Cord and Creese

J >> James de Mille >> Cord and Creese

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But soon the correspondents of some of the Continental papers began to
write glowing accounts of the piece, and to put Langhetti in the same
class with Handel. He was an Italian, they said, but in this case he
united Italian grace and versatility with German solemnity and
melancholy. They declared that he was the greatest of living composers,
and promised for him a great reputation.

Night after night the representation of the "Prometheus" went on with
undiminished success; and with a larger and profounder appreciation of
its meaning among the better class of minds. Langhetti began to show a
stronger and fuller confidence in the success of his piece than he had
yet dared to evince. Yet now its success seemed assured. What more could
he wish?

September came on, and every succeeding night only made the success more
marked. One day Langhetti was with Beatrice at the theatre, and they
were talking of many things. There seemed to be something on his mind,
for he spoke in an abstracted manner. Beatrice noticed this at last, and
mentioned it.

He was at first very mysterious. "It must be that secret of yours which
you will not tell me," said she. "You said once before that it was
connected with me, and that you would tell it to me when the time came.
Has not the time come yet?" "Not yet," answered Langhetti.

"When will it come?"

"I don't know."

"And will you keep it secret always?"

"Perhaps not."

"You speak undecidedly."

"I am undecided."

"Why not decide now to tell it?" pleaded Beatrice. "Why should I not
know it? Surely I have gone through enough suffering to bear this, even
if it bring something additional."

Langhetti looked at her long and doubtfully.

"You hesitate," said she.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"It is of too much importance."

"That is all the more reason why I should know it. Would it crush me if
I knew it?"

"I don't know. It might."

"Then let me be crushed."

Langhetti sighed.

"Is it something that you know for certain, or is it only conjecture?"

"Neither," said he, "but half-way between the two."

Beatrice looked earnestly at him for some time. Then she put her head
nearer to his and spoke in a solemn whisper.

"It is about my mother!"

Langhetti looked at her with a startled expression.

"Is it not?"

He bowed his head.

"It is--it is. And if so, I implore--I conjure you to tell me. Look--I
am calm. Think--I am strong. I am not one who can be cast down merely by
bad news."

"I may tell you soon."

"Say you will."

"I will," said Langhetti, after a struggle.

"When?"

"Soon."

"Why not to-morrow?"

"That is too soon; you are impatient."

"Of course I am," said Beatrice. "Ought I not to be so? Have you not
said that this concerns me? and is not all my imagination aroused in the
endeavor to form a conjecture as to what it may be?"

She spoke so earnestly that Langhetti was moved, and looked still more
undecided.

"When will you tell me?"

"Soon, perhaps," he replied, with some hesitation.

"Why not now?"

"Oh no, I must assure myself first about some things."

"To-morrow, then."

He hesitated.

"Yes," said she; "it must be to-morrow. If you do not, I shall think
that you have little or no confidence in me. I shall expect it to-
morrow."

Langhetti was silent.

"I shall expect it to-morrow," repeated Beatrice.

Langhetti still continued silent.

"Oh, very well; silence gives consent!" said she, in a lively tone.

"I have not consented."

"Yes you have, by your silence."

"I was deliberating."

"I asked you twice, and you did not refuse; surely that means consent."

"I do not say so," said Langhetti, earnestly.

"But you will do so."

"Do not be so certain."

"Yes, I will be certain; and if you do not tell me you will very deeply
disappoint me."

"In telling you I could only give you sorrow."

"Sorrow or joy, whatever it is, I can bear it so long as I know this.
You will not suppose that I am actuated by simple feminine curiosity.
You know me better. This secret is one which subjects me to the tortures
of suspense, and I am anxious to have them removed."

"The removal will be worse than the suspense."

"That is impossible."

"You would not say so if you knew what it was."

"Tell me, then."

"That is what I fear to do."

"Do you fear for me, or for some other person?"

"Only for you."

"Do not fear for me, then, I beseech you; for it is not only my desire,
but my prayer, that I may know this."

