I expect to hear from you that
you have finished this business. If you

don't, d n you, I'll wring your infernal

nigger's neck."

"It will all be done by to-morrow,"
said Vijal calmly.

" Then clear out and leave me. I'm
going to bed. What you've got to do is
to watch that man."

Vijal retired.

The night passed. When the follow-
ing morning came John was not up
at the ordinary breakfast hour. Nine
o'clock came. Ten o'clock. Still he did
not appear.

" He's a lazy fellow," said the landlord,
"though he don't look like it. And
Where's his servant?"

" The servant went back to Brandon
at daybreak," was the answer.

Eleven o'clock came. Still there were
no sigiis of John. There was a balcony
in the inn which ran in front of the win-
dows of the room occupied by John.
After knocking at the door once or twice
the landlord tapped at the window and
tried to peep in to see if the occupant
was awake or not. One part of the blind
was drawn a little aside, and showed the
bed and the form of a man still lying
there.

*' He's an awful sleeper," said the land-
lord. " It's twelve o'clock, and he isn't
up yet. Well, it's his business, not
mine."

About half an hour after the noise of
wheels was heard, and a wagon drove
swiftly into the yard of the inn. An old
man jumped out, gave his horse to the
hostler, and entered the inn.

He was somewhat flushed and flurried.
His eyes twinkled brightly, and there WJis
a somewhat exuberant familiarity in his
address to the landlord.

" There was a party who stopped here

last night," said he, "that I wish to
see.

" There was only one person here last
night," answered the landlord ; " a young
man "

" A young man, yes — that's right ; I
want to see him."

" Well, as to that," said the landlord,
" I don't know but you'll have to wait.
He aint up yet."

" Isn't he up yet ? "

" No ; he's an awful sleeper. He went
to bed last night early, for his lights were
out before eleven, and now it's nearly one,
and he isn't up."

" At any rate, I must see him."

" Shall I wake him ? "

" Yes, and be quick, for I'm in a hurry."

The landlord went up to the door and
knocked loudly. There was no answer.
He knocked still more loudly. Still no
answer. He then kept up an incessant
rapping for about ten minutes. Still
there was no answer. He had tried the
door before, but it was locked on the
inside. He went around to the windows
that opened on the balcony ; these were
open.

He then went down and told the old
man that the door was fastened, but that
the windows were unfastened. If he
chose to go in there he might do so.

" I will do so," said the other, " for I
must see him. I have business of im-
portance." He went up.

The landlord and some of the servants,
whose curiosity was by this time excited,
followed after.

The old man opened the window, which
swung back on hinges, and entered.
There was a man in the bed.

He lay motionless. The old man
approached. He recognized the face.

A cold chill went to his heart. He
tore down the coverlet, which concealed

MRS. COMPTON S SECRET

293

"that I wish to

>res— that's right ; I

ust see him."

1?"

{, for I'm in a hurry."
t up to the door and
lere was no answer,
ore loudly. Still no
iept up an incessant
ten minutes. Still
r. He had tried the
was locked on the
)und to the windows
balcony ; these were

vn and told the okl
as fastened, but that
unfastened. If lie
e he might do so.
id the other, " for I
lave business of im-
t up.

some of the servants,
by this time excited,

the greater part of his face. The next
moment he fell forward upon the bed.

"Johnnie ! " he screamed — " Johnnie ! "

There was no answer. The face was
rigid and fixed. Around the neck wus
a faint, bluish line, a mark like what
might have been made by a cord.

" Johnnie, Johnnip ! " cried the old man
again, in piercing tones. He caught at
the hands of the figure before him ; he
tried to pull it forward.

There was no response. The old man
turned away and rushed to the window,
gasping, with white lips, and bloodshot
eyes, and a face of horror.

"He is dead!" he shrieked. "My
boy — my son — my Johnnie! Murderer!
You have killed him."

The landlord and the servants started
back in horror from the presence of this
father in his misery.

It was for but a moment that he stood
there. He went back and flung himself
upon the bed. Then he came forth again
and stood upon the balcony, motionless,
white-faced, speechless — his lips mutter-
ing inaudible words.

A crowd gathered round. The story
soon spread. This was the father of a
young man who had stopped at the inn
and died suddenly. The crowd that
gathered around the inn saw the father as
he stood on the balcony.

The dwellers in the cottage that was
almost opposite saw him, and Asgeelo
brought them the news.

CHAPTER LVII

MRS. COMPTON 'S SECRET

On the night after the arrival of John,
Brandon had left Denton. He did not
return till the following day. On arriving
at the inn he saw an unusual spectacle —
the old man on the balcony, the crowd
of villagers around, the universal excite-
ment.

On entering the inn he found someone
who for some time had been waiting to
see him. It was Philips. Philips had
come early in the morning, and had been
over to the cottage. He had learned all
about the affair at the inn, and narrated
it to Brandon, who listened with his usual
calmness. He then gave him a letter
from Frank, which Brandon read and put
in his pocket.

Then Philips told him the news which

he had learned at the cottage about
Langhetti. Langhetti and Despard were
both there yet, the former very danger-
ously ill, the latter waiting for some
friends. He also told about the affair on
the road, the seizure of Clark, and his
delivery into the hands of the authorities.

