Cord and Creese

J >> James de Mille >> Cord and Creese

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"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 dispelling 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
extravagance.

"You must be glad to get to your old home," she resumed. "You lived here
fifteen, no, sixteen 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
mournfulness, 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, and 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 her, holding the
book out at arms'-length with feigned consternation.

"And do you have 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 ordinary novel, and for the sake
of your peace of mind I assure you that there is not a particle of
religion in it. But why should you look with such repugnance upon it?
The expression of your face is simply horror."

"Pietistic books have been the bane of my life. The emotional, the
rhapsodical, the meditative style of book, in which one garrulously
addresses one's soul from beginning to end, is simply torture to me. You
see religion is a different thing. The rhapsody may do for the
Tabernacle people, but thoughtful men and women need something
different."

"I am 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, the Apostolic, the Catholic, has a strong hold on me."

"You need not fear that I will ever try 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
Catholic church here, I will give you the honor of my presence at
Trinity."

"If that is the case it will be a place of worship to me."

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

"That is a compliment, but it is awfully profane."

"Not profanity; say rather justifiable idolatry."

"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 new plan to
stimulate my interest. I will tell you about it. I take ten at a time,
spread them on the table in front of me, and read each chapter in
succession."

"Isn't that a little confusing?"

"Not at all," said Despard, gravely. "Practice 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 catastrophes 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 catastrophes, one hundred interesting
characters, and four hundred situations of absorbing fascination. Do you
not see what an advantage there is in my plan? 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 you 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 engaged with a
learned treatise on the Symbolical Nature of the Mosaic Economy, and--"

"The--what?" cried Mrs. Thornton, breathlessly. "What was that?"

"The Symbolical Nature of the Mosaic Economy," 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 so," 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 fancies?"

"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 conceited
people?"

"No."

"Am I conceited?"

"No. I like you," 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 thoughtful seriousness, "is a
solemn occasion. After such a tender confession from each of us what
remains to be done? What is it that the novels lay down?"

"I'm sure," returned Mrs. Thornton, with the same assumed solemnity, "it
is not for me to say. You must make the proposition."

"We cannot do any thing less than fly together."

"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
creditable? 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. Allow me to suggest it by way of a change."

"It must be so, since you say it; but I have a weakness for the word
Economy. It is derived from the Greek--"

"Greek!" exclaimed Mrs. Thornton, raising her hands. "You surely are not
going to be so ungenerous as to quote 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
apology is going on within my mind whenever I see you."

"You are forgiven," said Mrs. Thornton.

"I can not conceive how I could have so far forgotten myself. I do not
usually speak Greek to ladies. I consider it my duty to make myself
agreeable. And you have no idea how agreeable I can 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 employed thus
far, somewhat exaggerated. "After what I told you--of my feelings?"

"I see I shall have to devote all the rest of my life to making
apologies."

"No. Do not make apologies. Avoid your besetting sins. Otherwise, fond
as I am of you"--and she spoke with exaggerated solemnity--"I must
regard 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-serious 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 troubadour in addressing the Lady of Thornton
Grange? Neither of them thought of it. They simply improved the shining
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
friendliness, was naturally stiff, and was in marked contrast to the
warmth of Mrs. Thornton's greeting.

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

"Very well," said Despard. "It is more my home, you know, than any other
place. I lived there so many years as school-boy with Mr. Carson 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." Despard asserted that it meant the same as eternal
duration, and insisted that it must be so, since when to-morrow came the
day after it was still coming, and when that came there was still the
day after. He supported his theory with so much earnestness that
Thornton, after listening for a while, took the trouble to go heavily
and at length into the whole question, and conclude it triumphantly
against Despard.

Then the subject of politics came up, and a probable war with France was
considered. Despard professed to take no interest in the subject, since,
even if an invasion took place, clergymen could do nothing. They were
exempt from military duty in common with gaugers. The mention of this
brought on a long discussion as to the spelling of the word gauger.
Despard asserted that nobody knew how it was spelled, and that, from the
necessities of human nature, it was simply impossible to tell whether it
was _gauger_ or _guager_. This brought out Thornton again, who
mentioned several law papers in which the word had been correctly
written by his clerks. Despard challenged him on this, and, because
Thornton had to confess that he had not examined the word, dictionary in
hand, he claimed a victory over him.

