CORD AND CREESE.

THE AUTHOR OF

. ■ ' . . . ' r _ '_ -;.•••■* *

"THE DODGE CLUB."

/- -• • • •

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS,

NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,

FRANKLIN SQUARE.

'i''\

By Prof. JAMES DE MILLE.

Tff£ DODGE CLUB; or, Italy in 1859. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 60 cents ;
Cloth, $1 10.

CORD AND CREESE. A Novel. Illustrated. Svo, Paper, 60 cents;
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Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.
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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by

HARPER & BROTHERS,

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

COED AND CREESE.

CHAPTER I.

THE LETTER FROM BEYOND THE SEA.

On the morning of July 21, 1846, the Daily
News announced the arrival of the ship Rival
at Sydney, New South Wales. As ocean steam
navigation had not yet extended so far, the ad-
vent of this ship with the EngUsh mail created
the usual excitement. An eager crowd beset
the post - office, waiting for the delivery of the
mail ; and Uttle knots at the street comers were
busily discussing the latest hints at news which
hac' btci gathered from papers brought ashore
by the oflScers or passengers.

At the lower end of King Street was a large
warehouse, with an oflSce at the upper extremi-
ty, over which was a new sign, which showed
with newly-gilded letters the words :

COMPTON &* BRANDON.

The general appearance of the warehouse
showed that Messrs. Compton and Brandon
were probably commission merchants, general
agents, or something of that sort.

On the morning mentioned two men were in
the inner office of this warehouse. One was an
elderly gentleman, with a kind, benevolent as-
pect, the senior partner of the firm. The other
was the junior partner, and in every respect pre-
sented a marked contrast to his companion.

He had a face of rather unusual appearance,
and an air which in England is usually consid-
ered foreign. His features were regular — a
straight nose, wide brow, thin Ups, and square,
massive chin. His complexion was olive, and
his eyes were of a dark hazel color, with a pe-
culiarity 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
sometimes in the gipsy ; sometimes in the more
successful among those who call themselves
"spiritual mediums," or among the more pow-
erfid mesmerizers. Such an eye belonged to
Xapoleon Bonaparte, whose glance at times
could make the boldest and greatest among his
marshals 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 Napoleon. The
contour of feature was the same ; and on his
brow, broad and massive, 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 of coun-
tenance which characterized the other, which

could ser\'e as an impenetrable mask to hide
even the intensest passion.

There was also about this man a certain aris-
tocratic 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 api^earance 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 out-
side circumstances or his own personal desires
might invite him.

"The mail ought to be open by this time," said
Brandon, indifferently, looking at his watch. " I
am somewiiat curious to see how things are look-
ing. 1 noticed quotations of wool rather higher
than by last maiL If the papers are correct whicli
I saw then we ought to do very well by that last
cargo. "

Mr. Compton smiled.

" Well, Brandon," said he, " if it is to 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 busi-
ness."

"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 ye^r had been
slight. But there comes Hedley now," he con-
tinued, moving his head a little to one side so as
to look up the street. "The letters 'stU soon
show us all. "

Mr. Compton looked out in the direction which
Brandon indicated and saw the clerk approach-
ing. 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 \vho 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
band said :

"This is for you, Mr. Brandon."

"For me?" repeated Brandon, with marked

i-\

81?

CORD AND CREESE.

surprise ; and taking the letter he looked at the
address v.ith eager curiosity.

The address wa.s simply as follows :

^Sm**^ SotanUon,

Q^ye/ney, cM.*o ^btU/l ^^a/ea.

The letters were irregular and loosely formed,
as though written bj i 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 ad-
dress as though from the address itself he was
trj-iug to extort some meaning.

He held it thus in both hands looking fixedly
at it, with his head bent fonvard. Had Mr.
Compton thought of taking a look at his usually
» npassive companion, he w uld have been sur-
prised at the change which had taken place in
him at the mere sight of that tremulous hand-
writing. For in that he had read grief, misfor-
tune, perhaps death ; and as he sat there, paus-
ing before he dared to break the seal, the con-
tents of the letter had already been conjec-
tured.

Gloom therefore unutterable gathered upon
his face ; his features fixed themselves into such
rigidity of grief that they became more express-
ive than if they had been distorted by passionate
emotions ; and over his brow collected cloud upon
cloud, which deepened and darkened every in-
stant till they overshadowed all; and his face
in its statuesque fixedness resembled nothing so
much as that which the artist gives to Napoleon
at the crisis hour of Waterloo, 'vhen the Guard
has recoiled from its last chai'fe , and from that
Imperial face in its fixed agony the soul itself
seems to cry, " Lost !" " Lost !"

Yet it was only for a few minutes. Hastily
subduing his feeling Brandon rose, and clutch-
ing the letter in his hand as though it were too
precious to be trusted to his pocket, he quietly
left the oflSce and the warehouse and walked up
the fetreet.

He walked on rapidly until he reached a large
bi'ilding which bore the sign ' ' Australian Hotel. "
Here he entered, and walked up stairs to a room,
and locked himself in. Then when alone in his
c ix\ apartments he ventured to open the letter.

The paper was poor and mean ; the handwTit-
ing, like that of the address, w^s tremulous, and
in many places quite illegible ; the ink was pale ;
and the whole appearance of the letter seemed to
indicate poverty and weakness on the part of the
writer. By a veiy natural impulse Brandon
hesitated before beginning to read, and took in
all these things with a quick glance.

At last he nened himself to the task and be-
gan to read.

This was the letter.

"Bbasbon, March 10, 1946.

"Mr DEAR BoT, — 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 bitterness I leave for yon to find out some
day for yourself. In poverty unspeakable, in an-

guish that I pray yon 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 fur 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 a^ 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 for years. Most 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 miserable pride and the accusa-
tion of a lying scoundrel. May God have mercy
upon me for this !

"I have not much strength, dear boy ; I have
to write at inter\als, and by stealth, so as net to
be discovered, for I am closely watched. lie
must never know that I have sent this to you.
Frink 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 resene before
strength leaves me foj-cver.

"That man Potts, whom you so justly hated,
was and is the cause of all my suffering and of
yours. You used to wonder how such a man as
that, a low, vulgar knave, could gain such an in-
fluence 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 Des-
pard. 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
business agent. Just before Despard left to go
on his fatal voyage he wrote to ma about his
affairs, and stated, in conclusion, that this man
Potts was going to England, that he was sorry
to lose him, but recommended him very earnest-
ly to me.

"You recollect that Colonel Despard was
murdered on this voj'age under very mysterious
circumstances on shipboard. His Malay sonant
Uracao was convicted and executed. Potts dis-
tinguished himself by his zeal in avenging Iiis
master'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 recom-
mendations 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 contained accounts of the trial.

" It was this man s desire to settle himself
somewhere, and I gave him letters to differe: t
people. He then went off, and I did not see
him for two years. At the end of that time he
returned with glowing accounts of a tin mine
which he was working in Cornwall. He had
bought it at a low price, and the returns from
working it had exceeded his most sanguine ex-
pectations. He had just organized a company,
and was selling the stock. He came first to me
to let me take what I wished. I carelessly took
five thousand pounds' worth.

" On the following year the dividend was enor-
mous, being nearly sixty per cent. Potts ex-

CORD AND CREESE.

EDITH SHE WATCHES ME, AND ENABLES ME TO WRITE THIS IN 8AFETV.

pLuned to me the cause, declaring that it was
the richest mine in the kingdom, and assuring
me that my £5000 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 to pay cent,
per cent.

" It was then that the demon of avarice took
full possession of me. Visions of millions came
to me, and I determined to become the richest
man in the kingdom. After this I turned every
thing I 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 fiiscinated, 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
quarreled with most of them. In my madness I
refused to listen to the entreaties of my poor
wife, and turned' even against you. I can not
bear to allude to those mournful days when you
denounced that villain to his face before me ;
when I ordered you to beg his pardon or leave
I'ly roof forever; when you chose the latter al-
ternative and became an outcast. My noble

boy — my true-hearted son, that last look of yours,
wiih all its reproach, is haunting my dying hours.
If you were oii'iy near me now how peacefully I
could die !

" Jly strength is failing. I can not describe
the details of my ruin. Enough that the mine
broke down utterly, and I as chief stockholder
was responsible for all. I had to sell out every
thing. The stock was worthless. The Hall and
the estates all went. I had no friend to helj)
me, for by my madness I had alienated them
all. All this came upon me during the last
year.

"But mark this, my son. This man Potts
was not ruined. He seemed to have grown pos-
sessed of a colossal fortune. When 1 reproached
him with being the author of my calamity, and
insisted that he ought to share it with me, the
scoundrel laughed in my face.

"The Hall and the estates were sold, for, nn-
fortunately, though they have been in our fam-
ily for ages, they were not entailed. A feeling
of honor was the cause of this neglect. They
were sold, and the purchaser was this man Potts.
He must have bought them with the money that
he had plundered from me.

Ifl

CORD AND CREESR

"Now, BUice my eyes have been opened, I
have had ii:any thoughts; and among all that
occurs to me none is more prominent than the
iityBterious murder of my friend. Thin man
Potts was with him at the time, lie was chief
witness bgainst the Malay. The counsel for the
defense bore down hard on him, but he man-
aged to escape, and Uracao was executed. Yot
this much is evident, thai Potts was largely ben-
efited t)y the death of Despard. He could not
have made all his money by his own savings. I
believe that the man who wronged me so foully
was fully capable of murder. Ho strong is this
conviction now that I sometimes have a super-
stitious feeling that because I neglected all in-
quiry into the death of my friend, therefore he
has visited me from that other life, and punished
me, by making the same man the ruin of us
both.

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

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

"Come home, my son, and take vengeance.
Tbis, perhaps, you can not do, but you at least
can try. By the time that you ret d these words
they will be my voice from the grt.ve ; and thus
I invoke you, and call you tC' take venge-
ance.

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

" But 1 warn you to be careful about yourself
for their sakes. For this villain is powerful now.
and hates you worse than any body. His arm
may reach even to the antipodes to strike you
there. Be on your guard. Watch every one.
For once, from words which fell from him hasti-

ly, I gathered that he bad some dark plan againit
you. Trust no one. Rely on yourself, and miy
God help you !

"Poor boy! I have no estate to leave yon
now, and what I do send to you may seem to you
like a mockery. Yet do not despise it. Who
knows what may be possible in these days of
science? Why may it not be possible to force
the sea to give up its prey?

"I send it, at any rate, for I have notliing
else to send. You know that it has been in our
family for centuries, and have heard how fitout
old Peter Leggit, with nine sailors, escaped by
night through the Spanish flee*^ and what suffer-
ing they endured before they reached England.
He brought this, and it has been preserved ever
since. A legend has groi^'n up, as a matter of
course, that the treasure will be recovered one
day when the family is at its last extremity. It
may not be impossible. The writer intended
that something should come of it.

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

" God bless you, dear boy, and farewell.
"Your affectionate father,

"Ralph Bkandon."

This letter was evidently written by fragment-
ary portions, as though it had been done at in-
tenals. Some parts weie written lei.?urely —
others apparently in haste. The first half had
been written evidently with the greates* ease
The writing of the last half showed weakness «•
tremulousness of hand ; many words would havt
been quite illegible to one not familiar with the
handwriting of the old man. Sometimes the
word was written two or three times, and there
were numerous blots and unmeaning lines. It
grew more and more illegible toward the close.
Evidently it was the work of one who was but ill
able to exert even suflBcient strength to hold a
pen in his trembling hand.

In this letter there was folded a large piece of
coarse paper, evidently a blank leaf torn from a
book, brown with age, which was worn at the
folds, and protected there by pieces of cotton
which had been pasted upon it. The paper was
covered with writing, in ink that was much faded,
though still quite legible.

Opening this Brandon read the following :

CORD AND CREESE.

iP^.

* ,- - ^ i**^-^-^k

^^^%^^a^ (

m. el

to ^Z/Vv

^ffod' (VV^ a/i3 en<tt^^

CORD AND CREESE.

CHAPTER II.

A LIFK TRAOKDT.

Not a word or a gesture escaped Brandon
during the |)eru8al, but aftei; he had flnished
he read the whole through twice, *hen laying it
down, he paced up and down the room. Ilis
olive skin had become of a sickly tawny hue,
his eyes glowed with intense lustre, and his
brow was covered with those gloomy Napoleonic
rioudd, but not a nerve was shaken by the shock
of this dread intelligence.

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 congratu-
Lite yon."

Something in Brandon's face seemed to sur-
prise the Oil* gentleman, and he paused for a mo-
ment. " W.iy 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 ifs
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 other, earnestly;
"not so bad as that."

" I must go home at once."

"Oh well, that may be, but yon will be back
again. Take a leave of absence for five years if
you w^ish, but don't quit for good. I'll do the
business and won't complain, my boy. I'll keep
your place comfortable for you till your return."

Brandon's stern face softened as he looked at
the o'd man, whose features were filled with the
kindest expression, and whose tone showed the
affectionate interest which he felt.

" Your kindness to me, Mr. Compton," said
he, very slowly, and with deep feeling, "has
been beyo"d all words. P2ver since I first came
to this country you have been \he truest and the
best of friends. I hope you know me well enough
to believe that I can never forget it But now
all this is at an end, and all the bright prospects
that I had here must give way to the call of the
sternest duty. In that letter which I received
last night there came a summons home which I
can not neglect, and my whole liff. hereafter
must be directed toward the fulfillment of that
summons. From mid-day yesterday until dawn
this morning I paced my room incessantly, lay-
ing out my plans for the future thus suddenly
thrust upon me, and though I have not been
able to decide upon any thing definite, yet I see
plainly that nothing less than a life will enable
me to accomplish my duty. The first thing for
me to do is to acquaint you with this and to give
up my part in the business:"

Mr. Compton placed his elbow on the table
near which he had seated himself, leaned his head
upon his hand, and looked at the floor. From
Brandon's tone he perceived that this resolution

was irrevocable. The deep dejection which h«
felt could not be concealed. Ho woa silent for a
long time.

"God knows," said he, at last, " that I would
rather have faileid in business than that this should
have happened."

Brandon looked away and said nothing.

"It comes upon me so suddenly," he contin-
ued. " I do not know what to think. And
how can I manage these vast affairs without your
assistance ? For you were the one who did our
business. I know that well. I had no head for
it"

"You can reduce it to smaller proportions,"
said Brandon ; " that can easily be done."

The old man sighed.

" After all," he continued, " it is not the busi-
ness. Its losing you that I think of, dear boy.
I'm not thinking of the business at all. My
grief is altogether about your departure. I
grieve, too, at the blow which must have fallen
on you to make this necessary. "

"The blow is a heavy one," said Brandon;
"so heavy that every thing else in life must be
forgotten except the one thought — how to re-
cover from it ; and perhap.:, also," he added, in
a lower voice, " how to return it."

Mr. Compton was silent for a long tir.ie, and
with every minute the deep dejection of hb face
and manner increased. He folded his arms and
shut his eyes in deep thought.

"My boy," said he at last, in that same pa-
ternal tone which he had used before, and in a
mild, calm voice, "I suppose this thing can not
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. J see now that you
must have a good reason for your decision, al-
though I do not seek to look into that rea-
son."

"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 suf-
fer no los?. You shall have your full share of
the capital."

"I leave t^at entirely to you," said Brandon.

" Fortunately our business is not much scat-
tered. 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 hxm-
ness that I was doing when yon came here. I
was worth about four thousand. You have built
up the business to its present dimensions. Do
you suppose that I don't know ?"

CORD AND CREESE.

" I can not allow joa to nuika such a sacri-
fice," said Brandon.

"Stop," said Mr. Compton. "I have not
■aid all. I attach a condition to this which I
implore jou not to refuse. Listen to me, and
you will then be able to see. "

Mr. Compton n)ae and looked carefully out
into the office. There was no one near. He
then returned, locked the door, aid drawing hii
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 go-
ing to tell to you, not merely for the sake of
sympathy, but rather for the sake of your assist-
ance. 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 uuppose we indulged him too
much. ItwasnaturaL He was our only child,
and so we ruined him. He got beyond our con-
trol 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 ac last
he got in with a set of miscreants who were
among the worst in the country. My God ! to
think how my boy, once a sweet child, could
have fallen so low. But he was weak, and easily
led, and so he went or from bad to worse.

" I con not 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 miscreants, as I was telling you,
and I did not see him from one month's end to
another. At last a great burglary took place.
Three were arrested. Among these twiy were
old offenders, hardened in vice, the one named
Briggs, the other Crocker ; the third was my un-
happy boy."

The old man was silent for some time.

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

" I sold out all I had in the world, and in com-
pliance with the entreaties of my pooi ivlfe, who
nearly went mad with grief, I came out here. I
changed my name to Compton. My boy's term
was for three years. I began a basiness out here,
and as my boy behaved well he was able to get
permission to hiie out as a servant. I took him
nominally as my servant, for no one knew that
he was my son, and so we had hini with us
again.

" I hoped that the bitter lesson which he had
learned would prove beneficial, but I did not knew
the strength of evil inclinations. As long as his
term of imprisonment lasted he was content and
behaved well ; but at last, when the three years
were up, he began to grow restive. Crocker was
freed at about the same time, and my boy fell
again under his evil influence. This lasted for
about a year, when, at last, one morning a letter
was brought me from him stating that he had
gone to Indi^.

"My poor wife was again nearly distracted.
She thought of nothing but her boy. She made

roe take her and go in search of him again. So
we went to India. After a long search I found
him there, as I had feared, in connectioi: with
his old, vicious associates. True, they had changed
their namea, and were trying to pass for h nest
men. Crocker called himself Clark, and Bnggs
called himself Potts. "

" Potts !" cried Brandon.

"Yes," said the other, who was too absorbed
in his own thoughts to notice the surprise of
Brandon. "He was in the employ of Colonel
Despard, at Calcutta, and enjoyed much of his
coufldence."

" What year was this?" a&ked Brandon.

" 1825," replied Mr. Compton. "Crocker,"
he continued, " was acting as a sort of shipping
agent, and my son was his clerk. C>f course, my
first efforts were directed toward detaching my
son from these scoundrels. I did all that I could.
I offered to give him half of my property, and
finally all, it he would only leave thom forever
and come back. The wretched boy refuse^. He
did not appear to be altogether i»d, but he had
a weak nature, and could not get rid of the in-
fluence of these mciu

"I staid in India a year and a half, until I
found at last tbut there was no hope. I could
find nothing to do then;, and if I remained I
would have to starve or go out to service. This
I could not think of doing. So I prepared to
come back here. But ray wife nefused to leave
her son. She was resolved, she said, to stay by
him till the last. I tried to dissuade her, but
could not mova her. I told her that I could not
be a domestic. She said that she could do even
that for the sake of her boy. And she went off
at once, and got a situation as nurse with the
same Colonel Despard with whom Briggs, or, as
he called himself, Potts, was staying."

" What was the Christian name of this Potts ?"
asked Brandon, calmly.

"John— John Potts."

Brandon said Qothiag furtlier, And Compton
resumed.

"Thus my wife acttudly left me. I could not
stay and be a slave. So I made her promise to
^viite me, and told her that I woidd send her as
much money as I could. She clnng to me half
broken-hearted as I left her. Our parting was
a bitter one — bitter enough ; but I would rather
break my heart 'with grief than be a sen'ant.
Besides, she knew taat whenever she came back
my heart was open to receive her.

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

Compton buried his face in his hands and re-
mained 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 Des-
pard?'

He looked inquiringly at Brandon, but the lat-
ter gave no sign.

"Perhaps not," he continued — "no; you
were too young, of course. Well, it was in the
Vishnu, a brig in which the Colonel had em-
barked for Manilla. The brig was laden with
hogshead staves and box shooks, and the Col-

CORD i\ND CREESE.

v-^

"xuuue's somk mysteky aboct it which I can't fathom.

onel went there partly for his health, partly on
business, taking with him his valet Potts."

"What became of his family?" interrupted
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 voyage, for he was very much
attached to his wife.

" Mails used only to come at long intervals in
those days, and this one brought the account
not only of the Colonel's fate, but of the trial at
Manilla and the execution 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 Ura-
cao, 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, au
Italian named Cigole. Information was at once

laid against the Malay. Potts was the chief wit-
ness. He said that he slept in the cabin whila
the Colonel slept in an inner state-room ; that
one morning early he was roused by a frightful
shriek and saw Uracao rushing from the Col-
onel's state-room. He sprang up, chased him,
and caught him just as he was about to leap
overboai'd. His creese covered with blood was
in his hand- The Colonel, when they went to
look at him^ 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 exe-
cuted."

" 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 wtts very clear indeed, and there were
no contradictions ; but in spite of all this it was

CORD AND CREESE.

felt to be a very mysterioas case, and even the
exhibition of the Malay creese, carefully cov-
ered with the stains of blood, did not altogether
dispel this feeling."

" Have you got the papers yet, or are there any
in Sydney that contain an account of this ati'air ? '

" I have kept them all. You mav read the
whole case if you care about it."

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

" When I heard of this before the mail was
opened I felt an agony of fear lest my miserable
boy might be implicated in some way. To my
immense relief his name did not occur at all."

" You got a letter from your wife ?" saiC Bran-
don, interrogatively.

" Yes," said the old man, with a sigh. " The
last that I ever received from her. Here it is. "
Auu, ing this, he opened his pocket-book and
took c JL letter, worn and faded, and blackened
by frequent readings.

Brandon took it respectfully, and read the fol-
lo^ving :

"Caloctta, August 15, 1828.

"Mtdbahest Henby, — By the papers that
I send you, you will see what has occurred. Our
dear Edgar is well, indeed better than usual, and
I would feel much cheered if it were not for the
sad fate of the poor Colonel. This is the last let-
ter that you will ever receive from me. I am
going to leave this countiy never to return, and
do not yet know where I ^vill 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.
Good-by forever, my dearest husband ; it shall
be my daily prayer that God may bless you.
" Your affectionate wife, Mary."

Brandon read this in silence, and handed it
back.

"A strange letter," said Compton, mournful-
ly. "At first it gave a bitter pang to think of
my Mary thus giving me up forever, so coldly,
and for no reason : but afterward I began to un-
derstand why she wrote this.

"My belief is, that these villains kept my son
in their clutches for some good reason, and that
they had some equally good reason for keeping
her. There's some mystery about it which I
can't fathom. Perhaps she knew too much about
the Colonel's affairs to be allowed to go free.
They might have detained her by working upon
her love for her son, or simply by terrifying her.
She was always a timid soul, poor Mary. That
letter is not her composition ; there is not a word
there that sounds like her, and they no doubt told
her what to write, or wrote out something, and
made her copy it.

"And now, " said Compton, after another long
pause, "I have got to the end of my story. I
know nothing more about them. I have lived
here ever since, at first despairing, but of late
more resigned to my lot. Yet still if I have one
desire in Ufe it is to get some trace of these dear
ones whom I still love as tenderly as ever. You,
my dear boy, with your ability may conjecture
some way. Besides, you will perhaps be travel-
ing more or less, and may be able to hear of
their &te. This is the condition that I make.
I implore you by your pity for a heart-broken

father to do as I say and help me. Half! why,
I viould give all that I have if I could get tbem
back attain."

Brandon shuddered peixeptiblj «4 the words
"heart-broken father;" but he quickly recov-
ered himself He took Comptcm's hand aad
pressed it warmly.

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

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

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

"Grod bless you!" ejaculated the cAd man,
fervently.

Brandon spent the greater part of that day in
making busineds arrangements, and in reading
the papers which Compton had proserved con-
taining an account of the Despard mnrdsr.

It was late at night before he returned to bis
hotel. As he went into the hall he saw a stran-
ger sitting there in a lounging attitude raiding
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 twinkling. 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 Brandon's curi-
osity was excited. He walked with assumed in-
diftierence up to the desk as though looking for the
key of his room. Glancing at the hotel book his
eye ranged down the column of nwues till it rest-
ed on the last one,

'' Pietro Cigole."

— Cigole ! the name brought singular associa-
tions. Had this man still any connection with
Potts ? The words of his father's letter rushed
into his mind — "His arm may reach even to
the antipodes to strike you. Be on your guard.
Watch every one. He has some dark plan
against you ! "

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

CHAPTER ni.
"a man overboard!"

Ik so small a town as Sydney then was Bran<
don could hope to learn all that could be learned
about Cigole. By casual inquiries 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 quantity 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 fol-
lowing me why should he not drop his name ?
But then, again, why should he? Perhaps he
thinks that I can not possibly know any thing
about his name. Why should I ? I was a child
when Despard was murdered. It may be merely
a similarity of names.

CORD AND CREESE.

>ft

Brandon from time to time had opportunities
of hearing mure about Cigole, yet always the Kian
seemed ubsorbed 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
discovering his wife and son. Could it be possi-
ble that the Italian after so many years could
now aflbrd any dew whatever ? Certainly it was
not very probable.

On the whole Brandon thought that this man,
whoever he was or whatever his purpose might
be, would be encountered best by liimself singly.
If Mr. Compton took part he would at once
awaken Cigole's fears by his clumsiness.

Brandon felt quite cerUiin that Mr. Compton
would not know any tiling about Cigole's presence
in Sydney unless he himself told liim. For the
old man was so filled with trouble at the loss of
his partner that ho could think of nothing else,
and all his thought!! were taken up with closing
up the concern so as to send forward remittances
of money to London as soon as possible. Mr.
Compton had arranged for him to draw £2000
on iiis niTivol at London, and three months after-
ward iintlOO— £10,000 would be remitted daring
tlie following year.

Brandon had come to the conclusion to tell
Mr. Compton about Cigole before he left, so that
if the man remained in the country he might be
bribed or otherwise induced to tell what he knew ;
yet thinking it possible that Cigole had designed
to return in the same ship with him, he waited
to see how things would turn out. As he could
not help associating Cigole in his mind with
I'otts, so lie thought that whichever way he
turned this man would try to follow him. His
anticipations proved correct. He had taken pas-
sage in the ship Java, and two days before the
vessel left he learned that Cigole had Uikcn his
passage in her also, having put on board a con-
siderable quantity of wool. On the whole Bran-
don felt gratified to hear this, for the close asso-
ciation of a long sea voyage would give him op-
portunities to test this man, and probe him to
the bottom. The thought of danger arising to
himself did not enter his mind. He believed that
Cigole meant mischief, but liad too much confi-
dence in his own powers to fear it.

On the Sth of August the ship Java was
ready, and Mr. Compton stood on the quarter-
deck to bid good-by to Brandon.

"God bless you, dear boy ! You will find the
money coming promptly, and Smithers & Co.'s
house is one of the strongest in London. I have
brought you a parting gift," said he, in a low
voice. He drew from his pocket a pistol, which
in those days was less known than now — indeed,
this was the first of its kind which had reached
Australia, and Mr. Compton had paid a fabulous
price for it. " Here," said he, "take this to re-
member me by. They call it a revolver. Here
is a box of patent cartridges that go with it. It
is from me to you. And mind," he continued,
while there came over his face a vengeful look
which Brandon had never seen there before —
" mind, if ever you see John Potts, give him one
of those patent cartridges, and tell him it is the
last gift of a broken-hearted father."

Brandon's face turned ghastly, and his lips
seemed to freeze into a smile of deadly meaning.

" God bless yon 1" 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 stem 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
into the water, he plunged his hands into his
pockets, and began whistling a lively air.

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

Brandon paced the deck silently yet watch-
fully. ^

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
somewhat passionate ; the crew 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 ha^•i^g 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 dif-
ferent. The fact of their being the only passen-
gers on board might of itself have been a sufl[i-
cient cause to draw them togiiiher ; but Brandon
found it difficult to pass beyond the extremest
limits of formal intercour&e. Brandon himself
considered that his purposes would be best scr^'ed
by close association with this man ; he hoped that
in the course of such association he might draw
something from Cigole. But Cigole baffled 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 pros-
pects of the voyage, or the health of the seamen ;
but beyond these topics it was difficult to induce
him to go. Brandon stifled the resentment which
he felt toward this man, in his efforts to break
down th2 barriers of formality which he kept up,
and sought to draw him out on the subject of the
wool trade. Yet here he was baffled. Cigole
always took up the air of a man who was speak-
ing 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
interifere with his prosjiects. This sort of thing
was kept up with such great delicacy of man-
agement 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 him, which made him re-
gard this man as one who was actuated by some-
thing far deeper than mere regards for a success-
ful speculation.

Cigole managed to baffle the most dextrous
efforts and the most delicate contrivances of
Brandon. He would acknowledge that he was
an Italian, and had been in all p.irts of Italy,
but carefully refrained from telling where he was
bom. He asserted that this was the first time
that he had been in the Eastern seas. He re-

CORD AND CREESE.

1»

marked once, casoully, that Cigole was a very
common name among Italians. He said that
he had no acquaintances at all in England, and
was only going there now because he heard that
there was a good market for wool. At another
time he spoke as though much of his life had
been piissed in Marseilles, and hinted that he
was a partner of a commercial house there.

(Cigole never made any advances, and never
even met half-way those which Brandon made.
He was never oif his guard for one instant.
Polite, smiling, furtive, never looking Brandjn
fairly in the face, he usually spoke v i;h a niofu-
sion of bows, gestures, and commonplaces, ado; t-
ing, in fact, that part which is always at once
both the easiest and the safest to play — the non-
committal, pure and perfect.

It was cunning, but low cunning after all, and
Brandon perceived that, for one who h id some
purpose to accomplish with but a common soul
to sustain him, this was the most ordinary way
to do it. A villain of profounder cunning or of
larger spirit would have pursued a different path.
He would have conversed freely and with ap-
parent unreser\'e ; he would have yielded to all
friendly advances, and made them himself; he
would have shown the highest art by concealing
art, in accordance with the hacknejed 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 con-
trary, was very different. His eyes, which never
met those of Brandon fairly, were constantly
watching him. When moving about the quar-
ter-deck or when sitting in the cabin he usually
had the air of a man who was pretending to be
intent on something else, but in reality watching
Brandon's acts or listening to his words. To
any other man the knowledge of this would have
been in the highest degree irksome. But to
Brandon it was gratifying, since it confirmed
his suspicions. He saw this man, whose con-
stant efforts were directed toward not commit-
ting himself by word, doing that very thing by
his attitude, his gesture, and the furtive glance
of his eye. Brandon, too, had his part, but it
was infinitely greater than that of Cigole, and
the purpose that now animated his life was un-
intelligible to this man who watched him. But
Cigole's whole soul was apparent to Brandon ;
and by his small arts, his low cunning, his sly
observation, and many other peculiarities, he ex-
hibited that which is seen in its perfection in the
ordinary spy of despotic countries, such as nsed
to abound most in Home and Naples in the good
old days.

For the common spy of Europe may deceive
the English or American traveler; but the
Frenchman, the German, the Spaniard, or the
Italian, always recognizes him.

So Brandon's superior penetration discovered
tlie true character of Cigole.

He believed that this man was the same Cigole
who had figured in the affair of the Vishnu;
that he had been sent out by Potts to do some
injury to himself, and that he was capable of any
crime. Yet he could not see how he could do
any thing. He certainly could not incite the sim-
ple-minded captain and the honest mate to con-
spiracy. He was too great a coward to attempt

any violence. So Brandon concluded that he
had simply come to watch him so as to learn his
character, and carry back to Potts all the knowl-
edge that ho might gain.

This was his conclusion after a close associa-
tion 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 villainy, and there-
fore unworthy of vengeance ; yet he might be
made use of as an aid in that vengeance. He
therefore wished to have a clew by which he
might afterward find him.

" You and I," said he one day, in conversa-
tion, "are both in the same trade. If I ever
get to England I may wish some time to see you»
Where can I find you ?"

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

!' Wellj" 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 yon
should by any possibilit/ wish to do so, you can
find out where I am by inquiring of Giovanni
Cavallo, 16 Red Lion Street, London."

"Perhaps I may not wish to," said Brandon,
coolly, "and perhaps I may. At any rate, if I
do, 1 will remember to inquire of Giovanni Ca-
vallo, 16 Red Lion Street, London."

He spoke with deep emphasis on the address.
Cigole looked uncomfortable, as though he had
at last made the mistake which he dreaded, and
had committed himself.

So the time passed.

After the first few days the weather had be-
come quite stormy. Strong head-winds, accom-
panied often by very heavy rains, had to be en-
countered. In spite of this the ship had a very
good passage northward, and met with no par-
ticular obstacle until hftr course was turned to-
ward the Indian Ocean. Then all the winds
were dead against her, and for weeks a succes-
sion of long tacks far to the north and to the
south brought liei but a short distance onward.
Every day made the wind more violent and the
storm worse. And now the season of the equi-
nox was approaching, when the monsoons 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 hun-
dred 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

CORD AND CREESE.

the many isles of the Indian Archipelago, uniting
with the greater southeni btreams, here meet and
blend, causing great difficulties to navigation,
and often baffiing even the most experienced sea-
man. Yet it was not all left to the current, for
frequently and suddenly the storms came up;
und the weather, ever changeful, kept the sailors
constantly on the alert.

Yet between the storms the calms were fre-
quent, and sometimes long continued, though of
such a sort as required watchfulness. For out
of the midst of dead calms the storm would sud-
denly rise in its might, and all the care which
cixperience could suggest was nof always able to
avert disaster.

' ' I don't like thi^ weather, Mr. Brandon. It's
the worst that we could have, especially just
here/'

"\VTiy just here?"

"Why, we're opposite the Straits of Sonda,
the worst place about these parts. "

"What for?"

"Pirates. The Malays, you know. We're
not over well prepared to meet them, I'm afraid.
If they come we'll have to fight them the best
way we can ; and these calms are the worst thing
for us, because the Malay proas can get along
in the lightest ^vind, or with oars, when we can't
move at alL"

" Are the Malays any worse than usual now ?"
asked Brandon.

" Well, no worse than they've been for the last
ten years. Zangorri is the worst of them all."

' ' Zangorri ! I've heard of him. "

" I should think you had. Why, there never
was a pirate in these seas that did so much dam-
age. No mortal knows the ships that devil has
captured and 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 to 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 too 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."

And the captain walked off much more ex-
cited than usual.

They drifted on through days of calm, which
were succeeded by fierce but short-lived storms,
and then followed by calms. Their course lay
sometimes north, sometimes south, sometimes
nowhere. Thus the time passed, until at length,
about the .middle of September, they came in
sight of a long, low island of sand.

"I've heard of that sand-bank before," said
the captain, who showed some surprise at see-
ing it; "but I didn't believe it was here. It's
not down in the charts. Here we are three hun-
dred and fifty miles southwest of the Straits of
Sunda, and the chart makes this place all open
water. Well, seein's believin' ; and after this I'll
swear that there is such a thing as Cofiin Island. "

"Is that the name?"

" That's the name an old sea-captain gave it,
and tried to get the Admiralty to put it on the
charts, but they wouldn't. But this is it, and
DO mistake."

" Why did he call it Coffin IsUnd ?"

"Well, he thought that rock looked like a
coffin, and its dangerous enough when a fog
comes to deserve that name. "

Brandon looked earnestly at the island which
the captain mentioned, and which they were
slowly approaching.

It lay toward the north, while the ship's course,
if it had any in that calm, was southwest. It
was not more than six miles away, and appeared
to be about five miles long. At the nearest ex-
tremity a black rock arose to a height of about
fifty feet, which appeared to be about five hun-
dred feet long, and was of such a shape that the
imagination might ftasily see a resemblance to a
coffin. At the farthest extremity of the island
was a low mound. The rest of the island was
flat, low, and sandy, with no trace of vegetation
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 sailf to be taken in,
and stood anxiously watching the sky towai'd
the southwest.

There a dense mass of clouds lay piled along
the horizon, gloomy, lowering, menacing; frown-
ing 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 ap-
pearance ; and now, as they gathered themselves
together, their forms distended, and heightened,
and reached forward vast arms into tne sky,
striving to climb there, rolling upward volumin-
ous 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 suddenly 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 undula-
tions, 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 increased below, till
all the sea spread out a smooth ebon mass.
Darkness settled down, and the sun's face was
thus obscured, and a preternatural gloom gather-
ed upon the face of nature. Overhead vast black
clouds went sweeping past, covering all things,
faster and faster, till at last far down in the
northern sky the heavens were all obscured.

But amidst 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 sur-
face of the sea but only bore onward the clouds.
The agitation of the sky above contrasted with
the stillness below made the latter not consoling
but rather fearful, for this could be none other
than that treacherous stillness which precedes
the sudden outburst of the hurricane.

For that sudden outburst all were now look-
ing, expecting it every moment. On the side
of the ship where the wind was expected the
captain was standing, looking anxiously at the
i black clouds on the horizon, and all the crew

CORD AND CREESE.

HE FU8HBD HIM HEADLONG OVER THE RAIL ASU HELPLESSLY INTO THE SEA.

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 col-
lecting clouds, but at length he turned away,
and seemed to find a supreme fascination in the
sand-bank. He stood at the stern of the ship,
looking fixedly toward the rock, his arms fold-
ed, 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 abo\ 3 the deck. The
captain stood by the companion-way, looking
south at the storm ; the mate was near the caj)-
stan, and all were intent and absorbed in their
expectation of a sudden squall.

Close by the rudder-post stood Cigole, look-
ing with all the rest at the gathering storm. His
face was only half turned, and as usual he watch-
ed this with only a furtive glance, for at times
his stealthy eyes turned toward Brandon ; and
he alone of all on board did not seem to be ab-
sorbed by some overmastering thought.

Suddenly a faint, fluttering ripple appeared to
the southward ; it came quickly ; it seemed to
flash over the waters ; with the speed of the wind

it moved on, till a quick, fresh blast struck the
ship and sighed through the rigging. Then a
faint breathing of wind succeeded ; but far away
there rose a low moan like that which arises from
some vast cataract at a great distance, whose
roar, subdued by distance, sounds faintly, yet
wamingly, to the ear.

At this first touch of the tempest, and the
menacing voice of its approach, not a word was
spoken, but all stood mute. Brandon alone ap-
peared not to have noticed it. He still stood
with folded arms and absorbed air, gazing at
the island.

The roar of the waters in the distance grew
louder, and in the direction from which it came
the dark water was all white with foam, and the
boiling flood advanced nearer in myriad-num-
bered waves, which seemed now like an army
rushing to the charge, tossing on high its crested
heads and its countless foam-plumes, and threat-
ening to bear down all before it.

At last the tornado struck.

At the fierce blast of the storm the ship rolled
far over, the masts creaked and groaned, the
waves rushed up and dashed against the side.

At that instant Cigole darted quickly toward
Brandon, and the moment that the vessel yield-

CORD AND CREESE.

ed to tho blow of the Btorm he fell Aiolently
against him. Before Brandon had noticed the
storm or had time to steady himself lie had

1)a8hed him headlong over the rail and he'pless-
y into the sea —

" liquidaa projecit In nndas

Pr«clpltein."^

Cis;ole clung to the rail, and instantly shrieked
out:

' ' Man overboard ! "

The startling cry rang through the ship. The
captain tamed round with a face of agony.

"Man overboard!" shouted Cigole ngain.
"Help! It's Brandon!"

"Brandon!" cried the captain. "He's lost!
OGod!"

He took up a hen-coop from its fastenings and
flung it into the sea, and a couple of pails afte"
it

He then looked alofb and to the south with
eyes of despair. He could do nothing. For
now the storm was upon them, and the ship
was plunging furiously through the waters with
the speed of a race- horse at the touch of the
gale. On the lee -side lay the sand -bank,
now only three miles away, whose unknown
shallows made their present position perilous in
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
all 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 ship — away, farther and far-
ther, 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
fer out of its right direction.

CHAPTER IV.

SINKING IN DEEP WATERS.

Brandon, ovenvhelmed by the rush of waters,
half suffocated, and struggling in the rush of the
waves, shrieked out a few despairing cries for
help, and sought to keep his head above water
as best he could. But his cries were borne off
by the fierce winds, and the ship as it careered
madly before the blast was soon out of hearing.

He was a first-rate swimmer, but in a sea like
this it needed all his strength and all his skill to
save himself from impending death. Encum-
bered 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, and he was forced sideways far
out of the course which he was trying to take.
At last the full possession of his senses was re-
stored, and following the ship no longer, he

turned toward the direction where that sand isl-
and 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 before him lay the inland, 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 extend 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 elsp to do but to trj'. Reso-
lutely, therefore, though half despairingly, he put
forth ids best strength, and struggled manfully to
win the shore.

That lone and barren sand-bank, after all, of-
fered bui a feeble chance for life. Even if he
did reach it, which was doubtful, what could he
do? Starvation instead 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 England, 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 quick-
ly. His vengeance should not be taken from
him ; it had been bafiSed, 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 bring him to
the shore, but that exertion hardly seemed possi-
ble. It was but with difficulty now that he could
strike out. Often the rush of the waves from be-
hind would overwhelm him, and it was only by
convidsive efforts that he was able to surmount
the raging billows and regain his breath.

Efforts like these, however, were too exhaust-
ive to be long continued. Nature failed, and
already a wild despair came over him. For a
quarter of an hour longer he had continued his
exertions ; and now the island was so near that
a quarter of an hour more might bring him to it.
Rut even that exertion of strength was now no
longer possible. Faintly and feebly, and with
failing limbs and fiercely- throbbing heart, he
toiled on, until at last any further effort seemed
impossible. Before him was the mound which
he had noticed from the ship. He was at the
western extremity of the island. He saw that
he was being carried in such a direction that
even if he did struggle on he might be borne
helplessly past the island and out into the open
sea. Already he could look past the island, and
see the wide expanse of white foaming waves
i which threatened to engulf him. The sight
weakened what little strength was left, and made
! his etibrts even feebler.

Despairingly he looked around, not knowing

I what he sought, but seeking still for something,

he knew not what. In that last look of despair

I his eyes caught sight of something which at once

gave him renewed hope. It was not far away.

CORD AND CREE6E.

Borne along by the waves It waa but a few yards
distant, and a little behind him. It was the hen-
coop which the Captain of the Java had thrown
overboard so as to give Brandon a chance for
life. That last chance was now thrown in his
way, for th«} hen-coop had followed the same,
course with himself, and had been swept along
not very far from him.

Brandon was nerved to new efforts by the sight
of this. He turned and exerted the last rem-
nants of his strength in order to reach this means
of safetj'. It was near enough to l)e accessible.
A few vigorous strokes, a few struggles with the
waves, and his hands clutched the bars with the
grasp of a drowning man.

It was a large hen-coop, capable of keeping
several men afloat. Brandon clung to this and
at last had rest. Every minute of respite from
such struggles as he had carried on restored his
strength to a greater degree. He coidd now
keep his head high out of the water and avoid
the engulfing fury of the waves behind. Now at
last he could take a better survey of the prospect
before him, and see more plainly whither he was
going.

The sand-bank lay before him ; the monnd at
the western extremity was in front of him, not
very far away. The rock which lay at the east-
em end was now at a great distance, for he had
been swept by the current abreast of the island,
and was even now in danger of being carried past
it. Still there was hope, for wind and wave
were blowing directly toward the island, and
there was a chance of his being carried full upon
its shore. Yet the chance was a slender one, for
the set of the tide rather carried him beyond the
hne of the western extremity.

Every minute brought him nearer, and soon
his fate would be decided. Nearer and nearer
he came, still clinging to the hen-coop, and mak-
ing no efforts whatever, but reserving and collect-
ing together all his strength, so as to put it forth
at the final hour of need.

But as he came nearer the island appeared to
move more and more out of the line of his ap-
proach. 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 earned farther away.

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

Beyond this point was another a hundred 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 I'ttle cove ;
but the surf just here became wilder, and long
rollers careered one past another over the inter-
vening space. It was a hopeless prospect. Yet
it was his last chance.

Brandon made up his mind. lie 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 hhn past the

point, and the waves dashed over him more qnick-
ly 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 lie was farther away from
the island than when he had left the hen-coop.
Yet all hope and all life dejtended ujion the issue
of this last effort. The fifteen or twenty min-
utes of rest and of breathing-space which lie had
gained had been of immense advantage, and he
struggled with all the force which could be in-
spired by the nearness of safety. Yet, after all,
Imman efforts can not withstand the fury of the
elements, and here against this strong sea tho
strongest sv/immer could not hope to contend
successfully.

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

He swam toward the shore, but the wind strik-
ing him from one side, and urging on the sea,
drove him sideways, ir^ome progress was made,
but the force of the waters was fearful, and for
every foot that he moved forward 1ie was carried
six feet to leeward. He himself saw this, and
calculating his chances he perceived with despair
that he was already beyond the first ])oint, 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
8w«?ep. Already the rollers lay close beside him
on his left. Then it seemed as though he would
be engulfed. Turning his head backward with
a last faint thought of trying to regain 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 helplessly, and de-
scending carried him with them.

But now at last, as he descended with that
wave, hope came back, and all his despair van-
ished.

For as the wave flung him downward his feet
touched bottom, and he stood for a moment erect,
on solid, hard sand, in water that scarcely reached
above his knees. It was for a moment only that
he stood, however, for the sweep of the water
bore him down, and he fell forward. Before he
could regain himself another wave came and
hurled him farther forward.

By a violent effort he staggered to his feet.
In an instant he comprehended his position. At
this western end the island descended gently
into the water, and the shonl which it formed ex-
tended for miles away. It was this shoal that
caused the long rollers that came over them so
vehemently, and in such marked contrast with
the more abrupt waves of the sea behind.

In an instant he had comprehended this, and
had tiken his course of action.

Now he had foothold. Now the i^round be-
neatn lent its aid to his endeavor ; he w as no lon-
ger altogether at the mercy of the wfcter. He '
bounded forward toward the shore in such a di-
ref:tion that he could approach it without oppos-

CORD AND CREE-5E.

"he staggered up a few paces upon the sandy declivity."

ing himself entirely to the waves. The point
that stretched out was now within his reach.
The waves rolled past it, but by moving in an
obliciue direction he could gain it.

Again and again the high rollers came for-
ward, hurling him up as they caught him in their
embrace, and then casting him down again. As
he was caught up from the bottom he sustained
himself on the moving mass, and supported him-
self on the crest of the wave, but as soon as his
feet touched bottom again he sprang forward to-
ward the point which now became every minute
more accessible. Wave after wave came, each
more furious, each more ravenous than the pre-
ceding, as though hounding one another on to

make sure of their prey. But now that the hope

of life was strong, and safety had grown almost

assured, the deathlike weakness which but short-

! ly before had assailed him gave way to new-bom

! strength and unconquerable resolve.

I At length he reached a place where the rollers

were of less dimensions. His progress became

: more rapid, until at length the water became ex-

i ceedingly shallow, being not more than a foot in

i depth. Here the first point, where the mound

was, protected it from the wind and sea. Tliis

j was the cove which he had noticed. The water

j was all white with foam, but offered scarcely any

j resistance to him. He had but to wade onward

i to the shore.

CORD AND CREESE.

Tliat shore wns -^t lut attained. He stag-
gered up a few paces . pon the sandy declivity,
and then fell down exhaiui^'* upon the ground.

He could not move. ItwasNte; night came
on, hut he lav where he hod falle. until at last
bo fell iiito a u^und nleep.

CHAPTER V.

THE MYSTERY OP COFFIN ISLAND.

When Brandon av>aked on the following
morning the sun was already high in the sky.
He rose at once and walked slowly up, with stifr-
ened limbs, to a higher spot. His clothes already
were partly dry, but they were uncomfortable
and impeded his motion. He took off nearly
every thing, and laid them out on the sand.
Then he examined his pistol and the bo.K con-
taining cartridges. This box held some oil also,
with the help of which the pistol was r-oon in
good order. As the cartridges were encased
in copper they were uninjured. He then exam-
ined a silver case which was suspended round his
neck. It was cylindrical in shape, and the top
unscrewed. On opening this he took out his
father's letter and the inclosure, both of which
were uninjured. He then rolled them up in a
small compass and restored them to their place.

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

At the end where he was the island termina-
ted in two points, between which there was the
cove where he had found refuge. One of these
points was distinguished by the mound already
mentioned, which from where he stood appeared
of an irregular oblong sha-e. The other point
was low, and descended gently into the water.
The island itself appeared to be merely the emerg-
ence of some sand-bank which, perhaps, had
boen foi-med by currents and eddies ; for here
tht currents of the Strait of Sunda encounter
those from 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 drown-
ing only perhaps 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 confine-
ment 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 ai^
accident. As he fell he had heard the shout
" Man overboard !" and was now able to account
for it in this way. So a faint hope remained
that the captain of ihe Java 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 before him. Setting forth he
walked toward the rock along the sea-shore. 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 cov-
ered with stones to which myriads of shell-fish
were attached. The sight of these suggested the
idea to him that on the opposite side there might
be clams in the sand. He walked over there in
search of them. Here the slope was so gradual
that extensive flats were left uncovered by the
receding tide.

When a boy he had been sometimes accus-
tomed to wander on sand flats near his home,
and dig up these clams in sport. Now his boy-
ish experience became useful. Myriads of little
holes dotted the sand, which he knew to be the
indications of these molluscs, and he at once be-
g-an to scoop in the sand with his hands. In a
short time he had found enough to satisfy his
hunger, and what was better, he saw all around
an unlimited supply of such food.

Yet food was not enough. Drink was equally
necessary. The salt of these shell-fish aggrava-
ted the thirst that he had already begun to feel,
and now a fear came over him that there might
be no water. The search seemed a hopeless
one ; but he determined to seek for it neverthe-
less, and the only place that seemed to promise
success was the rock at the eastern end. To-
ward this htj now once more directed his steps.

The island was all of sand except the rocks on
the south beach and the clifl* at tlie eastern end.
Coarse grass grew very extensively over the sur-
face, but the sand wvts fine and loose, and in
many places thrown up into heaps of many dif-
ferent shapes. The grass grew in tufts or in
spires and blades, thinly scattered, and nowhere
forming a sod. The soil was difficult to walk
over, and Brandon soupht the beach, where the
damp sand att'orded a firmer foothold. In about
an hour and a half he reached the rock.

It was between five hundred and (fix hundred
feet in length, and about fifty in height. There
was no resemblance to a coffin now as Brandon
approachetl it, for that likeness was only discern-
ible at a distance. Its sides were steep and pre-
cipitous. It was one black solid mass, without
any outlying crags, or any fragments near it.
Its upper surface appeared to be level, and in
various places it was very easy to ascend. . Up
one of these places Brandon cUmbed, and soon
stood on the top.

Near him the summit was somewhat rounded ;
at the farther end it was flat and irregular ; but
between the two ends it sank into a deep hollow,
where he saw that which at once excited a tu-
mult of hope and fei^r. It was a pool of water
at least fifty feet in diameter, and deep too, since
the sides of the rock went down steeply. But
was it fresh or salt ? Was it the accumulation
from ^he showers of the rainy seasoa of the trop-
ics, or was it but the result of the past night's

CORD AND CREESE.

•tomt, which had hurled wave after wave here
till the hollow was tilled ?

With haaty footste]m he rushed toward the
margin of the pool, and bent down to taste. For
a moment or ho, hy a very natural feeling, ho
beititated, then, throwing off the fever of sus-
pense, he bent down, kneeling on the margir.,
till hia lips touched the wuter.

It was fresh! Yes. it w»i from the heavens
above, and not from the sea below. It was the
fresh rains from the sky that had filled this deep
pool, and not the spray from the seii. Again and
again he quaffed the refreshing liijuid. Not a
trace of the salt-water could be detected. It
was a natural cistern which thus luy Insfore him,
formed as though for the reception of the ruin.
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 Bran-
don had put fortli, and the thought that for the
I)resent, at least, he v.iw snfo did not fail to fill
iiim with the most buoyant hope. To him, in-
deed, it seemed just then as if nothing more could
be desired. He had food and drink in abund-
once. In that climate shelter was scarcely need-
ed. What more could he wish ?

The first day was passed in exploring the rock
to see if there was any place which he miglit select
for his abode. There were several fissures in the
rock at the eastern end, and one of these he se-
lected. 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 ho-
rizon 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
tlie China ships, but still not very much so. An
adverse wind might bring a ship close by. The
hope of this sustained him.

Hut day succeeded to day and week to week
with no appearance of any thing wliatever on the
wide ocean.

During these long days he passed the greater
part of his time either under the shelter of the
rock, where he could best avoid the hot sun, or
when the sea-breeze blew on its summit. The
frightful solitude offered to him absolutely no-
thing which could distract his thoughts, or pre-
vent him from brooding upon the hopelessness
of his situation.

Brooding thus, it became his chief occupation
to read over and over his father's letter and the
inclosure, and conjecture 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 roodidate themselves, to form their
pounds 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 Ogj'gian shore,
he too wasted away with home-sickness.

Karii^tTO ck yXviei's aiijjv voarov oSvpontvif).

Fate thns far had been against him, and the

melancholy recollections of his post life conid

vield nothing but des|)ondency. Driven froi :
home when but a l)oy, he had become an exile,
had wandered to the other side of the world, and
was just beginning to attniii some pro)i))ect 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 over-
mastering force, and this last stroke had Iwen
the worst of all. Could he rally after this'/
Could he now Iiojks to escape ?

Fate had been against hiin; but yet, perhaps,
here, on this lonely i.shind, he might find a tuni-
ing-|Mjint. Here lie might find that turning in
the long lane which the jiroverb speaks of. ' ' The
day is darkest before the mom, " and perhaps 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 conscious-
ness of utter solitude comes that the soul sinks.
When the prisoner thinks that he is forgotten by
the outside world, then he loses that strength
which sustained him while he believed himself
remembered.

It was the lot of Brandon to have this sense
of utter desolation ; to feel that in all the world
there was not one human being that knew of his
fate ; and to fear that the eye of Providpnce only
saw him with indifference. With bitterness he
thought of the last words of his father's letter:
" If in that other world to which I am going the
disembodied sjiiiit can assist man, then be sure,
() my son, I will assist you, and in the crisis
of your fate I will be near, if it is only to com-
municate to your spirit what you ought to do."

A melancholy smile passed over his face as ha
thought of what seemed to him the utter futility
of that promise.

Now, as the weeks passed, his whole mode of
life affected both mind and body. Yet, if it be
the highest state of man for the soul to live by
itself, as Socrates used to teach, and sever itself
from bodily association, Brandon surely had at-
tained, without knowing it, a most exalted stage
of existence. Perhaps it was the period of pu-
rification and preparation for future work.

The weacher varied incessantly, calms and
storms alternating ; sometimes all the sea 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
any where.

The wind gathered itself up from the south-
east, and for a whole day the forces df the tem-
pest collected themselves, till at last they burst
in fury upon the island. In sustained violence
and in the frenzy of its assault it far surpassed
that first storm. Before sundown the storm was
at its height, and, though yet day, the clouds
were so dense and so black that it became like
night. Night came on, and the storm, and roar,
and darkness increased steadily every hour. So
intense was the darkness that the hand, when
held close by the face, could not be distingiushed.
So resistless was the force of the wind that Bran-
doi:, on looking out to sea, had to cling to the

CORD AND CREESE.

rock to prevent himself from lieint; blown awav.
A denMe ruin of Mpray streamed through the
air, aiul the §urf, rolling up, flung iu crcat all
arroHit the island. Brandon roiild hear l)«neath
him, amidst Home of the i)au.'<ei* of the storm, the
hi.-ixingnnd hubhlingof foaming waters, ax though
the whole inland, Kubmerged by the waveit, wim
slowly settling down into the depths of the mean.

Brandon'ri place of shelter was sufficiently el-
evated to be out of the reach of the waves that
might rush u]K>n the land, and on the lee-side of
the rock, so that he was sufficiently protected.
Sand, which he hud earned up, formed his lied.
In this place, which was more like the lair of a
wild beast than the alxMle of a human l>eing, he
had to live. Moiiy wakeful nights he had pa.tsed
there, but never had he known such a night as
thi.s.

There was a frenzy about this hurricane that
would have been inconceivable 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,
looking out through the gloom his sight seemed
to discern 8hai>es flitting by like lightning, as
though the fubled 8])irits of the storm had gath-
ere<l 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 throng-
ing 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 suttering and grief,
in front of his cave. He covered his eyes with
his hands, and sought to reason down his super-
stitious feeling. In vain. Words rang in his
ears, muffled words, as though muttered in the
storm, and bis 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. 80 the night passed until at last the
storm had exhausted itself. Then Brandon sank
down and slept far on into the day.

When he awaked again the storm had sub-
sided. 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 any thing, until at length he turned
to look in a westwardly direction where the isl-
and spread out before him. Here an amazing
sight met his eyes.

The mound at the other end had become com-
pletely and marvelously changed. On the pre-
vious day it had preserved its usual shape, but
now it was no longer smoothly rounded. On the
contrary it was irregular, the northern end be-
ing still a sort of hillock, but the middle and
southern end was flat on the surface and dark in
color. From the distance at which he stood it i
looked like a rock, around which the sand had I
accimiulated, but which had been uncovered by
the violent storm of the preceding night.

At that distance it appeared like a rock, but

there was something in its thapa and in iti po-
sition which made it hnik 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 nt last, unable to endure this itus-
I)en*c, he hurried off in that direction.

During all the time that he had l>een on tho
island he had never Iwen close to the mound.
He had remained for tho most part in the neigh-
borhood of the riH'k, and had never thougirt that
a barren sand hillock was wofthy of a vii^it.
But now it ap|)eared a veiy different object in hit
eyes.

He walked on over half the intervening dis-
tance, and now the resemblance instead of fading
out, as he anticiuuted, grew more close. It was
still ttH) far to !)« hoen very distinctly ; but there,
even from that distance, he saw the unmistaka-
ble outline of a ship's hull.

There was now scarcely any doubt about this.
There it lay. Every step only made it more vis-
ible. He walked more quickly onward, filled
with wonder, and marveling 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
shore. To him it was certain that it must have
been there for a long time, and that the sand
had been heaped around it by successive storms.

Ashe walked nearer he regarded more closely
the formation of this western end. He saw the
low northern point, and then the cove where he
had escaped from the sea. He noticed that the
southern point where the mound was appeared
to be a sort of peninsula, and the theory sug-
gested itself to him by which he could account
for this wonder. This ship, he saw, must have
been wrecked at some time long before upon this
island. As the shore was shallow it bad run
aground and stuck fast in the sand. But suc-
cessive storms had continued to beat upon it un-
til the moving sands which the waters were con-
stantly driving about had gathered all around it
higher and higher. At last, in the course of
time, a vast accumulation had gathered about
this obstacle till a new bank had been formed
and joined to the island ; and the winds had lent
their aid, heaping up the loose sand on high till
all the ship was covered. But last night's storm
had to some extent 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 any thing about
the construction and nattu'e of sand islands such
as this are aware that the winds and waters work
perpetual changes. The best known example of
this is the far-famed Sable Island, which lies off'
the coast of Nova Scotia, in the direct track of
vessels crossing the Atlantic between England
and the United States. Here there is repeated
on a far larger scale the work which Brandon
saw on Coffin Island. Sable Island is twenty
miles long and about one in width — the crest of
a vast heap of sand which rises out of the ocean's
bed. Here the wildest storms in the world rage
uncontrolled, and the keeper^ of the light-house
have but little shelter. Not long ago an enormotis
flag-staff" was torn from out its place and hurled

CORD AND CREESK

'•CHEAT HKAVENS!" CBIED BRANDON, STARTING HACK — " THE 'viSHSUl'"

away into the sea. in fierce storms the spray
drives all across, and it is impossible to venture
out. But most of all. Sable Island is famous
for the melancholy wrecks that have taken place
there. Often vessels that have the bad fortune
to nin aground are broken up, but sometimes the
sand gathers about them and covers them up.
'I'here are numerous mounds here which are
known to conceal wrecked ships. Some of these
have been opened, and the wreck beneath has
been brought to view. Sometimes also after a
severe gale these sandy mounds are torn away
and the buried vessels are exposed.

Far away in Australia Brandon had heard of
Sable Island from different sea captains who had

.-jen in the Atlantic trade. The stories which
these men had to tell were all largely tinged with
the supernatural. One in particular who had
been wrecked there, and had taken refuge for the
night in a hut built by the British Government
for wrecked sailors, told some wild storj- about
the apparition of a negro who waked him up at
dead of night and nearlj' killed him with horror.

With all these thoughts in his mind Brandon
approached the wreck and at last stocKl close be-
side it.

It had been long buried. The hull was about
two-thirds uncovered. A vast heap of sand still
dung to the bow, but the stern stood out full in
view. Although it must have been there for a

COKD AND CREESE.

long time the planks were iitill Mund, for thoy
tteumed to have l>een preserved from decay by
the sand. All the ralkin);, however, had be-
come louse, and the seams gitfied widely. There
were no musts, but the lower part of the shrouds
still rcmuined, showing that (he vessel was a
\ttig. So deejily was it buried in the sand, that
lirandon, from where he stood, could look over
the whole deck, he himself l>eing almost on a
level with the deck. The musts appeared to have
been chopped away. The hatchways were gone.
The hold api)eared to be filled with sand, but
there mny have been only a layer of sand con-
cciiling something beneath. I'nrt of the plunk-
ing of the deck us well as most of the taflruil on
the other side hud l)cen carried away. Astern
there was a quarter-deck. There was no sky-
light, but only dead-lights set on the deck. The
door of the cabin still remained and was shut
tight. .

All these things nrandon took in at a glance.
A |>ensive melancholy came over him, and a feel-
ing of pity for the inanimate ship as though she
were capable of feeling. By a natiind curiosity
lie walked around to the stern to see if he coulil
reud her name.

The stem was buried deep in tho sand. He
had to kneel to read it. On the side nertrest
him the letters were obliterated, but he ?aw some
remaining on the opposite side. He went over
there and knelt down. There were four letters
still legible and part of a fifth. These were the
letters :

VISH^

'•Great Heavens!' cried Brandon, starting
back— "the i'Mnu!"

CHAPTER VI.

THB DWELLER IN THE SUNKEN SHIP.

After a moment of horror 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 — the Vishnu f By
what marvelous 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 so,
how did it get here ?

Yet why not ? As to its preservation that was
no matter in itself for wonder. East Indian ves-
sels are sometimes built of mahogany, or other
woods which lust for immense periods. Anv
wood . ■ -ht endure for eighteen years if covered
up by sa ' Besides, this vessel he recollected
had been . lei with staves and bo.\ shocks, with
"''•:r woou materials which would keep it
t- It m t have drifted about these seas

till tnt •'•onf bore it here. After all it was
not so wonuv. hat this should be the Vishnu
of Colonel Desj 1.

The true mj.. el 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 priva-
tions 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

thousand ttninge fancie*. 'I'lie duMd iloont of
the cabin stood there Itefore him, and h« l)egaii
to imagine that some fri(,-htful s))ectttcle was cun-
ceale«l within.

I'erhaps he would find some tnu-es of that
tragedy of which be hud heard, ^ince tho ship
had come here, and he hod l>cen cast usiiore to
meet it, there was nothing which he miglu not
anticipate.

A strange horror came over him as he looked
at the cabin. But he was not the man to yield
tu idle fimcies. Taking a long breath he walke<l
across the island, and then buck again. By th.it
time he had completely recovered, and the only
feeling now remaining was one of intense cun-
osity.

This time he went up without hesitation, and
c-limbed on board the vessel. The stmd was
hea|)ed up astern, the masts gone, and the hatch-
ways torn oft, as has been said. The wind which
had blown the sand away had swept tho decks w»
clean as though they had been bolv-stoned. Not
a ro|)e or a spar or any movable of any kind
cotdd be seen.

He walked aft. He tried the cabin door, it
was wedged fust as though jtart of the front.
Finding it immovable he stepi)ed buck and kicked
at it vigorously. A few sturdy kicks started the
panel. It gradually yielded and sank in. Then
the other panel followed. He could now look in
and see thai the sand lay inside to the de]>th of
a foot. As yet, however, he could not enter.
There was nothing else to do except to kick at it
till it was all knocked away, and this after somo
patient labor was accomi)lished.

He entered. The cabin was about twelve feet
square, lighted by dead-lights in the deck above.
On each side we.i two state-rooms, probably in-
tended for the ship's oflScers. The doors we.e
all open. The sand had drifted in here and
covered the floor and the berths. 'I'he floor of
the cabin was covered with sand to the depth of
a foot. There wns no large opening through
which it could enter ; but it had probably pene-
trated through the cracks of the doorway in a
fine, impalpable dust, and had covered every
available surface within.

In the centre of the cabin was a table, secured
to the floor, as ships' tables alwoys are ; and im-
mediately over it hung the barometer which was
now all corroded and coversd with mould and
rust. A half dozen stools were around, some
lying on their sides, some upside down, and one
standing upright. The door by which he had
entered was at one side, on the other side was
another, and between the two stood a sofa, the
shape of which was jilainly discernible under the
sand. Over this was a clock, which had ticked
it& last tick.

On some racks over the closet there were a few
guns and swords, intended, perhaps, for the de-
fensive armament of the brig, but all in the la.st
stage of rust and of decay. Brandon took one
or two down, but they broke with their own
weight.

The sand seemed to have drifted more deeply
into the state-rooms, for while its depth in the
cabin was only a foot, in these the depth was
nearly two feet. Some of the l)etlding projected
from the l)ertlis, but it was a mass of mould and
crumbled at the touch.

Brandon went into each of these rooms iu sac-

CORD AND CREESE.

cession, and brnshed ont the heavy, wet sand from
the berths. The rotten quilts and blankets fell
with the sand in matted masses to the floor. In
each room was a seaman's chest. Two of these
were covered deeply ; the other two bL^ lightly :
the latter were unlocked, and he opened the Uds.
Only some old clothes appeared, hov/ever, and
these in the same stage of decay as every thing
else. In one of them was a book, or rather
■vhat 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 care-
ful search he had thus far found nothing what-
ever 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 first the one nearest him,
which was on the right 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 telescops was the first thing which
attracted his attention. It lay in a rack near
the doorway. He took it down, but it tell apart
at once, being completely corroded. In the mid-
dle 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 gui.s
and swords were here, but all rusted like the
others. There was a table at the wall by the
stem, covered with sand. An arm-chair stood
close by it, and opposite this was a couch. At
the end of this room was a berth which had the
same appearance as the other berths in the other
rooms. The quilts and mattresses as he felt
them beneath the damp sand were equally de-
cayed. Too long h;id the ship been exposed to
the ravages of time, and Brandon saw that to
seek for any thing hsre which could be of the
slightest service to himself was in the highest
degree useless.

This last room seemed to him as though it
might have been the captain's. That ca[)tain
was CJgole, 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.
But 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 doonvay 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 adventure would be in vain.
Then the fantastic hopes and fears which by turns
had agitated him would prove to have been ab-
surd, 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 came upon
him full and strong. Weakness and e.xcitement
made his heart beat and his ears ring. Now his
fancy became wild, and he recalled with painful
vividness his father's words :

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

The horrors of the past night recurred. The
air of the cabin was close and suffocating. There
seemed in that dark room before him some dread
Presence, he knew not what ; some Being, who
had uncovered this his abode and enticed him
here.

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 over-
come 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 up his
strength. He could bear it no longer. He turned
abruptly and rushed out from the damp, gloomy
pla'-e into the warm, bright sunshine and the free
air of heaven.

The air was bright, the wind blew fregh. He
drank in great draughts of that delicious breeze,
and the salt sea seemed to be inhaled at each
breath.

The sun shone brilliantly. The sea rolled afar
and all around, and sparkled before him under
the sun's rays with that infinite laughter, that
avripiOiiov ykXaana of which JEschylus spoke in
his deep love of the salt sea. Speaking i)aren-
thetically, it may be said that the only ones from
among articulate speaking men wlio 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 l:e entered
that cabin the spell would be on l.im. The
thought of attempting it was intolerable. Yet
what was to be done ? To remain unsatisfied
was equally intolerable. To go back to hib rock
was not to be thought of.

But an effort must be made to get rid of this
womanly fear ; why should he yield to this ? Sure-
ly there were other thoughts which he might call
to his mind. There came over him the memory
of that villain who had cast him here, who now
was exulting in his fancied success and bearing
back to his master tlie rews. There came to
him the thought of his father, and his wrongs,
and his woe. There came to his memory his
father's dying words summoning him to venge-
ance. There came to him the thought of those
who yet lived and suffered in England, at the
mercy of a pitiless enemy. Should he falter at
a superstitious fancy, he — who, if he lived, had
so great a purpose ?

All superstitious fancy laded away. The thirst
for revenge, the sense of intolerable wrong arose.
Fear and horror died out utterly, destroyed by
Vengeance.

"The Pre?'ince, then, is my ally," he mur-
mured. " I will go and face It."

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

Yet even then it needed all the new-bom res-
olution which he had summoned up, and nil the
thought of his wrong, to sustain him as he en-
tered that inner room. Even then a shai'fi thrill
passed through him, and bodily weakness could
only be sustained by the strong, resolute, stub-
bom soul.

The room was about the size of the captain's.

CORD AND CREESE.

'THURE SEEMED A GHASTLY COMICALITY IN SUCH / THING A8 THIS, ETC.

There was a table agijinst the side, which looked
like a leaf which could hang down in case of ne-
cessity. 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 the shoulders, the rest having
a])parently fallen awav from decay. The color
of the co:;t could still be distinguished ; it was
red, and tlie epaulets showed that it had belr.nged
to a Hritish oftii-er.

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

There It awaited nim. on the berth. Sand
had covered it, like a coverlet, up to the neck,
*hile beyond that protruded the head. It
was turned toward him ; a bony, skeleton head,
whose hollow cavities seemed not altogether va-
cancy but rather dark eyes which looked gloom-
ily at biin dark eyes fixed, motionless ; which
had HcHMi thus fixed through the long years,
watcliinif wi^tfi.lly for him, expecting his en-
trance through that doorway. And this was the

Being who nad 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 motion-
less, mute. The face was turned toward iiim —
that face which is at once human and yet most
frightful, since 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 flesliless
face here seemed like an effort at a smile of wel-
come.

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

"The nightmare Life-hi-Death was he.
That thicks men'? Wood with cold."

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

If that Form had suddenly thrown oflF its
sandy coverlet and risen to his feet, and advanced
with extended hand to meet him. he would not
have been surprised, nor would he have been one
whit more horror-stricken.

Brandon stood fixed. He could not move.

CORD AND CREESE.

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 tremendous pressure he did not altogether
sink. Slowly his spirit rose ; a thought of flight
came, but it was instantly rejected. The next
moment he drew a long breath. " I'm an in-
fernal fool and coward," he muttered. He took
three steps forward, and stood beside the^igure.
He laid his hand firmly upon the head ; the hair
fell off at his touch. "Poor devil," said he,
"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 hor-
ror left. He had encounteied what he dreaded,
and it was now in bis eyes only a mass ot bones.
Yet there was much to think of, and the struggle
which had raged within 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 skekton and bury it.

A flat board which had served as a shelf sup-
plied 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 which h» 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 something hard. He
could not see in that -Vim light what it was, so
he read ed down his hand and grasped it.

It was something which the fingers of the
skeleton also encircled, for his own hand as he
grasped it touched tlwse fingers. Drawing it
tbrth he perceived that it was a common junk
bottle tightly corked.

There seemed a gh.istly comicality in such a
thing as this, that this lately dreaded Being
should be nothing more than a common skele-
ton, and that he should be discovered in this
bed of horror doing nothing more dignified than
clutching a junk bottle like a sleeping drunkard.
Brandon smiled faintly at the idea; and then
thinking that, if the liquor weie good, it at
least would be welconve to him in his present
situation. He walked out ni)oii the deck, in-
tending to open it and test its contents. So he
«at down, and, taking his knife, he pushed the
cork in. Then he smelled tlie 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 v.'hen it was first made. He
took it up carefully, wondering why such a thing
as this should have been so carefully sealed up
and preserved when so many other things had
been neglected.

The cord, on a close examination, presented

nothing very remarkable except the fact that,
though very thin, it appeared to have been not
twisted but plaited in a very peculiar manner
out of many fine strands. The intention had
evidently been to give to it the utmost possible
strength together with the smallest size. Bran-
don had heard of cords used by Malays and
Hindus for assassination, and this seemed like
the description which he had read of them.

At one end of the cord was a piece of bronze
about the size of a common marble, to which
the cord was attached by a most peculiar knot.
The bronze itself was intended to represent the
head of some Hindu idol, the grotesque ferocity
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 hav-
ing been perpetrated in the names of these fright-
ful deities, and it seemed now to be more than a
common one. He carefully wound it up, placed
it in his pocket, 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 VIL

MANUSCRIPT FOUND IN A BOTTLE.
" BbIG ' VlSUNir,' APEIFT IN THE CuiNEBB SeA.

July 10, 1828.

"Whoever finds this let him know that I,
Lionel Despard, Colonel of H. M. 3"th Regi-
ment, have been the victim of a foul conspiracy
performed against me by the captain and crew
of the brig Vishnu, and especially by my servant,
John Potts.

"Expecting at any time to perish, adrift help-
lessly, at the mercy of winds and waves, I sit
down now before I die, to write all the circum-
stances of this affair. I will inclose the manu-
script in a bottle and fling it into the sea, trust-
ing in God that he may cause it to be borne to
those who maj' be enabled to read my words, so
that they may know my fate and bring the guilty
to justice. Whoever finds this let him, if possi-
ble, have it sent to my friend, Ralph JJrandon,
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.

"In 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 182G. The Government
was engaged in an eft'ort to put down bands of
assassins by whom the most terrific atrocities had
been committed, and I was appointed to conduct
the work in the district of Agi'a.

"The Thuggee society is still a mystery,
though its nature may yet be revealed if they can
only ca])ture the diief* and make him confess.
As yet it is not fully known, and though I have

• The chief was captured In lS.^o, and by his con-
fession all the atrocious system of Thuggee was re-
vealed. '.

CORD AND CREESE.

heard much which I have reported to the Got-
emment, 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 manelous 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 at-
tack the Hindus made a desperate resistance,
and killed themselves rather than fall into our
hands ; but the European, leading for\vard the
little boy, fell on his knees and implored us to
save him.

" I had heard that an Englishman had joined
these WTetches, and at first thought that this was
the man ; so, desirous of capturing him, 1 or-
dered my men whenever they found him to spare
his life if possible. This man was at once seized
and brought before me.

" He had a piteous story to tell. He said 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 ottered to spare his life if he would join
them. According to him they always make tliis
offer. If it had only been himself that was con-
cerned he said that he would have died a hun-
dred 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 son, on the inner part
of the right elbow, the name oi' Bowhani in
Hindu characters. Potts showed me his arm
and that of his son in proof of this.

" He had been with them, according to his
own account, about three months, and his life
had been one continuous horior. He had picked
up enough of their language to conjecture fi some
extent the nature of their belief, which, he assert-
ed, would be most important information for the
Government. The Thugs had treated him very
kindly, for they looked upon him as one of them-
selves, and they are all very humane and affec-
tionate to one another. His worst fear had been
that they would compel him to do murder ; and
he would have died, he declared, rather than con-
sent ; but, fortunately, he was spared. The rea-
son of this, he said, was because they always do
their murder by strangling, since the shedding
of blood is not acceptable to their divinity. He
could not do this, for it requires great dexterity.
Almost all their strangling is done by a thin,
strong cord, curiously twisted, about six feet in
length, with a weight at one end, generally carved
so as to represent the face of Bowhani. This
they throw with a peculiar jerk around the neck
of their victim. The weight swings the cord
round and round, while the strangler pulls at
the other end, and death is inevitable. His
hands, lie said, were coarse and clumsy, unlike
the delicate 1 iindu hands ; and so, although they
forced him to practice incessantly, he could not
learn, lie said nothing about the boy, but, from
what I saw of that boy afterward, 1 believe that
nature created him especially to be a Thug, and
have no doubt that he learned then to wield the
cord >vith as much dexterity as the best strangler
of them all.