Langhetti seemed to be in deep perplexity. Whatever this secret was with
which he was so troubled he seemed afraid to tell it to Beatrice, either
from fear that it might not be any thing in itself or result in any
thing, or, as seemed more probable, lest it might too greatly affect
her. This last was the motive which appeared to influence him most
strongly. In either case, the secret of which he spoke must have been
one of a highly important character, affecting most deeply the life and
fortunes of Beatrice herself. She had formed her own ideas and her own
expectations about it, and this made her all the more urgent, and even
peremptory, in her demand. In fact, things had come to such a point that
Langhetti found himself no longer able to refuse, and now only sought
how to postpone his divulgence of his secret.

Yet even this Beatrice combated, and would listen to no later
postponement than the morrow.

At length, after long resistance to her demand, Langhetti assented, and
promised on the morrow to tell her what it was that he had meant by his
secret.

For, as she gathered from his conversation, it was something that he had
first discovered in Hong Kong, and had never since forgotten, but had
tried to make it certain. His efforts had thus far been useless, and he
did not wish to tell her till he could bring proof. That proof,
unfortunately, he was not able to find, and he could only tell his
conjectures.

It was for these, then, that Beatrice waited in anxious expectation.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE CAB.

That evening Beatrice's performance had been greeted with louder
applause than usual, and, what was more gratifying to one like her, the
effective passages had been listened to with a stillness which spoke
more loudly than the loudest applause of the deep interest of the
audience.

Langhetti had almost always driven home with her, but on this occasion
he had excused himself on account of some business in the theatre which
required his attention.

On going out Beatrice could not find the cabman whom she had employed.
After looking around for him a long time she found that he had gone. She
was surprised and vexed. At the same time she could not account for
this, but thought that perhaps he had been drinking and had forgotten
all about her. On making this discovery she was on the point of going
back and telling Langhetti, but a cabman followed her persistently,
promising to take her wherever she wished, and she thought that it would
be foolish to trouble Langhetti about so small a matter; so that at
length she decided to employ the persevering cabman, thinking that he
could take her to her lodgings as well as any body else.

The cabman started off at a rapid pace, and went on through street after
street, while Beatrice sat thinking of the evening's performance.

At last it seemed to her that she had been a much longer time than
usual, and she began to fear that the cabman had lost his way. She
looked out. They were going along the upper part of Oxford Street, a
great distance from where she lived. She instantly tried to draw down
the window so as to attract the cabman's attention, but could not move
it. She tried the other, but all were fast and would not stir. She
rapped at the glass to make him hear, but he took no notice. Then she
tried to open the door, but could not do so from the inside.

She sat down and thought. What could be the meaning of this? They were
now going at a much faster rate than is common in the streets of London,
but where she was going she could not conjecture.

She was not afraid. Her chief feeling was one of indignation. Either the
cabman was drunk--or what? Could he have been hired to carry her off to
her enemies? Was she betrayed?

This thought flashed like lightning through her mind.

She was not one who would sink down into inaction at the sudden onset of
terror. Her chief feeling now was one of indignation at the audacity of
such an attempt. Obeying the first impulse that seized her, she took the
solid roll of music which she carried with her and dashed it against the
front window so violently that she broke it in pieces. Then she caught
the driver by the sleeve and ordered him to stop.

"All right," said the driver, and, turning a corner, he whipped up his
horses, and they galloped on faster than ever.

"If you don't stop I'll call for help!" cried Beatrice.

The driver's only answer was a fresh application of the whip.

The street up which they turned was narrow, and as it had only dwelling-
houses it was not so brightly lighted as Oxford Street. There were but
few foot-passengers on the sidewalk. As it was now about midnight, most
of the lights were out, and the gas-lamps were the chief means of
illumination.

Yet there was a chance that the police might save her. With this hope
she dashed her music scroll against the windows on each side of the cab
and shivered them to atoms, calling at the top of her voice for help.
The swift rush of the cab and the sound of a woman's voice shouting for
aid aroused the police. They started forward. But the horses were
rushing so swiftly that no one dared to touch them. The driver seemed to
them to have lost control. They thought that the horses were running
away, and that those within the cab were frightened.

Away they went through street after street, and Beatrice never ceased to
call. The excitement which was created by the runaway horses did not
abate, and at length when the driver stopped a policeman hurried up.

The house before which the cab stopped was a plain two-story one, in a
quiet-looking street. A light shone from the front-parlor window. As the
cab drew up the door opened and a man came out.

Beatrice saw the policeman.

"Help!" she cried; "I implore help. This wretch is carrying me away."

