Cord and Creese

J >> James de Mille >> Cord and Creese

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Suddenly she bounded up, and ran as one runs for life. Her long rest had
refreshed her. Despair gave her strength. But the pursuer was on her
track. Swiftly, and still more swiftly, his footsteps came up behind
her. He was gaining on her. Still she rushed on.

At last a strong hand seized her by the shoulder, and she sank down upon
the moss that lay under the forest trees.

"Who are you?" cried a familiar voice.

"Vijal!" cried Beatrice.

The other let go his hold.

"Will you betray me?" cried Beatrice, in a mournful and despairing
voice.

Vijal was silent.

"What do you want?" said he, at last. "Whatever you want to do I will
help you. I will be your slave."

"I wish to escape."

"Come then--you shall escape," said Vijal.

Without uttering another word he walked on and Beatrice followed. Hope
rose once more within her. Hope gave strength. Despair and its weakness
had left her. After about half an hour's walk they reached the park
wall.

"I thought it was a poacher," said Vijal, sadly; "yet I am glad it was
you, for I can help you. I will help you over the wall."

He raised her up. She clambered to the top, where she rested for a
moment.

"God bless you, Vijal, and good-by!" said she.

Vijal said nothing.

The next moment she was on the other side. The road lay there. It ran
north away from the village. Along this road Beatrice walked swiftly.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

"PICKED UP ADRIFT."

On the morning following two travelers left a small inn which lay on the
road-side, about ten miles north of Brandon. It was about eight o'clock
when they took their departure, driving in their own carriage at a
moderate pace along the road.

"Look, Langhetti," said the one who was driving, pointing with his whip
to an object in the road directly in front of them.

Langhetti raised his head, which had been bowed down in deep
abstraction, to look in the direction indicated. A figure was
approaching them. It looked like a woman. She walked very slowly, and
appeared rather to stagger than to walk.

"She appears to be drunk, Despard," said Langhetti. "Poor wretch, and on
this bleak March morning too! Let us stop and see if we can do any thing
for her."

They drove on, and as they met the woman Despard stopped.

She was young and extraordinarily beautiful. Her face was thin and
white. Her clothing was of fine materials but scanty and torn to shreds.
As they stopped she turned her large eyes up despairingly and stood
still, with a face which seemed to express every conceivable emotion of
anguish and of hope. Yet as her eyes rested on Langhetti a change came
over her. The deep and unutterable sadness of her face passed away, and
was succeeded by a radiant flash of joy. She threw out her arms toward
him with a cry of wild entreaty.

The moment that Langhetti saw her he started up and stood for an instant
as if paralyzed. Her cry came to his ears. He leaped from the carriage
toward her, and caught her in his arms.

"Oh, Bice! Alas, my Bicina!" he cried, and a thousand fond words came to
his lips.

Beatrice looked up with eyes filled with grateful tears; her lips
murmured some inaudible sentences; and then, in this full assurance of
safety, the resolution that had sustained her so long gave way
altogether. Her eyes closed, she gave a low moan, and sank senseless
upon his breast.

Langhetti supported her for a moment, then gently laid her down to try
and restore her. He chafed her hands, and did all that is usually done
in such emergencies. But here the case was different--it was more than
a common faint, and the animation now suspended was not to be restored
by ordinary efforts.

Langhetti bowed over her as he chafed her hands. "Ah, my Bicina," he
cried; "is it thus I find you! Ah, poor thin hand! Alas, white wan face!
What suffering has been yours, pure angel, among those fiends of hell!"

He paused, and turned a face of agony toward Despard. But as he looked
at him he saw a grief in his countenance that was only second to his
own. Something in Beatrice's appearance had struck him with a deeper
feeling than that merely human interest which the generous heart feels
in the sufferings of others.

"Langhetti," said he, "let us not leave this sweet angel exposed to this
bleak wind. We must take her back to the inn. We have gained our object.
Alas! the gain is worse than a failure."

"What can we do?"

"Let us put her in the carriage between us, and drive back instantly."

Despard stooped as he spoke, raised her reverently in his arms, and
lifted her upon the seat. He sprang in and put his arms around her
senseless form, so as to support her against himself. Langhetti looked
on with eyes that were moist with a sad yet mysterious feeling.

Then he resumed his place in the carriage.

"Oh, Langhetti!" said Despard, "what is it that I saw in the face of
this poor child that so wrings my heart? What is this mystery of yours
that you will not tell?"