Brandon heard all this with the deepest
interest. While the excitement at the
inn was still at its height, he hurried off
to the magistrate into whose hands Clark
had been committed. After an interview
with him he returned. He found the
excitement unabated. He then went to
the cottage close by the inn, where Bea-
trice had found a home, and Langhetti a
refuge. Philips was with him.

On knocking at the door Asgeelo

294

CORD AND CREESE

o
o

-J
or

opened it. They entered the parlor, and
in H short time Mrs. Compton appeared.
Brandon's first enquiry was after
Langlietti.

" He is about the same," said Mrs.
Compton.

" Does the doctor hold out any hopes
of his recovery ? " asked Brandon
anxiously.

" Very little," said Mrs. Compton.

" Who nurses him ? "

" Miss Potts and Mr. Despard."

" Are they both here ? "

" Yes."

Brandon was silent.

" I will go and tell them that you are
here," said Mrs. Compton.

Brandon made no reply, and Mrs.
Compton, taking silence for assent,
went to announce his arrival.

In a short time they appeared. Bea-
trice entered first. She was grave, and
cold, and solemn ; Despard was gloomy
and atern. They both shook hands with
Brandon in silence. Beatrice gave her
hand without a word, lifelessly and
coldly ; Despard took Ms hand ab-
stractedly.

Brandon looked earnestly at Beatrice
as she stood there before him, calm, sad,
passionless, almost repellent in her
demeanor, and wondered what the
cause might be of such a change.

Mrs. Compton stood apart at a little
distance, near Philips, and looked on
with a strange expression, half wistful,
half timid.

There was a silence which at length
became embarrassing. From the room
where they were sitting the inn could
plainly be seen, with the crowd outside.
Beatrice's eyes were directed toward
this. Despard said not a word. At
another time he might have been
strongly interested in this man, who on

so many accounts was so closely con-
nected with him ; but now the power of
some dominant and all-engrossing i(k;L
possessed him, and he seemed to take
no notice of anything whatever either
without the house or within.

After looking in silence at the inn for
a long time Beatrice withdrew her gaze.
Brandon regarded her with a fixed and
earnest glance, as though he would read
her inmost soul. She looked at him,
and cast down her eyes.

" You abhor me ! " said he, in a loud,
thrilling voice.

She said nothing, but pointed toward
the inn.

" You know all about that ? "

Beatrice bowed her head silently.

" And you look upon me as guilty ? "

She gazed at him, but said nothing.
It was a cold, austere gaze, without one
touch of softness.

" After all," said she, " he was my
father. You had your vengeance to take,
and you have taken it. You may now
exult, but my heart bleeds."

Brandon started to his feet.

" As God lives," he cried, " I did not
do that thing ! "

Beatrice looked up mournfully and
enquiringly.

" If it had been his base life which
I sought," said Brandon vehemently,
" I might long ago have taken it. He
was surrounded on all sides by my
power. He could not escape. Officers
of the law stood ready to do my bidding.
Yet I allowed him to leave the Hall in
safety. I might have taken his heart's
blood. I might have handed him over to
the law. I did not."

" No," said Beatrice in icy tones, " you
did not ; you sought a deeper vengeance.
You cared not to take his life. It was
sweeter to you to take his son's life and

MRS. COMPTON'S secret

»95

vas so closely con-
it now the power of
all-engrossing idn
he seemed to take
ing whatever either
or within,
ilence at the inn for
: withdrew her gaze.
er with a fixed and
lough he would read
she looked at him,
• eyes.
" said he, in a loud,

, but pointed toward

)out that ? "
er head silently,
pon me as guilt v ? "
m, but said nothing.
re gaze, without one

1 she, "he was my

lur vengeance to take,

n it. You may now

rt bleeds."

to his feet.

he cried, " I did not

up mournfully and

his base life which

Brandon vehemently,

have taken it. He

on all sides by my

not escape. Officers

ady to do my bidding.

to leave the Hall in
lave taken his heart's
ive handed him over to
:."

trice in icy tones, " you

It a deeper vengeance.

take his life. It was

take his son's life and

give him agony. Death would have
been insufficient — anguish was what you
wished.

" It is not for me to blame you," she
continued, while Brandon looked at her
without a word. "Who am I — a pol-
luted one, of the accursed brood — who
am I, to stand between you and him, or
to blame you if you 'seek for vengeance?
I am nothing. You have done kindnesses
to me which I now wish were undone.
Oh, that I had died under the hand of the
pirates ! Oh, that the ocean had swept
nie down to death with all its waves !
Then I should not have lived to see this
day ! "•

Roused by her vehemence Despard
started from his abstraction and looked
around.

" It seems to me," said he, " as if you
were blaming someone for inflicting suf-
fering on a man for whom no suffering
can be too great. What! can you think
of your friend as he lies there in the next
room in his agony, dying, torn to pieces
by this man's agency, and have pity for
him ?"

" Oh ! " cried Beatrice, " is he not my
father?"

