Cord and Creese

J >> James de Mille >> Cord and Creese

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37

"I want you to hunt up Louis Brandon. Spare no trouble. In the name of
God, and by the memory of your father, whose most intimate friend was
this poor old Brandon, I entreat you to search after Louis Brandon till
you find him, and let him know the fate of his friends. I think if she
could see him the joy of meeting one relative would restore her to
health.

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

"Your affectionate uncle,

"HENRY DESPARD."

Despard read this letter over and over. Then he put it in his pocket,
and walked up and down the room in deep thought. Then he took out Mrs.
Thornton's note and studied it for a long time. So the hours passed
away, until at length two o'clock came and he set out for Thornton
Grange.

On entering the drawing-room, Mrs. Thornton was there.

"So you have come at last," said she, as they shook hands.

"As if I would not come ten times a day if I could," was the answer, in
an impetuous voice.

"Still there is no reason why you should persistently avoid the Grange."

"What would you say if I followed my own impulse, and came here every
day?"

"I would say, Good-morning, Sir. Still, now that you are here, you must
stay."

"I will stay, whether I must or not."

"Have you recovered from the effect of my prayer-book yet?"

"No, nor ever will I. You brought the same one last Sunday."

"That was in order to weaken the effect. Familiarity breeds contempt,
you know."

"Then all I can say is, that contempt has very extraordinary
manifestations. Among other strange things, it makes me cover my paper
with that pattern when I ought to be writing on the Mosaic Economy."

"Cosmogony, you mean."

"Well, then, Cosmogony."

"Cosmogony is such a delicious word! It has been the hope of my life to
be able to introduce it in a conversation. There is only one other word
that compares with it."

"What is it?"

"I am afraid to pronounce it."

"Try, at any rate."

"Idiosyncrasy," said Mrs. Thornton. "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 opportunity did occur I would call
it 'idiocracy.' In fact, I know I would."

"And what would be the difference? Your motive would be right, and it is
to motives that we must look, not acts."

After some further badinage, Mrs. Thornton drew a letter from her
pocket.

"Here," said she, gravely, "is Paolo's letter. Read it, and tell me what
you think of it."

Despard took the letter and began to read, while Mrs. Thornton, sitting
opposite to him, watched his face.

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

"HALIFAX, NOVA SCOTIA, January 2, 1847.

"MY SWEETEST LITTLE SISTER,--I send you my diary, as I promised you, my
Teresella, and you will see all my adventures. Take care of yourself, be
happy, and let us hope that we may see one another soon. I am well,
through the mercy of the good God, and hope to continue so. There is no
such thing as music in this place, but I have found an organ where I can
play. My Cremona is uninjured, though it has passed through hard times--
it sends a note of love to my Teresina. Remember your Paolo to the just
and upright Thornton, whom you love. May God bless my little sister's
husband, and fill his heart with love for the sweetest of children!

"Read this manuscript carefully, Teresuola mia dolcissima, and pray for
the souls of those unhappy ones who perished by the pestilence."

CHAPTER XV.

JOURNAL OF PAOLO LANGHETTI.

Liverpool, June 2, 1840.--I promised you, my Teresina, to keep a diary
of all my wanderings, and now I begin, not knowing whether it will be
worth reading or not, but knowing this: that my corellina will read it
all with equal interest, 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 first New York ship
does not leave for a fortnight. A fortnight in Liverpool! Horror!

I have been on board to secure my room. I am told that there is a large
number of emigrants. It is a pity, but it 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, whereas Ireland has no past.

At Sea, June 4.--We are many miles out in the Irish Channel. There are
six hundred emigrants on board--men, women, and children. I am told that
most of these are from Ireland, unhappy Ireland! Some are from England,
and are going to seek their fortune in America. As I look on them I
think, My God! what misery there is in this world! And yet what can I do
to alleviate it? I am 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 question; the
direst distress is every where present; the poor wretches only try to
escape suffering. During storms they are shut in; there is little
ventilation; and the horror that reigns in that hold will not let me
either eat or sleep. I have remonstrated with the captain, but without
effect. He told me that he could do nothing. The owners of the ship put
them on board, and he was employed to take them to their proper
destination. My God! what will become of them?

June 15.--There have been a few days of fine weather. The wretched
emigrants have 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 indicates the extreme of sadness. The son is a man of
magnificent appearance, though as yet not full-grown. The daughter is
more lovely than any being whom I have ever seen. She is different from
my Bicetta. Bice is Grecian, with a face like that of a marble statue,
and a soul of purely classic mould. Bice is serene. She reminds me of
Artemis. Bice is an artist to her inmost heart. Bice I love as I love
you, my Teresina, and I never expect to meet with one who can so
interpret my ideas with 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 face the same
depth of devotion which our painters portray on 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 manifestly
from among the upper classes, but still more so by the solemn isolation
of grief. It is touching to see the love of the mother for her children,
and the love of the children for their mother. How can I satisfy the
longings which I feel to express to them my sympathy?

