Cord and Creese

J >> James de Mille >> Cord and Creese

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"I sat near you all that night. The palms sighed in the air. I dared
not touch you. My brain whirled. I thought I heard voices out at sea,
and figures appeared in the gloom. I thought I saw before me the form of
Colonel Despard. He looked at me with sadness unutterable, yet with soft
pity and affection, and extended his hand as though to bless me. Madder
fancies than ever then rushed through my brain. But when morning came
and the excitement had passed I knew that I had been delirious.

"When that morning came I went over to look at you. To my amazement, you
were breathing. Your life was renewed of itself. I knelt down and
praised God for this, but did not dare to touch you. I folded up the
treasures, and told Cato to put them again around your neck. Then I
watched you till you recovered.

"But on that night, and after reading those MSS., I seemed to have
passed into another stage of being. I 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 infamy; for what is infamy 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
regarded 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 seek
to avenge I can conjecture but I wish never to hear. I pray God that I
may never know what it might break my heart to learn. You must save
them, you must also avenge them. You are strong, and you are implacable.
When you strike your blow will be crushing.

"But I must go and bear my lot among those you strike; I will wait on
among them, sharing their infamy and their fate. When your blow falls I
will not turn away. I will think of those dear ones of yours who have
suffered, and for their sakes will 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 lips and pressed it there.

Three times he made an effort to speak, and each time failed. At last,
with a strong 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 stood 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 for a moment that we must part."

Then, in a low voice, of soft but penetrating tones, which thrilled
through every fibre of Brandon's being. Beatrice began to sing:

"Love made us one: our unity
Is indissoluble by act of thine,
For were this mortal being ended,
And our freed spirits in the world above,
Love, passing o'er the grave, would join us there,
As once he joined us here:
And the sad memory of the life below
Would but unite as closer evermore.
No act of thine may loose
Thee from the eternal bond,
Nor shall Revenge have power
To disunite us _there_!"

On that same day they landed in London. The Governor's lady at Sierra
Leone had insisted on replenishing Beatrice's wardrobe, so that she
showed no appearance of having gone through 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
journals a notice which had already appeared of the arrival of the ship
off the Nore, and the statement 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 engaged a carriage 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 communion for them. He took her hand at parting. She
spoke not a word; his lips moved, but no audible 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 off. Brandon watched it. "Now farewell. Love,
forever," he murmured, "and welcome Vengeance!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

INQUIRIES.

So many years had elapsed since Brandon had last been in the village
which bore the family name that he had 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 form, and a thick beard and
mustache, the growth of the long voyage, covered 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 type. His eyes alone remained the same, yet the expression
had grown different, 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 American merchant, and went out to
begin his inquiries. Tearing two buttons off his coat, he entered the
shop of the village tailor.

"Good-morning," said he, civilly.

"Good-morning, Sir; fine morning, Sir," answered the tailor, volubly. He
was a little man, with a cast in his eye, and on looking at Brandon he
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 drawers, pulled out a large number
of articles, and finally began to select the buttons which were nearest
like those on the coat.

"This is a fine little village," said Brandon, carelessly.

"Yes, Sir; that's a fact, Sir; that's just what every body says, Sir."

"What old Hall is that which I saw just outside the village?"

"Ah, Sir, that old Hall is the very best in the whole county. It is
Brandon Hall, Sir."

"Brandon Hall?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I suppose this village takes the name from the Hall--or is it the Hall
that is named after the village?"

"Well, neither, Sir. Both of them were named after the Brandon family."

"Is it an old family? It must be, of course."

"The oldest in the county, Sir."

"I wonder if Mr. Brandon would let a stranger go through his grounds?
There is a hill back of the house that I should like to see."

"Mr. Brandon!" exclaimed the tailor, shaking his head; "Mr. Brandon!
There 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,
mysteriously, and with the look of a man who would like very well to be
questioned further.

Brandon humored him. "How is that?"

"It's a long story, Sir."

"Oh, well--tell it. I have a great curiosity to hear any old stories
current in your English villages. I'm an American, and English life is
new to me."