"His associr.iion with them had shown him
much of their ordinary habits and some of their
beliefs. I gathered from what he said that the
basis of the Thugse« society is the v.'cr«htn of
Bowhani, a frightful d2mon, whose highest joy
is the sight of death or dead bodies. Those who
are her disciples must offer up human victims
killed without the shedding of blood, and the
more he can kill the more of a saint he becomes.
The motive for this is never gain, for they rarely
plunder, but purely religious zeal The reward
is an immortality of bliss hereafter, which Bow-
hani will secure them ; a life like that of the Mo-
hammedan Paradise, where there are material
joys to be possessed forever without satiety.
Destruction, which begins as a kind of duty, be-
comes also at last, and naturally perhaps, an ab-
sorbing passion. As the hunter in pursuing his
prey is carried away by excitement and the en-
thusiasm of the chase, or, in hunting the tiger,
feels the delight of braving danger and displaying
courage, so here that same passion is felt to an
extraordinary degree, for it is Juan that must be
pursued and destroyed. Here, in addition to
courage, the hunter of man must call into exer-
cise cunning, foresight, eloquence, intrigue. All
this I afterward brought to the attention of the
Government with very good results.

"Potts declared that night and day he had
been on the watch foe a chance to escape, 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 hopeless.
He had fallen into deep dejection, and concluded
that his only hope la^ in the efforts of the Gov-
ernment to put down these assassins. Our ap-
pearance had at last saved him.

" Neither I, nor any of my men, nor any En-
glishman who heard this story, doubted for an
instant the truth of every word. All the news-
papers mentioned with delight the fact that an En-
glishman and his son had been rescued. Pity was
felt for that fiitlier who, forhis son's sake, had con-
sented to dwell amidst scenes of terror, and sym-
pathy 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 hiui by
the ofBcers at Agra.

"For my part I believed in him most im-
plicitly, and, as I saw him to be unusually
clever, I engaged him at once to be my serv-
ant. He staid with me, and every month won
more and more of my confidence. He had a
good head for business. Matters of considerable
delicacy which I intrusted to him were well per-
formed, and at last I thought it the most fortu-
nate 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 liad always been my detestation —
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
i not let the little devil live in my house ; his cru-

CORD AND CREESK

elty to animals which he delighted to torture,
his thieving propensities, and his infernal deceit,
were all so intolerable. He was not more than
twelve, but he was older in iniquity than many
a grny-headed villain. To oblige Potts, whom
I still trusted implicitly, I wrote to my old friend
Ralph Brandon, of Brandon Hall, Devonshire,
requesting him to do what he could for so de-
serving a man.

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

"My sweet wife had been ill for two years.
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 reinvigorate 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 tiy from my
unendurable grief. I wished to get away from
India any where. Before the blow crushed me I
hoj)ed that I might carry my dai-ling 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 go-
ing to Maiiilhi 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 carrj--
ing out his designs on me. To give every thing
a fair api)earance the vessel was laden with store?
and things of that sort, for which there was a
demand at Manilla. It was with the most per-
fect 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 named Cigole, a
low-browed, evil-faced villain. The mate was
named Clark. There were three I^ascars, who
formed the small crew. Potts came with me,
and also an old servant of mine, a Malay, whose
life I had saved years before. His name was
Uracao. It struck me tliat the crew was a small
one, but 1 thought the caj)tain knew his business
better than I, and so I gave myself no concern.

" After we embarked Potts's manner changed
very greatly. I remember this now, though I
did not n(.:ice it at the time, for I was almost in
a kind of stupor. He was ])avticuhirly insolent
to Uracao. I remember once thinking indiffer-
ently that Potts would have to be reprimanded,
or kicked, or something of that sort, but was not
capable of any action.

" Uracao had for years slept in front of my
door when at home, and, when traveling, in the
same room. He always waked at the slightest
noise. He regarded his life as mine, and thought
that he was bound to watch over me till I died.
Although this was often inconvenient, yet it would
have broken the affeoionate fellow's heart if I
had forbidden it, so it went on. Potts made an
effort to induce him to sleep fonvard among the
Lascars, but though Uracao had borne insolence
from him without a murmur, this proposal made
his eyes kindle with a menacing fire which si-
lenced 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 by a tremendous strnggle in my cabin.
Starting nij, I saw in the gloom two figures
struggling desperately. It was impossible to see
who they were. 1 sprang from the berth and
felt for my jnstols. 'I'hey were gone.

" ' What the devil is tliis ?' 1 roared fiercely.

" No answer came ; but the next moment there
was a tremendous fall, and one of the men clung
to the other, whom he held downward. I sprang
from my berth. There were low voices out in
the cabin.

" 'You can't,' said one voice, which I recog-
nized as Clark's. ' He has his j.'istols.'

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

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

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

" 'What the devil is the matter?' I cried, an-
grily, for I had not even yet a suspicion.

" 'Peel around j'our neck,' said lie.

" Hastily I i)ut my hand up. A thrill of hor-
ror passed through me. It was the Thuggee cord.

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

"' Potts, ' cried Uracao. 'Your j.istols are
under your berth. Quick ! Potts tried to stran-
gle you. There's a plot. The Lascars are Thugs.
I saw the mark on their arms, the name of Bow-
hani in Hindu letters.'

"All the truth now seemed to flash across me.
I lea))ed back to the berth to look under it f ;r
my pistols. As I stooped there was a rush be-
hind me.

" ' Help ! Clark ! Quick !' cried the voice of
Potts. ' This devil's strangling me !'

"At this a tumult arose round the two men.
Uracao was dragged oft". Potts rose to his feet.
At that moment I found my pistols. I could
not distinguish persons, but I ran the risk and
fired. A sharp cry followed. Somebody was
wounded.

" ' Damn him !' cried Potts, ' he's got the pis-
tols. '

"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 tramp-
ling to and fro, but had no idea whatever of
what was going on. I felt indignation at the
treachery of Potts, who, I now jierceived, had
deceived me all along, but had no fear whatever
of any thing that might happen. Death was
rather grateful than otherwise. Still 1 determ-
ined to sell my life as dearly as possible, and,
loading my pistol once more, I waited for them
to come. The only anxiety which 1 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 foot-
steps. I waited for what seemed hours in im-
patience, until finally I could endure it no lon-
ger. I was not going to die like a dog. but de-
termined at all hazards to go out anned, fac*i
them, aud meet my doom at once.

CORD AND CREESE.

"A few ^-igorous kicks at the door broke it
opeu and I walked out. There •■vas no one in
the cabi'.i. I went out on deck. There was no
one there. I saw it all. I was deserted. More ;
the brig had settled down so low in the water
that the sea was up to her gunwales. I looked
out over the ocean to see if i could perceive any
trace of them — Potts and the rest. I saw no-
thing. They must have left long before. A faint
smoke in the hatchway attracted my attention.
Looking there, I perceived that it had been burn-
ed away. The viiiiuns had evidently tried to
scuttle the brig, and then, to make doubly sure,
had kindled a fire on the cargo, thinking that
the wooden materials of which it was composed
would kindle readily. But the water had rush-
ed in too rapidly for the flames to spread ; never-
theless, 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 iny part I did not much care. I had no
desire to go to Manilla or any where 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. Instead of that I
lived.

"She died on June 15. It was the 2d of
Juiy when tliis occurred which I have narrated.
It is now the lOth. For a week I liuve been
drifting I know not where. I have seen no land.
There are enough provisions and water on board
to sustain mc for months. The weather has
been fine thus far.

"I have written this with tiie wish that who-
ever may find it will send it to Ralph Brandon,
Esq. , of Brandon Hall, Devonshire, 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 any one going to England let it be de-
livered to him as above, but if the finder be going
to India let him place it in the hands of the Gov-
ernor-Genoral ; if to China or any other place,
let him give it to the authorities, enjoining them,
however, after using it, to send it to Ralph
Brandon as above.

"It will be seen by this that John Potts was
in connection with the Thugs, probably fur the
sake of plundering those whom they murdered ;
that he conspired against me and tried to kill
me ; and that he has wrought my death (for I
expect to die). An examination of my desk
r-hows that he has taken papers and bank bills
to the amount of four thousand pounds with
him. It was this, no doubt, that induced him
to make this attempt against me. ,

" I desire also hereby to appoint Henry Thorn-
ton, Sen., Esq., of Holby Pembroke, Solicitor,
my executor and the giiardian of my son Court-
enay, to wiom I bequeath a fiithers blessing
and all th tt I possess. Let him try to secure
my money in v'^ape Town for my boy, and, if
possible, to regain for him the four thousand
jKJunds which Potts has carried oflT.

"Along with this manuscript I also inclose
the strangling cord.

"May God have mercy ui)on my soul!
Amen.

"Lionel Deupakd."

"July 28. — Since I wrote this there 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 visjble at a great
distance on the south. I know not what laud it
may be. I can not tell in what direction I am
drifting.

'■''August 2. — Land visible toward tlie south-
we.st. It seems like the summit of a range of
mountains, and is probably fifty miles distant.

^' Atujust '). — A sail apjjeared on tiie lioiizon.
It was too distant to perceive me. It passed out
of sight.

'■'■ August 10. — A series of severe giiles. The
sea always rolls over the brig in these stonns,
and sometimes seems about to carry her tlown,

'^^ August 20. — Storms and calms alternating.
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 can not see. I remem-
ber Potts telling me that she was built of mahog-
any and copper-fastened. She does not iijijjear
to be much injured. I am exceedingly weak
from ivant and exposure. It is witli difiieulty
that I can move about.

" October 2. — Three months adrift. My God
have mercy on me, and .nake haste to deliver
me I A storrn is rising. Let all Thy waves
and billows ovenvhelm me, O Lord !

" October r>. — A terrific storm. Eaged 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 rush-
ing 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 bless-
ing 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 \cas the last. The concluding pages of
the manuscript were scarcely legible. The en-
tries were meagre and formal, but the hand-
writing spoke of the darkest despair. What
agonies had this man not endured during those
three months!

Brandon folded up the manuscript reveren-
tially, and put it into his pocket. lie then
went back into the cabin. Taking the bony
skeleton hand he exclaimed, in a solemn voice,
"In the name of God, if I am saved, I swear to
do your bidding!"

He next proceeded to perform the last officeg
to the remains of Colonel Despard. On remov-
ing 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 off.

It was a painting on enamel, which was as
bright as when made — the portrait of a beauti-
ful woman, with pensive eyes, and delicate, in-
tellectual expression; and appeared as though

CORD AND CREESE.

THREE MONTHS ADRIFT.

It might have heen worn around the Colonel's
neck. Bramlon sighed, then putting tliis in his
pocket with the manuscript he proceeded to his
task. In an liour the remains were buried in
the grave on CofBn Ishmd.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE SIGNAL OB' FIRE.

The wreck oroke in upon the monotony of
Brandon's island lii'e and changed the current
of liis thoughts. 'I'iie revelations contained in
Despard's manuscript cunie with perfect novelty
to his mind. I'otts. liis enemy, now stood be-
fore him in darker colors, the foulest of miscre-
ants, one who had descended to an association
with Thuggee, one who bore on his arm the
dread mark of Bowhani. Against such an en-
emy as this he would have to be wary. If this
enemy suspected his existence could he not read-
ily find means to effect his destruction for-
ever ? Who coidd tell what mysterious allies this
man might have ? Cigole had tracked and fol-
lowed him with the jiatience and vindictiveness
of a blood-hound. There might be many such
as he, He sa-,v plainly 'that if he ever escaped
his first and highest necessity would be to work
in secret, to conceal his true name, and to let
it be supposed that Lonis Brandon had been
drowned, while another name would enable him
to do what he wished.

The message of I^csjiavd was now a sacred
legacy to himself The duty which the murdered
man had imjiosed upon his father must now be
inherited by him. Even this could scarcely add
to the obligations to vengeance under which he
already lay ; yet it freshened his passion und
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 shoveling out the sand
from the cavern with a board. In the cool of
the morning or evening he 'vorked 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
abouf and scattered loosely in the hold of the
vessel. He did this with a purpose, for he looked
fonvard to the time when some ship might pasa,
and it woidd then be necessary to attract her at-
tention. There was no way of doing so. He
had no pole, and if he had it might not be no-
ticed. A fire would be the surest way of draw-
ing attenti-n, and all this wood gave him the
means cf building one. He scattered it about

CORD AND CREESE.

on the Eand, so thnt it might dry in the hot
Kun.

Yet it was also necessarj' to have some sort of
a signal to elevate in case of need. He had no-
thing but a knife to work with ; yet patient ef-
fort will do much, and after about a week he had
cut away the rail that ran along the (juarter-deck,
which gave him a jiole some twenty feet in length.
The nails that fastened the boards were all rust-
ed so that they could not be used in attaching
any thing to this. He decided when the time
came to tie his coat to it, and use that as a flag.
It certainly ought to be able to attract attention.

Occupied with such ])lans and labors and pur-
poses as these, the days passed quickly for two
weeks. By that time the fierce rays of the sun
had dried every board and staVe so that it be-
came like tinder The ship itself felt the heat ;
the seams gaped more widely, the boards warjied
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 laboriously for days cut-
ting up large numbers of the lK)urds into fine
splints, until at last a huge pile of these shavings
were accunmlated. 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 sharp-
ened 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 drj'. At night
Brandon flung himself down wherever he hap-
pened to be, either at the brig or at the rock.
Everj- 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 work at the
ship, the sight of the barren horizon every day
did not materially affect him ; he rose superior
to despondency and cheered himself with his task.
But at length, at the end of about three weeks,
all this work was done and nothing more re-
mained. His only idea was to Inbor to effect hi.-
escape, and not to insure his comfort during hit
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 stem 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 hollow 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 Fishnu, not

a single drop of rain had fallen. The sun shone
with intense heat, and the evaporation was great.
The wind at first temjiered 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 unrutHed and all the air was
motionless.

If there could only have been something whi( h
he could stretch over thnt ])recious pool of wafer
he might then have arrested its flight. Biit lie
had nothing, and could contrive nothing. Kvery
day saw a jierceptiblc decrease in its volume, anil
at last it went down so low that he thought he
could count the number of days that were left
him to live. Hut his despair could not stay the
operation of the laws of nature, and he w attlied
the decrease of that water as one watches the
failing breath of a dying child.

■'iany weeks jmssed, 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 look-out be-
came more hopeless, and at length his thoughts,
instead of turning toward escape, were occupied
with deliberating whether he would probably die
of starvation or simjile physical exhaustion, lie
began to enter into that state of mind which he
hud read in Despard's MSS., in which life ceases
to be a matter of desire, and the only wish left
is to die as quickly and as ]:ainlessly as possible.

At length one day as his eyes swept the wa-
ters mechanically out of pure habit, and not ex-
pecting any thing, he saw far iway to the north-
east 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
a.ssumed a form which no cloud could keep so
long.

Kow his heart beat fast, and all the old long-
ing for escape, at d the old love of life returned
with fresh vehemence. This new emotion over-
jioweved him, and he did not try to struggle
with it.

Now hat' come the day and the hour when all
life vi-as '.i 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 no-
tice. She was still far away, yet she was evi-
dently drawing nearer. The rock was higher
than the mound and more conspicuous. He de-
termined to caiTy his signal there, and erect it
somewhere 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 top-sails 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 her course
was such that she came gradually nearer. Wheth-
er she would come near enough to see the island
was another question. Yet if they thought of
keeping a look-out, if the men in the top^ had
glasses, this rock and the signal could easily be
seen. He feared, however, that this would not he
thought ot^ The existence of Coffin Island wm

CORD AND CKEE8E.

STILL HE STOOD THERE, HOLDING ALOFT HIS SIGNAL.

not generally known, and if they supposed that
there was only open water here they would not
be on the look-out at all.

Nevertheless Brandon erected his signal, 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 conspicuous he fastened his coat to
the top, and then waved it slowly backward and
forward.

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 hull became visible, and her course
still lay nearer.

Now Brandon felt that he must be noticed.
He waved his signal incessantly. He even leaped
in the air, so that he might be seen. He thought
that the rock would surely be perceived from the
ship, and if they looked t that they would see
the figure upon it.

Then despondency came over him. The hull
of the ship was visible, but it was only the up-
permost 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 it-
self. 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 be visible, and he knew enough of the
sea to understand that this would have the dark
sea for a back-ground 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 ever}' minute. Never before had he so
clung to hope — never before had his soul been
more indomitable in its resolution, more vigor-
ous in its strong self-assertion.

He stood there still waving his staff as though
his life now depended upon that dumb yet elo-
quent 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 }iim. 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

CORD AND CREESE.

refused to beiiere, but nt last he raw it beyond
doubt, for ut length the liuU was no longer visi-
ble Above the horizon.

The ship was now due north from the rock,
sailinK on a line directly parallel with the iHluiid.
It came no neiirer. It was only pausing by it.
And now Urandon saw that his last hoi)e of at-
tracting attention by the signal was gone. The
fillip was moving onward to the west, and eveiy
minute would make it less likely that those on
board could see the rod*.

During the hours in which he had watched
the siiip lie had been busy conjecturing what
she might be, and from what )K)rt she might have
come. The direction indicated China almost
undoubtedly. He depicted in his mind a large,
commodious, and swift shij), with many passen-
gers on their way back to England. He imag-
ined pleasant society, and general intercourse.
His fancy created a thousand scenes of delight-
ful association with "the kindly race of men."
All earthly happiness seemed to him nt that time
to find its centre on board that ship which pass-
ed before his eyes.

The seas were bright and sparkling, the skies
calm and deeply blue, the winds breatlied softly,
the wliite swelling sails putted 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 the waters and enter there !
( )h ! to reach that ship which moved on so ma-
jestically, to enter there and be at rest !

It wa- not given him to enter there. Bran-
don 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 asunder
on the hard rock, and stood for a few moments
looking out at sea in mute despair.

Yet could he have knov/n what was shortly to
be the fate of that ship — shortly, only in a fcAv
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 life afresh,
and then have that hope extinguished in blood.

But Brandon did not remain long in idleness.
There was yet one resource — one which he had
already thought of through that long day, but hes-
itated to try, since he would have to forsake his
signal-station ; and to remain there with his staft"
seemed to him then the only pui-pose of his life.
Now since the signal-staff had failed, he had
broken it, as some magician might break the
wand which had fiiiled to work its appropriate
spell^ and other things 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 liad gone half-way it was dark.
The sun had gone down in a sea of fire, 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 of haze that
overspread the sky. The wind came up more
freshly from the east, and Brandon knew that

this wind v/onld carry the ship which he wished
to attract further ami further away, 'i'hat ship
had now died out in the dark of the ebon sea ;
the chances that he could catch its notice were
all against him, yet he never faltered.
I He hud come to u fixed resolution, which was
at all hazards to kindle his siguul-hre, whatever
the chances against him might Ite. 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 >night be.
If this lust ho|ie failed, he was ready to die.
Death had now become to him rather a thing to
l)e desired than avoided. Tor he knew that it
was only a change of life ; and how much better
I would life be in a t-piritual world than life on
this lonely isle.

This decision to die took away despair. De-
spair is only possible to those who value this
earthly life exclusively. To the soul that looks
forward to endless life despair can never come.

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

An hour and a half was occupied in the walk
over the sand to the wreck. Fresh waves of
daik had come over all things, and now, though
there were no clouds, yel 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 was going to kindle his signal-fire. The wind
was blowing freshly by the time that he reached
the place. huch 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 v.ere only to put that last chance
away forever, and thus make an end of susj)ensc.

All his preparations had long since been made;
the dry wood lay loosely thrown about the hold ;
the pile of shavings and fine thread-like .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 a])art again and
rubbed in his hand till they were almost as loose
as lint. He then took these loose fibres, and de-
scending into the hold, jjut 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 naiTow 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 blazed !

But scarcely had the first flame appeared than
a putt" of wind came down and extinguished it.
The sparks, however, were there yet. It was as
though the fickle wind were tantalizing liim — at
one time helping, at another baffling him. Once
more Brandon blew. Once more the blaze arose.
Brandon flung his coat skirts in front 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 to tha
larger sticks.

CORD AND CREESE.

The dry wood kindled. A million uparkg flew
out aa it cracked under the assault of the devour-
ing tire. Tlie Hame Hprend itttelt' out to a larger
volume ; it widened, expanded, and cla8))ed the
kindling all around in its fervid embrace. The
flame had been haflied at first; hut now, as if to
assert its own supremacy, it ni.ihcd out in all di-
rections, with Homething that !*ecmcd uhnost like
exultation. That flame had on<'e been conquered
by the waters in this very ship. The wood had
saved the shij) from the waters. It was an though
the Wool) had once invited the Fiuk to union,
but the Water had stepped in and prevented
the union by force ; as though the Wood, resent-
ing the interference, had baffled the assaults 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 yuars, und in ardor unspeakable
embraced its bride.

Such fantastic notions passed through Bran-
don'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 pouring 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 all the winds
at defiance. Indeed it was so now that what-
ever wind came only assisted the flames, and
Bnindon, as he looked on, amused himself with
the thought that the wind was like the world of
man, which, when any one is first struggling,
has a tendency to crush him, but when lie has
once gained a foothold exerts all its efTorts 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 communicating its
own heat to the wood around, it sank down, a
glowing mass, the foundation of the rising fires.

Here, from this central heart of fire, the flames
rashed on upon the wood which lay loosely on
nil 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 wootl, it jjenetrated every where with its sub-
tle, 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 vith consuming fury
through the whole body of the ship.

Glowing with bright lustre, increasing in that
brightness every moment, leaping up as it con-
sumed and flashing vividly as it leaped up. A
thousand tongues of flame streamed upward
through the crannies of the gaping deck, and
between the wide orifices of the pl.anks and tim-
bers the dazzling flames gleamed; a thousand
resistless arms seemed extended forward to grasp
the fabric now completely at its mercy, and the
hot breath of the fire shriveled up all in its path
before yet its hands were laid upon it.

And fast and furioas, with eager advanre. tho
flames rushed on devouring every thing. Through
the hatchway, around which the fiercest fire*
gathered, the stream of flame rose im])etuouMly
on high, in n straight upward torrent, hurling up
a vast pyramid of fire to the ebon skies, a ipXoyuQ
fiiyav irwyuiva which, like that which once il-
lumed the Slavonic strait with the signal-fire first
caught from buniing 'IVoy, here threw its radi-
ance far over the deep.

While the lighter wood liwted the flame was
in the a.scendiuit, and nobly it 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 ..'alamity at sea, they would be able to
reml in this flame that there was disaster some-
where uf)on these waters, and if they had human
hearts they would tuni to see if there was not
some fluttering 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. UjX)n these the fire now
marched. But olready the long days and weeks
of scorching sun and fierce wind had not been
without their ettects, and the dampness had been
subdued. Besides, the fire that advanced upon
them had already gained immense ad\ antage ; 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 received the resist-
less embrace of the fire, and where they did not
flame they still gave forth none the less a blaze-
less glow.

Now from the burning vessel the flame arose
no more ; but in its place there ajipeared that
which sent forth as vivid a gleam, and as far-
flashing a light. 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
ship the i>lanks, blasted by the intense heat and
by the outburst of the flames, had spnmg 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 five
inside, 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 be-
hind its wooden bars.

The massive timbers of mahogany wood yield-
ed 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, gc:7e way and sank down
into the fen-id mass kmeath. At last the whole
centre was one accumulation of glow ing ashes,
and all that remained were the bow, coverei
with sand, and the ste.m, with the quarter-deck.

The tire spread in both directions. The stern

COKI) AND CREESE.

Yielded first. Here the Htrong deck siiNtaine ' fur
a time the onset uf he Ki-c that had coiisuined
CTury thing beneath, hut at huti ii nunk in; the
timhers uf th'^ sideM followed next, and all had
gone. With the huw ihcre woh a longer and a
harder struggle. The tire had |>enetrated fur
into that piiit of the vesMel; the liAmus Mtnoul-
.jered there, 'ut the conflagration went on, and
{•moke and hlue Hatnes issued from every part of
tliut sandy mound, which, fiercely uxsailed by the
heat, gave way in every direction, broke into a
million crevice.'*, and in places melted and ran to-
gether in a glowing molten heap. Here the fires
lAinied longest, and here they lived and gleamed
utitil morning.

Long before morning B'-andon had fallen
asleep. He had stood firt>' near the burning
wreck. Then the heat force J him to move away,
.ind he had gone to a. ridge of sand, where this
]>eninsula joined the island. There he sat down,
w atching the conflagration for a long time. There
the light flashed, and if that ship for whom he
wa.H signaling had noticed this sign, and had ex-
amined the island, his flgure could be seen to 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 appeared. The progre.'^s of the fire
was slow. It went on burning and glowing with
wonderful energy all through the night, till at
last, not long before dawn, the stem fell in, and
nothing now was left but the sand-mound that
coverei' the bows, which, burning beneath, gave
forth smoke and fire.

Then, exhausted by itigne, he sank down on
the sand and fell into u. 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,
•'Mess-mate ! Halloo, mess-mate ! Wake up !"

Brandon started up and ga^ed with wild, as-
tonished eyes around. It was day. The sun
was two or three hours above the horizon. He
was surrounded by half a dozen seamen, who
were regarding him with wondering but kindly
faces. The one who spoke appeared to be their
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, mess-mate," said this man,
with a smile. " But you're all right now. Cornel
Cheer up I Won't you take a drink ?"' And he
held out a brandy-flask.

Brandon rose mechanically in a kind of maze,
not yet understanding his good fortune, not yet
knowing whether he was alive or dead. He took
the flask and raised it to his lips. The inspirit-
ing draught gave him new life. He looked earn-
estly 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 ? W^ho are you ? Did you not see my
signal on the rock yesterday — ?"
C

" One (piestion at a timo, mesi^'inatc, " said ih.
other, laughingly. " I'm ( aptuin ( orl.ct, of ihe
ship t'alioH, iMiund from Sydney to London, and
thene are some cf niy men. Wo saw this light
last night about midnight, right on our wcather-
Ixiw, and ( ame uj) to see what it was. Wc found
shoal water, and kept ofl' till morning. There's
the Fulton, Sir."

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

" On vour Ik)w ? Did you see the fire ahead
of you ?' asked Brandon, who now began to com-
prehend the situation.

"Yes."

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

"No; never was near tliis 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 jihiy. His story was all ready :

" My name is ILdward Wheeler. I came out
sufjcrcargo in the brig Arf/o, with a cargo of
hogshead staves and box shooks from London
to Manilla. On the 10th of September last we
encountered a tremendous stonn 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 cap-
tain and crew put out the boat, and tried to get
away, but were swamped and drowned. I staid
by the wreck till morning. The vessel stood
the storm well, for she had a solid cargo, was
strongly, built, and the sand formed rajiidly all
about her. The storm lasted for several tlays,
and by the end of that time c shoal had formed.
iSeveral storms have occurred >iince, and have
heaped the sand all over her. I have lived here
ever since in great miserj'. 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 vsatched till morning, and
then fell asleep. You found me so. That'c all
I have to say. "

On hearing this story nothing could exceed
the kindness and sympathy of these honest-
hearted seamen. The Captain insisted on his
taking another drink, apologized for having to
carry him back to England, and finally hurried
him oft' to the boat. Befoie two hours Brandon
stood on the deck of the Falcon,

CHAPTER IX.

THE MAL.IT PIRATE.

Two days had i)assed since Brandon's rescue.
The light wind 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 enough to
destroy all life there. The air is thick, oppress-
ive, feverish ; there is not a breath or a murmur

CORP AND CREESE.

jf wind ; even tho iiwell oi" ooenn, which ia ner-
er-ending, here np|>n)arhe« hh near im |M>^il)le to
an end. The ocean rolled but Mlightly, hut the
light undulationa gave a lazy, liHtleita motion to
the ship, the »]Mn creaked monotonouiily, and
the great fuiiis Hapfieil idly in the air.

At iuch a time the calm itself is »ufBcient-
Ij dreary, hut now there waij Hoiuething which
made nil thmgn still more drear. For the calm
was atteiKled by a thick fog ; not iv nioi:<t, driz-
sling fog like those of tho North Atlantic, but a
Bultry, dense, dry fog; a fog whi<h giive greater
cmphasix to the hent, and, inHtcod of alleviating
it, made it more oppreH.sive.

It watt fu) thick tnat it was not possilile while
standing at the wheel to see the forecastle.
Aloft, nil the heavens were hidden in a canojjy
c.f sickly gray; beneath, the sea showed the
same color. Its glassy surface exhibited not a
ripple. A small space only surrounded the ves-
sel, and Iwyond all things were lost to view.

The sailors were scattered about the ship in
groups. S>mo had ascended to the tops with a
faint hope of finding more air; some were lying
lint on their faces on tiie forecastle ; others had
sought those ]>laces 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 Brantlon was seated on a stool near the
wheel. He had been treated by the Captain with
unbounded hospitality, and supplied with every
thing that lie could wish.

"The fact is," said the Captain, who had
been conversing with Brandon, "I don't like
calms any where, still less calms witli 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 cruis-
ing about, often as far as this. Did you ever
happen to hear of Zangorri ?"

"Yes."

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

"Can't any body catch him?"

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

"Have you arms?"

"Yes. I've got enough to give Zangorri 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 Bran-
don, after a pause.

" She can't be very far away from us," replied
the Captain, "and we may come up wit), her
before we get to the Cape."

A silence followed. Suddenly the Captain's
attention was arrested by something. He raised
his hand to his ear and listened veiy attentively.
"Do you hear that?" he asked, quickly.

Brandon arose and walked to where the Cap-
tain was. Then both listened. And over the
sea there came unmistakable sounds. The regu-
lar movement of oars ! Oars out on the Indian
Oceai ' Yet the sound was unmistakable.

"It must be some poor devils that have es-
caped from shipwreck," said the Captain, half to
himself.

"Well, Are a gun.-

"No," Mid the Captain, cautiously, after a

CRUM.
it."

'It may be aomelKxl; else. Wait a

Ho they waited a little while. Hnddenly there
came a cry of human voices — a volley of guns 1
Shrieks, yells of defiance, shouts of triumph,
howls of rage or of pain, all softened by the dis-
tance, and all in their unison soimding appalling-
Iv as they were borne through the gl(Mjm of tho
fog-
Instantly every man in the ship Imunded to his
feet. They hail not heard the Hrst sounds, but
these they heard, and in that su)>erstitit)n which
is natural to the sailor, esch man's first thought
was that the noises came from the sky, and so
each looked with a stujicficd countenance at his
neighbor.

But the Captain did not share the common
feeling. "I knew it!" he cried. "I ex|)ected
it, and blow my old eyes out if I don't catch 'em
this time!"

"What?" cried Brandon.

But the Captain did not hear. Instantly his
whole demeanor was changed. He N|irang to
the companion-way. He spoke but one wonl,
not in a loud voice, but in tones so stem, so
startling, that every man in the ship heard the
word:

"Zangorri!"

All knew what it meant. It meant that the
most blood-thirsty pirate of these Eastern neas
was attacking some ship behind that veil of fog.

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

"Out with the long-boat! Load the cr.i-
ronade! Man the boat! Hurry up, iuus, for
God's sake!" And the Cai)tain dashed down
into the cabin. In an instant he was back again,
buckling on a belt with a couple of jnstols in it,
and calling tc his men, "Don't shout, don't
cheer, but Ifurrj', for God's sake!"

And the men rushed about, some collecting
arms, others laboring at the boat. The Falcon
was well suprilied with anns, as the Captain had
said. Three guns, any quantity 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 arrangement of
tho ship, every thing was soon ready. The long-
boat was out and afloat. All the seamen except
four were on baird, and the Captain went dov/n
last.

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

" What ! you here ?" he cried, with unmistak-
able 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 direction from which
the sounds came. These grew louder every mo-
ment — more menacing, and more terrible.

The sailors put all their strength to the oais,
and drove the great boat through the water. To
their impatience it seemed as though they wnu! 1
never get there. Yet the place which they desi; ed

CORD AND CREESE.

m much to reneh wu not fu away ; the •onnd.H
wen; now very near ; and at length, aa they drove
onward, the tall xideit of a ithip hunt on their
tight through the gloom. By itit Hide wan a boat
of the kind that ist u»ed hy the MalayH. On board
the nhip a Urge number of Ravage tigurea were
ruahing about in mad ferocity.

In a moment the ' "tat wu seen. A shout rose
from the Malaya. A score of them clambered
■wit\ly down the ibip's side to their boat, nnd a
l>anic seemed to seize all the rest, who stood
looking around irresolutely for some way of es-
cape.

The boatswain was in the bows of the long-
b(yit, and as the Malays crowded into their craft
he took aim with the carronade, and fired. The
explosion thundered through the air. A terrific
shriek followe<l. The next instant the Malay
boat, filled with writhing duitky figures, went
down beneath the waterH.

The long-boat immediately after touched the
side of the ship. Hrandon gras|)ed a rope with
his left bund, and, holding his revolver in his
right, leaped upward. A Malay with uplifted
knife struck at him. Bang ! went the revolver,
and the Malay fell dead. The next instant
Brandon was on board, followed by all the sail-
ors, who sprang upward and clambered into the
vessel before the Malays could rail;' from the
first shock of 8uq)rise.

But the panic was arrested by a man who
bounded u])on deck through the hatchway.
Housed by the noise of the gun, he had hurried
up, and reached the deck just as the sailors
arrived. In fierce, stern words he shouted to
his men, and the Malays 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
nhout, and most of their pieces were unload-
ed; the latter, therefore, had it all their own
way.

The first thing that they did was to pour a vol-
ley into the crowd of Malays, as they stood try-
ing to face their new enemy. The next moment
the sailors rushed upon them, some with cutlass-
es, 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 tear-
ing like wild beasts.

Ill the midst of the scene stood the chief, wield-
ing 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 parsed 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 position there. A few of them ob-
tained some more muskets that lay about.

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.
The Captain with his pistol shot one man dead ;
the next instant he was knocked down. The
boatswain was grappled by two powerful men.

The rest of the sailoni were driving all before
them.

Meanwhile Brandon had t>ecii in the very cen-
tre of the fight. With hi* revolver in his Ivft
hand he held a cutlass in his right, and everv
blow that ho gave tojd. He hod sought all
through the struggle to reach the spot where
Zangorri stood, but had hitherto been uniac-
cessful. At the retreat which the Malays made
he hastily loail>-d three of the chambers of his
revolver which he had emptied into the hearts
of three Malavs, and spnisig u^Min the quarter-
d<3ck first. The man .^ho struck down theCa|>-
b^'n fell dead from Brandon's pistol, just as he
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 assail-
ant was kicked up into the air and overboard by
the boatswain himself.

After this Brandon had no more trouble to
get at ZangoiTi, for the Malay chief with a howl
pf fury called on his men, and sprang at him.
Two (juick flashes, two sharji reports, and down
went two of them. Zangorri grasped Brandt ns
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 hi , and with a tremendous jerk
hurled Zangorri to the deck, and held him there.

A cr}' of terror and dismay arose from the Ma-
lays as they saw their chief fall. The sailors
shouted; there was no further fighting; some
of the pirates were killed, others leaped over-
board and tried to swim away. The sailors, in
their fury, shot at tliese wretches as they swam.
The cruelty of Zangorri had stimulated such a
thirst for vengeance that none thought of giving
quarter. Oiit of all the Malays the only one
alive was Zangorri himself, who now lay gasj)-
ing, with a mig{ity hand on his throat.

At last, as his struggles 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't touch
him. He's mine ! "

"He must die."

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

"Englishman." said a voice, "I thank yon.''

Brandon started.

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

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

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

" You scoundrel !" cried Brandon, "you have
nothing to thank me for. You must die a worse
death."

' • Ah, " sneered Zangorri. ' ' Well. It's about
time. But my death will not pay for the hun-
dreds of English lives that I have taken. I thank
you, though, for you will give me time yet to tell
the Englishmen how I hate them."

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

CORD AND CUEESE.

"Why do you hate them?" asked Brandon,
whosa 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
liis neck. He drew forth a creese, and holding
it up sawthis name cut upon the handle : "JOHN
POTTS."

The change that came over the severe, im-
passive face of Brandon was so extraordinary
that even Zangorri in his pain and fury saw it.
He uttered an exclamation. The brow of Bran-
don grew as black as night, his nostrils quivered,
his eyes seemed to blaze with a terrific lustre, and
a sUght foam spread itself over his quivering lips.
But he commanded himself by a violent eftbrt.

He looked all around. The sailors were busy
with the Captain, who still lay senseless. No one
observed him. He tunied to Zangorri.

"This shall be mine," said he, and he threw
the cord 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
desired, he thoughtlessly loosed his hold. That
instant Zangorri took advantage of it. By a
tremendous effort he disengaged himself and
bounded to his feet, il^o ne"^i- 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 re-
mained two shots, and, stepping to the taft'rail,
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 horzon appeared. As Brandon looked
he saw tw ^ vessels upon the smooth surface of
the sea. One was the Fakon. The other was a
large Malay proa. On tne decks of this last was
a crowd of men, perhaps about fifty in number,
who stood looking toward 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 them, 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 stem 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 revolver covered him. In a mo-
ment a bullet could have plunged into his brain.

But Brandon did not fire. He could not. It
was too cold-blooded. True, Zangorri was
stained with countless crimes ; but all his crimes
at that moment were forgotten : he did not appear
as Zangorri the merciless pirate, but simply as a
wounded wretch, trying to escape from death.
That death Brandon could not deal him.

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 quick-
ly 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 any one 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 dis-
torted 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 remained 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 Malays, all dead.
But the fourth white was a woman, who lay
dead in front of a door that led to an inner
cabin, and which was now closed. The woman
appeared to be about fifty years of age, her ven-
erable 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 comer 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 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. Ke-
turning he dashed it over the Hindu, and bound
up one or two wounds which seemed most dan-
gerous.

His care soon brought the Hindu to conscious-
ness.

The man opened his eyes, looked upon Bran-
don first with astonishment, then with speechless
gratitude, and clasping his hand moaned faintly,
in broken P^nglish,

" Bless de Lor! Sahib!"

Brandon hurried up on deck and calling some
of the sailors had the Hindu conveyed there.
All crowded around him to ask him questions,
and gradually found out about the attack of
the pirates. The ship had been bec^med the
day before, and the Malay proa was in sight, evi-
dently with evil intentions. They had kept a
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,
and had fought till the last by the side of his cap-
tain.

Without 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.

CORD AND CREESE.

4»

SHE FLUNG HERSELF OX HER KNEES IN A TRANSPORT OF GRATITUDE.

" Is any one there?" he asked.

A cry of surpriue 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, and there
appeared before the astonished eyes of Brandon
a young girl, who, the moment that she saw him,
flung herself on her knees in a transport of grati-
tude and raised her face to Heaven, while her lips
uttered inaudible words of thanksgiving.

She was quite a young girl, with a delicate,
slender frame, and features of extreme 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
death-like 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, murmured, half to herself,

" It could at least have saved me I"

Brandon smiled upon her with such a smile as

a father might give at seeing the spirit or prowess
of some idolized son.

j • " There is no need," he said, with a voice of
i deep feeling, "there is no need of that now.
I You are saved. You are avenged. Come with
■ me." The girl rose. "But wait," said Bran-
don, and he looked at her earnestly and most
pityingly. "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 venerable w
man 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. Brandon took it
and led her through the place of horror and up
to the deck.

Her appearance was greeted with a cry of joy
from all the sailors. The girl looked around. She
saw the Malays lying dead ujwn the deck. She
saw the ship that had rescued, and the prca that
had terrified her. But she saw no familiar face.

CORD AND CREESE.

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, vrith a face full of
meaning, pointed upward. The girl understood
him. She reeled, and would have fallen had not
Brandon supported her. Then she covered her
face with her hands, and, staggering away to a
seat, sank down and wejit bitterly.

AJl were silent. Even the rough sailors re-
spected 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 sympathy ?

So now they said nothing, but stood in groups
sorrowing in her sorrow. The Captain, mean-
while, had revived, and was already on his feet
looking around upon the scene. The Hindu
also had gained strength witli 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 !"

Every one started. Yes, the ship was sink-
ing. 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 than the wa-
ter, which had been rising higher and higher,
more rapidly eveiy moment, rushed madly with
a final onset to secure its prey ; end 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 ifs
fast as the long sweeps could carry her. But the
dead were not revenged only. They were re-
membered. Not long after reaching the Falcon
the sailors were summoned to the side which
looked toward the spot where the ship had sunk,
and the solemn voice of Brandon read the burial-
service of the Church.

And as he read that service he understood the
fate which he had escaped when the ship passed
Coffin Island without 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 warm-
est sympathy of all on board the ship ; and her
appearance 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 breeding.
Added to this, her face had something which is
greater even than beauty — or at least something
without which beauty itself is feeble — namely,
character and expression. Her soul spoke out
in every lineament of her noble features, and
threw around her the charm of spiritual exalta-
tion.

To such a charm as this Brandon did not seem
indiflerent. 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 occupation, 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 jjreferred that name to any oth-
er. He regarded Brandon as his 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 any thing ex-
cept 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 missis
and the old missis.

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

j 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

1 whom she owed her life, and apologized to him

for her selfishness 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.

I She was on her way from China to Engl^-nd.

\ 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 accompanied

her on her voyage until that fearful calamity.

She told him at different times that her father
was a merchant who had business all over the
world, and that he had of late taken up his sta-
tion in his own home and sent for her.

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

1 It was certainly a curious life, but quite nat-
1 nral, when a busy merchant devotes all hia

CORD AND CREESE.

thoughts to basiness, and but little attention to
liis family. She had no mother, but thought she
must have died in India. Yet she was not sure.
( )f 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
iind 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 inexpressiole pity on
one so lovely, yet so neglected.

Otherwise, as far as mere money was con-
cerned, she had never suft'ered. Her accom-
])Iishments were numerous. She was passion-
ately fond of music, and was familiar with all
tlie 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 al-
most every thing.

Now after finding out all this Brandon had
not found out her name. Embarrassments
arose sometimes, which she could not help no-
ticing, from this very cause, and yet she said
nothing about it. Brandon did not like to ask
her abruptly^ since he saw that she did not re-
sjjond to his hints. So he conjectured and won-
dered. 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 no-
ble, and did not like to tell that name which had
been stained by the occupations of trade. All
this Brandon thought.

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

There were others as well as Brandon who
found it awkward not to have any name by which
to address her, and chief of these was the good
Captain. After calling her Ma'am and Miss in-
differently for about a month he at last determ-
ined to ask her directly ; so, one day at the din-
ner-table, he said :

"I most humbly beg your pardon, ma'am;
but I do not know your name, and have never
had a chance to find it ont. If it's no offense,
perhaps you would l)e so good as to tell it ?"

The young lady thus addressed flushed crim-
son, then looked at Brandon, who was gazing
fixedly on his j)late. and with visible embarrass-
ment said, verv softlv, "Beatrice."

"B. A. Tre'achy,'' said the Captain. "Ah!
I hope, Miss Treachy, you will pardon me ; but
I really found it so everlasting confusing. "

A faint smile crossed the lips of Brandon.
But Beatrice did not smile. She looked a little
frightened, and then said :

•'Oh, that is only my Christian name!"
"Christian name !" said the Captain. " How
can that be a Christian name ?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fact that she herself hated her name, and
saw keenly how ridiculously it sounded after such
a name as Beatrice, only made her feel the more
indignant with Brandon. "His own name," she
thought, bitterly, "is plebeian — not so bad as
mine, it is true, yet still it is plebeian. Why
should he feel so shocked at mine ?" Of course,
she knew him only as "Mr. Wheeler.'' "Per-
haps he has imagined that I had some grand
name, and, learning my true one, has lost his
illusion. He formerly esteemed me. He now
despises me."

Beatrice was cut to the heart ; but she was
too proud to show any feeling whatever. She
frequented the quarter-deck as before; thougli
now she had no companion except, at turns, the
good-natured Captain and the mate. The lon-
ger Brandon avoided her the more indignant she
felt. Her outraged pride made sadness impos-
sible.

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

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

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

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

"I confess," .said Beatrice, frankly, "that I
thought your sudden departure had something to
do with the conversation about me. I am very
soiTy indeed that I did you such a wrong; I

CORD AND CREESE.

might Imve known vou better. Will you forgive
me?"

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

"But I hate my name so," burst out Beatrice.

Brandon said nothing.

"Don't you? Now confess."

" How can I — " he began.

"You do, you do!" she cried, vehemently;
" but I don't care — for I hate it."

Brandon looked at her with a sad, weary smile,
and said notliing. "You are sick, "she said; "I
iim thoughtless. I see that my name, in some
way or other, recalls painful thoughts. How
wretched it is for me to give pain to others !"

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

At this Beatrice looked confused and changed
the conversation. There seemed after this to be
a mutual understanding between the two to avoid
the subject of her name, and although it was
a constant mortification to Beatrice, yet she be-
lieved that on his part there was no contempt for
the name, but something very different, some-
thing associated with better memories.

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

Both had lived unusual lives. Beatrice had
much to say about her Hong-Kong » life, the
Chinese, the British officers, and the festivities
of garrison life. Brandon had lived for years in
Australia, and was familiar with all the round of
events which may be met with in that country.
He had been born in England, "and had lived
there, as has already been mentioned, till he was
almost a man, so that he had much to say about
that mother-land concerning which Beatrice felt
such curiosity. Thus they settled down again
naturally and inevitably into constant association
with each other.

Whatever may have been the thoughts of Bran-
don during the fortnight of his seclusion, or what-
ever may have been the conclusion to which he
came, he carefully refrained from the most re-
mote hint at the home or the prospects of Bea-
trice. He found her on the seas, and he was
content to take her as she was. Her name was
a common one. She might be connected with
his enemy, or she might not. For his part, he
did not wish to know.

Beatrice also showed equal care in avoiding
the subject. The effect which had been produced
by the mention of her name was still remembered,
and, whate\ er the.cause may have been, both this
and her own strong dislike to it prevented her
from ever making any allusion either to her fa-
ther or to any one of her family. She had no
dcruples. however, about talking of her Hong-
Kong life, in which one person seemed to have
figured most prominently — a man who had lived
there for years, and given her instruction in mu-
sic. He was an Italian, of whom she knew no-
thing whatever but his name, with the exception
of the fact that he had been unfortunate in Eu-
rope, and had come out to Hong-Kong as band-
master of the Twentieth Regiment. His name
was Paolo LanghettL

"Do you like music?" asked Brandon, ab-
ruptly.

" Above all things." said Beatrice, with an in-
tensity of empliasis which spoke of deep feeling.

"Do you play?"

" Somewhat."

"Do you sing?"

"A little. 1 was considered a good singer in
Hong-Kong ; but that is nothing. I sang in the
Cathedral. Langhetti was kind enough to jiraise
me ; but then he was so fond of me that what-
ever I did was right. "

Brandon was silent for a little while. " Lan-
ghetti was fond of you?" he repeated, interrog-
atively, and in a voice of singular sweetness.

"Very," returned Beatrice, musirgly. "He
always called me 'Bice' — sometimes 'liicetta,'
'Bicinola,' 'Bicina;' it was his pretty Italian
way. But oh, if you could hear him jilay !
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 loved to hear you sing ?" said Bran-
don, in the same voice.

" He used to praise me," said Beatrice, meek-
ly. "His praise used to gratify, but it did not
deceive me. I am not conceited, Mr. Wheeler. "

"Would you sing for me?" asked Brandon,
in accents almost of entreaty, looking at her with
an imploring expression.

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 Nortli.
During all this time their association was close
and continuous. In her presence Brandon soft-
ened ; the sternness of his features relaxed, and
the great purpose of his life grew gradually
fainter.

One evening, after they had entered the At-
lantic Ocean, they were standing by the stern
of the ship looking at the waters, when Brandon
repeated his request.

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

Beatrice looked at him for a momen*: without
speaking. Then she raised her face and looked
up at the sky, with a deej) abstraction in her
eyes, as though in thought. Her face, usually
colorless, now, in the moonlight, looked like
marble; her dark hair hung in pecidiar folds
over her brow — an arrangement which was an-
tique in its style, and gave her the look of a
statue of one of tlie Muses. Her straight, Gre-
cipn 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 mo-
ment in silence, and then began. It was a mar-
velous and a memorable epoch in Brandon'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 seemetl
to blend sea and sky together. Overhead the
dim sky hung, dotted with innumerable stars,
prominent among wliich, not far above the ho-

COIiD AND CREESE.

4»

SHE GAVE HERSELF ENTIRELY UP TO THE JOT OF SONO

rizon, gleamed that glorious 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 imraensi narrnno
Del grand' Iddio la gloria."

Her first notes poured forth with a sweetness
nnd fullness that arrested the attention 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,
mar\'elous, and thrilling. A glow like some di-
vine inspiration passed over the marble beauty
of her classic features; her eyes themselves seem-
ed to speak of all that glory o*" 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 amaze-
ment. The hands of the steersman held the
wheel listlessly. Brandon's own soul was filled
with the fullest effects. He stood watching her

figure, with its inspired lineaments, and thought
of the fabled prodigies of music spoken of in an-
cient story. He thought of Orpheus hushing all
animated 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 in-
spiration and her own utterance of its praise.
Brandon's own soul was more and more over-
come ; the divine voice thrilled over his heart ;
he shuddered and uttered a low sigh of rapture.

" My God !" he exclaimed as she ended ; " I
never before heard any thing like this. I never
dreamed of such a thing. Is there on earth an-
other such a voice as yours ? Will I ever again
hear any thing like it? Your song Ls 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.

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

" You terrify me," said he.

"Why?" asked Beatrice, in wonder.

"Because your song works upon me lik« *

CORD AND CREESE.

spell, and all my soul t>ink8 away, and all my
will is weakened to nothingness."

Beatrice looked at him with a monrnfal 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 IMPROVI8ATORE.

The character of Beatrice nnfolded more and
more every day, and every new development ex-
cited 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 hew all her thoughts took a color-
ing from this. What most surprised him was
her profound acquirements in the more difiBcult
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 inter-
course with the greatest works of the greatest
masters. All their works were perfectly well
known to her. A marvelous memory enabled
her to have their choicest productions at com-
mand ; and Brandon, who in the early part of
his life had received a careful musical education,
knew enough about it to estimate rightly the
full extent of the genius of his companion, and
to be astonished 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 acquainted, 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 him 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 almost to an equality with
them.

Brandon found out every day 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 talk-
ing. 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 any thing which she could
produce; but each one must have his own na-
tive expression ; and there were times when she
had to sing from herself. To Brandon this
seemed the most amazing of her powers. In
Italy the power of improvisation is not uncom-
mon, and Englishmen generally ima^ne 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 En-
glish.

"It is not wonderful," said she, in answer to

his expression of astonishment, "it is not erea
difficult. There is an art in doing this, but,
when you once know it, you find no trouble. It
is rhythmic prose in a seiies 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 im-
provised. I suppose Deboraii's song, and per-
haps Miriam's, are of this order."

"And you think the art can be learned by
every one ?"

"No, not by every one. One must have a
quick and vivid imagination, and natural fluen-
cy — but these are all. Genius makes all the
difference between what is good and what is bad.
Sometimes you have a song of Miriam that lives
while the world lasts, sometime a poor little
song like one of mine. "

"Sing to me about music," said Brandon,
suddenly.

Beatrice immediately began an improvisation.
But the music to which she sang was lofty and
impressive, and the marvelous sweetness of her
voice produced an indescribable effect. And
again, as always when she sang, the fashion of
her face was changed, and she became transfig-
ured before his eyes. It was the same rhythmic
prose of which she had been speaking, sung ac-
cording to the mode in which the Gloria is chant-
ed, and divided into bars of equal time.

Brandon, as always, yielded to the spell of her
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 for-
ever."

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. Slow-
ly and steadily this young girl gained over him
an ascendency which he felt hourly, and which
was so strong that he did not even struggle against
it. Her marvelous genius, so subtle, so delicate,
yet so inventive and quick, amazed him. If he
spoke of this, she attributed every thing to Lan-
ghetti. " 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 vi-
olin. 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 most
heavenly."

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

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

But in this confession, so artlessly made,
Brandon saw only a love that was fiUal or sis-
terly. "He was the first one," said Beatrice,
" who showed me the true meaning of life. He
exalted his art above all other arts, and always

CORD AND CREESE.

miKntnined that it was the parest and best thing
which the world possessed. This consoled him
for exile, poverty, and sorrow of many kinds."

•♦ Was he married ?"

Beatrice looked at Brandon with a singolar
smile. "Married! Langhetti married ! Par-
don me ; but the idea of Langhetti in domestic
life is so ridiculous." i

"Why? The greatest musicians have married." j

Beatrice looked up to the sky with a strange,
serene smile. "Langhetti has no passion out i
of art," she 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 on6 love, and that is music. This is
his idol. He seems to me himself 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
nusician's lite the highest life. He says those
£0 whom 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, in-
deed," she continued, iu a musing tone, hal*" so-
liloquizing, "where, indeed, can man rise 3o
near heaven as when he listens to the inspired
strains of these lofty souls ?"

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

"Yes," said Beatrice. "We sjxike once
about that. He has his own ideas, which he ex- j
pressed to me. " ;

"What were they?" !

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

Brandon waited in rapt expectation. Beatrice
began to sing :

"Fairest of all most fair,
Young Love, how comest thon

Unto the soul f
StUl as the evening hreeze
- - . Over the starry wave—
The mooulit wave—

, " The heart lies motionless ;
So still, 80 seneitive ;
Love fans the breeze. '

■ • Lo ! at his lightest touch,
, .;- The myriad npples rise,
And murmur on.

: , - , "And ripples rise to waves,
And waves to rolling seas,
' " Till, far and wide,

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 unutterable melancholy. It was like the
lament of one who loved. It was like the cry
oi' some yearning heart.

In a moment Beatrice looked at Brandon
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 feel-
ings. But the bright smile on her face con-
trasted so strongly with the melancholy of her
voice that he saw this was not so.

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

The thought came to Brandon, is it not truer
than she thinks, that "she loves him very dear-
ly ?" as she said.

" You were bom to be an artist," he said, at
last

Beatrice sighed lightly. ♦' That's what I nev-
er can be, I am afraid,' said she. " Yet I hope
I may be able to gratify my love for it. Art,"
she continued, musingly, "is open to women as
well as to men ; and of {Jl arts none are so much
so as music. The interpretation of great mas-
ters is a blessing to the world. Langhetti used
to say that these are the only ones of modern
times that have received heavenly inspiration.
They correspond 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 woman is given
the interpretation of much of the other. Why
is not my voice, if it is such as he said, and es-
pecially the feeling within me, a Divine call to
go forth upon this mission of interpreting the in-
spired utterances of the great masters of modem
days?

" You," she continued, "are a man, and yon
have a purpose. " Brandon started, but she did
not notice it. "You have a purpose in life,"
she repeated. "Your intercourse with me will
hereafter be but an episode in the life that is be-
fore you. I am a girl, but I too may wish to
have a purpose in life — suited to my powers;
and if I am not able to work toward it I shall
not be satisfied. "

" How do you know that I have a purpose, as
you call it ?" asked Brandon, :if[er a pause.

"By 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 I do not seek to know," she replied;
"but I know that it must be deep and all-ab-
sorbing. It seems to me to be too stem 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 Bran-
don, in a voice which had died away, ahnost 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 Avar-
ice, and Ambition," said she. "There can be
only one thing."

"What?"

"Vengeance!" she said, in a voice of inex-
pressible mourafulness.

Brandon looked at her wonderingly, not know-
ing how this young girl coidd have divined his
thoughts. He long remained silent.

Beatrice folded her hands together, and look-
ed pensively at the sea.

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

"I might," said she, hesitatingly; "but I
am afraid you will think me impertinent."

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

"You will not think me impertinent, then?

fiS

COKD AND CREESK

You will only think that I said go because 3-ou
asked me ?"

*' I entreat you to believe thnt it is impossible
for me to think otherwise of you tliun you your-
self would wish."

" Shall I say it, then ?"

"Yes."

Her voice again sank to a whisper.

" Your name is not Wheeler.'

Brandon looked nt her eamestlj'. " How did
you learn that ?"

" By nothing more than observation."

" What is my name V "

" Ah, that is beyond my jiower to know," said
she with a smile. "I have only discovered what
yon are not. Now you will not think me a sdv,
w ill you ?" she continued, in a pleading voice.

Brandon smiled on her mournfully as she stood
looking nt him with her dark eyes ujimised.

"A spy!" he rejieated. "To me it is the
sweetest thought conceivable that you could take
the trouble to notice me sufficiently. " He checked
himself suddenly, for Beatrice looked away, and
her hands which had been folded together clutched
each other nen'ously. "It is always flattering
for a gentleman to be the object of a lady's no-
tice," he concluded, in a light tone.

Beatrice smiled. " But where, " he continued,
" could you have gained that ])ower of divination
which you possess ; you who have always lived
a secluded life in so remote a plate ?"

"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 a.s 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 Bran-
don, earnestly.

' ' Yes, " said she, mournfullv.

"Tell me some."

"They will not do to tell," said Beatrice, 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 in-
quiry, as though her soul were putting forth a
question by that look which was stronger than
words. In his there was a glance of anxious
expectancy, as though his soul were speaking
unto hers, saying: "Tell all; let me know if
you suspect that of which I am afraid to think."

"We have met with ships at sea,"she resumed,
in low, deliberate tones.

"Yes."

"Sometimes we have caught up with them,
we have exchanged signals, we have sailed in
sight of one another for hours or for days, hold-
ing intercourse 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.
We 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 mournfully, 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 moumfulness in his voice. ' ' Yon
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 ]iity.

" Do you read my thoughts as I rend yours?"
asked Brandon, abru])tly.

"Yes," she answered, mounifully.

He turned his face away.

"Did Langhetti teach you this also?" he
asked, at last. '

"He taught me many things," was the an-
swer.

Day succeeded to day, and week to week. Still
the ship went on holding steadily to her course
northward, and eve-y day drawing nearer and
nearer her goal. Storms came — some moder-
ate, some severe ; but the ship escaped them all
with no casualties, and with but little delay.

At last they passed the e(juator, and seemed
to have entered the last stage of their journey.

CHAPTER XII.

THE STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.

At length the ship came within the latitude
of the Guinea coast.

For some days there had been alternate winds
and calms, and the weather was so fitful and so
fickle that no one could tell in one hour what
would ha])pen in the next. All this was at last
terminated by a dead, dense, oppressive calm
like those of the Indian Ocean, in which exer-
tion was almost impossible and breathing diffi-
cult. The sky, however, instead of being clear
and bright, as in former calms, was now over-
spread 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 ev-
ery temptation to inaction and sleep yet no one
yielded to it. The men looked suspiciously
and expectantly at every quarter of the heavens.
The Captain 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 which had set in at midnight,
•and had become confirmed at dawn, extended
itself through the long day. The shij) drifted
idly, keeping no course, her yards creaking lazi-
ly as she slowly rose and fell at the movement of
the ocean-undulations. Hour after hour jmssed,
and the day ended, and 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 verj- black-
ness of darkness. Brandon began to see from
the Captain's manner that he expected something
far more violent than any thing which the ship
had yet encountered, but, thinking that his pres-
ence would be of no consequence, he retired at
the usual hour.

The deep, dense calm continued until nearly

CORD AND CREHSE.

midnight. The watchers on deck m\\ waited in
the same anxious expectation, tliiiikinji; that the
night would bring on the change whicii they ex-
pected.

Almost half an hour before midnight a faint
light was seen in the thick mass of clouds over-
heud— it was not lightning, but a whiti.sh streak,
US though produced by some movement in the
clouds. All looked up in mute exj)ectation.

Suddenly a faint putf of wind came from the
west, l)lowing gently for a few moments, then
stoi)ping, and then coming on in a stronger blast.
Afar otf, at what seemed like an immeasurabie
distance, a low, dull roar arose, a heavy moan-
ing 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
moss of lightning, which seemed to blaze from
every part of the heavens on every side simul-
taneously. 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 otf
to the west, a long line of white wiiich appeared
to extend along the whole horizon.

But the scene darted out of sight instantly,
and instantly there fell the volleying discharge of
a tremendous peal of thunder, at whose reverb-
erations the air and sea and ship all vibrated.

Now the sky lightened again, and suddenly,
as the ship lay there, a va.st ball of fire issued
from the black clouds immediately overhead, de-
scending like the lightning straight downward,
till all at once it struck the main track. With a
roar louder thar; that of the recent thunder it
exploded ; Vast sheets of fire flashed out into the
air, and a stream of light passed down the entii-e
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
mast was shattered to splinters, and along its ex-
tent and around its base a burst of vivid flame
started into light.

Wild confusion followed. At once all the sail-
ors 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 rigging was severed; the mast, already
shattered, needed but a few blows to loosen its
last fibres.

But suddenly, and furiously, and irresistibly,
it seemed as though the whole 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 lightning came, and toward the
« est, close over them, rose a long, white wall of
foam. It was the van-guard of the storm, seen
shortly before fi-om 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 can e none. Then the waters, which
thus rose up like a heap before them, struck the
ship with all the accumulated fury of that resist-
less onset, and hurled their utmost weight upon
her as she lav 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 l^am-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 i)revent themselves from l>eing washed
away, and waiting for some order from the Cap-
tain, and wondering while they waited.

At the first peal of thunder Brandon had start-
ed up. He had lain down in his clothes, in or-
der to Ikj prepared for any emergency. He called
Cato. The Hindu was at hand. "Cato, keep
close to me whatever happens, for you will be
needed." "Yes, Sahib." He then' hurried 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."

Brandon said nothing, but held out to her an
India-rubber life-preserver. " What is this for?"
' P'or you. I wish you to put it on. It may not
be needed, but it is best to have it on." "And
what will you do?" " I — oh! I can swim, you
know. But you don't know how to fasten it.
Will you allow me to do so?" She raised her
arms. He passed the belt around her waist, en-
circling her almost in his arms while doing so,
and his hand, which had boldly grasped the head
of the "dweller in the wreck," now trembled as
he fastened the belt around that delicate and
slender waist.

But scarcely had this been completed when the
s(juall struck the ship, and the waves followed
till the vessel was thrown far over on her side;
ti id Brandon seizing Beatrice in one arm, clung
»vith 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 to 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 yon.
Can you hold on for a short time? If I take
you on deck you will be exposed to the waves. "
"I will do whatever you say," she replied;
and clinging to the arm of the almost perpen-
dicular seat, she was able to sustain herself there
amidst 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 light-
ed np the scene, and showed the ocean stirred up
to fiercest commotion. It seemed as though
cataracts of water were rushing over the doom-
ed ship, which now lay helpless, and at the mer-
cy of the billows. The force of the wind was
tremendous, exceeding any thing that Brandon
had ever witnessed before.
What most surprised him now was the inaction

CORD AND CREESE.

of the »hip*i company. Why waa not Domething
being duna? Where wnii the Cnptain?

I'u called out hiit name; there wan no re-
sponse, lie railed after the iniito; there wai
no answer. Instantly he conjectured that in the
flmt fien-e onset of the storm IkhIi Captain and
mate had hecn swept a\/ay. llow many moru
of tliat giillant company of lira>e fellows had
perished ho knew not. The hour was a perilous
and a critical one. Ho himself determined to
take the lead.

Through the midst of the storm, with its tu-
mult and its Airy, there ciune 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 olH'ycd, with-
out caring who gave the order. It was the com-
mand which each man had l>een cx|)ecting, and
which ho knew was the thing that should be
done. At once they sprang to their work. The
main-mast had already l>cen cut UM>8e. Some
went to the fore-mast, others to the mizzon. The
vast waves rolled on ; the sailors guarded as best
they could against the rush of each wave, and
then sprang in the inter>'als to their work. It
was perilous in the highest degree, but each man
felt that his own lifo and the lives of all the oth-
ers <lependetl upon the accomplishment of this
work, and this nen'ed the arm of each to the task.

At last it was done. The lost strand of rig-
ging had been cut away. The ship, disencum-
bered, slowly righted, and at last rode upright.

But her situation was still dangerous. 8he
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 ho|>e 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. Perhaps all of them, as they stood
on the quarter-deck, had l)een swept away simul-
taneously. 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 undiminished 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 jury-
maat.

The ship was also deeply laden, and this con-
tributed to her peril. Had her cargo been small-
er she would have been more buoyant ; but her
full cargo, added 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 anx-
iously for some sign of abatement in the storm,
but none came. Sea and sky frowned over them
darkly, and all the powers which they controlled
were let loose unrestrained.

Another day and night came and went. Had
not the Falcon been a ship of unusual strength
she would have yielded before this to the storm.
A» it was, she began to show signs of giving way

to the tremendous hammering to which she had
lieen ex|H>Hed, ana her heavy Australian cargo
l>ure her down. On the moniing of the third
(Uy Brand(m saw that she was dee|ter in Uit
water, and suspected a leak. lie ordered the
pumps to be sounded. It was as he feurod.
There were four feet of water in the hold.

The men went to work at the )iuni|H< and
worked by rehiys. Amidst the rush of the waves
over the ship it was difficult to work lulvanta-
ge«>usly, but they toiled on. Mill, in spite of
their efforts, the leak seemed to have increased,
for the water did not lessen. With their utmost
exertion they could do little more than hold
their own.

It wiu« ]>lain that this sort of thing could not
last. Already three nights and three days of
incessant toil and anxiety, in which no one had
slept, had pn)duced their natural eflects. The
men had Itecome faint and weary. But the
brave fellows never murmured ; they tlid every
thing which Brandon ordered, and worked im-
complainingly.

Thus, through the third day, they labored on,
and into the fourth night. That night the storm
seemed to have reached its climax, if, indeed,
any climax could Ite found to a storm which at
the very outset had burst u|Hin them with such
appalling suddenness and fury, and had sustained
itself all along with such unremitting energ)-.
But on that night it was worse for those on
l)oard, since the ship which had resisted so long
began to exhibit signs of yielding, her ))lanks 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 o})ening 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 doom-
ed. Brandon at once began to take measures
for the safety of the men.

On that memorable day of the calm pre^nous
to the outbreak of the storm, the Cai>tain had
told Brandon that they were alK)Ht five hundred
miles to the westward of the coast of Senegam-
bia. He could not form any idea of the distance
which the ship had drifted during the progress
of the storm, but justly considered that whatev-
er progress she had made had been toward the
land. Their prospects in that direction, if they
could only reach it, were not hopeless. Sierra
I^eone and Liberia were there ; and if they struck
the coast any where about they might make their
way to either of those places.

Bat the question was how to get there. There
was only one way, and that was by taking to tlu)
boats. This was a desperate 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 gig. The^e 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 increasing, Bran-
don called the men together and stated this to
them. He then told them that it would be nec-
essary to divide themselves so that a suificient
number should go in each boat. He offered to

CORD AND CREESE.

pve up to them the two larger boat*, and take the
gig fur himself, his xervant, an4 the yuiiiiK lady.

To thi» the nieii nsnentod with great rcadineitM. .
Some of them urged him to go in the hirger liottt, i
and even oifere<l to exchange with him ; but |
Drnndon declined.

They then prepared for their denperate Ten- 1
tiire. All the provifionn and water that could 'i
\<c needed were put on board of each lH)at. Firc-
unns were not forgotten. ArrangementH were
made for a long and arduous voyage. The men
Htill worked at the ]ium|m ; and though the wa-
ter gained on them, yet time wai* gained tor |
completing thexc imi>ortant preiwrationH. i

About mid-day all was ready. Fifteen feet of
water were in the hold. The ship could not last '
much longer. Tlicre was no time to lose.

But how could the boatH l>e jiut out? How
could they live in such a sec. ? 'lliis was the ({ues-
tion to be decided.

The ship lay as before i.i the trough of the sea.
On the windward side tiie waves cume rushing
up, beating u|K)n and nweeping over her. On
the leeward the water was calmer, but the waves
tossed and raged angrily even there.

Only twenty were 'eft out of the ship's com-
pany. The rest we/o all missing. Of these,
fourteen were to go in the long-boat, and six in
the cutter. Brandjn, lieatrice, and Cato were
to take the gig.

The sailors put. the gig out first. The light
boat floated buoyantly on the waters. Cato
leaited into her^ and she was fastened by a long
line to the ship. The nimble Hindu, traine<l for
a lifetime to encounter the giant surges of the
Malabar coast, managed the little boat with mar-
velous dexterity — avoiding the sweep of the
waves which dashed around, and keeping suf-
ficiently under the lee to escajie the rougher
waves, yet not so much so as to be hurled against
tlie vessel.

Then the sailors put out the long-boat. This
was a difficult undertaking, but it was success-
fully accomplished, and the men were all on
board at lost. Instantly they prepared to row
away.

At that moment a wilder wave came pouring
over the ship. It was as though the ocean, en-
raged at the escape of these men, had made a
final eft'ort to gnusp its prey. Before the boat
with its living freight had got rid of the vessel,
the sweep of this gigantic wave, which had pass-
ed completely over the shij), struck it where it
ky. Brandon turned away his eyes involun-
tarily.

There was a wild shriek — the next moment
the black outline of the long-boat, bottom up-
ward, was seen amidst 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. Death threatened them behind
as well as before ; behind, death was certain ;
before, there was still a chance. They launched
the cutter in desperation. The six men suc-
ceeded in getting into her, and in rowing out at
some distance. As wave after wave rose and
fell she disappeared from view, and then reap-
peared, till at last Brandon thought that she at
least was safe.

Then he raised his hand and made a peculiar
signal to Cato.

The Hindu understood it. Brandon had given

him hilt direction* before. Now was the time.
The n)ll of the waves coming up waa for tlio
present less dangerous.

Beatrice, who during the whole storm had t>een
calm, and hod quietly done whatever Brandon
tuld her, was now waiting at the cabin-door in
obedience to his directions.

As soon OS Brandon had mode the signal he
hurried to the cabin-door and assisted Beatrice
to the (|uarter-deck. Cato rowed his t)oat close
up to the ship, and was waiting for a chance to
come 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 tlie ship, he forced his boat so that it
came close beside it, rising high on the crest of
the 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 lieen watch-
ing. 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 the edge
of the quarter-deck, and sprang forward into the
boat. His foot restud firmly on the seat where
it struck. He set Beatrice down, and with a
knife severed the line which connected the boat
with the ship.

Then seizing an oar he began to row with all
his strength. Cato had the bow oa>. The next
wave came, and its 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 l>oat
was now under command, and the two rowera
held it so that while it was able to avoid the dash
of the water, it could yet gain from it all the mo-
mentum that could be given.

Brandon handled the oar with a dexterity
equal to that of the Hindu, uud under such man-
agement, which wns at once strong and skillful,
the boat skimmed lightly over the crests of the
rolling waves, and passed out into the sea beyond.
There the great surges came sweeping on, rising
high behind the boat, each wave seeming about
to crush the little bark in its resistless grasp, but
notwithstanding the threat the boat seeme<l al-
ways able by some good luck to avoid the im-
pending 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 underneath, bearing it onward.

/ fter nearly half an hour's anxious and care-
ful 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 discovered no sign of it on the raging wa-
ters, and 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 over-exerting
themselves, but seeking chiefly to keep the boat's
head in a proper direction, and to evade the rush
of the waves. This last was their constant dan-
ger, and it required the utmost skill and the most
incessant watchfulness to do so.

All this time Beatrice sat in the stern, with a
heavv oil-cioth coat around her, which Brandon

CORD AND CREESE.

directed her to put on, snyina; nothing, hnt see-
ing every thing with her watciiful, 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;
"I trust in you."

" I hope your trust may not he vain,*' replied
Brandon.

"You have saved my life so often," said Bea-
trice, "that my trust in you has now become a
habit."

Shs smiled faintly as she spoke. There was
Mmething in her tone which sank deep into his
<9onl.

The night passed and morning came.

For the last lialf of the night the wind had
beer, much less boisterous, and toward morning

the gale had very greatly subsided. Brandon's
foresight had secured a mast and sail on board
the gig, and now, as soon as it could be erected
with safety, he put it uj), and the little boat dashed
bravely over the waters. The waves had lessened
greatly as the day wore on ; they no longer rose
in such giant masses, but showed merely the more
common proportions. Brandon and Cato now
had an opportunity to get some rest from their
exhaustive labors. Beatrice at last yielded to
Brandon's eimeat request, and, finding that the
immediat'; peril Iiad passed, and that his toil for
the presfnt vas over, she obtained some sleep
and rest for lierself.

For sM tliat day, and all that night, and nil
the ney t dny, the little boat sped over the waters,
heading d'le e-ast, so as to reach land whereret

CORD AND CHEESE.

th>>y might find it, in the hop« that the land
iiiiKlit not bo %ery far away from the civilizetl
tettiementi of the coast. 'I'he proviaionn and
water which had l>een pt\t in the boat formed
an ample supply, which would lust for a long
time. Brandon shared with Cato in the man-
ii^ement of the boat, not allowing his man to
have more of the labor than himself.

During theite days Brandon and Beatrice were
of course thrown into ft closer intimacy. At such
a tinr.e the nature of man or woman becomes most
npparent, and here Beatrice showed a noble calm
and a simple trust which to Brandon was most
touching. He knew that she must feel m(;st
keenly the fatigue and the privations of such a
life; but her untrarying cheerfulness was the
»nme as it had been on shipboard. He, too, exhib-
ited 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 nothing!"
Beatrice would say. " You are killing yourself,
and I have to sit idle and gain my safety at your
expense."

"The fact that yon are yet safe," Brandon
would reply, "is enough for me. 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 nway.

She sang at once. Her tones rose in mar\el-
ous niiodulations ; the words were not much, but
the music with which she clothed them seemed
again to utter forth that longing which Brandon
had heard before.

Now, as they passed over the seas, Beatrice
sang, and Brandon did not wish that this life
should end. Through the days, as they sailed
on, her voice arose expressive of every changeful
feeling, now speaking of grief, now swelling in
sweet strains of hope.

Day thus succeeded to day until the fourth
night came, when the wind died out and a calm
spread over the waters.

Brandon, who waked at about two in the
morning so as to let Cato sleep, saw that the
wind had ceased, and that another one of those
treacherous calms had come. He at once put
out the oars, and, directing Cato to sleep till he
waked him, began to pull.

Beatrice remonstrated. "Do not," said she,
in an imploring tone. " You have already done
too much. Why should you kill yourself?"

"The wind has stopped," answered Brandon.
" The calm is treacherous, and no time ought to
be lost."

" But wait till you have rested."

" I have been resting for days."

" Why do you not rest during the night and
work in the daytime ?"

"Because the daytime is so frightfully hot
that work will be difficult. Night is the time to
work now. "

Brandon kept at his oars, and Beatrice saw
that remonstrances were useless. He rowed
steadily until the break of day ; then, as day was
dawning, he rested for a while, and looked earn-
estly toward the east.