"I can not solve it," said Langhetti, "and therefore I will not tell
it."

"Tell it, whatever it is."

"No, it is only conjecture as yet, and I will not utter it."

"And it affects me?"

"Deeply."

"Therefore tell it."

"Therefore I must not tell it; for if it prove baseless I shall only
excite your feeling in vain."

"At any rate let me know. For I have the wildest fancies, and I wish to
know if it is possible that they are like your own."

"No, Despard," said Langhetti. "Not now. The time may come, but it has
not yet."

Beatrice's head leaned against Despard's shoulder as she reclined
against him, sustained by his arm. Her face was upturned; a face as
white as marble, her pure Grecian features showing now their faultless
lines like the sculptured face of some goddess. Her beauty was perfect
in its classic outline. But her eyes were closed, and her wan, white
lips parted; and there was a sorrow on her face which did not seem
appropriate to one so young.

[Illustration: "HE LEAPED FROM THE CARRIAGE TOWARD HER, AND CAUGHT HER
IN HIS ARMS."]

"Look," said Langhetti, in a mournful voice. "Saw you ever in all your
life any one so perfectly and so faultlessly beautiful? Oh, if you could
but have seen her, as I have done, in her moods of inspiration, when she
sang! Could I ever have imagined such a fate as this for her?"

"Oh, Despard!" he continued, after, a pause in which the other had
turned his stern face to him without a word--"Oh, Despard! you ask me to
tell you this secret. I dare not. It is so wide-spread. If my fancy be
true, then all your life must at once be unsettled, and all your soul
turned to one dark purpose. Never will I turn you to that purpose till I
know the truth beyond the possibility of a doubt."

"I saw that in her face," said Despard, "which I hardly dare acknowledge
to myself."

"Do not acknowledge it, then, I implore you. Forget it. Do not open up
once more that old and now almost forgotten sorrow. Think not of it even
to yourself."

Langhetti spoke with a wild and vehement urgency which was wonderful.

"Do you not see," said Despard, "that you rouse my curiosity to an
intolerable degree?"

"Be it so; at any rate it is better to suffer from curiosity than to
feel what you must feel if I told you what I suspect."

Had it been any other man than Langhetti Despard would have been
offended. As it was he said nothing, but began to conjecture as to the
best course for them to follow.

"It is evident," said he to Langhetti, "that she has escaped from
Brandon Hall during the past night. She will, no doubt, be pursued. What
shall we do? If we go back to this inn they will wonder at our bringing
her. There is another inn a mile further on."

"I have been thinking of that," replied Langhetti. "It will be better to
go to the other inn. But what shall we say about her? Let us say she is
an invalid going home."

"And am I her medical attendant?" asked Despard.

"No; that is not necessary. You are her guardian--the Rector of Holby,
of course--your name is sufficient guarantee."

"Oh," said Despard, after a pause, "I'll tell you something better yet.
I am her brother and she is my sister--Miss Despard."

As he spoke he looked down upon her marble face. He did not see
Langhetti's countenance. Had he done so he would have wondered. For
Langhetti's eyes seemed to seek to pierce the very soul of Despard. His
face became transformed. Its usual serenity vanished, and there was
eager wonder, intense and anxious curiosity--an endeavor to see if there
was not some deep meaning underlying Despard's words. But Despard showed
no emotion. He was conscious of no deep meaning. He merely murmured to
himself as he looked down upon the unconscious face:

"My sick sister--my sister Beatrice."

Langhetti said not a word, but sat in silence, absorbed in one intense
and wondering gaze. Despard seemed to dwell upon this idea, fondly and
tenderly.

"She is not one of that brood," said he, after a pause. "It is in name
only that she belongs to them."

"They are fiends and she is an angel," said Langhetti.

"Heaven has sent her to us; we most preserve her forever."

"If she lives," said Langhetti, "she must never go back."

"Go back!" cried Despard. "Better far for her to die."

"I myself would die rather than give her up."

"And I, too. But we will not. I will adopt her. Yes, she shall cast away
the link that binds her to these accursed ones--her vile name. I will
adopt her. She shall have my name--she shall be my sister. She shall be
Beatrice Despard.

"And surely," continued Despard, looking tenderly down, "surely, of all
the Despard race there was never one so beautiful and so pure as she."

Langhetti did not say a word, but looked at Despard and the one whom he
thus called his adopted sister with an emotion which he could not
control. Tears started to his eyes; yet over his brow there came
something which is not generally associated with tears--a lofty,
exultant expression, an air of joy and peace.