Mrs. Compton looked around with
staring eyes, and trembled from head
to foot. Her lips moved — she began to
speak, but the words died away on her
lips.

" Your father ! " said Despard. " His
acts have cut him off from a daughter's
sympathy."

"Yet he has a father's feelings, at
least for his dead son. Never shall I
forget his look of anguish as he stood
on the balcony. His face was turned
this way. He seemed to reproach me."

" Let me tell you," cried Despard
harshly, " he has not yet made atone-
ment for his crimes. This is but the

beginning. I, have a debt of vengeance
to extort from him. One scoundrel has
been handed over to the law, another
lies dead, another is in London in the
hands of Langhetti's friends, the Car-
bonari. The worst one yet remains,
and my father's voice cries to me day
and night from that dreadful ship."

"Your father's voice!" cried Beatrice.
She looked at Despa /d. Their eyes met.
Something passed between them in that
glance which brought back the old,
mysterious feeling which she had known
before. Despard rose hastily and left
the room.

" In God's name," cried Brandon, " I
say that this man's life was not sought
by me, nor the life of any of his. I will
tell you all. When he compassed the
death of Uracao, of whom you know, he
obtained possession of his son, then a
mere boy, and carried him away. He
kept this lad with him and brought him
up with the idea that he was his best
friend, and that he would one day show
him his father's murderer. After I made
myself known to him, he told Vijal that
I was this murderer. Vijal tried to as-
sassinate me. I foiled him, and could
have killed him. But I spared his life.
I then told him the truth. That is all
that I have done. Of course, I knew that
Vijal would seek for vengeance. That
was not my concern. Since Potts had
sent him to seek my life under a lie, I
sent him away with a knowledge of the
truth. I do not repent that I told him ;
nor is there any guilt chargeable to me.
The man that lies dead there is not my
victim. Yet if he were — O Beatrice !
if he were — what then ? Could that
atone for what I have suffered? My
father, ruined and broken-hearted and
dying in a poorhouse, calls to me always
for vengeance. My mother, suffering in

296

CORD AND CREESE

o
o

-J

( ;

the emigrant ship, and dying of the
plague annid horrors without a name,
calls to me. Above all, my sweet sister,
my pure Edith "

" Edith ! " interrupted Beatrice —
" Edith ! "

*' Yes ; do you not know that ? She
was buried alive ! "

" What ! " cried Beatrice ; " is it pos-
sible that you do not know that she is
alive ? "

" Alive ! "

" Yes, alive ; for when I was at Holby
I saw her."

Brandon stood speechless with surprise.

" Langhetti saved her," said Beatrice.
" His sister has charge of her now."

" Where, where is she ? " asked Bran-
don wildly.

" In a convent at London."

At this moment Despard entered.

" Is this true ? " asked Brandon, with a
deeper agitation than had ever yet been
seen in him — " wy sister, is it true that
she is not dead ? "

" It is true. I should have told you,"
said Despard, " but other thoughts drove
it from my mind, and I forgot that you
might be ignorant."

" How is it possible ? I was at Quebec
myself. I have sought over the world
after my relatives "

" I will tell you," said Despard.

He sat down and began to tell the
story of Edith's voyage and all that
Langhetti had done, down to the time of
his rescue of her from death. The recital
filled Brandon with such deep amazement
that he had not a word to say. He list-
ened like one stupefied.

" Thank God ! " he cried at last when
it was ended ; " thank God, I am spared
this last anguish ; I am freed from the
thought which for years has been most
intolerable. The memories that remain

are bitter enough, but they are not so
terrible as this. But I must see her. I
mu'-t find her. Where is she ? "

" Make yourself easy on that score,"
said Despard calmly. " She will be here
to-morrow or the day after. I have
written to Langhetti's sister; she will
come, and will bring your sister with
her."

" I should have told you so before,"
said Beatrice, "but my own troubles
drove everything else from my mind."

" Forgive me," said Brandon, " for
intruding now. I came in to learn about
Langhetti. You look upon me with
horror. I will withdraw."

Beatrice bowed her head, and tears
streamed from her eyes. Brandon took
her hand.

" Farewell," he murmured ; " farewell,
Beatrice You will not condemn nie
when I say that I am innocent ? "

"I am accursed," she murmured.

Despard looked at these two with
deep anxiety.

" Stay," said he to Brandon. " There
is something which must be explained.
There is a secret which Langhetti has
had for years, and which he has several
times been on the point of telling. I
have just spoken to him and told him
that you are here. He says he will tell
his secret now, whatever it is. He wishes
us all to come in — and you too, especially,"
said Despard, looking at Mrs. Compton.

The poor old creature began to tremble.

" Don't be afraid, old woman," said
Philips. " Take my arm, and I'll protect
you."