A low, dark cloud lay along the eastern hori-
D

con, well-defined against the sky, which now wna
gn)wing brighter and brighter erery hour. Was
it cloud, or whs it something else? Thij wu
the question that rose in Brandon's mind.

The sky grew brighter, the scene far and wide
opened up before the gathering light until at last
the sun began to appear. Then there waa no
longer any doubt. It was Land.

This he told to Beatrice ; and the Hindu,
waking at the same time, looke<l earnestly to-
ward that shore which they had lieen striving so
long and so earnestly to reach. It was land, but
what land ? No doubt it was some part of the
coast of iSenegambia, but what one? Along
that extensive coast there were many places
where landing might be certain death, or some-
thing Worse than death, i^avage tribes might
dwell there — either those which were demoral-
ized by dealings with slave-traders, or those
which were flourishing in native barbarism. Yet
only one course was now advisable ; namely, to
go on till they reached the shore.

It api)eared to be about fifty miles away. So
Brandon judged, and so it prove*!. The land
which they had seen was the summit of lofty
hills which were visible from a great dirtance.
They rowed on all that day. The water was
calm and glassy. The sua poured down its most
fervid beams, the air wai sultry and oppressive.
Beatrice entreated Brandon new to di;sist from
rowing and wait till the cool of the night, but he
was afraid that a storm might come u)) suddenly.
"No," he said, "our only hope new is to get
near the land, so that if a storm does come up
we may have some place of shelter vrithin reach. '

After a day of exhaustive labor the land was
at last' reached.

High hills, coTered with palin -trees, rose be-
fore them. There was no harVor within sight,
no river outlet, but a long, uninterrupted extent
of high, wooded shores. Here in the evening
they rested on their oars, and looked earnestly
at the shore.

Brandon conjectured tbnt they were some-
what to the north of Merrj. Leone, and did not
think that they could be to the south. At any
rate, a southeasterly cou'.-ie was the surest one
for them, for they would reach either Sierra Le-
one or Liberia. The difitance which they might
have to go was, howc er, totally imcertain to
him.

So they turned the boat's head southeast, and
moved in a line parallel with the general line of
the shore. That shore varied in its features as
they passed along: sometimes depressed into
low, wide savannas ; at others, rising into a roll-
ing country, v/ith hills of moderate height, be-
hind which appeared the summits of lofty mount-
ains, empurpled by distance.

It was evening when they first saw the land,
and then they went on without pausing. It was
arranged that they should row alternately, as
moderately as possible, so as to husband their
strength. Cato rowed for the first part of that
night, then Brandon rowed till morning. On the
following day Cato took the oars again.

It was now just a week since the wreck, and
for the last two days there had not been a breath
of wind in the air, nor the faintest ripple on
that burning water. To use even the slightey.t
exertion in such torrid heat was almost impos-
sible. Even to sit still luider that blighting sun,

CORD AND CREESE.

with the reflected glare from the dead, dark sea
around, was painful.

Beatrice redoubled her entreaties ta Brandon
that he should rest. 8he wished to hare her
mantle spread over their heads as a kind of can-
opy, or fix the sail in some way and float idly
through the hottest part of the day. But Bran-
don insisted that he felt no evil eflects as yet ;
and promised when he did feel such to do as she
said.

At last they discovered that their water was
almost out, and it yf&a necessary to get a fresh
supply. It was the afternoon of the seventh
day. Brandon had been rowing ever since mid-
day. Beatrice had wound her mantle about his
head in the style of an Eastern turban so as to
protect him from the sun's rays. Looking out
tor some place along the shore where they might
obtain water, they saw an opening in the line of
roost where two hills arose to a height of several
hundred feet. Toward this Brandon rowed.

Stimulated by the prospect of sotting foot on
shore Brandon rowed somewhat more vigorously
than usual ; and in about an hour the boat en-
tered a beautiful little cove shut in between two
hills, which formed the outlet of a river. Far
up its winding course could be traced by the
trees along its borders. The hills rose on each
side with a steep slope, and were covered with
palms. The front of the harbor was shut in
from the sea by a beautiful little wooded island.
Here Brandon rowed the boat into this cove;
and its prow grated against the pebbles of the
beach.

Beatrice had uttered many exclamations of
delight at the beauty of tliis scene. At length,
surprised at Brandon's silence, she cried,

"Why do you not say something? Surely
this is a Paradise after the sea !"

She looked up with an enthusiastic smile.

He had risen to his feet. A strange, vacant
expression was in his eyes. He made a step for-
ward as if to land. His unsteady foot trembled.
' He reeled, and stretched out his arms Uke some
one groping in the dark.

Beatrice shrieked and sprang forward. Too
late ; for the next m jmcnt he fell headlong into
the water.

CHAPTER Xin.

THE BADINAGE OF OLD FRIENDS.

The town of Holby is on tlie coast of Pem-
broke. It has a small harbor, with a light-house,
and the town itself contains a few thousand peo-
ple, most of them belonging to the poorer class.
The chief house in the town stands on a rising
ground a litde outside, looking toward the water.
Its size and situation render it the most conspicu-
ous object in the neighborhood.

This house, from its appearance, must have
been built more than a century before. It be-
longed to an old family which had become ex-
tinct, and now was occupied by a new owner, who
had given it another name. This new owner was
William Thornton, Esq., solicitor, who had an
office in Holby, and who, though very wealthy,
still attended to his business with undiminished
applicAtiop. The house had been originally pur-
chased by the father of the present occupant,
Heuiy Thornton, a well-known lawyer in these

parts, who had settled here originally a poor
young man, but had Anally grown gray and rich
m his adopted home. He had bought the j)lace
when it was exposed for sale, with the intention
of founding a new seat for his own family, and
had given it the name of Thornton Grange.

Generations of care and tasteful culture had
made Thornton Grange one of the most beautiful
places in the county. All around were wido
parks dotted with ponds and clumps of treee.
An avenue of elms led up to the door. A well-
kept lawn was in front, and behind was an ex-
tensive grove. Every thing spoke of wealth and
elegance.

On an afternoon in February a gendeman in
clerical dress walked up the avenue, rang at the
door, and enteiing he gave his name to the serv-
ant as the Rev. Courtenay Despard. He was the
new Rector of Holby, and had only been there
one week.

He entered the drawing-ix)om, sat down upon
one of the many lounging chairs with which
it was filled, and waited. He did not have to
wait long. A rapid step was soon heard de-
scending the stairs, and in a few minutes a lady
entered. She come in with a bright smile of
welcome on her face, and greeted him with much
warmth.

Mrs. Thornton was very striking in her appear-
ance. A clear olive complexion and large, dark
hazel eyes marked Southern blood. Her hair
was black, wavy, and exceedingly luxuriant. Her
mouth was small, her hands and feet delicately
shaped, and her figure slender and elegant. Her
whole air had that indefinable grace which is the
sign of high-breeding ; to this there was added
exceeding loveliness, with great animation of
face and elegance of manner. She was a perfect
lady, )'et not of the Enghsh stamp ; for her looks
and manner had not that cold and phlegmatic air
which England fosters. She looked rather like
some ItaUan beauty — like those which enchant us
as they smile from the walls of the picture-gal-
leries of Italy.

"I am so glad you have come!" said she.
"It is so stupid here, and I expected you an
hour ago."

" Oh, if I had only known that !" said Despard.
" For, do you know, I have been dying of ennui."

" I hope that I may be the means of dispel-
ling it."

" As surely so as the sun disperses the clouds."

" You are never at a loss for a compliment."

" Never when I am with you."

These few words were spoken with a smile by
each, and a slightly melodramatic gesture, as
though each was conscious of a little extrava-
gance.

"You must be glad to get to your old home,"
she resumed. "You lived here fifteen, no, six-
teen years, you know."

"Eighteen."

" So it was. I was sixteen when you left."

"Never to see you again till I came back,"
said Despard, with some moumfidness, looking
at the floor.

" And since then all has changed."

"But I have not," rejoined Despard, in the
same tone.

Mrs. Thornton said nothing for a moment .

" By-the-way, I've been reading such a nice
book," she resumed. "It has just come out,

CORD AND CREF jE.

nnd is making a sensation. It would suit you, I
know.'

"What is it?"

She rose and lifted a book from the table,
which she handed to him. He took it, and read
the title out loud.

"Christian's Cross."

A strange expression passed over his face. He
looked at iier, holding the book out at arms'-
length with feigned consternation.

"And do you iiave the heart to recommend
this book to me, Mrs. Thornton ?"

"Why not?"

"Why, it's religious. Religious books are my
terror. How could I possibly open a book like
this?"

She laughed.

" You are mistaken," she said. " It is an or-
dinary novel, and for the sake of your peace of
mind I assure you that there is not a particle of
religion in it. But why should you look with
such repugnance upon it? The expression of
your face is simply horror. "

"Pietistic bcHoks have been the bane of ray
life. The emotional, the rhapsodical, the medi-
tative style c f book, in which one garrulously ad-
dresses one'b soul from beginning to end, is sim-
ply torture to me. You see religion is a different
thing. The rhapsody may do for the Taberna-
cle people, but thoughtful men and women need
something different. "

"lam so delighted to hear such sentiments
from a clergyman ! They entirely accord with
my own. Still I must own that your horror
struck me as novel, to say the least of it. "

"Would you like me to try to proselytize
you?"

" You may try if you wish. I am open to
conviction ; but the Church of all the ages, tlie
Apostolic, the Catholic, has a strong liold on me. "

"You need not fear that I will ever tiy to
loosen it. I only wish that I may see your face
in Trinity Church every Sunday."

"That happiness shall be yours," answered
Mrs. Thornton. ' ' As there is no ( 'atholic church
here, I will give you the honor of mv presence at
Trinity."

"If that is thn case it will be a place of wor-
ship to me. "

He smiled r j the extravagance of this last
remark, and she only shook her head.

"That is a compliment, but it is awfully pro-
fane. "

"Not profanity; say rather justifiable idol-
atry."

"Really, I feel overcome; I do not know
what to say. At any rate, I hope you will like
the book ; I know you will find it pleasant. "

" Any thing that comes from you could not be
otherwise," said Despard. "At the same time
it is not my habit to read novels singly. "

" Singly ! Why how else can one read them ?"'

"I always read several at a time."

Mrs. Thornton laughed at the whimsical idea.

" You see," said Despard, " one must keep up

with the literature of the day. I used to read

each book as it came out, but at last found satiety.

The best novel palls. For my own comfort I

had to invent a/iew plan to stimulate my interest.

I will tell you about it. I take ten at a time,

spread them on i>e table in froni cf me, and read

each chapter in succession."

" Ii»ii t that a little confusing ?"

" Not at all," said Despard, gravely. " Prac-
tice enables one to keep all distinct."

" But what is the good of it ?"

"This," replied Despard; "you see in each'
novel there are certain situations. Perhaps on
an average there may be forty each. Interesting
characters also may average ten each. 'Thrilling
scenes twenty each. Overwhelming catastnjphes
fifteen each. Now by reading novels singly the
effect of all this is weakened, for you only have
the work of each in its divided, isolated state,
but where you read according to my plan you
have the aggregate of all these effects in one
combined — that is to say, in ten books which
I read at once I have two hundred thrilling
scenes, one hundred and fifty overwhelming ca-
tastrophes, one hundred interesting characters,
and four hundred situations of absorbing fascina-
tion. Do you not see what an advantage there
is in my phin? By following this rule I have
been able to stimulate a somewhat faded appetite,
and to keep abreast of the literature of the
day."

" What an admirable plan ! And do yon read
all books in that way ? Why, one could write
ten novels at a time on the same principle, and
if so he ought to write very much better."

"I think I will try it some day. At present
I am busily engagea With a learned treatise on
the Symbolical Nattire of the Mosaic Economy, ■
and-^"

"The— what?" cried Mrs. Thornton, breath-
lessly. ' ' What was that ?"

" The Symbolical Nature of the Mosaic Econo-
my," said Despard, placidly.

"And is the title all your own ?" ' .

"All my own."

"Then pray don't write the book. The title
is enough. Publish that, and see if it does not
of itself by its own extraordinary merits bring
you undying fame."

"I've been thinking seriously of doing »o,"
said Despard, " and I don't know but that I may
follow your advice. It will save some trouble,
and perhaps amount to just as much in the
end."

"And do you often have such brilliant fim-
cies?"

' ' No, frankly, not often. I consider that title
the one great idea of my life."

" But do not dwell too much upon that," said
Mrs. Thornton, in a warning voice. "It might
make you conceited."

"Do you think so?" rejoined the other, with
a shudder. " Do you really think so ? I hope
not. At any rate I hope you do not like con
ceited people?" ,.

"No." '* ■

"Am I conceited?"

"No. I like yon," replied Mrs. Thornton,
with a slight bow and a wave of the hand, which
she accompanied with a smile.

"And I like you," said Despard, in the same
tone.

" You could not do less."

"This," said Despard, with an air of thought-
ful seriousness, "is a solemn occasion. After
such a tender confession from each of us what
remains to be done ? WTiat is it that the novels
lay down?"

" I'm sure," returned Mrs. Thornton, with the

CORD AND CREESE.

same assumed solemnity, " it is not for me to
say. You must make the proposition."

" We can not do any thing less than fly to-
gether."

"I should think not"

"But where?"

" And not only where, but how ? By rail, by
steamboat, or by canal ? A canal strikes me as
the best mode of flight. It is secluded."

"Free from observation," said Despard.

" Quiet," rejoined Mrs. Thornton.

"Poetic."

"Remote."

"Unfriended."

"Solitary."

"Slow."

"And, best of all, hitherto untried."

"Yes, its novelty is undeniable."

"So much so," said Mrs. Thornton, "that it
overwhelms one. It is a bright, original idea,
and in these days of commonplace is it not cred-
itable ? The idea is mine. Sir, and I will match
it with your — what? — ^your Symbolical Nature
of the Mosaic Cosmogony."

" Economy."

"But Cosmogony is better. AUow 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 de-
rived from the Greek-;-"

"Greek!" exclaimed Mra. Thornton, raising
her hands. " You surely are not going to be so
ungenerous as to quote Greek! Am I not a
lady ? Will you be so base as to take me at a
disadvantage in that way?"

"I am thoroughly ashamed of myself, and
you may consider that a tacit j\pology is going
on withm my mind whenever I seejou."

"You are forgiven," said Mrs. Thornton.

"I can not conceive how I could have so far
iForgotten mysdf. I do not usually speak Greek
to ladies. I consider it my duty to make my-
self agreeable. And you have no idea how
agreeable I cm make myself, if I try."

"I? I have no idea? Is it you who say
that, and to me?" exclaimed Mrs. Thornton, in
that slight melodramatic tone which she had em-
ployed 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. Other\vise, fond as I am of you"
— and she spoke with exaggerated solemnity —
" I must regai'd you as a failure."

The conversation went on uninterruptedly in
this style for some time. It appeared to suit
each of them. Despard's face, naturally grave,
assisted him toward maintaining the mock-seri-
ous tone which 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 exaggerated sentiment of regard.
They considered it banter and badinage. How
far it was safe was another thing. But they had
known one another years before, and were only
resuming the manner of earlier times.

Yet, after all, was it safe for the grave Rector
of Holby to adopt the inflated style of a trouba-
dour in addressing the Lady of Thornton Grange ?
Neither of them thought of it. They simply im-
proved the shinmg hour after this fashion, until

at length the conversation was interrupted by the
opening of folding-doors, and the entrance of a
servant who announced— -dinner.

On entering the dining-room Despard was
greeted with respectful formality by 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. His tone, in spite of its friend-
lin«»s, was naturally stiff, and was in marked
contrast to the warmth of Mrs. Thornton's greet-
ing.

"How do you like your new quarters?" he
asked, as they sat down.

"Very well, " said Despard. " It is more ray
home, you know, than any other place. I lived
there so many years as school-boy with Mr. Car-
son that it seems natural to take up my station
there as home. "

Mr. Thornton relapsed into his abstraction
while Despard was speaking, who directed the
remainder of his conversation to Mrs. Thornton.

It was light, idle chat, in the same tone as that
in which they had before indulged. Once or
twice, at some unusually extravagant remark,
Mr. Thornton looked up in 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. " Des-
pard asserted that it meant the same as eteraal
duration, and insisted that it mast be so, since
when to-morrow came the day after it was still
coming, and when that came there was still the
day after. He supported his theory \vith so much
earnestness that Thornton, after listening for a
while, took the trouble to go heavily and at
length into the whole question, and conclude it
triumphantly against Despard.

Then the subject of politics came up, and a
probable war with France was considered. Des-
pard professed to take no interest in the subject,
since, even if an invasion took place, clergymen
could do nothing, lliey were exempt from mil-
itary duty in common with gangers. The men-
tion 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 sim-
ply impossible to tell whether it was ganger or
guager. This brought out Thornton again, who
mentioned several law papers in which the word
had been correctly written by his clerks. Des-
pard challenged him on this, and, because Thorn-
ton had to confess that he had not examined the
word, dictionary in hand, he claimed a Aictory
over him.

Thornton, at this, looked away, with the smile
of a man who is talking unintelligible things to a
child.

Then followed a long conversation between
Despard and Mrs. Thornton about religion, art,
music, and a miscellaneous assemblage of other
things, which lasted for a long time. At length
he rose to go. Mrs. Thornton went to a side-
table and 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, " soine day."

" Come for it to-morrow."

" Will vou be at home?" . !

CORD AND CREESE.

'MRS. THORNTON, WALKING TO THE WINDOW, LOOK£0 OUT.

"Yes."

" Then of course 1 11 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 gi^eetings. " 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 trjing to continue a letter which I be-
gan to my brother a month ago. There is no
hurrv 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 importance, 1 assure you, and
now, since you are here, you shall not go. In-
deed, I only touched it a minute ago. I have
been looking at some pictures till I am so be-
grimed and inundated with dust that I feel as
though I had been resolved into my original ele-
ment." 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, succeed-
ed by his usual smile.

"Dust never before took so fair a form," he
said, and sat down, looking on the floor.

"For unfailing power of compliment, for an
unending supply of neat and pretty speeches,
commend me to the Rev. Courtenay Despard."

"Yet, singtilarly enough, no one else ever
dreamed that of me." = -

" Yon 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 radiancy
of their spirits was restored. "Strange," said he,
taking up a prayer-book with a peculiar binding,
on which there vas a curiously intertwisted figure
in gilt. "That pattern has been in my thoughts
and dreams for a week,"

"How so?" . :.

"Why, 1 saw it m yoi\r hands last Sunday,
and my eyes were drawn to it till its whole figure

CORD AND CREESE.

seemftd to stamp itself on my mind. See ! ! 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 emphasis.

" 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
serious voice, "I suppose I shall be able some
day to worship before my own altar, for, do you
know, I expect to end my days in a convent."

"And why?"

"For the purpose of perfect religious seclu-
sion."

Despard 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 day through the grating."

" And would that be a help to a religious life ?"

" Perhaps not ; but 111 tell you what would be
a help. Be a Sister of Charity. I'll be a Paul-
ist. m devote myself to the sick. Then you
and I can go together ; and when you are tired
I can assist you. I think that idea is much bet-
ter than yours."

"Oh, very much, indeed!" said Mrs. Thorn
ton, 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 ab-
surd, in one of them to bring up old memories."

Mrs. Thoraton 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 re-
joined, 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.

She turned and looked at him for a moment.
Strange that these two should pass so quickly
from gayety to gloom! Their eyes met, and
each read in the face of the other sadness be-
yond words.

CHAPTER XIV.

TWO LETTERS.

Despard did not go back to the Grange for
iome days. About a week had passed since the
scenes narrated in the preceding chapter when
one morning, having finished his breakfast, he
went into his library and sat down at the table
to write. A litter of papers lay all around. The

walls were covered with shelves, filled with books.
The table was piled high with ponderc us tomes.
Manuscripts were strewn around, and books were
scattered on the floor. Yet, amidst all this dis~
order, tome order was apparent, for many of these
books lay open in certain places, and others were
arranged so as to be within reach.

Several sheets of paper, covered with writing,
lay before him, headed, " The Byzantine Poets."
The books were all in Greek. It was the library
of a hard-working student.

Very diflierent was the Despard of the library
from the Despard who had visited the Grange.
A stem and thoughtful expression was read in
his face, and his eyes had an abstraction which
would have done credit to Mr. Thornton him-
self.

Taking his seat at the table, he remained for
a while leaning his head on his hand in deep
thought. Then he took up a pen and drew a
piece of paper before him to try it. He began
to draw upon it the same figure which hv, had
marked with his cane on Mrs. "niomton's carpet.
He traced this figure over and over, until at last
the whole sheet was covered.

Suddenly he fiung do\vn the pen, and, taking
up the paper, leaned back in his chair with a mel-
ancholy face. ' ' What a poor, weak thing I am ! "
he muttered at last, and let the paper fall to the
floor. He leaned his head on his hand, then re-
sumed his pen and began to make some idle
marks. At length he began to draw.

Under the fine and delicate strokes of his pjii,
which were as neat and as exquisite as the most
subtle touches of an engraving, a picture gradu-
ally rose to view. It was a sea-side scene. The
place was Holby Beach. In the distance was
the light-house ; and on ope side a promontorj-,
which protected the harbor. Upon the shore,
looking out toward the sea, was a beautiful girl,
of about sixteen years of age, whose features, as
they grew beneath his tender touches, were those
of Mrs. Thornton. Then beside her there grad-
ually rose another figure, a youth of about eight-
een, with smooth face and clustering locks, who
looked exactly like what the llev. Courtenay
Despard might have been some seven or eight
years before. His left arm was around her waist,
her arm was thrown up till it touched his shoul-
der, and his right hand held hers. Her head
leaned against him, and both of them, with a
subdued expression of perfect happiness, tinged
with a certain pensive 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 Damasce-
nus form a marked contrast to — ' when the sen-
tence was interrupted by a knock at the door.
" Come in !" It was the servant with letters from
the post-office, Despard put down his pen grave-
ly, 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 :

CORD AND CREESE.

" Dear Mr. Despard, — I suppose I may nev-
er expect to see you again. Yet I must see you,
for yesterday I received a very long letter from
Paolo of so singular a character that you will
have to explain it to me. I shall expect you this
afternoon, and till then, I remain,
"Yours sincerely,

" Teresa Thornton.
"Thobnton Gkanok, Friday."

Despard read this letter a score of times, and
placed it reverently in an inner drawer of his
desk. Ue then opened the other, and read as
follows :

"Halifax, Nova Scotia, January 12, 1847.

" My dear Cocrtenay, — 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, consider-

ing all things. The people are pleasant, and therg
is some stir and gayety occasionally.

" Not long before leaving Quebec, who do you
think turned up ? No less a person than Paolo
Langhetti, who in the course of his wanderings
came out there. He had known some extraor-
dinary adventures 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 Livei-pool for Quebec. It
was an emigrant ship, and crammed with pas-
sengers. You have heard all about the horrors
of that middle passage, which occurred last year,
when those infernal Liverpool merchants, for the
sake of putting a few ad(fitional pounds iu 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 devot-
ing 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 the steer-
age with the sick emigrants. He is very quiet
about this, and merely says that he helped to
mu-se the sick. I know what that means.

" The mortality was terrific. Of all the ships
that came to Quebec on that fatal summer the
Tecumseh showed the largest record of deaths.
On reaching the quarantine station Langhetti at

CORD AND CREESE.

once insisted on continuing his attendance on the
sick. Hands were ^arce, and his offer was
eagerly accepted. He staid down there ever so
long till the worst of the sickness was over.

" Among the passengers on the Tecutiisek were
three who belonged to the superior class. Their
names were Brandon. He took a deep interest
in them. They sutlered very much fiom sick-
ness 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 quar-
antine station. Langhetti, liowever, found that
one of them was only in a 'trance state,' and
his efforts for resuscitation were successfid. This
one was a yoimg 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,
mitil at last he heard of me and came to see me.

"Of course I was delighted to see him, for 1
always thought him the noblest fellow tliat ever
breathed, though most undoubtedly cranky if not
crazy. I told him 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 the journey here had a
beneficial effect on her, and during her stay she
has steadily improved. About a week ago Lan-
ghetti ventured to ask her all about herself.

" What will you say when I tell you that she is
the" daughter of poor lialph Brandon, of Brandon
Hall, your father's friend, whose wretched fate
has made us all so miserable. You know no-
thing of this, of course ; but where was Thorn-
ton ? Why did not he do something to prevent
this horror, this unutterable calaniity? 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 be-
fore her father's death he wrote to his son telling
him every thing, 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 rela-
tive would restore her to health.

" My boy, I know I have said enough. Your
own heart will impel jou to do all that can be
done for the sake of this poor yoimg girl. You
can find out the best ways of learning informa-
tion. You had better go up at once to London
and make arrangements for finding Brandon.
Write me soon, and let me know.

" Yoiu" affectionate uncle,

" Henry Despaed."

Despard read this letter over and over. Then
he |jut it in his pocket, and walked up and down
the room in deep thouglit. 7'hen he took out
Mrs. Thornton's note and studied it for a long
time. 80 the hours passed away, imtil 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 per-
sistently avoid the Grange."

" What would you say if I followed my own
hnpulse, 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 oth-
er 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 intro-
duce it in a conversation. There is only one
other word that compares with it."

"What is it?"

" I am afraid to pronounce it."

"Try, at any rate."

"Idiosyncrasy," said Mrs. Tliomton. For
five or six years I have been on the look-out for
an opportunity to use that word, and thus far I
have been unsuccessful. I fear that if the op-
portunity did occur I would call it ' idiocracy.'
In fact, I know I woiUd."

"And what would be the dift'erence? 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 began to read,
while Mrs. Thornton, sitting opposite to him,
watched his face.

The letter was in Italian, and was accompa-
nied by a large and closely-written manuscript
of many pages.

"Halifax, Nova Sootia, January 2, 1S4T.

' ' 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 mr 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."

CORD AND CKEESE.

CHAPTER XV. •

JOCBMAL OV PAOLO LANGHETTI.

Liverpool, June 2, 184(i. — I promised you,
my Teresina, to keep a diary of all my wander-
ings, and now I begin, not knowing whetlier it
will be worth reading 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 Tecumseh
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 iirst
New York siiip does not leave for a fortnight.
A fortnight in Liverpool ! Horror !

I have been on board to secure my room. I
am told tiiat there is a large number of emigrants.
It is a pity, but it can not be helped. All ships
have emigrants 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, w hereas Ireland has no past.

At Sea, June 4. — We are many miles out in
the Irish Channel. There are six hundred emi-
grants on board — men, women, and children. I
am told that most of these are from Ireland, un-
happy 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 helpless. Let the world
suffer. All will be right hereafter.

June 10. — Six hundred passengers ! They are
all crowded together in a manner that is frightful
to me. Comfort is out of the ques.ion ; the direst
distress is every where present ; the poor w retches
only try to escape suffering. During storms they
are shut in; there is little vendlation; 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 i li.e
them to their proper destination. My God I
what will become of them ?

June 15. — There have been a few days of fine
weather. The w retched emigrants ha\ e all been
on deck. Among them I noticed three who,
from their appearance, belonged to a different
class. There was 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 indi-
cates the extreme of sadness. The son is a man
of magnificent appearance, though as yet not
full-grown. The daughter is r lOre lovely than
any being whom I have ever see i. She is differ-
ent 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 one who can so
intei-jiret my ideas wpth so divine a voice. But
this girl is more spiritual. Bice is classic, this
one is medieval. 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 fat e the same depth of
devotion which our painteit portray oii the face

of the Madonna. This little family group stand
amidst all the other passengers, separated by the
wide gulf of superior rank, for they are mani-
festly fiom among the up])er 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 njy sympathy ?

June 21. — 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
sympathy that I could express ; and, with many
apologies, offered the young man a bottle of wine
for his mother. He took it gratefully and frank-
ly. He met me half-way in my advances'. I'he
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 yoiur sj-mpathy with
the miserable."

"Dear Madame," said I, "I wish no other
reward than the consciousness that I may have
alleviated your distress."

My heart bled for these poor creatures. Cast
down from a life which must have once been one
of luxury, they were now in the foiUest of places,
the hold of an emigrant ship. I went back to
the captain 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 llieie 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 projxjsal
as delica ely as I could. There were two berths
in my room. I urged her and her daughter to
take them. At first they both refused most posi-
tively, 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 as-
sured 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 consent. They did so w ith 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 no-
thing. 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 cuiiosity.
"What do you know about Holby, and about
Langhetti ?"

She looked at me with solemn earnestness.
"I," said she. "am the wife, and these are the
children of one who was your father's friend. He
who was my husband, and the father of these
children, was Italph Brandon, of Brandon Hall."

, r

COKD AND CREESE.

I stood for a moment stupefied. Then I baret
into tean. llien I embraced them all, and said
I know not what of pity and sympathy and affec-
tion. My God ! to thnik of such a fate as this
awaiting the family of Kalph Brandon. Did you
know this, oh, Teresina? If so, why did you
keep it secret? But no — you co^ild not have
known it. If you had this would not have hap-
pened.

I'hey took my room in the cubin — the dear
ones — Mrs. Brandon and the swoet Edith. The
son Frank and I stay together among the emi-
grants. Here I am now, and I write this as the
sun is getting low, and the uproar of tdl these
hundreds is sounding in my ears.

Tune 30. — There is a panic in the ship. The
dread pestilence known as "ship-fever" has ap-
peared. This disease is the terror of emigrant
ships. Srrely there was never any vessel so
well adapted to be the prey of tho pestilence as
this of ours! I have lived for ten days among
.the steerage passengers, and have witnessed their
misery. Is God just? Can he look down un-
moved upon scenes like these? Now that the
<Jisease has come, where will it stop ?

Juhj 3. — The disease is spreading. Fifteen are
prostrate. Three have died.

Juli) 10. — Thiity deaths have occurred, and
fifty are sick. I am assisting to nurse them.

Jidy 15. — Thirty-four deaths since my last.
One hundred and thirty are sick. I will labor
here if I have to die for it.

Jul}f 18. — If this is my last entry let this
diary be sent to Mrs. Thornton, care of Will-
iam Thornton, Holby, Pembroke, England —
(the above entry was written in English, the re-
mainder was ail in Italian, as before). More
than two hundred 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.

July 23. — Shall I sunive these horrors ? More
than fifty new deaths have occurred. The dis-
ease has spread among the sailors. Two are
dead, and seven are sick. Horror prevails.
Frank Brandon is recovering slowly. Mrs.
Brandon does not know that he has been sick.
We send word that we are afraid to come for
fear of conmiunicating the disease to her and to
Edith.

July 27. — More than half of the sailors are
sick. Eleven dead. Sixty-seven passengers
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, hhip almost
unmanageable. In the Gulf of St. Lawrence.
Talk of putting into some port. Seventy passen-
gers dead.

Auffu.it 2. — Worse yet. Disease has spread
into the cabin. Three cabin passengers dead.
God have mercy upon poor Mrs. Brandon and
sweet Edith ! ^\11 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. LawTence. The weather calm, and two 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 report,
but nearly all are sick. Hardly any one to at-
tend to them.

AuguKt 10. — Mrs. Brandon and Edith both
sick. Frank prostrate again. God in heaven,
have mercy !

Auyust 15. — Mrs, Brandon and Edith rery
low. Frank better.

Auyuat 16. — Quarantine Station, Gosse Isl-
and. I feel the fever in my veins. If I die,
farewell, sweetest sister.

December 28, Unlifax, Nova Scotia. — More
than four months have elapsed since my last en-
try, and during the interval mar\elou8 things
have occurred. These I will now try to recall as
I best can.

My last entry was made on the day of tho ar-
rival of the Tecumseh at the Quarantine Station,
Gosse Island, Quebec. We were delayed there
for two days. iLvery thing was in confusion. A
large number of ships had arrived, and all were
filled with sick. The authorities were taken by
surprise ; and aa no arrangements had ever been
made for such a state of things the suft'ering was
extreme. The arrival of the Tecumseh w ith her
frightful record of deaths, and with several hun-
dred sick still on board, completed the confusion.
At last the passengers 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 nothing of what was going on.
The first thing that I saw on coming to my senses
was Edith Brandon.

She was fearfully changed. Unutterable grief
dwelt upon her sweet young face, which also was
pale and wan from the sickness through which
she had passed. An awful feeling shot through
me. My first question was, "Is your mother
on shore ?"

She looked at me for a moment in solemn si-
lence, and, slowly raising her hand, pointed up-
ward.

" 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, mourn-
fully.

"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 the 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 these things. "

She laid her thin hand on my forehead trently.
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 that agony, did she come to me to save my life ?

CORD AND CHEESE,

I did not resist her any longer on that day ;
but the next day I was stronger, and nutde her
go and repose herself.

For two successive days she came back. On
the third day she did not appear. The fourth
day also she was absent. Rude nurses attended
to me. They knew nothing of her. My anxietv
inspired me with such energy that on the fourtK
day I rose from my bed and staggered about to
lind 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
any thing of Edith. I sought her through all the
wards. I went to the superintendent, and forced
him to make inquiries about her. No one could
tell any thing.

My despair was terrible. I forced the super-
intendent to call up all the nurses and doctors,
and question them all, one by one. At last an
old Irish woman, with an awfid look at me, hint-
ed that she coidd tell something about her, and
whispered a word or two in the superintendent's
ear. He started back, with a fearful glance.

" What is it ? TeU, 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 Edifh. 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 mo-
ment 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 ac-
companied by a certain wild hope. I huiTied,
with staggering feet, to the dead-house.

All the bodies were gone. New ones had come
in.

" Where is she ?" I cried to the old woman who
had charge there. She knew to whom I referred.

"Buried," said she.

I burst out into a torrent of imprecations.
" Where have they buried her ? Take me to the
place I" 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! Sheis not dead!"

How did I have s'uch a mad fancy ? I will tell
you. This ship-fever often terminates 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 detained the
corpses three days, in spite of the remonstrances
of the other passengers. These two revived. 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 wheth-
*■ you died by the fever or by the sea ?"

But when I aaw^ Edith as she lay there my sou]
felt assured that she was not dead, and an imut'
terable convulsion of sorrow overwhelmed me.
Therefore I fainted. The horror of that situa-
tion was too much for me. To think of that an-
gelic girl about to be covered up alive in the
ground ; to think of that sweet young life, which
had begun so brightly, terminating amidst such
black darkness !

" Now God help me !" I cried, as I hurried on
after the woman ; " and bring me there in time."
There ! Where ? To the place of the dead. It
was there that I had to seek her.

" How long had she been in that house before
I fainted? ' I asked, fearfully.

" Twenty-four hour.?."

"And when did I faint?"

"Yesterday."

A pang shot through me. " Tell me," I cried,
hoarsely, "when she was buried."

"Lait night."

"O God!" I groaned, and I could say no
more ; but with new strength given to 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. I'he moon seemed enlarged to the
dimensions of a sky ; the murmur of the river
sounded like a cataract, and in the vast murmur
1 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 supernatural. 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 — where, O God, is she!"

"There," replied the woman, pointing to one
which was the third from the end.

"Do not deceive me!" I cried, imploringly.
" 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 n ;• 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 some-
thing 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 th>,m into the air.

"Oh, Edith!" I cried, "I am here! I am com-
ing ! I am coming !"

"Come, Sir," said the woman, suddenly, la

CORD AND CREESE.

I TOOK Hr.U IN :^ T arms and BKOCGHT her forth from the OlAVE, ETC.

her strong voice, yet pityingly. " Yon can do no-
thing. I will dig her out in a niinn'e."

"God forever bless you!" I cried, leaping out
nnd ginng place to her. I watched her ns she
threw out the earth. Hungrily I gazed, devour-
ing that dirk aperture with my eyes till at last the
rough boards appeared.

Then I leaped down. I put my fingers at the
edge rind tore at it till it gave way. The lid was
only fastened with a few nails. My bleeding
fingtrs clutched it. It yielded to my frantic ex-
ertions.

O my God I was there ever a sight on earth
like that *hich 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
sought. Its bright beams threw a lustre round
that face which was upturned toward me. Ah
me ! how white was that face ; like the face of
soma sleeping maiden can ed in alabaster. Bathed
in the moonbeams it lay before me, all softened
and rteftned and made pure ; a face of unearthly
beauty. The dark hair caught the moon's rays,
and encircled the head like a crown of immortal-
ity. Still the eyes were closed as though in
slumber ; still the lips were fixed into a smile.

She lay as one who had fiillen into a deep, sweet
sleep — ns 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 un-
equaled vision I had drawn into my inmost being
some sudden stimulus — a certain rapture of new-
born strength ; strength no longer fitful and spas-
modic, 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 suftaring through which she had
passed. This thought transfixed me with a pang
of anguish — even av-ed the rapture that I felt at
clasping her in my aims.

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 a.ny secluded place where
she may sleep undisturbed till she wakes — "

" No : there is none but what is crowded with
the sick and dying in all thi^^ island."

" I must have some place. '

" There is only one spot that is quiet."

"What one?"

"The dead-house."

CORD AND CREE8E.

I vbuddered. " No, not there. Bee," said I,
and I handed her a piece of gold. "Find me
wnie place and you shall have ntill more. "

"Well," she said, hesitatingly, "I have the
room where me end my man live. I suppose we
could give up that."

"Take me there, then."

"Shall I help you carry her ?"

"No," I answered, drawing hack 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 dismal sheds which
lay there like a vast charnel-house, and thence to
a low hut some distance away from all, where
•he opened a door. 8he 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 Avell for this."

The woman left. All night long I watched.
She lay unmoved and unchanged. Where was
her spirit wandering ? Soared it among the splen-
dors of some far-off world ? Lingered it amidst
the sunsiLine of heavenly glory ? Did her seraphic
soul move amidst her peers in the assemblage of
the holy ? Was she straying amidst the track-
less paths of ether with those whom she had
loved in life, and who had gone before ?

All night long I watchetl her as she lay with
her marble face and her changeless smile. There
seemed to be communicated 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.
Mid-day came, and still there was no change. I
know not how it was, but the superintendent had
heard about the grave being opened, and found
me 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 passionless calm. When
I refused he threatened. At his menace I re-
joined 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 buried alive ? See, she is not dead.
She is only sleeping. And yet you put her in
the grave.

" She is dead !" he cried, in mlnglefl fear and
anger — " and she must be buried."

" She is not dead," said I, sternly, as I glared
on him oat 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 excited as I
write. My hand trembles. Let me be calm.

She awoke that night. It was midnight, and
all was still. She opened her eyes suddenly, and
looked full at me with an earnest and steadfast

stare. At last a long, deep-dranm sigh broke the
stillness of that lone chamber.

"Back again" — she murmured, in a scarce
audible voice — "among men, and to earth. O
friends of the Realm of Light, miut I be severed
fW)m your lofty communion I"

As she spoke thus the angi <h which I had
felt at the grave wan renewed. " You have
brought me back," said she, mournfully.

" No," I returned, sodl" — " not I. It was not
God's will that you shouM leave this life. He
did not send death to vou. You were sleeping,
and I brought you to tFiis ;jlace."

" I know all," she murmured, closing her eyes.
" I heard all while my spirit was away. 1 know
where you fotmd me."

" I am weary," she said, after a silence. Her
eyes closed again. But this time the trance waa
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 superintendent 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.

">ee," 1 whispered — "but for me she would
have been buried alive !"

The man seemed frozen into dumbness. He
stood ghastly white with horror, thick drops start-
ed from his forehead, his teeth chattered, he stag-
gered away. He looked it me with a haunted
face, such as belongs to one who thinks he haa
seen a spirit.

"Spare me," he faltered; "do not ruin me.
God knows I have tried to do my best !"

I waved him oft'. "Leave me. You have no-
thing to fear." He turned away with his white
face, and departed in silence with his men.

After a long sleep Edith waked again. She
said nothing. I did not wish her to speak. She
lay awake, yet \\i.h closed eyes, thinking such
thoughts as belong to one, and to one alone, who
had known what she had kno^\'n.

I did not speak to her, for she was to me a
holy being, not to be addressed lightly. Y'et she
did not refuse nourishment, and grew stronger,
until at last I was able to have her moved to
Quebec. There I obtained proper accommoda-
tions 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 in-
spired 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 com-
monly moved about as though she saw nothing,
as though she walked in a dream, with eyes
half closed, and sometimes 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^hem with a smile so sweet
that it seemed to me as if they stood in the pres-
ence of their guardian angel. Strange, sad spirit,
what thoughts, what memories are these which
make her life one long reve.ie, and have taken

CORD AND CREESE.

from her all power to enjoy the. basutiful that
(IwellM on eartii !

She Hll« all my thoughts with her lonelinem,
her leant, and her Mpiritiial fare, l>etiriii({ the
marki) of K'eiien that can neve. l)o forgotten. She
liveM and moves nmidHt her > ecollections. What
ix it that BO ovenvhelmn all her thoughts ? That
face of here appeani tia though it had bathed it-
gelf in the atmosphere of mme diviner world than
thiit; and her eyes serm as if they may have
gazed upon the Infinitr Myntery.

Now from the few it-ords which she baa casual-
ly dropped I gather this to be her own belief,
'lliat when she fell into the state of trance her
soul was parted from her body, though still by an
inexplicable sympiithy she was aware of what was
itassing around her lifeless form. Yet her soul
had gone forth into that spiritual world toward
which we look from this earth with such eager
wonder. It had mingled there with the souls of
others. It had put forth new powers, and learned
the use of r. w faculties. Than that soul was
called back to its body.

This raiu len — this wonder among mortals — is
not a morr.d. she is an exiled soul. I have seen
her sit wi'n tears streaming down her face, tears
such as :nen thed in exile. For she is like a
banished man who has only one feeling, a long-
ing, yea.iiing homesickness. She has been once
in that radir.nt world for a time which we call
three days i.i our human calculations, but which
to her seems indefinite ; for as she once said — and
it is a pregnant thought, full of meaning — there
is no time there, all is inhnite duration. The
soul b&f illimitable powers ; in an instant it can
live years, and she in those three days had the
life of ages. Her former life on earth has now
but fi faint hold upon her memorj' in comparison
with that Ufe among the stars. The sorrow that
hr.r loved ones endured has become eclipsed by
the knowledge of the blessedness in which she
found thera.

Alas ! it is a blessing to die, and it is only a
cm%e to rise from the dead. And now she en-
dures this exile with an aching heart, with memo-
ries that are irrepressible, wi.h longings imutter-
able, and yearnings that can not be expressed for
that starry world and that bright companionship
from which she has been recalled. So she some-
times speaks. And little else can she say amidst
her tears. Oh, sublime and mysterious exile,
could I but know what you know, and have but
a small part of that seer t which you can not ex-
plain!

For she can not tell what she witnessed there.
She sometimes wishes to do so, but can not.
When asked directly, she sinks into herself and
is lost in thought. She finds no words. It is
as when we try to explain to a man who has
been always blind the scenes before our eyes.
We can not explain them to such a man. And
BO with her. She finds in her memory things
* which no human language has been made to ex-
press. 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
tne of the nurses casually mentioned, with hor-
ror, the death of some acquaintance. ' ' Death !"
•he murmured, and her eyes lighted np with a

kind of ecstasy. ' ' Oh, that I might die !" She
knows no blessing on earth except that which
we consider a curse, and to her the object of all
her wishes is this one thing — I>eath. I shall
not soon forget that Hmile. It seemed of itself
to give a new meaning to death.

Do 1 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 Kcouts
the monstrous idea. But here she stands l>efore
me, with her memories and thoughts, and her
wonderi'ul words, few, but full of deepest meaning
— words which I shall never forget — and I rec-
ognize something before which Reason falters.
Whence this deep longing of hers? Why when
she thinks of death does her face grow thus ra-
diant, 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 sun-
light, 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 contempt upon the highest
charms that belong to this. Here is one who
believes that she has gone through this expe-
rience, 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 profounder experience and a
diviner knowledge.

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 un-
bounded delight. He made me tell him all
about myself, and I imparted to him ns 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 be-
tween you, and me, and her. For if it should
be possible that she should ever be restored to
ordinary human sv-mpathy 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 solicitations
and accompany him. It is better for her at any
rate that there should be more friends than one
to protect her. Despard, like the doctors, sup-
poses that she is in a stupor.

The ioumey here exercised a favorable influ-
ence over her. Her strength increased to a
marked deferee, and she has once or twice spok-
en 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 England.
The Colonel and I at once thought that be 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 remember — in-
tellectual 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 en-
thusiasm — then, Ter&sella, you should show him
this diary, for it will cause him to understand

CORD AND CREESE.

ihinga which he ought to know. I mppoM it
would be unintelligible to Mr. Thornton, who is
a muat eDtimuI'le man, but who, from the nature
uf luM mind, if he read this, would only conclude
that the writer was iintane.

At any rate, Mr. Thornton should be informed
of the leading facta, so that he may see if some-
thing can be done to alleviate the distress, or to
avenge the wrongs of one whoso father was the
•arliest benefactor of his £umly.

CHAFfER XVI.

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

"It is now the middle of Fehrunry," 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 stoiy so full of an-
guish that the heart might break out of pure sym-
pathy, but whrt( words could be found ? I have
nothing to say. 1 am speechless. My God!
what horror thou dost permit!"

"But something must be done," said Mrs.
Thornton, impetuously.

"Yes," said 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. IShe only wishes to
die. Yet something must be done, and the first
thing is to find Louis Brandon. I will start for
London to-n>ght. I will go and seek him, not
for Edith 8 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 thf greatest earthly happiness it
would be poor and .nean, and stUl she would sigh
after that starry coLipanionship from which her
soul has been withdrawn."

"Then you believe it."

"Don't you?"

"Of course; but I did not know that you
would."

"VVhy not? and if I did not believe it this
at least would be plain, that she herself 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 — sdll that dream has made all other
things dim, indistinct, and indifierent to her."

"No one but you would read Paolo's diary
without thinking him insane."

Despard smiled. "Even that would be no-
thing 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 biased my lite ever since. I have
only knovNTi one spirit like his among those whom
I have met."

An indescribable sadness passed over )ils face.
" Rut now," he con.inued, suddenly, " I su|ipo«e
Thornton must see my uncle's letter. IIi» legal
mind may discern some things which the law may
do in this case. Edith is beyond all consolation
from human beings, and still farther beyond all
help from English law. But if Louis Brandou
can be found the law may exert itself in his favor.
In this respect he may be useful, and I have no
doubt he wosdd take up the case earnestly, out
of his strong sense of justice."

When Thornton come in to dinner Despard
handed him his uncle's letter. The lawyer read
it with deep attention, and without a word.

Mrs. Thornton looked agitated — sometimes
resting her head on her hand, at others looking
fixedly at her husband. As soon as he had fin-
ished she said, in a calm, measured tone :

" I did not know before that Brandon of Bran-
don Hall and all his family had perished so mis-
erably."

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. " H«
benefited him greatly. Your father idso was
under slight obligations to him. I thought that
things like these constituted a faint claim on
one's gratitude, so that if one were ex|X)8ed to
misfortune he might not be altogether destitute
of friends."

Thornton looked imeasy as his wife 8p«)ke.

" My dear," said he, " you do not understand."

" True," she answered ; " for this thing is al-
most incredible. If my father's friend has died
in misery, uni)itied and unwept, forsaken by all,
do I not s'lare the guilt of ingratitude ? How can
I alfsolve myself from blame ?"

" Set your mind at rest. You never knew any
thing about it. I told you nothing on the sub-
ject."

" Then you knew it !"

"Stop! You can not understand this unless
I explain it. You are stating bald facts; but
these facts, painful as they are, are very much
modified by circumstances."

" Well, then, I hope you will tell me all, with-
o'lt reserve, for I wish to know how it is that this
horror has happened, and I have stood idly and
coldly aloof. My God!" she cried, in Italian;
" did he. not — did they not in their last moments
think of me, and wonder how they could have
been betrayed by Langhetti's daughter!"

" My dear, be culm, I pray. Y'^ou are blaming
yourself unjustly, I assure you."

Despard was ghastly pale as this conversation
went on. He turned his face away.

"Ralph Brandon," began Thornton, "was a
man of many high qualities, but of unbounded
pride, and utterly impracticable. He was no
judge of character, and therefore was easily de-
ceived. He was utterly inexperienced in busi-
ness, and he was always Uable to be led astray by
any sudden impulse. Somehow or other a man
named Potts excited his interest about twelve or
fifteen years ago. He was a mere vulgar adven-
turer ; but Brandon l)ecame infatuated with him,
and actually 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 remonstrated with him.
I, in particular, went there to explain to him that

CORD AND CREESE.

the speculation in which he was engaged could not
result in any thing except loss. But he resented
all interference and I had to leave him to him-
self.

*' His son Louis was a boy full of energy and
fire. The family were all indignant at the confi-
dence which Ralph Brandon put in this Potts —
Louis most of all. One day he met Potts.
Words passed between them, and Ix)uis wtruck
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 indignantly denounced Potts to his father
!i8 a swindler. Brandon ordered him t( his room,
and gave him a week to decide.

"The servants whispered till the matter was
noised abroad. Th« county gentry had a meet-
ing about it, and felt so strongly that they did
an unparalleled thing. They actually waited on
hi A 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
anny for a wiiile, to do any thing rather than
eject him. He refused to change his sentence.
ITien I pointed outithe 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 apologize, and left his
father forever."

" Did you see Louis ?"

"I saw him before that insult to ask if he
would apologize. "

"Did you tr\- 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 infle?' "ble 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 suc-
ceed in life."

"No," said Mrs. Thornton. "Success must
be gained by flexibility. The martyrs were all
infle.xible, and they were all unsuccessful. "

Thornton looked at his wife hastily. Des-
pard's hand trembled, and his face grew paler
still with a more livid pallor.

" Did you try to do any thing for the ruined
son?"

" How could I, after that insult?"

"Could you not have got him a government
office, or purchased a commission for him in the
aiTiiy?"

" He would not have taken it ft-om me."

"You could have co-operated with his mo-
ther, and done it in her name. "

" I could not enter the house after being in-
sulted."

' ' You could have written. From what I have
heard of Brandon, he was just the man who
would have blessed any one who w ould interpose
to save his son.'

" His son did not wish to be saved. He has
all his father's inflexibility, but an intellect as
clear as that of the most practical man. He has
a will of iron, dauntless resolution, and an im-
l)lacaWe 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 overwhelmed him with the
deepest sonow."

" Did you ever after make any advances 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 ha^i any right to do that."

"No," said Mrs. Thornton. "No man has.
That was another mistake that the martyrs made.
They would fling themselves against public opin-
ion."

"All men can not be marfjTs. Besides, the
cases are not analogous."

Thornton spoke calm.ly and dispassionately.

" True. It is absurd in me; but I admire one
who has for a moment foi: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 Te-
cumseh f murmured Mrs. Thornton, with droop-
ing eyehds.

" You are getting excited, my dear," said
Thornton, patiently, w ith the air of a wise father
who overlooks the petulance of his child. "I
will go on. I had business on the Continent
when ix)or Brandon's ruin occurred. You were
with me, my dear, at Berlin when I heard about
it. I felt shocked, but not surprised. I feared
that it would come to that."

"You showed no emotion in particular."

" 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 staid?"

" I had business which I could not leave."

"Would you have been mined if vou had
left?"

"Well, no — not exactly ruined, but it would
have entailed serious consequences."

"Would those consequences have been as se-
rious as the Tecutnseh tragedy ?"

" My dear, in business there are rules which a
mnn is not permitted to neglect. There are du-
ties .and obligations which are imperative. The
code of honor there is as deUcate, yet as rigid, as
elsewhere."

"And yet there are times when all obligation*
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 Januarj-. His ruin took
place in December, 1845. It was the middle of

."'

COKD AND CKEE^iE.

THEK, COVKRISC HER FACE WITH HER HAXU.S, ^HE liURST INTO AN AGONY OF TEAKS.

May before I got home. I then, toward the
end of the month, sent my clerk to Brandon vil-
lage to make inquiries. He brought word of
the death of Brandon, and the departure of his
family to parts unknown. "

" Did he make no particular inquiries ?"

"No."

"And you said not a word to me !"

" I was afraid of agitating you, my dear."

"And therefore you have secured for me un-
ending 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 unnec-
essarily on the subject, but I can not help it. It is
a fiict that Brandon was always impulsive and cul-
pably careless about himself. It is! to this quality,
strangely enough, that I owe my father's life, and
my own comfort for many years. Taolo 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
country at every place where they happened to
land, and at last they came to Girgenti, with the
intention of examining the niins of Agrigentum.
This was in 1818, four years before I was bom.
My father was stopping at Uirgenti, with his wife
£

and Paolo, v ho was then six years old. My father
had been verv- 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 distress came to see
them, along with a little boy. It was my mo-
ther and Paolo. She flung herself on the floor at
their feet, and j)ra} eu them to try and help her
husband, who had been arrested on a charge of
treason and was now in prison. He was sus-
pected of belonging to tlie Carbonari, who were
just beginning to resume their secret plots, and
were showing great activity. My father be-
longed to the inneiTnost degree, and had been
betrayed by a villain named Cigole. My mo-
ther "did not tell them all this, but merely in-
formed them of his danger.

"At first they did not know what to do, but
the prayers of my mother moved their hearts.
They went to see the captain of the guard, and
tried to bribe him, but without effect. They
found out, however, where my father was con-
fined, and resolved upon a desperate plan. They
put my mother and Paolo on board of the j-acht,
and by paying a lieavy bribe obtained permit-

CORD AND CREESE,

Bion 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 fa-
ther to exchange clothes with him and escape.
At first he positively refused, Lut when assured
that Brandon's friend, being an Englishman,
would be set free in a few days, he tonsented.
Brandon then took him away unnoticed, put him
on board of the yacht, and sailed to Marseilles,
where he gave him money enough to get to En-
gland, 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 hinr. for some
time. At last he induced the Britis'i embassa-
dor to take the matter in hand, ana 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 youthful freak.
Brandon's powerful influence with the British
embassador obtained his unconditional release.

"My father afterward obtained a situation
here at Holby, where he was organist 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 Bran-
don came and staid with him till the end. He
then wished to do something for Paolo, but Pa-
olo preterred seeking his own fortune in his own
way."

Mrs. Thornton ended her little narrauve, to
which Despard had listened with the deepest at-
tention.

"Who was Brandon's friend?'' asked Des-
pard.

" He was a British officer," said Mrs. Thorn-
ton. "For fear of dragging in his government,
and perhaps incurring dismissal from the army,
he gave an assumed name — Mountjoy. This
was the reason why Brandon was so long in find-
ing 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 assumed name. My father al-
ways spoke of him as Mountjoy. A^ter a time
he heaid 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 any
thing 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 deep-
er 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
whole faCe was overspread with an exp'-'-sion of
radiant joy. He took both her hands iii 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 mean-
ing.

At last she asked : " Tell me what success you
had ?" He made no reply ; but taking a paper
from his pocket opened it, and pointed to a
marked paragraph. 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, re-
ports a stormy passage. On the 1 2th of Septem-
ber a distressing casualtv occurred. They were
in S. lat. 11° r 22", E.'long. 105° 6' 3() , when
a squall suddenly struck the ship. A passenger,
Louis Brandon, Esq., of the firm of Compton &
Brandon, Sydney, was standing by the lee-quar-
ter as the squall stnick, and, distressing to nar-
rate, he was hurled violently overboard. It was
impossible to do any thing, as a monsoon was
beginning, 'v^ch raged for twenty-four hours.
Mr. Brandon was coming to England on bus-
iness.

" The captain reports a sand-bank in the lati-
tude and longitude indicated above, which he
names 'Coftin Island,' from a rock of pecidiar
shape at the eastern extremity. Ships will do
well in future to give this place a wide berth."

Deep despondency came over Mre. Thornton's
face as she read this. "We can do nothing,"
said she, moumfidly. "He is gone. It is bet-
ter 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 think-
ing much about my father of late. It seems very
strange to me that my uncle never told me about
thatSicilianatfairbefoie. Perhaps hedid 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.
Heniy Thornton. They never told me that Bran-
don was a very dear friend of his. 1 have thought
also of the circumstances of his death, and they
all seem confused. Some say he died in Cal-
cutta, others say in China, and Mr. Thornton
orice said in Manilla. There is some mysterv
about it."

" When Brandon was visiting my father," said
Mrs. I'homton, "you were at school, and he nev-
er saw you. I think he thought you were Henrj
Despard's son. "

CORD AND CREESE.

i:>

"There's some mystery about it," said Des-
pard, thoughtfully.

When Mr. Thornton came in that night he
read a few extracts from the London pajier which
he had just received. One was as follows :

"Foundered at Sea. — The ship//.R Smith,
from Calcutta, which arrived yesterday, rejKjrts
that on the 28th January they picked up a ship's
long-boat near the Cape Vend Islands. It was
floating bottom upward. On the stem was paint-
ed 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 Lon-
don, and belonged to Messrs. Kingwood, Flax-
man, & Co."

CHAPTER XVn.

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, leonum
arida nutrix.

There was a little harbor into which flowed a
shallow, sluggish river, while on eacli 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 fine and short, and being protected from the
withering heat was as fine as that of an English
lawn. Up the palm-trees there climbed a thou-
sand 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 gen-
)ly-washing surf were borne as it came in in faint
undulations from the outer sea.

Underneath the deepest shadow of the palms
lay Brandon. He had lost consciousness 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 fold-
ed before her, her head uncovered, her hair bound
by a sort oi iillet around the crown, and then gath-
ered 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 weak-
ness there. Its whole expression showed mani-
festly the self-contained soul, the strong spirit
•\enly-poised, willing and able to endure.

Brandon raised himself on one arm and looked
wonderingiy around. She started. A vivid flash
of joy spread over her face in one bright smile.
She hunietl up and knelt down by him.

" Do not move — you are weak," she said, as
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 f >rehead. His eyes closed as though there
Were a magnetic power in her touch. After a

I while, as she removed her liand, he opened his
eyes again. He took her hand and held it fer-
vently to his lips. " I know," said he, in a Iom-,
' dreamy voice, " who you are, and who I am — but
nothing more. I know that I have lost all mem-
ory ; that there has been some past life of great
sorrow ; but I can not think what that sorrow is
— I know that there has been some misfortune,
but I can not remember what."

Beatrice smiled sadly. "It will all come to
you in time."

"At first when I waked," he murmured, "and
looked around on this scene, I thought 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 e.xpress. But I see, and I know now, that
I am yet on the earth. Though what shore of
all the earth this is, or how I got here, I know
not."

"You must sleep," said she, gently.

"And you — ^you — you," he mtmnured, with
indescribable intensity — "you, companion, pre-
ser\-er, 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 inquir-
ingly, still holding her hand, which he had pressed
to his Ups. An unutterable longing to ask some-
thing was evident ; but it waa checked by a pain-
ful 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 impel-
ling us on. A Hindu ser^'ant guided the boat.
But I lay weak, with my head supported by you,
and your ai-ms 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 ec-
stasy. 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 j)ainful vehemence and imploring eyes.

"I am your nurse," said she, with a melan-
choly smile.

He sighed heavily. "Sleep now," said she,
and she again placed her hand upon his forehead.
I Her touch soothed him. Her voice arose in a
! low song of suqiassing sweetness. His senses
I yielded to the subtle incantation, and sleep came
j to him as he lay.

When he awaked it was almost evening. Leth-
I argy was still over him, and Beatrice made him
i sleep again. He slept into the next day. ( )n
j waking there was the same absence of memorj'.
; She gave him some cordial to drink, and the
draught revived him. Now he was far stronger,
and he sat up, leaning against a tree, while Bea-
trice 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 can not 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,"

CORD AND CHEESE.

Raid he, "which is precious. Perhaps I shall
know what it is after a time."

Then, after a pause, "Was there not a WTCck ?"
he asked.

" Yes ; and you saved my life."

" Was there not a fight with pirates ?"

" Yes ; and yoa saved 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 C. It is about three weeks."

" How did I get away?"

" In a boat with me and the ser\ant."

"Where is the ser\ant?"

"Away providing for us. Yon had a sun-
stroke. He carried you up here."

" How long have 1 been in this place ?"

"A fortnight."

Numerous questions followed. Brandon's mem-
ory began to return. Yet, in his efforts to regain
kn' ledge of himself, Beatrice was still the most
prominent object in his thoughts. His dream-Ufe
persisted in mingling itself with his real life.

"But you," he cried, earnestly — "you, how
have you endured all this ? You are wear\- ; you
have worn yourself out for me. What can I ever
do to show my gratitude ? You haye watched me
night and day. Will you not have more care of
your own life ?"

The eyes of Beatrice kindled with a soft Ught.
"What is my Ufe?" 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 tlie boat, and they looked for-
ward to the time when they might resume their
journey. But to Brandon this thought was re-
pugnant, and an hourly struggle now went on
within him. Why should he go to England?
What could he do? Why shoflld he ever part
from her ?

"Oh, to burst 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 pGipct-
ual 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 amidst the sea ; of soft winds
and spicy breezes ; of eternal rest beneath over-
shadowing palms. It was a soft, melting strain —
H strain of enchantment, sung by one who felt the
intoxication of the scene, and whose genius im-
parted it to others. He was like Ulysses listen-
ing to the song of the sirens. It seemed to him
as though all nature there joined in that manel-
ous strain. It was to him as though the very
winds were lulled into calm, and a delicious lan-
guor stole upon all his senses.

"Sweet, sweet, sweet, god Pan,
Sweet in the fields by the river,

Blinding sweet, oh great god Pan,
The sun on the hills forgot to die,
And the lily revived, and the dragon-fly

Came back to dream by the river."

It Avas the fitXiytjpvv otrd, the uira KaWifiov of
the sirens.

For she had that divine voice which of itself
can charm the soul ; but, in addition, she had that
poetic genius which of itself could give words
which the music might clothe.

Now, as he saw her at a distance through the
trees and marked the statuesque calm of her
classic face, as she stood there, seeming in her
song rather to soliloquize than to sing, breathing
forth her music "in profuse strains of unpremed-
itated art," the veiy lieauty of the singer and
the very sweetness of the song put an end to all
temptation.

" Tliis is foUy," he thought. " Could one Uke
that assent to my wild fancy ? Would she, with
her genius, give up her life to me? No; that
divine music niust be heard by larger numbers.
IShe is one who thinks she can interpret the in-
spiration of Mozart and Handel. And who am
1?"

Then there came amidst this music a still
small voice, like the voice of those helpless ones
at home ; and this voice seemed one of entreaty
and of despair. ISo the temptation passed. But
it passed only to be renewed again. As for Bea-
trice, slie seemed conscious of no such effect as
this. Cahnly and serenely she bore herself, sing-
ing as she thought, as the birds sing, because she
could not help it. Here she was like one of the
classic nymphs — like the genius of the spot — like
Calypso, only passionless.

Now, the more Brandon felt the power of her
presence the more he took refuge within himself,
avoiding all dangerous topics, speaking only of
external things, calling upon her to sing of loftier
themes, such as those '■'■deli immensi" of which
she had sung wlien he first heard her. Thus he
fought down the struggles of his own heart, and
cnished out those rising impulses which threat-
ened to sweep him helplessly away.

As for Beatrice herself she seemed changeless,
moved by no passion and swayed by no impulse.
Was she altogether passionless, or was this her
matchless self-control? Brandon thought that it
was her nature, and that she, like her master
Langhetti, found in music that which satisfied
all passion and all desire.

In about a fortnight after his recovery from
his stupor they were ready to leave. The pro-
visions in the boat were enough for two weeks'
sail. Water was put on board, and they bade
adieu to the island which had sheltered them.

This time Beatrice would not let Brandon row
while the sun was up. They rowed at niglit, and
by day tried to get under the shadow of the shore.
At last a wind sprang up ; they now sailed along
swiftly for two or three days. At the end of
that time they saw European houses, beyond
which arose some roofs and spires. It was
Sierra Leone. Brandon's conjectures had been
right. On landing here Brandon simply said
that they had been wrecked in the Falcon, and
had escaped on the boat, all the rest having per-
ished. He gave Ids name as Wheeler. The
authorities received these unfortunate ones witli
great kindness, and Brandon heard that a ship
would leave for England on the 6th of March.

The close connection which had existed be-
tween them for so many weeks was now sever-
ed, and Brandon thought that this might per-
haps remove that extraordinary power wliicli ho

CORD AND CREESE.

felt that she exerted over him. Not so. In
her absence he foand himself constnntly looking
forward toward a meeting with her again. When
with her he found the joy that flowed from her
presence to be more intense, since it was more
concentrated. He began to feel Alarme<l at his
own weakness.

The 6th of March came, and they left in the
ship Juno for London.

Now their intercourse was like that of the old
days on board the Falcon.

"It is like the Falcon," said Beatrice, on the
first evening. " Let us forget all about the jour-
ney over the sea, and our stay on the island. "

" I can never forget that I owe ifiy life to you,"
said Brandon, vehemently.

"And I," rejoined Beatrice, with kindling
eyes, which yet were softened by a certain emo-
tion of indescribable tenderness — "I — how can
1 forget! Twice you saved me from a fearftil
death, and then you toiled to save my life till
your own sank under it."

"I would gladly give up a thousand lives" —
said Brandon, in a low voice, while his eyes were
illumined with a passion which had never before
been permitted to get beyond control, but now
rose visibly, and irresistibly.

"If you have a life to give," said Beatrice,
calmly, returning his fevered gaze with a full
look of tender sympathy — "if you have a life to
give, let it be given to that purpose of yours to
which you are devoted. "

" You refuse it, then !" cried Brandon, vehe-
mently and reproachfully.

Beatrice returned his reproachful gaze with
one equally reproachful, and raising her calm
eyes to Heaven, said, in a tremulous voice,

"You have no right to say so — least of all to
7«e. I said what you feel and know ; and it is
this, that others require your life, in comparison
with whom I am nothing. Ah, my friend," she
continued, in tones of unutterable sadness, " let
us be friends here at least, on the sea, for when
we reach England we must be separated for ever-
more!"

"For evermore I" cried Brandon, in agony.

"For evermore!" repeated Beatrice, in equal
anguish.

"Do you feel very eager to get to England?"
asked Brandon, aftei a long silence.

"No."

"Why not?"

" Because I know that there is sorrow for me
there."

" If our boat had been destroyed on the shore
of that island," he asked, in almost an imploring
voice, "would vou have giieved?"

"No."

" The present is better than the future. Oh
that my dream had continued forever, and that
I had never awaked to the bitterness of life I"

" That," said Beatrice, with a mournful smile,
" is a reproach to me for watching you."

" Yet that moment of awaking was sweet be-
yond all thought," continued Brandon, in a mus-
ing tone, " for I had lost all memory of all things
except you."

They stood in silence, sometimes looking at
one another, sometimes at the sea, while the dark
shadows of the Future swept gloomily before their
syes.

The voyage passed on until at last the En-

glish shores were seen, and they sailed up the
Channel amidst the thronging siiips that pass to
and fro from the metrojKilis of the world.

"To-morrow we part," said Beatrice, as she
stood with Brandon on the quarter-deck.

" No," said Brandon ; "there will be no one
to meet you here, I must take you to your
home."

' ' To my home ! You ?" cried Beatrice, start-
ing back. "You dare not."

"I dare."

" Do you know what it is?"

" I do not seek to know. I do not ask; but
yet I think I know. "

" And j-et you offer to go ?"

" I must go. I must see you to the very last."

" Be it so," said Beatrice, in a solemn voice,
" since it is the very last."

Suddenly she looked at him with the solemn
gaze of one whose soul was liUed with thoughts
that overpowered every common feeling. It was
a glance lofty and serene and unimpassioned, like
that of some spirit which has passed beyond hu-
man cares, but sad as that of some prophet of woe.

"Louis Brandon !"

At this mention of his name a flash of unspeak-
able surprise passed over Brandon's face. She
held cut her hand. " Take my hand," said she,
calmly, ' ' and hold it so that I may have strength
to sjjeak."

" Louis Brandon !" said she, "there was a time
on t^at African island when you lay under the
tre ' ^. was sure that you were dead. Tliere

w> <ng to your heart, and no perceptible

brea. xhe last test failed, the last hope left
me, and I knelt by your head, and took you in
my arms, and wept in my dd^spair. At your feet
Cato knelt and mourned in his Hindu fashion.
Then mechanically and hopelessly he made a last
trial to see if you were really dead, so that he
might prepare your grave. He put his hand un-
<ler your clothes against your heart. He held it
"here for a long time. Your heart gave no an-
swer. He withdrew it, and in doing so took
something away that was saspended about your
neck. This Avas a metallic case and a package
wrapped in oiled silk. He gave them to me."

Beatrice had spoken with a sad, measured
tone — such a tone as one sometimes uses in pray-
er — a passionless monotone, without agitation
and without shame.

Brandon answered not a word.

" Take my hand," she said, " cr I can not go
through. This only can give me strength."

He clasped it tightly in both of his. She drew
a long breath, and continued :

" 1 thought you dead, and knew the full meas-
ure of despair. Now, when these were given
me, I wished to know the secret of the man who
had twice rescred me from death, and finally
laid down his life for my sake. I did it not
through curiosity. I did it," and her voice rose
slightly, with solemn emphasis — "I did it through
a holy feeling that, since my life was due to you,
therefore, as yours was gone, mine should replace
it, and be devoted to the purpose which you had
undertaken.

"I opened first the metallic case. It was
under the dim shade of the African forest, and
while holding on my knees the head of the man
who had laid down his life for me. You know
what I read there. 1 read of a father's lovn and

CORD AND CREESE.

' I THOUGHT TOU DEAD, AND KNEW THE FULL MEASURE OF DESPAIR.

agony. I read there tlie name of the one who
had driven him to death. The shadows of the
forest grew darker aroimd me ; as the full mean-
ing of that revelation came over my soul they
deepened into blackness, and I fell senseless by
your side.

"Better had Cato left us both lying there to
die, and gone off in the boat himself. But he
revived me. I laid you down gently, and propped
up your head, but never again d^red to defile you
with the touch of one so infamous as I.

"There still remained the other package, which
I read — how you reached that island, and how
you got that MS., I neither know nor seek to
discover ; I only know that all my spirit awaked
within me as I read those words. A strange,

inexplicable feeling arose. I for/;ot all about you
and your griefs. My whole soul was fixed on
the figure of that bereaved and solitary man, who
thus drifted to his fate. He seemed to speak to
me. A fancy, bom out of frenzy, no doubt, for
all that horror well-nigh drove me mad — a fancy
came to me that this voice, which had come from
a distance of eighteen years, had spoken to me ;
a wild fancy, because I was eighteen years old,
that therefore I was connected with these eighteen
years, filled my whole soul. I thought that this
MS. was mine, and the other one yours. I read
it over and over, and over yet again, till every
word forced itself into my memorj' — till you «od
your sorrows sank into oblivion beside the w>es
of this man.

CORD AND CREESE.

" I sat near you all that night. - The palms
sighed in the air. I dared not touch you. My
l)ruin whirled. I thought I heard voices out at
seu, and figures appeared in the gloom. I
thought I saw before me the form o*^ Colonel
Despard. He looked at me with sadness unut-
terable, yet with soft pity and afiection, and ex-
tended his hand as though to bless me. Mad-
der fancies than ever then rushed through my
lirain. But when morning came and the ex-
( itement had passed I knew that I had been de-
lirious.

"When that morning came I went over to
look at yoi'. To my p.mazement, you were
breathing. Youi life was '■enewed of itself. I
knelt down and praised God for this, but did not
dare to touch you. I folded up the treasures,
and toid Cato to put them again around your
neck. Then I watched yoii till you recovered.

" But on that night, and after reading those
MSS., I seemed to have passed into another stage
of being. 1 can say things to you now which I
would not have dared to say before, and strength
is given me to tell you all this before we part for
evermore.

" I have awakened to inf.imy ; for what is in-
ffimy if it be not this, to bear the name I bear ?
Something more than pride or vanity has been
the foundation of that feeling of shame and hate
with which I have always ragarded it. And I
have now died to my former life, and awakened
to a new one.

"Louis Brandon, the agonies which may be
suffered by those whom you seok to avenge I can
conjecture but I wish never t > hear. 1 pray
God that I may never know what it might break
my heart to learn. You must save them, you
must also avenge them. 1 ou are strong, and you
are implacable. When you strike your blow will
be crushing.

" But 1 must go and bear my lot among those
you strike ; 1 will wait on among them, sharing
their infamy and their fate. When your blow
falls I vnH not turn away. I will think of those
dear ones of yours who have suffered, and for
their sakes wiU accept the blow of revenge."

Brandon had held her hand in silence, and with
a convulsive pressure during these words. As
she stopped she made a faint effort to withdraw
it. He would not let her. He raised it to his
hps and pressed it there.

Three times he made an effort :o speak, and
each time failed. At last, with a stnnig exertion,
he uttered, in a hoarse voice and broken tones,

" Oh, Beatrice ! Beatrice ! how I love you !"

"I know it," said she, in the same monotone
which she had used before — a tone of infinite
mournfulness — "I have known it long, and I
would say also, 'Louis Brandon, I love you,' if
it were not that this would be the last infamy;
that you, Brandon, of Brandon Hall, should be
loved by one who bears my name."

The hours of the night passed away. They
■tood watching the English shores, speaking little.
Brandon clung to her hand. They were sailing
up the Thames. It was about four in the morning.

" We shall soon be there," said he ; " sing to
me for the last time. Sing, and forget tor a mo-
ment that we must part."

Then, in a low voice, of soft but penetrating
tones, which thrilled through every fibre oi Bran-
don's being. U^jatrice began to siug :

"Love made n« one; our unity . .. , ,

Is Indissoluble by act of thine , ' '

For were this mortal belne ended.
And cor freed gprlts In toe wurldl above,
Love, paseine o'er the grave, would join ua there,
As once be Joined ns here ;
And the sad memory of the life below
Would but unite us cloeer evermore.
No act of thine may loose
Thee from the eternal bond,
Nor shall Revenue have power •
To diranite us there!"

On that same day they landed in London.
The Grovemor's lady at Sierra Leone had insisted
on replenishing Beatrice's wardrobe, so that she
showed no ajjpearance of having gone througli
the troubles which had afflicted her on sea and
shore.

Brandon took her to a hotel and then went to
his agent's. He also examined the papers for the
last four months. He read in the morning jour-
nals a notice which had already appealed of the
arrival of the ship ott" the Nore, and the state-
ment that three of the passengers of the Falcon
had reached Sierra Leone. He communicated
to the owners of the Falcon the particulars of the
loss of the ship, and earned their thanks, for they
were able to get their insurance without waiting
a year, as is necessary where nothing is heard of
a missing vessel.

He traveled with Beatrice by rail and coach as
far as the village of Brandon. At the inn he en-
gaged a cai-riage to take her up to her father's
house. It was Brandon Hall, as he very well
knew.

But little was said during all this time. Words
were useless. Silence formed the best conHnun-
ion tor them. He took her hand at parting.
She sjroke not a word ; his lips moved, but no au-
dible sound escaped. Yet in their eyes as they
fastened themselves on one another in an intense
gaze there was read all that unutterable passion
of love, of longing, and of sorrow that each felt.

The carriage drove oft". Brandon watched it.
"Now farewell. Love, forever," he murmured,
"and welcome Vengeance!"

CHAPTER XVIIl.

IJfQUIElES.