"Your sister," said Despard, "shall nurse her back to health. She will
do so for your sake, Langhetti--or rather from her own noble and
generous instincts. In Thornton Grange she will, perhaps, find some
alleviation for the sorrows which she may have endured. Our care shall
be around her, and we can all labor together for her future welfare."

They at length reached the inn of which they had spoken, and Beatrice
was tenderly lifted out and carried up stairs. She was mentioned as the
sister of the Rev. Mr. Despard, of Holby, who was bringing her back from
the sea-side, whither she had gone for her health. Unfortunately, she
had been too weak for the journey.

The people of the inn showed the kindest attention and warmest sympathy.
A doctor was sent for, who lived at a village two miles farther on.

Beatrice recovered from her faint, but remained unconscious. The doctor
considered that her brain was affected. He shook his head solemnly over
it; as doctors always do when they have nothing in particular to say.
Both Langhetti and Despard knew more about her case than he did.

They saw that rest was the one thing needed. But rest could be better
attained in Holby than here; and besides, there was the danger of
pursuit. It was necessary to remove her; and that, too, without delay. A
closed carriage was procured without much difficulty, and the patient
was deposited therein.

A slow journey brought them by easy stages to Holby. Beatrice remained
unconscious. A nurse was procured, who traveled with her. The condition
of Beatrice was the same which she described in her diary. Great grief
and extraordinary suffering and excitement had overtasked the brain, and
it had given way. So Despard and Langhetti conjectured.

At last they reached Holby. They drove at once to Thornton Grange.

"What is this?" cried Mrs. Thornton, who had heard nothing from them,
and ran out upon the piazza to meet them as she saw them coming.

"I have found Bice," said Langhetti, "and have brought her here."

"Where is she?"

"There," said Langhetti. "I give her to your care--it is for you to give
her back to me."

CHAPTER XXXIV.

ON THE TRACK.

Beatrice's disappearance was known at Brandon Hall on the following day.
The servants first made the discovery. They found her absent from her
room, and no one had seen her about the house. It was an unusual thing
for her to be out of the house early in the day, and of late for many
months she had scarcely ever left her room, so that now her absence at
once excited suspicion. The news was communicated from one to another
among the servants. Afraid of Potts, they did not dare to tell him, but
first sought to find her by themselves. They called Mrs. Compton, and
the fear which perpetually possessed the mind of this poor, timid
creature now rose to a positive frenzy of anxiety and dread. She told
all that she knew, and that was that she had seen her the evening before
as usual, and had left her at ten o'clock.

No satisfaction therefore could be gained from her. The servants tried
to find traces of her, but were unable. At length toward evening, on
Potts's return from the bank, the news was communicated to him.

The rage of Potts need not be described here. That one who had twice
defied should now escape him filled him with fury. He organized all his
servants into bands, and they scoured the grounds till darkness put an
end to these operations.

That evening Potts and his two companions dined in moody silence, only
conversing by fits and starts.

"I don't think she's killed herself," said Potts, in reply to an
observation of Clark. "She's got stuff enough in her to do it, but I
don't believe she has. She's playing a deeper game. I only wish we could
fish up her dead body out of some pond; it would quiet matters down very
considerable."

"If she's got off she's taken with her some secrets that won't do us any
good," remarked John.

"The devil of it is," said Potts, "we don't know how much she does know.
She must know a precious lot, or she never would have dared to say what
she did."

"But how could she get out of the park?" said Clark. "That wall is too
high to climb over, and the gates are all locked."

"It's my opinion," exclaimed John, "that she's in the grounds yet."

Potts shook his head.

"After what she told me it's my belief she can do any thing. Why, didn't
she tell us of crimes that were committed before she was born? I begin
to feel shaky, and it is the girl that has made me so."

Potts rose to his feet, plunged his hands deep into his pockets, and
walked up and down. The others sat in gloomy silence.

"Could that Hong Kong nurse of hers have told her any thing?" asked
John.

"She didn't know any thing to tell."

"Mrs. Compton must have blown, then."

"Mrs. Compton didn't know. I tell you that there is not one human being
living that knows what she told us besides ourselves and her. How the
devil she picked it up I don't know."

"I didn't like the cut of her from the first," said John. "She had a way
of looking that made me feel uneasy, as though there was something in
her that would some day be dangerous. I didn't want you to send for
her."

"Well, the mischief's done now."