She rose, and, leaning on his arm, fol-
lowed the otheis into Langhetti's room.
He was fearfully emaciated. His ma*
terial frame, worn down by pain and
confinement, seemed about to dissolve
and let free that soaring soul of his, whose

MRS. COMPTON's secret

297

o Brandon. "There
must be explained.
which Langhetti has
which he has several
point of telling. I
Lo him and told him
He says he will tell
.tever it is. He wishes
id you too, especially,"
ng at Mrs. Compton.
iture began to tremble,
d, old woman," said
y arm, and I'll protect

aning on his arm, fol-
nto Langhetti's room.
emaciated. His ma*
down by pain and
ed about to dissolve
iring soul of his, whose

fiery impulses had for years chafed against
the prison bars of its mortal enclosure.
His eyes shone darkly and luminously
from their deep, hollow sockets, and upon
his thin, wan, white lips there was a faint
smile of welcome — faint like the smile of
the sick, yet sweet as the smile of an
angel.

It was with such a smile that he
greeted Brandon, and with both his thin
white hands pressed the strong and mus-
cular hand of the other.

"And you are Edith's brother," he
said. " Edith's brother," he repeated,
resting lovingly upon that name, Edith.
" She always said you were alive, and once
she told me she should live to see you.
Welcome, brother of my Edith ! I am a
dying man. Edith said her other brother
was alive — Frank. Where is Frank?
Will he not come to stand by the bedside
of his dying friend ? He did so once."

" He will come," said Jrandon in a
voice choked with emotion, as he pressed
the hand of the dying man. " He will
come, and at once."

" And you will all be here then— sweet
friends! It is well."

He paused.

" Bice I " said he at last.

Beatrice, who was sitting by his head,
bent down toward him.

" Bice," said Langhetti. " My pocket-
book is in my coat, and if you open the
inside pocket you will find something
wrapped in paper. Bring it to me."

Beatrice found the pocket-book and
opened it as directed. In the inside
pocket there was a thin, small parcel.
She opened it and drew forth a very
small baby's stocking.

" Look at the mark," said Langhetti.

Beatrice did so, and saw two letters
marked on it — B. D.

" This Wfis given ine by your nurse at

Hong Kong. ' She said your things were
all marked with those letters when you
were first brought to her. She did not
know what it meant. ' B ' meant Bea-
trice ; but what did ' D ' mean ? "

All around that bedside exchanged
glances of wonder. Mrs. Compton was
most agitated.

" Take me away," she murmured to
Philips. But Philips would not.

" Cheer up, old woman ! " said he.
" There's nothing to fear now. That
devil won't hui . you."

" Now, in my deep interest in you, and
in my affection, I tried to find out what
this meant. The nurse and I often
talked about it. She told me that your
father never cared particularly about you,
and that it was strange for your clothing
to be marked ' D ' if your name was
Potts. It was a thing which greatly
troubled her. I made many enquiries. I
found out about the Manilla murder case.
From that moment I suspected that ' D '
meant Despard."

" Oh, Heavens ! " sighed Beatrice, in an
agony of suspense. Brandon and Des-
pard stood motionless, waiting for some-
thing further.

" This is what I tried to solve. I made
enquiries everywhere. At last I gave it
up. But when circumstances threw 'Bea-
trice again in my way I tried again. I
have always been baffled. There is only
one who can tell — only one. She is here,
in this room ; and, in the name of Goi:,
I call upon her to speak out and tell the
truth."

" Who ? " cried Despard, while he and
Brandon both looked earnestly at Mrs.
Compton.

" Mrs. Compton ! " said Langhetti ;
and his voice seemed to die away from
exhaustion.

Mrs. Compton was seized with a panic

298

CORD AND CREESE

t,^

more overpoweiing than usual. She
gasped for breath.

" Oh, Lord ! " she cried. " Oh, Lord !
Spare me ! spare me ! He'll kill me ! "

Brandon walked up to her and took her
hand.

" Mrs. Compton," said he in a calm,
resolute voice, " your timidity has been
your curse. There is no need for tear
now — I will protect you. The man whom
you have feared so many years is now
ruined, helpless, and miserable. ! could
destroy him at this moment if I chose.
You are foolish if you fear him. Your
son is with you. His arm supports you,
and I stand here ready to protect both
you and your son. Speak out, and tell
what you know. Your husband is still
living. He longs for your return. You
and your son are free from your enemies.
Trust in me, and you shall both go
back to him and live in peace."

Tears fell from Mrs. Compton's eyes.
She seized Brandon's hand and pressed
it to her thin lips.

" You will protect me ? " said she.

"Yes."

" You will save me from him ? " she
persisted, in a voice of agony.

"Yes, and from all others like him.
Do not fear. Speak out."

Mrs. Compton clung to the arm of her
son ; she drew a long breath ; she looked
up into his face as though to gain cour-
age, and then began.

It was a long story. She had been at-
tendant and nurse to the wife of Colonel
Despard, who had died in giving birth to
a child. Potts had brought news of her
death, but had said nothing whatever
about the child. Colonel Despard knew
nothing of it. Being at a distance at the
time on duty, he had heard but the one
fact of his wife's death, and all other
things were forgotten. He had not even

made enquiries as to whether the child
which he had expected was alive or dead,
but had at once given way to the grief of
the bereavement and had hurried off.

In his designs on Colonel DespnnI,
Potts feared that the knowledge of the
existence of a child might keep him in
India and distract his mind from its sot-
row. Therefore he was the more anxious
not only to keep this secret, but also to
prevent it from ever being known to Colo-
nel Despard. With this idea he hurried
the preparation of the ^t's/intt to such an
extent that it was ready for sea almost
immediately, and left with Colonel Des-
pard on that ill-fated voyaf 2.

