Samuel Wilberforce - "The Rocky Island"

Fred Richards - "Rome"

Louisa Stuart Costello - "Béarn and the Pyrenees"

Johan Olof Wallin - "The Angel of Death"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

Cord and Creese

J >> James de Mille >> Cord and Creese




The face of Smithers was mild, but his tone was stern. It was the
warning of a just yet merciful master. All the timid nature of Philips
bent in deep subjection before the powerful spirit of this man. He bowed
his head in silence.

"Whenever an order comes to you from Smithers & Co. you must obey: if
you do not obey instantly whatever it is, it will be at the risk of your
life. Do you hear?"

Philips bowed.

"There is only one thing now in which I wish you to do anything. You
must send every month a notice directed to Mr. Smithers, Senior, about
the health of _his daughter_. Should any sudden danger impend you
must at once communicate it. You understand?"

Philips bowed.

"Once more I must warn you always to remember that I am your master.
Fail in one single thing, and you perish. Obey me, and you shall be
rewarded. Now go!"

Philips rose, and, more dead than alive, tottered from the room.

When he left Smithers locked the door. He then went to the window and
stood looking at Brandon Hall, with his stern face softened into
sadness. He hummed low words as he stood there--words which once had
been sung far away.

Among them were these, with which the strain ended:

"And the sad memory of our life below
Shall but unite us closer evermore;
No net of thine shall loose
Thee from the eternal bond,
Nor shall Revenge have power
To disunite us _there_!"

With a sigh he sat down and buried his face in his hands. His gray hair
loosened and fell off as he sat there. At last he raised his head, and
revealed the face of a young man whose dark hair showed the gray beard
to be false.

Yet when he once more put on his wig none but a most intimate friend
with the closest scrutiny could recognize there the features of Louis
Brandon.




CHAPTER XXXI.


PAOLO LANGHETTI.

Many weeks passed on, and music still formed the chief occupation in
life for Despard and Mrs. Thornton. His journey to Brandon village had
been without result. He knew not what to do. The inquiries which he made
every where turned out useless. Finally Thornton informed him that it
was utterly hopeless, at a period so long after the event, to attempt to
do any thing whatever. Enough had been done long ago. Now nothing more
could possibly be effected.

Baffled, but not daunted, Despard fell back for the present from his
purpose, yet still cherished it and wrote to different quarters for
information. Meantime he had to return to his life at Holby, and Mrs.
Thornton was still ready to assist him.

So the time went on, and the weeks passed, till one day in March Despard
went up as usual.

On entering the parlor he heard voices, and saw a stranger. Mrs.
Thornton greeted him as usual and sat down smiling. The stranger rose,
and he and Despard looked at one another.

He was of medium size and slight in figure. His brow was very broad and
high. His hair was black, and clustered in curls over his head. His eyes
were large, and seemed to possess an unfathomable depth, which gave them
a certain undefinable and mystic meaning--liquid eyes, yet lustrous,
where all the soul seemed to live and show itself--benignant in their
glance, yet lofty like the eyes of a being from some superior sphere.
His face was thin and shaven close, his lips also were thin, with a
perpetual smile of marvelous sweetness and gentleness hovering about
them. It was such a face as artists love to give to the Apostle John--
the sublime, the divine, the loving, the inspired.

"You do not know him," said Mrs. Thornton. "It is Paolo!"

Despard at once advanced and greeted him with the warmest cordiality.

"I was only a little fellow when I saw you last, and you have changed
somewhat since then," said Despard. "But when did you arrive? I knew
that you were expected in England, but was not sure that you would come
here."

"What! _Teresuola mia_," said Langhetti with a fond smile at his
sister. "Were you really not sure, _sorellina_, that I would come
to see you first of all? Infidel!" and he shook his head at her,
playfully.

A long conversation followed, chiefly about Langhetti's plans. He was
going to engage a place in London for his opera, but wished first to
secure a singer. Oh, if he only could find Bice--his Bicina, the
divinest voice that mortal ever heard.

Despard and Mrs. Thornton exchanged glances, and at last Despard told
him that there was a person of the same name at Brandon Hall. She was
living in a seclusion so strict that it seemed confinement, and there
was a mystery about her situation which he had tried without success to
fathom.

Langhetti listened with a painful surprise that seemed like positive
anguish.