"You're not going to give up the search, are you?" asked Clark.

"Give it up! Not I."

"We must get her back."

"Yes; our only safety now is in catching her again at all hazards."

There was a long silence.

"Twenty years ago," said Potts, moodily, "the _Vishnu_ drifted
away, and since the time of the trial no one has mentioned it to me till
that girl did."

"And she is only twenty years old," rejoined John.

"I tell you, lads, you've got the devil to do with when you tackle her,"
remarked Clark; "but if she is the devil we must fight it out and crush
her."

"Twenty-three years," continued Potts, in the same gloomy tone--"twenty-
three years have passed since I was captured with my followers. No one
has mentioned that since. No one in all the world knows that I am the
only Englishman that ever joined the Thugs except that girl."

"She must know every thing that we have done," said Clark.

"Of course she must."

"Including our Brandon enterprise," said John.

"And including your penmanship." said Clark; "enough, lad, to stretch a
neck."

"Come," said Potts, "don't let us talk of this, any how."

Again they relapsed into silence.

"Well!" exclaimed John, at last, "what are you going to do to-morrow?"

"Chase her till I find her," replied Potts, savagely.

"But where?"

"I've been thinking of a plan which seems to me to be about the thing."

"What?"

"A good old plan," said Potts. "Your pup, Johnnie, can help us."

John pounded his fist on the table with savage exultation.

"My blood-hound! Good, old Dad, what a trump you are to think of that!"

"He'll do it!"

"Yes," said John, "if he gets on her track and comes up with her I'm a
little afraid that we'll arrive at the spot just too late to save her.
It's the best way that I know of for getting rid of the difficulty
handsomely. Of course we are going after her through anxiety, and the
dog is an innocent pup who comes with us; and if any disaster happens we
will kill him on the spot."

Potts shook his head moodily. He had no very hopeful feeling about this.
He was shaken to the soul at the thought of this stern, relentless girl
carrying out into the world his terrific secret.

Early on the following morning they resumed their search after the lost
girl. This time the servants were not employed, but the three themselves
went forth to try what they could do. With them was the "pup" to which
allusion had been made on the previous evening. This animal was a huge
blood-hound, which John had purchased to take the place of his bull-dog,
and of which he was extravagantly proud. True to his instinct, the hound
understood from smelling an article of Beatrice's apparel what it was
that he was required to seek, and he went off on her trail out through
the front door, down the steps, and up to the grove.

The others followed after. The dog led them down the path toward the
gate, and thence into the thick grove and through the underbrush. Scraps
of her dress still clung in places to the brushwood. The dog led them
round and round wherever Beatrice had wandered in her flight from Vijal.
They all believed that they would certainly find her here, and that she
had lost her way or at least tried to conceal herself. But at last, to
their disappointment, the dog turned away out of the wood and into the
path again. Then he led them along through the woods until he reached
the Park wall. Here the animal squatted on his haunches, and, lifting up
his head, gave a long deep howl.

"What's this?" said Potts.

"Why, don't you see? She's got over the wall somehow. All that we've got
to do is to put the dog over, and follow on."

[Illustration: "WHY, DON'T YOU SEE? SHE'S GOT OVER THE WALL SOMEHOW."]

The others at once understood that this must be the case. In a short
time they were on the other side of the wall, where the dog found the
trail again, and led on while they followed as before.

They did not, however, wish to seem like pursuers. That would hardly be
the thing in a country of law and order. They chose to walk rather
slowly, and John held the dog by a strap which he had brought with him.
They soon found the walk much longer than they had anticipated, and
began to regret that they had not come in a carriage. They had gone too
far, however, to remedy this now, so they resolved to continue on their
way as they were.

"Gad!" said John, who felt fatigued first, "what a walker she is!"

"She's the devil!" growled Clark, savagely.

At last, after about three hours' walk, the dog stopped at a place by
the road-side, and snuffed in all directions. The others watched him
anxiously for a long time. The dog ran all around sniffing at the
ground, but to no purpose.

He had lost the trail. Again and again he tried to recover it. But his
blood-thirsty instinct was completely at fault. The trail had gone, and
at last the animal came up to his master and crouched down at his feet
with a low moan.

"Sold!" cried John, with a curse.

"What can have become of her?" said Potts.

"I don't know," said John. "I dare say she's got took up in some wagon.
Yes, that's it. That's the reason why the trail has gone."

"What shall we do now? We can't follow. It may have been the coach, and
she may have got a lift to the nearest railway station."

