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Lorsque Ie document est trop grand pour Atre reprodult en un seul cliche, il est fiimi d partir de i'angla supArieur gauche, de gauche A droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant Ie nombre d'imeges nAcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mtthode. 1 2 3 32X 1 2 3 4 5 6 cc / / CORD AND CREESE / H Vlovel BY JAMES'^^DE MILLE^ ADTHOR OP "THB DODOB club" "cRTPTOGRAM" "a castle in SPAIN" KIO. fl/< p= 127682 J I i 11 \ Lli 2 5 NEW YORK HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS P^PE«TY OF THE LIBRARJ^ L/r^rHtRSITY OF WATtJ^LOQ BRS Copyright, 1869, by Harper & Broth Copyright, 1897, by Mrs. Annik Db Millb ■ CHAF • 1 ' . THE 1 SE 1 " . A LI III, . A M IV, . SINK V. , THE VI, . THE SIl VII. MAN VIII, , THE IX. THE X. 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. L. 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 & CO 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 ID J •• 2: 1^ r < i >• 5) > t 2 iU 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 il 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. 1 pi 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 t :3 liii I: 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 I J I b: > h 5 iU > t lill lO CORD AND CREESE i 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. II 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. I 0* J UJ LL t I UJ 2 z 'I 13 CORD AND CREESE 'liiii! !i| il! 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 J t uJ < \ I liJ 2 t M 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 ! m 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 ! IS 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 > J I h < LL >• f- S > z id 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 ! '7 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 00 3 i >- t liJ > o i8 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 ! t 19 )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 I I I 111 Z z 90 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 ai 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 > CQ t 5 m I ijj > 2 lilt 33 CORD AND CREESE m 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 23 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 • h a: Lii > z :5 ;!-! ' I '' 36 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 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 CQ O o o > cc 38 CORD AND CREESE I '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 ^ 1% 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 , i< 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 I LL O > CO £C > 30 CORD AND CREESE lii '^ ] ;t 1 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 31 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/" QQ O o f O iC 3 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 32 it-' ~! THE DWF,I,t,ER IN THK SUNKEN SHU' 33 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 34 CORD AND CREESE fl I* 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 35 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 o *Z!ll 36 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 37 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 CQ O O r iXl < LL, O ■MHMMMr CO cc viSa J- l( Il •' I i I! ^:li:'i ' !i;:i: 38 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 39 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 03 O o cc €.C 40 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 ;s 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 41 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 J 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. CQ O o cc 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, | S MANUSCRIPT FOUND IN A BOTTLE 43 ! 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 cc 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 44 THE SIGNAL OF FIRE 45 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, 03 CD O cx: o CO I'.C 46 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 47 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 CD o a: LJLI o E: CO a: LjUI CORD AND CREESE 48 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 49 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 o f cc f" CD CO 50 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 'M , i , . I ; I . I ( I THE SIGNAL OF FIRE SI 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 O rr:! 