Mrs. Compton had been left in India
with the child. Her son joined her, in
company with John, who, though only
a boy, had the vices of a grown man,
Months passed before Potts came back.
He then took her along with the child to
China, and left the latter with a respect-
able woman at Hong Kong, who was
the widow of a British naval officer. Tlie
child was Beatrice Despard.

Potts always feared that Mrs. Comp-
ton might divulge his secret, and there-
fore always kept her with him. Timid
by nature to an unusual degree, the
wretched woman was in constant fear
for her life, and as years passed on this
fear was not lessened. The sufferings
which she felt from this terror were
atoned for, however, by the constant
presence cf her son, who remaineJ in
connection with Potts, influenced chiefly
by the ascendency which this villain had
over a man of his weak and timid nature.
Potts had brought them to England, and
they had lived in different places, until at
last Brandon Hall had fallen into his
hands. Of the former occupants of
Brandon Hall, Mrs. Compton knew
almost nothing. Very little had ever

MRS. rOMPTON S SECRET

299

to whether the child
;ed was alive or dead,
:n way to the grief of
1 had hurried off.
in Colonel Despnrd,
e knowledge of tlie

might keep him in
is mind from its sur-
was the more anxious
is secret, but also to
being known to Colo-

this idea he hurried
lie l/is/inu to such an
ready for sea almost
ft with Colonel Des-
d voyaf 2.

id been left in India
er son joined her, \\\
n, who, though only
es of a grown man.
)re Potts came back.
ong with the child to
latter with a respect-
ong Kong, who was
sh naval officer. Tlie
Despard.

red that Mrs. Conip-
his secret, and there-
ler with him. Timid

unusual degree, the
Aras in constant fear
years passed on tliis
ned. The sufferings
om this terror were
er, by the constant
3n, who remained in
>tts, influenced chiefly
which this villain had
/eak and timid nature,
them to England, and
fferent places, until at
[ had fallen into his
jrmer occupants of
Irs. Compton knew
Very little had ever

been said about them to her. She knew
scarcely anything about them, except
that their name was Brandon, and that
they had suffered misfortunes.

Finally, this Beatrice was Beatrice
Despard, the daughter of Colonel Des-
pard and the sister of the clergyman then
present. She herself, instead of being
the daughter of Potts, had been one of
his victims, and had suffered not the least
at his hands.

This astounding revelation was checked
by frequent interruptions. The actual
story of her true parentage overwhelmed
Beatrice. This was the awful thought
which had occurred to herself frequently
before. This was what had moved her
so deeply in reading the manuscript of
her father on that African isle. This also
was the thing which had always made
her hate with such intensity the mis-
creant who pretended to be her father.

Now she was overwhelmed. She threw
herself into the arms of her brother and
wept upon his breast. Courtenay Despard
for a moment rose above the gloom that
oppressed him and pressed to his heart
this sister so strangely discovered. Bran-
don stood apart, looking on, shaken to
the soul and unnerved by the deep joy
of that unparalleled discovery. Amid all
the speculations in which he had in-
dulged the very possibility of this had
never suggested itself. He had believed
most implicitlv all along that Beatrice
was in reality the daughter of his mortal
enemy. Now the discovery of the truth
came upon him with overwhelming force.

She raised herself from her brother's
embrace, and turned and looked upon the
man whom she adored— the one who, as
she said, had over and over again saved
her life ; the one whose life she, too, in
her turn had saved, with whom she had
passed so many adventurous and momen-

tous days— days of alternating peace and
storm, of varying hope and despair. To
him she owed everything; to him she
owed even the rapture of this moment.

As their eyes met they revealed all
their inmost thoughts. There was now
no barrier between them. Vanished
was the insuperable obstacle, vanished
the impassable gulf. They stood side
by side. The enemy of this man — his
foe, his victim — was also hers. What-
ever he might suffer, whatever anguish
might have been on the face of that old
man who had looked at her from the
balcony, she had clearly no part nor lot
now in that suffering or that anguish.
He was the murderer of her father. She
was not the daughter of this man. She
was of no vulgar or sordid race. Her
blood was no longer polluted or accursed.
She was of pure and noble lineage. She
was a Despard.

*' Beatrice," said Brandon, with a deep,
fervid emotion in his voice ; " Beatrice, I
am yours, and you are mine. Beatrice.
it was a lie that kept us apart. My life
is yours, and yours is mine."

He thought of nothing but her. He
spoke with burning impetuosity. His
wore . sank into her soul. His eyes de-
voured hers in the passion of their glance.

" Beatrice — my Beatrice ! " he said.
" Beatrice Despard "

He spoke low, bending his head to hers.
Her head sank toward his breast.

" Beatrice, do you now reproach me? "
he murmured.

She held out her hand, while tears
stood in her eyes. Brandon seized it and
covered it with kisses. Despard saw this.
In the midst of the anguish of his face a
smile shone forth, like sunshine out of a
clouded sky. He lookea at these two
for a moment.
1 Langhetti's eyes were closed. Mrs.