"What's this?" growled the policeman.

At this the man that had come out of the house hurried forward.

"Have you found her?" exclaimed a well-known voice. "Oh, my child! How
could you leave your father's roof!"

It was John Potts.

Beatrice was silent for a moment in utter amazement. Yet she made a
violent effort against her despair.

"You have no control over me," said she, bitterly. "I am of age. And
you," said she to the policeman, "I demand your help. I put myself under
your protection, and order you either to take that man in charge or to
let me go to my home."

"Oh, my daughter!" cried Potts. "Will you still be relentless?"

"Help me!" cried Beatrice, and she opened the cab-door.

"The policeman can do nothing," said Potts. "You are not of age. He will
not dare to take you from me."

"I implore you," cried Beatrice, "save me from this man. Take me to the
police-station--any where rather than leave me here!"

"You can not," said Potts to the bewildered policeman. "Listen. She is
my daughter and under age. She ran away with a strolling Italian
vagabond, with whom she is leading an improper life. I have got her
back."

"It's false!" cried Beatrice, vehemently. "I fled from this man's house
because I feared his violence."

"That is an idle story," said Potts.

"Save me!" cried Beatrice.

"I don't know what to do--I suppose I've got to take you to the station,
at any rate," said the policeman, hesitatingly.

"Well," said Potts to Beatrice, "if you do go to the station-house
you'll have to be handed back to me. You are under age."

"It's false!" cried Beatrice. "I am twenty."

"No, you are not more than seventeen."

"Langhetti can prove that I am twenty."

"How? I have documents, and a father's word will be believed before a
paramour's."

This taunt stung Beatrice to the soul.

"As to your charge about my cruelty I can prove to the world that you
lived in splendor in Brandon Hall. Every one of the servants can testify
to this. Your morose disposition made you keep by yourself. You always
treated your father with indifference, and finally ran away with a man
who unfortunately had won your affections in Hong Kong."

"You well know the reason why I left your roof," replied Beatrice, with
calm and severe dignity. "Your foul aspersions upon my character are
unworthy of notice."

"And what shall I say about your aspersions on my character?" cried
Potts, in a loud, rude voice, hoping by a sort of vulgar self-assertion
to brow-beat Beatrice. "Do you remember the names you called me and your
threats against me? When all this is brought out in the police court,
they will see what kind of a daughter you have been."

"You will be the last one who will dare to let it be brought into a
police court."

"And why? Those absurd charges of yours are worthless. Have you any
proof?" he continued, with a sneer, "or has your paramour any?"

"Take me away," said Beatrice to the policeman.

"Wait!" exclaimed Potts; "you are going, and I will go to reclaim you.
The law will give you back to me; for I will prove that you are under
age, and I have never treated you with any thing except kindness. Now
the law can do nothing since you are mine. But as you are so young and
inexperienced I'll tell you what will happen.

"The newspapers," he continued, after a pause, "will be full of your
story. They will print what I shall prove to be true--that you had an
intractable disposition--that you had formed a guilty attachment for a
drum-major at Hong Kong--that you ran away with him, lived for a while
at Holby, and then went with your paramour to London. If you had only
married him you would have been out of my power; but you don't pretend
to be married. You don't call yourself Langhetti, but have taken another
name, which the sharp newspaper reporters will hint was given you by
some other one of your numerous favorites. They will declare that you
love every man but your own father; and you--you who played the goddess
on the stage and sang about Truth and Religion will be known all over
England and all over Europe too as the vilest of the vile."

[Illustration: "Oh, my daughter!" cried Potts, "will you still be
relentless?"]

At this tremendous menace Beatrice's resolution was shattered to pieces.
That this would be so she well knew. To escape from Potts was to have
herself made infamous publicly under the sanction of the law, and then,
by that same law to be handed back to him. At least whether it was so or
not, she thought so. There was no help--no friend.

"Go," said Potts; "leave me now and you become covered with infamy. Who
would believe your story?"

Beatrice was silent, her slender frame was rent by emotion.

"O God!" she groaned--but in her deep despair she could not find
thoughts even for prayers.

"You may go, policeman," said Potts; "my daughter will come with me."

"Faith and I'm glad! It's the best thing for her;" and the policeman,
much relieved, returned to his beat.

