Cord and Creese

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"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 confined, and resolved upon a desperate plan. They put my
mother and Paolo on board of the yacht, and by paying a heavy bribe
obtained permission to visit my father in prison. Brandon's friend was
about the same height as my father. When they reached his cell they
urged my father to exchange clothes with him and escape. At first he
positively refused, but when assured that Brandon's friend, being an
Englishman, would be set free in a few days, he consented. Brandon then
took him away unnoticed, put him on board of the yacht, and sailed to
Marseilles, where he gave him money enough to get to England, and told
him to stop at Brandon Hall till he himself arrived. He then sailed back
to see about his friend.

"He found out nothing about him for some time. At last he induced the
British embassador to take the matter in hand, and he did so with such
effect that the prisoner was liberated. He had been treated with some
severity at first, but he was young, and the government was persuaded to
look upon it as a 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 Brandon came and staid with him till the end. He then wished to
do something for Paolo, but Paolo preferred seeking his own fortune in
his own way."

Mrs. Thornton ended her little narrative, to which Despard had listened
with the deepest attention.

"Who was Brandon's friend?" asked Despard.

"He was a British officer," said Mrs. Thornton. "For fear of dragging in
his government, and perhaps incurring dismissal from the army, he gave
an assumed name--Mountjoy. This was the reason why Brandon was so long
in finding him."

"Did your father not know it?"

"On the passage Brandon kept it secret, and after his friend's
deliverance he came to see my father under his assumed name. My father
always spoke of him as Mountjoy. After a time he heard that he was
dead."

"I can tell you his true name," said Mr. Thornton. "There is no reason
why you should not know it."

"What?"

"Lionel Despard--your father, and Ralph Brandon's bosom friend."

Despard looked transfixed. Mrs. Thornton gazed at her husband, and gave
an unutterable look at Despard, then, covering her face with her hands,
she burst into an agony of tears.

"My God," cried Despard, passing his hand over his forehead, "my father
died when I was a child, and nobody was ever able to tell me 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 deeper trouble in his heart. He
was not seen at the Grange for a month. At the end of that time he
returned. He had been away to London during the whole interval.

As Mrs. Thornton entered to greet him her whole face was overspread with
an expression of radiant joy. He took both her hands in his and pressed
them without a word. "Welcome back," she murmured--"you have been gone a
long time."

"Nothing but an overpowering sense of duty could have kept me away so
long," said he, in a deep, low voice.

A few similar commonplaces followed; but with these two the tone of the
voice invested the feeblest commonplaces with some hidden meaning.

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, reports a stormy passage. On the 12th of September a
distressing casualty occurred. They were in S. lat. 11 deg. 1' 22", E. long.
105 deg. 6' 36", when a squall suddenly struck the ship. A passenger, Louis
Brandon, Esq., of the firm of Compton & Brandon, Sydney, was standing by
the lee-quarter as the squall struck, and, distressing to narrate, he
was hurled violently overboard. It was impossible to do any thing, as a
monsoon was beginning, which raged for twenty-four hours. Mr. Brandon
was coming to England on business.

"The captain reports a sand-bank in the latitude and longitude indicated
above, which he names 'Coffin Island,' from a rock of peculiar shape at
the eastern extremity. Ships will do well in future to give this place a
wide berth."

Deep despondency came over Mrs. Thornton's face as she read this. "We
can do nothing," said she, mournfully. "He is gone. It is better for
him. We must now wait till we hear more from Paolo. I will write to him
at once."

"And I will write to my uncle."

There was a long silence. "Do you know," said Despard, finally, "that I
have been thinking much about my father of late. It seems very strange
to me that my uncle never told me about that Sicilian affair before.
Perhaps he did not wish me to know it, for fear that through all my life
I should brood over thoughts of that noble heart lost to me forever. But
I intend to write to him, and obtain afresh the particulars of his
death. I wish to know more about my mother. No one was ever in such
ignorance of his parents as I have been. They merely told me that my
father and mother died suddenly in India, and left me an orphan at the
age of seven under the care of Mr. Henry Thornton. They never told me
that Brandon was a very dear friend of his. I have thought also of the
circumstances of his death, and they all seem confused. Some say he died
in Calcutta, others say in China, and Mr. Thornton once said in Manilla.
There is some mystery about it."

"When Brandon was visiting my father," said Mrs. Thornton, "you were at
school, and he never saw you. I think he thought you were Henry
Despard's son."