"I'll bet you never heard any thing like this in all your born days."

"Tell it then, by all means."

The tailor jumped down from his seat, went mysteriously to the door,
looked cautiously out, and then returned.

"It's just as well to be a little careful," said he, "for if that man
knew that I was talking about him he'd take it out of me quick enough, I
tell you."

"You seem to be afraid of him."

"We're all afraid of him in the village, and hate him; but I hope to God
he'll catch it yet!"

"How can you be afraid of him? You all say that this is a free country."

"No man, Sir, in any country, is free, except he's rich. Poor people can
be oppressed in many ways; and most of us are in one way or other
dependent on him. We hate him all the worse, though. But I'll tell you
about him."

"Yes, go on."

"Well, Sir, old Mr. Brandon, about twenty years ago, was one of the
richest men in the county. About fifteen years ago the man Potts turned
up, and however the old man took a fancy to him I never could see, but
he did take a fancy to him, put all his money in some tin mines that
Potts had started, and the end of it was Potts turned out a scoundrel,
as every one said he would, swindled the old man out of every penny, and
ruined him completely. Brandon had to sell his estate, and Potts bought
it with the very money out of which he had cheated the old man."

"Oh! impossible!" said Brandon. "Isn't that some village gossip?"

"I wish it was, Sir--but it ain't. Go ask any man here, and he'll tell
you the same."

"And what became of the family?" asked Brandon, calmly.

"Ah, Sir! that is the worst part of it."

"Why?"

"I'll tell you, Sir. He was ruined. He gave up all. He hadn't a penny
left. He went out of the Hall and lived for a short time in a small
house at the other end of the village. At last he spent what little
money he had left, and they all got sick. You wouldn't believe what
happened after that."

"What was it?"

"They were all taken to the alms-house."

A burst of thunder seemed to sound in Brandon's ears as he heard this,
which he had never even remotely imagined. The tailor was occupied with
his own thoughts, and did not notice the wildness that for an instant
appeared in Brandon's eyes. The latter for a moment felt paralyzed and
struck down into nothingness by the shock of that tremendous
intelligence.

"The people felt dreadfully about it," continued the tailor, "but they
couldn't do any thing. It was Potts who had the family taken to the
alms-house. Nobody dared to interfere."

"Did none of the county families do anything?" said Brandon, who at
last, by a violent effort, had regained his composure.

"No. They had all been insulted by the old man, so now they let him
suffer."

"Had he no old friends, or even acquaintances?"

"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 young man?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Was he a relative?"

"Oh no, Sir, only a lawyer's clerk; wanted to see about business I dare
say. Perhaps to collect a bill. Let me see; the lawyer who sent him was
named Thornton."

"Thornton!" said Brandon, as the name sank into his soul.

"Yes; he lived at Holby."

Brandon drew a long breath.

"No, Sir; no friends came, whether he had any or not. They were all sick
at the 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 suffering could be greater?"

"They do talk dreadfully in this town, Sir; and I dare say it's not
true, but if it is it's enough to make a man's blood ran cold."

"You excite my curiosity. Remember I am an American, and these things
seem odd to me. I always thought your British aristocrats could not be
ruined."

"Here was one, Sir, that was, anyhow."

"Go on."

"Well, Sir, the old man died in the alms-house. The others got well. As
soon as they were well enough they went away."

"How did they get away?"

"Potts helped them," replied the tailor, in a peculiar tone. "They went
away from the village."

"Where did they go?"

"People say to Liverpool. I only tell what I know. I heard young Bill
Potts, the old fellow's son, boasting one night at the inn where he was
half drunk, how they had served the Brandons. He said they wanted to
leave the village, so his father helped them away to America."

"To America?"

"Yes, Sir."

Brandon made no rejoinder.

"Bill Potts said they went to Liverpool, and then left for America to
make their fortunes."

"What part of America?" asked Brandon, indifferently. "I never saw or
heard of them."