"Then I must go myself. Oh, my Bicina--to what misery have you come--
But do you say that you have been there?"

"Yes."

"Did you go to the Hall?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I know the man to be a villain indescribable--"

Langhetti thought for a moment, and then said,

"True, he is all that, and perhaps more than you imagine."

"I have done the utmost that can be done!" said Despard.

"Perhaps so; still each one wishes to try for himself, and though I can
scarce hope to be more successful than you, yet I must try, if only for
my own peace of mind. Oh, _Bicina cara!_ to think of her sweet and
gentle nature being subject to such torments as those ruffians can
inflict!

"You do not know how it is," said he at last, very solemnly; "but there
are reasons of transcendent importance why Bice should be rescued. I can
not tell them; but if I dared mention what I hope, if I only dared to
speak my thoughts, you--you," he cried, with piercing emphasis, and in
a tone that thrilled through Despard, to whom he spoke, "you would make
it the aim of all your life to save her."

"I do not understand," said Despard, in astonishment.

"No, no," murmured Langhetti. "You do not; nor dare I explain what I
mean. It has been in my thoughts for years. It was brought to my mind
first in Hong Kong, when she was there. Only one person besides Potts
can explain; only one."

"Who?" cried Despard, eagerly.

"A woman named Compton."

"Compton!"

"Yes. Perhaps she is dead. Alas, and alas, and alas, if she is! Yet
could I but see that woman, I would tear the truth from her if I
perished in the attempt!"

And Langhetti stretched out his long, slender hand, as though he were
plucking out the very heart of some imaginary enemy.

"Think, Teresuola," said he, after a while, "if you were in captivity,
what would become of my opera? Could I have the heart to think about
operas, even if I believed that they contributed to the welfare of the
world, if your welfare was at stake? Now you know that next to you
stands Bice. I must try and save her--I must give up all. My opera must
stand aside till it be God's will that I give it forth. No, the one
object of my life now must be to find Bice, to see her or to see Mrs.
Compton, if she is alive."

"Is the secret of so much importance?" asked Despard.

Langhetti looked at him with mournful meaning.

Despard looked at him wonderingly. What could he mean? How could any one
affect him? His peace of mind! That had been lost long ago. And if this
secret was so terrible it would distract his mind from its grief, its
care, and its longing. Peace would be restored rather than destroyed.

"I must find her. I must find her," said Langhetti, speaking half to
himself. "I am weak; but much can be done by a resolute will."

"Perhaps Mr. Thornton can assist you," said Despard.

Langhetti shook his head.

"No; he is a man of law, and does not understand the man who acts from
feeling. I can be as logical as he, but I obey impulses which are
unintelligible to him. He would simply advise me to give up the matter,
adding, perhaps, that I would do myself no good. Whereas he can not
understand that it makes no difference to me whether I do myself good or
not; and again, that the highest good that I can do myself is to seek
after her."

Mrs. Thornton looked at Despard, but he avoided her glance.

"No," said Langhetti, "I will ask assistance from another--from you,
Despard. You are one who acts as I act. Come with me."

"When?"

"To-morrow morning."

"I will."

"Of course you will. You would not be a Despard if you did not. You
would not be the son of your father--your father!" he repeated, in
thrilling tones, as his eyes flashed with enthusiasm. "Despard!" he
cried, after a pause, "your father was a man whom you might pray to now.
I saw him once. Shall I ever forget the day when he calmly went to lay
down his life for my father? Despard, I worship your father's memory.
Come with me. Let us emulate those two noble men who once before rescued
a captive. We can not risk our lives as they did. Let us at least do
what we can."

"I will do exactly what you say. You can think and I will act."

"No, you must think too. Neither of us belong to the class of practical
men whom the world now delights to honor; but no practical man would go
on our errand. No practical man would have rescued my father. Generous
and lofty acts must always be done by those who are not practical men."

"But I must go out. I must think," he continued. "I will go and walk
about the grounds."

Saying this be left the room.

"Where is Edith Brandon?" asked Despard, after he had gone.

"She is here," said Mrs. Thornton.

"Have you seen her?"

"Yes."

"Is she what you anticipated?"

"More. She is incredible. She is almost unearthly. I feel awe of her,
but not fear. She is too sweet to inspire fear."




CHAPTER XXXII.


FLIGHT.

The last entry in Beatrice's journal was made by her in the hope that it
might be the last.