"There's some mystery about it," said Despard, thoughtfully.

When Mr. Thornton came in that night he read a few extracts from the
London paper which he had just received. One was as follows:

"FOUNDERED AT SEA.--The ship _H. B. Smith_, from Calcutta, which
arrived yesterday, reports that on the 28th January they picked up a
ship's long-boat near the Cape Verd Islands. It was floating bottom
upward. On the stern was painted the word _Falcon_. The ship
_Falcon_ has now been expected for two months, and it is feared
from this that she may have foundered at sea. The _Falcon_ was on
her way from Sydney to London, and belonged to Messrs. Kingwood,
Flaxman, & Co."

CHAPTER XVII.

THE SHADOW OF THE AFRICAN FOREST.

Let us return to the castaways.

It was morning on the coast of Africa--Africa the mysterious, the
inhospitable Africa, _leonum arida nutrix_.

There was a little harbor into which flowed a shallow, sluggish river,
while on each side rose high hills. In front of the harbor was an island
which concealed and protected it.

Here the palm-trees grew. The sides rose steeply, the summit was lofty,
and the towering palms afforded a deep, dense shade. The grass was 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 thousand
parasitic plants, covered with blossoms--gorgeous, golden, rich beyond
all description. Birds of starry plumage flitted through the air, as
they leaped from tree to tree, uttering a short, wild note; through the
spreading branches sighed the murmuring breeze that came from off the
ocean; round the shore the low tones of the gently-washing surf were
borne as it came in in faint 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 murmuring sounds.

In front of him stood Beatrice, looking with dropped eyelids at the
grass, her arms half folded before her, her head uncovered, her hair
bound by a sort of fillet around the crown, and then gathered in great
black curling masses behind. Her face was pale as usual, and had the
same marble whiteness which always marked it. That face was now pensive
and sad; but there was no weakness there. Its whole expression showed
manifestly the self-contained soul, the strong spirit evenly-poised,
willing and able to endure.

Brandon raised himself on one arm and looked wonderingly around. She
started. A vivid flash of joy spread over her face in one bright smile.
She hurried up and knelt down by him.

"Do not move--you are weak," she said, 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 forehead. His eyes closed as though there
were a magnetic power in her touch. After a while, as she removed her
hand, he opened his eyes again. He took her hand and held it fervently
to his lips. "I know," said he, in a low, dreamy voice, "who you are,
and who I am--but nothing more. I know that I have lost all memory; that
there has been some past life of great sorrow; but I 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 express. 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 murmured, with indescribable intensity--"you,
companion, preserver, guardian angel--I feel as though, if I were not a
man, I could weep my life out at your feet."

"Do not weep," said she, calmly. "The time for tears may yet come; but
it is not now."

He looked at her, long, earnestly, and inquiringly, still holding her
hand, which he had pressed to his lips. An unutterable longing to ask
something was evident; but it was checked by a painful embarrassment.

"I know nothing but this," said he at last, "that I have felt as though
sailing for years over infinite seas. Wave after wave has been impelling
us on. A Hindu servant guided the boat. But I lay weak, with my head
supported by you, and your arms around me. Yet, of all the days and all
the years that ever I have known, these were supreme, for all the time
was one long ecstasy. And now, if there is sorrow before me," he
concluded, "I will meet it resignedly, for I have had my heaven
already."

"You have sailed over seas," said she, sadly; "but I was the helpless
one, and you saved me from death."

"And are you--to me--what I thought?" he asked, with painful vehemence
and imploring eyes.

"I am your nurse," said she, with a melancholy smile.

He sighed heavily. "Sleep now," said she, and she again placed her hand
upon his forehead. Her touch soothed him. Her voice arose in a low song
of surpassing sweetness. His senses yielded to the subtle incantation,
and sleep came to him as he lay.

When he awaked it was almost evening. Lethargy was still over him, and
Beatrice made him sleep again. He slept into the next day. On waking
there was the same absence of memory. She gave him some cordial to
drink, and the draught revived him. Now he was far stronger, and he sat
up, leaning against a tree, while Beatrice knelt near him. He looked at
her long and earnestly.

"I would wish never to leave this place, but to stay here," said he. "I
know nothing of my past life. I have drunk of Lethe. Yet I 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," said he, "which is precious.
Perhaps I shall know what it is after a time."