June 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 frankly. He met me half-
way in my advances. The poor lady looked at me with speechless
gratitude, as though kindness and sympathy were unknown to her. "God
will reward you, Sir," she said, in a tremulous voice, "for your
sympathy with the miserable."

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

My heart bled for these poor creatures. Cast down from a life which must
have once been one of luxury, they were now in the foulest of places,
the hold of an emigrant ship. I went back to the 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 there was no room left
in the cabin. Had there been I would have hired one and insisted on
their going there.

I went to see the lady, and made this proposal as delicately as I could.
There were two berths in my room. I urged her and her daughter to take
them. At first they both refused most positively, with tears of
gratitude. But I would not be so put off. To the mother I portrayed the
situation of the daughter in that den of horror; to the daughter I
pointed out the condition of the mother; to the son I showed the
position of his mother and sister, and thus I worked upon the holiest
feelings of their hearts. For myself I assured them that I could get a
place among the sailors in the forecastle, and that I preferred doing
so. By such means as these I moved them to consent. They did so with an
expression of thankfulness that brought tears to my eyes.

"Dear Madame," said I, "you will break my heart if you talk so. Take the
room and say nothing. I have been a wanderer for years, and can live any
where."

It was not till then that I found out their names. I told them mine.
They looked at one another in astonishment. "Langhetti?" said the
mother.

"Yes."

"Did you ever live in Holby?"

"Yes. My father was organist in Trinity Church, and I and my sister
lived there some years. She lives there still."

"My God!" was her ejaculation.

"Why?" I asked, with eager curiosity. "What do you know about Holby, and
about Langhetti?"

She looked at me with solemn 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 Ralph Brandon, of
Brandon Hall."

I stood for a moment stupefied. Then I burst into tears. Then I embraced
them all, and said I know not what of pity and sympathy and affection.
My God! to think of such a fate as this awaiting the family of Ralph
Brandon. Did you know this, oh, Teresina? If so, why did you keep it
secret? But no--you could not have known it. If you had this would not
have happened.

They took my room in the cabin--the dear ones--Mrs. Brandon and the
sweet Edith. The son Frank and I stay together among the emigrants. Here
I am now, and I write this as the sun is getting low, and the uproar of
all these hundreds is sounding in my ears.

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

July 3.--The disease is spreading. Fifteen are prostrate. Three have
died.

July 10.--Thirty deaths have occurred, and fifty are sick. I am
assisting to nurse them.

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

July 18.--If this is my last entry let this diary be sent to Mrs.
Thornton, care of William Thornton, Holby, Pembroke, England--(the above
entry was written in English, the remainder was all in Italian, as
before). More than two 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 survive these horrors? More than fifty new deaths have
occurred. The disease has spread among the sailors. Two are dead, and
seven are sick. Horror prevails. Frank 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 communicating 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. Ship almost unmanageable. In the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Talk
of putting into some port. Seventy passengers dead.

August 2.--Worse yet. Disease has spread into the cabin. Three cabin
passengers dead. God have mercy upon poor Mrs. Brandon and sweet Edith!
All the steerage passengers, with a few exceptions, prostrate. Frank
Brandon is weak but helps me. I work night and day. The ship is like a
floating pest-house. Forty new deaths since last report.

August 7.--Drifting along, I know not how, up the St. Lawrence. The
weather calm, and 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 attend to them.

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

August 15.--Mrs. Brandon and Edith very low. Frank better.

August 16.--Quarantine Station, Gosse Island. I feel the fever in my
veins. If I die, farewell, sweetest sister.

December 28, Halifax, Nova Scotia.--More than four months have elapsed
since my last entry, and during the interval marvelous things have
occurred. These I will now try to recall as I best can.

My last entry was made on the day of the arrival of the _Tecumseh_
at the Quarantine Station, Gosse Island, Quebec. We were delayed there
for two days. Every thing was in confusion. A large number of ships had
arrived, and all were filled with sick. The authorities were taken by
surprise; and as no arrangements had ever been made for such a state of
things the suffering was extreme. The arrival of the _Tecumseh_
with her frightful record of deaths, and with several hundred sick still
on board, 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 silence, and, slowly raising her
hand, pointed upward.

"Your brother?" I gasped.

She turned her head away. I was silent. They were dead, then. O God! and
this child--what had she not been suffering? My mind at once, in its
agony of sympathy with her, burst through the clouds which sickness had
thrown around it. "Poor child!" I said. "And why are you here?"

"Where else can I go?" she answered, mournfully.

"At least, you should not wear yourself out by my bedside."

"You are the only one left whom I know. I owe you far more than 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 gently. I turned my head away, and
burst into a flood of tears. Why was it that this child was called upon
to endure such agony? Why, in the midst of that agony, did she come to
me to save my life? I did not resist her any longer on that day; but the
next day I was stronger, and made her go and repose herself.

For two successive days she came back. On the third day she did not
appear. The fourth day also she was absent. Rude nurses attended to me.
They knew nothing of her. My anxiety inspired me with such energy that
on the fourth day I rose from my bed and staggered about to find her if
possible.