In her life at Brandon Hall her soul had grown stronger and more
resolute. Besides, it had now come to this, that henceforth she must
either stay and accept the punishment which they might contrive or fly
instantly.

For she had dared them to their faces; she had told them of their
crimes; she had threatened punishment. She had said that she was the
avenger of Despard. If she had desired instant death she could have said
no more than that. Would they pass it by? She knew their secret--the
secret of secrets; she had proclaimed it to their faces. She had called
Potts a Thug and disowned him as her father; what now remained?

But one thing--flight. And this she was fully resolved to try. She
prepared nothing. To gain the outside world was all she wished. The need
of money was not thought of; nor if it had been would it have made any
difference. She could not have obtained it.

The one idea in her mind was therefore flight. She had concealed her
journal under a looser piece of the flooring in one of the closets of
her room, being unwilling to encumber herself with it, and dreading the
result of a search in case she was captured.

She made no other preparations whatever. A light hat and a thin jacket
were all that she took to resist the chill air of March. There was a
fever in her veins which was heightened by excitement and suspense.

Mrs. Compton was in her room during the evening. Beatrice said but
little. Mrs. Compton talked drearily about the few topics on which she
generally spoke. She never dared talk about the affairs of the house.

Beatrice was not impatient, for she had no idea of trying to escape
before midnight. She sat silently while Mrs. Compton talked or prosed,
absorbed in her own thoughts and plans. The hours seemed to her
interminable. Slowly and heavily they dragged on. Beatrice's suspense
and excitement grew stronger every moment, yet by a violent effort she
preserved so perfect an outward calm that a closer observer than Mrs.
Compton would have failed to detect any emotion.

At last, about ten o'clock, Mrs. Compton retired, with many kind wishes
to Beatrice, and many anxious counsels as to her health. Beatrice
listened patiently, and made some general remarks, after which Mrs.
Compton withdrew.

She was now left to herself, and two hours still remained before she
could dare to venture. She paced the room fretfully and anxiously,
wondering why it was that the time seemed so long, and looking from time
to time at her watch in the hope of finding that half an hour had
passed, but seeing to her disappointment that only two or three minutes
had gone.

At last eleven o'clock came. She stole out quietly into the hall and
went to the top of the grand stairway. There she stood and listened.

The sound of voices came up from the dining-room, which was near the
hall-door. She knew to whom those voices belonged. Evidently it was not
yet the time for her venture.

She went back, controlling her excitement as best she might. At last,
after a long, long suspense, midnight sounded.

Again she went to the head of the stairway. The voices were still heard.
They kept late hours down there. Could she try now, while they were
still up? Not yet.

Not yet. The suspense became agonizing. How could she wait? But she went
back again to her room, and smothered her feelings until one o'clock
came.

Again she went to the head of the stairway. She heard nothing. She could
see a light streaming from the door of the dining-hall below. Lights,
also, were burning in the hall itself; but she heard no voices.

Softly and quietly she went down stairs. The lights flashed out through
the door of the dining-room into the hall; and as she arrived at the
foot of the stairs she heard subdued voices in conversation. Her heart
beat faster. They were all there! What if they now discovered her! What
mercy would they show her, even if they were capable of mercy?

Fear lent wings to her feet. She was almost afraid to breathe for fear
that they might hear her. She stole on quietly and noiselessly up the
passage that led to the north end, and at last reached it.

All was dark there. At this end there was a door. On each side was a
kind of recess formed by the pillars of the doorway. The door was
generally used by the servants, and also by the inmates of the house for
convenience.

The key was in it. There was no light in the immediate vicinity. Around
it all was gloom. Near by was a stairway, which led to the servants'
hall.

She took the key in her hands, which trembled violently with excitement,
and turned it in the lock.

Scarcely had she done so when she heard footsteps and voices behind her.
She looked hastily back, and, to her horror, saw two servants
approaching with a lamp. It was impossible for her now to open the door
and go out. Concealment was her only plan.

But how? There was no time for hesitation. Without stopping to think she
slipped into one of the niches formed by the projecting pillars, and
gathered her skirts close about her so as to be as little conspicuous as
possible. There she stood awaiting the result. She half wished that she
had turned back. For if she were now discovered in evident concealment
what excuse could she give? She could not hope to bribe them, for she
had no money. And, what was worst, these servants were the two who had
been the most insolent to her from the first.