Then, after a pause, "Was there not a wreck?" he asked.

"Yes; and you saved my life."

"Was there not a fight with pirates?"

"Yes; and you 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 6. It is about three weeks."

"How did I get away?"

"In a boat with me and the servant."

"Where is the servant?"

"Away providing for us. You had a sun-stroke. He carried you up here."

"How long have I been in this place?"

"A fortnight."

Numerous questions followed. Brandon's memory began to return. Yet, in
his efforts to regain knowledge of himself, Beatrice was still the most
prominent object in his thoughts. His dream-life persisted in mingling
itself with his real life.

"But you," he cried, earnestly--"you, how have you endured all this? You
are weary; you have worn yourself out for me. What can I ever do to show
my gratitude? You have watched me night and day. Will you not have more
care of your own life?"

The eyes of Beatrice kindled with a soft light. "What is my life?" said
she. "Do I not owe it over and over again to you? But I deny that I am
worn out."

Brandon looked at her with earnest, longing eyes. His recovery was
rapid. In a few days he was able to go about. Cato procured fish from
the waters and game from the woods, so as to save the provisions of the
boat, and they looked forward to the time when they might resume their
journey. But to Brandon this thought was repugnant, and an hourly
struggle now went on within him. Why should he go to England? What could
he do? Why should he ever part from her?

"Oh, to 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 perpetual rapture in her smile.

In the midst of such meditations as these her voice once arose from
afar. It was one of her own songs, such as she could improvise. It spoke
of summer isles amidst the sea; of soft winds and spicy breezes; of
eternal rest beneath over-shadowing palms. It was a soft, melting
strain--a strain of enchantment, sung by one who felt the intoxication
of the scene, and whose genius imparted it to others. He was like
Ulysses listening to the song of the sirens. It seemed to him as though
all nature there joined in that marvelous strain. It was to him as
though the very winds were lulled into calm, and a delicious languor
stole upon all his senses.

"Sweet, sweet, sweet, god Pan,
Sweet in the fields by the river,
Blinding sweet, oh great god Pan,
The sun on the hills forgot to die,
And the lily revived, and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream by the river."

It was the [Greek: meligaerun opa], the [Greek: opa kallimon] 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 unpremeditated art," the very beauty of the singer
and the very sweetness of the song put an end to all temptation.

"This is folly," he thought. "Could one like that assent to my wild
fancy? Would she, with her genius, give up her life to me? No; that
divine music must be heard by larger numbers. She is one who thinks she
can interpret the inspiration of Mozart and Handel. And who am I?"

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. So the temptation passed. But it passed only to be renewed
again. As for Beatrice, she seemed conscious of no such effect as this.
Calmly and serenely she bore herself, singing as she thought, as the
birds sing, because she could not help it. Here she was like one of the
classic nymphs--like the genius of the spot--like Calypso, only
passionless.

Now, the more Brandon felt the power of her presence the more he took
refuge within himself, avoiding all dangerous topics, speaking only of
external things, calling upon her to sing of loftier themes, such as
those "_cieli immensi_" of which she had sung when he first heard
her. Thus he fought down the struggles of his own heart, and crushed out
those rising impulses which threatened to sweep him helplessly away.

As for Beatrice herself she seemed changeless, moved by no passion and
swayed by no impulse. Was she 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 provisions in the boat were enough for two weeks' sail.
Water was put on board, and they bade adieu to the island which had
sheltered them.

This time Beatrice would not let Brandon row while the sun was up. They
rowed at night, and by day tried to get under the shadow of the shore.
At last a wind sprang up; they now sailed along swiftly for two or three
days. At the end of that time they saw European houses, beyond which
arose some roofs and spires. It was Sierra Leone. Brandon's conjectures
had been right. On landing here Brandon simply said that they had been
wrecked in the _Falcon_, and had escaped on the boat, all the rest
having perished. He gave his name as Wheeler. The authorities received
these unfortunate ones with great kindness, and Brandon heard that a
ship would leave for England on the 6th of March.

The close connection which had existed between them for so many weeks
was now severed, and Brandon thought that this might perhaps remove that
extraordinary power which he felt that she exerted over him. Not so. In
her absence he found himself constantly looking forward toward a meeting
with her again. When with her he found the joy that flowed from her
presence to be more intense, since it was more concentrated. He began to
feel alarmed 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 journey over the sea, and our stay on the
island."