"Some of you'll have to pay for them winders," said the cabman.

"All right," answered Potts, quietly.

"There is your home for to-night, at any rate," said Potts, pointing to
the house. "I don't think you have any chance left. You had better go
in."

His tone was one full of bitter taunt. Scarce conscious, with her brain
reeling, and her limbs trembling, Beatrice entered the house.

CHAPTER XL.

DISCOVERIES.

The next morning after Beatrice's last performance Langhetti determined
to fulfill his promise and tell her that secret which she had been so
anxious to know. On entering into his parlor he saw a letter lying on
the table addressed to him. It bore no postage stamp, or post-office
mark.

He opened it and read the following:

"London, September 5,1849.

"SIGNORE,--Cigole, the betrayer and intended assassin of your late
father, is now in London. You can find out about him by inquiring of
Giovanni Cavallo, 16 Red Lion Street. As a traitor to the Carbonari, you
will know that it is your duty to punish him, even if your filial piety
is not strong enough to avenge a father's wrongs.

"CARBONARO."

Langhetti read this several times. Then he called for his landlord.

"Who left this letter?" he asked.

"A young man."

"Do you know his name?"

"No."

"What did he look like?"

"He looked like a counting-house clerk more than any thing."

"When was it left?"

"About six o'clock this morning."

Langhetti read it over and over. The news that it contained filled his
mind. It was not yet ten o'clock. He would not take any breakfast, but
went out at once, jumped into a cab, and drove off to Red Lion Street.

Giovanni Cavallo's office was in a low, dingy building, with a dark,
narrow doorway. It was one of those numerous establishments conducted
and supported by foreigners whose particular business it is not easy to
conjecture. The building was full of offices, but this was on the
ground-floor.

Langhetti entered, and found the interior as dingy as the exterior.
There was a table in the middle of the room. Beyond this was a door
which opened into a back-room.

Only one person was here--a small, bright-eyed man, with thick Vandyke
beard and sinewy though small frame. Langhetti took off his hat and
bowed.

"I wish to see Signore Cavallo," said he, in Italian.

"I am Signore Cavallo," answered the other, blandly.

Langhetti made a peculiar motion with his left arm. The keen eye of the
other noticed it in an instant. He returned a gesture of a similar
character. Langhetti and he then exchanged some more secret signs. At
last Langhetti made one which caused the other to start, and to bow with
deep respect.

"I did not know," said he, in a low voice, "that any of the Interior
Council ever came to London.... But come in here," and he led the way
into the inner room, the door of which he locked very mysteriously.

A long conference followed, the details of which would only be tedious.
At the close Cavallo said, "There is some life in us yet, and what life
we have left shall be spent in trapping that miscreant. Italy shall be
avenged on one of her traitors, at any rate."

"You will write as I told you, and let me know?"

"Most faithfully."

Langhetti departed, satisfied with the result of this interview. What
surprised him most was the letter. The writer must have been one who had
been acquainted with his past life. He was amazed to find any one
denouncing Cigole to him, but finally concluded that it must be some old
Carbonaro, exiled through the afflictions which had befallen that famous
society, and cherishing in his exile the bitter resentment which only
exiles can feel.

Cavallo himself had known Cigole for years, but had no idea whatever of
his early career. Cigole had no suspicion that Cavallo had any thing to
do with the Carbonari. His firm were general agents, who did business of
a miscellaneous character, now commission, now banking, and now
shipping; and in various ways they had had dealings with this man, and
kept up an irregular correspondence with him.

This letter had excited afresh within his ardent and impetuous nature
all the remembrances of early wrongs. Gentle though he was, and pure in
heart, and elevated in all his aspirations, he yet was in all respects a
true child of the South, and his passionate nature was roused to a storm
by this prospect of just retaliation. All the lofty doctrines with which
he might console others were of no avail here in giving him calm. He had
never voluntarily pursued Cigole; but now, since this villain had been
presented to him, he could not turn aside from what he considered the
holy duty of avenging a father's wrongs.

He saw that for the present every thing would have to give way to this.
He determined at once to suspend the representation of the "Prometheus,"
even though it was at the height of its popularity and in the full tide
of its success. He determined to send Beatrice under his sister's care,
and to devote himself now altogether to the pursuit of Cigole, even if
he had to follow him to the world's end. The search after him might not
be long after all, for Cavallo felt sanguine of speedy success, and
assured him that the traitor was in his power, and that the Carbonari in
London were sufficiently numerous to seize him and send him to whatever
punishment might be deemed most fitting.