She could do nothing, therefore, but wait. They came nearer, and at last
reached the door.

"Hallo!" said one, as he turned the key. "It's been unlocked!"

"It hain't been locked yet," said the other.

"Yes, it has. I locked it myself an hour ago. Who could have been here?"

"Any one," said the other, quietly. "Our blessed young master has, no
doubt, been out this way."

"No, he hasn't. He hasn't stirred from his whisky since eight o'clock."

"Nonsense! You're making a fuss about nothing. Lock the door and come
along."

"Any how, I'm responsible, and I'll get a precious overhauling if this
thing goes on. I'll take the key with me this time."

And saying this, the man locked the door and took out the key. Both of
them then descended to the servants' hall.

The noise of that key as it grated in the lock sent a thrill through the
heart of the trembling listener. It seemed to take all hope from her.
The servants departed. She had not been discovered. But what was to be
done? She had not been prepared for this.

She stood for some time in despair. She thought of other ways of escape.
There was the hall-door, which she did not dare to try, for she would
have to pass directly in front of the dining-room. Then there was the
south door at the other end of the building, which was seldom used. She
knew of no others. She determined to try the south door.

Quietly and swiftly she stole away, and glided, like a ghost, along the
entire length of the building. It was quite dark at the south end as it
had been at the north. She reached the door without accident.

There was no key in it. It was locked. Escape by that way was
impossible.

She stood despairing. Only one way was now left, and that lay through
the hall-door itself.

Suddenly, as she stood there, she heard footsteps. A figure came down
the long hall straight toward her. There was not the slightest chance of
concealment here. There were no pillars behind which she might crouch.
She must stand, then, and take the consequences. Or, rather, would it
not be better to walk forward and meet this new-comer? Yes; that would
be best. She determined to do so.

So, with a quiet, slow step she walked back through the long corridor.
About half-way she met the other. He stopped and started back.

"Miss Potts!" he exclaimed, in surprise.

It was the voice of Philips.

"Ah, Philips," said she, quietly, "I am walking about for exercise and
amusement. I can not sleep. Don't be startled. It's only me."

Philips stood like one paralyzed.

"Don't be cast down," he said at last, in a trembling voice. "You have
friends, powerful friends. They will save you."

"What do you mean?" asked Beatrice, in wonder.

"Never mind," said Philips, mysteriously. "It will be all right. I dare
not tell. But cheer up."

"What do you mean by friends?"

"You have friends who are more powerful than your enemies, that's all,"
said Philips, hurriedly. "Cheer up."

Beatrice wondered. A vague thought of Brandon came over her mind, but
she dismissed it at once. Yet the thought gave her a delicious joy, and
at once dispelled the extreme agitation which had thus far disturbed
her. Could Philips be connected with _him_? Was he in reality
considerate about her while shaping the course of his gloomy vengeance?
These were the thoughts which flashed across her mind as she stood.

"I don't understand," said she, at last; "but I hope it may be as you
say. God knows, I need friends!"

She walked away, and Philips also went onward. She walked slowly, until
at last his steps died out in the distance. Then a door banged.
Evidently she had nothing to fear from him. At last she reached the main
hall, and stopped for a moment. The lights from the dining-room were
still flashing out through the door. The grand entrance lay before her.
There was the door of the hall, the only way of escape that now
remained. Dare she try it?

She deliberated long. Two alternatives lay before her--to go back to her
own room, or to try to pass that door. To go back was as repulsive as
death, in fact more so. If the choice had been placed full before her
then, to die on the spot or to go back to her room, she would have
deliberately chosen death. The thought of returning, therefore, was the
last upon which she could dwell, and that of going forward was the only
one left. To this she gave her attention.

At last she made up her mind, and advanced cautiously, close by the
wall, toward the hall-door. After a time she reached the door of the
dining-room. Could she venture to pass it, and how? She paused. She
listened. There were low voices in the room. Then they were still awake,
still able to detect her if she passed the door.

She looked all around. The hall was wide. On the opposite side the wall
was but feebly lighted. The hall lights had been put out, and those
which shone from the room extended forward but a short distance. It was
just possible therefore to escape observation by crossing the doorway
along the wall that was most distant from it.

Yet before she tried this she ventured to put forward her head so as to
peep into the room. She stooped low and looked cautiously and slowly.