So many years had elapsed since Brandon
had last been in the village which bore the family
name that he bad no fear of being recognized.
He had been a boy then, he was now a man.
His features had passed from a transition state
into their maturer fonn, and a thick beard and
mustache, the growth of the long voyage, cov-
ered the lower part of the face like a mask.
His nose which, when he left, had a boyish
roundness of outline, had since become refined
and chiseled into the straight, thin Grecian tj'pe.
His eyes alone remained the same, yet the ex-
pression had grown ditterent, even as the soul
that looked forth through them had been changed
by experience and by suffering.

He gave himself out at the inn as an Ameri-
can merchant, and went out to begin his inqui-
ries. Tearing two buttons off his coat, he en-
tered the shop of the A-illage tailor.

" Good -morning," said he, civilly.

" Good-morning, 1^'ir ; fine morning, Sir," an-
swered the tailor, volubly. He was a littlt

CORD AND CREESE.

man, with a cast in his eye, and on looking at
Brandon ho had to put his head on one side,
which he did with a quick, odd gesture.

"There are two buttons off my coat, 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, any thing 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 draw-
ers, 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,

" /es, Sir; that's a fact. Sir; that's just
what every body says, Sir."

"What old Hall is that which I saw just out-
side the village ?"

"Ah, Sir, that old Hall is the very best in the
whole county. It is Brandon Hall, Sir."

"Brandon Hall r

"Yes, Sir."

"I suppose this village takes the name from
the Hall — or is it the Hall thai 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 stran-
ger go through his grounds? There is a hill
back of the house that I should like to see."

" Mr. Bran Jon !" exclaimed the tailor, shak-
ing his head ; " Mr. Brandon ! There ain't 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, myste-
riously, 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
tc hear any old stories current in your English
villages. I'm an American, and English life is
new to me."

"I'll bet you never heard any thing like this
in all your bom 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 ; 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 deijendent 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 men in the
county. About fifteen years ago the man Potts
turned up, and however the old man torjk a fan-
cy to him I never conld 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 every one
said he would, swindled the old man out of ev-
ery j)enny, and mined him completely. Bran-
don had to sell his estate, and Pottf bought it
with the very money out of which he had cheat-
ed the old man. "

"Oh! impossible!" said Brandon. "Isn't
that some village gossip ?"

"I wish it wn", Sir — but it ain't. Go ask any
man here, and he'll tell yon 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. lie was ruined. He gav«
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 bebeve what hai>-
pened after that. "

"What was it?"

"They were all taken to the alms-house."

A burst of thunder seemed to sound in Bran-
don's ears as he heard this, w liicli he had never
even remotely imagined. The tailor was occu-
pied 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 nothingness by
the shock of that tremendous intelligence.

"The people felt dreadfully about it," contin-
ued the tailor, " but they couldn't do any thing.
It was Potts wh had the family taken to the
alms-house. Nobody dared to interfere."

"Did none of the county families do any
thing?" 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 acquaint-
ances ?"

"Well, that's what we all asked ourselves.
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 voung 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."

" Thnrjitoii !" said Brandon, as the name sank
into his soul.

CORD AND CREKSE.

"Yes; he lived at Holby."

Brandon dren° a long breath.

"No, Sir; no friends came, whether he had
anj or 'not. They were all sick at the alms-
house for weeks."

"And I suppose they all died there?" said
Brandon, in a strange, sweet voice.

" No, Sir. They were not so happy."

" What suflFering 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 alwayst thought your British aristocrats could
not be ruined. "

"Here was one, Sir, that wn", anyhow."

"Goon."

"Well, Sir, the old man died in the alms-
house. The others got well. As soon as they
were well enough they went away."

" IIow did they get away?"

"Potts helped them," replied the tailor, in a
peculiar tone. " They went away from the vil-
lage."

"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 awav to America."

"To America?"

"Yes, Sir."

Brandon made no rejoinder.

"Bill Potts said they went to Liverpool, and
then left for America to make their fortunes."

" What part of America?" asked Brandon, in-
differently. " I nc er saw or heard of them."

"Didn't you. Sir?" asked the tailor, who evi-
dently thought that America was like some En-
glish county, where every body may hear of every
body 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 emigrant 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 Bran-
don paid him and left.

Passing by the inn he walked on till he came
to the alms-house. Here he stood for a while
and looked at it.

Brandon alms-house was small, badly planned,
badly managed, and badly built, every thing done
there was badly and meanly done. It was white-
washed from the topmost point of every chimney
down to the lowest edge of the basement. A
whited sepulchre. For there was foulness there,
in the air, in the surroundings, in every thing.
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 nlmost immeasurable; to
pass f:om one to the other might be conceived of

ns incredible; and yet that passage had been
made.

To fall so far as to go the whole distance be-
tween the two ; to begin in one and end in the
other ; to be born, brought up, and live and move
and have one's b«ing 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 ex-
actly when ; but it is said that the foundations
were laid before the time of Egbert. In all parts
of the old mansion the progress of English civil-
ization 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 l^idor period,
and the wing added in Elizabeth's day, the days
of thct old Ralph Brandon who sank his ship
and its treasure to prevent it from falling into
the hands of the enemy.

Around this grand old Hall were scenes which
could be found nowhere save in England. Wide
fields, forever green with gi-ass like velvet, over
which rose groves of oak and elm, giving shelter
to innumerable birds. There the deer bounded
and the hare four I a coven. 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 ; i -ut the Hall was on an eminence and
overlooked all the inter^•ening ground. Stand-
ing there one might see the gradual decline of
the country as it sloped downwai-d toward the
margin of the ocean. On the left a bold promon-
tory juttetl far out, on the nearer side of which
there was an island with a light-house ; on tlie
right was another promontory, not so bold. Be-
tween these two the wlwle 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 great halls of England. As
Brandon looked upon it it rose before him
amidst the groA-es of six hundred years, its
many-gabled roof rising out from amidst a sea
of foliage, speaking of wealth, luxury, splendor,
power, influence, and nil that men hope for, or
struggle for, or fight for ; from nil of whicli he
and his had been cast out ; and the one who had
done this was even now occupying the old ances-
tral 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 nnd sixty
years of age, of medium size, broad-shouldeied

CORD AND CREESE.

" von AKK, SIR. JOHN POTTS OF POTTS HALL,

and Stout. He had a thoroughly 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 ex-
pression of his face was that of good-natured
simplicity. As he caught sight of Brandon a
frank smile of welcome 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 Brandon.
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,

FLOUS KEBCHAma & FBOVISION DEALERS,

83 Feost Street, Cinoinsati,
OHIO.

"I, Sir," said Brandon, "am Mr. Hendricks,
junior partner in Beamish & Hendricks, and I
hope you are quite well."

"Very well, thank yon," answered Potts,
smiUng and sitting down. " I am happy to see
you."

" 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 jjcrfect
stranger.

"I hope. Sir, that I am not taking up your
valuable time. You British noblemen have your
valuable time, I know, as well as we business
men."

"No, Sir, no. Sir, not at all," said Potts, evi-
dently greatly delighted at being considered a
Pritish nobleman.

"Well, Sir John — or is it my lord?" said
Brandon, interrogatively, correcting himself, and
looking inquiringlv at Potts.

"Sir John'll do'," said Potts.

"Well, Sir John. Being in England on busi-
ness, I came to ask you a few questions about a
matter of some importance to us. "

"Proceefl, Sir!" said Potts, with great dig-
nity.

"There's a young man that came into our em-
ploy last October whom we took a fancy to, or
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

CORD AND CHEESE.

even making up to IiIa daughter. He calls him-
self BrftnUoii— Frank Hraiidon."

At thiii I'otts started from an easy lounging
attitude, in which ho was trying to "do" the
British noble, and with startling intensity of gaze
looked Hrandon full in the face.

" I think the young man is fairish," continues
Brandon, " but nothing extraordinary. He is
inilnstrious and sober, but he ain't quick, and he
never had any real business experience till he
canio to us. Now, my senior from the very first
was infatuated with him, gave him a large sal- 1
ar}', and, in spite of my warnings that lie ought i
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 partnershiji with me if I refused,
take the yoimg man, let him marry his daughter,
nnd 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. ou see, I have a right
to feel anxious, more especially as I don't mind
telling you, Sir John, who understand these mat-
ters, that I thought I had a verj- good chance my-
self with old IJeamish's daughter. "

Brandon spoke all this very rapidly, and with
the air of one who was trying to conceal his feel-
ings of dislike to the clerk of whom he was so
jealous. Potts looked at him with an encoura-
ging smile, and asked, as he stop|>ed,

"And how did you happen to hear of me ?"

"That's just what I was coming to. Sir John !"
Brandon drew his ciiair 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 canying every thing before him with a high
hand, right in my very teeth, and I waitched
him. I pumped him to see if I couldn't get
him to tell something 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 Bran-
don Hall, Devonshire, and that he got very poor
— he was ruined, in fact, by — I beg your par-
don, 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 old man, he says, died before they left, but
he won't tell what became of the others. I con-
fess 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 del-
icate creature I am!"

Potts laughed with intense glee.

" And I cai •^ here after wandering about, try-
ing to find j' I heard at last that there was a
place that r ^ed 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
tidcen an intense interest in this narrative. " I'm
the very man you ought to have come to. I can
tell you all you want. This Brandon it a miser-
able swindler."

" Good ! I thought so. Y'ouTl give me that,

Sir John, over your ohti name, will you ?" cried
Brandon, in great apparent 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 ? Uow
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 of-
ficial information that they all died at Queltcc. "

Brandon looked suddenly at the floor and
gasped. In a moment he had recovered.

"Curse him ! then this fellow is an impostor? '

"No," said Potts, "he must have e.scaj)ed.
It's |K)8sible. There was some confusion at (Que-
bec about names."

"Then his name may really be Frank Bran-
don ?"

"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 aljout 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 oft" but want-
ed to get richer, and so he speculated in a tin
mine in Cornwall. I was actjuainted with him
at the time and used to resjiect him. He per-
suaded me — I was always oii-handed about mon-
ey, and a careless, easy fellow — he persuaded ipe
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 Bran-
don, and so did every body, but he didn't care a
fig for what we said, and finally, one fine morn-
ing, 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 cash, the sale was forced, and I
bought the whole establishment at a remarkably
low figure. I got old Brandy — Brandy was a
nickname I gave the old fellow — I got him a
house in the village, and supported him for a
while with his wife and daughter and his great
lubberly boy. I soon found out what vipers they
were. They all turned against their benefactor,
and dared to say that I had ruined their father.
In fact, my only fault was buying the place, and
that was an advantage to old Brandy rather than
an injury. It shows, though, what human nature
is.

" They all got sick at last, and as they had no
one to nurse them, I very considerately sent them
all to the alms-house, where they had good beds,
good attendance, and plenty to eat and drink.
No matter what I did for them they abused me.
They reviled me for sending them to a comfort-
able hqme, and old Brandy was the worst of all.
I used to go and visit him two or three times a
day, and he always cursed me. Old Brandy did
get awfully profane, that's a fact. The reason

CORD AND CREESE.

WM his infernal pride. Loolc at me, now ! I'm
not proud. I'ut me in the alms-houte, and would
I cune vou ? I hope not.

" At Ia«t old Brandy died, and of coune I had
to looli out for the fnniily. They neemwl thrown
on my hand«, you Itnow, and I wan t<K) good-na-
tured to let them nutfer, although they treated me
BO ahominablv. The best thing I could think of
was to ship them all olf to AmericH, where thev
could all get rich. So I took them to Liverpool '

"Did they want to go ? '

"They didn't Heem to hiivo nn idea in their
headM. They looked and actud just like three
bom fools."

"Strange!"

" I let ft friend of mine see about them, ns I
had considerable to do, and he got them a i>&a-
sage."

" I suppose you paid their wnv out."

"I did. Sir," said Potts, with an air of mu-
nificence; "but, between you and me, it didn't
cost much."

" I should think it must have cost a consider-
able sum."

'tJhno! Clark saw to that. Clark got them
places as steerage passengers. "

" Young Brandon told me once that he came
out as cabin passenger."

" That's his cursed pride. He went out in the
steerage, and a devilish hard time he had too. "

"Why?"

" Oh, he was a little crowded, I think ! There
were six hundred emigrants on board the Tecum-
seh—"

"The what?"

"The Tecumseh. Clark did that business
neatly. Each passenger had to take his own
provisions, so he supplied them with a lot. Now
what do you think he gave them ?"

"I can't imagine."

" He bought them some damaged bread nt one
quarter the U8u;il i>rice. It was all mouldy, you
know," said Potrs, trying to make Brandon see
the joke. " I declare ("lark and I roared over
it for a couple of months, thinking how surprise!
they must have been when they sat down to eat
their first dinner."

"That was very neat," rejoined Brandon.

"They were all sick when they left," said
Potts ; " but before they got to Quebec they
were sicker, I'll bet."

"Why so?"

" Did you ever hear of ship-fever ?" said Potts,
in a low voice which sent a sharp thrill through
every fibre of Brandon's being. He could only
nod his head.

" Well, the Tecumseh, with her six hundred
passengers, afforded an uncommon fine field for
the ship-fever. That's what 1 was going to ob-
83r>'e. They had a great time at Quebec last
summer ; but it was unanimously voted that the
Tecumseh was the worst ship of the lot. I sent
out an agent to see what had become of my three
friends, and he came back and told me all. He
said that about four hundred of the Tecumseh's
passengers died during the voyage, and ever so
many, more after landing. He obtained a list of
the dead from the quarantine records, and among
them were those of these three youthful Brandons.
Yes, they joined old Cognac pretty soon — lovely
and pleasant in their lives, and in death not di-
vided. But this young devil that you speak of

must have eicaped. T dare say he did, for th«
confusion was awfid."

" liut couldn't there have l>een another son ?"

"Oh no. There was another son, the eldest,
the worst of the whole h>t, so infernally bad that
even old Brandy himself couldn't stand it, hut
]>arked him off to Botany Bay. It's well he went
of his own accord, for if he hadn't the law would
have sent him there at last transported for life."

" Perhaps this man is the same one."

"Oh no. This eldest Brandy is dead."

"Are you sure?"

" Certain — best authority. A business fiiend
of mine wa.s in the same ship with him. Brandy
was coming home to see his friends. He fell
overboard and my friend saw him drown. It
was in the Indian Ocean."

" When was that ?"

" Last September."

"Oh, then this one must be the other of
course!"

" No doubt of that, I think," said Potts, cheer-
ily-

Brandon rose. "I feel much obliged. Sir

John," said he, stiffly, and with his usual nasal
tone, "for your kindness. This is just what I
want. I'll put a stop to my young man's game.
It's worth coming to England to find out this."

" Well, when you walk him out of your office,
give him my respects and tell him I'd be very
happy to see him. For I would, you know. I
really would."

" Ml tell him so," said Brandon, "and if he
is alive perhaps he'll come here."

"Ha! ha! ha!" roared Potts.

"Ha! ha!" laughed Brandon, and pretend-
ing not to see Potts's outstretched hand, he bowed
and left. He walked rapidly down the avenue.
He felt stifled. The horrors that had been re-
vealed to him had been but in part anticipated.
Could there be any thing worse?

He left the gates and walked quickly away, he
knew not where. Turning into a by-path he went
up a hill and finally sat down. Brandon Hall
lay not far away. In front was the village and
the sea beyond it. All the time there was but
one train of thoughts in his mind. His wrongs
took shape and framed themselves into a few
sharply defined ideas. He muttered to himself
over and over the things that were in his mind :
"Myself disinherited and exiled! My father
ruined and broken-hearted ! My father killed !
My mother, brother, and sister banished, staned,
and murdered !"

He, too, as far as Potts's will was concerned,
had been slain. He was alone and had no hope
that any of his family could survive. Now, as he
sat there alone, he needed to make his plans for
the future. One thing stood out prominently be-
fore him, which was that he must go immediate-
ly to Quebec to find out finally and absolutely the
fate of the family.

Then could any thing else be done in En-
gland? He thought over the names of those
who had been the most intimate friends of his fa-
ther — Thornton, Langhetti, Despard. Thornton
had neglected his father in his hour of need. He
had merely sent a clerk to make inquiries after
all was over. The elder Langhetti, Brandon
knew, was dead. Where were the others? None
of them, at any rate, had interfered.

There remained the family of Despard. Bran-

CORD AND CREE.se.

linn wu aware that the Colonel had a brother in
the army, but where he was he knew not nor
did lie care. If he chute to Untk in the army
register he might very easily find out ; but why
Rhnuld he ? lie had never known or heard much
of him in any way.

There remained Courtenay Despard, the son
of Lionel, he to whom the MS. of the dead
might be considered after all as chiefly devolv-
ing. Of liim Hrundon knew nbHoluteiy nothing,
not even wiietiier he was alive or dead.

For n time he discussed the question in his
mind whether it might not l)e well to seek him
out so as to show him his father's fate and gain
his co-operation. Hut after a few momenta'
cnnhideration he dismissed this thought. Why
xliDiild he seek his help ? Courtenay Despard,
it' iilive, might be very unlit for the purpose. He
might be timid, or indittisrent, or dull, or indolent.
\Vliy make any advances to one whom he did
not know ? Afterward it might be well to find
him, and see what might be done with or through
him ; but as yet there could be no reason what-
ever why he shoidd take up hi« time in search-
ing for him or in winning his confidence.

The end of it all was that he concluded what-
ever he did to do it by himself, with no human
being as his confidant.

Only one or two persons in all the world knew
that he was alive, and they were not capable,
under any circumstances, of betraying him. And
where now was Beatrice ? In the power of this
man whom Brandon had just left. I lad slie seen
him as he came and went? Had she '.oard his
voice as he spoke in that assumed tone? But
Brandon found it necessaiy to crush down all
thoughts of her.

One thing gave him profound satisfaction, and
this was that Potts did not suspect him for an
instant. And now how could he deal with
Potts? The man had become wealthy and
powerful. To cope with him needed wealth
and power. How could Brandon obtain these ?
At the utmost he could only count upon the fif-
teen thousand pounds which Compton would re-
mit. This would be as nothing to help him
against his enemy. He had written to Compton
that he had fallen overboard and been picked up,
and had told the same to the London agents un-
der the strictest secrecy, so as to be able to get
the money which he needed. Yet after he got
it all, what would be the benefit ? Pirst of all,
wealth was necessary.

Now more than ever there came to his mind
the ancestral letter which his father had inclosed
to him — the message fiom old Italph Brandon in
the treasure-ship. It was a wild, mad ho])e ; but
was it unattainable ? This he felt was now the
one object that lay before him ; this must first be
sought after, and nothing else could be attempt-
ed or even thought of till it had been tried. If
he failed, then other things might be considered.

Sitting there on his lonely height, in sight of
his ancestral home, he took' out his father's last
letter and read it again, after wliich he once more
read the old message from the treasure-ship :

" One league due northe of a smalle islet northe of y«

Islet of Santa Cruz northe of San Salvador I

Rftlphe Brandon in niv shippe Phoenix am becalmed

and surrounded by a iSpanish fleete My shippe

is flild with spoyle the Plunder of III galleons

wealthe w"" myghte parcha?f-e a kynpdom — tresure
eqoalle to an Empyr's revenue Gold and je weles

In eonotlMa ttors

■hall fulle Into y* baudi of y* Enemye

and God f.irbydde that Itt
' ■■ I there-

furo K.tlphe Brandon nat of mlue owns t(i><id wyj and
InteulL* and that <'f all my men Hlnktliln phlppt^ rather

than be taken alyve I M;nd IhU by my trusty

teaman Peter Leggit who with IX otiiern told« off by
lot win trye to eiiciiue In y* Uoate by nlKbte - - If
this cometh hapiv Into y* handa of my i«"ine Philip
let htm berebye kno^ve that in thia place in nil thia

trenure w' haply may yet be^atherd from y*

rea y* Inlet la knuwoe by III rockea that ue

pushed up like III needlea from y* Rnndu

" Kalphe Brandon"

Five days afterward Brandon, with his Hindu
servant, was sailing out of the Mersey liiver on
his way to Quebec.

CHAITER XIX.

THE DEAD ALIVE.

It was early in the month of August when
Brandon visited the (luarnntine station at Gosse
Island, Quebec. A low, wooden building stood
near the landing, with a sign over the door cbn-
taining oidy the word "Office." To this build-
ing Bratidon directed his steps. On entering he
saw oidy one clerk there.

"Are you the superintendent?" he asked, bow-
ing courte(>u.sly.

" No," said the clerk. * ' He is in Quebec just
now."

"Perhaps you can give me the information
that I want."

"What is it?"

"I have been sent to inquire after some pas-
sengers that came out here last year. "

"Oh 3'es, I can tell all that can be told," said
the clerk, readily. "We have the registration
books here, and you are at liberty to look up any
names you wish. 8tep this way, please." And
he led the way to an inner office.

" What year did they come out in ?" asked the
clerk.

"Last year.''

" Last yejir — an awful year to look up. 1840
— yes, here is the book for that year — a year
which you are aware was an unparalleled one."

"I have heard so."

" Do you know the name of the ship ?"

"The Tecumseh."

" The Tfcumseh .'" exclaimed the clerk, with
a startled look. "That is an awful name in our
recoi-ds. I am sorry you have not another name
to examine, for the Tecumseh was the worst of
all."

Brandon bowed.

"The Tecumseh," continued the clerk, turning
over the leaves of the book as it lay on the desk.
"The Tecumseh, from Liverpool, sailed June 2,
arrived August IG. Here you see the names of
those who died at sea, cojjied from the ship's
books, and those who died on shore. It is a
frightful mortality. Would vou 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

j landing it was impossible to keep an account of

I classes."

I Brandon carefully ran his eye down the long

list, and read each name. Those for which he

i looked did not appear. At last he came to the

CORD AND CREESE.

list of those who had died on shore. After read-
ing a few names his eye was arrested by one —

'^Brandon, Elizabeth."

It was bis mother. He read on. He soon
tame 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 meaning ?"

' ' Is that party a relative of yours ?"

"No," said Brandon.

" You don't mind hearing something horrible,
then r

"No."

The clerk drew a long breath.

" Well, Sir, those letters were written hy 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 preparations for them here. The
disease in some respects was worse than cholera,
and there was nothing but confusion. Veiy many
died from lack of nursing. But the worst feat-
urp of the whole thing was the hurried buiials.

" I was not here last year, and all who were here
then have left. But I've heard enough to make
me sick with horror. You perhnps are aware
that in this ship-fever there sometimes occurs a
total loss of sense, which y ".pt to be mistaken for
death?"

The clerk paused. Brandon regarded him
steadily for a moment. Then he turned, and
looked earnestly at the book.

"The burials were very hastily made."

"Well?'

"And it is now believed that some were bur-
ied 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, howeAcr, was in a changed key, "these
letters ' B' and ' A' are intended to mean some-
thing of tliat description ?"

" 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
liappened to be made. The clerk that was here
last told me.

"(hie morning, according to him, the super-
intendent came in, looking very much excited
and altered. He went to this book, where the
entries of burials had been made on the preced-
ing evening. This name was third from the
last. Twelve had been buried. He penciled
these letters there and left. People did not no-
tice him ; every body was sick or busy. At List
in the evening of the next day, when the" "•» ^e
to buiy a new lot, they found the superintendent
digging at the grave the third from the last.
They tried to stop him, but he shouted and moan-
ed alternately 'Buried alive!' 'Buried alive!'
In fact they saw that he was crazy, and had to
confine him at once."

"Did they examine tlie grave?"

"Yes. The woman told my predecessor that
she and her husband — who did the burying —
had examined it, and found the body not only
dead, but corrupt. 80 there's no doubt of it.
That party must have been dead at any rate."

" VVho was the woman ?"

"An old woman that laid them out. She and
her husband buried them."

" Where is she now ?"

"I don't know."

" Does she stay here yet?"

"No. She left last year."

"What became of the superintendent?"

" He was taken home, but gre\«^ no better. At
last he had to be sent to an asylum. Some ex-
amination was made by the authorities, but no-
thing ever came of it. The papers made no men-
tion of the affair, and it was hushed up. "

Brandon read on. At last he came to anoth-
er name. It was simply this : ''^Brandon." There
was a slight movement on the clerk's part as
Brandon came to this name. " There is no
Christian name here," said Brandon. "I sup-
pose they did not know it."

"Weil," said the clerk, "there's something
peculiar about that. The farmer clerk never
mentioned it to any body but me. That man
didn't die at all."

"What do you mean?" said Brandon, who
could scarcely speak for the tremendous struggle
between hope and despair that was going on
within him.

" It's a folse entry."

"How?"

"The superintendent wrote that. See the
handwriting is different from the others ' e is
that of the clerk Avho made all these enirie.- ; ti.e
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 su-
perintendent's hand. He did not know 7,hat to
think of it, so he concluded to ask the .<u))erin-
tendent ; but in the course of the day lie heard
that he was mad and in confinement, as I have
told you."

"T'len you mean that this is not an entry of
a deal 1 at all."

"Yes. The fact is, the superintendent for
some reason got it into his head that this Bran-
don" — 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 lor it. "

" It is a very natural one," said Brandon.

" Quite so. The clerk let it stand. You seo,
if he had erased it, he might have been over-
hauled, and there would have been a committee.
He was afiaid of that; so he thought it better
to say nothing about it. He woiddn t have told
me. only he said that a party came here once for
a list of all tlie dead of the Tennnseh, 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 inquiries were
ever made I might know what to say.''

"Are there manv mistakes in these records?"

CORD AND CREESE.

STUANGE FEELING PASSED OVER BRANDON. HE STEl'l'IiD lORWARD.

" I dare say there are a good many in the list \
for 184(i. There was so much confusion that
names got changed, and people died whose names
could only be conjectured by knowing who had
recovered. As some of those that recovered or
had not been sick slipped away secretly, of course'
there was inaccuracy."

Brandon had nothing more to ask. He thank-
ed the clerk and departed.

There was a faint hope, then, that Frank might
yet be alive. On h s way up to Quebec he de-
liJed what to do. A? soon as he arrived he in-
serted an advertisement in the chief papers lO
the following effect :

notice:

INFOR:,^.vT10N of any one of the name of " BRAN-
DON," who came out in the ship Tecum«eh in 1S4C

from Liverpool to Quebec, is earnestly desirtd by
friends of the family. A liberal reward will be f^iven
to t.ny one who can give the above information. Ap-
ply to Henby Peters,

22 Place d'Armes.

Brandon waited in Quebec six weeks without
any result. He then went to Montreal and in-
serted the same notice in the papers there, nnd
in other towns in Canada, giving his Montreal
address. After waiting five or six weeks in
Montreal he went to Toronto, and advertiscjd
again, giving his new address. He waited here
for some time, till at length the month of No-
vember began to draw to a close. Not yet de-
spondent, he began to foiTn a plan for advertis-
ing in every dry of the United States.

Meanwhile he had received msiny communica-
tions, all of which, however, were made with th^

CORD AND CREESE.

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 centre of action.

He arrived in New York at the end of Decem-
ber, and immediately began to insert his notices
in all parts of the country, giving his address at
the Astor House.

One day, as he came in from the street, he
was informed that there was some one in his
room who wished to see him. He went up calm-
ly, thinking that it was some new person 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 by
profound dejection; he looked like one whose
whole life had been one long misfortune. 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 '.eeling 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 meeting between the two brothers, aft-
er so many eventful years of separation, each had
much to tell. Each had a story so marvelous
that the other might have doubted it, had not
the marvels of his o>vn experience been equally
great. Frank's story, however, is 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 nec-
essary 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 content 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 wi'ongs, but the
tears of my mother forced me to use self-control.
You had been driven otf ; I alone was left, and
she implored me by my love for her to stand by
her. I wished her to take her own little property
and go w ith me and Edith where we might all
live in seclusion together; but this she would
not do for tear 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 showed to the elder one. Poor
father! he really believed, as he after>vard tcM
me, tiiat thei-e men were putting millions of

money into 'lis hands, and that he would be the
Beckford of his generation.

"After a while another scoundrel, called
Clark, appeared, who was simply the counteqjart
of Potts. (Jf this man something verj- singular
was soon made known tr me.

" One day I was strolling through the grounds
when suddenly, as I passed through a grove
which stood by a fish-pond, I heard voices and
saw the t^vo 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 mni ks :

Louis looked at this with intense excitement.

' You have been in New South Wales," 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
khid." '

" Do vou 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. The first ( , "V ) is the king's mark put on
those who are totaLy irreclaimable and insubor-
dinate. The second ( R, ) means runawx^ , and
is put on those who have attempted to escape.
The third (-f-) 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 chains, 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 beueve me. I determined to bring matters
to a crisis, and charged Potts, in my father's
presence, with associating with a branded felon.
I'otts 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
hesitate to invent a foul slander against an hon-
est man. He said that Clark would be willing
10 be put to any test ; he coidd not, however, ask
iiim to expose himself — it was too outrageous,
but would simply assert that my charge was
fa'se.

' ' My father as usual believed eveiy word and
ga\e me a stern reiJiimand. Louis, in the pres-

CORD AND CREESE.

8»

ence of my 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
c.verv -■•inny was lost. We had to leave the Hall
and jok a little cottage in the village.

'•AH our friends and acquaintances stood
iloof. My fathers oldest friends never came
near him. Old Langhetti was dead. His son
icnew nothing abont this. I will tell you more of
tiim presently.

" Colonel Lionel Despard w.<is dead. His son,
Courtenay, was ignorant of all this, and was away
in the North of England. 'I'liere was Thornton,
and I can't account for liis inaction. He mar-
ried Langhetti's daughter too. '1 hat is a mys-
tery."'

"They are all false, Frank."

Frank looked up with something like a smile.

" No, not aU ; wait till you hear me through."

Frank drew a long breath. "We got sick
there, and Potts had us taken to the alms-house.
There we all prayed for death, but only my fa-
ther'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 cotmtry, and offered to pay
our way to America. We were all indifferent ;
we were paralyzed by grief. The alms-house
was not a place that we could cling to, so we
lfc„ ourselves drift, and allowed Potts to send us
wherever he wished. We did not even hojje for
any thing better. We only hoped that some-
where or other we might all die. What else
could we do? What else could I do? There
was no friend to whom I could look: and if 1
ever thought of any thing, it was that Anieiica
might possibly afibrd us a chance to get a li\ing
till death came.

" So we allowed ourselves to be sent wherever
Potts chose, since it could not possibly make
things worse than they were. He availed him-
self of our stolid indifference, put us as passen-
gers in the steerage on Iwaru of a crowded emi-
grant ship, the 2'ecumseli, and gave us for our
piovisions some mouldy bread.

" We simply lived and suffered, and were all
waiting for death, till one day an angel appeared
who gave us a short resjiite, and saved us for a
whil6 from misery. This angel, Louis, was Pa-
olo, the son of Langhetti.

"You look amazed. It was certainly an
amazing thing that he should be on board the
same ship with us. He was in the cabin. Ho
noticed our misery without knowing who we
were. He came to give us his pity and hel]) 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 mo-
ther and sister, and slept and lived with me.
Most of all he ciieeied us by the lofty, spiritual
words with which he bade us look wHh contempt
upon the troubles of lite and aspire affer im-
mortal happiness. Yes, Louis ; Langhetti gave
us peace.

" There were six hundred passengers. The
plague broke out among us. The deaths everj-
day increaseil, and all were filled with despair.
At last \lie sailors themselves began to die.

'' I believe there was onlv one in all tb; t ship
F

who preserved calm reason and stood without
fear during those awful weeks. That one was
Langhetti. He found the othcers of the ship
panic-stricken, so he took charge of the steerage,
organized nurses, watched over every thing, en-
couraged eveiy body, and labored night and
day. In the midst of all I fell sick, and he
nursed me back to life. Most of aU, that man
inspired fortitude by the hope that beamed in his
eyes, and by the radiancy of his . .nile. ' 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 my mother
and sister in the cabin fell sick. I heard of it
some days after, and was prostrated again. I
grew better after a time ; but just as we reached
quarantine, Langhetti, who had kept himself up
thus far, gave out completely, and fell before
the plague."

"Did he die ?" asked Louis, in a faltering voice.

"Not on ship-board. He was carried ashore
senseless. My mother and sister were veiy low,
and were also earned on shore. I, though weak,
was able to nurse them all. My mother died
first."

There was a long pause. At last Frank re-
sumed :

"My sister gradually recovered; and then,
througii grief and fatigue, I fell sick for the third
time. J felt it coming on. My sister nursed
me ; for a time I thought I was going to die.
'Oh, Edith,' I said, 'when I die, devote your
life while it lasts to Langhetti, whom God sent
to s in our despair. Save his life even if j'ou
give up your own.'

"After that I became delirious, and remained
so for a long time. Weeks passed ; and w hen
at last I revive' 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 understand.
Thei'e was no attendance. AH was confusion,
horror, and death.

"When I revived the first question was after
Langhetti and Edith. No one knew any thing
about them. In the confusion we- had been sep-
arated, and Edith had died alone. "

'•Who told you that she died?" asked Louis,
with a troubled look.

Frank looked at him with p. face of horror.

" ('an vou bear what 1 a'a going to sav?"

"Yes.'"'

''When I was able to move about 1 went to
see if any one could tell me c'jout Llitli and
Langhetti. I heard an uw i'ul story ; :hat the
superintendent had gone mad and had been
lound trying to dig open a grave, saying tliat
some one was buried alive. Who do you think ?
oh, my brother !"

"Speak!"

" Edith Brandon was the name he named."

"Be calm, Frank; I made inquiries m\-self
at the island registry-oflice. 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 deuth
had taken place "

CORD AND CRKESE.

"Alasl" Baid Frank, in a voice of despair, "I
saw that woman — the keeper of the dead-house —
the grave-digger's wife, ^he told ine this story,
but it was with a troubled eye. I swore venge-
ance on her unless she told me the truth, ^^he
was alarmed, and said she would reveal all she
knew if I swore to keep it to myself. I swore it.
fan you bear to hear it, Louis ?"

"iSi^ak!"

"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 lifting his head, said :

"Goon."

"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 emplojTnent as porter in a
warehouse. What mattered it ? What was rank
or station to me ? I only wanted tof keep myself
from starvation and get a bed to sleep on at niglit.

" I had no hope or thought of any thing. 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 terrible 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, and might have been
i iving there yet ; but one day as I came in I heard
the name of ' Brandon.' Two of the clerks who
v.ere discussing the news in the morning paper
hapi)ened to speak of an advertisement which had
Icng been in the papers in all parts of Canada.
It was for information about the Brandon family.

" I read the notice. It seemed to me at first
that Potts was still trj'ing to get control of us,
but a moment's reflection showed that to be im-
probable. Then the mention of ' the friends of
the family' made me think of Langhetti. I con-
cluded that he had escaped death and was trjing
to find me out.

' I went to Toronto, and found that you had
gonj to New York. I hr d saved much of my
wages, and was able to come here. I expected
Lan^jhetti, but found you. "

" Why did you not think that it might be
me?'

"Because I heard a threat of Potrs about you,
and took it for granted that he would sucked in
cany ng it out."

" ^Vhat was the threat ?"

"lie found out somehow that my father had
written a letter to you. I suppose they told him
so at the village post-office. One day when I.o
was in the room he said, with a laugh, alluding
to the let ->r, 'I'll uncork that young Brandy-
flask b.jfor, ong '

"Well — the nvj. ; of my death appeared in
the Enjjlish papers.'

Frank looked earnestly at him.

"Anl I accept it, and go under an assumed
name."

"So do I. It is better."

" Yoi . thought Langhetti alive. Dc you think
he is i''

" I do not think so now."

"Why not?"

'•The ettbrts which he made were enough to
kill anv man without the plague. He must have
died."'

After hearing Frank's story I^ouis gave a full
account of his own adventures, omitting, how-
ever, all mention of Beatrice. That was some-
thing for his own heart, and not for anoAier's ear.

" Have you the letter and MS. ?"

"Yes."

" Let me read them."

Louis took the treasures and handed them to
Frank. He read them in silence.

" Is Cato with you • ot?'

"Yes."

"It is well."

"And now, Frank," said Louis, "you have
someihing at last to live for."

"What is that?"

" Vengeance !" cried Louis, with burning ey".

"Vengeance!" repeated Frank, without emo-
tion — '• Vengeance ! What is that to me ? Do
you hope to give peace to your own heart by in-
flicting sutt'ering on our enemies? What can
they possibly sufl'er that can atone for what they
have inflicted ? All that they can feel is as no-
thing compared with what we have felt. Venge-
ance!" he repeated, musingly; "and what sort
of vengeance? Would you kill them? What
would that effect? Would he be more misera-
ble than he is ? Or would you feel any greater
Iiapjjiness? 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 yoa
ask me. Well, after all, do I want him to suf-
fer? Dol cfeforthisman's sufterings? 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, porhaps, sufl'er from nothing but
physical pain. Should I inflict thui jn 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 gaze J upon the face of death and stood
upon the threshold of that place where dwells
the Infinite Mysteiy. So when you speak of
nere vengeance my heart does not respond. But
there is still something which may make a pur-
pose as strong as vengeance. "

"Name it."

"The sense of intolerable wrong ! " cried Frank,
in vehement tones ; " the presence of that foul
pair in the home of our ancestors, our own exile,
and all the sufterings of the past ! Do ', ov ihink
that I can endure this ?"

"No — you must have vengeance."

"No; not vengeance."

"What then?"

"Justice!" cried Frank, starting to his feet.
' ' Justice — strict, stern, merciless ; and that jus-
tice means to me all that you mean by vengeance.
Let us make war against him from this time fortli
while life lasts ; let us cast him out and get back
our own ; let us put him into the power of tho
law, and let that take satisfaction on him for his
crimes ; let us cast him out and fling him from
us to that power which can fittingly condemn. I

CORD AND CREESE.

(lospiso him, and despise liis suflerings. His
ngony will give me no gratification. The nn-
;,iiish that a base nature can suffer is only dis-
gusting to me — he suffers only out of liis base-
ness. To me, and with a thing like that, venge-
ance is impossible, and justice is enough."

"At any rate you will have a purpose, and
your puqjose points to the same result as mine. "

"But how is this possible ?" said Frank. " He
is strong, and we are weak. What can we do ?"

"We can try," said Louis. " You are ready
to undertake any thing. You do not value your
life. There is one thing which is before us. It
is desperate — it is almost hopeless ; but we are
lioth ready to try it."

"What is that?"

"The message from the dead," said Louis,
spreading before Frank that letter from the treas-
ure-ship which he himself had so often read.

"And are you going to try this?"

" Yes."

"How?"

" I don't know. I must first find out the re-
sources of science."

" Have vou Cato yet?"

"Yes."'

"Can he dive?"

"He was brought up on the Malabar coast,
among the pearl-fishers, and can remain under
water for an incredible space of time. But I
hope to find means which will enable me myself
to go down under the ocean depths. This will
be our oljject now. If it succeeds, then we can
gain our purpose; if not, we must think of some-
thing else."

CHAPTER XXI.

THE DIVING BUSINESS.

In a little street that runs from Broadway, not
far from Wall Street, there was a low door\vay
with dingy panes of glass, over which was a sign
which bore the following letters, somewhat faded :

BROCTiEa^ & CO.,

CONTRACTORS.

About a month after his arrival at New York
Brandon entered this place and walked up to the
desk, where a stout, thick-set man was sitting,
with his chin on his hands and his elbows on the
desk before him.

"Mr. Brocket?" said Brandon, inquiringly.

"Yes, Sir," answered the other, descending
from his stool and stejiping fonvard toward Bran-
don, behind a low table which stood by the desk.

"I am told that you undertake contracts for
raising sunken vessels ?"

" We are in that line of business."

" Y'ou have to make use of diving apparatus ?"

"Yes."

"I understand that you have gone into this
busine's to a larger extent than any one in Amer-
ica ?■'

" Yes, Sir," said Brocket, modestly. "I tliink
we do the leading business in that line."

"I will tell you frankly my object in calling
upon you. I have just come from the East In-
dies for tlie purpose of organizing a systematic
plan for the pearl fisheries. Y^ou are aware hat
out there they still cling to the old fashion of

diving, which was begun three ihousand years
ago. I wish to see if 1 can not bring science to
bear upon it, so as to raise the j>earl-oyster8 in
larger quantities."

"That's a good idea of yours," remarked
Mr. Brocket, thoughtfully.

"I came to you to see if you could inform me
whether it would be practicable or not."

"Terfectly so," said Brocket.

"Do you work with the diving-bell in your
business or with armor ?"

" With both. We use the diving-bell for sta-
tionary purposes; but when it is necessary to
move about we employ armor. "

" Is the armor adapted to give a man any free'
dom of movement T

"The armor is far better than the bell. The
amior is so perfect now that a practiced hand can
move about under water with a freedom that is
surprising. My men go down to examine sunk-
en ships. They go in and out and all through
them. Sometimes this is the most profitable part
of our business."

"Why so?"

" Why, because there is often money or valu-
able articles on board, ..nd these always are ours.
See," said Brocket, opening a drawer and taking
out some silver coin, "here is some money that
we foiuid in an old Dutch vessel that was sunk
up the Hudson a hundred years ago. Our men
walked about the bed of the river till they found
her, and in her cabin they obtained a sum of
money that wou»d surprise you — all old coin."

"An old Di.tch vessel! Do you often find
vessels that ha er been sunk so long ago ?"

"Not often. But we are always on the look-
out for them," said Brocket, who had now grown
quite communicative. ' ' You see, those old
ships always carried ready cash — they didn't use
bank-notes and bills of exchange. So if you can
only find one you're sure of money."

" Then this would be a good thing to bear in
mind in our pearl enterprises ?"

' ' Of course. I should think that out there
some reefs must be full of sunken ships. They've
been sinking about those coasts ever since the
first ship was buiit."

" How far down can a diver go in armor?"

" Oh, any reasonable depth, when the pressure
of *\lQ water is not too great. Some pain in the
«"Hrs is felt at first from the compressed air, but
that is temporarj-. Men can easily go dawn ;i.s
far as fifteen or sixteen fathoms."

" How long can they stay down?"

"In the bells, you know, they go dwNTi and
ai^ pulled up only in the middle of the day and
at evening, -.hen their work is done. "

" IIow with the men in armor?"

" Oh, they can stand it almost as well. They
come up oftener, though. 'Iliere is one advant-
age in the armor : a man can fling ofi' 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 other work?"
"Well, you see, it's unnatural sort of work,
and is hard on the lungs. Still, I always was
healthy. The real reason why J stopped was m
circumstance that happened two years ago."

CORD AND CREESE.

" 'WTiat wns fh.1t ?"

Urocket drew a long breath, looked for a mo-
ment meditatively at tlie Hoor. mid then went on:

"Well, there happened to ho a wreck of a
steamer called the Saliulin down ott" the North
Carolina coast, and I thought I would try her as
a speculation, for I supj)osed that there might he
considerable money on board one way or an-
other. It was a very singular 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 min-
utes, before the passengers could even be awak-
ened. It may seem hoiTid to you, hut you must
know that a ship-load of passengers is very })rof-
itable, for they all carry money. Besides, there
ure their trunks, and the clerk's desk, and so on.
^o, this time, I went down myself. The ship
lay on one side of the rock which had pierced
her, having floated off just before sinking ; and
I had no difficulty in getting on board. After
walking about the deck I went at once into the
saloon, i'ir," 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 jjassengers 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 multi-
tude of dead.

"But there were others," continued Brocket,
'.n a lower tone, "who had chitched at jneces of
furniture, at the doors, and at the chairs, and
many of these had held on with such a rigid
clutdi that death itself had not unlocked it.
[•ome were still upright, with distorted features,
and staring eyes, clinging, with frantic faces, to
the nearest object that they had seen. Several
of them stood around the table. The most fright-
f:d 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. The wretcli iiad leap-
ed theie in his first mad impulse, and his hands
had clutched a brass bar that ran across. He
wai; facing the door ; his hands were still cling-
ing, his eyes glared at me, his jaw had fallen.
The hideous face seemed grimacing at and threat-
ening me. As I entered the water was disturb-
ed by my motion. An undulation set in move-
ment by my entrance passed through the length
of the saloon. All the corpses swayed for a mo-
ment. 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 fonvard simultane-
ously. Above all, that hideous figure on the ta-
ble, as its fingers were loosened, in falling for-
ward, 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 that fiend on the table.
I For the first time in my life. Sir, I felt fear under
the sea. I started back, and rushed out quaking
as though all hell was behind me. When I got
no to the surface I could not speak. I instantly
l»ft the Saladin, came home with my men, and
have never been down myself since."

A long conversatioM 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 com-

municative, lie described to him the exact
depth to which a diver in armor might safely go,
the longest time that he could safely remain un-
der 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 difficulty, and
the best mode by which to secure any valuables
which he might find. At last he became so ex-
ceedingly friendly that Brandon asked him if he
would be willing to give personal instructions to
himself, hin'mg that moiu*y was no object, and
that any price would be paid.

At this Brocket laughed. " My dear Sir, yon
take my fancy, for I think I see in you a man
of the right sort. I should be very glad to
show any one like you how to go to work. Don't
mention money ; 1 have actually got more now
than 1 know what to do with, and I'm thinking
of founding an asylum for the jjoor. 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
instnictions it will be merely because I like to
oblige a man like you."

Brandon of course expressed all the gratitudo
that so generous an offer could excite.

"But the'c's no use trying just yet; wait till
the month of May, and then you can begin. You
have nerve, and 1 have no doubt that you'll learn
fast."

After this interview Brandon had many others.
To give credibility to his j)retended plan for the
pearl fisheries, he bought a dozen suits of diving
armor and various articles which Brocket assured
him that he woidd need. He also brought Cato
with him one day, and the Hindu described tlie
plan which the i)earl-divers pursued on the Mala-
bar coast. According to Cato each diver had a
stono which weighed about thirty pounds tied to
his foot, and a sponge filled with oil fastened
around his neck. On plunging into tho water,
the weight carried hjm 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 apjjlied to
his mouth. All this was new to Brocket. It
excited his ardor.

The month of May at last came. Brocket
showed them a i>lace in the Hudson, about twen-
ty miles above the city, where they could prac-
tice. Under his direction Brandon put on the
armor and went down. Frank worked the pumjis
which supi)lied him with air, and Cato managed
the boat. The two Brandons learned their parts
rapidly, and Louis, who had the hardest task,
improved so quickly, and caught the idea of the
work so readily, that Brocket enthusiastically
assured him that he was a natural-bom diver.

All this time Brandon was qiueth making ar-
rangements for a voyage. He gradually obtained
every thing which might by any possibility be re-
quired, and which he found out by long delibera-
tions with Frank and by hints which he gained
by well-managed questions to Brocket,

Thus the months of May and June passed un-
til at length they were ready to start.

CORD AND CREESE.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE 18LKT OF SANTA CRCZ.

It was July when Brandon left New York
for San. Salvador.

He had piirchasied a bea.itiful little schooner,
which lio had fitted uj) like a gentleman's yacht,
and storeil with all tlie ariicle;* which might be
needed. In cruising abo it the Ualiaina l«les
he intended to let it be supposed that he was
traveling for pleasure. Tr le, the month of July
was not the time of the year which pleasure-seek-
ers would choose for sailin;; 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 Co-
lumbus discovered is now but seldom visited, and
few inhabitants are found there. Only si.\ hun-
dred people dwell upon it, and these have in
general but little intelligence. On reaching this
place Brandon sailed to the harbor which Co-
lumbus entered, and made many incjuiries about
that immortal landing. Traditions still survived
among the people, and all were glad to show the
rich Englishman the lions of the jilace.

He was thus enabled to make in([uiries Avith-
out exciting suspicion about the i>Liiids lying to
the north. He was informed that about four
leagues north there was an island nameil Guahi,
mid as there was no island known in that direc-
tion named Santa Cruz, Brandon thought that
tills might be the one. He asked if there were
(>iiy small islets or sand -banks near there, but
no one coidd tell him. Having gained all the
information that he could he pursued his voy.age.

In that liot season there was but little wiiuf.
The seas were visited by profound calms which
continued hmg and ilindered 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 keej) in close by the shore. They waited till
the night came on, and then, putting out the
sweeps, ihey rowed the yacht slowly along.

It was the middle of July before they reached
the island of Guahi, which Brandon thought
might be Santa Cniz. 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 south-'
em shore of Guahi. Now was the time when
all the future depended upon the fact of the ex-
istence 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-view in front opened up
more and more widely. There was nothing but
water. More and more of the view exposed it-
self, until at last the whole horizon was visible.
Vet there was no land there — no island — no sign
of those three rocks which they longed so much
to liud.

A lijrht wind arose which enabled them to sail

over all the space that lay one league to the north.
They sounded as they went, but found only deep
water. They looked all around, but found not
80 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 any one knew of
other islands among which might be found one
named Santa Cruz. Their disappointment was
profound. Brandon for a while thought that
perhaps some other San Salvador was meant in
the letter. This very idea had occuiTed 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 require-
ments of the writing. Some must have gained
the name since ; others were so situated that no
island could be mentioned as lying to the north.
On the whole, it seemed to liinj that this San
Salvador of Columbus could alone be mentioned.
It was alluded to as a well-known place, of w hich
particular descripti(m was unnecessary, and no
other j)lace 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 (.'ruz ; but that some
other island lay about here, which might be con-
sidered as north from San Salvador. This could
be ascertained here in Guahi better perhaps than
any where els-^. With this faint hope he landed.

Guahi is only a small island, and there are but
few inhabitants upon it, who support themselves
jtartly by fishing. In this delightful climate Ih'ir
wants arc not numerous, and the rich soil pio-
duces almost any thing which they desire. The
fish aliout here are not plentiful, and what they
catch have to be sought for at a long distance otf.

'* Are.there any other islands near this ?" asked
Brandon of some people whom he met on land-
ing.

"Not very near."

" Which is the nearest?"

"San Salvador."

" Are there any others in 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 t'ruz."

Brandons 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 narth of San
Salvador, and its name was Santa Cruz.

" It is 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 or a mile and a half
long."

" Is there any other island near it ?"

"Idon'tknJw."

"Have you ever been there?"

"No."

Plainly no further information could be gath-
ered here. It was enough to have hope strength-
ened and an additional chance for success. Bran-
don obtained as iio«ir as ])osMble the exact direc-
tion of ."^anta Cruz, and, going back to the yacht,
took advantage of the light breeze which still was
blowing and set sail.
, Night came on very dark, but the breeze still

COIin AND CREESE.

'"AN ISLAND COVEKED WITH PALM-TREES LAY THERE."

continued to send its light breatli, and before this
the vessel gently glided on. Not a thing could
be seen in that intense darkness. Toward moiTi-
ing Louis Brandon, who had remained np 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 to-
ken.

Not Columbus himself, when looking out over
these waters, gazed with greater eagerness, nor
did his heart beat with greater anxiety of sus-
pense, than that which Brandon felt as his vessel
glided slowly through the dark waters, the same
over which Columbus had passed, and moved
amidst the impenetrable gloom. But the long
niglit of suspense glided by at last ; the darkness
faded, and the dawn came.

Frank Brandon, on waking about sunrise,
came up and saw his brother looking ..ith fixed
intensity of gaze a' something directly in front.
He turned to see what it might be.

An island covered with palm-trees lay there.
Its extent wa^ small, but it was filled with the
rich verdure of the tropics. The gentle breeze
rufied the waters, but did not altogether efface
the refle ;tion of that beautiful islet.

Louis pointed toward the northeast.

Frank looked.

It seemed to be about two miles avr.y. It was
a low sand island about a quarter of a mile long.
From its surface projected three rocks tiiiu and
sharp. They were at unequal distances from
each other, and in the middle of the i4et. The
tallest one might have been about twelve feet in
height, theotliers eight and ten feef rcs)iei-tively.

Louis and P'rank exchanged one long look, but
said not a word. That look was an elo<|ueKt one.

This then was unmistakably the place of tlieir
search.

Tlie 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 tlieir hope;-.

The island of Santa Craz was, as had been
told them, not more than a mile and 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
.if inhabitants, it had never been touche(l by the
hand of man, but stood before tliem in all that
pristine beauty with ,vhich nature had first en-

CORD AND CREESE.

dowed it. It reminded Brandon in some degree
of that African island where he had passed some
time with Beatrice. The recollection of this
brought over him an intolerable melancholy, and
made the very beauty of this island painful to
him. Yet ho|)e 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 scji, if
he were ever 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 i-ock jutted up,
which was bald and flat on its summit. (Jn the
western side it showed a precipi'^e of some forty
or fifty feet in height, and on the eastern side it
de-scended 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 whicli showed them
that they could not hope to carry on any opera-
tions for that day.

On the other side of the island, about ten
miles fi'om the shore, there lay a large brig be-
calmed. It looked like one of those vessels that
are in the trade between the United States and
tlie West Indies. As long as that vessel was
in the neighborhood it would not do even to
make a beginning, nor did Brandon care 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 whicli they called Needle Islet. It was
merely a low spit of sand, with these three sin-
gidarly-shaped rocks projecting- upward. Tliere
was nothing else whatever to be seen upon it.
The moon came up r.s they stood there, and
tlieir eyes wandered involuntarily to the north,
to that place, a league away, where the treasure
lay beneath the wateis.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE OCEAN DEPTHS.

The next morning dawned and Brandon hur-
ried to the rock and looked around. During tlie
night a slight wind had sprung up, and was still
gently breathing. Far over the wide se;i 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 jiromised at any moment to
stop ; yet while it lasted they passed onward im-
(ler its gentle impulse, and so gradually reached
Needle Island, and went on into the sea beyond.

Uefore they had come to the spot which they
wished to attain the breeze had died out, and they
were c(impelied to take to the oars. Although
e;\ily in the morning the sun was burning hot,
the work was laborious, and the progress was
flv)w. Yet not a murmur was heard, nor did a
single thought of fatigue enter the i.nnds of any
of tliem. One idea oidy was present — one so
ovoiwlielming that all lesser thoughts and all or-

dinary feelings were completely obliterated. Aft-
er two hours of steady labor they at Itust 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 fiom
this distance closer together, and thinner and
sharper, so that they actually bore a greater re-
semblance to needles from this point than to any
thing else.

Here they sounded. The water was fifteen
fathoms deep — not so great a depth as they had
feared. Then they put down the anchor, for
although there was no wind, yet the yacht might
be caught in some current, and drift gradually
away from the right position.

The small boat had all this time been floating
asteni with the pumping apparatus in it, so that
the adventurous diver might readily be accompa^
nied in his search and his wanderings at the bot-
tom of the sea.

But there was the prospect that this search
woidd be long and arduous, and Brandon was not
willing to exhaust himself too soon. He had al-
ready resolved that the first exploration should
be made by Asgeelo. The Hindu had followed
Brandon in all his wanderings with that silent
submission and perlect devotion which is 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 was
aware that they were about to e:{i)lore the ocean
depths, but showed no curiosity about the object
of their search. It was Brandon's purpose to
send him down first at different ])oin «, so that
he might see if there was any thing th re which
looked like what they sought.

Asgeelo — orCato, as Brandon commonly called
■him — had made those simple preparations which
are common among his class — the apparatus
which the pearl-divers have used ever since peail-
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 fling-
ing his arms straight u]) over Iiis head, he leajied
into the water and went down feet foremost.

[ Over the smooth water the ripple? flowed from
the spot where Asgeelo had disappeared, extend-

' ing in successive concentric circles, and radiating

[ in long undulations far and wide. Louis and

j Frank waited in deep suspense. Asgeelo re-
mained long beneath the water, but to them the

I time seemed frightful in its duration. I'rofound
anxiety began to mingle with the suspense, for fear

I lest the faithful servant in his devotion had over-
rated 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 tV •'uspense had become intoler-
able and the two i aU already begun to exchange
glances almost ot despair, a plash was heard, and
Asgeelo emerged far to the right. He strack out
strongly toward the boat, which was at once rowed
toward him. In a few minutes he \.as taken in.
He did not appear to be much exhausted.
He had seen nothing.

COKD AND. CUEKSE.

\ DARK, SINEWY AHJI EMERGED FROM IIENEATII, ARMED WITH 1. LONG, KEEN KNIFE.

Tliey then rowed about a hundred yards fur-
ther, and Asgeelo prepared to descend once more.
He .' jueezed the oil out of the sponge and rc-
new( d 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 terrible tone.

At this Louis and Frank exchanged glances.
Could they let-this devoted servant thus tempt so
terrible a death?

"Did you see anv sharks ?" asked Louis.

"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 l(jn<; ; but now they
had become familiarized witli his powers and the
suspense was not so dreadful. At the expiration
of the usual time he reappeai'ed, and on being
taken into the boat he again announced that he
kid seen nothing.

They now rowed a luuidred yards farther on
in the same direction, toward the east, and As-
geelo made another descent. He came l)ack with
the same result.

It began to grow discouraging, but Asgeelo
was not yet fatigued, and they therefore determ-
ined 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 liad become thrown
farther apart and stood at long distances. As-
geelo came up each time unsuccessful.

He at lust weat down fur the eleventh time.

They were talking as usual, not expecting that he
would reapjiear for some minutes, when saddenly
a siiout WHS 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 sjilashed
in the water.

Immediately the cause of this became manifest.
Just behind him a sharp black hn appeared cut-
ting the surface of the water.

It was a shark ! IJut the monster, a coward
like all his tribe, deterred by the jilashing of tiie>
water made by Asgeelo, circled round him and
hesi;ated to seize his ])rey.

The moment was friglitful. Yet Asgeelo ap-
peared not in the least alarmed. Ho swam slow-
ly, occasionally turning his Jiead and watching
the monster, seeming l)y his easy dexterity to be
almost as much in his native plcment as his pur-
suer, kcei>ing his eyes fixed on him and holding
his knife in a firm dasji. The knife was a long,
keen blade, which Asgeelo had carried with him
for years.

Louis and Frank could do nothing. A pistol
bail could not reach this monster, who kejt him-
self under the water, where a ball would be spent
before striking him. if indeed any aim coidd di-
rect a bullet toward that swift darting figure.
Tliey had nothing to do but to look on in an
agony of horror.

^\sgeelo, compelled to watch, to guard, to
splash the water, and to turn frequently, made
but a slow passage over those twenty yards wliidi
sepaiated him from the boat. At last it seemed
as if he chose to stay there. It seemed to those
who watched him with such awful horroi' that he

CORD AND CKliESE.

might have escaped had ho (Jhosen, but that he
liud 8ume idea ut* volunturily encountering the
niun.Mter. This l)ecanie evident at last, ns the
Bhark piiosed before him wlien they saw Asgeelo's
face turned tuwurd it ; a face full of Herce hate
and vengeance; a face such as one 'urns toward
some moiial enemy.

He made u (|uick, fierce stroke with his long
kiiil'e. The sliark gave a leap upward. The
water was tinged with blood. The next moment
A.'-;;eeli) went down.

*" What now ?" was the thought of the brothers.
Had he been dragged down? Impossible! And
vet it seemed equally impossible that he could
have gone down of his own accord.

In a moment their susjiense was ended. A
white Hash appeared near the sinfaie. The next
instant a dark, sinewy arm emerged from be-
neath, 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 bund he waved his knife exultantly.

A few moments aftenvard the form of a j^igan-
tic s'.iark floated u])ward to the surface, dyeing
the sea with the blood whicli iiad issued from tiie
stnjke dealt by Asgeelo. 2^'ot yet, hcnvever, was
the vindictive fury of the Hindu satiated. He
Kwaiu np to it. He dashed his knife over and
over the white belly till it became a hideous
mass of gaping entrails. Then he came into the
boar.

He sat down, a hideous figure. Blood covered
bis tawny face, and the fury of his rage had not
L'ft the features.

The strength which this man Iiad shown was
tremendous, yet bis quickness and agility even
ill tlie water had been commensurate with his
strengtli. JJrandon had once seen proofs of his
courage in the dead bodies of the Malay jjirates
which lay around him in tlie >abin of that iil-
fatcd Ciiinese ship ; but all tliat he had done
then was not to be compared to this.

They could not help asking him why he had
not at once made his escajie to the boat, instead
of staying to light 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 vou saw one now would vou attack him ?"

"Yes. Sahib."

Brandon expressed some apprehension, and
wislied iiim not to risk his life.

But Asgeelo explained that a shark could be
successfully encountered by a skillful swimmer.
Tlie shark is long, and has to move about in a
ciicle which is comparatively large ; he is also a
' oward, and a good swimmer can strike him if
lie only chooses. He again repeated triumph-
antly that he had killed more than a hundred to
avenge his son.

]ji his last venture Asgeelo had been no more
successful than before. IS'eedle Island was now
to the southwest, and Brandon thought that
their only chance was to try farther over toward
the west, where they liad not yet explored.

They rowed at once back to the point from

which they had set cmt, and then went on about
a hundred and fitYy yards to the west, troni
this ]ilacc, as ihey looked toward the islet, the
three rocks seemed so close together that they
ap])earcd blended, and the three sharp, needle-
like points a]>peared to issue from one common
base. This circumstance had an encouraging
etfect, for it seemed to the brothers us 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 ; j)artly because ho thought that Asgeelo
had worked long enough, and ought not to bo
exhausted on that first day, and partly on ac-
count 3f an intolerable impatience, and an eager-
ness to see for himself rather than intrust it to
others.

There was the horror of the shark, which
might have detened any other man. It was a
danger which he had never taken into account.
But the resube of his soul was stronger than
any fear, and he determined to face even this
danger. If he lost his life, he was indifferent.
Let it go ! Life was not so precious to him as
to some others. P'earless by nature, he was or-
dinarily ready to run risks; but now the thing
that drew him onward was so vast in its import-
ance that he was willing to ^..- unter peril of
any kind.

Frank was aware of the full extent of this new
danger, but he said nothing, nor did be attempt
in any way to dissuade bis brother. He himself,
had he been able, woidd have gone down in his
jilace ; but as he was not able, he did not suji-
posc that bis brother would hesitate.

The ap]jaiatus was in the boat. The pump-
ing-macliine was in the stem ; and this, with the
various signal-ro])es, was managed by Frank.
Asgeelo rowed. These arrangements had lung
since been made, and they had practiced in tins
way on the Hudson Kiver.

tiilcntly Brandon put on his diving armor.
The ropes and tubes were all carefully arranged.
The usual weight was attached to his belt, 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 gravel,
along which Brandon moved without difliculty.
The cumbrous annor of the diver, which on land .
is so heavy, beneath tlie water loses its excessive
weight, and by steadying the wearer assists him
to walk. The water was marvelously transparent,
as is usually tlie case in the southern seas, and
through the glass ])late in his helmet Brandon
coukl look forward to a greater distance than was
possible in the Hudson.

Overhead he could sec the bottom of the boat,
as it floated and moved on in the direction which
he wished : signals, whicii were <nmmuiiicated by
a ropewhicli lie held in his band, ^ildthemwhetli-
er to go fonvard or backward, to the right or to
the left, or to stop altogether. Practice had en-
abled him to command, and them to obey, with
ease.

Down in the depths to which he had descend-
ed the water was always still, and the storms that
affected the surface never ]ienetrated there. Bran-
don learned this fnmi the delicate shells and the
still more delicate forms of marine plants which

CORD AND CREESE.

lay at his feet, so fragile m their structure, and
so delicately poised in their position, that they
must have formed themselves in deep, dead still-
ness and absolute motionlessness of waters. The
very movement which wns caused by his passage
displaced them in all directions, and cast them
down every where in ruins. Here, in such depthe
as these, if the sounding lead is cast ii brings up
these fragile shells, and shows to tlie 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 difficidty.
The first troubles arising from breathing this con-
fined air had long since been surmounted. One
tube ran down from the boat, through which the
fresh air was pushed, and another tube ran up a
little distance, through which the air passed and
left it in myriad babbles that ascended to the sur-
face.

He wfdked on, and soon came to a place where
things changed their appearance. Hard sand
was here, and on every side there arose curious-
ly-shaped coral structures, which resembled more
than any thing else a leafless forest. These coral
tree-liks 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 en-
tangled among some of the loftier straggling
branches, and impede or retard his progiess. To
avoid this caused much delay.

Now, among the coral rocks, the vegetation of
the lower sea began to appear of more vivid col-
ors and of far gi'eater variety than any which he
had ever seen. Here were long plants which
clung to the coral like ivy, seeming to be a spe-
cies of marine parasite, and as it grew it throve
more luxuriantly. Here were some which threw
ont long arms, terminating in vast, broad, palm-
like leaves, the anns intertwined among the coral
branches and the leaves hanging downward. Here
were long streamers of fine, silk-like strings, that
were suspended from many a projecting branch,
and hillocks if spongy substance that looked like
moss. Here, too, were plants which tlirew forth
long, ribbon-like 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 term-
. inated by a rock which came from a southerly
direction, like a spur from the islands. It arose
to a height of about thirty feet overhefid, 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 ap-
peared through this marine "forest." On each
side the involuted corals flung their twisted arms
in more curious and intricate folds. The vege-
tation was denser, more luxuriant, and more
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 any thing 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 f.ot-

steps where no foot of man ha trodden before,
and using the resources of scit ace to violate the
hallowed secrecy of awful nature 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 under-
world after Cerberus,

Stupent nbl nndne segne torpescit fretnm,

and half expected to hear some voice from the
dweller in this place :
"Quo pergls audaz? Siste proserentem gradnm."

• There came to him only such dwellers as be-
longed to the place. He saw them as "^e moied
along. He saw them darting out from the hid-
den penetialia cround, moving swiftly across and
sometimes darting in shoals before him. They
began to appear in such vast numbers that Bran-
don thought of that monster which lay a mangled
heap upon the surface above, and fancied that per-
haps hi? 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 upward, and others moving swift-
ly ahead. One large one was there with a train
of followers, \' hich moved up and floate<' or a
moment directly in front of him, its large, stu ing
eyes seeming to view him in wonder, and solemn-
ly working its gills. But as Brandon came close
it gfive a sudden turn and darted ott" with all its
attendants.

At last, amidst 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 soui with an overmastering pas-
sion 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 outline of a ship, or what
might once have been a ship. The presentation
of his hope before him thus in what seemed like
a reality was too mucli. He stood still, and his
heart beat with fierce throbs.

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 : Jied 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 befora
him might have caused some cuirent which set
in there and prevented the growth of plnnts 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 ad-
vanced. Hope grew strong within him. He
thought of the rime on Coffin Island when, in like
manner, he had hesitated before a like object.

CORD AND CREESE.

Mig' t not this, like that, tnm out to be a ship ?
And now, by a strange revulsion, all his feelings
urged him on ; hope was strong, suspense unen-
durable. Whatever that object was, he must
know.

It might indeed be a rock. Hfe had passed
one shortly before, which had gradually declined
into the bottom of the sea ; this might be a con-
tinuation of the same, which after an interval
had arisen again from the bottom. It was long
and high at one end, and rounded forward at the
other. Such a shape was perfectly natural for a
rock. He tried to crush down ho^c, co as to be
prepared for disappointment. He tried to con-
vince himself that it must be a rock, and could
by no possibility be any thing else. Yet his ef-
forts 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 vegetation
ceased. The coral rocks continued no further.
Now all around the bottom of the sea was Sat,
and covered wiih 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 wa3 jjcrceptible, and that
was the object toward which he walked.

And now he felt within him such an uncon-
trollable impulse that even if he had wished he
could neither have paused nor gone back. To
go forward was only possible. It seemed to him
as though some external influence had penetrated
his body, and forced him to move. Again, as
once before, he recalled the last words of his fa-
ther, so well remembered :

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

It was Ralph Brandon who had said this.
Here in this object which lay before him, if it
were indeed the ship, he imagined the spirit of
another Ralph JJrandon present, awaiting him.

Suddenly a dark shadow passed over his head,
which forced him involuntarily to look up. In
spite of his excitement a shudder passed through
Wm. Far overhead, at the surface of the sea,
the boat was floating. But half-way up were
three dark objects moving slowly and lazily along.
They were sharks.

To him, in his loneliness and weakness, nothing
ever seemed so menacing as these three demons
of the deep as he stared up at them. Had they
seen him ? that was now his thought. He clutch-
ed his knife in a firmer hold, feeling all the while
how utterly helple?" he was, and shrinking away
into himself from the terror above. The mon-
sters moved leisurely about, at -ne time grazing
the tube, and sending down a vibration which
thrilled like an electric shock through him. For
a moment he thought that they were malignant-
ly tormenting him, and had done this on purpose
in order to send down to him a message of his
Cite.

He waited.

The time seemed endless. Yet at last the end
came. The sharks could not have seen him, for
they gradually moved away until they were out
of sight.

Brandon did not dare to advance for some

time. Yet now, since the spell of this presence
was removed, his horror left him, and his former
hope animated all his soul.

There lay that object before him. Could he
advance again after that warning? Dared he?
This nev realm into which he had ventured had
indeed those who were ready and able to inflict
a sudden and frightful vengeance upon the rcsh
intruder. He had passed pafely amon^ the hor-
rors of the coral forest ; but here, on this plateau,
could he hope to be so safe? Might noi the
slightest movement on his part create a disturb-
ance of water suflicient to awaken the 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
every where, above as well as below. An ad-
vance 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 mass gradually formed itself into a more
distinct outline. Th3 uncertain lines defined
into more certain shape, and the 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 disappoint-
ment, and made faint fancies as to the reason
why a rock should be formed here in this shape.
All the time he scouted those fancies and felt as-
sured that it was not a rock.

Nearer and nearer. Doubt no longer re-
mained. He stood close beside it. It was in-
deed a ship ! Its sides rose high over head. Its
lotty stem stood up like a tower, after tlie fashion
of a ship of the days of Queen Eliziibeth. The
masts had fallen and lay, encumbered with the
rigging, over the -side.

Brandon walked all around it, his heart beat-
ing 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
caned for the figure-head, 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 gi-een, 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 which had thus lain here through
centuries, saturated witli water that had ))er.e-
trated to its inmost fibre, still held together stur-
dily. Beneath the sea the water itself had acied
as a preser^•ative, and retarded or jirevented de-
cay. Brandon looked arouna as he stood there,
and the light that came from above, where the
surface of the sea was now much nearer than be-
fore, showed him all the extent of the ship.

The beams which supported the deck had lost
their stiflfness and sunk downward; the masts,
as before stated, had toppled over for the same
reason, yielding to their own weight, which, as

100

CORD AND CREESE.

THE MASTS HAD FALLEN AND LAY, ENCnMBERED WITH THE KlGtilNU, OVEK THE SIDE.

the vessel wns slightly on one side, had gradually
home them down ; the howsprit also had fallen.
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
prostrate on the deck. The large sVy-light which
once had stood there had also followed the same
fate.

Before going doivn Brandon had arranged a
signal to send to Frank in case he fouud the ship.
In his excitement lie had not yet given it. Be-
fore venturing farther he thought of this. But
he decided not to make the signal. The idea
came, and was rejected amidst a world of vary-
ing hopes and fears, lie thought that if he was

successful he himself would he the best messen-
ger of success ; and, if not, he would be the best
messenger of evil.

He advanced townid the cabin. Turning away
from the door he clambered upon the poop, and,
looking down, tr-ed to see what depth there miglit
be beneath. lie saw something which looked as
though it had once been a table. Slowly and
cautiously he let himself dowTi through tlie open-
ing, and his feet touched bottom. He moved
downward, and let Ids feet slide till they touched
the floor.

He was within the cabin.

The light here was almost equal to that witli-
out, for the sky-light was very wide. The lloor

CORD AND CREESE.

101

was sunken in like the deck of the ship. He
looked around to see where he might first 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, propped up
against the wall, was a skeleton in a sitting pos-
ture. Around it was a belt with a sworu at-
tached. The figure had partly twisted itseif
round, but its head aiid shoulders were so propped
up against the wall that it could not fall.

Brandon advanced, ^Ued with a thousand emo-
tions. One hand was lying down in front. He
lifted it. There was a, gold ring on the bony
finger. He 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 before him.

Here he had calmly taken his seat when the
»hip was settling slowly down into the embrace
of the waters. Here he had taken his seat, calm-
ly and sternly, awaiting his death — perh^B with
a, feeling of grim triumph that he could thus elude
his foes. This was the man, and this the hand,
which had %vritten the message that had drawn
the descendant here.

Such were the thoughts that passed through
Brandon's mind. He put the ring on his own
finger and turned away. His ancestor had sum-
moned'him hither, and here he was. Where was
the treasure that was promised ?

Brandon's impatience now rose to a fever.
Only one thought filled his mind. All around
the cabin were little rooms, into each of which he
looked. The doors had all fallen away. Yet he
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 any thing there, amidst the ruins of that in-
terior where guns and chains lay, perhaps all min-
gled together where they had fallen ? It would
need a longer time to find it than he had at first
supposed. Yet would he falter ? No! Rather
than give up he would pass years hero, till he had
dismembered the whole ship and strewn evry
particle of her piecemeal over the bottom of the
sea. Yet he had hoped to solve the whole mys-
tery at the first visit ; and now, since he saw no
sign of any thing 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 figure 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 that were calmer.

He reflected that perhaps some other feeling
than what he had at first imagined might have
inspired that grim old Englishman when he took
his seat there and chose to drown on that seat
rather than move away. Some other feeling,
and what feeling? Some feeling which must
have been the strongest in his heart. What was
that ? The one which had inspired the message,
the desire to secure still more that treasure for
which he had 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 caken chair stood there, which had once
perhaps been fastened to the floor. Brandon
thought that he would first examine that wall
Perhaps there might be some opening there.

He took the skeleton in his arms reverently,
and proceeded to lift it from the chair. He could
not. He looked more narrowly, and saw a chain
which had been fastened around it and bound it
to the chair.

What was the meaning of this? Had the
crew mutinied, bound the captain, and run?
Had the Spaniards seized the ship after all?
Had they recovered the spoil, and punished in
this way the plunderer of three galleons, by bind-
ing him here to the chair, scuttling the ship, and
sending him down to the bottom of the sea ?

The idea of the possibility of this made Bran-
don 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 stem, 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 no-
thing there. It had onoe perhaps been used as
part of the cabin. He came back disconsolately,
and stood on the very place where the chair had
been.

" Let me be calm, " he said to himself. "This
enterprise is hopeless. Yes, the i-paniardt. cap-
tured 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 gradu-
al!^ giving way beneath him. lie started^ but
before he could move or even think in what di-
rection to go the floor sank in, and he at once
sank with it downward.

Had it not been that the tube was of ample ex-
tent, and had been carefully managed so as to
guard against any abrupt descent among rocks at
the bottom of the sea, this sudden fall might have
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 de-
scendant, and thus silently indicate to him the
place where he must look ?

And now the fever of Brandon's conflicting
hope and fear grew more intense 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 very touch of
which sent a thrill sharp and sudden through
every fibre of his being.

They were 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 dowTi. 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

lOS

CORD AND CREESE.

not destroyed the color of those bant which he
ht:M up in the dim light tliat came through the
•watere. The dull yellow of those rough ingots
geemed to gleam with dazzling brightnecs l)efore
his bewildered ey«9, and filled his whole soul ".vith
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 — the wealth which migiit purchase
a kingdom — the treasure equal to an empire's
revenue — the gold and jewels in countless
store ?

A few moments of raspite were needed in or-
der to overcome the tremendous conflict of feel-
ing which raged within his breast. Then once
more he stooped down. His outstretched hand
felt over all this space which thus was piled up
with treasure.