With such plans and purposes Langhetti went to visit Beatrice, wondering
how she would receive the intelligence of his new purpose.

It was two o'clock in the afternoon before he reached her lodgings. On
going up he rapped. A servant came, and on seeing him looked frightened.

[Illustration: "WHAT LIFE WE HAVE LEFT SHALL BE SPENT IN TRAPPING THAT
MISCREANT."]

"Is Miss Despard in?"

The servant said nothing, but ran off. Langhetti stood waiting in
surprise; but in a short time the landlady came. She had a troubled
look, and did not even return his salutation.

"Is Miss Despard in?"

"She is not here, Sir."

"Not here!"

"No, Sir. I'm frightened. There was a man here early this morning, too."

"A man here. What for?"

"Why, to ask after her."

"And did he see her?"

"She wasn't here."

"Wasn't here! What do you mean?"

"She didn't come home at all last night. I waited up for her till four."

"Didn't come home!" cried Langhetti, as an awful fear came over him.

"No, Sir."

"Do you mean to tell me that she didn't come home at her usual hour?"

"No, Sir--not at all; and as I was saying, I sat up nearly all night."

"Heavens!" cried Langhetti, in bewilderment. "What is the meaning of
this? But take me to her room. Let me see with my own eyes."

The landlady led the way up, and Langhetti followed anxiously. The room
were empty. Every thing remained just as she had left it. Her music was
lying loosely around. The landlady said that she had touched nothing.

Langhetti asked about the man who had called in the morning. The
landlady could tell nothing about him, except that he was a gentleman
with dark hair, and very stern eyes that terrified her. He seemed to be
very angry or very terrible in some way about Beatrice.

Who could this be? thought Langhetti. The landlady did not know his
name. Some one was certainly interesting herself very singularly about
Cigole, and some one else, or else the same person, was very much
interested about Beatrice. For a moment he thought it might be Despard.
This, however, did not seem probable, as Despard would have written him
if he were coming to town.

Deeply perplexed, and almost in despair, Langhetti left the house and
drove home, thinking on the way what ought to be done. He thought he
would wait till evening, and perhaps she would appear. He did thus wait,
and in a fever of excitement and suspense, but on going to the lodging-
house again there was nothing more known about her.

Leaving this he drove to the police-office. It seemed to him now that
she must have been foully dealt with in some way. He could think of no
one but Potts; yet how Potts could manage it was a mystery. That mystery
he himself could not hope to unravel. The police might. With that
confidence in the police which is common to all Continentals he went and
made known his troubles. The officials at once promised to make
inquiries, and told him to call on the following evening.

The next evening he went there. The policeman was present who had been
at the place when Potts met Beatrice. He told the whole story--the
horses running furiously, the screams from the cab, and the appeal of
Beatrice for help, together with her final acquiescence in the will of
her father.

Langhetti was overwhelmed. The officials evidently believed that Potts
was an injured father, and showed some coldness to Langhetti.

"He is her father; what better could she do?" asked one.

"Any thing would be better," said Langhetti, mournfully. "He is a
villain so remorseless that she had to fly. Some friends received her.
She went to get her own living since she is of age. Can nothing be done
to rescue her?"

"Well, she might begin a lawsuit; if she really is of age he can not
hold her. But she had much better stay with him."

Such were the opinions of the officials. They courteously granted
permission to Langhetti to take the policeman to the house.

On knocking an old woman came to the door. In answer to his inquiries
she stated that a gentleman had been living there three weeks, but that
on the arrival of his daughter he had gone home.

"When did he leave?"

"Yesterday morning."

CHAPTER XLI

THEY MEET AGAIN.

At four o'clock on the morning of Beatrice's capture Brandon was roused
by a rap at his bedroom door. He rose at once, and slipping on his
dressing-gown, opened it. A man entered.

"Well?" said Brandon.

"Something has happened."

"What?"

"She didn't get home last night. The landlady is sitting up for her, and
is terribly frightened."

"Did you make any inquiries?"

"No, Sir; I came straight here in obedience to your directions."

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