'K „.>- CO €C l.U •"•■'■"•in \.y 5a 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- CD 'V, ■^ -O- %"'. --.III S3 54 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 55 " 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. CX3 CC LlJ I-- LU. ;::>-. • ■M-mVMnW CO ex: i.U "si! 5^ 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 57 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, * i » ■^^ 4.. CD il — - CO 58 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 59 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 ^-» -:»"» CO ■■■■^*mm 6o 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 6l 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 >-» CD CD CO c.c 62 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 " 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 h 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. ^S-MM '::.:» 66 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 67 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 •MMHMltt uz 'V. .;:.'.in .'..".as" 68 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 69 " 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 r l«tK«l-4 Mil L.1.J J....... -^ .«-*•' ;;juMn )• 'CO' ■i .1 J 70 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 71 "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> Li,, CD If— ~.,». CO l .U 72 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 73 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 03 CD 74 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 75 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. 76 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 77 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 f" ill"" CO €.£: t.u ""- »,^ 78 CORD AND CREESE 1 i 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," 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 83 . l;it<: ;;:y 1 I '.c ic t ■ :o al 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-. 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 .1 3 84 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 8S 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 ■ *••••* 86 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- fore. His left arm was around her waist, LJuJ 1...... pi^iinwW' LJ,. C'.C IMAGE EVALU^.TION TEST TARGET (MT-3) V A 4j 1.0 I.I 1.25 U^|28 |2.5 im = IIIIM 6" <^ VI V2 o '/ Photographic Sciences Corporation 33 WIST MAIN STRKT WIBSTM.N.Y. MSM (716) •72-4503 V''> ■<^ ) A^^^^. 1 1 5 '"'■■- \ ^^ <\ 88 CORD AND CREESE 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 89 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." as ''<;'C fj:"*" in ■ K. ««. L.I,-,. 'C :i> '.mini linn- i.nMil K.ry •■|'-*T «« ii.ra '•mtm —...,-.,-3' I i 90 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.-., 9* 99 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 93 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 c/.c t. jtj 411., '•■3ii'ii»»ffm 94 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 95 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 I ' ■ Jl r->:»» 96 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 97 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 ^i^--» €XZ LJIJ ^^^m '■ ■■'•'■ H«I»J *'. -unmrn- . "Ji 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 99 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 "•' ill' *"•• fi 'LJ '* 1 •■>,■ «ki Z3m i > 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 ,7 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. I 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 \ -> . •n, >' \v ■'•1 «'», »:.,« — $ I02 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 il 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- i i ;i CO f, '"^'fc r •■-"••'■ I — '- ^:?^ ' *■»>... „„.-»—<» """*'"■>«•,•• •■I '■"■'►» «.«!» 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» ■i;.