Thornton, at this, looked away, with the smile of a man who is talking
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, "some day."

"Come for it to-morrow."

"Will you be at home?"

[Illustration: "MRS. THORNTON, WALKING TO THE WINDOW, LOOKED OUT."]

"Yes."

"Then of course I'll come. And now I must tear myself away. Good-night!"

On the following day, at about two o'clock, Despard called again. Mrs.
Thornton had been writing, and the desk was strewn with papers.

"I know I am disturbing you," said he, after the usual greetings. "I see
that you are writing, so I will not stay but a moment. I have come, you
know, after that little book."

"Indeed, you are not disturbing me at all. I have been trying to
continue a letter which I began to my brother a month ago. There is no
hurry about it."

"And how is Paolo?"

"I have not heard for some time. I ought to hear soon. He went to
America last summer, and I have not had a word from him since. My letter
is of no importance, I assure you, and now, since you are here, you
shall not go. Indeed, I only touched it a minute ago. I have been
looking at some pictures till I am so begrimed and inundated with dust
that I feel as though I had been resolved into my original element."

And she held up her hands with a pretty gesture of horror.

Despard looked at her for a moment as she stood in her bright beauty
before him. A sudden expression of pain flashed over his face, succeeded
by his usual smile.

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

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

"Yet, singularly enough, no one else ever dreamed that of me."

"You were always so."

"With you." "In the old days."

"Now lost forever."

Their voices sank low and expressive of a deep melancholy. A silence
followed. Despard at last, with a sudden effort, began talking in his
usual extravagant strain about badgers till at last Mrs. Thornton began
to laugh, and the radiancy of their spirits was restored. "Strange,"
said he, taking up a prayer-book with a peculiar binding, on which there
was a curiously intertwisted figure in gilt. "That pattern has been in
my thoughts and dreams for a week."

"How so?"

"Why, I saw it in your hands last Sunday, and my eyes were drawn to it
till its whole figure seemed to stamp itself on my mind. See! I can
trace it from memory." And, taking his cane, he traced the curiously
involved figure on the carpet.

"And were your thoughts fixed on nothing better than that?"

"I was engaged in worship," was the reply, with marked 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 seclusion."

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 I'll tell you what would be a help. Be a Sister of
Charity. I'll be a Paulist. I'll 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 better than yours."

"Oh, very much, indeed!" said Mrs. Thornton, with a strange, sad look.

"I remember a boy and girl who once used to go hand in hand over yonder
shore, and--" He stopped suddenly, and then hastily added, "and now it
would be very sad, and therefore very absurd, in one of them to bring up
old memories."

Mrs. Thornton suddenly rose, and, walking to the window, looked out. "I
wonder if it will rain to-day!" she said, in a sweet voice, full of a
tremulous melancholy.

"There are very dark clouds about," returned Despard, mournfully.

"I hope there will not be a storm," she rejoined, with the same sadness.
Her hands were held tightly together. "Some things will perish if a
storm comes."

"Let us pray that there may be calm and peace," said Despard.

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 beyond words.

CHAPTER XIV.

TWO LETTERS.

Despard did not go back to the Grange for some 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 ponderous tomes. Manuscripts were strewn around, and books were
scattered on the floor. Yet, amidst all this disorder, some 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 different was the Despard of the library from the Despard who had
visited the Grange. A stern and thoughtful expression was read in his
face, and his eyes had an abstraction which would have done credit to
Mr. Thornton himself.

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 he had marked with his cane on Mrs. Thornton's carpet. He traced
this figure over and over, until at last the whole sheet was covered.

Suddenly he flung down the pen, and, taking up the paper, leaned back in
his chair with a melancholy face. "What a poor, weak thing I am!" he
muttered at last, and let the paper fall to the floor. He leaned his
head on his hand, then resumed his pen and began to make some idle
marks. At length he began to draw.