All was still confusion. Thousands of sick were on the island. The
mistake of the first week had not yet been repaired. No one knew 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 superintendent to call up all the
nurses and doctors, and question them all, one by one. At last an old
Irish woman, with an awful look at me, hinted that she could 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? Tell, in God's name!"

"The dead-house," he murmured.

"Where is it? Take me there!" I cried to the woman. I clutched her arm
and staggered after her.

It was a long, low shed, open on all sides. Twelve bodies lay there. In
the middle of the row was Edith. She was more beautiful than an angel. A
smile wreathed her lips; her eyes looked as though she slumbered. I
rushed up to her and caught her in my arms. The next moment I fell
senseless.

When I revived I was lying in one of the sick-sheds, with a crowd of
sufferers around me. I had only one thought, and that was Edith. I rose
at once, weak and trembling, but the resolve of my soul gave strength to
my body. An awful fear had taken possession of me, which was accompanied
by a certain wild hope. I hurried, with staggering feet, to the dead-
house.

All the bodies were gone. New ones had 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 cried, as I flung a piece of gold to the woman.
She grasped it eagerly. "Bring a spade, and come quick, for God's sake!
_She is not dead!_"

How did I have such a mad fancy? I will tell you. This ship-fever often
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 whether you died by the fever or by the sea?"

But when I saw Edith as she lay there my soul felt assured that she was
not dead, and an unutterable convulsion of sorrow overwhelmed me.
Therefore I fainted. The horror of that situation was too much for me.
To think of that angelic girl about to be covered up alive in the
ground; to think of that sweet young life, which had begun so brightly,
terminating 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 hours."

"And when did I faint?"

"Yesterday."

A pang shot through me. "Tell me," I cried, hoarsely, "when she was
buried."

"Last night."

"O God!" I groaned, and I could say no more; but with new strength given
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. The moon seemed enlarged
to the dimensions of a sky; the murmur of the river sounded like a
cataract, and in the vast murmur I heard voices which seemed then like
the voices of the dead. But the lustre of that exaggerated glow, and the
booming concord of fancied spirit-voices were all contemned as trifles.
I cared for nothing either natural or 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 my fitful strength failing me. My mind, too,
seemed entering into a state of delirium. At last my knees gave way, and
I sank down just as my spade touched something which gave back a hollow
sound.

My knees gave way, and I sank down. But I would not give up. I tore up
handfuls of earth and threw them into the air.

"Oh, Edith!" I cried, "I am here! I am coming! I am coming!"

"Come, Sir," said the woman, suddenly, in her strong voice, yet
pityingly. "You can do nothing. I will dig her out in a minute."

[Illustration: "I TOOK HER IN MY ARMS AND BROUGHT HER FORTH FROM THE
GRAVE," ETC.]

"God forever bless you!" I cried, leaping out and giving place to her. I
watched her as she threw out the earth. Hungrily I gazed, devouring that
dark aperture with my eyes till at last the rough boards appeared.

Then I leaped down. I put my fingers at the edge and tore at it till it
gave way. The lid was only fastened with a few nails. My bleeding
fingers clutched it. It yielded to my frantic exertions.

O my God! was there ever a sight on earth like that which now met my
eyes as I raised the lid and looked below? The moon, which was high in
the sky, streamed down directly into the narrow cell. It showed me the
one whom I 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
some sleeping maiden carved in alabaster. Bathed in the moonbeams it lay
before me, all softened and refined and made pure; a face of unearthly
beauty. The dark hair caught the moon's rays, and encircled the head
like a crown of immortality. Still the eyes were closed as though in
slumber; still the lips were fixed into a smile. She lay as one who had
fallen into a deep, sweet sleep--as one who in that sleep has dreams, in
which are visions of more than earthly beauty, and scenes of more than
mortal happiness.

Now it was with me as though at that unequaled vision I had drawn into
my inmost being some sudden stimulus--a certain rapture of newborn
strength; strength no longer fitful and spasmodic, but firm, well
fortified and well sustained.

I took her in my arms and brought her forth from the grave into the life
of earth.

Ah me! how light a thing was that frail and slender figure which had
been worn down by the unparalleled suffering through which she had
passed. This thought transfixed me with a pang of anguish--even awed the
rapture that I felt at clasping her in my arms.

But now that I had her, where was I to seek for a place of shelter? I
turned to the woman and asked: "Is there any secluded place where she
may sleep undisturbed till she wakes--"

"No, there is none but what is crowded with the sick and dying in all
this island."

"I must have some place."

"There is only one spot that is quiet."

"What one?"

"The dead-house."

I shuddered. "No, not there. See," said I, and I handed her a piece of
gold. "Find me some place and you shall have still more."

"Well," she said, hesitatingly, "I have the room where me and my man
live. I suppose we could give up that."

"Take me there, then."

"Shall I help you carry her?"

"No," I answered, drawing back my pure Edith from her outstretched
hands. "No, I will carry her."

The woman went on without a word. She led the way back to the low and
dismal sheds which lay there like a vast charnel-house, and thence to a
low hut some distance away from all, where she opened a door. She spoke
a few words to a man, who finally withdrew. A light was burning. A rude
cot was there. Here I laid the one whom I carried.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37