It was about four feet square. The ingots lay
in the centre. Around the sides were boxes.
One of these he took out. It was made of thick
oaken plaiilf, and was about ten inches long and
eight wide. The inisty nails gave but little re-
sistance, and the iron bands which once bound
them peeled off at a touch. He opened the
box.

Inside was a casket.

He tore open the casket.

It was Jilled with jewels !

His work was ended. No more search, no
more fear. He bound the casket tightly to the
end of the signal-line, added to it a bar of gold,
and clambered to the deck.

He cast off the weight that was at his waist,
which he also fastened to the line, and lot it go.

Freed from the weight he rose buoyantly to
the top of the water.

The boat pulled rapidly toward him and took
him in. As he removed his helmet he saw
Frank's eyes fixed on his in mute inquiry. His
face was ashen, his lips bloodless.

Louis smiled.

"Heavens!" c.ied Frank, "can it be?"

" Pull up the signal-line and see for yourself,"
was the answer.

And, as Frank pulled, Louis uttered a cry
which made him look up.

Louis pointed to the sun. " Good God ! what
a time I must liave been down ! "

"Time!" said Frank. "Don't say time — it
was eternity ! "

CHAPTER XXIV.

Beatrice's journal.

Brandon Hali-
September 1, 1848. — Paolo Langhetti used to
say that it was useful to keep a diary ; not one
from day to day, for each day's events are gen-
erally trivial, and therefore not worthy of record ;
but rather a statement in full of more important
events in one's life, which may be turned to in
later years. I wish I had begun this sixteen
months ago, when I first came here. How full
would have been my melancholy record by this
time !
Where shall I begin?

Of course, with my arrival here, for that is the
time when we separated. I here is no need for
me to put down in writing the events that took
place when he was with me. Not a word tliat
he ever spoke, not a look that he ever gave, has
escaped my memorj'. This much I may. set
down here.

Alas ! ;he shadow of the African forest fell
deeply and darkly upon me. Am I stronger
than other women, or weaker? I know not.
Yet I can be calm while my heart is breaking.
Yes, I am at once stronger and weaker ; so weak
that my heart breaks, so strong that I can hide
it.

I will begin from the time of my arrival here.

I came knowing well who the lOan was and
wliat he was whom I had for my father. I
came v<it]i every word of that despairi.ig voyager
ringing in my ears — that cry from the drifting
Vishnu, where Despard laid down to die. How
is it that his very name thrills through me ? I
am nothing to him. I am one of the hateful
brood of murderers. A Thug was my father —
and my mother who? And who nm I, and
what ?

At least my soul is not his, though I am his
daughter. My soul is myself, and life on earth
can not last forever. Hereafter I may stand
where that man may never approach.

How can I ever forget the first sight which I
had of my father, who before I saw him had
become to me as abhorrent as a demon ! I came
up in the coach to the door of the Hall and looked
out. On the broad piazza there were two men ;
one was sitting, .be other standing.

The one Avho wa? standing was somewhat eld-
erly, with a broad, tat face, which expressed no-
thing in particular but vulgar good-nature. He
was dressed in black, and looked like a serious
butler, or perhaps still more like some of tlie
Dissenting ministers whom I have seen. He
stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at
me ynth a vacant smile.

The other man was younger, not o'l'er thirt}-.
He was thin, and looked pale from dissipation.
His face was covered with spots, his eyes were
gray, his eyelashes white. He was smoking a
very large pipe, and a tumbler of some kind of
drink stood on the stone pavement at his feet.
He stared at mo between the puffs of his pipe,
and neither moved nor spoke.

If I had not already tasted the bitterness
of despair I should have tasted it as I saw these
men. Something told me that they were my
father and brother. My very soul sickened at
the sight — the memory of Despard's words came
back — and if it had been possible to have felt
any tender natural affection for them, this recol-
lection would have destroyed it.

" I wish to see Mr. Potts," said I, coldly.

My father stared at me.

" I'm Mr. Potts," he answered.

" I am Beatrice," said I ; " I have just arrived
from China. "

By this time the driver had opened the door,
and I got out and walked up on the piazza.

"Johnnie," exclaimed my father, "what the
Jenl is the meaning of this ?"

"Gad, I don't know," returned John, with a
puff of smoke.

"Didn't you say she was drowned off the
African coast ?"

CORD AND CREESE.

lOS

" I saw 80 in the newspapers."

"Didn't you tell me about the /'a/con rescning
her from the pirates, and then getting wrecked
with all OK board ? '

'■ Yes, but then there was a girl that escaped."

" Oh hoi" said ray father, with a long whistle.
"I didn't know Miat.'

He turned und looked at me hastily, but in deep
perplexity.

"So you're the girl, are you ?" said ho at last.

*' I am your daughter," I answered.

I saw him look at John, who winked in return.

He walked up and down for a few minutes,
and at last stopped and looked at me again.
'"I'hat's all very well," said he at last, "but how
do I know that you're the party ? Have you any
proof of this?"

"No."

" You have nothing but /our own statement?"

"No."

" And you may be an impostor. Mind you —
I'm a magistrate — and you'd lietter be careful."

" Y'ou 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.

" Jol'.r.nie," said my father, " 111 have to leave
her to you. You arrange it."

John looked at me lazily, stiU smoking, and
for some time said r.othing.

"I suppose," said he at last, "j'ou've got to
put it through. Y'^ou began it, 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 differ-
ence any way. Nobody would take the trouble
to come to yoa with a sham story."

"That's a fact," si'id 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 any thing of the kind," returned
John, snappishly. " I only think that she's the
party you sent for."

"Oh, ^^■ell, 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 murdered man, and had ever
since lived with his murderer. I went in with-
out a word, prepared for the woret, and expect-
ing to see some evil-faced woman, fit companion
for the pair outside.

A servant was passing along. "Where is
Mrs. Compion ?" I asked.

"Somewhere or other, I suppose," growled
the man, and went on.

I stood quietly. Had I not been prepared for
some such thing as this I might 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, dur-
ing which time no notice was taken of me. I
heard my father and John walk down the piazza
steps and go away. They had evidently forgot-
ten all about me. At last a man came toward
the door who did not look like a servant. He
was dressed in black. He was a slender, pale,
shambling man, v.-ith thin, light hair, and a fur-

tive eye and a weary face. He did not look like
one who would insult me, so I asked him where
I could find Mrs. Compton.

He started as I siK)ke 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 souie time without speak-
ing a word. I began to think that he was imbe-
cile.

"So you are Mr. Potts's daughter," said he
at last, in a thin, weak voice. "I — I didn't
know that you had come — 1 — I knew that he
was expecting you — but heard you were lost at
sea — Mrs. Compton— yes — oli 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 he was sur-
prised at my appearance. Perhaps it was be-
cause he found me so unliko my father. He
walked toward the great stairs, from time to
time turning his head to look at me, and ascend-
ed them. I followed, and af er going to the
third story we came to a room.

"That's the place," said he.

He then turned, without replying to iny
thanks, and left me. I knocked at the door.
After some delay it was opened, and I went in.
A thin, pale woman was there. Her hair was
perfectly white. Her face was marked by the
traces of great grief and suffering, yet overs])read
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 com-
parison with that of those whom they love. My
heart warmed toward her at the first glance; I
saw tliat this place riould not be altogether cor-
rupt since she was here.

"I am Mr. Potts's 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 obje "t of mortal fear.

" Y''ou look alarmed," said I, in surprise ; "and
why ? Am I then so frightful ?"

She seized my hand and covered it with kisses.
This new outburst surprised me as much as her
former fear. I did 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 sympathy
of her tone. It was full of the gentlest love.
" How did you come here?" I asked.

She started and turned on me her former lock
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." Ipressed
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 ? Y'ou
sptak as if you knew all."

" I know much," said I, "and I have suffered
much."

" Ah, my dearest ! you are too young and too

CORD AND CREESE.

t>eautiful to snfTer. " An agony of Borrow came
ov«r her fnce. Then I haw upon it an cxpresKion
which I have often marked since, a strange Htrug-
gling desire to say something, wliieh that excess-
ive and ever-present terror of here made her in-
capable of uttering. 8ome secret thouglit was
in her whole face, but her faltering tongue was
paralyzed and could not d'<-ulge it.

She turned away with a deep high. I looked
at her with much interest. Mie was not the wo-
man I expected to Hnd. Her face and voice
won my heart. She was certainly one to he tnist-
ed. liut still there was this mysiery about her.

]^othing could exceed her kindness and tender-
ness. She arranged my room, t-ho did every
thing that could be done to give it un air of com-
fort. It was a very luxuriously furnished cham-
ber. All the house was lordly in its style and
arrangements. That first night 1 slept the sleep
of the weary,

T' e next day I spent in my room, occupied
witli my o\vn sad thoughts. At about three in
the afternoon I saw him come up the avenue.
My heart throbbed violently. My eyes were
riveted upon that well-known face, how loved !
how dear ! In vain I tried to conjecture the rea-
son why he should come. Was it to strike the
first blow in his just, his implacable vengeance ?
I longed that I might receive that blow. Any
thing that came from him would be sweet.

He staid a long time and then left. What
passed I can not conjecture. But it had evident-
ly been an agreeable visit to my father, for I
heard him laughing uproariously on the piazza
about something not long after he had gone.

I have not seen him since.

For several weeks I scarcely moved from my
room. I ate with Mrs. Compton. Her reserve
was impenetrable. It was with pi ifixl fear and
trembling that she touched upon any thing con-
nected with the affairs of the house or the family.
I saw it and spared her. Poor thing, she has al-
ways been too timid far such a life as this.

At the end of a month I began to think that I
could live here in a state of obscurity without
being molested. Strange that a daughters feel-
ings toward a father and brother should be those
of horror, and that her desire with reference to
them should be merely to keep out of their sight.
I had no occupation, and needed none, for I had
my thoughts and my memories. These memo-
ries were bitter, yet sweet. I took the sweet,
and tried to solace myself with them.' The days
are gone forever ; no longer does the sea spread
\vide ; no longer can I hear his voice ; I can
hold him in my arms no more ; yet I can re-
member —

"Das siisseste Gliick fiir die trauemde Brnst,
Nach der schonen Liebe verschwiindener Lust,
Sind der Liebe Schmerzeu und Klagen."

I think I had lived tliis sort of life for three
months without seeing either my father or
brother.

At the end of that time my father sent for me.
He informed me that he intended to give a grand
entertainment to the county families, and wanted
me to do the honors. He had ordered dress-
makers for me ; he wished me to wear some jew-
els which he had in the house, and informed me
that it would be the grandest thing of the kind
that had ever taken place. Fire-works were go-
ing to be let off; the grounds were to be illumin-

ated, and nothing that money could eifect would
l>e spared to render it tlie most splendid festival
that could be imagined,

I did as he said. The drc^s-makers came, and
I allowed them to array me us they clioj^e. My
father informed me that he aouUI not give me
the jewels till the time i't:ine, hinting a tear that
I might steal them.

At last the evening arrived. Invitations had
l)een sent every rthere. It was expected that
the house would be crowded. My father even
ventured to make a personal request that I would
adorn myself as well as possible. I did the best
I could, and went to the drawing-room to receive
the expected crowds.

The hour came and passed, but no one ap-
peared. My father looked a little troubled, but
ho and John waited in the drawing-room. Serv-
ants were sent down to see if any one was ap-
proaching. An hour passed. My father looked
deeply enraged. Two hours passed. Still no
one came. Three hours passed. I waited calm-
ly, but my father and John, who had all the
time been drinking freely, became furious. It
was now midnight, and all hope had left them.
They had been treated with scorn by the whole
county.

The senants were laughing at my father's dis-
grace. The proud array in the different rooms
was all a mockery. The elaborate iire-works
could not be used.

My father turned liis eyes, inflamed by anger
and strong drink, toward me.

" She's a d d bad investment," I heard

him say.

" I told you so,"' said John, who did not deign
to look at me ; "but you were detennined. '

They then sat drinking in silence for some
lime.

"Sold;"' said my father, suddenly, with an
oath.

John made no reply.

"I thought the county would take to her.
She's one of their own sort," my father muttered.

" If it weren't for you they might," said John ;
" but they ain't overfond of her dear father."'

" Hut I sent out the invites in her name."

" Ko go anyhow."

" I thought I'd get in with them all right away,
hobnob with lords and baronets, and maybe get
knighted on the spot."

John gave a long scream of laughter.

"You old fool!" he cried; ".^o that's what
you're up to, is it ? Sir John — ha, ha, ha ! You'll
never be made Sir John by parties, I"m afraid."

" Oh, don't you be too sure. I'm not put
down. Ill try again," he continued, after a
pause. " Next year TU do it. Why, she'll mar-
ry a lord, and then won't I be a lord's father-in-
law ! What do you say to that ?"

"When did you get these notions in your
blessed head ?" asked .John.

"Oh, I've had them — It's not so much for
myself, Johnnie — but for you. For if I'm a lord
you'll be a lord too. "

"Lord Potts. Ha, ha, ha!"

"No," said my father, with some appearance
of vexation, "not that; we'll take our title the
way all the lords do, from the estates. I'll be
Lord Brandon, and when I die you'll get the ti-
tle."

"And that's your little game. Well, you've

CORD AND CREESE.

played inch good little games in your life that I've
got nothing to say, except—' Go it I' "

" She's the one that'll give me a lift."

"Well, she ought to be able to do Homething."

By this time I concluded tiiat I had dc,.<e my
duty and prepared to retire. I did not wish to
o' erhear any of their conversation. As I walked
oat of the room I still heard their remarks :

" Blest if she don't look as if she thought 1' 2t-
jelf the Queen," said John.

" It's the diamonds, Johnnie."

"No it ain't, it's the girl herself. -I don't like
the way she has of looking at me and through m^. "

" Why, that's the way with that kind. It s
what the lords hke."

" I don't like it, then, and I tell you «Ae'a rjot
to he took down .'"

This was the last I heard. Yet one thing was
evident to me from their conversation. My fa-
ther had some wild plan of effecting an entrance
into society through me. He thought that after
he was once recognized he might get sufficient
influence to gain a title and found a family. I
also might marry a lord. He thus dreamed of
being Lord Brandon, and one of u,"- great nobles
of the land.

Amidst my sadness I almost smiled at this
vain dream ; but yet John's words affected me
strongly — " You've played 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 knowledge of his purpose
made ray 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 excite that painful fear to which
she was subject. Once or twice I forgot myself
and began speaking to her about her strange po-
sition here. She stopped ma with her look of
alaiTn.

"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 can not help it," she murmured, "you are
so dear to me. "

She sighed and was silent. The mystery about
har 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
Vishnnf She I impossible. Y'et 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 asso-
ciate her secret with the tragedy of Despard.
Xhe was in his family long. His wife died. She
must have been mth her at the time.

Tiie 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
diifting ship ! And yet, merciful God ! who am
I that I should sympathize with him ? My name
is infamy, my blood is pollution.

I spoke to her once in a general way about the
past. Had she ever been out of England? I
asked.

" Yes," she answeied, dieamilv.
U

"^V^lere?"

She looked at ne and said not a word.

* t anothei time I si>oke of China, and hinted
that perhaps shi; too knew something about the
I<^t. The moment that I said this I repented.
The poor creature was shaken from head to foot
with a sudden convulsion of fear. This convulsion
was so terril>le that it seemed to mo as though
another woidd be death. I tried to soothe her,
but she looked fearfully at me for a long time
after.

At another time I asked her directly whether
her husband was alive. She looked at me with
deep sadness and shook her head. I do not
know what position she holds here. She is not
housekeeper; none of the servants pay any at-
tention to her whatever. There is an impudent
head servant who manages the rest. I noticed
that the man who showed me to her room when
I first came treats her diflerently ftom the rest.
Once or twice I saw them talkiag m one of the
halls. There was deep respect in his manner.
What he does I have not yet found out. Hi has
always shown great respect to me, though why
I can not imagine. He has the same timidity
of manner which marks Mrs. Compton. His •
name is Philips.

I once asked Mrs. Compton who Philips was,
and what he did. She answered quickly 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.

"Yes, a considerable time," she said — but 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 froiii which the wide sea was \isible — 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 woidd lie, the
same sea from which he so often saved me, over
which we sailed 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 unmolested. 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 imagination would carry me far away to
the South, to that island on the African shore,
where he once reclined in my arms, l)etore tl:e
day when I learned that my touch was pollution
to him — to that island where I after^vard knelt
by him as he lay senseless, slowly coming back
to life, when if I might but touch the hem of his
garment 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, out dared not. He lay
unconscious. He never knew the anguish of my
love.

Then I was less despairing. The air aroand
was filled with the echo of his voice ; x cjuld
shut my eyes, and bring him before me. His
face was always visibla to my soul.

One day the idea came into my head to ex-
tend my ramble into the country oiUs-Ue, in or-
der to get a wider view I went to the gat*.

106

CORD AND CREESE,

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's 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 I'otts is bound to
keep you under his thumb."

I turned away. 1 did not care much. I felt
more surprise than any thing else to think that
he n-ould take the trouble to watch me. Wheth-
er 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 tlie piazza. A huge bull-dog
which he used to lake with him every where was
lying at his feet. Just before I reached the stejjs
a Malay ser\ant came out of the house. ,

He was about the same age as John. I knew
him to be a Malay when 1 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 glisten-
ing white teeth. He never looked at me when
I met him, but always at the ground, without
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.

"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 fr.Uen 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, 111 set the dog on you," cried
John, starting to his feet in a rage.

Still Vijal remained motionless.

"Nero!" cried John, furiously, pointing to
Vijal, " seize him, iiir. "

The dog sprang up and at once leaped upon
Vijal. Vijal warded oft" 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
himself upon him, fixed his own teeth in the
dog's throat.

John burst into a torrent of the most frightful

curses. He ordered V^ijal 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

tenficiourly in the throat of the dog.

John sprang forward and kicked him with
frightful violence. He leaped on him and stamp-
ed on him. At lasr, Vijal drew a knife from his
girdle and made a dash at John. This fright-
ened John, who fell back cursing. Vijal then
raised his head.

The dog lay motionless. He was dead. Vi-

jal sat down, his arm running blood, with the
knife in his hand, still ghiring at John.

During this frightful scene I stood rooted to
the spot in horror. At last the sight of Vijal's
suffering roused me. I rushed for>vard, and,
tearing the scarf from my neck, knelt down and
reached out my hand to stanch the blood.

Vijal drew back. " Poor Vijal," said I, "let
me stop this blood. I can dress wounds. How
you surt'erl"

He looked at me in bewilderment. Surprise
at hearing * kind word in this house of horror
seemed to deprive hixu of speech. Passively ho
let me take his arm, and 1 bound it up as well
as I could.

All this time John 8tiK)d cursing, first me,
and then Vijal- I snid not a word, and Vijal
did not seem to hear him, but sat regarding mo
with his fiery black eyes. When at last I had
finished, he rose and still stood staring at me.
I walked into the house.

Jolin 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 1 11 be d — d if you don't get
totik down precious soon !"

1 told Mrs. Compton of what had happened.
As u.-^uiil, 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 wo-dd be
better than living."

"Oh dear!" groaned the poor old thing,
and sank sobbing in a chair. I did what i
could to soothe her, but to little purpose. Si.e
af.erward told me that Vijal had escaped further
punishment 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 [jermiited to leave
the house. I considered it the result of John's
threat, and yielded without a word.

After this I had to seek distraction from my
thoughts within the house. Now there came
over me a great longing for music. Once, when
in the drawing-room on that famous evening of
the aborti\ e fete, which was the only time I ever
was there, I had noticed a magnificent grand
piano of most costly workmanship. The though ;
of this came to my mind, and an unconquerable
desire to try it arose. So I went down and be-
gan to i>lay.

It was a little out of tune, but the tone was
mar\'e!ously 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 back. Imagination, stimulated by the
swelling harmonies, transported me far away
from this prison-house and its hateful associa-
tions 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 the emotions of my heart passed down
to the quivering chords and trembled into lite
and sound.

I do not know how long I had 1)een 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 handd

CORD AND CREESE.

hanging listless, and his whole air that of one
who had lost all senses save that of hearing.
But as I turned and stopfjed, the spell that
bound him wu^ broken. He sighed and looked
at me earnestly.

"Can you sing?"

" Would you like me to do bo ?"

"Yes," he said, in a faint, imploring voice.

I began a low song — a strain associated with
that same childhood of which I had just 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 gorgeous flowers every where, 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 nut changed his attitude. But as I turned
he uttered au exclamation and tore out his
watch.

"Oh, Heavens! — two hotu^!" he exclaimed.
"•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 foot8tei)s
behind me. I turned and saw my father, i
rose and looked at him with an effort to be re-
spectful. It was lost on him, however. He dia
not glance at me.

"I came up to say to you," said he, after a
little hesitation, "that I. can't stand this infer-
nal squall and clatter any longer. So in futont
you just shut up." . .

108

CORD AND CREESE.

He turned and left me. I cloted the piano
forever, and went to my room.

The year ended, and a new year t>egan. Janu-
ary iMUsed away. My melancholy l)egan to af-
fect my health. I scarcely ever slept at night,
and to eat was difficult. I ho\>cu that I was going
to die. Al&i ! death will not come wiicn one culls.

One day I wiu in my room lying on the couch
when Mrs. Compton came. On entering she
looked terrified about something. She ipoke in
a very agitated voice: "They want you down
stairs."

"Who?"

•' Mr. Potts and John."

"Well," said I, and I prepared to get read v.
" When do they want me ?"

" Now," said Mrs. Compton, who by this time
was crying.

asked,

" Why are vou so agitated ?" I
" I am afraid for vou."

*' Why so? Can any thing be worse ?"

" Ah, my dearest! you don't know — you don't
know."

I said nothing more, but went down. On en-
tering the room I saw my father and John seated
at a table wirh brandy before them. A third
man wns there He was a thick -set man of
about the sanu height of my fat'i^r, but m e
mnsciUar, with a strong, square jaw, thick necK,
\ow brow, and stem face. IVy father di ' not
show any actual ferocity in his face whatever he
felt ; but this man's face expressed relentless cru-
elty.

On entering the room I walked up a little dis-
tance and stood looking at them.

"There, Clark ; what do you thuik of that?"
said my father.

The name, Clark, at once made known to me
who this man was — that old associate of my fa-
ther — his assistant on board the Vishnu. Yet
the name did not add one whit to the abhor-
rence wl'.ich I felt — my father was woree even
than he.

The man Clark looked at mc scrutinizingly
for some time.

"So that's the gal," said he, at last.

"That's the gal," said my father.

Clark waved his hand at me. " Turn round
sideways," said he.

I looked at him quietly without moving. He
repeated the order, but I took no notice of it.

" D— n her!" said he. " Is she deaf?"

"Not a bit of it," said John; "but she's
plucky. She'd just as soon you'd kill her as not.
There isn't any way of moving her. "

"Turn round !" cried my father, angrily.

I turned as he said. " You see," said he, with
a laugh, "she's been piously brought up; she
honors her father."

At this Clark burst into a loud laugh.

Some conversation followed about me as I
stood there. Clark then ordered me to turn
round and face him. I took no notice ; but on
my father's ordering it, I ol)eyed as before. This
appeared to amuse them all verj- greatly, just as
the tricks of an intelligeat poodle might have
done. Clark gave me ninny commands on pur-
pose to see my refusid, and have my father's or-
der which followed obeyed.

" Well," said he, at last, leaning back in his
chair, " she is a showy piece of furaituie. Your
idea isn't a bad one either. "

He rose fr<^m his chair and came toward me.
I stood looking at him with a gaze so fixed and
intense that it seemed as if all my being were
centred in my eyes.

He came up and reached out to take hold of
my arm. I stepped liack. He looked up an*
giily. But, for some reason, the moment that
he caught sight of my face, on expression of fear
passed over his.

" Heave '•s!" be groaned; "look at that
face!"

I saw my father look at me. The same lii>r>
ror passed over his countenance. An awful
thought came to me. As these men turned their
faces awny from me in fear I felt my strength
gr^ing. 1 turned and nished from the room. I
do not remember any thing more.

It was early in February when this occurred.
Until the beginning of August I lay senseless.
For the first four months I hovered faintly be-
tween life and death.

Why did they not let me die ? Why did I not
die? Alas! had I died I might now have been
beyond this sorrow : I have waked to meet it all
again.

Mrs. Compton says she found mo on the floor
of my 0'*n room, and that I was in a ki.id of
stujMjr. 1 had no fever or delirium. A doctor
came, who said it was a congestion of the jrain.
Thoughts like mine might well destroy the braia
forever.

For a month I have been slowly recovering.
I can now walk about the room. I ki)ow no-
thing of what is going on in the house, and wish
to know nothing. Mrs. Compton is as devoted
as ever.

I have got thus far, and will stop here. I have
been several days >vriting this. I must stop till
I am stronger.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE BYZANTINE BYMNI8T8.

More than a year had passed since that visit
^to Thornton Grange which has already been men-
tioned. Despard had not forgotten or neglected
the melancholy case of the Brandon family. He
had written in all directions, and had gone on
ft-equent visits.

On his return from one of these he went to the
Grange. Mrs. 7. homton was sitting in the draw-
ing-room, looking pensively 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 melan-
choly face suddenly lighted up with the most
radiant joy. Mre. Thornton advanced to meet
him, and he took her hand in both of his.

"I ought to s!iy, welcome back again," ^aid
she, with forced livehness, "but you may have
been in Holby a week for all I know. When
did you come back ? Confess now that you have
been secluding yourself in your study instead of
paying your resj)ect3 in the proper quarter."

Despard smiled. "I arrived home at eleven
this morning. It is now three p.m. by my watch.
>ha\\ I say how impatiently I have waited till
three o'clock should come ?"

"oil no! don't say any thing of the sort. I

CORD AND CREESE.

100

can fihafphtf *n tlikt yon woiiKl sny. But tell me
where yuu hti\o lieeii un thii« last vUit '/"

" Wan luring like an evil itpirit,, ttecking rest
and finding none."

*' Have you \teen to I^)ndt)n again ?"

"Where have 1 not been?"

By this time they iiiul seated themselves.
"My Lutjoiiniey," said I)cs|)urd, "like my for-
mer ones, was, of course, iihout the Unindon af-
fiiir. You know that I havu hud long conversa-
tions with Mr. Thonitoii alnxit it, and he insi.sts
tliat nothing whatever can he done, liut you
know, also, that I could not sit down id!y and
ci'.lmly under this conviction. I have felt most
keenly the presence of intolenihle wrong. Every
day 1 have felt as if I had shared in the infamy
of tliose who neglected that dying man. That
was the reason why I wrote to Australia to see
if the Brandon who was drowned was really the
one I supposed. I heard, you know, that he was
the same man, and there is no doubt about that.
Then you know, as 1 told you, that I went around
among ditt'erent lawyers to see if any thing could
bfl done. Nearly all asserted tliat no redress was
possible. 'J'hat is what Mr. Thornton said,
'i'here was one who said that if I were lich
ei Qusjh I miglit begin a prosecution, but as I am
i:;)t ili;li that did me no gwKl. That man woulJ
have been glad, no doubt, to have midertaken
such a task. '

"What is there in law that so hardens the
henrt'/" said Mrs. Thornton, after a pause.
" Why should it kill all sentiment, and destroy
so utterly all the more spiritual qualities ?"

"I don't think that the law does this neces-
sarily. It depends after all on the man him-
self. 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 de-
votedly as in other countries. Is it inconceiva-
ble that an Italian lawyer should love music V"

" I don't know. Law is abhoiTent to me. It
r^ems to be a profession that kills the finer sen-
timents."

' ' Why so, more than medicine ? The fact is,
wiiero ordinary men are concerned any scien-
tific profession renders Art distasteful. \t least
this is so in England. After all, most depends
on th ^ man himself, and one who is bom with a
keen sensibility to the charms of art will carry it
through life, whatever his profession may he. "

" But suppose the man himself has neitlier
taste, nor sensibility, nor finy appreciation of the
beautiful, nor any sympathy whatever with those
who love such things, what then ?"

Mrs. Thornton spoke earnestly as she asked
this.

"Well," said Despard, "that question an-
swers itself. As a man is bom, 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 last journey," said Despard, "was about
the Brandon case. I went to London first to see
if something could not be done. I had been
there before on the same errand, but without suc-
cess. I was eoually 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 B* mdoii. I
went there, and made iiuiuiiies. Withe it ex-
ceptiim the |)eople sympatliiiced with the unfor-
tunate family, and looked with detestation up >n
the man who had supplanted them.

" I heard that a young lady went there lait
year who was reputed to lie I ;s daughter. Ev-
ery one said that she was extraordinarily Iteauti
ful, and l(X>ked like a luly. !She stop|>ed at the
inn under the care «f a gentlen.in who a'com-
panied her, and wcul to the Ilall. !?he has nev-
er come out of it since.

"The hindlon told me that the gentleman
was a pale, sad-hxiking innn, with dark hair and
beard. He seemed very devoted to the young
lady, and parted with her in meh icholy silance.
His account of this young lady moved nie very
strangely. He was not at all a sentimental roan,
but a burly John Bull, which made his story all
the more touch', ig. It is strange, I must say, that
one like her should go into that place and never
1)6 seen again. I do not know what to think of
it, nor did any of those with whom I spoke in
the village."

"Do you suj'pose that she really W2nt there
and never car"? back ?"

"That is what they say."

"Then they must beUeve that she is kept
there."

"Yes, so they do."

" Why do they not take some steps in the
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 play-
ing and singing."

" That does not sound like imprisonment."

"The caged bird sings."

"Then you think she is a prisoner?"

" I think it odd that she has never come out,
not even to go to church,"

"It is odd."

"This man Potts excited sufficient interest in
my mind to lead me to make many inquiries. I
found, throughout the county, that every body
utterly despised him. They all thought that
poor Italph Brandon had been almast mad, and
by his madness had rtinied his family. E\ery
body believed that Potts had somehow deceived
him, hat no one could tell how. They could
not bring any direct prooi' against him.

" But I found out in Brandon the sad particu-
lars of the final fate of the poor wife and her
unfortrnatL 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 anived, according to the viUagers.
I did net 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 himself, who alone in that poor con
munity 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 we hear again
from Paolo there may be some new information
upon which we can act." ,

"And you can go back to your Byzantine
poets."

" Yes, if you will assist me."

CORD AND CREESE.

" Yon know I nhnll only be too happy."

"And 1 shall be eienmlly gm eful. Von 8ee,
as I told you l)efoie, there is a tield of labor here
for the lover of music whii h i.i l.ke a new world.
I will give you the grandest niuHieal com))osition8
that you have ever seen. I will let you have the
old hymns of the saints who lived when C'on-
stantinople was the only civilized spot in Eurof)e,
uiid the Christians theie 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; 1 will translate them for you. The
Greek hymns are all in rhythmical prose, like
the Te Jjeum and the Gloria. A literal trans-
lation can l)e sung as well as the originals. Y'ou
will then enter into the mind and spirit of the
ancient Eastern Church before the days of the
8i'lii>m.

'"Yes," continued Despard, with an enthu-
si:)sm which he did not care to conceid, "we
will go together at this sweet task, and we will
fing the Kud' iKarjnjv t'iftfpav, which holds the
same place in the Greek ("hurch that the Te
iJeum does in ours. We will chant together the
Golden Canon of St. John Damascene — the
Queen of Canons, the grandest song of ' Christ
ii risen' that mortals ever composed. Your
heart and mine will beat together with one feel-
ing at the sublime choral strain. We will sing
ihe 'Hymn of Victory.' We will go together
over the songs of pjt. Cosmas, ^t. Iheophanes,
and St. The<jdore; .st. Gregorj*, St. Anatobus,
and St. Andrew of Crete shall inspire us ; and
tiie thoughts that have kindled the hearts of
martyrs at the stake shall exalt our souls to
heaven. But I have more than this. I have
some compositions of my own ; poor ones, in-
deed, yet an ettoit in the right way. They are
a collection of tlio^e hymns of tlie Primitive
Church which are contained in the New Testa-
ment. I have tried tp set them to mu^ic. They
are: 'Worthy is the Lamb,' 'Unto 11 im that
loved U3,' 'Great and marvelous are thy works,'
and the 'Trisagion.' Yes, we will go together
at this lofty and heavenly work, and I shall be
able to gain a new interpretation from your sym-
pathy. '

Despard sjK)ke with a vehement enthusiasm
that kindled his eyes with unusual lustre and
spread a glow over his pale face. He looked like
some devotee under a sudden inspiration. Mrs.
Thornton caught all his enthusiasm ; her eyes
brightened, and her face also flushed with ex-
citement.

" Whenever you are ready to lead me into that
new world of music," said she, "I am ready to
follow."

"Are you willing to begin next Monday ? '

"Yes. All my time is my own. "

" Then I will come for you."

"Then I will be waiting for yon. By-the-
wav, are you engaged for to-night ?"

"No; why?"

"There is going to be a fete champetre. It
is a ridiculous thing for the Holby people to do ;
biic 1 have to go to play the patroness. Mr.
i'ljomton does not want to go. Would you
sacrifice yourself to my necessities, and allow me
your escort ?"

" Would a thirsty man be willing to accept a

cooling draught ?"' said Despard, eagerly. ' ' Yo*
open heaven before me, and ask me if I will en-
ter."

His voice trembled, and he paused.

" You never forget yourself," said Mrs. Thorn-
ton, with slight agitation, looking nway aa she
spoke.

" 1 will be back at any hour you say."

" You will do no such thing. Since you are
here you must remain and dine, and then go with
me. Do you suppose 1 would trust you ? Why,
if I let you go, you might keep me waiting a
whole hour."

" Well, if your will is not law to me what is ?
Speak, and your servant obeys. To stay will only
add to my hbi)])iness."

"Then let me make you happy by forcing you
to stay."

Despard's face showed his feelings, and to
judge by its expression his hmguage had not
been extravagant.

The afieriioi.n passed quietly. Dinner was
served up. Thornton crnie in, and gi'eeted Des-
pard with his usual abstraction, leaving his wife
to do the agreeable. After dinner, as usual, he
prepared for a nap. and l-'esjiurd and Mre. Thorn-
ton started for the fOte.

It was to be in some gardens at the other end
of Holby, along the shoie. The townspeople
had recently formed a jiaik there, and this was
one of the preliminaries to its formal inaugura-
tion. The trees weie hung with innumerable
lamps of varied ccjlors. There were bands of
music, and triumphal aiches, and gay festoons,
and wreaths of flowere, and every thing that is
usual at such a time.

On arriving, Desjjard assisted Mrs. Thornton
from the carriage and offered his arm. She took
it, but her hand rested so lightly on it that its
touch was scarce perceptible. They walked
around through the illuminated paths. Great
crowds of jieople were there. All looked with
respectful pleasure at Mrs. Thornton and the
Kector.

"You ought to be glad that you have come,*
said she. "St ^ how these poor people feel it:
We are not persons of very gi-eat consequence,
yet our presence is marked and enjoyed."

"All places are alike to me," answered Des-
pard, "when I am with you. Still, there are
circumstances about this which will make it foi-
ever memorable to me. "

" Look at those lights, "exclaimed Mrs. Thorn-
ton, suddenly ; " what varied colors I"

"Let us walk into that grotto," said Despard,
turning toward a cool, dark place which lay be-
fore them.

Here, at the end of the grotto, was a tree, at
the foot of which was a seat. They sat down
and staid for hours. In the distance the lights
twinkled and music arose, 'i hey said little, but
listened to the confused mnrnnir which in the
pauses of the music came uj> from afar.

Then they rose and walked back. Entering
the principal jjath a great crowd streamed o;i
which they had to face.

Despard sighed. " You and I," said he, stoop-
ing low and speaking in a sad voice, " are cou-
])elied to go against the tide."

'■ hall we turn back and go with it?"

'• i> e can not."

" i>o you wish to turn ij^iuc? '

CORD AND CREESE.

Ill

"We can not. We mnst walk against the
tide, and against the rush of men. If we turn
aside there is nothing but darlcness. "

They walked on in silence till they reached the
gate.

"ITie carriage has not come," said Mrs.
Thornton.

*' Do you prefer riding?"
"No.'^

" It is not far. Will you walk ?"

"With pleasure."

They walked on slowly. About half-way they
met the carriage. Mrs. Thornton ordered it
back, saying that she would walk the rest of
the way.

They walked on slowly, saying so little that
at last Mrs. Thornton began to sjjeak about the
music which they had proposed to undertake.
Despj"''"': "nthusiasm seemed to have left him.
His repi. .ere vague and general. On reach-
ing the gi.te he stood still for a moment under
the trees and half turned toward her. "You
don't say any thing about the music ?" said she.

"That's because I am so stupid. I have lost
my head. I am not capable of a single coherent
idea. "

"You are thinking of something else all the
time."

" My brain is in a whirl. Yes, I am thinking
of something else."

"Of what?"

" I'm afraid to say."

Mrs. Thornton was silent. They entered the
gate and walked up the avenue, slowly and in si-
lence. Despard made one or two efforts to stop,
and then continued. At last they reached the
door. The lights were streaming brightly fi'om
the window. Despard 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. 8he felt
the throbbing of his heart in his hand as it
clasped hers. She said nothing. Nor did Des-
jmrd seem able to say any thing. 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 amidst the gloom. She waited till the sound
of his footsteps had died away, and then went
into the house.

On tlie following morning Despard was walk-
ing along when he met her suddenly at a comer
of the street. He stopped with a radiant face,
and, shaking hands with her, for a moment was
unable to speak.

"This ift too much happiness," he said at last.
" It is like a ray of light to a poor captive when
you burst r.pon 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 accompany you
to protect you."

"Well, why not?"

" On the whole, 1 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 fSte. "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 expect
me to come alone ?"

" I did not hope for any thing else."

"Why, of course, you must call for me. If
you do not I won't go."

Despard's eyes brightened.

"Oh, then, siiice you allow me so sweet a
privilege, I will go and accompany you."

" If you fail me I will stay at home," said she,
laughingly.

He did not fail her, but at the appointed time
Went up to the Grange. Some strangers were
there, and Mrs. Thornton gave him a look of
deep disappointment. The strangers were evi-
dently 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 Me. Despard, — How does it hap-
pen 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 pow-
ers ; they are not contemptible ; they are not
uncultivated ; they are simply, and wholly, and
irretrievably commonplace. That much I deem
it mj' duty to inform you.

"These wretched people, who have spoiled a
day's pleasure, dropped upon me as suddenly as
though they had come from the skies. They
leave on Thursday morning. 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,

'' T T* '*

On Thursday Despard called, and Mrs. Thorn-
ton was able to accompany him. ITie 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
carefully and legibly written out from the precious
old Greek scores which he loved so dearly and
pri-'ed m highly.

They began with the canon for Easter-day of
St. John Damascene, who, according to Des-
pard, was the best of the Eastern hymnists. Mrs.
Thornton's voice was rich and full. As she came
to the ava(TT(i(Te<i>c tjfiipa — Resurrection Day — it
took up a tone of indescribable exultation, blend-
ing with the triumph peal of the organ. Despard
added his own voice — a deep, strong, full-toned
basso — and their blended strains bore aloft th«
snblimest of utterances, "Christ is arisen !"

Then followed a more mournful chant, full of
sadness and profound melancholy, the rikivToiov

113

CORD AND CRKKSE.

AND THEIR BLENDED STRAINS BORE ALOFT THE SCBLIMEST OF UTTERANCES,

IS arisen!'"'

CHHIST

ufTiraafiov — the Last Kiss — the hymn of the dead,
by the same poet.

Then followed a sublimer strain, the hymn of
St. Theodore on the Judgment — rijv I'liupnv Ti)v
t^piKTTiv — where all the hon-ors of the day of
doom are set forth. The chant Avas commensu-
rate with the dread splendors of the theme. The
voices of the two singers blended in perfect con-
cord. The sounds which were thus wTOught out
bore themselves through the vaulted aisles, return-
ing again to their own ears, imparting to their own
hearts something of the awe with which imagina-
tion 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 compositions of
his own, made after the manner of the Eastern
chants, which he insisted were the primitive songs
of the eaiiy Church. The words were those frag-
ments of hymns which are imbedded in the text
of the New Testament. He chose first the song
of the angels, which was first sung by "a great
voice out of heaven" — ISov, ») aicTivrj rov Btov — Be-
hold, the tabernacle of God is with men !

The chant was a maivelons one. It spoke of
sonow past, of grief stayed, of misery at an end
forever, of tears dried, and a time when "thera
shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor cry-
ing." There was a gentle murmur in the flow
of that solemn, soothing strain which waa.lik:;

CORD AND CREESE.

113

the sighing of the evening wind among the hoary
forest trees ; it soothed and comfuned ; it brought
hope, and holy calm, and sweet peace.

As Despard rose from the organ Mrs. Thorn-
ton looked at him with moistened eyes.

"I do not know whether your song brings
calm or unrest," said she, sadly, " but after sing-
ing it I would wish to die."

" It is not the music, it is the words," answer-
ed Despard, " which bring before us a time when
there shall be no sorrow or sighing."

" May Buch a time ever be ?" murmured she.

"That," he replied, "it is ours to aim after.
There is such a world. In that 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 expressioi , 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 f" he asked, in a low, scarce
audible voice. Her head dropped. She gave
a convulsive sigh. He continued: "We used
to sing it in the old days, the sweet, never-for-
gotten days now past forever. We sang it here.
We stood hand in hand."

His voice faltered.

" Sing," he said, after a time.

"I can not."

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. Despard always went
up to the Grange and accompanied her to the
church. Yet he scarcely ever went at any other
time. A stronger connection and a deeper fa-
miliarity arose bet\veen them, which yet was ac-
companied by a profound reverence on Despard's
part, that never diminished, but as the familiar-
ity increased only grew more tender and more de-
voted.

There were many things about their music
which 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 soul — a
lofty, spiritual intercourse, Avhere they seemed
to blend, even as their voices blended, in a purer
realm, free from the trouble of earth.

Amidst 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 it was on the subject of music, and the
rest of a different character.

The next time that they met she gave him a
note in response.

" Dear Mr. Despard — Whv am I not a ser-

aph, endowed with musical powers beyond mor-
tal reach ? You tell me many things, and never
seem to imagine tliat they are all beyond me.
You never seem to think that I am hopelessly
commonplace. You are kind in doing what you
do, but where is the good where one is so stupid
as I am ?

"1 suppose you have given up visiting the
Grange forever. I don't call your coming to
take me to the church visits. I suppose I may
as well give you up. It is as difficult to get you
here as if you were the Grand Lama of Thibet.

"Amidst 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, T. T."

To this Despard replied in a note which he
gave her at their next meeting, calling her " Dear
Seraph," and signing him self "Grand Lama."
After this they always call 2d each other by these
names. Grand Lama was an odd name, but it
became tiie sweetest of sounds to Despard since
it was uttered by her lips — the sweetest, the most
musical, and the tenderest. As to himself he
knew not what to call this dear companion of his
youth, but the name .'•eraph came into use, and
grew to be associated with her, until at last he
never called her any thing else.

Yet after this he used to go to the Grange
more frequently. He could not stay away. His
steps wandered there irresistibly. An uncon-
trollable impulse forced him there. She was al-
ways alone awaiting him, generally with a sweet
confusion 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 thoughts filled with her radi-
ant 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 long-
ing and j'earning after her. Had not all his life
been filled by that one bright 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 treas-
ured up in his memory and heart with an avarico
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. Amidst
the bustle of committee meetings he was con-
scious of her image — a sweet face smiling on
him, a tender voice saying "Lama." Was there
ever s<i 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 intense in all its feelings, and
dwelt with concentrated passion upon this one
object of its idolatrj*. He had never had any
other object but this one.

A happy boyhood passed in the society of this

114

CORD AND CREESE.

■weet playmate, then a yonng 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 ana
only companion whom he knew or cared for —
this was the sole legacy of his early life. Leav-
ing Ilolby he had left her, but had never forgot-
ten her. He had carried with him the tender
memory of this bright being, and cherished his
undying fondness, not knowing what that fond-
ness meant. He had returned to find her mar-
ried, and severed from him forever, at least in
this life. When he found that he had lost her
he began to understand hov,r dear she was. All
lite stood before him aimless, pointless, and
meaninsless without her. He came back, but
the old intercourse Vould not be renewed ; she
could not be his, and he could onl^ 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 sb Peering and an-
guish ; 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 —
tliese 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 than usual, going up to
see her in order to get 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, in-
tense 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 talk of his
Byzantine poet?, and the chants of the Eastern
Church, without being in danger of reawakening
painful memories. The piano stood close bj',
and always afforded a convenient mode of dis-
tracting 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 forget-
ful 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 pos-
sible that she might feel as he did. The thought
brought joy, but it also brought fear. For, if
the struggle against this feehng needed all the
strength of his nature, what must it cost her?
If she had such a stniggle as he, how could she
endure 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 wish-
ed only to adore her, and was contert that she
should receive, and permit, and accept his adora-
tion, herself unmoved — a passionless divinity.

In their intercourse it was strange how fre-
quently there were long pauses of perfect silence,
during which neither spoke a word. Some-
times each sat looking at the floor ; sometimes

they looked at one another, as though they could
read each 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 win-
dow looking out upon the lawn, but seeing no-
thing in that abstracted gaze. Despard stood
fiicing 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. l?he
looked up into his facs with large, eloquent
eyes, sad beyond all description, yet speaking
things which thriUed 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 — as though that
alone could save him from some abyss of despair
into which he was falling. His lips rioved. In
vain. No audible sound broke that intense still-
ness 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!"

It was a strange tone, a tone of longing unut-
terable, 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
concentrated energy, and was borne to her ears in
the sound of that one word. She looked up with
the same glance as before.

"Little playmate," said he, in a tone of infi-
nite sweetness, " have you ever forgotten 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 convuK
sion of his soul all his self-command should give
way utterly.

At length 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 t" he asked,
mournfully.

"I dare not," said she, hastily. "No, any
thing but that. I will sing Rossini's Cujus Ani-
mam."

Then followed those words which tell in lofty
strains of a broken heart :

Cnjns animam geraentem
CoDtristatam et flebentem
Fertransivit gladias !

CORD AND CREESE.

lis

CHAPTER XXVII,

JOCTRNAL OF PAOLO LANOHETTI.

When Mrs. Thornton saw Despard next she
rfiowed him a short note which she had just re-
ceived from her brother, accompanying liis jour-
nal. Nearly two years had elapsed since she had
last heard from him.

His journal was written as before at long in-
ter\iils, and was as follows :

Hdlifax, April 10, 1847. — I exist here, but
nothing more. Nothing is offered by this small
colonial town that can afford interesc. Life goes
on monotonously. The officers and their families
are what they are every where. They are amia-
ble and pleasant, and try to get the best out of
life. The townspeople are hospitable, nd there
is much refinement among them.

But I live for the most part in a cottage out-
side of the town, where I can be secluded and
fiee from obsenation. Near my house is the
Northwest Arm. I cross it in a boat, and am
at once in a savage wilderness. From the sum-
mit of a hill, .,., -'-priately 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 Des-
pard. The gigantic boms 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
v>ooden 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 transfomed gradually
till summer. I must keep up my fires till June,
they say.

During the winter I have gutrded my treasure
well. I took a house on purpose to have a home
for her. But her melancholy 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 relafive who was in ill health. But the
wnter has paaeed, and she remains precisely the
same. Can siie live on long in this mood ?

At length I have decided to try a change for
her. The Holy Sisterhood of Mercy have a con-
vent here, where she may find a higher and purer
atmosphere than any where else. There I have
placed her. I have told nothing of her story.
They think she is in grief for the death of friends.
They have received her with that warm sympathy
und holy love which it is the aim of their life to
cherish.

O mater alma Christi carlssima,

Te uunc flagitant devota corda et era,

Ora pro nobis !

August 5, 1847. — The summer goes on pleas-
antly. A bracing climate, a cool sea-breeze, fish-
ing and hunting in the forests, sailing in the har-
bor — these are the amusements which cue 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
j)lacid. She is in the midst 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 long*
with so deep a longing. There is sympathy in
all those hearts with one another. She 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 Rhytnm of Ber-
nard 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 sunk down almost senseless :

bona patria ! lamina sobria te gpeci'.lantur,
Ad taa nonina eobrla lamina collacrimautnr :
^t taa mentio pectoris unctis, cnra doloris,
Concipieutibos aettiera mentibna ignis amoris.

November 17. — ^I'he winter must soon be here
again.

My treasure is well guarded by the Holy Sis-
terhood. They revere her and look upon her as
a saint. They tell me wonderful things al)out
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 Catho-
lic, 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 surpasses 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 smile 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 heav-
en had smiled on me. Do I not believe that she
is one?

They all say thnt she is unchanged. Her sad-
ness 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. 1 asked her if she was
happier here than at my house. She said '" No."
I did not know whether to feel rejoiced or sor-
rowful. Then she told me something which has
filled me with wonder ever since.

She asked me if I had been making inquiries
about her family, for I had said that I would.
I told her that 1 had. She asked what I had
heard. I hesitated for a moment, and at last,
seeing that she was superior to any sorrow of be-
reavement, I told her all about the sad fate of her
brother Louis, which your old friend Courtenay
Despard had conununicated to his uncle here.
She listened without emotion, and at last, look-
ing earnestly at me, said,

''He is not dead!"

1 stood amazed. I had seen the very news-
papers 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 traveled to every place
where he coidd hear any thing of the Brandons?
Had he not written at the very outset wherevef
he could hope to hear any thing? I did not
know what to say.

For Louis Brandon is known to have fallen

CORD AND CREESE.

orerboard from the sliip Java during a tremcn-
ioiiH monscM))!, HevernI hundred miles away from
ftny land. How could he ]>(msibly have escaped
ieath ? The Captain, whom Courtenay Despnra
found out and questioned, said he threw over a
hen-coop and a pail. '1 heso could not save him.
Despard n!;io inquired for months from every ship
that arrived from those parts, but could learn
nothing. The next ship tlmt came fi'om New
South Wales foundered off the coast of Africa.
Three passengers escajwd to tSierra Leone, and
tlience to England. 1 )espard lennied their names,
but they were not Brandon. The infornuvtion
which one of them, named Wheeler, gave to the
siiip-owncrs afforded no hope of his having been
found by this ship, even if it had been possible.
It was simply im])ossible, however, for the Fulron
did not pass the spot where poor Brandon fell
overboard till months had elapsed.

All these things I knew, and they came to my
mind. 8he did not notice my emotion, but after
a pause she looked at mo again with the same
earnestness, and said,

" My brother Frank is not dead."

This sur{)rised me as much as the other.

"Are you sure?" said 1, rcvereutlv.

"lam.'

"How did you learn this? All who have
hiquired say that both of your brothers are
dead."

'■''They told me, " said she, ' ' many times. T7tei/
Baid 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 mysterious em-
phasis. 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 v'liether this intelligence, which she be-
lieved she had received, had been gained in her
trance, or whether she thought that she had re-
cent inteniews with those on high. 1 went to
see her again, and asked this. IShe told me that
once since her recover)- 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 can not be ex-
pressed by any human language. She will not
be able to exjjress tliem 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
ix like it except music. If our music could be
developed to an indefinite 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 language, and might be in-
telligible to an immortal.

This is the idea which she imparted to me, and
I have thought of it ever since.

Auffust 23. — Great things have happened.

W^hen I last wrote I had gained the idea of
transforming music into a language. 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 riia
to utter forth to her sounds which she miglit hear.
I had already seen enough of her spiritual tone
to know what sympathies and emotions might
l)est be acted U|)on. I saw her several 'imes, so
as to stimulate myself to a higher and purer ex-
ercise of whatever genius I may have.

I was encouraged by the thought that from my
earliest ciiildiiood, as I began to learn to speak
so I began to learn to sing. As I learned to
i-eud printed tyiHj so 1 read printed music. Tiie
tiioughts of conipoiiers in music thus became as
legil le to me as those of composers in words.
So all my life my knowledge has widened, and
with that knowledge my love has increa.sed. Tliis
has been my one aim in life — my joy and my de-
light. Thus it came to pass that at last, when
alone with my Cremona, 1 could utter all my own
thoughts, and pour forth every feeling that was
in my heart. This was a language with me. I
spoke it, yet there was no one who could under-
stand it fully. ( )nly 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. 1 could sjieak this langunge
to her, and she could hear and comprehend.
This one was my Hice.

Now that she had told me this I grasped at the
thought. Never before had the idea entered my
mind of trjing upon her the effect of my music.
I had given it u]) for her sake while she was w ith
me, not liking 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 langunge of the
highest i)laces and had heard the New Song. She
stood far above me, and if she could not under-
stand my music it would be from the same reason
that a grown man can not compreliend the words
of a lisping, stammering child. She had tlmt
language in its fullness. I had it only in its cru-
dest rudiments.

Now Bice learned my words and followed me.
She knew my utterance. I was the master — she
the disciple. But here was one who could lead
rae. I would be the follower and djpciple. From
her I could learn more than in all my life I could
ever discover by my own unassisted efforts.

It was mine, therefore, to struggle to overcome
the lis])ing, stammering utterance of my purely
earthly music ; to gain from her some knowledge
of the mood of that holier, heavenly exjuession,
so that at last I might be able in some degree to
speak to this exile the langur.ge of the home
which she loved ; that we, by holding commune
in this language, migiit rise together to a higher
spiritual realm, and that she in her solitude might
receive 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 purified my
heart by fasting and p.ayer. I 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 and fit utterance for those
thoughts. I looked upon my oflice 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

CORD AND CREESE.

117

this grosser material frame, and sharpen and
quicken every nerve, and Htimulate every fibre
of the brain. So alone could I most nearly ap-
proach to the commune of spirits. Thus had
those saints and prophets of old done when they
had entered upon the search after this commun-
ion, 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
foi the prophet to utter forth his iusi>iration by
no other way than that of music.

So I fasted and prayed. 1 too^ .ip the words

from the holy priesthood, anu I said, as they

say:

Munda cor menin, ac labia men, Omnipotcns Dcus,
qui labia Isaiae prophetae, calculo munilasti ignito !

For so Isaiah had been exalted till he heard
the Lingaage of heaven, the music of the sera-
phim.

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.

Ah, my Cremona! if a material instrument
were ever able to utter forth sounds to which im-
mortals might listen, thou, best gift of my father,
thou canst utter them !

" You are pale," said she, for she was always
kindly and aiiectionate as a mother with n child,
as a guardian angel with his ward. "You are
pale. Y'ou always forget yourself for others,and
now you suffer anxiety for me. Do not suffer,
I have my consolations.'*

I di4 iiot make any reply, but took my Cre-
mona, and sought to lift up all my soul to a level
with hers, to that lofty realm wiiere her s])irit
ever wandered, that so I might not be comfort-
less. She started at tlie fust tone that I struck
forth, and looked at me with her large, earnest
eyes. I foimd my own gaze fixed on hers, rapt
and entranced. Now there came at last the in-
spiration so longed for, so sought for. It came
from where her very soul looked forth into mine,
out of the glory of her lustrous, 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 mo-
ment.

Now I felt the spirit of prophecy, I felt the
afflatus of the inspired sibyl or seer, and the voice
of music which for a lifetime 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 I
luid caught the tone, and from her. I knew its
meaning and exulted, as the poet or the mup'cian
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 lightning flash, an ex-
pression 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 un-
exjiectedly hears the sound of his own language.

So his eyes light np, and his heart heats faster,
and even amidst 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 el(M|ucnt gaze of '
hers as her soul looked into mine l)ecarae all ap-
parent to me. " Speak on," it said ; " sound on,
oh strains of the lan'^uage of ray home ! Unheard
so long, now heard at last. "

I knew that I was comprehended. Now all
the feelings of the melancholy months came rush-
ing 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, involuntarily, as words como forth
iu a dream.

" Oh thou," I said, in that language which my
o^vn 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 shah attain.

"Oh thou," I said, "whose si)irit moves
among the immortals, I am mortal yet immortal!
My soul seeks commune with them. I veam
after that communion. Life here on earth is not
more dear to me than to thee. Ilelj) me to rise
above it. Thou hast been on high, show me too
the way.

"Oh thou," I said, "who hast seen things
ineffable, imjiart to me thy confidence. Let me
know thy secret. Receive me as the companion
of thy soul. Shut not tiiyself up in solitude.
Listen, I can speak thy language.

"Attend," I cried, "for it is not for nothing
that the Divine One has sent thee back. Live
not these mortal days in loneliness and in useless-
ness. Regard thy fellow-mortak and seek to
bless them. Thou hast learned the mystery of
the highest. Let me be thine interpreter. All
that thou hast learned I will communicate to
man.

"Rise up," I cried, "to happiness and to la-
bor. Behold! I give thee a puiTJOse 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. GathtfP
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 Cre-
mona. It was all in my heart. It came forth.
It was apprehended by her. I saw it, I knew if,
and I exulted. Iler eyes dilated more widely
— my words were not unworthy of her hearif.g.
I then was able to tell something which could
rouse her from her stHi)or. Oh, Music! Divine
Music ! What y)ower thou hast over the soul !

There came over her face an expression whiih
I never saw before ; one of peace inettable — the
peace that passeth understanding. Ah me! I
seemed to draw her to myself. For she rose and
walked toward me. And a great calm came
over my own soul. My Cremona spoke of peace
— soft, sweet, and deep ; the profound peace that
dwelleth in the soul which has its hop*i in frui-
tion. 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 son-ow. Her face was so

118

COr<D AND CREESE.

I DID NOT tIAKE ANY REPLY, BUT TOOK MY CREMONA. AXI>
MY SOUL TO A LEVEL WITH HEKS."

S(»L<jHT to LIFT LI' ALL

close to mine that my strength left me. My
arms dropped dowTiward. The music was over.

iShe held out her hand to me. 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 — dut}-. Yes, we will laho. 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 holding her
liand still, I looked up at her in grateful adoration.

November 28. — For the last three months I
■Jiave lived in heaven. She is changed. Music
Has reconciled her to exile. She has foimd 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 Income 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 revelation for
which I longed, and the divine thoughts witl".
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.

CORD AND CREESE,

I have resorted to ^^ne of those classical themes
which, thoagh as old ab "ivilization, are yet ever
new, because they are'trutu.

My Opera is on the theme of i -omrthens. It
refers to Prometheus Delivered. x«.'v idea is de-
rived from hei. I'lcmctheus repr^ nts Divine
Lore — since he ii the god who suffp. unendur-
able agonies through his love fc nan. Zeus
represents the old austere god c ' th ; sects and
creed? — tlie gloomy God of Veu^eance — the
stem — tiic inexorable — the cruel.

Love endures through the iiges, but at last
triumphs. The chief a^'int in his triumph is
Athene. She represents Wisdom, which, by its
Ufe and increase, at last dethrones 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 per-
sonified 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 adequate-
ly 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, wi'h it
all, she alone could express them. I would wan-
der over the earth to find her. But perhaps
she is in a luxurious home, whevo her associates
would not listen to such a propc .d.

Patience ! perhaps Bice may at last bring her
marvelous voice to my aid.

December I'j. — Every day our communion 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 enthusi-
asm. We hold intercourse by means of music.
We stand upon a higher plane than that of com-
mon men. She has raised me there, and has
made me to be a partaker in her thoughts.

Now I begin to understand something of the
radiant world to which she was once for a brief
time borne. I know her lost joys ; I share in
her longings. In me, as in her, there is a deep,
unquenchable thirst after those glories that are
present there. All here seems poor and mean.
No material pleasure can for a moment allure.

I live in a frenzy. My soul is on fire. Mu-
sic is my sole thought and utterance. Colonel
Despara thinks that I am mad. My friends here
pity me. I smile within myself when I think of
jiity being given by them to me. Kindly souls !
could they but have one faint idea of the un-
speakable joys to which I have attained !

My Cremona is my voice. It expresses all
things for me. Ah, sweet companion of my
souls flight! my Guide, my Guardian Angel,
iny Inspirer ! had ever before two mortals while
on earth a lot like ours ? Who else besides 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 w'e 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 meas-
ure sufficient to enable me to breathe forth to
human ears tones which have been caught from
immortal voices. She has given me ideas. I
have i.iade them audible and intelligible to men.

I have had one {Performance of my work, or
rather our work, for it is all hers. Hers are the
thoughts, mine is only the expression.

1 sought out a place of solitude in which I
might perform undisturbed and without inter-
ruption the theme-which I have tried to unfold.

Opposite my house is a wild, rocky shore cov-
ered with the primeval woods. Here in one
pi -ce there rises a barren rock, perfectly bare of
verdure, which is called Mount Misery. I chose
this ]ilace as the spot where I might give my re-
hearsal.

She was the audience — I was the orchestra —
we two were alone.

Mount Misery is one barren rock without a
blade of grass on all its dark iron-like surface.
Around it is a vast accumulation of granite boul-
ders and vast rocky ledges. The trees are stunt-
ed, the very ferns can scarcely find a place to
grow.

It was night. There was not a cloud in the
sky. The moon shone with man-elous 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 laka, which seemed
like a sheet of silver in the moon's rays. Farther
on lay the ocean, stretching in its boundless ex-
tent away to the horizon. There lay islands and
sand-banks with light-houses. There, under the
moon, lay a bioad i)ath of golden light — molt-
en gpld — 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 " Faust" for my score. But the mu-
sic has an expression of its own, and the words
are feeble ; and the only comfort is, that these
words will be lost in the triumph strain of the
tones that accomjmny them.

She was with me, exulting where I was ex-
ultant, sad where I was sorrowful ; still with her
air of Guide and Teacher. She is my Egeria.
She is my Inspiring Muse. I invoke her when
I sing.

But my song carried her away. Her own
thoughts expressed by my utterance were re-
turned to her, and she yielded herself up al*o-
gether to their power.

Ah me ! there is one language common to aU
on earth, and to all in heaven, and that is music.

I exulted then on that bare, blasted rock. I

triumphed. She joined me in it all. We ex-

i ulted together.. We triumphed. We mourned,

I we rejoiced, we despaired, we hoped, we sung

alleluiiis in our hearts. The very winds were

j still. The very moon seemed to stay her course.

All nature was hushed.

i She stood before me, white, slender, aerial,

I like a spirit from on high, as pure, as holy, aa

stainless. Her soul and mine were blended.

We moved to one common impulse. We obeyed

i one common motive.

120

CORD AND CKEE8E.

What is this? Is it lore? Yet; but not ai

men call love. Oura is heavenij love, ardent,
but yet spiritual ; intense, hut without nassion ;
a burning love like that of the chenihiin ; all-
consoming, all-engrossing, and enduring tor ev-
ermore.

Have I ever told her my admirat-.on? Yes;
but not in words. I have told her m) in music,
in every tone, in every strain. ' ".e knows that
I am hers. She is my divinity, my muse, my
better genius — the nobler half cf my soul.

I have laid all my spirit at her feet, as one
prostrates iiimself before a divinity. She has ac-
cepted that adoration and has been pleased.

We are blended. We are one, but not aft-
er an earthly fashion, for ne\er yet have I even
touched her hand in love. It is our sinrits, our
real selves — not our merely visible selves — that
love ; yet that love is so intense that I would die
for e ermore if my death could make her life
more sweet.

She has heard all this from my Cremona.

Here, as we stood under the moon, I thought
her a spirit with a mortal lover. 1 recognised
the full meaning of the sublime legend of Numa
and Egerio. The mortal as;>ires in purity of
heart, and the immortal comes down nnd assists
and responds to his aspinitiuns.

Our souls vibrated in unison to the expression
of heavenly thoughts. We threw oui-selves into
the rapture of the hour. We trembled, we
thrilled, till at last frail mortal nature could
scarcely endure the intensity t)f that |)erfect joy.

So we came to the end. The end is n chorus
of angels. They sing the divinest of songs that
is written in Holy Revelation. 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
nnd went home, musing on that " tearless eter-
nity" 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 racus.
I will end with this :

"Alleluia!"

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THIS SirST END.

The note which ncconijmnied Langhetti's jour-
nal was as follows :

" Halifax, Derember IS, 1843.

"Terescola MIA noLcissiMA, — I send ycu
my journal, sorella carissima. I have been si-
lent for a long time. Forgive me. I have been
sad and in affliction. But affliction has turned
to joy, and I have learned things unknown be-
fore.

" Teresina min, I am coming back to En-
gland 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 any one unknown to her. Yet, sweetest
sorellina, perhaps I may be able to tell her that

I hare a dearaat sister, whose heart U Icne,
whose nature is noble, and who could treat her
with tendercst care.

" I intend to otter my Opera to the woild at
London. 1 will be my own impresario. Yet
I want one thing, and that is a Voice. Oh for
a Voice like that of llice ! But it is idle to .. ish
for her.

"Never have I heard any voice like hers, my
Teresina. God grant that I may find her!

" K\|)cct 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 jour-
nal in the mean time.

" So he is coming back ?" said he.

"Yes."

" And with this man'elous girl?"

"Yes."

" She seems to me like a spirit"

"And to me."

" Paolo's own nature is so lofty and so Bpirtt-
ual that one like her is intelligible to him. Hnj)-
py 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 bi other is a spirit im-
prisoned, who chafes at 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 hajipy
and blessed beyond all men. Between him anil
her there is no insuperable barrier, no gulf as
deep as death."

Despnrd spoke impetuously, but suddenly
checked himself.

"I received," snid he, "by the last mail ti
letter fmm 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 hiin
to tell me without reserve all that he knew about
my father's death. I told him i)lainly that there
was a inysteiT about it which I was determined
to solve. I reproached him for keeping it secret
from me, nnd reminded him that I was now a
mature man, and that he had no right nor any
reason to maintain any further secrecy. I in-
sisted 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 playmate, also. He has told me alL
Did you know this before ?"

' ' Yes, Lama, " said Mrs. Thornton, wth a look
of sorrowful s\-mpathy.

"You knew all mv father's fate?"

"Yes. Lama."

"And you kept it secret?''

"Yes, Lama, How could I bear to tell yon
and give j'ou pain ?"

Her vove trembled as she spoke, Despard
looked at her wixh an indescribable expression,

"One thought," said he, slowly, "and one
feelioj engrosses all my nature, and even thi(

COKD AND CUKESE.

ISl

newH that I have heard csn not drivi it awajr.
liven the tliuughi of iiiv father'* fate, lo dark and
ko niyi«tori(iii4, cuu nut weaken the thoughts thiit
have nil my life b«>en Kupreme. I)u yuu knuw,
httle phiyinate, what thuM! thoughtit are?"

She wiu »ilent. I>cii|mrd'H hun 1 wandered
over the keys. They aUnys sfioku in low tonen,
whiih wii'j almost whisjMjrs, tones width were
inaudible except lo each other. And Mrs.Tiiom-
ton had to bow iier head close to his to hear what
he caid.

" I must go," said Despard, rfter n pause,
"and visit Brandon again. I do not know wliat
I can do, l)ut my fnther's dentil rcciuircs further
rxHminalion. 'ibis man I'ottK 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, ns he took
her hand in his — "would it not be better for you,
little playmate, if I went away from you forever ?"

SUo gave him one long look of sud leproach.
Then tears filled her eyes.

'* This can not go on forever," she murmured.
" It must como to that ut last !"

CHAPTER XXIX.
Beatrice's jocrnal.

Ortober 30, 1 84H. — My recovery has been slow,
ond I am still far from well. 1 .stay in my room
uimost altogether. Why should 1 do other^vise ?
Day succeeds 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, thougii I can not hear its
voice. Oh, how I should rejoice if I could get
down by its margin and touch its waters! l)h
iiow I should rejoice if those waters would flow
over me forever !

November 1.5. — Why I should write any thing
now I do not know. This uneventful life otters
liOiliing to record. Mrs. t'ompton is as timid,
as gentle, and as affeclionate as ever. Philips,
poor, timorous, kindly soul, sends me flowers by
her. Poor wretch, how Uid he ever get here?
llov,- did Mrs. Conipton ?

December 28. — In spite of my quiet habits and
constant seclusion I feel that I um under some
Ji'.rveillance, not from Mrs. Compton, but from
otiiers. I have been out twice during the la.st
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
knon that I was of sufKdent 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
father ? What could she have been like ? Sud-
denly I turned to Mrs. Compton, and said :

"Did you ever see my mother?"

What there could have been in my question I
can not tell, but she trembled 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 myself felt a cold rhill run through mr
frame. That awful thoiujht which I had once
before known flashed across my mind.

"Oh!" cried Mm. Compton, suddenly, "oh,
don't look at me so ; don't liM)k at me so!"

"I don't understand }'>u," said I, slowly.

She liiu her face in her hands and began to
weep. I tried to soothe her, and with some snc-
ccKS, for after a time she regained her com|H)surr.
Nothing more was said. Put since then one
thought, with a lung scries of attendant thoughts,
has weighetl down my mind. Whomnlf What
nm I f What (im 1 duiiiij lifref What do thrtu
peofilfi irarit with met Why do they tjuard iMt

1 can write no more.

January 14, 184'J. — The days drag on. No-
thing new has ha|i|>ei:ed. I am tormented by
strange thoughts. I xcc this plainly that there
are times when I inspire fear in this house. Why
is this?

^ ince that day, many, many months ago, when
they all hioked at me in horror, I have seen none
of them. No^N .Mrs. Compton has exhibited the
same fear. There is a lestraint over her. ^'es,
she too fonvs mc. Yet sh& is kind; ai<d poor
Philips never forgets to send me flowers.

I could smile at the idea of any one fearing
mc, 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 un-
controllable desire to esca]'e. I live here in lux-
ury, but the meanest hf)use outside W(juld be far
preferable. Every hour here is a sorrow, every
day a misery. Oh, me I if I could but escape I

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 lesso;is which Paolo taught mc
have been useful in more w ays than one. I know
that I ac least need not be dependent.

He used to say to me that if I clio.«e to go on
the stage and sing, 1 could do something better
than gain a living or make n fortune, lie said
I could interpret the ideas of the Great Masters,
and make myself a blessing to the world.

Why need I stay here when I have a voice
which 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 I
Ah me — will he ever hear my voice again ? Did
he know how sweet his voice was to me? Oh
me! its tones ring in my ears and in my heart
I night and day.

I March a. — 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 can not be watching 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 deliver-
ance to the captive !

Farewell now, my journal ; I hope never to
see you again ! Yet I will secrete yuu in this
chamber, for if I am compelled to return I may
be glad to seek you again.

March C. — Not yet '. Not yet !

Alas! and since yesterday what things have
happened! Last night I was to make my at-
tempt. They dined at eight, and I waited for

IS-J

CORD AND CHEE8R.

'oil!" CKmU MRS. COMPTON,' SUDDENLY, "oH, DONT LOOK AX MK SO',

AT ME so!"

DON r LOOK

them to retire. I waited long. They were lon-
ger 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.

"Alas, dear child, what can you do? Trust
in God. He can save you."

"He alone can save me," 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 —

n.-nths of suffering end anguish in body and
mind. The remembrance of my Inst visit there
came over me as I entered. Yet 1 did not trem-
ble or falter. I crossed the threshold and enter-
ed the room, and stood before them in silence.

I saw the three men who had been there be-
fore. He and his son, and the man Clark.
They had all been drinking. Their voices were
loud and their laughter boisterous as I approacii-
ed. 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, John-.
nic?"

" ^he gets enough to eat, any how," answered
John.

CORD AND CREESE.

Its

" Rhe't on« of them kind," Mid the man Clark,
*'thnt ditn't fHttcn up. Hut then, .lohnnie, you
needn't tulk — you haven't much fat vountelf, lad."

" Hard work," Miid .John, wliereu|M)n the
other*, thinking it an excellent joke, buimt into
hoane laui^hter. Thii« put them into great giMxl-
bumor with thenitelveit, and they liegan to turn
their attention to mo again. Not a word was
■aid for some lime.

"Can you dance?" said he, at but, tipeaking
to me abruptly.

" Yei4," I answered.

"Ah! 1 thought HO. I paid enough for your
educatiiin, any Imw. It would he hard if you
hadn't learned any thing elM3 except »4uaiUng
and hanging on the piano."

1 Miid noth'ng.

" Why do y<m utare so, d — n you?" bo cried,
looking Mavagelv at me.

I looked at the Hoor.

'•("oino now," said he. "I sent for yon to
see if you can dance. Dance I"

I stootl Htiil. " Dance!" Iio rei)eated with an
oath. "Do you hear?"

" I can not," said I.

" Perhaps you want a partner," continued he,
with a sneer. "Here, Johnnie, go and help
her."

"I'd rather not," snid John.

"Ciurk, you try it — you were always gay,"
and he gave a hoarse laugli.

"Yes, CLirk," 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 wa.s not afraid. For I
thought in that ho.ur of who these men were, and
what they were. M^- life was in their hands,
but I held life cheap. I rose above the fear of
the moment, and felt myself their suiierior.

Chirk came up to me and stopped. I did not
move.

"Curse herl " said he. "I'd as soon dance
with a ghost. She looks like one, any how."

lie lau'^hed boisterously.

" He's afraid. He's getting superstitious !" he
cried. " What do you think of that, Johnnie ?"

" Well," drawled John, " it's the first time 1
ever heard of Clark being afraid of any thing."

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 .'houted,
starting up from his chair. "Don't let h luily
you. you fool!"

Clark stc- '^'^d toward me and laid one heavy
hand on min. ihile he attempted to pa'^^i the
other round m_) n. ,t. At the horror of his pol-
lutinf .chaJlm, iture scftmed transfonned. I
startei. There me something like a frenzy

over me. l '"'• iw nor cared what I said.

Yet 1 spoke slow n , d it was not like passion.
All that 1 had read in at manuscript was in my
heait, the very spirit of the murdered Despard
seemed to inspire me.

"Touch me not," I said. "Trouble me not.
I am near enough to Death already. And you,"
I cried, stretching out iny hand to him, " Thug !
never again will I obey one command of yours.
Kill mp if you cl'.cobe, tndsend me after Colonel
Despard."

Thexc wordH uremed to blast and wither them.
Clark lihrank back. //<* ga\ e a groan, and clutc'b'>
ed the arm of bin cliair. John looked in fear from
one to the other, and utammered with an ottth :

" She knows all ! Mrw. C'ompton told her."

"Mm. Compton never knew it, about the
Thug," said he, and then hmked up feorfUUj
at me. They all looked once more. Again
that fear which I had Fcen in them before waa
shown u(X)n their faces.

I liM>ked u|HHi these wretches as though I bad
surveyed them from s<imc lofty height. That one
of them was my father was forgotten. I seemed
to utter words which were in>pircd within me.

" Colonel Despard bus 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," ho cried, " »/re'j» i/ot to lif took (town .'"

I reached my rcMim. I lay awake all night
long. A fever seemed raging in all my veins.
Now with a throbbing bend and trembling hands
I write this. Will these l>e my last words? God
grant it, and give me safe deliverance. AmenJ
amen!

CHAPTER XXX.

SMITHEKS <k CO.

The Brandon Bank, .lohn Potts, President,
had one diiy risen suddenly l>efore the eyes of the
astonished county and filled all men with curious
speculations.

John Potts had b en detestable, but now, as a
Bank Pre>ident, he l)egan to be respectable, to
say the least. Wealth lias a charm alwut it which
fascinates all men, even those of the oldest fami-
lies, and now that this parvenu showed that he
could easily employ his sujierfluons cash in a bank-
ing company, ))eople began to look uf)on his name
as still undoubtedly vulgar, yet as undoubtedly
jiossessing the ring of gold.