"Well," said John, "I'll tell you what we can do. Let one of us go to
the inns that are nearest, and ask if there was a girl in the coach that
looked like her, or make any inquiries that may be needed. We could find
out that much at any rate."

The others assented. John swore he was too tired. At length, after some
conversation, they all determined to go on, and to hire a carriage back.
Accordingly on they went, and soon reached an inn.

Here they made inquiries, but could learn nothing whatever about any
girl that had stopped there. Potts then hired a carriage and drove off
to the next inn, leaving the others behind. He returned in about two
hours. His face bore an expression of deep perplexity.

"Well, what luck, dad?" asked John.

"There's the devil to pay," growled Potts.

"Did you find her?"

"There is a girl at the next inn, and it's her. Now what name do you
think they call her by?"

"What?"

"Miss Despard."

Clark turned pale and looked at John, who gave a long, low whistle.

"Is she alone?" asked John.

"No--that's the worst of it. A reverend gent is with her, who has charge
of her, and says he is her brother."

"Who?"

"His name is Courtenay Despard, son of Colonel Lionel Despard," said
Potts.

The others returned his look in utter bewilderment.

"I've been thinking and thinking," said Potts, "but I haven't got to the
bottom of it yet. We can't do any thing just now, that's evident. I
found out that this reverend gent is on his way to Holby, where he is
rector. The only thing left for us to do is to go quietly home and look
about us."

"It seems to me that this is like the beginning of one of those monsoon
storms," said Clark, gloomily.

The others said nothing. In a short time they were on their way back,
moody and silent.

CHAPTER XXXV.

BEATRICE'S RECOVERY.

It was not easy for the overtasked and overworn powers of Beatrice to
rally. Weeks passed before she opened her eyes to a recognition of the
world around her. It was March when she sank down by the road-side. It
was June when she began to recover from the shock of the terrible
excitement through which she had passed.

Loving hearts sympathized with her, tender hands cared for her, vigilant
eyes watched her, and all that love and care could do were unremittingly
exerted for her benefit.

As Beatrice opened her eyes after her long unconsciousness she looked
around in wonder, recognizing nothing. Then they rested in equal wonder
upon one who stood by her bedside.

She was slender and fragile in form, with delicate features, whose fine
lines seemed rather like ideal beauty than real life. The eyes were
large, dark, lustrous, and filled with a wonderful but mournful beauty.
Yet all the features, so exquisite in their loveliness, were transcended
by the expression that dwelt upon them. It was pure, it was spiritual,
it was holy. It was the face of a saint, such a face as appears to the
rapt devotee when fasting has done its work, and the quickened
imagination grasps at ideal forms till the dwellers in heaven seem to
become visible.

In her confused mind Beatrice at first had a faint fancy that she was in
another state of existence, and that the form before her was one of
those pure intelligences who had been appointed to welcome her there.
Perhaps there was some such thought visible upon her face, for the
stranger came up to her noiselessly, and stooping down, kissed her.

"You are among friends," said she, in a low, sweet voice. "You have been
sick long."

"Where am I?"

"Among loving friends," said the other, "far away from the place where
you suffered."

Beatrice sighed.

"I hoped that I had passed away forever," she murmured.

"Not yet, not yet," said the stranger, in a voice of tender yet mournful
sweetness, which had in it an unfathomable depth of meaning. "We must
wait on here, dear friend, till it be His will to call us."

"And who are you?" asked Beatrice, after a long and anxious look at the
face of the speaker.

"My name is Edith Brandon," said the other, gently.

"Brandon!--Edith Brandon!" cried Beatrice, with a vehemence which
contrasted strangely with the scarce-audible words with which she had
just spoken.

The stranger smiled with the same melancholy sweetness which she had
shown before.

"Yes," said she; "but do not agitate yourself, dearest."

"And have you nursed me?"

"Partly. But you are in the house of one who is like an angel in her
loving care of you."

"But you--you?" persisted Beatrice; "you did not perish, then, as they
said?"

"No," replied the stranger; "it was not permitted me."

"Thank God!" murmured Beatrice, fervently. "_He_ has one sorrow
less. Did _he_ save you?"

"He," said Edith, "of whom you speak does not know that I am alive, nor
do I know where he is. Yet some day we will perhaps meet. And now you
must not speak. You will agitate yourself too much. Here you have those
who love you. For the one who brought you here is one who would lay down
his life for yours, dearest--he is Paolo Langhetti."

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