300

COKD AND CREESE

Compton and her son were talking apart.
Despard looked upon the lovers.

" Let them love," he murmured to
himself; "let them love and be happy.
Heaven has its favorites. I do not envy
them ; I bless them, though I love with-

out hope. Heaven has ks favorites, but
I am an outcast from that favor."

A shudder passed through him. Ik-
drew hin)sclf up.

" Since love is denied me," he thought,
" I can at least have vengeance."

CHAPTER LVHI

o
o

-4
QC
Ul
K

THE MALAY'S VENGEANCE

Some hours afterward Despard called
Brandon outside the cottage, and walked
along the bank which overhung the beach.
Arriving at a point several hundred yards
distant from the cottage he stopped.
Brandon noticed a deeper gloom upon
his face and a sterner purpose on his
resolute mouth.

*' I have called you aside," said Des-
pard, "to say that I am going on a
journey. I may be back immediately.
If I do not return, will you say to anyone
who may ask " — and here he paused for
a moment — " say to anyone who may
ask, that I have gone away on important
business, and that the time of my coming
is uncertain."

" I suppose you can be heard of at
H 'by, in case of need."

' I am never going back again to
Holby."

Brandon looked surprised.

" To one like you," said Despard, " I
do not object to tell my purpose. You
know what it is to seek for vengeance.
The only feeling that I have is that.
Love, tenderness, affection, all are idle
words with me.

" There are three who pre-eminently
were concerned in my father's death,"

continued Despard. " One was CIgole.
The Carbonari have him. Langhetti
tells me that he must die, unless he him-
self interposes to save him. And I think
Langhetti will never so interpose. Lan-
ghetti is dying — another stimulus to ven-
geance.

" The one who has been the cause of
this is Clark, another one of my father's
murderers. He is in the hands of the law.
His punishment is certain.

•' There yet remains the third, and the
worst. Your vengeance is satisfied on
him. Mine is not. Not even the sight
of that miscreant in the attitude cf a be-
reaved father could for one moment move
me to pity. I took note of the agony of
his face. I watched his grief with joy.
I am going to complete that joy. He
must die, and no mortal can save him
from my hands."

The deep, stern tones of Despard were
like the knell of doom, and there was
in them such determinate vindictiveness
that Brandon saw all remonstrance to
be useless.

He marked the pale, sad face of this
man. He saw in it the traces of sorrow
of longer standing than any which he
might have felt about the manuscript that

THE MALAY S VENGEANCE

301

he had read. It was the face of a man
who had suffered so much that hfe had
become a burden.

" You are a clergyman," said Rrandon
at length, with a faint hope that an ap-
peal to his profession might have some
effect.

Despard smiled cynically.

" I am a man," said he.

** Cannot the discovery of a sister,"
asked Brandon, " atone in some degree
for your grief about your father? "

Despard shook his head wearily.

" No," said he ; " I must do something,
and only one purpose is before me now.
I see your motive. You wish to stop
short of taking that devil's life. It is use-
less to remonstrate. My mind is made
up. Perhaps I may come back unsuc-
cessful. If so — 1 must be resigned, I sup-
pose. At any rate you know my pur-
pose, and can let those who ask after
me know, in a general way, what I have
said,"

With a slight bow Despard walked
away, leaving Brandon standing there
tilled with thoughts which were half
mournful, half remorseful.

On leaving Brandon Despard went at
once to the inn. The crowd without had
dwindled away to half a dozen people,
who were still talking about the one
event of the day. Making his way
through these he entered the inn.

The landlord stood there with a
puzzled face, discussing with several
friends the case of the day. More par-
ticularly he was troubled by the sudden
departure of the old man, who about an
hour previously had started off in a great
hurry, leaving no directions whatever as
to what was to be done with the body

upstairs. It was this which now per-
plexed the landlord.

Despard listened attentively to the
conversation. The landlord mentioned
that Potts had taken the road to Bran-
don. The servant who had been with
the young man had not been seen. If
the old man did not return, what was to
be done?

This was enough for Despard, who
had his horse saddled without delay and
started also on the Brandon road. He
rode on swiftly for some time, hoping to
overtake the man whom he pursued. He
rode, however, several miles without com-
ing in sight of him or of anyone like
him. At last he reached that hollow
which had been the scene of his en-
counter with Clark. As he descended
into it he saw a group of men by the
roadside surrounding some object. In
the middle of the road was a farmer's
wagon, and a horse was standing in the
distance.

Despard rode up and saw the pros-
trate figure of a man. He dismounted.
The farmers stood aside and disclosed
the face.

It was Potts.

Despard stooped down. It was already
dusk ; but even in that dim light he saw
the coils of a thin cord wound tightly
around the neck of this victim, from one
end of which a leaden bullet hung down.

By that light also he saw the hilt of
a weapon which had been plunged into
his heart, from which the blood had
flowed in torrents.

It was a Malay creese. Upon the
handle was carven a name :

JOHN POTTS.