His first effort to take the county by storm,
by an ordinary invitation to Brandon Hall, had
been sneered at every where. But this bank waa
a ditferent thing. Many began to think that per-
haps Potts had been an ill-used and slandered
man. He had been Brandon's agent, but who
could prove any thing against him after all ?

1 here were very many who soon felt the need of
the i)eculiar help which a bank can give if it only
chooses. Those who went there found Potts
marvelously accommodating. He did not seem
so grasping or so suspicious as other bankers.
They got what they w anted, laughed at his pleas-
ant jokes, and assured every body that he was a
much-belied man.

Surely it was by some special inspiration that
Potts hit upon this idea of a bank ; if he wished
to make people look kindly upon hin., 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 accomplishment 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 con-
sidered as a very clever man. with a dry, caustic
humoi", but thoroughly good - hearted, (-lark.

121

CORD AND CRi?.ESE.

one of the directors, wn<! regarded as bluff, and
shrewd, and cautious, but full of the milk of hu-
man kindness ; and Thilips, the cushier, was uni-
versally liked on account of his gentle, obsequious
manner.

So wide-spread and so active were the opera-
tions of this bank that people stood astonished
and had nothing to say. The amount of their
acci mmodations was enormous. Those who at
first considered it a mushroom concern soon dis-
covered their mistake ; for the Urandon Bank had
connections in London which seemed to give the
command of unlimited means, and any sum what-
ever that might be needed was at once advanced
where the security was at all reliable. Nor was
the bank particular about security. John Potts
professed to trust nuich to ])eople's faces and to
their character, and there were times when he
would take the security without looking at it, or
even decline it and be satisfied with the name.

In less than a year the bank had succeeded in
gaining the fullest confidence even of those who
liad 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 Jolm Potts was sitting 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, and carried a gold-headed
cane. He was dressed in black, had gray hair,
and a very heavy gray beard and mustache.

"Have I the honor of addressing Mr. I'otts ?"'
said the stranger, in a peculiarly high, shrill voice.

"I'm Mr. l\»tts," saia the other.

The stranger thereu]jon 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 eagei ly.

"Mr. iSmithers, ISir! — you're welcome, l»ir,
I'm sure, iSir! Proud and happy. Sir, to see
you, I'm surel'' 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 ojjposite wall like one
in thought.

He was a singidar- looking old man. His skin
was fresh ; theie was a grand, stern air upon his
brow when it was in rej)Ose. The lower j)art of
Ills face was hidilen by his beard, and its ex])res-
sioii was tlieref)re lost. His eyes, however,
were singularly large and luminous, althougli he
wore spectacles and generally looked at the fioor.

"I have but recently returned from a tour,"
said he, in the same voice ; ' • and my junior part-
ner has managed all the business in my absence,
which has lasted more than a year. I had not
the honor of being acquainted with yotu- banking-
house when I left, and as I had business up this
way I thought I would call on you."

"Proud, Sir, and most happy to welcome you
A) our modest parlor," said Potts, olisequious-
ly. " This is a ])leasin"e — indeed I may say, Sir,
a privilege — which I have long wished to have.
In fact, I have never seen your jiniior ])artner,
Sir, any more than yourself. I have only seen
your agents, 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 im- 1
possible to have the pleasure of a personal ac- I
quaintance with them all. Tliere are some with

whom wc have much Wgar transactions than
yourself whom I have never seen. "

"Indeed, ^ir!" exclaimed Potts, witli gteat
surprise. "Then you must do a larger business
than I thought."

■'We do a large business," said Mr. Smiiheis,
thoughtfully.

' ' And all over the world, you said. Then you
must be worth millions."

" Oh, of course, one can not do a business like
ours, that commands monev, without a large cap-
ital."

"Are theio luany who do a larger business
than 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, jist started since the gold discoveries, has
done a business witli us almost as large. In
Bombay Messrs. Kickerson, Bolton, & Co. are
our correspondents ; in Calcutta Messrs. Hoster-
mann, Jennings, & Black ; in Hong Kong Messrs.
Nay lor & 'I'ibbetts ; iu Sydney Messrs. Sandford
I'c Perley. Besides the.'-e, we have correspond-
ents through Europe and in all parts of Englaijd
who do a mu( h larger business than yours. But
I thought you were aware of this," said Mr.
Smithers, looking with a swift glance at I'otts.

"Of course, of course," said Potts, hastily;
"I knew your business was enormous, but J
tiiought our dealings with you were consider-
able. '

"Oh, you are doing a snug business," said
'mithers, in a patronizing tone. " It is o:r." cus-
tom whenever we ha\e correspondents who are
sound men to encourage them to the iitinost.
This is the reason why you have always found us
liberal and jjrompt."

"You have done great service, Sir," raid
Potts. " In fact, you have made the Brant'.on
Bank what it is to-day."

" Well, " said Smithers, " we have agents every
where ; we heard that this bank wrts 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."

" \'ery much so to me," reidied Potts. "You
have always f ;und the money. "

"And you, I suppose, have furnished the se-
curities."

" 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 witli the books. I merelj- at-
tend to the general afi'airs, and trust to my Jun-
ior for particulars."

' ' And you don't know the exact state of our
business?" said Potts, in a tone of disappoint-
ment.

"No. How should 1? The only ones wiih
which I am familiar are our American, European,
and Eastern agencies. Our English correspond-
ents are maruxged by my Junior."

" You must be one of the largest houses in
London," said Potts, in a tone of deep admira-
tion.

"Oh yes."

' ' Strange I never heard of you till two years
ago or so. "

"Very likely."

"Tliere was a friend of mine who was telling
me something about some Sydney merchants who

CORD AND CREESE,

125

were sending consignments of wool to you.
Conipton & Ikandon. Do you know them?"

"1 Imve heard my Junior speak of them."

"You were in Sydney, were you not?"

"Yes, on my last tour I touched *here."

"Dc you know Conipton & Brandon?"

" I looked in to see them. I think Brandon
is dead, isn't he? Drowned at sea — or some-
thing of that sort?" said Smithers, indiffer-
ently.

""Yes," said Potts.

" Are you familiar with the banking business ?"
r.sked Smithers, suddenly.

"Well, no, not very. I hnven't had much
experience; but I'm growing into it."

"Ah I I suppose your directors are good
business men ?"

"Somewhat; but the fact is, I trust a good
deal to mv cashier. "

"Who'ishe?"

"His name is Philips, a very clever man; a
first-rate accountant."

"That's right. Very much indeed depends
on the cashier.'

" He is a most useful and reliable man."

"Your business appears to be growing, from
r.hat I have heard."

" Very fast mdeed, Sir. Why, Sir, in another
year I expect to control this whole county finan-
cially. 'I'liere is no reason why I shouldn't.
Every one of my moves is successful."

" That is right. The true mode of success in
a business like yours is boldness. That is the
.secret of my success. Perhaps you ar^ not
aware," continued Mr. Smithers, in a confiden-
tial tone, "that I began with very little. A few
thousands of pounds formed my capital. But
my motto was boldness, and now I am worth I
will not say how many millions. If you want to
r.iake money fast you must be bold."

"Did you make your money by banking?"
nsked Potts, eagerly.

"No. Much of it was made in that way, but
I have embarked in all kinds of enterprises;
foreign loans, railway scrip, and ventures in
t^tock of all sorts. I have lost millions, but I
have made ten times more than ever I lost. If
you want to make money, you must go on the
same plan."

"Well, I'm sure," said Potts, "I'm bold
enough. I'm enlarging my business eveiy day
in all directions."

"That's right."

"I control the county now, and hope in an-
other vear to do so in a different way."

"How so?"

" I'm thinking of setting up for Parliament — "

"An excellent idea, if it will not injui-e the
business."

"Oh, it will not hurt it at all. Philips can
manage it all under my directions. Besides, I
don't mind telling a friend like you that this is
the dream of my life. "

"A very laudable aim, no doubt, to those who
have a genius for statesmanship. But that is a
thing which is altogether out of my line. I keep
to business. And now, as my time is limited, I
must not stay longer. I will only add that my
impressions are favorable about your bank, and
you may rely upon us to any extent to co-oper-
ate with you in any sound enterprise. Go on
and enlarge your business, and draw on us for

' what you want as l)efore. If I were you I
I would embark all my available means in this
I bank."

" Well, I'm gradually comiug vo that, I think,"
said Potts.

"Then, when you get large deposits, as you
must expect, that will give you additional capi-
tal to work on. The best way when you have a
bank is to use your cash in speculating in stocks.
Have you tried that yet ? '

" Yes, but not much. "

" If you wish any thing of that kind done wo
will do it for you."

" But I don't know what are the best invest-
ments."

"Oh, that is very easily found out. But if
you can't learn, we will let you know. The Mex-
ican Loan just now is the most promising. Some
of the California companies are working quietly,
and getting enormous dividends."

"California?" said Potts; "that ought to

pay-"

" Oh, there's nothing like it. I cleared near-
ly half a million in a few months."

"A few months!" cried Potts, opening his
eyes.

"Yes, we have agents who keep us well up;
and so, you know, we are able to speculate to
the best advantage."

" (California!" said Potts, thoughtfully. " I
should like to try that above all things. It has
a good sound. It is like the chink of cash."

"Yes, you get the pure gold out of that.
There's nothing like it. "

"Do you know any chances for speculation
there ? '

"Yes, one or two."

"Would vou have anj' objection to let me
know ? '

" Not in the least — it will extend your busi-
ness. I will ask my .Junior to send you any par-
ticulars you may desire."

"This California business must be the best
there is, if all I hear is true."

"You haven't heard the real truth."

"Haven't I?" exclaimed Potts, in wonder.
" I thought it was exaggerated."

"I could tell you stories far more wonderful
than any thing you have heard."

"Tell me!' cried Potts, breathlessly.

"Well, "said Smithers. confidentially, "J don't
mind telling you something which is known, I'm
sorry to say, in certain circles in London, and is
already being acted on. One-half of our fortune
has been made in California operatio.is."

"You don't say so!"

"You see I've always been bold," continued
Smithers, with an air of still greater confidence.
"I read some time since in one of Humboldt's
books about gold being there. At the first news
of the discovery I chartered a ship and went
out at once. 1 took every thing that could be
needed. On arriving at San Francisco, where
there were already very many people, I sold the
cargo at an enormous profit, and hired the ship
as a warehouse at enormous prices. I then or-
ganized a mining company, and put a first-rate
man at the head of it. They found a jilace on
the Sacramento River where the gold really seems
inexhaustible. I worked it for some months, and
'orwarded two millions sterling to London. Then
1 left, and my company is still working."

J36

CORD AND CREESE.

"Why did you leave?" asked Potts, breath-
leealy.

"Because I could make more money by being
in London. My man there is reliable. I have
bound him to us by giving him a share in the
business. People soon found out that Smithers
& C'o. had made enormous sums of money in
California, but they don't know exactly how.
The immense expansion of our business during
the last year has filled them with wonder. For
you know every piece of gold that I sent home
has been utilized by my Junior."

Potts was silent, and sat looking in breathless
admiration at this millionaire. All his thoughts
were seen iu his face. His whole heart was laid
bare, and the one thing visible was an intense
desire to share in that golden enterprise.

"I have organized two companies on the same
principle as the last. The shares are selling at a
large premium in the London market. I take a
leading part in each, and my name gives stability
to the enterprise. If I find the thing likely to
succeed I continue ; if not, why, I can easily sell
out. I am on the point of organizing a third
company."

"Are the shares taken up?" cried Potts, ea-
gerly.

"No, not yet."

"Well, could I obtain some?"

* ' I really can't say, " replied Smithers. ' ' You
might make an application to my Junior. I do
nothing whatever with the details. I don't know
what plans or agreements he may have been
making."

" I should like exceedingly vo take stock. How
do the shares sell?"

"The price is high, as we wish to confine our
shareholders to the richer classes. We never put
it at less than illOOO a share."

" I would take any quantity."

" I dare say some may be in the market yet,"
said Smithers, calmly. " They probably sell at
a high premium though."

"I'd pay it," said Potts.

"Well, you may write and see; I know no-
thing about it."

" And if they're all taken up, what then ?"

"Oh — then — I really don't know. Why can't
you organize a com])any yourself?"

" Well, you see, 1 dout know any thing about
the place. "

"True; that is a disadvantage. But you
might find some people who do know."

"That would be very diflicult. I do not see
how we could begin. And if I did find any one,
how could I trust him ?"

" You'd have to do as I did — give him a share
of the business. "

" It would be much better if I could get some
stock in one of your companies. Your experience
and credit would make it a success. "

"Yes, there is no doubt that our companies
would all be successful since we have a man on
the spot."

"And that's another reason why I should pre-
fer buying stock from you. You see I might form
a company, but what could I do ?"

" Could not your cashier help you ?"

" No, not in any thing of that sort."

" Well, I can say nothing about it. My Junior
will tell you what chances there are."'

" But while I see you personally I should be

glad if you would consent to give me a chance.
Have you any objection ?"

"Oh no. I will mention your case the next
time I write, if you wish it. Still I can not con-
trol the particular operations of the ofiice. ^Iv
control is supreme in general matters, and yo'u
see it would not be possible for me to interfere
with the smaller details."

" StiU you might mention me."

"I will do so," said Smithers, and taking out
his pocket-book he prepared to write.

"Let me see," said he, "your Christian
name is — what ?"

"John— John Potts."

" John Potts," repeated the other, as he wrote
it down.

Smithers rose. " You may continue to draw
on us as before, and any purchases of stock which
you wish will be made "

Potts thanked him profusely.

"I wish to see your cashier, to learn his mode
of managing the accounts. Much depends on
that, and a short conversation will satisfy me. "

"Certainly, Sir, certainly," said Potts, obse-
quiously. " Philips !" he called.

Philips came in as timid and as shiinking as
usual.

' ' This is Mr. Smithers, the great Smithers of
Smithers & Co., Bankers; he wishes to have a
talk with you."

Philips looked at the great man with deep re-
spect and made an awkward bow.

"You may come with me to my hotel," said
Smithers ; and with a slight bow to Potts he left
the bank, followed by Philips.

He went up stairs and into a large parlor on
the second story, which looked into the street.
He motioned Philips to a chau- near rhe window,
and seated himself in an ann-chair opposite.

Smithers looked at the other with a searching
glance, and said nothing for some time. His
large, fall eyes, as they fixed themselves on the
face of the other, seemed to read his inmost
thoughts and study every part of his weak and
irresolute character.

At length he said, abruptly, in a slow, meas-
ured voice, " Edgar Lawton !"

At the sound of this name Philips started from
his chair, and stood on his feet trembling. His
face, always pale, now became ashen, his lips
turned white, his jaw fell, his eyes seemed to
start from their sockets. He stood for a few
seconds, then sank back into a chair.

Smithers eyed him steadfastly. "You see I
know you," said he, after a time.

Philips cast on him an imploring look.

"The fact that I know your name," contin-
ued Smithers, "shows also that I must know
something of your histoiT. Do not forget
that!"

"My — my historj'?" faltered Philips.

"Yes, your history. I know it all, wTetched
man ! I knew your father whom you ruined, and
whose heart you broke. "

Philips said not a word, but again turned an
imploring face to this man.

' ' I hava brought you here to let you know that
there is one who holds you in his power, and that
one is myself. You think Potts or Clark have
you at their mercy. Not so. I alone hold, your
fate in my hands. They dare not do any thing
against you for fear of their own necks."

CORD ANn CREESE.

127

Phiiiiw looked up now in wonder, which was
greater than his fear.

"Why," he faltered, "you are Potts's friend.
You got him to start the bank, and you have ad-
vanced him mone)'."

"You are the cashier," said Smithers,'calnily.
"Can you tell me how much the Brandon Bank
owes Smithers & Co. ?"

Philips looked at the other and hesitated.

"Sjieak:'

"Two hundred and eighty -nine thousand
pounds. "

' ' And if Smithers & Co. chose to demand pay-
ment to-m.orrow, do you think the Brandon Bank
would be prompt about it ?"

Piiilips shook his head.

" Then you see that the man whom yoa faar
is not so powerful as some others."

j "I thought you were his f i"iid ?"

" Do you know who I am T

" Smithers & Co.," said Philips, weaiily.

"Well, let me tell you the plans of Smilliers &
Co. are lieyond your comprehension. >\ heilier
they ai e friends to Potts or not, it seems that t liey
are his creditors to an amount which it would Iiu
difficult for him to pay if thev chose to deiur.ml
it."

Philips looked up. He caught sight of tl:3
eyes of Smithers, which blazed like two davk,
fiery orbs as they were fastened upon him. lie
shuddered.

" I merely wished to show you the weakness
of the man whom you fear. Shall I tell you
something else ?"

Philips looked up fearfully.

" I have been in York, in Calcutta, and in Ma-

13d

:ORD AND CREESE.

nillix ; nnd I I nov.- what Potts did in each place.
You look frightened. You have every reason to*
l)C so. 1 know what was done at York. I know
that you were sent to Botany Bay. I know that
yon ran away from your father to India. I know
yo!ir life there. 1 know how narrowly you es-
Mtped going on board the Vishnu, and l)eing im-
{.licated in the Manilla murder. Madman that
yi)i were, why did you not take your jKior mo-
ther and fly from these wretches forever?"

Philips trembled from head to foot. He. said
nut a word, but bowed his head upon bis kneeii
niul wept.

" Where is she now?" said Smithers, sternly.
Philips mechanically raised his head, and point-
ed over toward Brandon Hall.

" Is she confined against her will?"

Philips shook his head.

" She stays, then, through love of you ?"

Philips nodded.

"Is any one else there?" said Smithers, after
a pause, and in a strange, sad voice, in which
there was a faltering tone which Philips, in his
flight, did not notice.

"Miss Potts," he said.

" She is treated cruelly, " said Smithers. ' ' They
say she is a prisoner ?"

Philips nodded.

"Has she been sick?" '

" Yes."

"How long?"

" Eight months, last year."

" Is she well now ?"

"Yes."

Smithers bowed his head in silence, and put
his hand on his heart. Philips watched him in
an agony of fright, as though every instant he
>'. as apprehensive of some terrible calamity.

"How is she?" continued Smithers, after a
time. " Has she ever been happy since she went
tiiere?"

Philips shook his head slowly and mournfully.

"Does her father ever show her any affec-
tion?"
. "Never."
t "Does her brother?"

"Never."

" Is there any one who doea ?"

"Y'es." . i

"Who?"

"Mrs. Compton."

"Your mother?"

"Yes."
' " I wiil not forget that. No, I will never for
get that. Do you think that she is exposed to
any danger ?"

"Miss Potts?"

Smithers bowed.

" I don't know. I sometimes fear so."

"Of what kind?"

"I don't know. Almost any horrible thing
may happen in that horrible place."

A pang of agony shot across the sombre brow
of Smithers. He was silent for a long time.

"Have you ever slighte-l her?" he asked at
last.

"Never," cried Philips. "I could worship
her—"

Smithers smiled upon him with a smile so
sweet that it chased all Pliiiips's fears away.
He took courage and bepan to show more calm.

"Fear nothing," said Smithers, in a gentle

voice. " I see that in spite of your follies and
crimes there is something good in you yet. You
love your mother, do you not ?"

Tears came into Philips's eyes. He sighed.
"Yes," he said, humbly.

" And you are kind to her — that other one?"

" I love her as my mother," said Philips, earn-
estly.

Smithers again relapsed into silence for a long
time. At last he looked up. Philips saw his
eyes this time, no longer stem and wrathful, but
benignant and indulgent.

" You have been uU your life under the power
of merciless men," said he. "You have been
led by them into folly and crime and suffering.
Often you have been forced to act against your
will. Poor wretch I I can save ytui, and I in-
tend to do so in spite of yourself. You fear
these masters of yours. You must know now
that I, not they, am to be feared. They know
your secret but dare not use it against you. I
know it, and can use it if I choose. You have
been afraid of them all your life. Fear them no
longer, but fear me. These men whorii you fear
are in my power as well as you are. I know all
their secrets — there is not a crime of theirs of
which you know that I do not know also, and I
know far more.

" You must from this time forth be my agent.
Smithers & Co. have agents in all parts of the
world. You shall be their agent in Brandon
Hall. You shall say nothing of this interview to
any one, not even to your mother — you shall not
dare to communicate with me unless you are re-
quested, except about such things as I shall
specify. If you dare to shrink in any one point
from your duty, at that instant I will come down
upon you with a heavy hand. You, too, are
watched. I have other agents here in Brandon
besides yourself Many of those who go to the
bank as customers are my agents. You can not
be false without my knowing it ; and when you
are false, that moment you shall be handed over
to the authorities. Do you hear?'

The face of Smithers was mild, but his tone
was stem. It was the warning of a just yet
merciful master. All the timid nature of Philips
bent in deep subjection before the powerful spirit
of this man. He bowed his head in silence.

"Whenever an order comes to you from
Smithers & Co. you must obey ; if you do not
obey instantly whatever it is, it will be at the
risk of your life. Do you hear ?"

Philips bowed.

" There is only one thing now in which I wish
you to do any thing. You must send every month
a notice directed to Mr. Smithers, Senior, about
the health of his daur/hter. Should any sudden
danger impend you must at once communicate
it. Y^ou 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 re-
warded. Now go !"

Philips rose, and, more dead than alive, tot-
tered from the room.

When he left Smithers locked the door. He

then went to the window and stood looking at

Brandon Hall, with his stem face softened into

sadness. He hummed low words as he stood

, there — words which once had been sung far awai'.

CORD AND CREESF:.

129

Among them were these, with which the strain
ended:

"Ann the »ad memory of oar life below
8ball but uuite nx cio«er evermore ;
No net tif ttitue Hhall loose
Thee from the eternal bund,
Nor vhall KevetiL'c have power
To di-Hunlte us tliere!"

W'iih a sigh he sat down and buried his face
in hi.-t hands. His gray hnir loosened and fell
off as he sat there. A' last lie raised iiis head,
and revealed the face or a young man whose dark
hair showed the gray beard to be false.

Yet when he once more put on his wig none
but a most intimate friend with the closest scruti-
ny could recognize there the featm'es of Louis
Brandon.

CHAFPER XXXI.

PAOLO LANGHETTI.

Mant weeks passed on, and music still formed
the chief occupation in life for IJespard and Mrs.
Thornton. His journey to Brandon village had
been without result. He knew not what to do.
The inquiries which he made every where turned
out useless. Finally Thornton infonned him that
it was utterly hopeless, at a period so long after
the event, to attempt to do any thing whatever.
Enough had been done long ago. Now nothing
more <^ould possibly be effected.

Baffled, but not daunted, Daspard fell back
for the present fom his purpose, yet still cher-
ished it and wrote to different quarters fpr in-
formation. Meantime he had to return to his
lir^ at Hoiby, and Mi-s. Thornton was still ready
to assist him.

80 the time went on, and the weeks passefl,
till one day in March Despard went up as usual.

Un entering the parlor he heard voices, and
saw a stranger. Mrs. Thornton greeted him as
usual and sat down smiling. The stranger rose,
and he and Despard 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
unfathomable depth, wliich gave them a certain
undefinable and myst'c r.ieaning — 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 fate was thin and shaven close, his lips also
vere thin, with a i)erpetual smile of marvelous
sweetness and gentleness hovering about them.
It was such a face as artists love to give to the
Aposile John — the sublime, the divine, the lov-
ing, 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 yon
lust, and you have changed somewhat since
then," said Despard. "But when did yon ar-
rive? I knew that you were expected in En-
gland, but was not sure that you would come
here."

"What! Teresuoh viia" said Langhetti,
with a fond .^mile nt his sister. " Were you
really not sure, soreltina, that I woidd come to

see you fii.-t of all? Infidel!" and he shook bis
head at iiuf, ])layfully.

A long conversation followed, chiefly abont
I.^nghetti's plans. He was going to engage a
place in London for his opera, but wished tirsc to
secure a singer. Oh, if he only could find Bieo
— his Bicina, the divinest voice that mortal ever
heard.

Despard and Mrs. Thornton exchanged glances,
and at last Desj)ard 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
confinement, and there was a mystery about her
situation which he had tried without success to
fathom.

Langhetti listened with a painful surprise that
seemetl like positive anguish.

"Then I must go myself Oh, my Bicina —
to what misery have you come — But do you
sav that you have been there ?"
'"Yes."

"Did you go to the Hall?" . .

"No.'*^

"Why not?"

' ' Because I know the man to be a villain in-
describable — "

Langhetti thought for a moment, and then saiil,

" 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
more successful than you, yet I must try, if only
for my own peace of mind. Oh, Bicina cara f
to think of her sweet and gentle nature being
subject to such torments as those ruffians can in-
flict!

" You do not know how it is," said he at last,
very solemnly; "but there are reasons of trans-
cendent importance why Bice should be rescued.
I can not tell theia ; but if 1 dared mention what
I hope, if I oidy tl.ued to 8f)eak my thoughts, you
— you," he cried, with piercing emphasis, and in
a tone that thrilled through i.)espaid, to whom
he spoke, "you would make it the aim of all
your lifa to save her."

"I do not understand," saiil Despard, in as-
tonishment.

"No, no," murmured Langhetti. "You do
not ; nor dare I explain Avhat I mean. It has
been in my thoi:ghts for years. It was brought
to my mind first in Hong Kong, when she was
there. (Jnly one jjerson 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, slender
hand, as thougii he were yducking out the very
heart of some imaginary enemy.

"Think, Teresuola," said he, afier a while,
' ' if you were in captinty, what would become
of my opera ? Could I have the heart to think
about operas, even if I believed that they con-
tributed to the welfare of the world, if your weU
fare was at stake? Now you know that next t«
you stands Bice. I must try and save her — I

180

CORD AND CREESE.

must give up all. Mv 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 mean-
ing.

"iryou but suspected it," said he, "your
jKjace of mind would be lost. I will therefore on
no account tell it."

Despard looked at hi" wonderingly. What
could he mean ? How could any one atfect him?
His peace of mind! 'Ihat had been lost long
ai;o. And if this secret was so terrible it would
distract his mind from its grief, its care, and its
lunging. Peace would be restored rather than
destroyed.

" I must find her. I must find her," said
Langhetti, speaking half to himself. "I am
weak ; but much con 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 un-
deratand the man who acts fiom 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 can
not understand that it makes no diiference to me
Tvhether I do myself good or not; and again,
that the highest good that I can do myself ia 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, Despard. You are one
who acts as I act. Come with me."

"When?"

' ' To-morrow morning. "

"Iwill."

"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 enthu-
siasm. " Despard 1" 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 ? Despard, I worship your fa-
ther's memory. Come with me. Let us emu-
late those two noble men who once before res-
cued a captive. We can not risk our lives as
they did. Let us at least do what we can."

" I will do exactly what .you say. You can
tliink and I will act."

" No, you must think too. Neither of us be-
long 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
i^ounds."

Saying this he left the room.

" Where is Edith Brandon ?" asked Despard,
after he had gone.

" She is here," said Mrs. Thornton.

" Have you seen her ?"

"Yes." '• -

" Is she what you anticipated ?"

"More. She is indescribable. She is alm^ist
unearthly. I feel awe of her, but not fear. Sli*
is too sweet to inspire fear. "

CHAPTER XXXII.

FLIGHT.

The last entry in Beatrice'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 this, that henceforth she must

i either stay and accept the punishment which they

; might contrive or fiy instantly.

For she had dared them to their faces ; she
had told them of their crimes ; she had threat-
ened punishment. Mie had said that she was
the'avenger of Despnid. If she had desired in-
stant 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 re-
mained ?

But one thing— flight. And this she was fully
resolved to tiT. bhe prepared nothing. 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 ditlerence. She coukl
not have obtained it.

The one idea in her mind was therefore flight.
She had concealed her journal under a loose
piece of the flooring in one of the closets of her
room, being unwilling to encumber herself with
it, and dreading tiie result of a search in case she
was captured.

She made no other preparations whatever. 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 ex-
citement and suspense.

Mrs. Compton was in her room during the
evvning. Beatrice said but little. Mrs. Comp-
ton talked drearily about the few topics on which
she generally sjioke. She never dared talk about
the affairs of the house.

Beatrice was not impatient, for she had no
idea of trying to escape before midnight. She
sat silently while Mrs. lompton talked or prosed,
absorbed in her own thoughts and plans. The
iiours seemed to her interminable. Slowly and
heavily they dragged on. Beatrice's suspense
and excitement grew stronger every moment,
yet by a violent effort she preserved so perfect

I an outward calm that a closer observer than Mrs.

I Compton would have failed to detect any emo-

i tion.

At last, about ten o'clock, Mi-s. Compton re-
tired, with many kind wishes to Beatrice, ami
many anxious counsels as to her healtli. Bea-
trice listened patiently, and made some geneml
remarks, after which Mrs. Compton withdrew.

She was now left to" herself, and two hours
still remained before she could dare to venture.
She paced the room fretfully and anxiously, won-
dering 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,

CORD AND CREESE.

181

but seeing to her disappointment ttiat onlj two
or tliree minutes had gone.

At last eleven o'cluck 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. IShe knew
to whom those voices l)elonged. Evidently it
wns not yet the time for her venture.

i^iie went back, controlling her excitement as
!)Mt she might. At hist, after a long, long sus-
pense, midnight sounded.

Again she went to the head of the stairway.
The voices were still heard. They kept late
iiouis down there. Could she try now, while
they were still up? Not yet.

Not yet. The suspense became agonizing.
How could she wait? But 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 stream-
ing from the door of the dining -hall below.
Lights, also, were burning in the hall itself; but
she heard no voices.

Softl}' and quietly she went down stairs. 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 conver-
fation. Her heart beat faster. They were all
rhere ! What if they now discovered her ! What
in3icy would they show her, even if they were
ciipable of mercy ?

Fear lent wings to her feet. She was almost
iif.aid to breathe for fear that they might hear
liar. She stole on quietly and noiselessly up the
jtnssage that led to the north end, and at lost
leached 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 doorway. 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 stairway, which led to the serv-
ants' 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 foot-
steps and voices behind her. She looked hastily
back, and, to her horror, saw two servants ajj-
proaching with a lamp. It was impossible for
her now to open the door and go out. Conceal-
ment was her only plan.

But how ? Tliere 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 her so as 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 dis-
covered in evident concealment what excuse
could she give? She could not hope to bril)e
them, for she had no money. And, what was
worst, these servants '.vcre the two who had been
the most insolent to her from the first.

She could do nothing, therefore, but wait.
They jame nearer, and at last reached the door.
" Hallo !" said one, as he turned the key.
" It's been unlocked I"

" It hain't beet, locked yet," said the other.

"Yes, it has. I locked it myself, an hour
ago. Who coidd have been here ?"

"Any one," said the other, quietly. "Our
blessed young master has, no doubt, been out
this way."

"No, he hasn't. He hasn't stinied from his
whisky since eight o'clock."

"Nonsense! You're making a fuss about
nothing. Lock the door and come along. "

"Any how, 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 departed. She had not been dis-
covered. 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 haU-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 other end of the building, w Inch was sel-
dom used. She knew of no others. She de-
termined to try the south door.

Quietly and swiftly she stole away, and glided,
like a ghost, along the entire length of the build-
ing. It was quite dark at the sou^h end as it
had been at the north. She reached the door
without accident.

There was no key in it. It was locked. Es-
cape 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 foot-
steps. A figure came down the long hall straiglit
toward her. There was not the slightest chauce
of concealment here. There were no pillars la-
hind 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 surprise.

It was the voice of Philips.

" Ah, Philips," said she, quietly, " I am walk-
ing about for exercise and amusement. I can
not 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, poneii""l
fi lends. They will save you. "

"What do you mean?" asked Beatrice, in
wonder.

' ' Never mind, " said Philips, mysteriously. " 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 Bran-
don came over her mind, but she dismissed it at
once. Yet the thought gave her a delicious joy.
and at once dispelled the extreme agitation which

182

CORD AND CREESE.

had thus far disturbetl her. Could Philips be con-
nected with him Y Was he in reality considerate
about her while ohiiping the course of his gloomy
vengeanc-e? 'ihe«^ weie the thoughts which
Hashed across her mind as she stood.

" I don t undeiwtand, " Miid she, ut last ; " but
I hope it mny be as you i&y. God knows, I
need friends!'

the walked nwny, and Philips also went on-
ward. She walked slowly, until at lust his steps
died out in the distance. Then a door banged.
Kvidently she had nothing to fear from him. At
last she reached the main hall, nnd stopped for
ft moment. The lights from the dining-room
were still flashing out through the door. 'Ihe
grand entrance lay Imfore her. There was the
door of the hall, tiic only way of escape that now
remained. Dare she try it /

She deliberated lung. Two alternatives lay
before her — to go back to her own room, or to
tiy to pass that door. I'o go back was as re-
jiulsive as death, in fact more so. If the choice
liml been placed full liefore her then, to die on the
Bjjot or to go back to her room, she would have
deliberately chosen death. 'I'he thought of re-
turning, therefore, was the lust upon which she
could dwell, and ihut of going fonvard was the
only one left. '1 o this she gave her attention.

At la.«t she made up her mind, and advanood
cautiously, close by the wall, toward the hall-
door. After a time she reached the door of the
dining-room. Could she venture to pass it, and
how? t- he paused, f^he listened. There were
low voices in the room. Then they were still
awake, still able to detect her if she passed the
door.

She looked all around. The hall was wide.
On the opjKJsite cide the wall was but feebly
lighted. The hall lights had been put out, and
those which shone from the room extended for-
ward but a short distance. It was ju.st jjossible
therefore to es<ni.c observation by crossing the
t'oorwa} along ino wall that was most distant
f^'om it.

Yet before she tried this she ventured to put
forward her head so as to peep into the room.
!• he stooped low and looked cautiously and slow-
ly.

The three were there at the farthest end of
the room. Bottles and glasses stood before them,
and they were conversing in low tones. Those
tones, however, were not so low but that they
reached her curs. They were sjieaking about her.

"How could she have found it out?'' said
Clark.

"Mrs. Compton only knows one thing," said
Potts, "and that is the secret about her. She
knows nothing more. How could she ? '

"Then how could that cursed girl have found
out about the Thug business ?" exclaimed John.

There was no rei)Iy.

"She's a deep one," said John, "d — d deep
— deeper than 1 ever thought. I always said she
was plucky — cursed plucky — but now I see she's
deep too — and I begin to have my doubts about
the way she ought to be took down."

"I never could make her f)ut," said Potts.
"And now I don't even begin i understand how
she could know that which only we have known.
Do you think, Clark, that the devil could have
told her of it ?"

" Yes," said Clark. " Nobody but the devil

could have told her that, and my belief i.s that
she's the devil bin ^''f. She's the only person 1
ever felt afraid of. ^ — n it, I can't look her in
the face."

Beatrice retreate<l and passed across to the
opposite wall. She did not wish to see or hear
more. She glided by. •'"he was not noticed.
She heard John's voice — sharj) and clear —

" We'll have to begin to-morrow nnd take her
down — that's a fact." 'lliis was followed by
silence.

Beatrice reached the door. She turned the
knob. Oh, joy ! it was not locked. It opened.

Noiselessly she ])a88ed through ; noiselessly she
shut it behind her. ^ he was outside. She wns
free.

The moon shone brightly. It illumined the
lawn in front and the tojis of the clumjis of trees
whose dark foliage rose before her. >he saw all
this ; yet, in her eagerness to escape, she saw
nothing more, but sped away swiftly down the
steps, across the lawn, and under the shade of
the trees.

Which way shoidd she go? There was the
main avenue which led in a winding direction
toward the gate and the porter's lodge. There
was 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 otl° to the wall
and try and climb over.

A few moments of thought were sufficient for
her decision. She took the path and went hur-
riedly 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 porters lodge. Hero she paused to con-
sider.

Late as it was there were lights in the lodge
and voices at the door. Some one was talking
with the porter. Suddenly the voices ceased and
a man came walking 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. But the underbrush was
dense, and the crackling which she made attract-
ed the man's attention. He stopped for a mo-
ment, 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 underbrush, which at every step gave no-
tice of the direction w Inch she had taken. Per-
haps if she had been wiser she would have
plunged into some thick growth of trees into
the midst of absolute darkness and there re-
mained still. As it was she did not think of
this. Escape was her only thought, and the only
way to this seemed to be by flight.

So she fled ; and after her came her remorse-
less, 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 amidst darkness and gloom her uursuer fol-
lowed.

CORD AND CREESE.

1S8

ONWAKD SHE SPED, AND STILL OXWAKD, THROUGH THE ULXSE UNDERBRLSH.

At last, through utter weakness and weari-
ness, 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 crouche<l 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.

Beatrice thought tliat 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. Some one was moving. She stood
still, breathless. Then she thought she had been
mistaken. After waiting a long time she went
on as before. She walked faster. The noise
came again. It was clo^e by. She stood still
for m.iny minutes.

Suddenly she bounded up. and ran as'one runs
for life. Her long rest had refreshed her. De-
spair gave her strength. But the jmrsuer was
on her track. Swiftly, and still more swiftly, ills
footsteps came up behind her. He was gaining
on her. Still she rushed on.

At last a strong hand seized her by the shoul«

f34

COKD AND CKEESK.

dcr, and iiho oank down upon the mou that l&y
under the toreitt treen.

" VVhd are you ?" cried a familiar voice.

" V'ijal !" criod Beatrice.

The other let go his hold.

" Will you betray me ?" cried Beatrice, in a
mounifiil and dcsj)airing voices.

Vijal waa silent.

" What do you want ?"wiid lie, at last. •'What-
ever you want to do I will hel|> you. I will be
your slave."

" I wish to escape."

"Come then — you shall escape," said Vijal.

Without uttering another word iic walked on
and Beatrice followed. Hope rose once more
within her. Hope gave strength. Despair and
its weakness had left her. After nlM)ut half an
hour's walk they reached the park wall.

" I thought it was a j)oacher," said Vijal, sad-
ly; "jet I am glad it was you, for I can help
yon. 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 nm north away from the
village. Along this road lieatrice wjdked swiftly.

CHAPTER XXXIII.
"picked up aurift."

Ov the morning following two travelers left a
small inn which lay on the road-side, about ten
miles north of Brandon. It waj about eight
o'clock when they took their departure, driving
in their own caniage at a moderate pace along
the road.

"Look, Langhetti," said the one who was
driving, pointing with his whip to an object in
the road directly in front of them.

Langhetti raised his head, which had befen
bowed down in deep abstraction, to look in the
direction indicated. A figure was approaching
them. It looked like a woman, i^he walked
very t-lowly, and apjjeared rather to stagger than
to walk.

"t^he appears to be dnmk, Despard," said
Langhetti. "Poor wretch, and on this bleak
March morning too I Let us stop and see if we
can do any tiling for her."

They drove on, and as they met the woman
Despard stopped.

She was young and extraordinarily beautiful.
Her ftice was thin and white. Her clothing was
of fine materials but scanty and torn to shreds.
As they stopjjed she turned her large eyes np
despairingly and stood still, with a face which
seemed to exi)ress every conceival le 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 succeedeu by a radiant Hash of joy. She
threw out her arms toward him with a cry of
wild entre:ity.

The moment that Langhetti saw her he started
np and stood for an instant as if paralyzed. Her
cry came to his ea"s. He leaped from the car-
riage towHvd her, and caughl her in his anns.

" Oh, Bice ! Alas, my Bicina !" he cried, and
a thousand fond words came to his lips.

Beatrice l(H>kcd up with eyes (illetl with grate-
ful tears ; her lips murmured some Inuudiblo .'..-^n-
tencus ; and then, in this full a.>u*nrancc of safetv,
the rcs<iliiii(>n that had sustained her so long
gave way altogether. Her eyes closed, she gave
a low moitn, and sank senseless upon his hreasr.

langhetti supported her for a moment, llieu
gently laid her down to try and restore her. He
chafed her hands, and did all that is usually done
in such emergencies. But here the case was dif-
ferent — it was more than a common faint, and
the animation now susfiended was not to bo re-
stored by ortlinary cfl'orfs.

Langhetti bowed over her as he chafed her
hands. "Ah, my Bicina," he cried; "is it
thus I find you! Ah, ])oor thin hand! Alas,
white wan face ! What sufl'ei inj; has been yours,
pure angel, among those fiends 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 sect)nd to
his own. Something in Beatrice's ap]iearancc
had stnuk him with a decjier feeling than that
merely human interest which the generous heart
feels in the suflerings of others.

"Langhetti,'" ."aid he, "let ns not leave this
sweet angel exi)Oi^eil to this bleak wind. We
must take her back to the inn. We have gained
our oliject. Alas! the gain is worse than a fail-
ure. "

"What can we do?"

"Let us put her in the carriage between us,
and drive back instantly."

Despard stoojied as he spoke, raised her rev-
erently in his arms, and lifted her upon the seat.
He sprang in and i)ut his arms around her sense-
less form, so as to support her against himself.
Langhetti looked on with eyes that were moist
with a sad yet mysterious feeling.

Then he resumed his place in the carriage.

"Oh, Langhetti!" said Despard, "what is it
that I xiiw in the face of this jioor duld that so
wrings my heart ':* What is this mystery of yours
that you "will not tell ?'.

"1 can not solve it," said Langhetti, "and
therefore I will not tell it."

"Tell it, whatever it is."

">'(), it is only conjecture as yet, and I \\i\\
not utter it."

" And it affects me?"

"Dceplv."

"Therefore tell it."

"Therefore 1 must not tell it; for if it prove
baseless 1 shall only excite your feeling i:i vain."

"At any late let me know. For 1 have the
wildest fancies, and I wish to know if it is possi-
ble that they are like your own."

" No, Despard," said Langhetti. " Xot now.
The time may come, but it has not yet."

lieatrice's head leaned against Despard"s shoul-
der 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 fate
of some goddess. Her beauty was jierfect in its
classic outline. But her eyes were closed, and
her wan, white lips parted ; and there was sor-
row on her face which did not seem approjiriate
to one so young.

"Look, ' said Langhetti, in a inoumful voice.

COHD AN'D CREE-iE.

'li:; LKAl-liD FKOM THE CAKKIAGE TOWAKU HER, AND CAUGHT HER IN HIS ARMS."

"Faw you ever in nil your life .nny one so per-
fectly nnJ 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 tliis for her?"

"Oh, Despard!" he continued, after a pause
in which the other had turned his stern face to
him witliout a word — "Oh. Despard! you ask
me to tell yo:i this secret. I dare not. It is so
wide-spread. If my fancy he true, then nil 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 Despard,
" 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 almost forgotten sorrow. Think nos
of it even to yourself."

Langhetti spoke with a wild and vehement
urgency which was wonderful.

"Do yon not see," said Despard, "that you
rouse my curiosity to an intolerable degree ?"

"Be it so; at any rate it is better to suffer
froi.i curiosity than to feel what you must feel if
I told you what I suspect."

Had it been any other man than Langhetti
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, "thX

rOKD ASD CREE-^E.

■hfl hu eacap«d from Brandon Hull during tho
paat night. Mie will, no duubt, be purtued. |
What «hnll wo do? If we go back tu thi* inn '
they will wonder nt our bringing her. There i»
another inn u mile further on."

" I have liven thinking of that," replied I^n-
glietti. " It will l>e Itettcr to go to the other inn.
liut what Hhttll wo Miy ubout her? Let ua i^ay
■he U an invalid going home.'

"And am 1 her medical attendant?' aake<l
Deapard.

'* No ; that is not necesaary. You aVe her
guardian — the Rector of Holby, of courae — your
name is aufflcient guarantee.''

"Oh," aaid Despard, at\er n piiuae, *' I'll tell
you aometliing Itettcr yet. 1 iim her brother and
■he in my aiater — .Miaa UeaparU. "

Aa he apoke he looked down upon her mnrble
face. He did not ace I^nghetli'a countcnuiu'e.
Ilud he done ho he would have wondered. For
Langhetti'a eyea aeemed to seek to pierce the very
eonl of Despard. Ilia face became transformed.
Ita uaunl aerenity vaniahed, and there wna eager
wonder, intcnae and anxioua curioaity — an en-
deavor to aee if there was not aome deep
meaning underlying Deapard a worda. But Dea-
])ard showed no emotion, lie wim conscioua of
no deep meaning. He merely murmured to him-
aelf na he looked dow!' upon the uncouacious
face:

" My aick sister — my sister Beatrice."

Langhetti aaid not a word, hut sat in silence,
absorbed in one intense and wondering gaze.
Despard aeemed to dwell upon this idea, fondly
and tenderly.

" hhe is not one of that brood," said he, after
a pause. "It is in name only that she belongs
to tliem."

" Tliey are fiends and she ia an angel," aaid
Langhetti.

' ' ileaven has sent her to us ; we must presene
her forever."

"If she lives," said Langhetti, "she must
never go back."

" Go back !" cried Despard. " Better far for
ber to die."

" I myself would die rather than give her up."

"And I, too. But we 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 ray sister. She shall be Beatrice Des-
pard.

"And surely," continued Despard, looking
tenderly down, "surely, of all the Despard race
the-e was never one so beautiful and so pure as
she."

Langhetti did not say a word, but looked at Des-
pard and the one whom he thus called his adopt-
ed sister witli in emotion which he could not
control. Tears started to his eyes ; yet over his
brow there came something which is not gen-
ierally associated with tears — a lofty, exultant
expression, an air of joy and peace.

" Your sister, "said Despard, "shall nurse her
back to health. She will 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 sor-
rows which she may have endured. Our care
■hall he around her, and we can all labor togeth-
er for bar future welfare. "

They at length reached the inn of which they
had apoken, and Iksatrice was tenderly lifted out
and carried up atain. She was mentioned as
the siator of the Rev. Mr. Despard, of Holby,
who wua bringing her back from the sea-aide,
whither aliu had gone for her health. I'nfortu-
iiutely, alio had licen too weak for tho journey.

Tho people of the inn ohowed tho kindent at-
tention and wanneat aymputhy. A doctor wua
aent for, who hved at a village two miles liuther
on.

Beatrice recovered from her taint, bat remained
unconacioua. The doctor conaidered that her
brain was atTectetl. He shook hia head solemnly
over it, aa doctora always do when they have
nothing in itarticular to aay. Both Langhetti
and Deapard knew more about her case than he
did.

They sow that rest wasr the one thing needed.
But reat could l>e better attained in Hulliy than
here ; and l>eaidea, there waa the danger of pur-
suit. It was necessary to remove her; and that,
too, without delay. A close carriage was pro-
cured without much ditUculty, and the patient
wua deposited therein.

A slow journev brought them by easy stages
to Holby. Beatrice remained unconacioua. A
nurse waa procured, who traveled with her. The
condition of Beatrice waa the same which ahe de-
scribed in her diary. Great grief and extraordi*
nary sufl'oring and excitement had overtuiiked
the brain, and it had given way. So Deapuid
and Langhetti conjectured.

At last they reached Holby. They drove nt
once to Thornton Grange.

"What is this ?" cried Mrs. Thornton, who had
heard nothing from them, and ran out upon the
pinzza to meet them as alie saw them coming.

"I have found Bice," said Langhetti, "and
have brought her here."

"Where is she?"

' ' There, " said I..anghetti. ' ' I give her to your
care — it is for you to give her back to me."

CHAFIEU XXXIV.

ON THE TRACK.

Beatrice's disappearance was known at Bran-
don Hall on the following day. Tho servants
first made the discoverj'. They found her ab-
sent from her room, and no one had seen her
about the house. It was an unusual thing tor
her to be out of the house early in the day, and
of late for many months she had scarcely ever
left her i-oom, 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 dare to tell Iim, but first
sought to find her by themselves. They called
Mrs. Compton, and the fear which peiT)etually
possessed the mind of this poor, timid creature
now rose to a positive frenzy of anxiety and
dread, t^he told all that she knew, and that v.as
that she had seen her the evening before as usu-
al, and had left her at ten o'clock.

No satisfaction therefore could be gained from
her. The sen-ants tried to find traces of her,
but were unable. At length toward evening, on
Potts's return from the bank, the news was com-
municated to him.

CORD AND CREESE.

187

The niffe of I'ottii nnod not Ite detcrihod here.
Thttt one who had twite defied nhould now en-
CM|>e liiin fliled him with fury. He orKani/e<i nil
hiM servant* into bnndii, and they woiired the
grounds till durknc«« put an end tu these ofiera-
UonH.

'Iliat evening I'ottH nnd hi« two romiHUiionit
dined in ni<K)dy mlence, only cunvertiing l>y HtM
und RtartK.

" I don't think she'ii killed hernelf," Haid Potts,
in reply to an observation of Clark. " ^he's got
stuff enough in her to do it, but I don't lielieve
she has. She's playing a deeper game. I only
wiith we rould flsh up her dead lM>dy out of Hoino
pond ; it would (juiet matters down very con.xid-
erable. "

"If she's got off she's taken with her some
secrets that won't do us any good," rcmarke<l
John.

"The devil of it is," said Potts, "we don't
know how much she does know. She must know
u precious lot, or she never would have dared to
say ^'•hnt 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 nil locked."

"It's my opinion," exclaimed John, "that
ohris in the grounds yet."

Potts shook hi.s head.

"After what she told mo it's my belief she
can do any thing. Why, didn't she tell u» of
crimes that were committed liefore she was bom ';'
I l)egin 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 up and down. The
others sat in gloomy silence.

" Could that Hong Kong nurse of hers have
told her any thing?" asked Jolm.

" She didn't know any thing 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 besides 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 uneassy, as though there was something in
her that would some day be dangerous. I didn't
want you to send for her. "

" Well, the mischiefs done now."

" Youre 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 cntching her
again at all hazards. "

There wan a long silence.

"Twenty years ago," said Potts, moodily,
"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 yon, lads, you've got the devil to do
v\-ith when you tackle her," remarked Clark;
"but if she is the devil we must fight it out
and crush her. "

"Twenty-three years. " continued Potts, in the

fame gloomy tone — "twenty-three years have

passed since I was captured with my followers.

No one has mentioned that since. No one in all

the world knows that I am the only Eiiglithman
that ever joined the I'hiigi except \hn* girl."

"She must know every thing that -vo have
done," said Clark.

"Of course she must."

"Including our Brandon enterprise," uid
John.

" And inci ' iding your penmanthlp, " iaid Clark ;
"enough, LiU. to stretch « neck."

"Come," uid Potu, "don't let u$ talk of
this, any how."

Again they relapsed into silence.

"Well!" exclaimed John, at last, "what are
yon going to do to-morrow ?"

"Chase her till I find her," replied PotU,M¥-
ogely.

"But where?"

" I've been thinking of a plan which seems to
me to lie about the thing."

"What?"

"A good old plan," said Pottt. " Your pup,
Johnnie, can help us."

John |>ounded his fist on the table with savage
exultation.

".My blood-hound! Good, eld Dad, what a
trump vou are to think of that !"

"He II do it!"

"Yes," said John, "if he gets on her track
and coines up with her I'm a little afraid that
well arrive at the spot just too late to save her.
It's the l)est way that I know of for getting rid
of the difficulty handsomely. Of course we are
going after her through anxiety, and the dog is
nn innocent pup who comes with us ; and if any
disaster hap|)ens ve will kill him on the spot."

Potts shook his head moodily. He had no verv
hopeful feeling aknit this. He was shaken to the
soul at the thought of this stem, relentless girl
earning out into the world his terrific secret.

Early on the following morning they resumed
their search after the lost girl. This time the
servants were not employed, but the three them-
selves went forth to tiy what they could do.
With them was the " pujf)" to which allusion had
been made on the previous evening. This ani-
mal was a huge blood-hound, which John had
jitirchased to take the place of his bull-dog, and
of which he was extravagantly proud. True to
his instinct, the hound underetood from smelling
an article of Beatrice's apparel what it was that
he was required to seek, and he went oft' 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
brushwood. The dog led t'lem round and round
wherever Beatrice had wandered in her flight
from Vijal. They all believed that they would
certainly fint! her here, and that she had lost her
way or at lea'-f tried to conceid 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
he reached the Park wall. Here the animal
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 that we've got to do is to
put the dog over, and follow on."

CORD AND CREESE.

ER THE WALL SOMEHOW.

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 n *, however, wish to seem like pur-
suers. That would hardly be the tiling in a coun-
try of law and order. The2' 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 car-
riage. They had gone too far, however, to rem-
edy 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 .'t a place by the road-side, and snuffed
in all dirc'^tions. The others watched him anx-
iously 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 bis 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 wagon. Yes, tliat's
it. That's the reason why the trail has 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 we can
do. Let one of us go to the inns that are near-
est, and ask if there was a girl in the coach that
looked like her, or make any inquiries that may
be needed. We could find out that much at any
rate."

The others assented. John swore he was too
tired. At length, after some conversation, they
all deteiTnined to go on, and to hire a carriage
back. Accordingly on they went, and soon reach-
ed an inn.

Here they made inquiries, but could learn no-
thing whatever about any giil that had stopjied
there. Potts then hired a carriage and drove off
to the next inn, leaving the others behind. He
returned in about two hours. His face bore an
expression of deep perplexity.

" Well, what huk, dad'/" asked John.

" There's the devil to pay," growled Potts.

"Did you find her?" .

CORD AND CREESE,

189

"There is a girl at the next inn, and it's her.
Now what name do vou think they call her by ?"'

"What?" ' .

" Miss Despard."

Claric turned paie and looked at John, who
gave a long, low whistle.

' ' Is she alone ? ' asked John.

" No — that's the worst of it. A reverend gent
is with her, who has charge of her, and says he
is her brother. "

"Who?"

" Ilis name is Couitenay Despard, son of Col-
onel Lionel Despard," said I'otts.

The others returned his look in utter bewil-
derment.

" I've been thinking and thinking," said Potts,
" but I haven't got to the bottom of it yet. We
can't do any thing just now, that's evident. I
found out that this reverend gent is on his way
to Holby, where he is rector. The only thing
left for us to do is to go quietly home and look
about us."

"It seems to me that this is like the begin-
ning of one of those monsoon storms," said Clark,
gloom Uy.

The others said nothing. In a short time
they were on their way back, moody and silent.

CHAPTER XXXV.
Beatrice's recovery.

It was not easy for the overtasked and over-
worn powers of Beatrice to rally. Weeks pass-
ed before she opened her eyes to a recognition
of the world around her. It was March when
she sank down by the road-side. It was June
when she began to recover from the shock of
the terrible excitement through which she had
passed.

Loving hearts sympathized with her, tender
hands cared for her, vigilant eyes watched her,
and all that love and care could do were unre-
mittingly exerted for her benefit.

As iJeatiice opened her eyes after her long un-
consciousness she looked around in wonder, rec-
ognizing nothing. Then they rested in equal
wonder upon one who stood by her bedside.

She was slender and fragile in form, with del-
icate features, whose fine lines seemed rather like
ideal beauty than real life. The eyes were large,
dark, lustrous, and filled w'tli a wonderful but
mournful beauty. Yet a'i the features, so ex-
quisite in their loveliness were transcended by
the expression that dwelt upon them. It was
pure, it was spiritual, it was holy. It was the
face of a saint, such a face as appears to the rapt
devotee when fasting has done its work, and the
quickened imagination grasps at ideal forms till
the dwellers in heaven seem to become visible.

In her confused mind Beatrice at first had a
faint fancy that she was in another state of exist-
ence, and that the form before Iier was one of those
jmre intelligences who had been appointed to
welcome her tliere. Perhaps there was some
fnch thought visible upon her face, for the stran-
ger came up to her noiselessly, and stooping
do\vn, kissed her.

"You are among friends," said she, in a low,
sweet voice. ' ' You have been sick long. "

"AVhereamI?"

"Among loving friends,'" said the other, " fiu
away from the place where you suffered."

Beatrice sighed.

" I hoped that I had passed away forever,"
she murmured.

"Not yet, not yet," said the stranger, in a
voice of tender yet mournful sweetness, which
had in it an uiif<ithomable depth of meaning.
" We must wait on here, dear friend, till it. be
His will to call us."

"And who are j-ou?" asked Beatrice, after a
long and anxious look at the face of the speaker.

" My name is Edith Brandon, "' said the other,
gently.

"Brandon! — Edith Brandon!" cried Bea-
trice, with a vehemence which contrasted strange-
ly with the scarce-audible words with which she
had just spoken.

The stranger smiled with the same melancholy
sweetness which she had shown before.

"Yes," said she; "but do not agitate your-
self, dearest."

"And have you nursed me?"

" Partly. But you are in the house of one who
is like an angel in her loving care of you."

"But you — you?" pereisted Beatrice; "you
did not perish, then, as they said ?"

" No," replied the stranger ; " it was not per-
mitted me."

"Thank God !" murmured Beatrice, fenently.
"//e has one sorrow less. Did fie save you ?"

" He," said Edith, " of whom you speak does
not know that I am alive, nor do I know where
he is. Yet some day we will ])erhaps meet. Ani
now you must not speak. You will agitate your-
self too much. Here you have those who love
you. For the one who brought you here is one
who would lay down his life for yours, dearest —
he is Paolo Langhetti."

"Langhetti!" said Beatiice. "Oh, God be
thanked !"

" And she who has taken you to her heart and
home is his sister. "' •

"His sister Teresa, of whom he used to speak
so lovingly ? Ah ! God is kinder to me than I
feared. Ah, me ! it is as though I had died and
have awaked in heaven."

"But now I will speak no more, and you must
speak no more, for you will only increase your
agitation. Kest, and another time you can ask
what you i)lease,"

Edith turned away and walked to one of the
windows, where she looked out pensively upon
the sea.

From this time Beatrice began to recover rap-
idly, Langhettis sister seemed to her almost
like an old friend since she had been associated
with some of her most pleasant memories. An
atmosphere of love was around her: the poor
sufferer inhaled the pure and life-giving air, and
strength came with every breath.

At length she was able to sit up, and then
Langhetti saw her. He greeted her with all
the ardent and impassioned warmth which was
so striking a characteristic of his impulsive and
affectionate nature. Then she saw I)es])ard.

There was something about this man which
filled her with indefinable emotions. The knowl-
edge which she had of the mysterious fate of his
father did not repel her from him, A wonderful
and subtle sympathy seemed at once to arise be-
tween the two. The stem face of Despard as-

CORD AND CREESE.

'AS DliATRICE OI'ENKD HER EYES AFTER HER LONG UNCONSCIOUSNESS SH^ LOOKED

AROUND IN WONDER."

sumed a softer and more genial expression when
he saw her. His tone was gentle and aflfection-
ate, almost paternal.

What was the feeling that arose within her
heart toward this man ? With the one for her
father who had inflicted on his father so terrible
a fate, how did she dare to look him in the face
or exchange words with him? Should slie not
rather shrink away as once she shrank from
Brandon ?

Yet she did not shrink. His presence brought
a strange peace and calm over her soul. His in-
fluence was more potent over her than that of
Langhetti. In this strange company he seemed
to her to be the centre and the chief.

To Beatrice Edith was an impenetrable mys-
tery. Her whole manner excited her deepest
reverence and at the same time her strongest cu-
riosity. The fact that she was his sister would
of itself have won her heart ; but there were oth-
er things about her which affected her strangely.

Edith moved among the others with a strange,
far-off air, an air at once full of gentle affection,
yet preoccupied. Her manner ir.'ijcated lo.e,
yet the love of one who was far above them, f-he
was like some grown person associating with
young children whom he loved. " Her soul was
like a star and dwelt apart. "

Paolo seemed more like an equal ; but Paolo
himself approached equality only because he could

CORD AND CREESE.

I4i

understand her best. lie alone could enter into
conimuiiiou with her. liuatrice noticed a pro-
fuund iind unalterable leveience in his man-
ner toward Editli, which was like that which a
son might j)ay a moiher, yet more delicate and
more chivalrous. All this, however, was beyond
her comprehension.

She once questioned Mrs. Thornton, btit re-
ceived no satisfaction. Mrs. Thornton looked
mysterious, but shook her head.

" Your brother treats her like a divinity."

"I suppose he thinks she is something more
than mortal."

"Do you have that awe of her which I feel ?"

" Yes : and so does every one. I feel toward
Iier as though she belonged to another world.
t?he takes no interest in this."

"She nursed me."

"Oh yes! P>ery act of love or kindness
which she can perform she seeks out and does,
but now as you grow better she falls back upon
herself."

Surrounded by such friends as these Beatrice
rapidly regained her strength. Weeks went on,
and at length she began to move about, to take
long rides and drives, and to stroll through the
Vark.

Daring these weeks Paolo made known to her
his plans. She embraced them eagerly.

" You have a mission, " said he. " It was not
fL)r nothing that your divine voice was given to
you. I have written my opera under the most
extraordinary circumstances. You know what
it is. Never have I been able to decide how it
should be represented. I have prayed for a
Voice. At my time of need you were thrown in
my way. My Bice, God has sent you. Let us
labor together."

Beatrice grasped eagerly at this idea. To be
a singer, to interpret the thoughts of Langhet-
li, seemed delightful to her. Slie woidd then be
dependent on no friend. She would be her own
mistress. She would not be forced to lead a life
of idleness, with her heart i)reying upon itself
Music would come to her aid. It would be at
once the purpose, the employment, and the de-
light of her life. If there was one thing to her
which could alleviate sorrow and grief it was the
exultant joy which was ci-eated within her by the
Divine Art — that Art which alone is common to
earth and heaven. And for Beatrice there was
this joy, that she had one of those natures which
was so sensitive to music that under its power
heaven itself appeared to open before her.

All these were lovers of music, and therefore
lia<l delights to which common mortals are stran-
gers. To the soul which is endowed with the
capacity for understanding the delights of tone
there are joys peculiar, at once pure and enduring,
which nothing else that this world gives can equal.

Langhetti was the high-priest of this charmed
circle. Edith was the presiding or inspiring di-
>iuitj'-. Beatrice was the medium of utterance
— the Voice that brought down heaven to earth.

Mrs. Thornton and Despard stood apart, the
recipients of the sublime effects and holy emo-
tions which the others wrought out within them.

Edith was like the soul.

I.Anghetti like the mind.

Beatrice resembled the material element by
which the spiritual is communicated to man.
Hers was the Voice which spoke.

I.4inghetti thought that they as a trio of pow-
ers formed a meaiis of comnmnicating new reve-
lations to man. It was natural indeed that he
in his high and generous enthusiasm should have
some such thoughts as these, and should look for-
ward with delight to the time when his work
should first be performed. Edith, who lived and
moved in an atmosphere beyond human feeling,
was above the level of his enthusiasm ; but Bea-
trice caught it all, and in her own generous anc-
susceptible nature this jjui-pose of Langhetti pro-
duced the most powerful ettects.

In the church where Mrs. Thornton and Des-
pard had 80 often met there was now a new per-
fonnance. Here Langhetti played. Be trice
sang, Edith smiled as she heard the expres-
sion of heavenly ideas, and Despard and Mrs.
Thornton found themselves borne away from all
common thoughts by the power of that sublime
rehearsal.

As time pas.sed and Beatrice grew stronger
Langhetti became more impatient about his op-
era. The voice of Beatrice, always marvelous,
had not suffered during her sickness. Nay, if
any thing, it had grown better; her soul had
gained new susceptibilities since Langhetti last
saw her, and since she could understand more
and feel more, her expression itself had liecome
more subtle and refined. So that Voice which
Langhetti had always called divine had put forth
new powers, and he, if he believed himself the
High-Priest and Beatrice the Pythian, saw that
her inspiration had grown more deUcate and
more profound.

"We will not set up a new Delphi," said he.
"Our revelations are not new. We but give
fresh and extraordinary emphasis to old aud
eternal truths."

In preparing for the great work before them it
was necessary to get a name for Beatrice. Her
own name was doubly abhoiTent — first, from her
own life-long hate of it, which later circumstances
had intensified ; and, secondly, from the dam-
ning efl'ect which sucli a name would have on the
fortune of any artiste. Langhetti wished her to
take his name, but Despard showed an extraor-
dinary pertinacity on this point.

"No," said he, "I am personally concerned
in this. I adopted her. She is my sister. Her
name is Despard. If she takes any other name
I shall consider it as an intolerable slight."

He expressed himself so strongly that Beatrice
could not refuse. Formerly she would have con-
sidered that it was infamous for her to take that
noble name ; but now this idea had become weak,
and it was with a strange exultation that she yield-
ed to the solicitations of Despard.

Langhetti himself yielded at once. His face
bore an expression of delight which seemed in-
explicable to Beatrice. She asked him why he
felt such j)Ieasure. Was not an Italian name bet-
ter for a singer ? Despard was an English name,
and, though aristocratic, waa not one which a
great '" "Ter might have.

"I am thinking of other things, my Bicina."
said Langhetti, who had never given up his old,
fond, fratenial manner toward her. " It has no
connection with art. I do not consider the mere
effect of the name for one moment."

" What is it, then, that you do consider?"

"Other things."

"What other things?"

142

CORD AKD CREESE.

" Not connected with Art, "continued Langhet-
ti, evasively. " 1 will tell you some day when the
time comes."

"Now you are excitin^^ my curiosity," said
Beatrice, in a low and earnest tone. " You do
nftt know what thoughts you excite within me.
Either you ought not to excite such ideas, or if
you do, it is your duty to satisfy them."

"It is not time yet."

"What do you mean by that?"

"That is a secret."

" Of course ; you make it one ; but if it is one
connected with me, then surely I ought to know."

" It is not time yet for you to know,"

" When will it be time ?"

"I cannot telL"

"And you will therefore keep it a secret tor-
ever?"

"I hope, my Bicina, that the time will come
before long."

"Yet why do you wait, if you know or even
suspect any thing in which 1 am concerned ?"

"I wish to spare you."

"That is not necessary. Am I so weak tiiat
I can not bear to hear any thing which you may
have to tell ? You forget what a life I have had
for two years. Such a life might well prepare
me for any thing."

"If it were merely something which might
create sorrow I would tell it. I believe that
you have a self-reliant nature, which has grown
stronger through affliction. But that which, I
have to tell is different. It is of such a charac-
ter that it would of necessity destroy any. peace
of mind which you have, and fill you with hopes
and feelings that could never be satisfied."

"Yet even that I coidd bear. Do you not
fee that by your very vagueness you are exciting
my thoughts and hopes ? You do not know what
I know."

' ' What do you know ?" asked liiEghetti, ea-
gerly.

Beatrice hesitated. No; she could not tell.
That would be to tell all the holiest secrets of
lier heart. For she must then tell about Bran-
don, and the African island, and the manuscript
which he carried and which had been taken from
his bosom. Of this she dared not speak.

She waB silent.

"You can not know any thing," said Lan-
ghetti. " You may suspect much. I only have
suspicions. Yet it would not be wise to com-
municate these to you, since they would prove
idle and without result."

So the conversation ended, and Langhetti still
maintained his secret, though Beatrice hoped to
find it out.

At length she was sufficiently recovered to be
able to begin the work to which Langhetti wished
to lead her. It was August, and Langhetti was
impatient to be gone. So when August began he
made preparations to depart, and in a few days
they were in London. Edith v— s left with Mrs.
Thornton. Beatrice had an attendant who went
with her, half chaperon half lady's maid.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE AFFAIRS OF SMITUER8 A CO.

For more than a year the vast operations of
Smithers & Co. had astonished business circles
in London. Formerly they had been consid-
ered as an eminently respectable house, and as
doing a safe business ; but of late all this had
been changed in so sudden and wonderful a man-
ner that no one could account for it. Leaving
aside their old, cautious policy, they undertook
without hesitation the largest enterprises. For-
eign railroads, national loans, vast joint-stock
companies — these were the things that now occu-
pied Smithers & Co. The Barings themselves
were outrivaled, and Smithers & Co. reached the
acme of their sudden glory on one occasion, when
they took the new Spanish loan out of the grasp
of even the Rothschilds themselves.

How to account for it became the problem.
For, allowing the largest possible success in their
former business to Smithers & Co., that business
had never been of sufficient dimensions to allow
of this. Some said that a rich Indian had be-
come a sleeping partner, others declared that the
real Smithers was no more to be seen, and that
the business was managed by strangers who had
bought them out and retained their name. Otli-
erS again said that Smithers & Co. had made
large amounts in California mining speculations.
At length the general belief was, tha* some indi-
viduals who had made millions of money in C'aU-
fomia had bought out Smithers & Co. , and were
now doing business under their name.

As to their soundness there was no question.
Their operations were such as demanded, first of
all, ready money in unlimited quantities. This
they were always able to command. Between
them and the Bank of England there seemed
to be the most perfect understanding and tlie
most enviable confidence. The Rothschilds spoke
of them with infinite respect. People began to
look upon them as the leading house in Eurojje.
The sudden apparition of this tremendous power
in the commercial world threw that world into a
state of consternation which finally ended in won-
dering awe.

But Smithers & Co. continued calmly, yet suc-
cessfully, their great enterj)rises. The Russian
loan of fifteen laillions was negotiated by them.
They took twenty millions of the French loan,
five millions of the Austrian, and two and a
half of the Turkish. They took nearly all the
stock of the Lyons and Marseilles Railroad.
They owned a large portion of the stock of the
Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Com-
pany. They had ten millions of East India
stock. California alone, whi'-h was now daz-
zling the world, could account to the common
mind for such enormous wealth.

Tne strangest thing was that Smithers himself
was never seen. The business was done by his
subordinates. There was a young man who rep-
resented the houso in public, and who called
himself Henderso.i. He Avas a person of distin-
guished aspect, yet of resened and somewhat
melancholy manner. No one pretended to be
in his confidence. No one pretended to know
whether he was, clerk or partner. As he was
the only representative of Smithers & Co., lie
was treated with marked respect wherever he ap-
peared.

CORD AND CREESE.

143

The young man, whether partner or clerk, had
evidently the supreme control of affairs. He
swayed in his own hands the thunder-bolts of
this Olympian power. Nothing daunted him.
The grandeur of his enterprises dazzled the pub-
lic mind. His calm antagonism to the great
houses of London filled them with surprise. A
new power had seized a high place in the com-
mercial world, and the old gods — the Rothschilds,
the Barings, and others — looked aghast. At first
they tried to despise this interloper; at length
they found him at least as strong as themsftlves,
and began to fancy that he might be stronger. A
few experiments soon taught them that there was
no weakness there. On one occasion the Roths-
childs, true to their ordinary selfish policy, made
a desperate attempt to crush the new house which
dared to ent6r into rivalry with them. Wide-
spread plans were arranged in such a way that
large demands were made upon them on one day.
The amount was nearly two millions. Smithers
& Co. showed not the smallest hesitation. Hen-
derson, their representative, did not even take
the trouble to confer with the Bank of England.
He sent his orders to the Bank. The money was
furnished. It was the Directors of the Bank of
England who looked aghast at this struggle be-
tween Rothschild and Smithers & Co. The gold
in the Bank vaults sank low, and the next day
the rates of discount were raised. All London
felt the result of that struggle.

Smithers & Co. waited for a few months, and
then suddenly retorted with tenific force. The
obligations of the Rothschilds were obtained from
all quarters — some which were due were held over
and not presented till the appointed day. Obliga-
tions in many forms — in all the forms of indebt-
edness that may arise in a vast business — all these
had been collected from various quarters with
untiring industry and extraordinary outlay of
care and money. At last in one day they were
all poured upon the Rothschilds. Nearly four
millions of money were required to meet that
demand.

The great house of Rothschild reeled under the
blow. Smithers & Co. were the ones who ad-
ministered it. James Rothschild had a private
interview with the Directors of the Bank of En-
gland. There was a sudden and enormous sale
of securities that day on 'Change. In selling out
such large amounts the loss was enormous. It
was difficult to find purchasers, but Smithers &
Co. stepped forward and bought nearly all that
was offered. The Rothschilds saved themselves,
of course, but at a terrible loss, which became the
profits of Smithers & Co.

The Rothschilds retreated from the conflict ut-
terly routed, and glad to escape disaster of a
worse kind. Smithers & Co. came forth victori-
ous. They had beaten the Rothschilds at their
own game, and had made at least half a mill-
ion. All London rang with the story. It was a
bitter humiliation for that proud Jewish house
which for years had never met with a rival. Yet
there was no help, nor was there the slightest
chance of revenge. They were forced to swallow
the result as best they could, and to try to regain
what they had lost.

After this the pale and melancholy face of
Henderson excited a deeper interest. This was
the man who had beaten the Rothschilds — the
strongest capitalist in the world. In his finan-

cial operations he continued as calm, as grave,
and as immovable as ever. He would risk mill-
ions without moving a muscle of his countenance.
Yet so sagacious was he, so wide-spread were his
agencies, so accurate was his secret information,
that his plans scarcely ever failed. His capital
was so vast that it often gave him control of the
market. Coming into the field untrammeled as
the older houses wore, he had a larger control of
money than any of them, and &x greater freedom
of action.

After a time the Rothschilds, th$ Barings, and
other great bankere, began to learn that Smith-
ers & Co. had vast funds every where, in all the
capitals of Europe, and in America. Even in
the West Indies their operations were extensive.
Their old Australian agency was enlarged, and a
new banking-house founded by them in Calcutta
began to act on the same vast scale as the lead-
ing house at London. Smithers & Co. also con-
tinued to carry on a policy which was hostile to
those older bankers. The Rothscliikls in partic-
ular felt this, and were in perpetual dread of a
renewal of that tremendous assault under which
they had once nearly gone down. They became
timid, and were compelled to arrange their busi-
ness so as to guard against this possibility. This,
of coui-se, checked their operations, and widened
and enlarged the field of action for their rivals.

No one knew any thing whatever about Hen-
derson. None of the clerks could tell any thing
concerning him. They were all new hands.
None of them had ever seen Smithers. They all
believed that Henderson was the junior partner,
and that the senior spent bi« time abroad. From
this it began to be believed that Smithers staid in
California digging gold, which he diligently re-
mitted to the Ixmdon house.

At length the clerks began to speak mysteri-
ously of a man *vho came from time to time to
the oflBce, 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 Hen-
derson, if as old, and no one even knew his name.
If any thing could add to the inteiest with which
the house of Smithers & Co. was regarded it was
thisimpenetrablemysteiy, which baffled notmere-
ly outsiders but even the clerks themselves.

Shortly after the <leparture of Langhetti and
Beatrice from Holby two men were seated in the
inner parlor of the office of Smithers & Co. One
was the man kno^vn 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 morning,
Frank ?" eaid the senior partner.

" Yes," said Frank, turning them over ; " and
here, Louis, is one for you. " He took out a let-
ter from the pile and handed it to Louis. " It's
from your Brandon Hall correspondent, " he add-
ed.

Louis eat down and opened it. The letter was
as follows :

"^«yiM<15, 1849.

"Dear Sir, — I have had nothing in jwrticu-
lar to write since the flight of Miss Potts, except
to tell you what they were doing. I have already

CORD AND CKEESE.

LANGHETTI 18 ALIVE.

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 Lan-
ghettL 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 . 1 f 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 oommunicate,

"I remain, yours respectfullv,

"E. L.
"Mr. SMiTHBits, 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 yon something verv important."

'•Well!"

" Langhetti is alive."

"I know it."

" You knew it ! When ? Why did you not
tell me?"

" I didn't want to tell any thing that might
distract you from your purpose."

CORD AND CHEESE.