-« :r.sui» |. io6 CORD AND CREESE if 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 Y M 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." ;aci ■^'t..... 5... X^.l '•'-'■ mmlKk ■' ■ ''■■'•■""''tai ■"•""•—'^ti 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 t::i:i J t iiic;.i:;:' "!>..'! J V I ••insH.i.iiSW lie 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«i ill •'"'••«> '"£'?:> tesr-^ir 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." ■I •|l»>>»tli>lM>«t» <.!.". ■..,..,.1 c :::•>. """' f t,l!' 1 - , t«t ,.. ^' "•''i inutur^ ' "''11 ,, Still' Mt) M >l>H|i> hlWII-IHII (l.'lwt' ... ill.!.MH Ii!, !« J „ ..„n,...3J«« -I ■»'»IMI -■ ::;,::'»»* '-•''"■HtdHimii 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 might s country ; margin c promont( side of V a lighthc promontc two the V 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- ind dirt as those ght. all there most ini- e to the icredible ; nade. /bole dis- '•in in one I, brought ave one's die in the ible than :ate of his d directly nobody .id that the the time old man- civilization lan arches er pointed doorway se Grecian the wing ays of that k bis ship 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." *•«• C ""•">. •:«:"■' "> '•"•MiW--'* t ,(]' In'*"" ■■!..,-.,...*,..„ 1 1..,.'!. I — ■ii«L:-;"rr" '»»«:.;:■ ' *,m 1 .KI.llBt rWM -^ iiH;"- "■"-», ■""nil. 4(»ii|#r J ,HI'"*" , [jj' ■>irwt«*((> 1 1 '""I own I :';;;J! J ;;;,;;:::^::'S'* '""^wtmwij ■■tTMBpinr. . i*l 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 ■ ■ ■ ■ • *«• ,,j;ltN.K,. .BMW »l'- Willi 'f'-'.ll'""'! ' ""•"'i"t»r.l* ".lt"M Z't ,^ .. ■•j" 'j'*"*"' ij ""i-.^, .11 .» ''«it H il m ■"•"'"'"•jr .i:::,c::: I;;.J1 J ' '■•»■!■ ««. ft -.► * Jt,, ■ft ' ''■Hill.. il„|, J> .f,r ..,'t.„J 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 ■■-"-•...ml. ■*"«~«.»»I ........... .I.,! il XJ: \ . 1 **■ , .... ■■"'«. I'-J ™..««'' ,li! J*'»M«I ■■ ^.,„r ,.'l J it.t..-""''*'^ •MW* ■■"ruditMir 128 CORD AND CREESE :^ ::: 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," ,,;„'3iil-..w» !• iUl. '> ••' ,.,'i..„j lull. ufimiUn l"ilH«t ii,::;:"*!"* iwhuiwh "••"■••iutt!, , 130 CORD AND CREESE i : « 'I! ill «, .1. 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- "■ 'wbmM I "••'"■"W-M*!!* i.....:f •"^"lUfc. , -I" 1 1|»MM||#' " «""■•"' ■■■■ "»>.ln«J» ,„!!:"';*»» ■ 'iwalil^WWf ■. 132 CORD AND CREESE All ill I iM ill 4 (HI Hi"" •i Mil' I IM 6,.,. %, ItH *, '"■' «> »" • . >•• * #1 ,^ iiU' ! lip il ^iii It-: 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." ■■■ ■■'■'lii.win ,:» .■•■■ '* i-.„i*„.m,, -> ••.•.«.».....P r, 111) ••l<<' MINI, '.' C^ ,;,:-'.:3;(!. i ■••""•"'•miHHi » ,1-. ''iMHtUk, If -- '• ■IXO'li M.aMW •li votm •MM ... .~'ll.,.„.p ..■•i»»i..i«..,H. " ' iihMi' ' -•'^■^>k (■.•.«.»^ .,«,•" '' ■'/"■'• kj • ■■■«.•.,*. I I . ' OHMIMIu -■'...".. M»ll. .^^•:>' 1 ,..,..„.. .'4 J . n<.„.ul „.«'«* 8"" .1- "WUB,; . 136 CORD AND CREESE «•(< §[ i € lt»t € lU II" iMI lUn. •Ill , ll»il 1 l„„ i c: h titiir HI JHM' ■ 1 1- * tHtl'' \ lllf IUll> t 11111 ■ KM IK tUf' * ;iiitl' :i SI " 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 4\ 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. 1; - '»"■ ..,,,. Ill, «„i, f ...1..,.;^ . ..ti.iti ittBP ' , .!','|tii*i.«r ■■— Bflb ■:::;;iiij»t ""•"«t, . !•■*' CHAPTER XXII THE ISLET OF SANTA CRUZ I. I'll .in' I' ■•1(1-. €■ imt(" «c * laii. 1 .,„ *. .*«.., In- -mii>' tA. 'Iw * «^ '•i^^^ •-** i 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 yMMi "i . •■I»..,|.»M,1' ::»" '"y . ...iitiitiiMlft wow an .... .;J' 140 CORD AND C KEKSE ■I'M € £ Mil IHNt < c c t. I « IWM tiriH , . » ■^ ■mm 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 ,ir"" « Jli.ti -ftr H J owint!. . i'AM. 142 CORD AND CREESE \C € c; IL. h 'MIC!. IL ii" Ij Iff*-" 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 ..t; •«» Houm ■I t'liwoirii, «J "■■•-J, Ji i f''' ""';Sfi« HHl'"*" •' 144 CORD AND CREE»E c c: c c c f ... t '»««. ^ .«-» «i«I. ♦ -.w,^ 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 MS 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 ,„,„..«««■ ,1. 'tt'Mww.iill J " > P; ■I,,,ll»«tl iVtit'llNqllli HHtBl ry '! J "":aMi» ,.■•'.111 BUI > 1. 