CHAPTER LIX

o
o

—J

u..
o

Aevre TeTiEvralov aonaa/iov Sufiev

The excitement which had prevailed
through the village of Denton was in-
tensified by the arrival there of the body
of the old man. For his mysterious
death no one could account except one
person.

That one was Brandon, whom Des-
pard surprised by his speedy return, and
to whom he narrated the circumstances
of the discovery. Brandon knew who it
was whc could wield that cord, what arm
it was that had held that weapon, and
what heart it was that was animated by
sufficient vengeance to strike these blows.

Despard, finding his purpose thus un-
expectedly taken away, remained in the
village and waited. There was one
whom he wished to see again. On the
following day Frank Brandon arrived
from London. He met Langhetti with
deep emotion, and learned from his
brother the astonishing story of Edith.

On the following day that long-lost
sister herself appeared in company with
Mrs. Thornton. Her form, always
fragile, now appeared frailer than ever,
her face had a deeper pallor, her eyes an
intenser lustre, her expression was more
unearthly. The joy which the brothers
felt at finding their sister was subdued by
an involuntary awe which was inspired
by her presence. She seemed to them, as
she had seemed to others, like one who
had arisen from the dead.

At the sight of ht r Langhetti's face
grew radiant — all pain seemed to leave

him. She bent over him, and their wan
lips met in the only kiss which they had
ever exchanged, \\ th all that deep love
which they had felt for one another.
She sat by his bedside. She seemed to
appropriate him to herself. The others
acknowledged this quiet claim and gave
way to it.

As she kissed Langhetti's lips he mur-
mured faintly :

" I knew you would come."

"Yes," said Edith. "We will go
together."

" Yes, sweetest and dearest," said Lan-
ghetti. " And therefore we meet now
never to part again."

She looked at him fondly.

" The time of our deliverance is near,
oh, my friend."

" Near," repeated Langhetti, with a
smile of ecstasy — " near ! Yes, you have
already by your presence brought nie
nearer to my immortality."

Mrs. Thornton was pale and wan ; and
the shock which she felt at the sight of
her brother at first overcame her.

Despard said nothing to her through
the day, but as evening came on he went
up to her and in a low voice said, " Let
us take a walk."

Mrs. Thornton looked at him earnestly,
and then put on her bonnet. It was
quite dark as thf.y left the house. They
walked along the road. The sea was on
their left.

" This is the last that we shall see of

30a

CORD AND CREESE

303

ghetti's lips he mur-

that we shall see of

one another, Little Playmate," said Des-
pard, after a long silence. " I have left
Holby forever."

" Left Holby ! Where are you going ? "
asked Mrs. Thornton anxiously.

*' To join the army."

" The army ! "

" Little Playmate," said Despard, " even
my discovery of my father's death has not
changed me. Even my thirst for ven-
geance could not take the place of my
love. Listen — I flung myself with all the
ardor that I could command into the pur-
suit of my father's murderers. I forced
myself to an unnatural pitch of pitiless-
ness and vindictiveness. I set out to
pursue one of the worst of these men
with the full determination to kill him.
God saved me from blood-guiltiness. I
found the man dead in the road. After
this all my passion for vengeance died
out, and I was brought face to face with
the old love and the old despair. But
each of us would die rather than do wrong,
or go on in a wrong course. The only
thing left for us is to separate for-
ever."

" Yes, forever," murmured Mrs. Thorn-
ton.

" Ah, Little Playmate," he continued,
taking her hand, " you are the one who
was not only my sweet companion, but
the bright ideal of my youth. You
always stood transfierured in my eyes.
You, Teresa, were in my mind something
perfect — a bright, brilliant being unlike
any other. Whether you were really
what I believed you mattered not so far
as the effect upon me was concerned.
You were at once a real and an ideal
being. I believed in you, and believe in
you yet.

" I was not a lover ; I was a devotee.
My feelings toward you are such as
Dante describes his feelings toward his

Beatrice. My love is tender and rever-
ential. I exalt you to a plane above my
own. What I say may sound extravagant
to you, but it is actual fact with me.
Why it should be so I cannot tell. I can
only say — I am so made.

" We part, and I leave you ; but I
shall be like Dante, I suppose, and as the
years pass, instead of weakening my love,
they will only refine it and purify it. You
will be to me a guardian angel, a patron
saint — your name shall always mingle
with my prayers. Is it impious to name
your name in prayer ? I turn aw?.y from
you because I would rather suffer than
do wrong. May I not pray for my
darling ? "

" I don't know what to do," said Mrs.
Thornton wearily. " Your power over
me is fearful. Lama, I would do any-
thing for your sake. You talk about
your memories ; it is not for me to speak
about mine. Whether you idealize me
or not, after all, you must know what I
really am."

" Would you be glad never to see me
again ? "

The hand which Despard held trembled.

" If you would b« happier," said she.

" Would you be ^.lad if I could conquer
this love of mine, and meet you again as
coolly as a common friend ? "

" I want you to be happy. Lama," she
replied. " I would suffer myself to make
you happy."

She was weeping. Despard folded her
in his arms.

" This once," said he, " the only time,
Little Playmate, in this life."

She wept upon his breast.