"I can never forget that I owe my life to you," said Brandon,
vehemently.

"And I," rejoined Beatrice, with kindling eyes, which yet were softened
by a certain emotion of indescribable tenderness--"I--how can I forget!
Twice you saved me from a fearful death, and then you toiled to save my
life till your own sank under it."

"I would gladly give up a thousand lives"--said Brandon, in a low voice,
while his eyes were illumined with a passion which had never before been
permitted to get beyond control, but now rose visibly, and irresistibly.

"If you have a life to give," said 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, vehemently 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 _me_. I said what you
feel and know; and it is this, that others require your life, in
comparison with whom I am nothing. Ah, my friend," she continued, in
tones of unutterable sadness, "let us be friends here at least, on the
sea, for when we reach England we must be separated for evermore!"

"For evermore!" cried Brandon, in agony.

"For evermore!" repeated Beatrice, in equal anguish.

"Do you feel very eager to get to England?" asked Brandon, after a long
silence.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I know that there is sorrow for me there."

"If our boat had been destroyed on the shore of that island," he asked,
in almost an imploring voice, "would you have grieved?"

"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!"

"That," said Beatrice, with a mournful smile, "is a reproach to me for
watching you."

"Yet that moment of awaking was sweet beyond all thought," continued
Brandon, in a musing tone, "for 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 eyes.

The voyage passed on until at last the English shores were seen, and
they sailed up the Channel amidst the thronging ships that pass to and
fro from the metropolis of the world.

"To-morrow we part," said Beatrice, as she stood with Brandon on the
quarter-deck.

"No," said Brandon; "there will be no one to meet you here. I must take
you to your home."

"To my home! You?" cried Beatrice, starting back. "You dare not."

"I dare."

"Do you know what it is?"

"I do not seek to know. I do not ask; but yet I think I know."

"And yet _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
filled with thoughts that overpowered every common feeling. It was a
glance lofty and serene and unimpassioned, like that of some spirit
which has passed beyond human cares, but sad as that of some prophet of
woe.

"Louis Brandon!"

At this mention of his name a flash of unspeakable surprise passed over
Brandon's face. She held out her hand. "Take my hand," said she, calmly,
"and hold it so that I may have strength to speak."

"Louis Brandon!" said she, "there was a time on that African island when
you lay under the trees and I was sure that you were dead. There was no
beating to your heart, and no perceptible breath. The last test failed,
the last hope left me, and I knelt by your head, and took you in my
arms, and wept in my despair. At your feet Cato knelt and mourned in his
Hindu fashion. Then mechanically and hopelessly he made a last trial to
see if you were really dead, so that he might prepare your grave. He put
his hand under your clothes against your heart. He held it there for a
long time. Your heart gave no answer. He withdrew it, and in doing so
took something away that was suspended about your neck. This was a
metallic case and a package wrapped in oiled silk. He gave them to me."

Beatrice had spoken with a sad, measured tone--such a tone as one
sometimes uses in prayer--a passionless monotone, without agitation and
without shame.

Brandon answered not a word.

"Take my hand," she said, "or I can not go through. This only can give
me strength."

He clasped it tightly in both of his. She drew a long breath, and
continued:

"I thought you dead, and knew the full measure of despair. Now, when
these were given me, I wished to know the secret of the man who had
twice rescued me from death, and finally laid down his life for my sake.
I did it not through curiosity. I did it," and her voice rose slightly,
with solemn 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. I read of a
father's love and agony. I read there the name of the one who had driven
him to death. The shadows of the forest grew darker around me; as the
full meaning of that revelation came over my soul they deepened into
blackness, and I fell senseless by your side.

[Illustration: "I THOUGHT YOU DEAD, AND KNEW THE FULL MEASURE OF
DESPAIR."]

"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 dared 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 forgot all about
you and your griefs. My whole soul was fixed on the figure of that
bereaved and solitary man, who thus drifted to his fate. He seemed to
speak to me. A fancy, born out of frenzy, no doubt, for all that horror
well-nigh drove me mad--a fancy came to me that this voice, which had
come from a distance of eighteen years, had spoken to me; a wild fancy,
because I was eighteen years old, that therefore I was connected with
these eighteen years, filled my whole soul. I thought that this MS. was
mine, and the other one yours. I read it over and over, and over yet
again, till every word forced itself into my memory--till you and your
sorrows sank into oblivion beside the woes of this man.

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