145

" I am not a child, Louis ! After my victoiy
over Kothscliild 1 ought to be worthy ot your con-
fidence."

"That's not the point, Frank," said Louis;
"but I itnow your attection for thfl man, and 1
thouglit you would give up all to tind him."

"Well!"

"Well. I thought it would be better to let
nothing interpose now between ns and our pur-
pose. No," he continued, with a stem tone,
" no, no one however dear, however loved, and
therefore I said nothing about Lungiietti. I
thought that your generous heart would only be
distressed. You would feel like giving up every
thing to find him out and see him, and, therefore,
I did not wi:-h 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 I" said Louis. " You will see
him, and we all will be able to meet some day."

" But," nsked Frank, "do you not think Lan-
ghetti is a man to be trusted 'i '

"That is not the point," replied Louis. "I
believe Langhetti is one of the noblest men that
ever lived. It must be so from what I ha.e
heard. All my life I will cherish his name and
try to assist him in every possiWe way. I be-
lieve also that if we requested it he might perhaps
keep our secret. But that is not the point, Frank.
'I'liis is the way I look at it : We are dead. Our
deaths have been recorded. Louis Brandon and
Frank Brandon have i)erished. I am Wheeler,
or Smithers, or Forsyth, or any body else ; you
are Henderson? We keep our secret because we
have a purpose before us. Our father calls us
from his tomb to its accomplishment. Our mo-
liier summons us. Our sweet sister Edith, from
her grave of horror unutterable, calls ns. 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 siiow your
gratitude, and so can I. He is going to hire an
opera-house to bring out an ojiera ; I saw that in
the papers. It is a thing full of risk, but he per-
haps 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 au-
dience ; 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 we give him a good start he will
succeed. That is the way to show your grati-
tude, Frank."

"I'll arrange all that!" said Frank. "The
house shall be crowded. Ill send an agent to
him — I can easily find out where he is, I sup-
pose — and make him an offer of Covent Garden
theatre on his own terms. Yes, Langhetti shall
luive a fair chance. I'll arrange a plan to enforce
success."

" Do so, and you will keep him permanently
in London till the time comes when we can arise
tVnm 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 Beatrice had
fallen among friends he well knew. He had
found this out when, afier receiving 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.
'I'hornton's. He had watched till she had recov
ered. He had seen her as she took a drive in
Thornton's carriage. He had left an agent there
to write him about her when he left.

What was he to do now ? He read the letter
over again. He paused at that sentence : ' ' 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."

What was the nature of this danger? Beatrice
was of age. Mie was with Langhetti. h he was
her ow n mistress. Could there l)e any danger
of her being taken back against her will ? 'I'he
villains at Brandon Hall were sufliciendy un-
scrupulous, but would they dare to commit any
violence ? and if they did, would not Langhetti s
protection save her ?

Such were his thoughts. Yet, on the other
hand, he considered the fact that she was inex-
perienced, and might have peculiar ideas about a
father's authority. If Potts came himself, de-
manding 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 justified in resist-
ing. The ])ossibility of this filled him with hor-
ror. The idea of her being 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 gidf unfath-
omable, impassable. She was one of that ac-
cursed brood which he was seeking to exterm-
inate. He would spare her if possible; he would
gladly lay down his life to save her fiom one mo-
ments misery ; but if she stood in the way of his
vengeance, could he — dared he stny that venge-
ance? For that he would sacrifice life itself!
Would he refuse to sacrifice even her if she were
more dear than life itself?

Yet here was a case in which she was no lon-
ger 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 England, he had watch-
ed over her, unseen himself and unsuspected by
her, and had followed her footsteps when she fled.
To desert her now was impossible. The only
question with him was — how to watch her or
guard her.

(Jne thing gave him comfort, and that was the
guardianship of Langhetti. This he thought
was sufficient to insure her safety. For surely
Langhetti would know the character of her ene-
mies as well as Beatrice herself, and so guard
her as to insure her safety from any attempt of
theirs. He therefore placed his chief reliance on
Langhetti, and determined merely to secure some
one 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

146

CORD AND CREESE.

idea never entered his mind for the simple reason
that he did nut think the danger was pressing.
England was after uU a country of law, and even
a father could nut <-arry off his daughter against
her will when she was uf uge. So he comforted
himself

" Well," said he, at laat, rousing himself 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 ho 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, holding 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 lead-
ing men of the county. I take good care that
they go there as baronets at least. Some are
lords. lie is overjwwered in the presence of
these lords, and gives them what they ask on
their own terms. In his letters he has made
some attempts at an expression of gratitude for
our great liberality. This I enjoyed somewhat.
The villain is not a difScult 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 arranged
that we may have ' the beginning of the end' as
soon as you choose."

"What are the debts of the Brandon Bank to
ns now ?"

"Five hundred and fifteen thousand one hun-
dred and fifty jjounds," said Frank.

"Five hundred thousand — very good," re-
turned Louis, thoughtfully. "And how is the
sum secured ?"

" Chiefly by acknowledgments from the bank
wth the indorsement of John Potts, Presi-
dent."

" What are the other liabilities?"

" He has implored me to purchase for him or
sell him some California stock. I have reluc-
tantly consented to do so," continued Frank,
with a sardonic smile, "entirely through the re-
quest of my senior, and he has taken a hundred
shares at a thousand pounds each."

"One hundred thousand pounds," said Louis.

"I consented to take his notes," continued
Frank, "purely out of regard to the recommenda-
tions of my senior."

" Any thing else ?" asked Louis.

" He urged me to recommend him to a good
broker who might purchase stock for him in re-
liable companies. I created a broker and recom-
mended him. He asked me also confidentially
to tell him which stocks were best, so I kindly
advised him to purchase the Mexican and the
Guatemala loan. I also recommended the
Venezuela bonds. I threw all these into the
market, and by dextrous manipulation raised the
price to 3 per cent, premium. He paid £103 for
every £100. When he wants to sell out, as he

may one day wish to do, he wtU be lucky if he
gets 35 per cent."

" How much did he buy?"

"Mexican loan, fifty thousand; Guatemala,
fiftv thousand ; and Venezuek bonds, fifty thou-
sand."

" 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, i)erhaps from our old advances, anil
bought them from the broker. The broker was
of course myself. The beauty of all this is, that
I send applicants for money, who give their
notes; he gets money from me 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 bona fide debtors in his ovm coun-
ty?"

"Oh yes, plenty of them; but more than
half of his advances have been made to my
men."

"Did von hint any thing about issuing
notes?"

" Oh yes, and the bait took wonderfully. He
made his bank a bank of issue at once, and sent
out a hundred and fifty thousand pounds in notes.
I think it was in this way that he got the money
for all that American stock. At any rate, it
helped him. As he has only a small supply of
gold in his vaults, yon may very readily conjec-
ture 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 Roths-
childs, it would be verj- different. There would
then be a chance for skill."

"You have had the chance."

"I did not wisli to ruin them," said Frank.
"Too many innocent people would have suf-
fered. 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
millions. 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 magnanimously 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 cduld 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.

CORD AND CREESE.

CHAPTER XXXVn.

THE " PROM ETHEUH."

It took some time fur Langhetti to mnke hia
preparations in London. Septemlier came be-
fore he had completed them. To his surprise
these prrangements were much easier than he
liad supposed. People came to him of their
own accord before he thought it possible that
they could have heard of his project. What
most surprised him was a call from the manager
of Covent Garden Theatre, who ottered to put it
into his hands for n price so low as to sur])risc
langhetti more than any thing else that had oc-
curred. Of course he accepted the otter grate-
fully and eagerly. Thu manager said that the
building was on hi» 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. lie re-
marked also that there was very much stock in
the theatre that coidd be made use of, for which
he would charge nothing whatever. Langhetti
went to see it, and found a large nunil)er of mag-
nificently 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
some one had been representing the "' Midsum-
mer Night's Dream," or something of that sort.

Langhetti's means were very limited, and as
he had risked every thing on tliis exfK riment 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. 'ITiey 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 de-
scribed in the most attractive and ettective man-
ner.

A large number of people presented themselves
to form his company, and he also received appli-
cations by letter from many whose eminence and
fortunes placed them above the need of any such
thing. It was simply incomprehensible! to Lan-
ghetti, who thoroughly understood the ways of
the musical world ; yet since they ottered 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
iissist in the representation 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 forms sake ; posi-
tively refusing to accept any thing more, and
leaving it to Langhetti either to take them on
their own terms or to reject them. He, of
course, could not reject aid so powerful and so
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
accounts for their respective journals.

" I don't know how it is," said he to Beatrice.
" Every thir^ 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 ;
some one who secretly put every thing in my I
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 it-
self. As it is I am simply perplexed and bewil-
dered. It is a thing that is without parallel. I
have a comjiany such as no one l:as ever before
gathered together on one stage. I have eminent
prima donnas who are quite willing to sing sec-
ond 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 the
thing is unexampled, and I can not comprehend
it. I have tried to find out from some of them
what it all means, but they give me no satisfac-
tion. At any rate, my Bicinu, you will make
your dil/ut under the most favorable circum-
stances. You saw how they admired your voice
at the rehearsal. The world shall admire it still
more at your first performance."

Langhetti was puzzled, and, as he said, bewil-
dered, 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 difliculties. After nil that had been done
for him he knew very well that ho was sure of a
good house, yet he worked as hard as though his
audience was very uncertain.

At length the appointed evening came. I>an-
ghetti had certainly expected a good house from
those happy accidents which had given liim the
co-o|)eration of the entire musical world and of
the i)ress. Yet when he looked out and saw the
house that waited for the rising of the 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 fame in the prima donna, or else the
most wide-spread and comprehensive efforts on
the part of a skillful impresario. His efforts had
been great, but not such as to insure any thing
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 ac-
cepted the situation, and prepared for the jier-
formance.

What sort of an idea that audience may have
had of the " Prometheus ' of Langhetti need
hardly be conjectured. They had heard of it aa
a novelty. Thay had heard that the company
was the best ever collected at one time, and that
the prima donna was a prodigy of genius. That
was enough for them. They waited in a state of
exp>ectation which was so high-pitched that it
would have proved disastrous in the extreme to
any piece,' or any finger who should have proved
to be in the slightest degree inferior. Consum-
mate 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
confidence in Beatrice.

At last the curtain rose.

The scene was such a one as had never before

148

CORD AND CREESE.

been r^>rctM!nted. A blaze of dazzling liKht filled
the stage, and before it stood Hevuii forms, repre-
senting the Heveii nrcliangelH. Thev begnn one
of the subliniext Htruiiis ever heard. Kiich of
the.sc HingerH lind in Hoino way won eminence.
They hud thrown tlit,ini«elves into thi^* work.
The nuiHic which had been given to them had
produced an exalted eti'uct upon their own hearts,
and now they rendered forth that grand "Chorus
of Angels" which those who heard the " I'ro-
methcus" have never forgotten. The words re-
sembled, in some measure, the ojicning song in
Go«ithes" Faust," but the music wiis Lunglietti's.

The eflf'ect of this ma;;niHcent o])ening wus
wonderful. The audience sat spell - Injund —
hushed into stillness by those transcendant har-
monies which seemed like the very song of the
angels themselves; like that "new song' which
is spoken of in Revelation. The grandeur of
Handel's stupendous chords was renewed, and
every one present felt its jiower.

Then came the second scene. IVometheus lay
Huftering. The ocean nymphs were around him,
sympathizing with iiis woes. The sufferer lay
chained to a bleak rock in the summit of frosty
Caucasus. Far and wide extended an expanse
of ice. In the distance arose a vast world of
snow-covered |)eaks. In front was a mer de ylace,
which extended all along the stage.

Prometheus addressed all nature — "the divine
other, the swift-winged winds, Earth the All-
mother, and the iuHnite laughter of the ocean
waves." The thoughts were those of iKschylus,
expressed by the music of Langhetti.

The ocean nymphs bewailed him in a song of
moumful sweetness, whose indescribable pathos
touched ever)' heart. It was the intensity of sym-
pathy — sympathy so profoimd that it became an-
guish, for the heart that felt it had identified it-
self with the heart of the sufferer.

Tiien followed an extraordinary strain. It was
the Vi.ice of Universal Nature, animate and in-
animate, mourning over the agony of the God of
Ix)ve. 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 l)east, all blending in extraordinary unison,
and all speaking of woe.

And now a third scene opened. It was Athene.
Athene represented Wisdom or Hnman Under-
standing, by which the God of Vengeance is de-
throned, and gives place to the eternal rule of the
(jod of Love. To but few of those present could
tills 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, bit 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 mar\elous beauty
— faultless in their perfect Grecian mould. Her
large, dark eyes looked with a certain solemn
meaning out upon the vast audience. Her whole
fice was refined and sublimed by the thought
that was within her. In her artistic nature she

had appropriated thi« chamcter to heraelf no
thoroughly, that, as he stixxl there, she felt her-
self to be in reality all that she represented. The
spectators caught the same feeling from her.
Yet »o marvelous was her l)eauty, so asKmish-
ing was the |)crfection of her form and feature,
so accurate was the living rejiresentation of tho
ideal goddess that tiie whole vast audience after
one glance hurst forth into pealing thunders of
spontaneous and irresistible applause.

Beatrice had ojwned her mouth to l)egin. but
as that thunder of admiration arose she fell back
b pace. Was it the ajiplause that had overawed
hor ?

Her eyes were fixed on one spot at the extreme
right of the pit. A face was there which en-
chained 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 a|)|)laiise. It was that face — the
one face among three thousn.iid before her, tho
one, the only one that she saw. Ah, how in
that moment all the jmst came rushing before
her — the Indian Ocean, the Malay pirate, where
that face first appeared, the Atlantic, the ship-
wreck, the long sail over the seas in the boat, the
African isle !

Mie stood so long in silence that the spectators
wondered.

Suddenly the face which had so transfixed her
sank down. He was gone, or he had hid him-
elf. Was it because he knew that he was the
cause of her silence ?

The face disappeared, and the spell was bro-
ken. Langhetti stood at the side-scenes, watch-
ing with deep agitation the silence of Beatrice.
He was on the point of taking the desperate
step of going forward when he saw that she had
regained her composure.

She regained it, and moved a step forward
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 bum in the music. Thus it wr.s
with the words in the opening song of Beatrice.

But the music ! 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-forget-
fulness. She ceased to be herself. Before the
audience she was Athene.

Her voice, always man-eiously rich and full,
was now grander and more capacious than ever.
It poured forth a full stream of matchless har-
mony 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 jxjwer that
penetrated every heart, and thrilled ".11 who heard
it. Roused to the highest enthusiasm by the
sight of that vast assemblage, Beatrice gave her-
self up to the intoxication of the hour. She
threw herself into the spirit of the ])iece ; she
took deep into her heart the thought of Lan-
ghetti, and nttered it forth to the listeners with
harmonies that were almost divine — such har-
monies as they had never before heard.

There was the silence of death as she sang.
Her voice stilled all other sounds. Each listen-

CORD AND CREESE.

149

•'the appearance op BEATRICE WAS LIKE A NEW REVELATION."

er seemed almost afraid to breathe. Some look-
ed at one another in amazement, but most of
them sat motionless, with their heads stretched
forward, nnconsciuus of any thing except that
one voice.
At last it ceased. For a momeut 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
sutilime outburst, a frenzy of acclamation, such
as is heard but seldom, but, once heaid, is never
forgotten.

110

CORD AND CREESE.

Befltric« mm Wlii out. R(te came, and re-
tireii. Again Hd Mtin ithe wom called. Fluw-
•n were iihuwered (Town in henfM at her feet.
The nccluniutioiiH went on, and only feuited
tlin)ugh the comtciouHiieMM that more wim yet to
come. The piece went on. It wait one long
triumph. At la«t it ended. Ueatrico had been
loaded with honon. I^nghetti waa called out
and welcomeil with almost eipial enthutiasni.
Hi:* even tilled with tcarii of joy m he received
thJH well-merited tribute to hist gcniu8. He and
Beatrice ittood on the stage at the name time.
Flower* were flung at him. He took them nnd
laid them at the feet of Hbatrice.

At thin a louder roar of Hccliimntion arose. It
increuHed and dcefiened, nnd the two who ittood
theie felt overwhelmed by the tremendoua ap-
plause.

So ended the flrst representation of the " Pro-
metheus!"

CHAITER XXXVIII.

THE SKCKET.

The triumph of Beatrice continued. The
doily iiajjers were filled with accounts of the new
linger. She had come suddenly Inifore them,
and had at one bound reached the highest emi-
nence. She had eclipsed all the (x^pulur favor-
ites. Her sublime strains, her glorious enthusi-
asm, her marvelous voice, her jierfect beauty, all
kindled the popular heart. The |>eople forgave
her for not having an Italian name, since she
had one which was so aristocratic. Her whole
ap])earance showed that she was something very
dirterent from the common order of artistes, as
diHerent, in fact, as tlie "Prometheus" was
fiom the common order of operas. For here in
the ' ' Prometheus' there were no endless iterations
of the one theme of love, no jwrpetual rejjetitions
of the same rhyme of amore and cuore, or amor
and caor ; but rather the effort of the soul after
Bublimer mysteries. The ' * Prometheus" sought
to solve the problem.of life nnd of human suffer-
ing. Its divine sentiments brought hope and
consolation. The great singer rose to the alti-
tude 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 po)>ular favorite.
She had no archness or coquetry like some, no
voluptuousness like others, no arts to win ap-
plause 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 hu-
man ears. She sang loftily, thrillingly, as an
angel might sing, and those who saw her re-
vered her while they listened.

And thus it was that the fame of this new sing-
er went quickly through England, and foreign
journals spoke of it half-wonderingly, hnlf-cyn-
ically, as usual ; for Continentals never have any
faith in English art, or in tlie power which any
E'lglishman may have to interpret art. The
leading French journals conjectured that the
" Prometheuft" was of a religious character, and
therefore Puritanical ; and consequently for that
reason was popular. They amused themselves
with the idea of a Puritanical opera, declared

that the F.ngllah wl«h%d to Proteitantize muair,
and miggcsted "Calvin" or "The SablMth" at
g<H)d Huiijects for thi« now and entirely Engliah
class of o|i«rai<.

Hut soon the corres])ondentM of some of the
Continental papem Iwgan to write gh)wing ac-
counts of the piece, and to put Langlietti in the
same class with Handel. He was an Italian,
lh«v said, but in this case he united Italian grace
and versatility with (iennan solemnity and mel-
ancholv. Thoy declared that he -vhs ihe great-
est of living composers, and promised for him a
great reputation.

Night after night the rcpreKcutntion of the "Pro-
metheus" went on with uiuliniiiiished success;
and with a larger and )>rofoundcr appreciation of
its meaning among the better class of minds.
I^anghctti liegan to show a stronger and fuller
confidence in the success of his piece than he had
yet dared to evince. Yet now its success seemed
assured. What more could he wish ?

September came on, and every succeeding
night only nuido the success more marked. One
day J^tiiglictti was with Beatrice at tlie theatre,
and they wore talking of many things. There
seemed to be something on his mind, for he sfwke
in an abstracted manner. Beatrice noticed this
at last, and mentioned 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 me, nnd that you would tell
it to me when the time came. Has not the time
come yet ?"

"Not yet," answered Langhctti.

"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? Sure-
ly I have gone through enough suffering to bear
this, even if it bring something additional."

I^anghetti looked at her long and doubtfulljr.

"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 sighe<l.

"Is it something that you know for certain,-
or is it only conjecture ?"

"Neither," said he, "but half-way between
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 al)out my mother 1 '

Langhetti looked at her with a startled ex-
pression.

"Is it not?"

He bowed his head.

" It is — it is. And if so, I implore — I con-
jure 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 may tell you soon."

CORD AND CREESE.

151

• •*8ay you will."

" I will," said Langhetti, after a itruggl*.

"When?"

"Soon."

•• Why not to-morrow ?"

"ThHt it too iHxin ; you are impatient."

"Of cotirHe I nra," Huid Heatrice. "Ought I
not to bo so ? Have you not Maul that thiii con-
cerns me ? and i^ not all my inuigination aroused
in the endeavor to fonn a conjecture as to what
it may be ?"

She 8[K)ke so earnestly that I.anKhetti was
moved, and looked still more undecided.

" When will you tell me ?"

"Soon, perhaps,* be re|>licd, with some hesi-
tation.

" Why not now ?"

"Oh no, I must assure myself first about some
things."

" To-morrow, then."

He hesitated.

" Yes," said she ; " it mn.'ft be to-morrow. If
you do not, I shall think tiiitt you have little or
nocontidence in me. i siiall ex|iect it to-morrow. "

Langhetti was silent.

"I shall expect it to-morrow," repeated Bea-
trice.

Langhetti still continued silent.

"Oh, very well ; lilencc gives consent I" said
she, in a livelv tc ..

" I have not .msented."

" Yes you have, by your silence."

" I was deliberating."

" I asked you twice, and y-ni did not refuse;
surely that means consent."

" I d(j 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 nie."

" 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 letter. 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 sus-
pense.'

"That is impossible."

" You would not say so if you knew what it
was."

"Tell me, then."

"That is what I fear to do."

"iJo you fear for me, or for some other per-
son?"

"Only for you."

" Do not fear for me, then, I beseech you ; for
it is not only my desire, but ly prayer, that I
may know this."

Langhetti seemed to be in deep perplexity.
Whate\ er this secret was with which he was so
troubled he seemed afraid to tell it to Beatrice,
either f.om fear that it might not be any thing in
itself or result in any thing, or, as seemed more
probal)le, lest it might too greatly att'ect her.
This last was the motive which appeared to in-
fluence him most strongly. Jn either case, the
secret of which he spoke must have been one of
a highly important character, affecting most deep-
ly the life and fortunes of Beatrice herself. Mie
had foiined her own ideas and her own expecta-

tions almut it, and this mndo her all the more
urgent, und e\en |>eremptory, in her demand.
In fact, things had come to such a point that
langhetti found himself no h>nger able to refuse,
and now only «ought how to postpone his di-
vulgence of h's secret.

Yet even this Beatrice comliated, and w >uld
listen to no later |>oHt|)onement than the morrow.

At length, after long resistance to her demand,
lianghetti assetited, and promised on the morrow
to tell her what it was that he had meant by Ins
secret.

For, as she gathered from his conversatiyn, it
was something that he had first discovered in
I long 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. Tiiat proof, un-
fortunately, he was not able to find, and he coidd
only tell his conjectures.

It was for these, then, that Beatrice waited in
anxious expectation.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE CAB.

That evening Beatrice's leifomiance had been
greeted with louder applause than usual, and,
what was more gratifying to one like her, the ef-
fective j)as.sages had l)een listened to with a still-
ness which spoke more loudly than the loudest
applau.se of the deep interest of the audience.

Langlietti had almost always driven home with
her, but on this occasion he had excused himself
on account of some business in ihe theatre which
rc(|uired liis attention.

On going out Beatrice could not find the cab-
man whom she had employed. After looking
around for him a long time she found that he
had gone. She was surjjrised and vexed. At
the same time she could not account for this, but
thought that ])erhaps he had been drinking and
had forgotten all aliout her. On making this
discovery she was on the point of going back and
telling Langhetti, but a cabman followed her
[)ersistently, promising to take her wherever she
wished, and she thought that it v\-ould be foolif.h
to trouble Langhetti about so small a matter;
so that at length she decided to employ the per-
severing cabman, thinking that he could take her
to her lodgings as well as any body else.

The cabman started off at a rapid pace, and
w jnt on through street after street, while Bea-
trice sat thinking of the evening's performance.

At last it seemed to her that she had l)een a
much longer time than usual, and she began to
fear that the cabman had lost his way. She
l((oked out. They were going along the 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. Siie
rapped at the glass to make him hear, but he
took no notice. 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 than is common in the streets
of London, but where she was going she could
not conjecture. -. »

ISS

CORD AND CREESE.

Slje was not afraid. Her chief feeling was one
of indignation. Either tiie cabman was drunk
— or what 'i Could lie have l)een hired to carry
her off to her enemie?* ? Was she betrayed ?

This thought flashed like lightning through
her mind.

She was not one who would sink down into in-
action at the sudden onset of terror. Her chief
feeling now was one of indignation at the audaci-
ty of such an attempt. Obeying the first impulse
that seized her, she took the solid roll of music
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, turning a
corner, he whipped up his horses, and they gal-
loped on faster than ever.

"if you don't stop 111 call for help!" cried
Beatrice.

The driver's only answer was a fresh applica-
tion 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 ga? -lamps were the chief means of
illumination.

Yet there was a chance that the police might
save her. With this hope she dashed her music
scroll against the windows on each side of the
cab and shivered them to atoms, calling at the \
toj) of her voice for help. The swift rush of the j
cab and the sound of a woman's voice shouting
for aid aroused the police. They started for>vard.
But the horses were rushing so swiftly that no
one dared to touch them. The driver seemed to
them to have lost control. They thought that
the horses were nmning away, and that those
within the cab were frightened.

Away they went through street after street,
and Beatrice never ceased to call. The excite-
ment which was created by the runaway horses
did not abate, and at length when the driver
stopped a policeman hurried up.

'riie house before which the cab stopped was a
plain two-story one, in a quiet-looking 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.

" 11^1]) !" she cried ; " I implore help. This
tvretch 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 I 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, bit-
terly. "I am of age. And you, ' said she to
the policeman, "I demand your help. I put
myself under j'our protection, and order you
cither to take that man in charge or to let me
go to mv home."

' ' ( )h," my daughter !" cried Potts. ' ' Will you
still be relentless ?"

"Help me !" cried Beatrice, and she 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-statica —
any where rather than leave me here !"

"You can not," said Potts to the bewildered
policeman. "Listen. She is my daughter and
uyder age. She ran away with a strolling Italian
\ agabond, with whom she is leading an improper
Hfe. I have got her back."

" It's false !" cried Beatrice, vehemently. " I
fled from this man's house because I feared his
violence. "

" That is an idle story," said Potts.

"Save me!" '~ried 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 yon do go
to the station-house you'll have to be handed back
tome. You are under age."

" It's false !" cried Beatrice. " I am twenty."

" No, you are not more than seventeen."

"Langhetti can prove that I am twenty."

"How? I have documents, and 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 morose 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 af-
fections in Hong Kong."

"You well know the reason why I left your
roof," replied Beatrice, with calm and severe dig-
nity. " Your foul aspersions upon my character
are unworthy of notice. "

"And what shall I say about your aspersions
on my character?" cried Potts, in a loud, ruJe
voice, hoping by a sort of vulgar self-assertion
to brow-beat Beatrice. "Do you remember ti'e
names you called me and your threats against
me ? When all this is brought out in the jwlice
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 con-
tinued, with a sneer, "or has vour paramour
any?"

"Take me away," said Beatrice to the police-
man.

"Wait!" exclaimed Potts; "you are going,
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
any thing 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 hail
an intractable disposition — that you had formed
a guilty attachment for a drum-mnjor at Hong
Kong — that you ran away with him, lived for a

■}'■ '■;

CORD AND CRE' .<£.

'•OH, MY daughter!" CRIED POTTS, " WILL YOU STILL BE RELENTLESS?"

while at Holby, and then went with your para-
mour 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 Langhetti, 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 everj- 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 resolu-
tion wa< shattert^ to pieces. That this would
be 80 she well knew. To escape from Potts was

to have herself made infamous publicly under the
sanction 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 with infamy. Who would be-
lieve your story ?"

Beatrice was silent, her slender frame was
rent by emotion.

"O Gedl" she groaned — but in her deep
despair she could not find thoughts even for
prayers.

"You may go, policeman," said Potts; "my
daughter will come with me."

" Faith and I'm glad ! It's the best thing for

154

COBD AND CKEESE.

her ;" and the policeman, much relieved, returned
to hi? beat.

" Some of you '11 have to pay for them 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 chance left. You had better go in. "

His tone was one full of bitter taunt. [Scarce
Mnscious, wth her brain reeling, and her limbs
trembling, Beatrice entered the house.

Chapter xl.

DISCOVERIES.

The next morning after Beatrice's last per-
formance Langhetti determined to fulfill 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 rhe table addressed
to him. It bore no postage stamp, or post-oflSce
mark.

He opened it and read the following :

"London, Si^tember 5, ISW.
"SiGXORE, — Cigole, the betrayer and intend-
ed assassin of your late father, is now in London.
You can find out about him by inquiring of Gio-
vanni Cavallo, 1 (> Red Lion Street. As a traitor
to the Carbonari, you will know that it is your
duty to punish him, even if your filial piety is not
strong enough to avenge a father's wrongs.

"Cakbonaro."

Langhetti read this several times. Then he
called for his landlord.

' ' Who left this letter ?" he asked.

"A young man." _"

" Do vou know his name ?" ...

"No."

"What did he look like?"

" He looked like a counting-house clerk more
than any thing."

"When was it left?" *

"About six o'clock this morning."

Langhetti read it over ami over. I'he 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 Red Lion Street.

Giovanni Cavallo"s otfice was in a low, dingy
building, with a dark, narrow" doonvay. It was
one of those numerous establishments conducted
and supported by foreigners whose particular busi-
ness it is not easy to conjecture. The building was
full of offices, but this was on the ground-floor.

Langhetti entered, and found the interior as
dingy as the exterior. There was a table in the
middle of the room. Beyond this was a door
which opened into a back-room.

Only one person was here — a small, bright-
eyed man, with thick Vandyke lieard and sinewy
though small frame. Langhetti took off his hat
and bowed.

"I wish to see Signore Cavallo," said he, in
Italian. «

"I am Signore Cavallo," answered the otiier,
blandly.

Langhetti made a y^cnliar motion with Iii< laft
.arm. The keen eye of the oMier noticed it in an
instant. He returned a gesture of a similar char-

acter. Langhetti 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 But 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 mis-
creant. Italy shall be avenged on one of her
traitors, at any rate."

"You will ^vrite as I told you, and let me
know?"

"Most faithfully."

Langhetti departed, satisfied with the result of
this inteiTiew. What surprised him most was
the letter. The wiiter must have been one who
had been acquainted with his past Ufe. He was
amazed to find any one denouncing Cigole to
him, but finall}' concluded that it must be some
old Carbonaro, exiled through the afflictions which
had befallen that famous society, and cherishing
in his exile the bitter resentment which only ex-
iles 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 gen-
eral agents, who did business of a miscellaneous
character, now commission, now banking, and
now shipping ; and in various ways they had had
dealings with this man, and kept up an irregulai-
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 retaliation. All the lofty
doctrines with which he might console others
were of no avail here in giving him calm. He
had never voluntarily j)ursued Cigole ; but now,
since this villain had been presented to him, he
could not turn aside from what he considered the
holy duty of avenging a father's wrongs.

He saw that for tl'e present every thing would
have to give way to this. He determined at once to
suspend the representation of the "Prometheus,"
even though it was at the height of its popularity
and in the full tide of its success. He deteimined
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
after all, for Cavallo felt sanguine of speedy suc-
ce.ss, and assured him that the traitor was in his
power, and that the Carbonari in London were
8ufl[iciently numerous to seize him and send him
to whatever punishment might be deemed most
fitting.

With such plans and purposes Langhetti went
to visit Beatrice, wondering how she would re-
ceive the intelligence of his new purpose.

It was two o'clock in the afternoon before ha
reiched her lodgings. On ^oing up ho rni^ped.
A senant came, and on seeing him looked tright-
ened.

CORD AND CREESE.

■ WHAT LIFK WE HAVE LEFT SHALL BE SPENT IK TRAPPING THAT MISCREANT.

" Is Miss Despard in ?"

Tlie senant said nothing, but ran off. Lan-
phetti stood waiting in suqjrise ; 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!"

"No, Sir. I'm frightened. There was a man
here early this morning, too."

" A man here. What for?"'

" Why, to ask after her."

"And did he see her?"

"."he wasn't here."

" Wasn't here ! What do you mean V"

"She didn't come home at all last night. I
waited up for her till four."

" Didn't come home 1" cried Langhetti, as an
awful fear came over him.

"No, Sir."

" Do you mean to tell me that she didn't come
home at her usual hour ?"

" No, Sir — not at all ; and as I was saying, I
sat up nearly all night."

" Heavens !" cried Langhetti, in bewilderment.
" What is the meaning of this ? But take me to
her room. Lei me see with my own eyes."

The landlady led the way up, and Langhetti
followed anxiously. The rooms were empty.
Every thing remained just as she had left it. Her

CORD AND CREESE.

mnsic was lying loosely aronnd. The landlady
bold that she had touclied nothing.

Langhetti askad about the man who had called
in the morning. The landlady could tell no-
thing about him, except that he was a gentleman
with dark hair, and very stem 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. Some one was
certainly interesting himself ver\- singidarly about
Cigole, and some one else, or else the same per-
son, was very much interested about Beatrice.
For a moment he thought it might be Despard.
This, however, did not seem probable, as Des-
pard would have written him if he were coming
to town.

Deeply perplexed, and almost in despair, Lan-
ghetti left the house and drove homo, thinking on
the way what ought to be done. He thought he
would wait till evening, and perhaps she would
appear. He did thus wait, and in a fever of ex-
citement and suspense, but on going to the lodg-
ing-house again there was nothing more known
about her.

Leaving this he drove to the police-office.
It seemed to him now that she must have been
fonUy dealt with in some way. He could think
of no one but Fotts ; yet how Potts could man-
age it was a mystery. That mystery he himself
could not hope to unravel. The police might.
With that confidence in the police which is com-
mon to all Continentals he went and made kno^vn
his troubles. The officials at once promised to
make inquiries, and told him to call on the fol-
lowing evening. •

The next evening he went there. The police-
man was present who had been at the place when
Potts met Beatrice. He told the whole story —
the horses running furiously, the screams from
the cab, and the appeal of Beatrice for help, to-
gether with her final acquiescence in the will of
her father.

Langhetti was over^vhelmed. The officials
evidently believed that Potts was an injured fa-
ther, and showed some coldness to Langhetti.

" He is her father ; what better could she do ?"'
asked ont

"Any thi^g 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 might begin a lawsuit ; if she real-
ly is of age he can not hold her. But she had
much better stay with him."

Such were the opinions of the officials. They
courteously granted permission to Langhetti to
take the policeman to the house.

On knocking an old woman came to the door.
In answer to his inquiries she stated that a gentle-
man had been living there thiee weeks, but that
on the arrival of his daughter he had gone home.

"When did he leave i-"

" Yesterday morning."

CHAPTER XLL

THEY MEET AGAIX.

At fotu* o'clock on the morning of Beatrice*!
capture Brandon was roused by a rap at his bed-
room door. He rose at once, and slipping ou
his dressing-gown, opened it. A man entered.

"Well?" said Brandon.

" Something has happened."

"What?"

" She didn't get home last night. The landlady
is sitting up for her, and is terribly frightened."

" Did you make any inquiries?"

"No, Sir; I came straight here in obedience
to your directions."

"Is that all you know ?"

"AU."

"Very well," said Brandon, calmly, "you
may go."

llie man retired. Brandon sat down and bur-
ied his head in his hands. Such news as this
was sufficient to overwhelm any one. The man
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 : either Langhetti had tak-
en 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 inquiries ; and he therefore was
forced to sit still and form conjectures as to what
ought to be done in case his conjecture might
be true. Sitting there, he took a rapid suney
of all the possibiUties of the occasion, and laid his
plans accordingly.

Brandon had feared some calamity, and with
this fear had arranged to have some one in the
house who might give him information. The
information which he most dreaded had come;
it had come, too, in the midst of a time of tri-
umph, 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 — wliere —
and why? What possible reason might Lan-
ghetti have for taking her away ? This conjec-
ture was imjxjssible.

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
with 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 any thing to regain possession of
the one who had lied from him. Why he should
wish to take the trouble to regain possession of
her, except out of pure villainy, he could not im-
agine.

With such thoughts as these the time passed
heavily. Six o'clock at last came, and he set out
for the purpose of making inquiries. 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 Beatrice
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 landlady. From there he went to Langhetti's
lodgings, and found that Langhetti had come
home about one o'clock and was not yet up.

CORD AND CREESE.

157

Beatrice, therefore, had left by herself, and had
not gone any where with Langhetti. She had
not returned home. It seemed to him most
prolmble that either Tolnntarily 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 inquiries 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 any thing 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 railway 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 ti-
midity 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 ?"

"Not yet."

" Has 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 having her at
large. "

"Afraid? Why?"

" Because she knew some secret of theirs."

" Secret ! What secret ?" asked Brandon.

"You know. Sir, I suppose," said Philips,
meekly.

Brandon had carried Asgeelo with him, 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 went around through the village, stop-
ping at a number of houses. Whatever it was
that he was engaged in, it occupied him for sev-
eral hours, and he did not get back to the inn till
midnight.

On the following morning he sent up to the
Hall, but Potts had not yet returned. Philips
came to tell him that he had just received a tele-
graphic dispatch informing him that Potts would
he back that day about one o'clock. This intelli-
gence at last seemed to promise something definite.

Brandon found enough to occupy him during
the morning among the people of the neighbor-
hood. He seemed to know every body, and had
something to say to every one. Yet no one
looked at him or spoke to him unless he took the
initiative. 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, apparently idle and aim-
less. At one o'clock Brandon returned and
walked up and down the veranda.

In about half an hour his attention 'was at-
tracted by the sound of wheels. It was Potts's
barouche, which came rapidly up the road. In
it was Potts and a young lady.

Brandon stood outside of the veranda, on the
steps, in such a position as to be most conspicu-
ous, and waited there till the carriage should
reach the place. Did his heart beat faster aa he
recognized that form, as he marked the settled
despair which had gathered over that young face
— a face that had the fixed and unalterable
wretchedness which marks the ideal face of the
Mater Dolorosa ?

Brandon stood in such a way that Potts could
not help seeing him. He 'vaved his arm, and
Potts stopped the carriage at once.

Potts was seated on the front seat, and Bea-
trice 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 wann flush, that was
the sign of hope rising from despair. In her
eyes there gleamed the flaah of recognition ; for
in that glance each had made known all its soul
to the other. In her mind there was no perplex-
ing 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 hurrisd
glance ; or if he did, saw in it nothing but a casu-
al look cast by one stranger upon another.

"I arrived here yesterday," said Brandon.
" 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 lady will excuse me I will drive up
with you to the Hall, so as to lose no time."

' ' Delighted, Sir, delighted : " cried Potts. " Al-
low me, Mr. Smithers, to introduce 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 frame at the touch of his fever-
ish hand brought with it such an ecstasy that
Beatrice thought it was worth while to have un-
dergone the horror of the past twenty-four hours
for the joy of this one moment.

Brandon stepped into the carriage and seated
himself by her side. Potts sat opposite. He
touched her. He could hear her breathing.
How many months had passed since they sat
so near together ! W^hat 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 BraiK
don, saying that he would be up directly.

158

CORD AND CREESK

"Eiftertain 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 8{>eak.

They drove on. Oh, joy ! that baleful pres-
ence was for a moment removed. The driver
saw nothing as he drove imder the overarching
elms — the elms under which Brandon had sport-
ed in his boyhood. He saw not the long, fenid
glance that they cast at one another, in whidi
each seemed to absorb all the being of the other ;
he saw not the close clasped hands with which
tliey 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
Hung 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 ra])-
ture with which for but 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 speaking by a voice which was fully intelli-
gible to each, which told how each felt in the
presence of the other love unutterable, rapture
beyond expression.

They alighted from the caniage. Beatrice
led the way into the drawing-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 con-
Tentional voice.

She came up and stood beside him.

" Oh, my darling! Oh, my darling!" he cried,
over and over again ; and flinging his arms around
her he covered her face with burning kisses. Her
whole being seemed in that supreme moment to
be absorbeti in his. All consciousness of any
other thing than this unspeakable joy was lost to
her. Before all others she was lofty, high-souled,
serene, self-possessed — with him she was nothing,
she lost herself in him.

"Do not fear, my soul's darling," said he;
" no harm shall come. My power is every where
— 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!"
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 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 ; "I will guard you."

She answered nothing. Could she confide in
his assurance? She conld not. She thought
with hoiTor of the life before her. What could
Brandon do ? She coulJ 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 rap-
ture of this long and ecstatic embrace. Aft-

er this the impassable gulf must reopen. Fhe

I was of the blood of the accursed. They must
separate forever.

He kissed her. He pressed her a thousand
times to his heart. His burning kisses forced a
new and feverish life into her, which roused all
her nature. Never before had he dared so to

J fling open all his sonl to her ; never before had
he so clasped her to his heart ; but now this mo-
ment was a break in the agony of a long sepa-
ration — 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.

I Potts did not come. They were still clinging to
one another. She had fiung her arms around

j him in the anguish of her unspeakable love, he
had clasjied her to his wildly-throbbing heart,
and he was straining lier there recklessly and de-
spairingly, 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.

"Jlr. Potts!" said he, as he still held Bea-
trice close to his heart, " this poor young lady is
in wretched health, ^he 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 vou good. I sympathize with you most deep-
ly, Mr. Potts."

" "She's sickly— that's a fact, "said Potts. "I'm
very sorry that you have had so much trouble —
I hope you'll excuse me. I only thought that
she'd entertain you, for she's very clever. Has
all the accomplishments — "

"Perhaps 3-ou'd better call some one to take
care of her, " interrupted Brandon.

"Oh, I'll fetch some one. I'm sony it hap-
pened so. I hope you won't blame me. Sir,"
said Potts, humbly, and he hurried out of the
room.

Beatrice had not moved. She heard Brandon
speak to some one, and at first gave herself up

I for lost, but in an instant she understood the full

I meaning of his words. To his admirable pres-

I ence of mind she added her own. t-he did not
move, but allowed her head to vest where it was,

i feeling a delicious joy in the thought that Potts

j 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

I again he pressed Iicr to his heart. Then the

' noise of servants coming 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 her,"
said Potts. " She's been tiying to faint."
Mrs. Compton came up, and kneeling down

j kissed Beatrice's hands. She said nothing.

I "Oughtn't she to have a doctor?" said Bran-

] don.

I "Oh no — she'll get over it. Take her to her

i room, Mrs. Compton."

"Can the poor child walk?" asked Bran-

I don.

I Beatrice rose. Mrs. Compton asked her to

CORD AND CREESE.

l.-!»

"the df-vil!

POTTS STOOP BEFORE THEM.

take her arm. She did so, aad leaning heavily
upon it, walked aAvay.

" Siie seems very delicate," said Brandon.
" I did not know that you had a daughter."

Potts sighed.

" I have," said he, "to my sorro\T.'*

"To your sorrow!" said Brandon, with ex-
quisitely simulated sympathy.

" Yes," replied the other. *' I wouldn't tell it
to every one — but you, Mr. Smithers, are differ-
ent t'lom 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 stroll-
ins Italian vagabond, a drum-major in one of
the regiments, named Lnnghetti, and this vilLdii

gained her affections by his hellish arts. lie
knew that I was ricli, and, like an unprincipled
adventurer, tried to get her, hoping to get a for-
tune. I did not know any thing about this till
after her amval home. I sent for her some time
ago and she came. From the first she was venr
sulky, ^he did not treat me like a daughter at
all. On one occasion she actually abused me
and called me names to my face. She called roo
a Thug ! What do von think of that, Mr. Smith-
ers?"

The other said nothing, but there was in his
face a horror which Potts considered as directed
toward his unnatural offspring.

"She was discontented here, though I let her
have every thing. I found out in the end all
about it. At last she actually ran awav. She

160

CORD AND CKEEaE.

joined this infamons Langhetti, whom she had
discovered in some way or other. They lived
together for some time, and then went to Lon-
don, where she got a situation as an actress.
You can imagine by that," said Fotts, with
sanctimonious horror, " how low she had tkllen.

"Well, I didn't know what to do. I was
afraid to make n public demand for her through
the law, for then* it would all get into the papers ;
it would be an awful disgrace, aud the whole
county would know it. fco I waited, and a few
weeks ago I went to Ijondon. A chance oc-
curred 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 con-
sented, and here she is. But I'm very much
afraid," said Fotts in conclusion, with a deep
sigh, " that her constitution is broken up. bhc's
Aery feeble."

Brandon said nothing.

"Excuse me for troubling you with my do-
mestic affairs ; but I thought I ought to explain,
for you have had such trouble with her youi-self. "

"Oh, don't mention it. I quite pitied the
poor child, I assure you ; and I sincerely hope
that the seclusion of this place, combined with
the pure sea-air, may restore her spirits and in-
vigorate her in mind as well as in body. And
now, Mr. Potts, I will mention the little matter
that brought me here. I have had business in
Cornwall, and was on my way home when I re-
ceived a letter summoning me to America. 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 Hindu, but speaks English
and can do almost any thing. I at once remem-
bered 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 can not 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 yon at once, "
said Brandon, rising.

"The sooner the better," returned Potts.

" By-the-way, my junior speaks very encourag-
ingly about the prospects of the Brandon Bank — "

"Does he?" cried Potts, gleefully. "Well,
I do believe we're going ahead of every thing."

"That's right. Boldness is the true way to
success."

" Oh, never fear. We are bold enough."

" Grood. 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 in-
stalled as one of the senants.

CHAPTER XLn.

LANOHETTl's ATTEMPT.

Two days after Brandon's visit to Fotts, Lan>
ghetti 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. It' 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 tliese things
could be done, and Langhetti despaired of ac-
complishing any thing.

The idea of her being once more in the power
of a man like Potts was frightful to him. This
idea filled his mind continually, to the exclusion
of all other thoughts. His opera was forgot-
ten. One great horror stood before him, and all
else became of no account. The only thing for
him to do was to tiy to save her. He could find
no way, and therefore determined to go and seo
Potts himself.

It was a desperate undertaking. From Bea-
trice's descriptions he had an idea of the life from
which she had fled, and other things had givep
him a true idea of the character of Potts. He
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, im-
petuous in his feelings, he could not command
that calmness which was the first essential in such
an inter>iew. Besides, he was broken down by
anxiety and want of sleep. His sorrow for Bea-
trice had disturbed all his thoughts. Food and
sleep were alike abominable to him. His fine-
strung nerAes and delicate organization, in wtiich
every feeling had been rendered more acute by
his mode of life, were of that kind which could
feel intensely wherever the aff'ections were con-
cerned. His material frame was too weak for
the presence of such an ardent soul. Whenever
any emotion of unusual power appeared he sank
rapidly.

!So now, feverish, emaciated, excited to an in-
tense degiee, he appeared in Brandon to confront
a cool, unemotional villain, who scarcely ever lost
his presence of mind. Such a contest could
scarcely be an equal one. What could he bring
fonvard whicli could in any way aff"ect such a
man ? He had some ideas in his own mind which
he imagined might be of service, and trusted more
to impulse than any thing else. He went up early
in the morning to Brandon Hall.

Potts was at home, and did not keep Langhet-
ti long waiting.

There was a vast contrast between these two
men — the one coarse, fat, vulgar, and strong;
the other refined, slender, spiritual, and delicate,
with his large eyes burning in their deep sockets,
and a strange 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 jpy daughter from your clutches,
and Im going to pay you off', too, my fiue fellow,
before long."

CORD AND CREESE.

161

•'Your daughter!" said Langhetti. "What
she is, and who »he U, you very well know. If
the dead could speak they would tell a diHerent
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
concern that has with my daughter I don't know.
Mind, you are playing a dangerous game in try-
ing to bully me."

Potts spoke fiercely and menacingly. Lan-
ghetti's impetuous soul kindled to a new fervor
at this insulting language. He stretched out his
long, thin hand 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 de vi 1 you do !" he cried, at last. ' ' 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 strikes me you've got some
kink in your brain — some notion or other. Out
with it, and let us see what you're driving at!"

"Do you know a man named Cigole?" said
Langhetti.

"Cigole ! " replied Potts, after a pause, in which
. he had stared hard at Langhetti; "well, what
if I do? Perhaps I do, and perhaps I don't."

"He is in my power," said Langhetti, vehe-
mently.

" 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 remember, and can tell to the world what
he knows."

" Well, what if he does?" said Potts.

"He will tell," cried Langhetti, excitedly,
"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 wonderful 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 hard work."

" Cigole is in my power," said Langhetti,
fiercely.

"And 80 you think I am, too?" sneered
Potts.

"Partly ro."

"Why?"

"Because he was an accomplice of yours in
the Despard murder."

"So he says, no doubt; but who'll believe
him?"

" He is going to turn Queen's evidence !" said
Langhetti, solemnly.

"Queen's evidence!" returned Potts, con-
temptuously, "and what's his evidence worth —
the evidence of a man like that against a gentle-
man of unblemished character?"

" He will be able to show what the character
of that gentleman is," rejoined Langhetti.

"Who will believe him?"

"No one can help it."

"You believe him, no doubt. You and he
arc both Italians — both dear friends — and both
enemies of mine; but sujjpose I prove to the

worid conclusively that Cigole is snch a sconn-
drel that his testimony is worthless ?"

"You can't," cried Langhetti, furiously.

Potts cast a look of contempt at him —

"Can't I!" He resumed: "How very sim-
ple, how confiding you must be, my dear Lan-
ghetti! Let me explain my meaning. You get
up a wild charge against a gentleman of charac-
ter 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
^as 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. Yoa
now bring forward a man who, you hint, will
make statements against me. Suppose he does ?
What then ? Why, I will show what this man
is. And you, my dear Langhetti, will be the
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 Langhetti senior, by which that
certain Langhetti senior was betrayed to the
Government, and was saved only by the folly of
two Englishmen, one of whom was this same
Despard. I will show that this Langhetti sen-
ior was your father, and that the son, instead of
avenging, or at any rate resenting, his father's
wrong, is now a bosom friend of his father's in-
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 daughter ; how yon followed her here, and
seduced 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 daughter, prevented me from hand-
ing you over to the authorities. I will prove you
to be a scoundrel of the vilest description, and,
after such proof 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 wotdd be
your own fate? Answer me that."

Potts spoke with savage vehemence. The
frightful truth flashed at once across Langhet-
ti's mind that Potts had it in his power here to
show all this to the world. He was overwhelm-
ed. He had never conceived the possibility of
this. Potts watched him silently, with a sneer
on his face.

" Don't you think that you had better go and
comfort yourself with your dear friend Cigole,
your father's intended murderer?" said he at
length. " Cigole told me all about this long
ago. He told me many things about his life
which would be slightly damaging to his char-
acter as a witness, but I don't mind telling you
that the worst thing against him in English 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 alwajs supposed that Italians under-
stood what vengeance means."

Langhetti's face bore an expression of agonj
which he could not conceal. Every word of
Potts stung him to the soul. lie stood for some

16t

COKD AND CREESE.

time in silence. At Inst, withoat a word, he
walked out of the room.

His brain reeled. I7e Ktnggered rather than
wnliied. I'ottH looked nt'ter him with a Nmilo of
triumph. He left the Hull and returned to the
village.

CHAPTEU XLIII.

THE STRANGER.

A FKW weeks after I^nghetti's visit Potts had
a new visitor at the bank. The stranger entered
the bank parlor noiselessly, nnd stood (|uietly
waiting for Potts to be disengaged. That worthy
was making some entries in a small memoran-
dum-book. Turning his head, he saw the new-
comer. Potts looked surprised, and the stranger
said, in a pecidiar voice, somewhat gruif and
hesitating,

"Mr. Potts?"

"Yes," said Potts, looking hard at his vis-
itor.

He was a man of singular aspect. His hair
was long, parted in the middle, and straight.
He wore dark colored si)ectacles. 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, Higginson,
& Co., Solicitors, London — I am the Co."

" WeU !"

" The business about which I have come is one
of some importance. Are we secure from inter-
ruption?"

" Yes," said Potts, " as much as I care about
being. I don't know any thing in particular that
I care about locking the doors for."

"Well, you know best," said the stranger.
" The business upon w hich I have come concerns
you somewhat, but your son principally."

Potts started, and looked with eager inquirj'
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 presume,"
said the stranger, coolly. "My business con-
cerns him somewhat, but his son still more. '"

"What the devil do you mean?" growled
Potts, in a savage tone.

" Forgary," said the stranger. " It is an En-
glish word, I believe. Forgery, in which your
son was chief agent. Have I made myself un-
derstood ?"

Potts looked at him again, and then slowly
v.ent 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," rejoined
Potts, angrily ; "but let me tell you, if you come
to bully me you've got into the wrong shop."

"Yon appear somewhat heated. You must
be calm, or else we can not get to business ; and
in that case 1 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 po-
sition, or the state of the present business. For
if I leave it will be the signal for a numlier of in-
terested parties to make a combined attack on
you."

"An attack?"

"Yes."

"Who is there?" said Potts, defiantly.

" Giovanni Cavnllo, for one ; my seniors,
Messrs. Bigolow & Higginson, and several otii-
ers."

" Never heard of any of them before."

" Perhaps not. But if you write to Smithcrs
& ('o. they will tell you that Bigelow, Ifiggiiison,
& Co. are their solicitors, and do their confiden-
tial business."

"Smithers & Co. ?" said Potts, aghast.

"Yes. It would not be for your interest for
Bigelow, Higginson, «Sb Co. to show Smithcrs &
Co. the proofs which they have against you,
would it?"

Potts was silent. An expression of consterna-
tion came over his face. He punged his hands
deep in his pockets and bowed his head frown-
ingly.

"It's all bosh," said he, at last raising his ■

head. " Let them show and be d d. What

have they got to show ?"

" I will answer your question regularly," said
the stranger, "in accordance with my instruc-
tions" — and, drawing a pocket-book from his
pocket, he began to read from some memoranda
written there.

" l.f<. The notes to which the name of Ralph
Brandon is attached, 150 in number, amounting
to £y3,.5()0."

"Pooh!" said Potts.

" These forgeries were known to severtl be-
sides your son and yourself, and one of these men
will testify against you. Others who know Bran-
don's signature swea' that this lacks an import-
ant point of distinction common to all the Bran-
don 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 prop-
erty a little dearer."

" I don't think they 11 make a fortune out of
the speculation," said P( :ts, 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 consider-
able danger."

"Yours is in greater,'' said Potts, with men-
acing eyes.

"Not at all. Even supposing that yon 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 determined to make money out of thi?
transaction. So you see it's absurd to talk d
violence.'

CORD AND CREESE.

IRS

The stmngcr took no flirther notice of I'otts,
but looked n^niii at hisi memornndn ; while the
Litter, whose face waa now terrilic from the furi-
oiiH |iAMiion!« which it exhihited, stood like a wild
beiist in u cage, " willing to wound, but yet afraid
to strike. "

"The next case," said the stranger, " is the
Thornton forgery.''

"Thornton I" exclaimed Potts, with greater
agitation.

"Yes," said the stranger. ''In connection
with the Desimrd murder there were two sets of
forgeries; one being the Thornton correspond-
ence, and the other your correspondence with
the Bank of Good Hope."

"Heavens! what's all this?" cried Potts.
"Where have vou been unearthing thisfrubbish ?"

"First," said the stranger, without noticing
Potts's exclamation, " there are the letters to
Thornton, Senior, twenty years ago, in which an
attempt waa made to obtain (^olonel Despard's
money for 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 burglarj-, was caught,
and condemned to transportation. He had been
already out once before, and this time received
u new brand in addition to the old ones."

Poftn did not say a word, but sat stu])efied.

"Thornton, Junior, i.s connected with us, and
his testimony is valuable, as he wus the one who
detected the forgery. He also was the one who
went to tlie Cape of Good Hojie, where he had
tiie pleasure of meeting with you. This brings
me to the third case," continued the stranger.

" Lettei-s were sent to the Cape of Good Hope,
ordering money to be paid to John Potts. Thorn-
ton, Senior, fearing from the first attempt that a
similar one would be made at the Cajie, where
the deceased had funds, sent his son there. Young
Thornton reached the i)lace just before you did,
and would have airested you, but the proof was
not sufficient."

"Aha!" cried Potts, grasping at this — "not
sufficient proof I I should think not." His voice
was husky and his manner nervous.

" I said ' was not' — but Messrs. Bigelow, Hig-
ginson, & Co. have informed me that there are
parties now in communication with them who
can prove how, when, where, and by whom the
forgeries were executed."

"It's a d d infernal lie!" roared Potts, in

a fresh burst of anger.

" I only rei)eat 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. Y'ou are aware
that he has no chance of escape. The amount
is too enonnous, and the proof is too strong."

"Proof!" cried Potts, desperately; "who
would believe any thing against a man like
me, John Potts — a man of the county ?"

" English law is no respecter of persons." said
the stranger. " Hank 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 Heniy Despard
at the Cape of Good Hope, with whom Messre.
Higelow, Higginson, & Co. have had corre-
spondence. 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 l)cen making out pajwrit ?"

"His name is Philips; true name Lnwton.
He tells a verv extraordinary Bti y; verj- extraor-
dinary indeed."

The stranger's jwculiar voice was now intenni-
fied in its odd, hnrsh intonations. The effect on
Potts was overwhelming. For a moment he wu
unable to speak.

" Philijw!" he gasped, at length.

" Yes. You sent him on business to Rmithem
& Co. He haa not yet returned. He does not
intend to, for he was found out by Messrs. Bige-
low, Higginson, & Co., and you know how timid
he is. They have succeeded in extracting the
truth from him. As I am in a hurr)-, and you,
too, must l>e busy," continued the stranger, with
unchanged accents, "I will now come to the
point. Th&se forged papers involve an amount
to the extent of — Brandon forgeries, XitM.AOO;
Thornton papers, £r.0()() ; Bank of (iood Hope,
£4(X)<); being in all i;i()2,r<(M). Messrs. Bige-
low, Higginson, & Co. have instnicted me to say
that they will sell these papers to you at their
face without charging interest. They will hand
them over to you and you can destroy them, in
which case, of course, the charge must be
dro))ped."

" Philii)s !" cried Potts. "I'll have that devil's
blood !"

"That would be murder," said the stranger,
with a peculiar emphasis.

His tone stung Potts to the quick.

"You ap])ear to take me for a bom fool," he
cried, striding up and down.

"Not at all. I am only an agent carrjrng
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 wa'? locked.
They were alone. The stranger easily read hi*
thought.

"No use," said he, calmly. "Messrs. Bige-
low, Higginson, & Co. would miss me if any
thing l^pppened. Resides, I may as well tell you
that I am arrried."

The stranger rose up and faced Potts, while,
from behind his dark spectacles, his eyes seemed
to glow like fire. Potts retreated with a curee.

" Messrs. Bigelow, Higginson, & Co. instructed
me to say that if I am not back with the money
by to-morrow night, they will at once begin ac-
tion, and have your son arrested. They will
also inform Smithers & Co., to whom they say
you are indebted for over £G()0,00(). So that
Smithers & Co. will at once come dowTi upon
you for payment."

"Do Smithers & Co. know any thing about
this?" asked Potts, in a voice of intense anxi-
ety.

" 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 connection with various parties. One

CORD AND CREESE.

man who in an Ttalinn they coniHder important.
They authorize nie to italo to yuu that this man
can aiiMj prove the forgeriua."

'* Who ?" gaitpe<i I'otu.

"His name is Cigole."

"Cigole!"

"Yea."

••D him!"

" You mar 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 of Messrs. Bigelow,
Iliggiiison, & Co.," said the other, with calm per-
tinacity. "Upon it depend your fortune and
your son's life. '

" How long are you going to wait ?"

"Till evening. I leave to-night. Perhaps
you would like to think this over. I'll give you
till ',hree o'clock. If you decide to accept, all
well ; if not, I go back."

The stranper 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.

" Well, Johnniel" said he, "what's up? You
look down — any trouble?"

At this Potts told Clark the stoiy of the recent
inteniew. Clark looked grave, and shook his
head several times.

"Bad! bad! bad!" said ho, 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, gloomily.

"Somebody might go with him or follow him,"
said Ciurk, darkly

Potts IfM^ked at him. The two exchanged
glances of intelligence.

" You see, you pay your money, and get your
papers back. It would be foolish to let this man
get away with so much money. One Ijundred
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 mun. I don't like what he
said about me. I call it backbiting. "

" You take a proper v.ew of the matter," said
Potts. "He's dangerous. He'll be down on
you next. What I don't like about him is his
cold-bloodedness. "

" It does come hard."

" Well, we'll arrange it that way, shall we?"

" Yes, you pay over, and get your documents,
and 111 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 tome."

" What'U you do with hor?" asked Potts, In
■nrprise.

"Take her as my wife," said Clark, with a
grin. " I think 111 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 ; love-
ly appearance of the bride — ha, ha, ha! I'll
save you all further trouble about her — a hus-
band is better than a father in such a case. If
that Italian comes round it'll be his last round."

Some further conversation followed, in which
Clark kept making perpetual references to his
bride. The idea had taken hold of his mind com-
pletely.

At one o'clock Potts went to the inn, where he
found the agent. He handed over the money in
silence. The agent gave him the documents.
Potts looked at them all carefully.

Then be departed.

CHAPTER XLIV.

THE stranger's STORT.

That evening a number of people were in the
principal parlor of the Brandon Inn. It was a
cool evening in October; and there was a fire
near which the partner of Bigelow, Higginson,
& Co. had seated himself.

(^lark had come in at the first of the evening
and had been there ever since, talking volubly
and laughing boisterously. The others were
more or less talkative, but none of them rivaled
Clark. They were nearly all Brandon people ;
and in their treatment of Clark there was a cer-
tain restraint which the latter either did not wish
or care to notice. As for the stranger he sat
apart in silence without regarding any one in
particular, and giving no indication whether he
was listening to what was going on or was indif-
ferent 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.

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 in-
termingled with allusions to the company present,
together with the stranger. At last he gazed 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 proceed 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 ad-
vanced toward the stranger. The latter said no-
thing, 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

CORD AND CREESE.

be kind enongh to open yonr mouth ? If you
M'oii't tell n Htoiy, |ierhaiM you will bo good
enuugli to sing \i» a sung ?'

The stranger Hat upright.

"Well," Miid he^ in the luttne peculiar harsh
voire and slow tune with whirh he had spoken
to I'otts, " the request is a fair one, and 1 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 com|)any will feel honored," said Clark,
in a mocking tone, us he resumed his seat.

The stranger arose, and, going to the fire-
place, picked up a piece of charcoal.

Clark sat 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 it the other day ; perhaps
you won't believe it, but it's tnie."

"Oh, never mind the truth of iti " exclaimed
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 |)ro<ess of time. My
stoiy is connected with these."

lie took his charcoal and made upon the wall
the following marks :

A
+

He then turned, and stood for a moment in
silence.

The effect upon Clark was appalling. His
face turned livid, his arms clutched 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 are,
upon the back of a friend of mine, 'about whom
i am going to tell a little stor\- :

" The first ( /|\ ) is the Queen's mark, put on
certain prisoners out in Botany Bay, who are to-
tally insubordinate.

"The second (R) signifies 'run away,' and
is put on those who have attempted to escape.

" The third (-f-) indicates a murderous assault
on the guards. When they don't hang the cul-
prit 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, bat sat mute,
with a face of awful expectation.

"My friend Clark had led a life of strange
vicissitudes," said the stranger, "having Nlippud
through the meshes of the law very succesHful-
ly a great number of times, but fiiuilly he was
caught, and sent to Botany Bay. He sened
his time out, and left ; but, finally, after a se-
ries of very extraordinary adventures in India,
and some udd events in the Indian Ocean, he
came to England. Bad luck followed him, how-
ever. He made an attempt at burglary, and >vns
caught, convicted, and sent back again to his nld
station at Botany Bay.

"Of course he felt a strong reluctance to May
in such a place, and therefore twgan to plan un
esca])e. He made one attempt, which was un-
successful. He then laid a plot with two other
notorious offenders. Each of these three had
been branded with those letters which I have
marked. One of these was named Stubh.s, and
another Wilson, the third was this Clark. Xo
one knew how they met to make their arrange-
ments, for the prison regulations are very strict ;
but they did meet, and managed to confer to-
gether. They contrived to get rid of the chains
that were fastened around their ankles, and one
stormy night they started otl' 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 moniing
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 freedom they made a
better pace.

" But they were pretty well worn out. They
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 ri\er that ran down l)etween clifl's 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. Wilson 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 trjing to
keep up with his companions.

" Fortunately for them night came on. They
hurried on all night, scarcely knowing 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 for^vard.

" For two days more they hastened on, keep-
ing out of reach of their pursuers, yet still know-
ing that they were followed, or at least fearing
it. They had gone over a wild country along the
coast, and keeping a northward direction. At
length, after four days of wandering, they csime
to a little creek by "the sea-shore. There were
three houses here belonging to fishermen. They
rushed into the first hut and implored food and
drink. The men were off to Sydney, hut the
kind-hearted women gave them what they had.
They were terrified at the aspect of these wretch-

180

CORD AND CREESE.

ed men, whose natural ferocity had been height-
ened by hardship, famine, and suftering. Gaunt
and grim as they were, they seemed more terri-
ble than three wild beasts. The women knew
that they were escaped convicts.

"There was a boat lying on the beach. To
this the first thoughts of the fugitives were direct-
ed. They filled a cask of water and put it on
board. They demanded some provisions from
the fisherman's wife. The frightened woman
gave them some fish and a few ship -biscuit.
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 readied the beach. Th« latter

fired a few shots after them, but the siiots took
no eft'ect.

" 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 provi-
sions 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 triad, 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

CORD AND CKEESE.

1«7

which they put down were not an attractive
bait.

"The two men began to look at Wilson with
the eyes of fiends — eyes that tlamed with foul
desire, beaming from deep, hollow orbits which
famine had made. The days passed. (Jue
morning Wilson lay dead."

The stranger paused for a moment, amidst an
awful silence.

"The lives of these two were preserved a lit-
tle 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 triend Clark was a man of singu-
lar 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 stopjicd 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 tiie sailors. They
took Clark on board. He was mad at first,
and raved in his delirium. They heard him
tell of what he had done. During that voy-
age no one spoke to him. They touched at Cape
TowTi, and put him ashore.

"My friend is yet alu-e and well. How do
yon like my story ?"

The stranger sat down. A deep stillness fol-
lowed, which was suddenly broken by something,
half groan and half curse. It was Clark.

He lifted himself heavily from his chair, his
face livid and his eyes bloodshot, 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 Hol-
by and London, and her recapture, which is here
omitted, as it would be to a large extent a rep-
etition of what has already been stated.] — After
Brandon left me my heart still throbl)ed with the
fierce impulse which he had imparted to it. For
the remainder of the day I was upheld by a sort
of consciousness of his presence. I felt as though
be had only left me in person and had surrounded
me in some way with his mysterious 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
ilesjjair returned.

In the morning I happened to cross the hall to
g) to Mrs. Comptons room, when, to my amaze-
ment, I saw standing outside the Hindu Asgeelo.
I!nd I seen Brandon himself I could scarcely
have lieen more amazed or overjoyed. He look-
Dtl at me with a warning gesture.

" How did you get here ?" 1 whispere '.

"My master sent me."

A thrill passed through my veins.

"Do not fear," he said, and walked mysteri-
ously away.

I asked Mrs. Compton who he was, and she
said he was a new sen'ant whom He n. d just
hired. She knew nothing more of him.

•Septetiiber 12. — A week has passed. Thus
far I have been left alone. 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 tha* Death soon come.
Kindly will I welcome him.

Sejitember 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 mean-
ing of this ? Once or tw ice I have met them in
the hall and have marked their humble bearing.
Is it mockery ? Or is it intended to entrap 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 defense.
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 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 dift'erent kinds of medicine,
used while I was sick. Two of these attracted
my attention. One was labeled ^'Laudanum,"
another was labeled " Ilydrocyani Acid — Poi-
son." 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
haw 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 what he meant.
As usual he looked frightened and hurried away.

What does he mean? What crisis? The
only ciisis 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 tiling 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 can not imagine. Has it anything to
do with me ? No. How can it ? My fate, what-
ever 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 imjjend.s ?

This afternoon He sent for me to come down.

163

CORD AND CREESE.

I went to the dining-room expecting some hor-
ror, and I was not disappointed. 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 fin-
ished lunch.

John vras the first to speak. He addressed
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 without a tremor.

My tyrant glanced at me with a dark scowl.
"After your behavior, girl, you ought to bless |

Jour lucky stars that you got off^ as you did. If i
had done right, I'd have made you pay up well j
for the trouble you've given. But I've spared i

irou. At the same time I wouldn't have done so
ong. I was just arranging a nice little plan for
irour benefit when this gentleman" — nodding his
lead to Clark — "this gentleman saved me the
trouble."

I said nothing.

" Come, Clark, speak up — it's your afi'air — "

"Oh, you manage it," said Clark. "You've
got the 'gift of gab.' I never had it."

"I never in all my bom 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 gen-
tleman has Aery kindly consented to take charge
of you. He has even gone so far as to consent
to maiTy you. He will actually make you his
wife. In my opinion he's crazy, but he's got Iiis
own ideas. He has promised to give you a tip-
top wedding. If it had been left to me, " he went
on, sternly, "I'd have let j'ou have something
very different, but he's a soft-hearted fellow, and
is going to do a foolish thing. It's lucky for
you tliough. 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 him
a kis<i, and thank him."

So prepared was I for any horror that this did
not surprise me.

"Do you hear?" he cried, as I stood motion-
less. 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 well 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 moments. At
last he spoke again :

" Girl," said he. "You are to be man-ied to-
morroAV. There won't be any invited guests,
but you needn't mind that. You'll have your
husband, and that's more than you deserAe. You
don't Avant anv 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 Avon't be
time."

" Oh well, let her fix up the best way she can.'

At this I turned and left the room. None < f
them tried to prevent me. I Avent up to n y
chamber, and sat down thinking. The horn- ht d
come.

TTiis is my last entry. My only refuge froi i
horror unspeakable is the Poison.

Perhaps one day some one will find my jour
nal where it is concealed. Let them learn from
it what angtiish may be endured by the innocent.

May God have mercy upon my soul ! Amen.

October 14, 11 o' clock. — Hope!

Mrs. Compton came to me a few minutes
since. She had received a letter from PhiUps b-
Asgeelo. She said the Hindu wished to fp ^.e.
He was at my door. I went there. He told me
that I Avas 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 a* ith me.
A place had been found where Ave could get shel-
ter.

Oh my God, I thank thee ! Already Avhen I
heard this I Avas mixing the draught. Two
o'clock Avns the hour on Avhich I had decided for
a different kind of flight.

Oh God ! deliver the captive. Save me, as I
put my trust in thee ! Amen.

CHAPTER XLVI,

THE LAST ESCAPE.

The hour AA-hich Beatrice had mentioned in
her diary Avas awaited by her Avith feverish im-
patience. She had confidence in Asgeelo, and
this confidence AA'as heightened by the fact ihut
Mrs. Compton Avas going to accompany her.
The very timidity of this poor old creature Avould
have ])revented her from thinking of escape on
any ordinary occasion ; but now the latter showed
no fear. She evinced a strange exultation. She
showed Philips's letter to Beatrice, and made lier
read it over and over again. It contained only a
few Avords.

" The time has come at last. I Avill keep my
Avord to you, dear old Avoman. Be ready to-
night to leave Brandon Hall and thooe devils
forever. The Hindu will help you.

"Edgar."

Mrs. Compton seemed to think far more of tlie
letter than of escaping. The fact that she had
a letter seemed to absorb all her faculties, aiul
no other idea entered her mind. Beatrice had
but few preparations to make; a small panel
contained all Avith which she dared to encumber
herself. Hastily making it up she waited in ex-
treme impatience for the time.

At last two o'clock came. Mrs. Compton Avas
in her room. There was a faint tap at the door.
Beatrice opened it. It Avas Asgeelo. The Hin-
du stood Avith his finger on his lips, and then
moved aAA-ay sloAvly and stealthily. They fol-
lowed.

The Hindu led the way, carrjing a small lan-
tern. He did not show any Aery great caution,
but moA-ed with a quiet step, thinking it sufficient
if he made no noise. Beatrice followed, and
Mrs. Compton came last, carrjing nothing but
the note from Philips, Avhich she clutched in her
hand as though she esteemed it the only thing
of A-alue which she possessed.

CORD AND CREESE.

169

THE OlttAXTIC nnCRE OF A8GEELO STOOD ERECT, ONE ARM CLrTCHrNG THE THROAT OF
HIS ASSAILANT, AND THE OTHER HOLDING THE KNIFE ALOFT."

In spite of Beatrice's confidence in Asgeelo
she felt her heart sink with dread as she passed
tliroiigh tlie liall and down the great stairway.
Rut no sound disturbed them, llie lights were
all out, and the house was still. The door of the
dining-room was open, but no light shone through.

Asgeelo led the way to the north door. They
went on quietly without any interruption, and at
last reached it. Asgeelo turned the key and held
the door half open fn- a moment. Then he
turned and whispered to them to go out.

Beatrice took two or three steps fonvard, when
suddenly a dark figure emerged from the stair-
way that led to the servants" hall and with a sud-
den selling advanced to Assceelo.

The Litter drojipoJ the lamp, which fell with
I.

a rattle on the floor but still continued burning.
He drew a long, keen knife from his breast, and
seized the other by the throat.

Beatrice started back. By the light that flick-
ered on the floor she saw it all. The gigantic
figure of Asgeelo stood erect, one arm clutching
the throat of his assailant, and the other holding
the knife aloft.

Beatrice rushed forward and v^aught the up-
lifted arm.

" Spare him !" she said, in a low whisper.
"He is my friend. He helped me to escape
once before."

She had recognized Vijal.

The Hindu dropped hi* arm and released his
hold. The Malay staggered back and looked

tra

CORD AND CREESE.

earnestly nt Beatrice. Recognizing her, he fell
on his knees and kissed her hand.

" I will keep your secret," he murmured.

Beatrice hurried out, and the others followed.
They heard the key turn in the door after them.
Vijal had locked it from the inside.

Asgeelo led the way with a swift step. They
went down the main avenue, 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
twu coaches and some men.

One of these came up and took Mrs. Compton.
"Come, old woman," said he; "you and I are
to go in this coach." It was too dark to see who
it was ; but the voice sounded like that of Phil-
ips. He led her into the coach and jumped in
after her.

There was another figure there. He advanced
in silence, and motioned to the coach without a
word. Beatrice followed ; the coach door was
opened, and she entered. Asgeelo mounted the
box. The stranger entered the coach and shut
the door.

Beatrice had not seen the face of this man ;
but at the sight of the outline of his figure a
strange, wild thought came to her mind. As he
seated himself by her side a thrill passed through
every nerve. Not a word was spoken.

He reached out one hand, and caught hers in
•a close and fen-id clasp. He threw his arm
about her waist, and drew her toward him. Her
head sank in a delicious languor upon his breast ;
and she felt the fast thTobbing of his heart as she
lay there. He held her jjressed closely for a
long while, drawing quick and heavy breaths,
and not speaking a word. Then he smoothed
her brow, stroked her hair, and caressed her
cheek. Every touch of his made her blood tingle.

"Do you know who I am?" said at last a
well-known voice.

She made no answer, but pressed his hand
and nestled more closely to his heart.

The carriages rushed on swiftly. They went
through the village, passed the inn, and soon en-
tered the open country. Beatrice, in that mo-
ment of ecstasy, knew not and cared not whither
they were going. Enough that she was with him.

" You have saved me from a fate of horror,"
iaid she, tremulously ; " or rather, you have pre-
vented me from saving myself "

" How could you have saved yourself?"

"I found poison."