The three were there at the farthest end of the room. Bottles and
glasses stood before them, and they were conversing in low tones. Those
tones, however, were not so low but that they reached her ears. They
were speaking about _her_.

"How could she have found it out?" said Clark.

"Mrs. Compton only knows _one thing_," said Potts, "and that is
_the secret about her_. She knows nothing more. How could she?"

"Then how could that cursed girl have found out about the Thug
business?" exclaimed John.

There was no reply.

"She's a deep one," said John, "d--d deep--deeper than I ever thought.
I always said she was plucky--cursed plucky--but now I see she's deep
too--and I begin to have my doubts about the way she ought to be took
down."

"I never could make her out," said Potts. "And now I don't even begin to
understand how she could know that which only we have known. Do you
think, Clark, that the devil could have told her of it?"

"Yes," said Clark. "Nobody but the devil could have told her that, and
my belief is that she's the devil himself. She's the only person I ever
felt afraid of. D--n it, I can't look her in the face."

Beatrice retreated and passed across to the opposite wall. She did not
wish to see or hear more. She glided by. She was not noticed. She heard
John's voice--sharp and clear--

"We'll have to begin to-morrow and take her down--that's a fact." This
was followed by silence.

Beatrice reached the door. She turned the knob. Oh, joy! it was not
locked. It opened.

Noiselessly she passed through; noiselessly she shut it behind her. She
was outside. She was free.

The moon shone brightly. It illumined the lawn in front and the tops of
the clumps of trees whose dark foliage rose before her. She saw all
this; yet, in her eagerness to escape, she saw nothing more, but sped
away swiftly down the steps, across the lawn, and under the shade of the
trees.

Which way should she go? There was the main avenue which led in a
winding direction toward the gate and the porter's lodge. There was also
another path which the servants generally took. This led to the gate
also. Beatrice thought that by going down this path she might come near
the gate and then turn off to the wall and try and climb over.

A few moments of thought were sufficient for her decision. She took the
path and went hurriedly along, keeping on the side where the shadow was
thickest.

She walked swiftly, until at length she came to a place where the path
ended. It was close by the porter's lodge. Here she paused to consider.

Late as it was there were lights in the lodge and voices at the door.
Some one was talking with the porter. Suddenly the voices ceased and a
man came walking toward the place where she stood.

To dart into the thick trees where the shadow lay deepest was the work
of a moment. She stood and watched. But the underbrush was dense, and
the crackling which she made attracted the man's attention. He stopped
for a moment, and then rushed straight toward the place where she was.

Beatrice gave herself up for lost. She rushed on wildly, not knowing
where she went. Behind her was the sound of her pursuer. He followed
resolutely and relentlessly. There was no refuge for her but continued
flight.

Onward she sped, and still onward, through the dense underbrush, which
at every step gave notice of the direction which she had taken. Perhaps
if she had been wiser she would have plunged into some thick growth of
trees into the midst of absolute darkness and there remained still. As
it was she did not think of this. Escape was her only thought, and the
only way to this seemed to be by flight.

So she fled; and after her came her remorseless, her unpitying pursuer,
fear lent wings to her feet. She fled on through the underbrush that
crackled as she passed and gave notice of her track through the dark,
dense groves; yet still amidst darkness and gloom her pursuer followed.

[Illustration: "ONWARD SHE SPED, AND STILL ONWARD, THROUGH THE DENSE
UNDERBRUSH."]

At last, through utter weakness and weariness, she sank down. Despair
came over her. She could do no more.

The pursuer came up. So dense was the gloom in that thick grove that for
some time he could not find her. Beatrice heard the crackling of the
underbrush all around. He was searching for her.

She crouched down low and scarcely dared to breathe. She took refuge in
the deep darkness, and determined to wait till her pursuer might give up
his search. At last all was still.

Beatrice thought that he had gone. Yet in her fear she waited for what
seemed to her an interminable period. At last she ventured to make a
movement. Slowly and cautiously she rose to her feet and advanced. She
did not know what direction to take; but she walked on, not caring where
she went so long as she could escape pursuit.

Scarcely had she taken twenty steps when she heard a noise. Some one was
moving. She stood still, breathless. Then she thought she had been
mistaken. After waiting a long time she went on as before. She walked
faster. The noise came again. It was close by. She stood still for many
minutes.

Copyright (c) 2007. topboookz.com. All rights reserved.