"Didn't you, Sir?" asked the tailor, who evidently thought that America
was like some English county, where every body may hear of 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 Brandon 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 almost
immeasurable; to pass from one to the other might be conceived of as
incredible; and yet that passage had been made.

To fall so far as to go the whole distance between the two; to begin in
one and end in the other; to be born, brought up, and live and move and
have one's being in the one, and then to die in the other; what was more
incredible than this? Yet this had been the fate of his father.

Leaving the place, he walked directly toward Brandon Hall.

Brandon Hall was begun, nobody knows exactly when; but it is said that
the foundations were laid before the time of Egbert. In all parts of the
old mansion the progress of English civilization might be studied; in
the Norman arches of the old chapel, the slender pointed style of the
fifteenth century doorway that opened to the same, the false Grecian of
the early Tudor period, and the wing added in Elizabeth's day, the days
of that old Ralph Brandon who sank his ship and its treasure to prevent
it from falling into the hands of the enemy.

Around this grand old Hall were scenes which could be found nowhere save
in England. Wide fields, forever green with grass like velvet, over
which rose groves of oak and elm, giving shelter to innumerable birds.
There the deer bounded and the hare found a covert. The broad avenue
that led to the Hall went up through a world of rich sylvan scenery,
winding through groves and meadows and over undulating ground. Before
the Hall lay the open sea about three miles away; but the Hall was on an
eminence and overlooked all the intervening ground. Standing there one
might see the gradual decline of the country as it sloped downward
toward the margin of the ocean. On the left a bold promontory jutted far
out, on the nearer side of which there was an island with a light-house;
on the right was another promontory, not so bold. Between these two the
whole country was like a garden. A little cove gave shelter to small
vessels, and around this cove was the village of Brandon.

Brandon Hall was one of the oldest and most magnificent of the great
halls of England. As Brandon looked upon it it rose before him amidst
the groves of six hundred years, its many-gabled roof rising out from
amidst a sea of foliage, speaking of wealth, luxury, splendor, power,
influence, and all that men hope for, or struggle for, or fight for;
from all of which he and his had been cast out; and the one who had done
this was even now occupying the old ancestral seat of his family.

Brandon entered the gate, and walked up the long avenue till he reached
the Hall. Here he rang the bell, and a servant appeared. "Is Mr. Potts
at home?"

"Yes," said the man, brusquely.

"I wish to see him."

"Who shall I say?"

"Mr. Hendricks, from America."

The man showed him into the drawing-room. Brandon seated himself and
waited. The room was furnished in the most elegant manner, most of the
furniture being old, and all familiar to him. He took a hasty glance
around, and closed his eyes as if to shut it all out from sight.

In a short time a man entered.

He appeared to be between fifty and sixty years of age, of medium size,
broad-shouldered and stout. He had a 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 expression 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.

[Illustration: "YOU ARE, SIR. JOHN POTTS OF POTTS HALL."]

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,
FLOUR MERCHANTS & PROVISION DEALERS,
88 FRONT STREET, CINCINNATI,
OHIO.

"I, Sir," said Brandon, "am Mr. Hendricks, junior partner in Beamish &
Hendricks, and I hope you are quite well."

"Very well, thank you," answered Potts, smiling and sitting down. "I am
happy to see you."

"Do you keep your health, Sir?"

"Thank you, I do," said Potts. "A touch of rheumatism at odd times,
that's all."

Brandon's manner was stiff and formal, and his voice had assumed a
slight nasal intonation. Potts had evidently looked on him as a perfect
stranger.

"I hope, Sir, that I am not taking up your valuable time. You British
noblemen have your valuable time, I know, as well as we business men."

"No, Sir, no, Sir, not at all," said Potts, evidently greatly delighted
at being considered a British nobleman.

"Well, Sir John--or is it my lord?" said Brandon, interrogatively,
correcting himself, and looking inquiringly at Potts.

"Sir John'll do," said Potts.

"Well, Sir John. Being in England on business, I came to ask you a few
questions about a matter of some importance to us."

"Proceed, Sir!" said Potts, with great dignity.