She felt the shudder that passed through his
frame. He pressed her again to his heart, and
sat for a long time in silence.

" How had you the heart to let me go back
when you could get me away so easily?" said
she, after a time, in a reproachful tone.

"I could not save you then." answered he,
" without open violence. I wished to defer that

for the accomplishment of a purpose which you
I know. But I secured your safety, for all the
I servants at Brandon Hall are in my pay. "
I "What! Vijal too?"

I " No, not Vijal ; he was incorruptible ; but
I all the others. They would have* obeyed your
, slightest wish in any respect. They would have
j shed their blood for you, for the simple reason
: that I had promised to pay each man an enor-
mous sum if he saved you from any trouble.
They were all on the look out. You never w ;re
so watched in your life. If you had chosen tc
run off every man of them would have helped yoi',
and would have rejoiced at the chance of making
themselves rich at the expense of Potts. Under
tliese circumstances I thought you were safe."

"And why did you not tell me?"

"Ah! love, there are many things which I
must not tell you."

He sighed. His sombre tone brought back
her senses which had been wandering. Slie
struggled to get away. He would not release her.

"Let me go!" said she. "I am of the ac-
cursed brood — the impure ones! Y'ou are i)ol-
luted by my touch !"

" I will not let you go," returned he, in a tone
of infinite sweetness. "Not now. This may be
our last inteniew. How can I let you go ? '

"I am pollution."

"You are angelic. Oh, let us not think of
other things. Let us banish from our niitids the
thought of that barrier which rises betv.een us.
While we are here let us forget every tiling ex-
cept that we love one another. To-mon-ow will
come, and our joy will be at an end forever.
But you, darling, will be saved ! I will guard
you to my life's end, even though I can not come
near you."

Tears fell from Beatrice's eyes. He felt them
hot upon his hand. He sighed deejjly.

" I am of the accursed brood ! — the accursed !
— the accursed! You dishonor your name by
touching me."

Brandon clung to her. He would not let her
go. She wept there upon his breast, and still
munnured the words, "Accursed! Kccursed!'

Their carriage rolled on ; behind them came
the other ; on for mile after mile, round the bays
and creeks of the sea, until at last they reached
a village.

"This is our destination," said Brandon.

"Where are we?" sighed Beatrice.

" It is Denton," he repHed.

The coach stopped before a little cottage. As-
geelo opened the door. Brandon pressed Bea-
trice to his heart.

"For the last time, darling," he munnured.

She said nothing. He helped her out, catch-
ing her in his arms as she descended, and lifting
her to the ground. Mrs. Compton was already
waiting, having descended first. Lights were
burning in the cottage window.

"This is your home for the present," said
Brandon. " Here you are safe. Y'ou will find
every thing that you want, and the servants are
faithful. You may trust them."

He shook hands with Mrs. Compton, pressed
the hand of Beatrice, and leaped into the coach.

" Good-by," he called, as Asgeelo whipped
the horses.

"Good -by f)rever," munnured Beatrice
through her tears.

CORD AND CREESE.

171

CHAPTER XLVII.

ROUSED AT LAST.

Abodt this time Despard i-eceived a call from
Langhetti. "I urn going away," said the lat-
ter, aftei" the preliminary greetings. "I am
well enough now to resume my search after Bea-
trice. "

"Beatrice?" • •

"Yes."

" What can you do ?"

" I haven't an idea ; bat I mean to try to do
something."

Langhetti certainly did not look like a man
who was capable of doing very much, esne-
cially against one like Potts. Thin, pale, frag-
ile, and emaciated, his slender form seemed
ready to yield to the pressure of the first fatigue
which he might encounter. Yet his resol.ition
w^as strong, and he spoke confidently of being
able in some mysterious way to ett'ect the es-
cape of Beatrice, lie iiad no idea how he could
do it. He had exerted his strongest influence,
and had come away discomfited. Still he had
confidence in himself and trust in God, and with
these he determined to set out once more, and
to succeed or perish in the attempt.

After he had left Despard sat moodily in his
study for some hours. At last a visitor was an-
nounced. He was a man whom Despard had
never seen before, and who gave his name as
Wheeler.

The stranger on entering regarded Despard
for some time with an earnest glance in silence.
At last he spoke :

" You are the son of Lionel Despard, are you
not?"

"Yes," said Despard, in some surprise.

"Excuse me for alluding to so sad an event;
but you are, of course, aware of the common
story of his death."

" Yes," replied Despard, in still greater sur-
prise.

" That story is known to the world," said the
stranger. "His case was publicly tried at Ma-
nilla, and a Malay was executed for the crime."

"I know that," returned Despard, "and I
know, also, that there were some, and that there
still are some, who suspect that the Malay was
innocent."

" Who suspected this?"

" My uncle Henrj- Despard and myself."

"Will you allow me to ask you if your sus-
picions pointed at any one ?"

" My uncle hinted at one person, but he had
nothing more than suspicions."

" Who was the man ?"

" A man who was my father's valet, or agent,
who accompanied him on that voyage, and took
an active part in the couN-iction of the Malay."

" What was his name?"

"John Potts."

" Where does he live now ?"

"In Brandon."

" Very well. Excuse my questions, but I was
anxious to learn how much you knew. You will
see shortly that they were not idle. Has any
thing ever been done by any of the relatives to
discover whuther these suspicions were cor-
rect?"

"At first nothing was done. They iccepted
as an established fact the decision of tie Manilla

court. They did not even suspect then that any
thing else was poMible. It ^vas only subsequent
circumstances that led my uucle to have some
vague suspicions."

" What were those, may I ask?"

"I would rather not tpll," said Despard, who
shrank from relating to a stranger the mysterious
story of Edith Brandon.

" It is as well, perhaps. At any rate, you say
there were no suspicions expressed till your uncle
was led to form tliem ?"

"No."

" About how long ago was this ?"

" About two years ago — a little more, perhaps.
I at once devoted myself to the task of discover-
ing whether they could be maintained. I found
it impossible, however, to learn any thing. The
event had happened so long ago that it had faded
out of men's minds. The person whom I sus-
pected had become very rich, influential, and
respected. In fact, he was unassailable, and I
have been compelled to give up the effort."

"Would you like to learn something of the
truth ?" asked the stranger, in a thrilling voice.

Despards whole soid was roused by this ques-
tion.

" More than any thing else," replied he.

"There is a sand-bank," began the stranger,
" three hundred miles south of the island of Java,
which goes by the name of Coffin Island. It is
so called on account of a rock of peculiar shape
at ' ~ 'tern extremity. I was coming from the
E ly way to England, when a violent

sto. ^se, and I Avas cast ashore alone upon

that island. This may seem extraordinary to
you, but what I have to tell is still more exti-aor-
dinary. I found food and water there, and lived
for some time. At last another hurricane came
and blew away all the sand from a mound at the
western end. This mound had been piled abi)ut
a wrecked vessel — a vessel wrecked twenty years
ago, twenty years ago," he repeated, with .'tart-
ling emphasis, " and the name of that vessel was
the Vishnu."

"The Vishnu!" cried Despard, starting to his
feet, while his whole frame was shaken by emo-
tion at this strange narrative. "The Vishnu!"

"Yes, the Vishnu!" continued the stranger.
" You know what that means. For many years
that vessel had lain there, entombed amidst the
sands, until at last I — on that lonely isle — saw
the sands swept away and the buried ship re-
vealed. I went on board. I entered the cabin.
I passed through it. At last I entered a room at
one comer. A skeleton lay there. Do you know
whose it was ?"

" Whose ?" cried Despard, in a frenzy of ex-
citement.

" Your father's!" said the stranger, in an aw-
ful voice.

"God in heaven!" exclaimed Despard, and
he sank back into his seat.

" In his hand he held a manuscript, which was
his last message to his friends. It was inclosed
in a bottle. The storm had prevented him from
throwing it overboard. He held it there as thougli
waiting for some one to take it. I was the one
appointed to that task. I took it. I read it,
and now that I have arrived in England I have
brought it to you."

" Where is it?" cried Despard, in wild excite'
ment.

178

CORD AND CREESE.

" Here," said the stranger, und he laid a pack-
age upon the table.

Despard seized it, and tore open the coverings.
At the first sight he recognized the handwriting
of his father, familiar to him from old letters
xMitten to him when he was a child — letters
\\ hich he had always preserved, and every turn
of which was impressed upon his memory. The
Hrst glance was sufficient to impress upon his
mind the conviction that the stranger's tale was
tnie.

Withoui another word he began to read it. And
n^ he read all his soul became associated with tiiat
lonely man, drifting in his drifting ship. There
he read the villainy of the miscreant who had
compassed his death, and the despair of the cast-
away.

That sufferins: man was his o\vn father. It
was this that gave intensity to his thoughts as he
raid. The dying man bequeathed his vengeance
to Ralph Brandon, and iiis blessing to his son.

Despard read over the manuscript many times.
It was his father's words to himself.

"I am in haste," said the stranger. "The
manuscript is yours. I have made inquiries for
lialph Brandon, and find that he is dead. It is
for you to do as seems good. You are a clergy-
mim, but you are also a man ; and a father's
wrongs cry to Heaven for vengeance."

"And they shall be avenged!" exclaimed
Despard, striking his clenched hand upon the
table.

"I have something more before I go," con-
tinued the stranger, mournfully — "something
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 minia-
ture, painted on enamel, representing a beauti-
ful woman, whose features were like liis own.

"My mother I" cried Despard, passionately,
and he. covered the miniature with kisses.

" I buried your father," said the stranger, aft-
er a lon^r pause. " His remains now lie on Cof-
fin Islanu, in their last resting-place."

' ' And who are you ? What are you ? How
did you find me out? What is your object?"
cried Despard, cagoriy.

" I am Mr. Wheeler," said the stranger, calm-
ly ; " and I come to give you these things in or-
(ior to fulfill my duty to the dead. It remains
for vou to fulfill yours."

"'That duty shall be iulfilled !" exclaimed
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 >vithdrew.

Despard paced the room for hours. A fierce
thirst for vengeance had taken possession of him. |
Again and again he read the manuscript, and [
after each reading his vengeful feeling became
stronger. I

At last he had a purjjose. He was no longer
the imbecile — the crushed — the hopeless. In the
full knowledge of his father's misery his own be-
came endurable.

In the morning he saw Lanarhetti and told him
all.

•'But who is the stranger?" Despard asked
in wonder.

"It can only be one person," said Langhetti,
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 thouglits
crowded upon him. Was this man Louis Bran-
don?

"We must find him," said he. "We mu.st
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 lo
vengeance."

CHAPTER XL VIII.

■WHO IS HE?

On the morning aftor tho last escape of Bea-
trice, Clark went up to Brandon Hall. It was
about nine o'clock. A sullen frown was on his
face, which was pen-aded by an expression of
savage malignity. A deeply preoccupied look,
as though he were altogether absorbed in his
own thoughts, prevented him from noticing the
half- smiles which the servants cast at one an-
other.

Asgeelo opened the door. That valuable serv-
ant 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 ^.re 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 busi-
ness ?*'

"ko," 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 wlien you are after a
man, and he tums out to be the Devil himself,
what can you do ?"

At these words, which were spoken with urr
usual excitement, John gave a low laugh, but
said nothing.

" You've been getting rather soft lately, it seems
to me," said Potts. "At anv 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 triad to make out
whether I had ever seen him before, but could
not. He sat by the fire, and wouldn't say a word.
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 Beelze-
bub. He knows every thing. He began in a
playful way l)y taking a ])iece of cha' coal and
writing on the wall some marks whicli belong
to me. and which I'm a little delicate about let-
ting people- see ; in fact, the Botany Bay marks."
■ " Did he know that?" cried Potts, aghast.

" Not only knew it, but, as I was saying,
marked it on tlie wall. That's a sign of knowl-
edge. And for fear they wouldn't be understood,
he kindly explained to about a dozen peojile pres'
ent the particidar meaning of each."

CORD AND CREESE.

173

" 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," ho continued, pensively,
" hearing the parson read about some handwrit-
ing on the wall, that frightened Beelzebub him-
self ; but I tell you this handwriting on the wall
used me up a good deal more than that other.
Still what followed was worse."

Clark paused for a little while, and then, tak-
ing a long breath, went on.

" He proceeded to give to the assembled com-
pany 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 end of the boat."

Clark stopped again, and no one spoke for a
long time.

"I lost my breath and .an out," he resumed,
"and was afraid to go back. I did so at last.
It was .then almost midnight. I found him still
sitting there. He smiled at me in a way that
fairly made my blood nin cold. ' Crocker,' said
he, 'sit down.'"

At this Pctts and John looked at each other
in horror.

" He knows that too?" said John.

"Every thing," returned Clark, dejectedly.
"Well, when he said that I looked a little sur-
prised, as yon may be sure.

" ' 1 thought you'd be back,' said he, ' for you
want to see me, you know. You're going to fol-
low me,' says he. 'You've got your pistols all
ready, so, as I always like to oblige a friend, I'll
give you a cliance. 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 reckless. ' If he's the devil him-
self,' 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,' said he, quite merrily, 'so you've
come, have you?'

"I tore my pistol from my pocket and fired.
The only reply was a loud laugh. He went on
without turning his head. I was now sure that
it was the devil, but I fired my other pistol. He
gave a tremendous laugh, turned his horse, and
rode full at me. His horse seemed as large as
the village church. Every thing swam around,
and I fell headforemost on the ground. I be-
lieve I lay there all night. When I came to it
was morning, and I hurried straight here."
. As he ended Clark arose, and, going to the side-

board, 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 mvself," 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 coidd
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 bone«."

"We're getting usti 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 both 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 of helping
us."

"Do none of the servants know any thing
about it?"

" No — none of them."

" Have you asked them all T

"Yes."

"Doesn't that new ser\'ant, the Injin?"

"No; they all went to bed at twelve. Vijal
was up as late as two. They all swear that every
thing was quiet."

" Did they go out through the doors ?"

" The doors were all locked as usual."

"There's treachery somewhere!" cried 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 trying to take
her down ever since she came, but it's my belief
that we'll end by getting took down oureelves. I
wab 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 ker at first."

"No," rejoined Potts, gloomily. "There's
somebody at work deeper than she is. Some-
body — but who ? — who ?"

" Nobody but the devil," said Clark, firmly.

"I've been thinking about that Italian," con-
tinued Potts. "He's the only man living that
would bother his head about the girl. They know
a good deal between them. I think he's man-
aged some of this 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 per-
haps.*'

Clark's eyes brightened.

"The next time," said he, " I'll load my pi»
tols fresh, and then see if he'll escape me !"

At this a noise was heard in the hall. Potts
went out. The servanta»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

COKD AND CHEESE.

went together, and of course had horses or car-
riages there."

*' What does the porter say?" asked Clark.

" 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 any thing,'' said I'o.ts;
" 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 tliis time."

Fotts swore a deep oath and relapsed into si-
lence. After a time they all went down to the
bank.

^ CHAPTER XLIX.

THE KUN ON THE BANK.

Not long after the bank opened a number of
people came in who av ked for gold in retimi for
some bank-notes which they otfeied. This was
an unusual circumstance. 'I'he people ali-o were
strangers. Totts wondered what it could mean.
There was no help for it, however. The gold
was paid out, and I'otts and his fi lends began to
feel somewhat alarmed at the thought which now
presented itself for tiie first time that their very
Jarge circulation of notes might be returned upon
them. He communicated this fear to Clark.

" How much gold have vou?"

"Very little." - '-.....

"How much?"

"Thirty thousand."

"Phew!" said Clark, "and nearly two hun-
I'red 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 wont be worth a rush if people
know this.''

While they talked persons kept dropping in.
Most of the villagers and people of the neighbor-
hood brought back the notes, demanding gold.
By about twelve o'clock the influx was constant.

Potts began to feel alarmed. He went out,
and tried to bully some of the villagers. They
did not seem to i)ay any attenlion to him, how-
ever. 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 tai-
lor, 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 sympathize with
the bank. They were too eager to pay out.
Potts had to check them. He called them in his
l)arlor, and ordered them to pay out more slowly.
They all declared that they couldn't.

The day dragged otF till at last three o'clock
came. Fifteen thousand pounds 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's 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 Plym-
outh Bank."

"You'll have to let me have it." •

Clark hesitated.

" I don't know," said he. • ■

"U — n it, man, I'll give j'on any security you
wish. I've got more security 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 hundreds of thousands —
twice as much as all the bank issue. Then I'll pay
u]) these devils well, and that d — d 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 l)e ready for them."

*' How much have you ?"

"Ill send it all down — though I'm devilish
Sony,' continued Potts. " How much ? why,
see here;" and he penciled down the following
figures on a piece of paper, which he showed to
Clark :

Cnlifomla Company XIOO.OOO

Mexican bonds 00,(100

Guatemnlado 60,000

Venezuela do 60,000

£250,000

"What do you think of that, my boy?" said
Potts.

" Well," returned Clark, cautiously, " I don't
like them American names. "

"Why," said Potts, "the stock is at a pre-
mium. I've been getting from twenty to twenty-
five per cent, dividends. They'll sell for three
hundred thousand nearly. I'll sefl them all. I'll
sell them all," he cried. " 1)11 have gold enough
to put a stop to this sort of thing forever."

" I thought you had some French and Russian
bonds," said Clai-k.

' ' I gave those to that devil who had the — the
papers, you know. He consented to take them,
and I was veiy glad, for they paid less than the
others."

Clark was silent.

"Why, man, /hat 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 securities
from every body ?"

" Yes, from every body ; 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?"

"^mithers & 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! What! Back down from a man with
my means ! Nonsense ! They know how rich I
am, or they never would 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

CORD AND CREESE.

iVs

may stop before I get it. If you'll help me for
three days I'll pay you well."

" How much will you give?"

"Ill give ten thousand pounds — there! I
don't mind."

"Done. Give me your note for sixty thou-
sand pounds, and 111 let you have the fifty thou-
sand for three days. "

"All right. You've got 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 Plj-m-
outh now, get the money to-morrow, iind you can
use it the next day. "

"All right; I'll send down John to London
with the stc-k, and he'll bring up the gold at
once."

Clark started off immediately for Plymouth,

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 before. Their de-
mands were somewhat larger than on the previ-
ous 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

I7C

CORD AND CREESE.

anxiety. Only five thousand pounds remained
in the bank. One man had come with notes to
the extent of five thousand, and had only been
got rid of by the shutting of the banlL. He left,
vowing vengeance.

To I'ottsH immense relief Clark made his ap-
j)eftrance 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 assembled in this
({uiet 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 thousand had fought his
way to the counter first, and clamored to be i)aid.
The noise and confusion were overpowering. Ev-
ery body was cursing the bank or laughing at it.
Each one felt doubtful about getting his pay.
Potts tried to be dignified for a time. He order-
ed them to be quiet, and assured them that they
would all be paid. His voice was drowned in
the wild uproar. The clerks counted out the
gold as rapidly as possible, in spite of the re-
monstrances of Potts, who on three occasions
called them all into the parlor, and threatened to
dismiss them unless they counted more slowly.
His threats were disregarded. They went back,
and paid out as rapidly as before. The amounts
required ranged from five or ten pounds to thou-
> sands of pounds. At last, after paying out thou-
1 sands, one man came up who had notes to the
amount of ten thousand pounds. This was 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 enemy.
' He told him that it was within a few minutes
I of three, and that it would take an hour at least
I to count out so much — would he not wait till the
, next day ? There would be ample time then.
The man had no objection. It was all the
same to him. He went ort with his bundle of
notes through the cl-owd, telling them that the
bank could not pay him. This intelligence made
the excitement still greater. There was a fierce
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 forward twenty minutes, and there was a
great riot among the people on that account, but
they could not do any thing. 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 length
drove out to see if they could find him.

About twelve miles from Brandon they m"t
him iit 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 WES four o'clock in the morning before they
reached the bank. The gold was taken out and
deix)sited in the vanlts, and the three went up to
the HalL They brought out brandy and re-

freshed themselves, after which John remarked,
in his usual laconic style,

" 'lu've been and gone and done it."

"What?" asked Potts, somewhat puzzled.

♦'With your B|)eculations in stocks."

•'What about them?"

"Nothing," said John, "only they happen to
be at a small discount."

"A discount?"

"Slightly."

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 deprecia-
tion. 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 Brandon 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 stocks which I held had
fallen terribly, he knew not how, and advised
me to do any thing rather than make such a sac-
rifice. 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 will give you the state-
ment of the broker," and he drew from his pock-
et a paper which he handed to the others. They
looked at it eagerly.

It was as follows :

cent, discount X35,000

50 shares Mexican. 70 per cent, discount 12,500

50 shares Guatemala. 80 per cent dis-
count 10,000

60 shares Venezuela. 80 per cent, discount 10,000

£67,000

The faces of Potts and Clark grew black as
night as they read this. A d»f p ".xecration burst
from Potts. Clark leaned back in his chair.

"The bank's blo\vn up!" said he.

"No, it ain't," 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 offer-
ed?"

" Not much ; it stands to reason."

" It stands to reason that every note which
you've issued will be sent back to you. So III
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 ain't got any more pluck these
times than a kitten."

" It's a time when a man's got to be careful
of his earnings, " said Clark. ' ' How much have

CORD AND CREESE.

Ill

joa oat in notes? Yon told me once you had
out about XI 80,U00, perhaps more. Well, you've
already had to redeem about X75,<)(M). That
leaves j£l06,00() yet, and you've only got £67,-
00() to pay it with. What have you gut to say
to that ?■'

"Well!" said Potts. "The Brandon Bank
may go — but what then? You forget that I
have the Brandon estate. That's worth two mill-
ions."

*' You got it for two hundred thousand."

" 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 !"

"All good," said Potts. "All first-rate. It'U
be all right. We'll have to put it through."

" But what if it isn't all right?" asked Clark,
saragely.

"You forget that I jiave Smithers & Co. to
faUbackon. "

"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 shouldn't have
had to make this sacrifice. You needn't feel
troubled about your money. I'll give you se-
curity on the estate to any amount. I'll give you
security for seventy thousand," said Potts.

Clark thought for a while.

"WeU:" said he, "it's a risk, but 111 run
it."

" There isn't time to get a lawyer now to make
out the papers; but whenev^ you fetch one 111
do it."

"I'll get one to-day, and you'll sign 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. Miscellaneous callers
thronged the place, but the amounts were not
large. In two hours not more than five thou-
sand 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."

" Will you take a draft on Messrs. Smithers
& Co. ?"

"No, I war- ^old."
• While Po' 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
casualty which Potts could not yet face with
calmness. Before it came to that he was de-
termined to pay out his last sovereign.

On paying the thirty thousand pouhds it was
found that there were only two bags left of two
thousand pounds each.

The other man who had waited stood calmly.

while the one who had t)een paid was making
arrangements about conveying nis money away.

It was now two o'clock. The stranger said
quietly to the clerk opposite that he wanted
gold.

" How much?" said the clerk, with the same
blandness. '

"Forty thousand pounds, "~ answered the
stranger.

"^orry we can't accommodate yon, Sir," re-
turned the clerk.

Potts had heard this and came forward.

" Won't yoii take ti draft on Ix)ndon ?" 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 strangitr ; "I'm only an agent. If you
can't accommodate me I'm s<jrry, I'm sure."

Potts was silent. His face was ghastly. As
much agony as such a man could endure was
felt by him at that moment.

Half an hour afterward the shutters were up ;
and outside the door stood 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 di-
rectors were left to their own reflections. 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 remaineid in the bank parlor.
The clerks had gone. Potts was in that state
of dejection in wl ich even liquor was not desira-
ble. John showed his usual nonchalance.

"Well, Johnnie," said Potts, after a long si-
lence, "we're used up!"

" "The bank's bursted, that's a fact. You were
a fool for fighting it out so long."

"J might as well. I was responsible, at any
rate."

" You might have kept your gold."

' ' Then my estate would have been good. Be-
sides, I hoped to fight through this difficulty.
In fact, I hadn't any thing else to do."

"Whvnot?"

" Smithers & Co."

"Ah! yes."

"They'll be ^own 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 five hun-
dred thousand."

" It's been growing eveiy day. It's a dread-
ful dangerous thing to have unlimited credit."

' ' Well, you've got something as an offset. Tha
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

178

CORD AND CREESE.

m to get into PRrliament soine duy. I did what
U called 'k<>>"R >t l>lind.' '

" How much i* owing yoii ?"

"The bool(« ray live liundrcd and thirteen
thoiiwnd pounds — lutt it'rt duuhtfu! it' I ouii get
any of it. And now ^initheni &, Co. will be
down on mo at once."

" What do you intend to do^"

" I don't know."

" Haven't voii thought?"

"No, I coiddn't."

"Well, I have."

"What?"

" You'll have to try to compromise."

" What if they won't ?"

John tthnigged his Hhoulders, and naid nothing.

"After all," resumed I'ottw, hopefully, "it
can't l>e so bad. The estate h w orth two millions. "

"I'ooh!"

"Isn't it?"

"Of course not. Tou know what you bought
it for."

" 'I'hat's because it was thrown away."

" Well, it '11 have to be thrown away again."

"Oh, Smithers & Co. '11 be easy. I'hey don't
c^re for money. "

" I'eihai)8 so. The fact is, I don't understand
Smithers & Co. at all. I've tried to see through
their little game, but can't l>egin to do it."

"Oh, that's easy enough! They knew I was
rich, and let me have what money 1 wanted."

John looked doubtful.

At this moment a rap was heard at the back
door.

" Thero comes Clark !" said he.

Potts opened the door. Clark entered. His
face was flushed, and his eyes bloodshot.

"See here," said he, mysteriously, as he en-
tered the room.

"What?" asked the others, anxiously.

"There's two chaps at the inn. One is the
/talion— "

"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 fello\('s 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 111 take some one
who isn't afraid of the devil. Johnnie, is the
dog at the Hall ?"

"Yes."

" All right !" said Clark. " 111 be even with
this fellow yet, if he is in league with the devil."

With these words Clark went .out, and left the
two together. A glance of savage exultation
passed over the face of Potts.

"If he comes back successful," said he, "all
right, and if he doesn't, why then" — He paused.

"If he doesn't come back," said John, finish-
ing the sentence for him, " whv then — all right-
er.'

CHAPTER LI.

A STRUGGLE.

All the in-esolution which for a time had char-
acteriEed Despard had vanished before the shock
of that great discoveiy which his father's manu-

script had revealed to him. One purpcwe now lay
clearly and vividly Ifvfore him, one which to so
loyal and devoted a nature an his was the holiest
duty, and that was vengeance on his father's mur-
derers.

In this pur|>orK! he took refuge from his own
grief; he cast aside liisown longings, his anguish,
his despair. Liiiiglietti wixhed to search after his
" nice;" Despard wished to tind those whom his
dead father liiid denounced to him. In the in-
tensity of his pui'iioso he was careless as to the
means by which that vengeance should be ac-
com|)lished. He thought not whether it would
be better to trust to the slow action of the l&w, or
to take the task into his own hands. His only
wish was to \>o confronted with either of these
men, or tM)th of them.

It was with this fueling in his heart that he set
out Avith Langhetti, and the two went once more
in company to the village of lirandon, 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 nnirderers in their own place.
Langhetti, however, urged the need of help from
the civil magistrate. It was while they were de-
lilierating about this that a letter was brought in
addressed to the Hev. Vourtenny Desj ,rd.

Despard did not recognize the handwriting.
In some surj)ri8e how any one should know that
he was here he opened the letter, and his sur-
prise 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 yon and Signer Lan-
ghetti f(jrmeily rescued has escaped, and is now
in safety at Denton, a village not more than
twenty miles away. She lives in the last cot-
tage on the left-liand side of the road, close by
the sea. There is an American elm in front. "

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.

' ' I must go at once, " said he, excitedly. ' ' Will
you ? "

' ' No, " replied Despard. ' ' You had better go.
I must stay ; my puqiose is a different one."

"But do not vou 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
w as immovable. For himself he was too impa-
tient to wait. He determined 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 dosed.

Just before his departure Despard saw a man
come from the bank and enter the inn. He knew
the face, for he had seen it when here before. It
was Clark. At the sight of this face all his fierc«
est instinct awoke within him — a deep thirst ft?
vengeance arose. He could not lose sight of
this man. He determined to track him, and thuj<
by active pursuit to do something toward the ac-
complishment of his purpose.

He watched him, therefore, as he entered the
inn, and caught a hasty glance which CUrk di-

CORD AND CREESE.

rected 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 low-
ered over Despard's brow as ills eyes blazed wrath-
fully 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 on
horseback followed by a dog. He talked for a
while with the landlord, and then went otf at a
slow trot.

On questioning the landlord Despard found
thnt Clark had asked him about the direction
which Langhetti had taken. The idea at once
flashed upon him that possibly Clark wished to

pursue Langhetti, in order to find out about Bea-
trice. He determined on pursuit, Iwth for Lan-
ghetti's sake and his own.

He followed, therefore, not far behind Clark,
riding at first rapidly 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 determined 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 on at a more rapid pace. Yet
he did not overtake Clark, and therefore conjec-
tm-ed that Clark himself must have gone on more
rapidly. He now put his own horse at 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

180

CORD AND CREESE.

half hour. At last the road took a sudden turn ;
ind, whirling around here at the utmost speed,
he burst upon a scene which was as startling as
it nas unexpected, and which roused to madness
all the lervid passion of his nature.

The road here descended, and in its descent
wound round a hill and led into a gentle hol-
low, on each side of which hills arose which
were covered with trees.

Within this glen was disclosed a frightful spec-
tacle. A man lay on the ground, torn from his
horse by a huge blood-hound, whi(;h even then
was rending him with its huge fangs ! The dis-
mounted rider's foot was entangled in the stir-
rups, and the horse was plunging and dragging
him ulong, while the dog was pulling him back.
The man himself uttered not a cry, but tried to
fight oif 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. An-
other horseman 'vas standing close by, without
pretending even to interfere. Despard did noi
see him : he saw nothing but Langhetti. He
flung himself from his horse, and drew a re-
volver from his pocket. A loud report rang
through the air, and in an instant the huge
blood-hound gave a leap upward, with a pierc-
ing yell, and fell dead in the road.

Despard flung himself on his knees heside
Langhetti. He saw his hands torn and bleed-
ing, and blood covering his face and breast. A
low groan was all that escaped from the suflerer.

" Leave me," he gasped. " Save Bice."

In his giief for Langhetti, thus lying before
him in such agony, Despard forgot all else. He
seized his handkerchief and tried to stanch the
blood.

"Leave mel" gasped Langhetti again. "Bice
will be lost." His head, which Despard had sup-
ported for a moment, sank back, and life seemed
to leave him.

Despard started up. Now for the fiist 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 pur-
lK)se, had tried to make sure of Despard.

But Despard, quick as thought, l^ped upon
him, and caught his hand. In the struggle the
])istol fell to the ground. Despard caught Clark
in his arms, and then the contest began.

Clark was of medium size, thick-set, muscu-
lar, robust, and desperate. Despard 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 embrace not
a word v/as spoken. For some time the strug-
gle was maintained withoi't result. Clark had
caught Despard 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 tremen-
dous, one resistless impulse, he put forth all his
strength. His antagonist gave way before it.
He reeled. . .

Despard disengaged one arm and deau .lim a
tremendous blow on the temple. At the same
instant he twined his legs about those of the oth-
er. At the stroke Clark, who had already stag-
gered, gave way utterly and fell heavily back-
ward, with Despard upon him.

The next instant Despard had seized his throat
and held him down so that he could not move.

The wretch gasped and groaned. He strug-
gled 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, suffoca-
ting 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 over
on his face, took the bridle from one of the
horses, bound his hands behind him, and fas-
tened his feet securely. In the fierce struggle
Clark's coat and waistcoat had been torn away,
and slipped down to some extent. Hjs shirt-
collar haa burst and flipped with them. As Des-
pard turned him over and proceeded to tie him,
something 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 LIL

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 question now before him was how
to deal with Smithers & Co. Should he write to
j tliem. 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
♦he noise of carriage-wheels was heard ; and on
looking out they saw a dog-cart drawn by two
magnificent horses, which drove sviftly up to the
portico. A gentleman dismounted, and, throw-
ing the reins to his servant, came up the steps.

CORD AND CREESE.

181

T'le stranger was of medium size, with an ar-
/stocratic air, remarkably regular features, of
pure Grecian outline, and deep, black, lustrous
eyes. His brow was dark and stern, and cloud-
ed over bv 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
eves ? 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 this for some time."

"What is it?"

' ' Old Smithers had these eyes. That last chap
that drew the forty thousand out of you kept his
eyes cohered. Here comes this fellow with the
same .eyes. I begin to trace a connection be-
tween 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 no-
thing was said for some time.

"Perhaps this Smithers & Son 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 spec-
ulation to pay them. As for me and you, I be-
gin 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 senant came down to announce
him.

" What name?" asked Potts.

" He didn't give any."

Potts looked jjerplexed.

"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 servants ready. Do you keep
up your spirits. Don't get frightened, but be
plucky. Blutt' him, and when the time comes
ring tlie bell, and I'll march in with all the serv-
ants."

Potts looked for a moment at his son with a
glance of deep admiration.

"Johnnie, youve got more sense in your lit-
tle finger than I ha e in my whole body. Yes :
we've got this fello.v, whoeve^ he is; and if he
tm-na out to be what I suspect, then we'll spring
the trap on him, and he'll learn what it is to play
with edge tools."

With these words Potts deported, and, ascend-
ing the stairs, entered the drawing-room.

The stranger was standing looking ont of one
of the windows. Hia attitude brought back to
Potts's recollection the scene which had once
occurred there, when old Smithers was holding
Beatrice in his arms. The recollection of this
threw a fiood of light on Potts's mind. He re-
called 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, any way," murmured
Potts to himself "whoever he is."

The stranger turned and looked at Potts for a
few moments. He neither bowed nor utte--d
any salutation whatever. In his look there wkj
a certain terrific menace, an indefinable gknce of
conscious power, combined with implacable hate.
The frown which usually rested on his brow
darkened and deepened till the gloomy shadows
that covered them seemed like thunder-clouds.

Before that awful look Potts felt himself cow-
ering involuntarily ; and he began to feel less
confidence in his own power, and less sure that
the stranger had flung himself into a trap. How-
ever, the silence was embarrassing; so at last,
with an effort, he said :

"Well; is there any thing you want of me?
I'm in a hurrj*. "

" Yes," said the stranger, "I reached the vil-
lage 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 m troubling your head about
it, then," retunied 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 ditterently."

" 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 Smithers & Co. Ill
settle all vhen I'm ready. I'm not going to be
bullied any longer. I've home enough. You
needn't look so ver}' 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 upon circumstances."

"So you see," continued Potts, "you won't
get any thing out of me — not this time," he add-
ed.

"My draft," said the stranger, "is difi'erent
from those which were presented ^t the bank
counter. "

He spoke in a tone of deep solemnity, with a
tone which seemed like the tread of some inevita-,
ble 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."

182

CORD AND CREESE.

Pottfl looked wonderingly and half fearfully
at hltn.

"My draft," said the other, "was drawn by
Colonel Lionel Despard."

A chill went to the heart of Potts. With a
violent effort he shook ott' 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 the writer was all alone."

" It's a' lie !" cried Potts, while his face grew
white.

"At sea," continued the other, ringing 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 hor-
rid spectacle. He looked fixedly at his interloc-
utor. His jaw fell.

" There he died," said the stranger. " Who
caused his death ? Will you answer ?"

With a tremendous effort Potts again recover-
ed command of himself.

"You — you've been reading up old papers,"
loplied 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 face and
nervous manner of Potts showed how deep was
his agitation.

*' 1 myself was on board the Vishnu," 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 — tfcev thrilled
through the coarse, brutal nature of the listener.

"I saw Colonel Despard," continued the
•tranger.

" You lie !" cried Potts, roused by terror and
horror to a fierce pitch of excitement.

" I saw Colonel Despard,' repeated the stran-
ger, 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
i.-: it of mine ? He nas alive, then, and the Des-
pard 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."
. "//e was dead!" replied the stranger, whose
eyes had never withdrawn themselves from those
of Potts, and now seemed hke two fiey orbs
blazing wrathfuUy upon him. The tones pene-
trated to the very soul of the listener. He shud-
dered in spite of himself. Like most vulgar na-
tures, his was accessible to sujjerstitious 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," muttered 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, find I was the listen-
er."

And the mystic solemnity of the man's face
seemed to mark him as one who might indeed
have held commune with the der.d.

" He told me,"continued the f tranger, "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 char-
acters 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 me-
tallic ball. The ball struck the table as it tell,
and rolled to the floor, but the stranger held the
other end in his hand.

"Thcg!" cried he; " do you know what that
is?"

Had the stranger been Olympian Jove, and had
he flung forth from his right hand a thunder-bolt,
it could not have produced a more appalling ef-
fect than that which was wrought upon Potts by
the sight of this cord. He started back in hor-
ror, uttering a cry half-way between a scream and
a groan. Big drops of perspiration started from
his brow. He trembled and shuddered from head
t J 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 Brando'i estates!"

"The Brandon estates!" said Potts, in a fal-
tering voice.

"Yes, the Brandon estates ; nothing less."

' ' And will j'ou then keep silent ?"

" I will give yc the cord."

" Will you keep silent ?"

" I am your master," said the other, haughtily,
as his burning eyes fixed themselves with a con-
suming gaze upon the abject wretch 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 start-
ed up, defiant. With an oath he sprang to the
bell-rope and pulled again and 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
aic 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 with 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 seiT-
a Its. Prominent among these vas Asgeelo.
Near him was Vijal. Potts gave a triimiphant

CORD AND CREESE.

I»

'•thugI do vou know what '^HA

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 I"

The stranger said nothing, but wound up the
cord coolly, placed it in his pocket, and still re-
garded Potts with his scornful smile.

" Here !" cried Potts, addressing the servants.
" Catch that man, and tie his hands and feet."

The senants 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 g'anced around in surprise, waiting for
the other ser\-ants.

" You devils 1" 2ried Potts, " do you hear what
I say ? yeize that man !"

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 Asgee-
lo bounded forward also with one tremendous
leap, anil 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 look-
ed around. There stood the senants — motion-
less, impassive.

"For the last time," roared Poits, with a per-
fect volley of oaths, ' ' seize that man, or you'll be
sorry for it."

The servants stood motionle.sa. The stranger
remained in the same at'tude with the same
sneering smile.

"Y'ou see," said he, fit last, " tluH you don't
know me, after all. fou aro in i.\v j.iower,
Briggs — you cant ge away, nor .an your
son.''

I'otts mshed, 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.

"Yon r,;)j)ear to have been mistaken in your
man," said the stranger, coolly. " These are

184

CORD AND CREESE.

not yonr serrants ; they're mine. Shall I tell
them to seize you ?"

Potts glared at him with bloodshot eyes; but
said nothing.

" Miall I tell them to pull up j'our sleeve and
display the mark of Bowhani, Sir ? Shall I tell
who and what you are ? t'hall I bej^-in from your
birth and give them a full and complete history
of your life?"

i'otts 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 I" he cried, desperately,
with an oath, and sank down into stolid despair.

" No ; you don't mean that," said the other.
" For 1 have some London policemen 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 np in a cell, or
sent to Botany Bay, I supi)ose ? Still, if you pre-
fer it, I will at once arrange an inter^'iew be-
tween yourself and these gentlemen,"

" What do you want ?" anxiously asked Potts,
who now thought that he might ei)me to terms,
and perhaps gain his escape from the clutches of
his enemy.

"The title deeds of the Brandon estate," said
the stranger.

"Never!"

"Then off you go. They must be mine, at
any rate. Nothing can prevent that. Either
give them now and begone, or delay, and you go
at once to jail."

" I won't give them," said Potts, desperately.

"Catol" said the stranger, "go and fetcii the
policemen."

"Stop!" cried John.

At a sign Asgeelo, who had already taken
two steps toward the door, paused.

"Here, dad," said John, "you've got to do
it. You might as well hand over tlie 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, John-
nie. I always said you had a long head."

"I must go and get them," he continued.

" I'll go with you ; or no — Cato shall go with
you, ana I'll wait here."

The Hindu 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.

Afrer about a quarter of an hour they returned,
and Potts handed over to the stranger some pa-
pers. He looked at them carefully, and put
them in liis pocket. He then gave Pctts the
cord. Potts took it in an abstracted way, and
said nothing.

" You must leave this Hall to-night," said the
stranger, sternly — "you and your son, I re-
main here.

" Leave i^j H^ gasped Potts.
. "Yes,"

For a moment he stood overwhelmed. He
looked at John. John noaded his head slowly.

" You've got to do it, dad," said he.

Potts turned savagely at ti.e stranger. He
shook his clenched fist at him.

"D — n jou!" he cried. "Are you satisfied

yet? I know you. 111 pay you np. What
complaint have you against mc, I'd like to know ?
I never harmed you."

"You don't know me, or yon wouldn't say
that."

" I do. You're Smithers & 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
i-mithers & to. Besides, I'm yoiu- I^ondon
broker, who attended to your speculations in
stockr,. Perhaps you think that you don't know
me after all."

As he said this Potts and John exchanged
glances of wonder. .

"Tricked!" cried Potts — "deceived! hum-
bugged! and mined! 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, \<x.'..-
ed upon him with the air of one who was suney-
ing from a superior height some feeble creature
far beneath him.

" Who am 1 ?' he repeated. " Who ? I am
the one to whom all this belongs. I am one
whom you have injured so deei)ly, 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 offi-
cer."

"There are others."

Potts said nothing, but looked with some fear-
ful discoveiy 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 Bkandon !''

"I knew it! I knew it!" cried John, in a
voice which was almost a shriek.

"Cigole played false. Ill 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
can not breathe while you are here, I will allow
you an hour to be gone."

At the end of the hcur Brandon of Brandon
Hall was at last master in the home of his ances-
tors.

CHAPTER LIII,

THE COTTAGE,

When Cespard hac' bound Clark he- retamed
to look after Langhetti. He lay teebly and mo-
tionless upon the ground. Despard carefully ex-
amined his wounds. His injuries were very se-
vere. His arms were lacerated, and his shoul-
der 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 l>e 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. Besides, Beatrice was there,
and she could nurse Langhetti. But how could

CORD AND CREESE.

185

he get there? — that was the question. It was im-
possible for Langhetti to go on horseback. He
tried to form some phm 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 attracted his attention.

It was a farmer's wagon, and it was coming
from the direction of Denton. Despard stopped
it, explained his situation, and offered to pay any
thing 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 shrub? 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 evening when
they reached the cottage. Lights were burning
in the windows. Despai-d jumped out hastily
and knocked. A servant came. Despard 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 be-
loved J^anghetti."

" Langhetti !" she 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 Despard.
"Is there a bed ready?"

"Oh yes! Bring him in!" cried Beatrice,
v.ho was now in an agony of suspense.

She hurried after them to the wagon. They
lifted Langhetti out and took him into a room
which Beatrice showed them. They tenderly laid
him on the bed. Meanwhile the servant had hur-
ried otF 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 annved, dressed his wounds, and
left directions for his care, which consisted chief-
ly in constant watchfulness.

Leaving Langhetti under the charge of Bea-
trice, Despard went in search of a magistrate.
He found one >vithout any difficulty, and before
an hour Clark was safe in jail. The information
which Despard lodged against him was corrobo-
rated by the brands on his back, which showed
him ' o be a man of desperate character, who had
formerl/ been transported for crime.

Desrard 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 returned 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 '•e-
mained, however, and the two devoted equal dt-
M

tention to the sufferer. Langhetti spoke only
once. He was so faint that his voice waa scarce
audible. Beatrice put her ear close to bi^ mouth.

" What is it? " asked Despard.

" He wants Edith," said Beatrice.

" I have written for her," said Despard.

Beatrice whispered this to Langhetti. An ec-
static smile passed over his face,

"It is well," he murmured. ...

CHAPTER LIV.

THEWORMTURN8.

Potts depai-ted fron» the Hall in deep dejec-
tion. 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 np
arms against him. Against that being a strug-
gle 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 grand 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 th.xt he would not stop in the
search after venget.nce, that nothing short of the
fullest and direst roin — 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 througl.
the gates together, and emerged into the outer
world in silence. But when they had left the
gates the silence ended.

' ' Well, dad ! " said John, ' ' what are yon going
to do now ?"

"I don't know."

" Have you any monej' ?"

"Four thousand pounds in the bank."

"Not much, dad," said John, slowly, "for a
man who last month was worth millions. You're
com'.ig 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?"

"'Vhy, you went in at the little end."

1 ney walked on in silence.

"You musi 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
vourself. "

"How?"

" How ? You've struck blows before to some
purpose, I think."

" But I never yet knew any one with such tre-
mendous 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. W^here's
Clark ? Do you think he has succeeded ?"

18«

CORD AND CREESE.

"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. Ill sleep in the
bank."

" All right," said John, and lie 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."

"Ye?."

" Your father was seized at Manilla and killed
for murder, but I protected you, and promised to
'ake 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 fatlier ?"

"Y'"es," 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 .ue out of
the Hall?"

"Yes."

"Well, that was the man. He killed your fa-
ther. He has ruined me — your other father.
What do you say to that ?"

' ' He shall die, " returned Vijal, solemnly. ' ' He
shall die."

"I am an old man," resumed Potts. " If I
were as strong as I used to be I would not talk
about this to vou. I would do it all mvself."

"I'll do it f" cried Vijal. " 111 do it !"

His eyes flashed, his nostrils dilated — all the
savage within lum 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, and a wilder fire shone in
them. He seized the cord, turned it round his
liand for a moment, and then hurled it at Potts.
It passed round and round his waist.

"Ah!" said Potts, whh deep gratification.
" You have not forgotten, then. Y'ou can throw
it skillfully."

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 yon come to tell me that he
is dead."

Vijal nodded.

" Now I am going. I must fly and hide my-
self 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 spid 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.

CHAPTER LV.

ONTHEKOAD.

On tl.e 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 ;he latter overtook him. It
was when they were nearly abreast that Brandon
recognized the other. It was Vijal.

"Good-morning," said Vijal.

" Good-moming," replied Brandon.

" Are you going to Denton ?"

"Yes."

"So am I," said Vijal.

Brandon fvas purposely courteous, although it
was not exactly the thing for a gentleman to be
thus addressed by a sei-vant. He saw that this
servant had overreached hinself, and knew that
he must have some motive for joining him and
addressing him in so familiar a mann.r.

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 suspicion darted across his mind. He stroked
his mustache with his owa right hand, which he
kept constantly upraised, and talked cheerfully
and i)atronizingly with his companion. After a
while he fell back a little and drew forth a knife,
whicii he concealed in his hand, and then he rode
forward as before abreast of the other, assuming
the appearance of perfect calm and indilference.

"Have you left Potts ?" said Brandon, after a
short time.

" No," replied Vijal.

" Ah ! Then you are on some b siness of his
now?"

"Yes."

Brandon was silent.

" Would you like to know what it is ?' asked
Vijal.

"Not particular! V," said Brandon, coldlv.

" Shall! teU you?'

"If you choose."

Vijal raised his hand suddenly and gave a
quick, short jerk. A cord flew forth — there was
a weight at the end. The cord was flung straight
at Brandon's neck.

But Brandon had been on his gvard. At the

CORD AND CHEESE.

187

VIJAL LOOKED EARNESTLY AT IT. HE SAW THESE WORDS: JOHN POTTS.

movement of Vijal's arm he had raised his own ;
the cord passed around him, 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 surprise he drew forth a revolver
and pointed it at him.

ViyAl saw at once that he was lost. He never-
theless plunged his spurs into his horse and made
a desperate effort to escape. As his horse bound-
ed off Brandon fired. The animal gave a wild
neigh, 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 disencum-

bered himself from his, and seizing the Malay by
the collar held the pistol at his head.

"If you move," he cried, sternly, "III blow
your brains out!"

Vijal lay motionless.

"Scoundrel!" exclaimed Brandon, a.<i he held
him A\'ith the revolver pressed against his head,
"who sent you to do this ?"

Vijal in sullen silence answered nothing.

"Tell me or 111 kill you. Was it Totts ?"

Vijal made no reply.

"ISpeak out," cried Brandon. "Fool that
you are, I don't want your life. "

"Yon are the murderer of my father," siiid
Vijal, fiercely, " and therefore I sought to kill
you."

Brandon gave a low laugh.

188

CORD AND CREESE.

"Tbs murderer of your father?" he repeated.

"Yes," cried Vyal, wildly; "and I sought
your death."

Brandon laughed a^'ain.

" 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 younjjer
man than himself by several years, lie was si-
lent.

" How many years is it since your father died ?"

Yijal said nothing.

" Fool !" exclaimed Brandon. " It is twenty
years. You are false to your father. You pre-
tend to avenge his death, and you seek out a
young man who had no connection with it. I
was in England 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 re-
laxed his hold, though he still held his pistol
pointed at the head n{ his prostrate enemy. Vi-
jal gave a long, low sigh.

"You were too young, "said he,atla8t. "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. WeJl, do yoi>. know what Zangorri
did to avenge his br^thor's death ? '

"No; wha:?"

"For many years he vowed death to all En-
glishmen, since it was an Englishman 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 Brandon, with-
out 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,
csid charged me to cany out his work of venge-
.^-..ce. I promised to do so, for I had a work of
vengeance cf 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 .jmething
which he said he h'.d worn around his neck for
years. I took it, and promised to wear it till
the vengeance which he sought should be accom-
plished. I did so, for I too had a debt of venge-
ance stronger than his, and on the same man. "

' Who was he?" cried Vijal again, with rest-
less imp< iuosity.

Brandon unbuttoned his vest and drew forth

a Malay creese, which was haog aronnd his neck
and worn under his coat.

" Do you know what this is ?" he asked, sol-
emnly.

Vijal took it and looked at it earnestly. His
eyes dilated, his nostrils quivered.

" My father's !" he cried, in a tremulous voica.

" Can you read English letters ?"

"Yes."

" Can you read the name that is cut upon it ?"

And Brandon pointed to a place where soma
letters were carved.

Vijal looked earnestly at it. Ho saw these
words :

JOHN porra

" 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 'j own hand. "

Vijal said nothing for a long tine. Brandon
arose, and put his pistol in his tjcket. Vijal,
disrncumbering himself from ms horse, arose
also. The tv.o stood together on the road.

F6r 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.

CHAPTER LVI.

FATHER AND SOV.

Vijal, on going back to Brandon village,
went first to the inn where he saw .John. To
the inquiries which were eagerly addressed to
him he answered nothing, but simply said that
he wished to see Potts. John, finding him im-
practic".ble, cursed him and led the way to the
bank.

As Vijal ertered Potts locked the door care-
fully, and then anxiously questioned him. Vijal
gave a plain account of every thing exactly as it
had happened, but with some important alteca-
tions and omissions. In the first place, he said
nothing whatever of the long interview which
had taken place and the startling information
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 at-
tacked. «

"YoH 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 w-as something in the tone of his voice
so remorseless and so vengeful that Potts felt re-
assured.

" 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 lime?"

"I'll make sure ti'is time. But I must have
some one with me," he continued. "You need

COHD AND CREESE.

189

not trouble yourself, ^end John with me. He
won't mistake. If he U with me 1 11 make
•ure."

As the Malay said thia a brighter and more
vivid flush shone from hit eyes. He gave a
malevolent smile, and his white teeth glistened
balefully. Instantly he checked the smile, and
cast down his eyes.

" A h : " said Potts. ' "That is very good. John
shall go. Johnnie, you don't mind going, do
you ?"

" I'll go," baid John, languidly.

"You'll know the fellow, won't you?"

" I rather think I should."

" But what will vou 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 Bran-
don. No other person answers to the descrip-
tion. No other person would be so quick to
dodge the cord, and so quick with the revolv-
er. He has humbugged 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, affec-
tionately, not knowing the blasphemy of invok-
ing th3 blessing of God on one who was setting
out to commit murder.

"You're spooney, dad," returned John, and
he left the bank with Vijal.

John went back to tlie inn first, and after a
few preparations s.arted for Denton. On the
way he amused himself with coarse jests at Vi-
jal's stupidity in allowing himself to be deceived
by Brandon, taunted him with cowardice in
yielding 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 Den-
ton. John was anxious not to show himself, so
he went at once to the inn, directing Vijal to
keep a look-out for Brandofl and let him know
if he saw any one who looked like him. These
directions were accompanied and intermingled
with numerous threats as to what he would do if
Vijal dared to fail in any particular. The Ma-
lay listened calmly, showing none of that impa-
tience and haughty resentment which he former-
ly 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 windows flashed out, which at
once attracted liis attention. It was the man
whom he sought — it was Brandon. Was he
stopping at the same inn? If so, why had not
Vijal told him? Ho at once summoned Vijal,
who came as calm as ever. To John's impatient
questions as to why he had not toid 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 yon let him slip this time, you infer-
nal nigger, you'll pay dear for it. "

"I'll not make a mistake this time," was
Vijals answer. And as he spoke his eyes
gleamed, and again that balefnl smile passed over
his face.

"That's the man," said John. " You under-
stand 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 to-morrow I expect to
hear from you that you have finished this busi-
ness. If you don't, d n you, I'll wring your

infernal nigger's neck."

"It will all be done by to-morrow," said Vi-
jal, calmly.

"Then clear out and leave roe. I'm going to
bed. What you've got to do is to watch that
man."

Vijal retired.

The night passed. When the following morn-
ing came John was not up at the ordinary break-
fast 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 wbere's
his servant ?"

"The servant went back to Brai 'on at day-
break," was the answer.

Eleven o'clock came. Still there were no signs
of John. There was a balcony in the inn which
ran in front of the windows 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 landlord.
" 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 was a some-
what 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 ain't
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."

"ShaUI-akehim?"

190

COHD AND CKEEjE.

"Yes, and be quick, for I'm in a hnny."

The landlord went up to the door and knocke'l
loudly. There was no answer. He knocked stiil
more loudly. Still no answer. He then kei)t \\p
an incessant rapping for fthour ten minutes. Still
there Avas no answer. He had tried the door iie-
fore, but it was locked on tlie inside. He went
around to the windows that opened on the bal-
cony ; these were o])en.

lie then went down and told the old man that
the door was fastened, but that tlie windows were
unfastened. If he chose to go iu tiiere he might
do so.

" I will do so, said the other, "for I must
see him. I have business of importance. " He
went up.

The landlord and some of the servantf=, whose
cm-iosity was by this time excited, followed afier.

The old man opened the window, which swung
hack 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 concealetl the greater part of
his face. Tlie next moment he fell forward upon
the bed.

" Johnnie I'' he screamed — "Johnnie !"
There was no answer. The face was rigid and
fixed. Around the neck was a faint, bluish line,
a mark like what might have been made by a
I cord.

; ' ' Johnnie, Johnnie !" cried the old man again,

in piercing tones. He caught at the hands of

j the figure before him : he tried to pidl it fonvard.

I There was no response. The old man turned

CORD AND CREESE.

191

awaj and ruohed to the window, gasping, with
white lipH, and bloodshot eyes, and a face of
horror.

" He is dead !" he shrieked. "My boy — my
son — my Johnnie! Murderer! You have killed
liiin."

The landlord and the servants started back in
horror from the presence of this father in ais mis-
ery.

It was for but a moment that he stood there.
He went back and ilung himself upon the bed.
Then he came forth again and stood upon the
balcony, motionless, white-faced, si)eechle!<8 — his
lips muttering inaudible words.

A crowd gathered round. TTie story soon
spread. This was the father of a young man
who luid stopf)ed 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 Asgcelo brought them the
news.

CHAPTER LVIT.

MRS. COMPTON's secret.

On the night after the arrival of John, Brandon
had left Denton. He did not return till the fol-
lowing day. On arriving at the inn he saw im
unusual spectacle — the old man on the balcony,
the crowd of villagers around, the universal ex-
citement.

On entering the inn he found some one 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 atfair at the inn, and
narrated it to Brandon, who listened with his
usual calmness. He then gave him a letter
froni Frank, which Brandon read and put in his
pocket.

Then Philips told him the news which he had
learned at the cottage about Langhetti. Lan-
ghetti and Despard were both there yet, the for-
mer very dangerously ill, the latter waiting for
some friends. He also vold 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 inter-
est. 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
cottaj;e close by the inn, where Beatrice had
found a home, and Langhetti a refuge. Philips
was with him.

On knocking at the door Asgeelo opened it.
They entered the parlor, and in a short time Mrs.
Com])ton appeared. Brandon's first inquiry was
after Langhetti.

"He is about the same," said Mrs. Comp-
ton.

" 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 hit
arrival.

In a short time they appeared. Beatrice en-
tered first. She was grave, and cold, and solemn ;
Des|(ftrd was gloomy and stem. They both shook
hands with Brandon in silence. Beatrice gave
her hand without a word, lifeless!}* and coldly ;
Despard took his hand abstractedly.

Brandon looked earnestly at Beatrice as sha
stood there before him, calm, sad, passionless,
almost repellent in her demeanor, and wondered
what the cause might be of such a change.

Mrs. t^ompton stood apart-at a little distance,
near Philips, and looked on with a strange ex'
pression, half wistful, half tiriid.

There was a silence wMch 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 an-
other time he might have been strongly interested
in this man, who on so many accounts was so
closely connected with him ; but now the power
of some dominant and all-engrossing idea pos-
sessed him, and he seemed to take no notice of
any thing whatever eithe" '^hout the house or
within.

After looking in silence at the inn for a long
time Beatrice withdrew her gaze. Brandon re-
garded her with a fixed and earnest glance, as
though he would read her inmost soul. IShe
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 inquiringly.

"If it had been his base life which 1 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 hand-
ed him over to the law. 1 did not. "

"No," said Beatrice, in icy tones, "you did
not : you so':ght a deeper vengeance. You cared
not to take his life. It was ~\veeter to you to
take his son's life and give hun agony. Deatli
would have been insufficient — anguish was what
you wished.

"It is not for me to blame you," she contin-
ued, while Brandon looked at her without a
word. " Who am I — a polluted one, of the ac-
cursed brood — who am I, to stand between you
and him, or to l)lame you if you seek for venge-
ance? I am nothing. You have done kind-
nesses to me which I now wish were undone.

193

CORD AND CKEESE.

Uh that I had died under the hand of the pirates ! \
Oh that the ocean had swept me down to death '
with all its waves ! Then I should not have lived
to see this day !" j

Roused by her vehemence Despard started
from his absti action and looked around.

"It seems to me," said he, "as if you were
blaming some one for inflicting suifering 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 h" 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 atonement for his crimes. This
is but the beginning. I have a debt of vengeance
to extort from iiim. One scoundrel lias been
handed over to the law, another lies dead, anoth-
er is in London in the hands of Langhetti's friends,
the Carbonari. 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 Despard. Their eyes met. Some-
thing 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, ho obtained possession of his son, then a
mere boy, and carried him away. He kept this
lad wi h 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 assassinate
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 — oh, Beatrice ! if he
were — what then ? Could that atone for what I
have suffered? My father ruined and broken-
hearted and dying in a poor-house calls to me
always for vengeance. My mother suffering in
the emigrant ship, and dying of the plague amidst
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 bur-
ied alive. "

" What !"' cried Beatrice ; " is it possible that
you do not know that she is alive ?"

"Alive!" . ■

" Yes, alive ; for wjen I was at Holby I saw
her."

Brandon stood speechless with surprise.

" Langhetti saved her," said Be^.trice. " His
sister has charge of her now. "

"Where, where is she?" asked Brandon,
wildly.

" In a convent at London."

At this moment Despard entered.

" Is this true ?" ask^ Brandon, with a deeper
agitation than had ever yet been seen in him —
"my 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 ig-
norant."

"How is it possible? I was at Quebec my-
self. I have sought over the world after my rela-
tives—"

"I will tell you," said Despa ^..

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 amaze-
ment that he had not a word to say. He listened
like one stupefied.

"Thank God!" he cried at last when it was
ended; "thank God, I am spared this last an-
guish ; 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 must
find her. Where is she ?"

" Make yourself easy on that score," said Des-
pard, calmly. " She will be here to-morrow or
the day after. I have written to Langhetti's
sister; 'le will come, and will bring your sis-
ter with her."

"I should have told you so before," said Bea-
trice, "but my own troubles drove every thing
else from my mind."

"Forgive me," said Brandon, "for intruding
now. I came in to learr about Langhetti. Yon
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, Bea-
trice. You will not condemn me 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, look-
ing at Mrs. Compton.

The poor old creature began to tremble.

"Don't be afraid, old woman," said Philipe.
"Take my arm and I'll protect you."

She rose, and, leaning on his arm, followed
the others into Langhetti's room. He was fear-
fully emaciated. His material -frame, worn down
by pain and confinement, seemed about to dis-
solve and let free that soaring soul of his, whose
fiery impulses had for years chafed against the
prison bars of its mortal inclosure. His eyes
shone darkly and luminously from their deep,

CORD AND CREESE.

193

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 Bran-
don, and with both of his thin white hands
pressed the strong and muscular hand of the
other.

"And you are Edith's brother," he said.
"Edith's brother," he repeated, resting lovingly
npon that name, Edith. " She always said you
were alive, and once she told me she should live
tp 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 Brandon, in a voice
choked with emotion, as he pressed the hand of
the dying mar.. " Ele will come, and at once."

"And you will be all here, then — sweet friends !
ItisweU."

He paused.

" Bice !" 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 pockst
vou 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 was given me 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 Beatrice ; but what did ' D' mean ?"

All around that bedside exchanged glances of
wonder. Mrs. Compton was most agitated.

"Take me away," she murmurod to Philips.

But Philipj would not.

" Cheer up, old woman !" said he. "There's
nothing to fear now. That devil won't hurt 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 cloth-
ing to be marked ' D' if your name was Potts.
It was a thing which greatly troubled her. I
made many inquiries. I found out about the
Manilla murder case. From that moment I sus-
pected tha^ ' D' meant Despard.

" Oh, Heavens !" sighed Beatrice, in an agony
of suspense. Brandon and Despard stood mo-
tionless, waiting for something further.

"This is what I tried to solve. I made in-
quiries every where. At last I gave it up. But
when circumstances threw Beatrice 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 God,
I call upon her to speak oni and tell the truth."

"Who?" cried Despard, while he and Bran-
don both looked earnestly at Mrs. Compton.

"Mrs. Compton!" said Langhetti; and his
Toice seemed to die awav from exhaustion.

Mrs. Compton was seized with a panic more
overpowering 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 cui-se. There
is no need for fear now. I will j rotect yon. The
man whom you have feared so many years is now
ruined, helpless, and miserable. I ■ )uld destroy
him at this moment if I chose. You are fooU.sh
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 fi-om
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 courage, and then began.

It was a long story. She had been attendant
and nui-se to the wife of Colonel Despard, who had
died in ginng 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 deatb^
and all other things were forgotten. He had not
even made inquiries as to whether the child
which he had expected was alive or dead, but
had at once given way to the grief of the be-
reavement, and had hurried oft".

In his designs on Colonel Despard, Potts fear-
ed that the knowledge of the existence of a child
might keep him in India, and distract his mind
from its sorrow. Therefore he was the more
anxious not only to keep this secret, but also to
prevent it from ever being known to Colonel
Despard. With this idea he hurried the prep-
aration of the Vishnu to such an extent that it
was ready for sea almost immediately, and left
with Colonel Despard on that ill-fated voyage.

Mrs. Compton had \yien 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. The child was Bea-
trice Despard.

Potts always feared that Mrs. Compton might
divulge his secret, and therefore 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 less-
ened. The sufferings which she felt from this
terror were atoned for, however, by the constant
presence of her son, who remained 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

104

CORD AND CREESE.

England, and they had lived in different places,
until at huit Brandon Hall had fallen into his
hands. Of the former occupants of Brandon
Hall, Mrs. Compton knew almost nothing. Very
little had ever heen said about them to her. She
knew carcely any thing about them, except that
their names were Brandon, and that they had
suffered misfortunes.

Finally, this Beatrice was Beatrice Despard,
the daughter of Colonel Despard and the sister
of the clergyman then present. She herself, in-
stead of being the daughter of Potts, had been
one of his victims, and had suflered 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 miscreant who pretended to be her
father.

Now she was overwhelmed. She threw her-
self 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 dis-
covered. Brandon stood apart, looking on,
shaken to the soul and unnerved by the deep joy
of that unparalleled discovery. Amidst all the
speculations in which he had indulged the very
possibility of this had never suggested itself. He
had believed most implicitly all along that Bea-
trice 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 man}* adventurous and momentous
days — days of alternating peace and storm, of
varying hope and despair. To him she owed
every thing ; to him she owed even the rapture
of this moment.

As their eyes met they revealed all their in-
most thoughts. There was now no barrier be-
tween them. Vanished was the insuperable ob-
stacle, vanished the impassable gulf. They stood
side by side. The enemy of this man — his foe,
his victim — was also hers. Whatever 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 daugh-
ter of this man. She was of no vulgar or sordid
race. Her blood was no longer polluted or ac-
cursed. 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 words sank into
her sonl.' His eyes devoured hers in the passion
of tlieir 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, wh'' .ears 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 sun-
shine out of a clouded sky. He looked at these
two for a moment.

Langhetti's eyes were closed. Mrs. Compton
and her son were talking apart. Despard looked
upon the lovers.

"Let thei.i 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 without hope. Heaven has its fa-
vorites, but I am an outcast from that favor."

A shudder passed through him. He drew
himself up.

"Since love is denied me," he thought, "I
can at least have vengeance."

CHAPTER LVIII.

THE MALAYS VENGEANCE.

Some hours afterward Despard called Bran-
don outside the cottage, and walked along the
bank which overhung the beach. Arriving at a
point several hundred yards distant from the cot-
tage he stopped. Brandon noticed a deeper
gloom upon his face and a sterner purpose on his
resolute mouth.

" I have called you aside," said Despard, " to
say that I am going on a journey. I may be
back immediately. If I do not return, will you
say to any one who may ask" — and here he paused
for a moment — "say to any one 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 Holby, in
case of need."

" 1 nm never ;oing back again to Holby."

Brandon looked surprised.

"To one like you," said Despard, "I do not
object to tell my i)ui-pose. You know what it is
to seek for Aengeance. The only feeling that I
have is that. Love, tenderness, affection, all
are idle Avords with me.

' ' There are three who pre-eminently were con-
cerned in my father's death," continued Despard.
"One was Cigole. The Carbonari have him.
Langhetti tells me that he must die, unless he
himself inter])oses to save him. And I think
Langhetti will never so interpose. Langhetti is
dying — another stimulus to vengeance.

"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 miscrennt in the atti-
tude of a bereaved father could for one moment
move me to pitj-. I took note of the agony of
his face. I watched his grief with joy. I am
going to com])lete that joy. He must die, and
no mortal can save him from my hands."

CORD AND CREESE.

195

The deep, stem tones of Despard were like the
knell of doom, and there was in them such ae-
terminate viiidictiveiiesy tiiat lirandon saw all
remonstrance to Im; useless.

He marked the pale sad face of this man. He
saw in it the traces of soitow of longer standing
than any which he might have felt i,bout the
manuscript that he had read. It was the face
of a man who had suffered so much that life had
become a burden. .

" You are a clergyman," said Brandon at
length, with a faint h.ope that an appeal to his
profession might have some etfejt.

Despard smiled cynically.

" I am a man," said he.

"Can not the disco veiy of a sister," asked
Brandon, "atone in some degree for your grief
about your father ?"

Despard shook his head weaiily.

"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 useless to remonstrate. My
mind is made up. Perhaps I may come back
unsuccessful. If so — I must be resigned, I sup-
pose. At any rate you know my purjjose, and
can let those who ask after me know, in a general
way, what 1 have said."

With a slight bow Despard walked away, leav-
ing Brandon standing there filled 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,
discusshig with several friends the case of the
day. More particularly he was troubled by the
sudden departure of the old man, v.ho 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 up staii-s. It was this
which now perplexed the landlord.

Despard listened attentively to the conversa-
tion. The landlord mentioned that Potts had
taken the road to Brandon. The servant who
had been with the young man had not been seen.
If the old man should 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, hoi)ing to overtake the man whom he pur-
sued. He rode, however, several miles with-
out coming in sight of him or of anj' one like

IT WAS I'OTTS.

1«

CORD AND CREESE.

him. At last he reached that hollow which had
been the scene of his encounter with Clark. As
he descended into it he saw a group of men by
the road-side surrounding some object. In the
middle of the road was a farmer's wagon, and a
horse was standing in the distance.

Despard rode np and saw the prostrate figure
of a man. He dismounted. The farmers stood
aside and disclosed the face.

It was Potts.

Deapard stooped down. It was already dusk ;
but even in that dim light he saw the coils of a
thin cord wound tightly abou*. 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 heai't, from which
the blood had flowed in torrents.

It was a Malay ci'eese. Upon the handle was
carven a name :

JOHN POTTS.

CHAPTER LIX.
Aftirc TiXivraiov dirvaafiov luittv.

The excitement which had prevailed through
the village of Denton was intensified by the ar-
rival there of the body of the old man. For his
mysterious death no one could account except
one person.

That one was Brandon, whom Despard sur-
prised by his speedy return, and to whom he
narrated the circumstances of the discovery.
Brandon knew who it was that could wield that
cord, what arm it was that had held that weapon,
and what heart it was that was animated by suf-
ficient vengeance to strike these blows.

Despard, finding his purpose thus unexpected-
ly taken away, remained in the village and wait-
ed, iheie was one whom he wished to see
again. C)n the following day Frank Brandon
arrived fiom London. He met Langhetti w'th
deep emotion, and learned from his brother the
astonishing story of Edith.

On the following day that long-lost sister her-
self 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 un-
earthly. The joy which the brothers felt at find-
ing 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 her Langhetti's face grew ra-
diant — all pain seemed to leave him. She bent
over him, and their wan lips met in the only kiss
which they had ever exchanged, with all that
deep love which they had felt for one another.
She sat by his bedside. She seemed to appro-
priate him to herself. The others acknowledged
tills quiet claim and gave way to it.

As she kissed Langhetti's lips he murmured
faintly :

" I knew you would come."

"Yes," said Edith. " We will go together."

"Yes, sweetest and dearest," said Langhetti.
"And therefore we meet now never to part
again."

She looked at him fondly.

"The time of our l^■liTerance is near, oh my
friend."

"Near," repeated Langhetti, with a smile of
ecstasy — " near. Yes, you have already by your
presence brought me nearer to my immortality."

Mrs. Thornton was pale and wan ; and the
shork 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 ns take a walk."

Mrs. Thonitwn looked at him earnestly, and
then put on her bonnet. It was quite dark as
they left the house. They walked along the
road. The sea was on their left.

"This is the last that we shall see of one an-
other. Little Plavmate, " said Despard, 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!" . i - .

"Little Playmate," said Despard, "cTcn my
discovery of my father's death has not changed
me. Even my thir&t for vengeance '^ould not
take the place of my love. Listen — I liung my-
self with all the ardor that I could conunand into
the pursuit of my father's murderers. I forced
myself to an unnatural pitch of pitilessness and
vindictiveness. I set out to pursue one .f the
worst of these men with the full determination
to kill him. God saved me from blood-guilti-
ness. 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 ns would die rather
than do wrong, or go on in a wrong course. The
only thing left for us is to separate forever."

"Yes, forever," murmured Mrs. Thornton.

"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 transfigured in my
eyes. You, Teresa, were in my mind something
perfect — a bright, biilliant being unlike any oth-
er. Whether you were really what I believed
you mattered not so far as the effect upon me
was concerned. Ypu 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 ten-
der and reverential. 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 can not 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, in-
stead of weakening my love they will only refine
it and purify it. You will be to me a guardian
angel, a patron saint — your nacne shall always
mingle with my prayers. Is it impious to name
your name in prayer? I turn away from you
because I would rather sufter than do wrong.
May I not pray for my darling ?"

"I don't know what to do," said Mrs. Thorn-
ton, wearily. "Your power over me is fear-
ful. Lama, I woidd do any thing for your sake.
You talk about your memories; it is not for
me to speak about mine. Whether you idealize

C<HID AND CREKri'i

1»7

SHi; WAS WEEPING. UESPARD FOLDED HER IK HIS ARMS.

me or not, after all, you must know what I really
am."

" Would you be glad never to see me again?"

The hand which Despp.rd held trembled.

" If you would be liappier," said she.

" Would you be glad 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.

"T.his once," said he, "the only time. Little
Playmate, in this life."

She wept upon his breast.

"TtXeiraTov aoiraanov SUfiiv," said Despard,
murmuring in a low voice the opening of the
song of the dead, so well known, so often sung,
BO fondly remembered — the song which bids fare-
well to the dead when the friends bestow the "last
kiss."

He bent down his head. Her head fell. His
lips touched her forehead.

She felt the beating of his heart ; she felt his
frame tremble 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 London, and informed him that im-
portant affairs required his depaitiire abroad.

The cottage was but a small place, and Bran-
don determined to have Langhetti conveyed to
the Hall. An ambulance was obtained from Ex-
eter, and on this Langhetti and Edith were taken
away.

On arriving at Brandon Hall Beatrice found
her diary in its place of concealment, the mem-
ory of old sorrows which could never be forgot-
ten. But those old sorrows were passing away
now, in the presence of her new joy.

And yet that joy was darkened by the clond
of a new sorrow. Langhetti was dying. Hi*

1»8

COKD AND CREESE.

frail .form became more nnd more attenuated
every day, his eyes more lustrous, liis 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 speedier
advent in that spirit-world where she longed to
arrive. IJeaidc these ^^eatrice 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
Bongs 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
trent 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 and rose again, bearing
away 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 ; so also did their mean-
ing. It was a meaning beyond what might be in-
telligible to those who listened — a meaning be-
yond 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 subtle, more pene-
trating, more thrilling in its mysterious meaning,
it rose and swelled through the air, like the song
of some .unseen ones, w ho were waiting for new-
comers to the Invisible land.

Suddenly Beatrice gave a piercing cry. She
rushed to Edith's sofa. Edith lay back, her mar-
ble 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

LANGHETTI DREW HIS BOW ACROSS THE STRIXiiS.

CORD AND CREESE.

199

toward her. Tliey 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 u fairer w I'ld and a
purer clime.

They were buried side by side in the Brandon
vaults. Frank then returned to London. Mrs.
Thornton went back to Ilolby. The new rector
was surprised at the request of the lady of Thorn-
ton Grange to be allowed to become organist in
Trinity Church. She offered to pension off the
old man who now presided there. Her request
was gladly acceded to. Her zeal was remarka-
ble. Every day she Alsited the church to prac-
tice at the organ. This became the purpose of
her life. Yet of all the pieces two were per-

formed most frequently in her daily practice,
the one being the Agnus Dei; the other, the
riXivrdiov dawaoftov of St. Joha Damascene.
Peace ! Peace ! Peate !

Was that cry of hers unavailing ? Of Despard
nothing was known for some time. Mr. Thorn-
ton once mentioned to his. wife that the Kev.
C^ourtenay Despard had joined the Eleventh Regi-
ment, and had gone to South Africa. He men-
tioned this because he had seen a paragrap'i
stating that a Captain Despard had been klMad
in the Kaffir war, and wondnred whether ii 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 Brando.i and his wife were
soon able to look back, even to the darkest period
of their lives, without fear of marring their perfect
happiness.

THE END.