146 CORD AND CREESE ■i C! c: c; c: c, !lu. ' HIMii 'I If ' 1 i : WW, a _ Ifctn-i, ff 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." ' r» 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 "'>!'' MIH Hi ,1 ..'i|ii»l> ' '«ii!» '■ ,,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. , B"""' ■ 'mki «l 15° CORD AND CREESE c c I- ''■L. J! IK. ^T 1 nwt 1 1^ 1 r 2 *-!. *»^ , '"r • ' ««. . ■*^ 4 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. 1 " 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 — i.MBimti «••» '■■:> ,..J ; JiliMii . .iixiaii xz IS* COKI) AND CKEESE '« III. c: c ;:;■ c: L J h 'C :> If ih u • aiM i' ;.:tttt »S4 CORD AND CREESE c::: c:;: c:'i L i h IK- •CM 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 ""'I I , ■■)«•*> ■' r, >>■«««(. •mm*** It,., ...«ft> . '«•,«» .'"'>mm .>|iniM ,,€"■»• ■"•"11!. ,. lillt > ' 'MHitt "'iiiiiii iiiim 158 CORD AND CREESE 1 ini.. iC;;:i(^ c: c:u •u# t- «♦«» <+! •^ -t-.i ««:a4 i VW >fWM U* *!' * * ■ i:i 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. .|mB ■■»..«« ::> II- ■"li .1 win ..Hltllt- rfNtlltJ illlllil Jfiiith •I Willi >imiu ;Lii ri i6o CORD AND CREESE c:;:r c '. CM Li. ■ *io. ^,^^ ■ ^^ "» ' pi* "* * 1L;L ' »^ *«; " 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." ■■■ w ' Hill II Hi •■« II mi ,jj.i.* ' ^'i| n^ • '"urn 'ft- ,nt, —.1 •*. ''» 1,11 f , ' lull • I "HI I • lllllll . mil II ■Willi I .{«: ii ' mil .1 l62 CORD AND CREESE .:;:*' c:t «:;::;; c:;:ii: ex MW> "■■.til »»k lt>l>|). j*» •••.lit. ^- '■till.. ■v. „„„, cx "*• iVitt h .«:-3 IL,iL, 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 ■""ii. "ni I) 1 IIIIIH 'iJilii illlMi My i6d CORD AND CREESE C't c h jh a I «*;: "■St t 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 :fore on the :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 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 tnm 31 SB .■«t4t.l ■ nil It:. '.iiir ' > m m '■'!J| hi i66 CORD AND CKl.KSK C;:j: r" ~»> "»l " t... .•II I iimi. iHti •It 4 ■ I ■■ •' i \\\' i68 CORD AND CRKKSE >^. .»'. C'X '< . '«^;: ^i C'x •" 1 ■ Cx *• . . ■* "•*.. **' » •■*WII. ^•. ^^, I' • »• . "" »•», Cx i-i h-Z 4 :^'::\ .!/! •«?«• n"» .... ■■ , IL Jl., r 1 1 •• "^.. '* 1 •**• ".,. Cr '? » Ck:: 't Ljj •■«• ':" '■'! ■ "• "'SI }% 1 :~ -H "••lit i\ 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 *1^ M ,11) '•1- If I ■<■ ■! 1 like 'V ■111 . Itill.- 'He nil ill lilt II. I ;!3' 170 CORD AND CREESE 4' 1 ! , I] ; 1 ■ I ' *<»- ^»i . k * '<::3i; : t ' , 1 1 * c:;],: c:it; J , » ** "*"•.,, 4 •"^H. c::;r > • * c::: ■■f <*K im. (• * c:i: ^■K - ? h-; f ' i ;:^^3 V ^ ;«i'« _ , 1 . ^? ILl. . 1 "^^"5 •"""*» >> > c^- :i Cr ^, a .,.1 ■— "•;! ^ij* :::'- ,.,ii •■s:;"! :'i —..;: :,.! ■ ""^ ^B , ;l ;?i' 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 m 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, ;:;s "in. "IB 111" hi. !li ill III > ;i I'll 172 CORD AND CREESE c:v; h ■- , I • M' 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— m 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 ! " <-9 »m :> li.: 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 c:i; ^* , . in I ■■«:;:'■' , !'^ ■A' ■ "■' c Li '•«:""■«» ..*' •^^,. .... Ih F, ««» ,, <:. IT- c-r L. 1. •■*. l|_ i>m> "".51 • »» '»•»> "■» •« ««». ::■•■ I' 1 !,i 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 : )•» ;» MM :i .«» .1 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 ^itfSkii ,iH». 't:3i; :> Oi 111: •c:k: • imi, •^ "*■» ■ iiHh • iim> •"..M t»MI. c:.:- 1 ••1,1, c:« ^n. • 111 *"••.. cv L J ft h> ;::^;"3 .^ .-H ■"C?K M!li '••"'•., m II- 1. 'c::: "^, .-'•m h'S, »*■ iL-^r:; • HI Fk:; .1 i» "—«":: i'*». *«€-» '-^: **• '■» 1. * " 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 ni 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. tli-i 178 CORD AND CREESE ^■A. i* ct hW >MI *"< C'X ex '• 1 ••'%.. ,m ' •■»»ll» c::: <<4«t ^z ■ Nlfr •" *"^H> cx Li.. J' 1-! •C"! <«• ■'*-,. '•1 '*::•■ In- ■ «■»•>••.. 141' ILJI,. i >.!. h-- «»' ■"~>»>. «•' <:."••■ cit: i«i. ••».,.," ■«) 1 Mva> ii«rti *"* '"h. * ■>■ "^ .,,. ;,» '«s;i # 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. S I I I i8o CORD AND CREKSK ^ MM Slit ; CX z , Li, ■-; ; h •«« >* ' ' ILl. * 'V, ■'* C'^; •; I'*' If" :l ""**■., act ZI"^' * ^S ;■ f , 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 ' i J I ' ,%. ^ ^. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // ^^ .." '^ ''* a "^C , -^..