"There's a young man that came into our employ last October whom we took
a fancy to, 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 even making up to his daughter. He calls himself Brandon--
Frank Brandon."

At this Potts started from an easy lounging attitude, in which he was
trying to "do" the British noble, and with startling intensity of gaze
looked Brandon full in the face.

"I think the young man is fairish," continues Brandon, "but nothing
extraordinary. He is industrious and sober, but he ain't quick, and he
never had any real business experience till he came to us. Now, my
senior from the very first was infatuated with him, gave him a large
salary, and, in spite of my warnings that he ought to be cautious, he
wants to make him head-clerk, with an eye to making him partner next
year. And so bent on this is he that I know he would dissolve
partnership with me if I refused, take the young man, let him marry his
daughter, and leave him all his money when he dies. That's no small sum,
for old Mr. Beamish is worth in real estate round Cincinnati over two
millions of dollars. So, you see, I have a right to feel anxious, more
especially as I don't mind telling you, Sir John, who understand these
matters, that I thought I had a very good chance myself with old
Beamish's daughter."

Brandon spoke all this very rapidly, and with the air of one who was
trying to conceal his feelings of dislike to the clerk of whom he was so
jealous. Potts looked at him with an encouraging smile, and asked, as he
stopped,

"And how did you happen to hear of me?"

"That's just what I was coming to. Sir John!" Brandon drew his chair
nearer, apparently in deep excitement, and in a more nasal tone than
ever, with a confidential air, he went on:

"You see, I mistrusted this young man who was carrying every thing
before him with a high hand, right in my very teeth, and I watched him.
I pumped him to see if I couldn't get him to tell 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 Brandon Hall, Devonshire, and that he got very poor--he was
ruined, in fact, by--I beg your pardon, Sir John, but he says it was
you, and that you drove the family away. They then came over to America,
and he got to Cincinnati. The old man, he says, died before they left,
but he won't tell what became of the others. I confess I believed it was
all a lie, and didn't think there was any such place as Brandon Hall, so
I determined to find out, naturally enough, Sir John, when two millions
were at stake."

Potts winked.

"Well, I suddenly found my health giving way, and had to come to Europe.
You see what a delicate creature I am!"

Potts laughed with intense glee.

"And I came here after wandering about, trying to find it. I heard at
last that there was a place that used to be Brandon Hall, though most
people call it Potts Hall. Now, I thought, my fine young man, I'll catch
you; for I'll call on Sir John himself and ask him."

"You did right, Sir," said Potts, who had taken an intense interest in
this narrative. "I'm the very man you ought to have come to. I can tell
you all you want. This Brandon is a miserable swindler."

"Good! I thought so. You'll give me that, Sir John, over your own 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? How
did he find his way there?"

"He would never tell."

"What became of his mother and sister?"

"He wouldn't say."

"All I know," said Potts, "is this. I got official information that they
all died at Quebec."

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 escaped. It's possible. There was some
confusion at Quebec about names."

"Then his name may really be Frank Brandon?"

"It must be," said Potts. "Anyhow, the others are all right."

"Are what?"

"All right; dead you know. That's why he don't like to tell you about
them."

"Well, now, Sir John, could you tell me what you know about this young
man, since you think he must be the same one?"

"I know he must be, and I'll tell you all about him and the whole cursed
lot. In the first place," continued Potts, clearing his throat, "old
Brandon was one of the cursedest old fools that ever lived. He was very
well off but wanted to get richer, and so he speculated in a tin mine in
Cornwall. I was acquainted with him at the time and used to respect him.
He persuaded me--I was always off-handed about money, and a careless,
easy fellow--he persuaded me to invest in it also. I did so, but at the
end of a few years I found out that the tin mine was a rotten concern,
and sold out. I sold at a very high price, for people believed it was a
splendid property. After this I found another mine and made money hand
over fist. I warned old Brandon, and so did every body, but he didn't
care a fig for what we said, and finally, one fine morning, he waked up
and found himself ruined.

"He was more utterly ruined than any man I ever knew of, and all his
estates were sold. I had made some money, few others in the county had
any ready 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.

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