Under the fine and delicate strokes of his pen, which were as neat and
as exquisite as the most subtle touches of an engraving, a picture
gradually rose to view. It was a sea-side scene. The place was Holby
Beach. In the distance was the light-house; and on one side a
promontory, which protected the harbor. Upon the shore, looking out
toward the sea, was a beautiful girl, of about sixteen years of age,
whose features, as they grew beneath his tender touches, were those of
Mrs. Thornton. Then beside her there gradually rose another figure, a
youth of about eighteen, with smooth face and clustering locks, who
looked exactly like what the Rev. Courtenay Despard might have been some
seven or eight years before. His left arm was around her waist, her arm
was thrown up till it touched his shoulder, 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 Damascenus form a marked contrast to--"
when the sentence was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Come in!" It
was the servant with letters from the post-office. Despard put down his
pen gravely, and the man laid two letters on the table. He waited till
the servant had departed, then seizing one of them, a small one,
addressed in a lady's hand, he pressed it vehemently to his lips and
tore it open.

It was as follows:

[Illustration: "BOTH WERE LOOKING OUT UPON THE SETTING SUN."]

"DEAR MR. DESPARD,--I suppose I may _never_ 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.

"THORNTON GRANGE, Friday."

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

"HALIFAX, NOVA SCOTIA, January 12, 1847.

"MY DEAR COURTENAY,--I was very glad to hear of your appointment as
Rector of Holby, your old home, and hope that by this time you are fully
established in the old Rectory, where you spent so many years. I was
there often enough in poor old Carson's days to know that it was a fine
old place.

"You will see by this that I am in Halifax, Nova Scotia. My regiment was
ordered off here last November, and I am just beginning to feel settled.
It is not so cold here as it was in Quebec. There is capital moose
hunting up the country. I don't admire my accommodations much; but it is
not a bad little town, considering all things. The people are pleasant,
and there is some stir and gayety occasionally.

"Not long before leaving Quebec, who do you think turned up? No less a
person than Paolo Langhetti, who in the course of his wanderings came
out there. He had known some extraordinary 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
Liverpool for Quebec. It was an emigrant ship, and crammed with
passengers. You have heard all about the horrors of that middle passage,
which occurred last year, when those infernal Liverpool merchants, for
the sake of patting a few additional pounds in their pockets, sent so
many thousands to destruction.

"The _Tecumseh_ was one of these. It was crammed with emigrants.
You know Langhetti's extraordinary pluck, and his queer way of devoting
himself for others. Well, what did he do but this: as soon as the ship-
fever broke out he left the cabin and took up his abode in the steerage
with the sick emigrants. He is very quiet about this, and merely says
that he helped to nurse 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 once insisted on
continuing his attendance on the sick. Hands were scarce, 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 _Tecumseh_ were three who belonged to
the superior class. Their names were Brandon. He took a deep interest in
them. They suffered very much from sickness both during the voyage and
at quarantine. The name at once attracted him, being one well known both
to him and to us. At last they all died, or were supposed to have died,
at the quarantine station. Langhetti, however, found that one of them
was only in a 'trance state,' and his efforts for resuscitation were
successful. This one was a young girl of not more than sixteen years of
age. After her restoration he left the quarantine bringing her with him,
and came up to the city. Here he lived for a month or so, until at last
he heard of me and came to see me.

"Of course I was delighted to see him, for I always thought him the
noblest fellow that ever breathed, though most undoubtedly cranky if not
crazy. I told 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 Langhetti ventured to ask her all about
herself.

"What will you say when I tell you that she is the daughter of poor
Ralph Brandon, of Brandon Hall, your father's friend, whose wretched
fate has made us all so miserable. You know nothing of this, of course;
but where was Thornton? Why did not he do something to prevent this
horror, this unutterable calamity? Good God! what suffering there is in
this world!

"Now, Courtenay, I come to the point. This poor Edith Brandon, still
half-dead from her grief, has been able to tell us that she has still a
relative living. Her eldest brother Louis went to Australia many years
ago. A few weeks before her father's death he wrote to his son telling
him everything, and imploring him to come home. She thinks that her
brother must be in England by this time.

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