^ Hi *"JC '■« ■>' — IS •'"•™„ "• Cr- rr * IwL ; :::::; * "-H. » «-«* •* ... ^ 182 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- ; III ^ miim •»■-» 184 CORD AND CREESE — «'«|||! ILt c: :: ■ •v. ■"" If--.' •-"- : ii:- !* 'ii, i 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 >.. I •"I'M) Ik mi L t '; ■'! -^^ ID :, .^ai >• '; II: " 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- ■ \ ; I i ' 1 I i88 CORD AND CREESE ex cac: '^ —■ - ffc ILt or cc ul 1 'Ik :r:s "—«». w *•— !a '■• •<« m *•"•• 'm ','"■* lib, ilii!, 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 II f I 190 CORD AND CPif'tlSE > '41 . ex 'i - n a Zy m^-m* :'* ^M> '!■ -18 c c: -¥ ' -ihi *M^ cx •• /'; Li 5", H-: •'li ■ ttwlj •2- '■«. sr If.. ILt CC Iff': i IS ! ll 1 i • 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, i 198 CORD AND CREESE Co* '.< Ilk ')' ^»" >.r It »-^3ii ■C-l: (■>»•«" >• ILt c: ••• ''a f: "m ••->». m CC ^^ 1 Ik "•<» w ;^2 'm m ""-.•« 'm ■■^•i» 'I 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. II 200 CORD AND CREESE aUt ■ V^"»i jf.; as:' I U'V '^ "»— i^ ILt or; ,U, i '—■ * "■■^ '<• 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 '! : I f 302 CURU AND CREESE k: '*•... ■', "crihi ■ ttm— 1^ ILL w — ,„ Ml j "--I 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 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." it I I ! nt 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- I 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 1 i ,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- «««^ '•• i: 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 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-* 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 M 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 a? 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 i6 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-» S3 •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 Si 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, m. 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 ft 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 is 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 ^••» 3- 8: k: Ik ?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 It ' 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, w ^: 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 M7 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 t* t 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 Si I: 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 X. 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 : I »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 If 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. " 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 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- i8 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, S 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 If 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 o I ^^ 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, c. ; 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 5 I 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) 1.0 I.I 1.25 U£ 1^ . .,. I 25 2.2 1^ c 1^ ilM 11^ i 1^ 1.6 j^% Wj^^^ Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WeST MAIN STREET WEftSTER.N.Y. US80 (756)871-4503 Sf V.4r> % 6 V^o 876 CORD AND CREESE u, s CO 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 t 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, 10 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 1 THE COTTAGE o o 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 o o I 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. I " 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 i o CO 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 I O CO M4 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 I O CO 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 30 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 o CO ( ; i; 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 i CO pc 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 cc I u.. o CO 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.