"TeTievralov aan.afiov dufiev" said Des-
pard, murmuring in a low voice the open-
ing of the song of the dead, so well
known, so often sung, so fondly remem-
bered — the song which bids farewell to

304

CORD AND CHEESE

the cjead w|ien the frifsnds bestow the
"last }(iss."

He beqt dowi> his head. Her tiead fell.
His lips toifched her forehead.

She felt the beating of his heart ; sh^
felt his frame tremblp from head to foot ;

she heard his deep-drawn breathing, every
breath a sigh.

" It is our last farewell," said he in a
voice of agony.

Then he tore himself away, and a few
minutes later was riding from the village.

CHAPTER LX

CONCLUSION

A MONTH passed. Despard gave no
sign. A short note which he wrote to
Brandon announced his arrival at Lon-
don, and informed him that important
affairs required his departure abroad.

The cottage was but a small place,
and Brandon determined to have Lan-
ghetti conveyed to the Hall. An ambu-
lance was obtained from Exeter, and on
this Langhetti and Edith were taken
away.

On arriving at Brandon Hall Bea-
trice found her diary in its place of con-
cealment, the memorial of old sorrows
which could never be forgotten. But
those old sorrows were passing away
now, in the presence of her new joy.

And yet that joy was darkened by the
cloud of a new sorrow. Langhetti was
dying. His frail form became more and
more atter.i.ated every day, his eyes more
lustrous, h;s face more spiritual. Down
every step of that way which led to the
grave Edith went with him, seeming in
her own face and form to promise a speed-
ier advent in that spirit-world where she
longed to arrive. Beside these Beatrice
watched, and Mrs. Thornton added her
tender care.

Day by day Langhetti grew worse.

At last one day he called for his violin.
He had caused it to be sent for on a
previous occasion, but had never used it.
His love for music was satisfied by the
songs of Beatrice. Now he wished to
exert his own skill with the last remnants
of his strength.

Langhetti was propped up by pillows,
so that he might hold the instrument.
Near him Edith reclined on a sofa.
Her large lustrous eyes were fixed on
him. Her breathing, which came and
went rapidly, showed her utter weakness
and prostration.

Langhetti drew his bow across the
strings.

It was a strange, sweet sound, weak,
but sweet beyond all words — a long,
faint, lingering tone, which rose and died
apd rose again, bearing aw^y the souls
of those who heard it into a realm of
enchantment and delight.

That tone gave strength to Langhetti.
It was as though some unseen power
had been invoked and had come to his
aid. The tones came forth more
strongly, on firmer pinions, flying from
the strings and towering through the air.

The strength of these tones seemed to
emanate from some unseen power ; su

^.-

CONCLUSION

30s

i bow across the

also did their meaning. It was a mean-
ing beyond what might be intelligible to
those who listened — a meaning beyond
mortal thought.

Yet Langhetti understood it, and so did
Edith. Her eyes grew brighter, a flush
started to her wan cheeks, her breathing
grew more rapid.

The music went on. More subtile,
more penetrating, more thrilling in its
mysterious meaning, it rose and swelled
through the air, like the song of some
unseen ones, who were waiting for new-
comers to the Invisible Land.

Suddenly Beatrice gave a piercing cry.
She rushed to Edith's sofa. Edith 'ay
back, her marble face motionless, her
white lips apart, her eyes looking upward.
But the lips breathed no more, and in the
eyes there no longer beamed the light of
life.

At the cry of Beatrice the violin fell
from Langhetti's hand, and he sank back.
His face was turned toward Edith. He
saw her and knew it all.

He said not a word, but lay with his
face turned toward her. They wished to
carry her away, but he gently reproved
them.

" Wait ! " he murmured. " In a short
time you will carry away another also.
Wait ! "

They waited.

An hour before midnight all was over.
They had passed, those pure spirits,
from a world which was uncongenial to
a fairer world and a purer clime.

They were buried side by side in the
Brandon vaults. Frank then returned to
London. Mrs. Thornton went back to
Holby. The new rector was surprised
at the request of the lady of Thornton
Grange to be allowed to become organist
in Trinity Church. She offered to pen-
sion off the old man who now presided
there. Her request was gladly acceded
to. Her zeal was remarkable. Every day
she visited the church to practise at the
organ. This became the purpose of her
life. Yet of all the pieces two were per-
formed most frequently in her daily prac-
tice, the one being the Agnus Dei, the
other the reXevralov aanaafiov of St. John
Damascene. Peace! Peace! Peace!

Was that cry of hers unavailing ? Of
Despard nothing was known for some
time. Mr. Thornton once mentioned to
his wife that the Rev. Courtenay Despard
had joined the Eleventh Regiment, and
had gone to South Africa. He mentioned
this because he had seen a paragraph
stating that a Captain Despard had been
killed in the Kaffir war, and wondered
whether it could by any possibility be
their old friend or not.

At Brandon Hall, the one who had
been so long a prisoner and a slave soon
became mistress.

The gloom which had rested over the
house was dispelled, and Brandon and
his wife were soon able to look back, even
to the darkest period of their lives, with-
out fear of marring their perfect happi-
ness.

THE END.