Cord and Creese

J >> James de Mille >> Cord and Creese

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"Is that all you know?"

"All."

"Very well," said Brandon, calmly, "you may go."

The man retired. Brandon sat down and buried his head in his hands. Such
news as this was sufficient to overwhelm any one. The man knew nothing
more than this, that she had not returned home and that the landlady was
frightened. In his opinion only one of two things could have happened:
either Langhetti had taken her somewhere, or she had been abducted.

A thousand fancies followed one another in quick succession. It was too
early as yet to go forth to make inquiries; and he therefore was forced
to sit still and form conjectures as to what ought to be done in case
his conjecture might be true. Sitting there, he took a rapid survey of
all the possibilities of the occasion, and laid his plans accordingly.

Brandon had feared some calamity, and with this fear had arranged to
have some one in the house who might give him information. The
information which he most dreaded had come; it had come, too, in the
midst of a time of triumph, when she had become one of the supreme
singers of the age, and had gained all that her warmest admirer might
desire for her.

If she had not been foully dealt with she must have gone with Langhetti.
But if so--where--and why? What possible reason might Langhetti have
for taking her away? This conjecture was impossible.

Yet if this was impossible, and if she had not gone with Langhetti, with
whom could she have gone? If not a friend, then it must have been with
an enemy. But with what enemy? There was only one.

He thought of Potts. He knew that this wretch was capable of any
villainy, and would not hesitate at any thing to regain possession of
the one who had fled from him. Why he should wish to take the trouble to
regain possession of her, except out of pure villainy, he could not
imagine.

With such thoughts as these the time passed heavily. Six o'clock at last
came, and he set out for the purpose of making inquiries. He went first
to the theatre. Here, after some trouble, he found those who had the
place in charge, and, by questioning them, he learned that Beatrice had
left by herself in a cab for her home, and that Langhetti had remained
some time later. He then went to Beatrice's lodgings to question the
landlady. From there he went to Langhetti's lodgings, and found that
Langhetti had come home about one o'clock and was not yet up.

Beatrice, therefore, had left by herself; and had not gone any where
with Langhetti. She had not returned home. It seemed to him most
probable that either voluntarily or involuntarily she had come under the
control of Potts. What to do under the circumstances was now the
question.

One course seemed to him the most direct and certain; namely, to go up
to Brandon at once and make inquiries there. From the letters which
Philips had sent he had an idea of the doings of Potts. Other sources of
information had also been secured. It was not his business to do any
thing more than to see that Beatrice should fall into no harm.

By ten o'clock he had acted upon this idea, and was at the railway
station to take the express train. He reached Brandon village about
dusk. He went to the inn in his usual disguise as Mr. Smithers, and sent
up to the Hall for Mr. Potts.

Potts was not there. He then sent for Philips. After some delay Philips
came. His usual timidity was now if possible still more marked, and he
was at first too embarrassed to speak.

"Where is Potts?" asked Brandon, abruptly.

"In London, Sir."

"He has been there about three weeks, hasn't he?"

"Yes, Sir."

"So you wrote me. You thought when he went that he was going to hunt up
his daughter."

"So I conjectured."

"And he hasn't got back yet?"

"Not yet."

"Has he written any word?"

"None that I know of."

"Did you hear any of them say why he went to get her?"

"Not particularly; but I guessed from what they said that he was afraid
of having her at large."

"Afraid? Why?"

"Because she knew some secret of theirs."

"Secret! What secret?" asked Brandon.

"You know, Sir, I suppose," said Philips, meekly.

Brandon had carried Asgeelo with him, as he was often in the habit of
doing on his journeys. After his interview with Philips he stood outside
on the veranda of the village inn for some time, and then went around
through the village, stopping at a number of houses. Whatever it was
that he was engaged in, it occupied him for several hours, and he did
not get back to the inn till midnight.

On the following morning he sent up to the Hall, but Potts had not yet
returned. Philips came to tell him that he had just received a
telegraphic dispatch informing him that Potts would be back that day
about one o'clock. This intelligence at last seemed to promise something
definite.

Brandon found enough to occupy him during the morning among the people
of the neighborhood. He seemed to know every body, and had something to
say to every one. Yet no one looked at him or spoke to him unless he
took the initiative. Last of all, he went to the tailor's, where he
spent an hour.

Asgeelo had been left at the inn, and sat there upon a bench outside,
apparently idle and aimless. At one o'clock Brandon returned and walked
up and down the veranda.

In about half an hour his attention was attracted by the sound of
wheels. It was Potts's barouche, which came rapidly up the road. In it
was Potts and a young lady.

Brandon stood outside of the veranda, on the steps, in such a position
as to be most conspicuous, and waited there till the carriage should
reach the place. Did his heart beat faster as he recognized that form,
as he marked the settled despair which had gathered over that young
face--a face that had the fixed and unalterable wretchedness which
marks the ideal face of the Mater Dolorosa?

Brandon stood in such a way that Potts could not help seeing him. He
waved his arm, and Potts stopped the carriage at once.

Potts was seated on the front seat, and Beatrice on the back one.
Brandon walked up to the carriage and touched his hat.

"Mr. Smithers!" cried Potts, with his usual volubility. "Dear me, Sir.
This is really a most unexpected pleasure, Sir."

While Potts spoke Brandon looked steadily at Beatrice, who cast upon him
a look of wonder. She then sank back in her seat; but her eyes were
still fastened on his as though fascinated. Then, beneath the marble
whiteness of her face a faint tinge appeared, a warm flush, that was the
sign of hope rising from despair. In her eyes there gleamed the flash of
recognition; for in that glance each had made known all its soul to the
other. In her mind there was no perplexing question as to how or why he
came here, or wherefore he wore that disguise; the one thought that she
had was the consciousness that He was here--here before her.

All this took place in an instant, and Potts, who was talking, did not
notice the hurried glance; or if he did, saw in it nothing but a casual
look cast by one stranger upon another.

"I arrived here yesterday," said Brandon. "I wished to see you about a
matter of very little importance perhaps to you, but it is one which is
of interest to me. But I am detaining you. By-the-way, I am somewhat in
a hurry, and if this lady will excuse me I will drive up with you to the
Hall, so as to lose no time."

"Delighted, Sir, delighted!" cried Potts. "Allow me, Mr. Smithers, to
introduce you to my daughter."

Brandon held out his hand. Beatrice held out hers. It was cold as ice,
but the fierce thrill that shot through her frame at the touch of his
feverish hand brought with it such an ecstasy that Beatrice thought it
was worth while to have undergone the horror of the past twenty-four
hours for the joy of this one moment.

Brandon stepped into the carriage and seated himself by her side. Potts
sat opposite. He touched her. He could hear her breathing. How many
months had passed since they sat so near together! What sorrows had they
not endured! Now they were side by side, and for a moment they forgot
that their bitterest enemy sat before them.

There, before them, was the man who was not only a deadly enemy to each,
but who made it impossible for them to be more to one another than they
now were. Yet for a time they forgot this in the joy of the ecstatic
meeting. At the gate Potts got out and excused himself to Brandon,
saying that he would be up directly.

"Entertain this gentleman till I come," said he to Beatrice, "for he is
a great friend of mine."

Beatrice said nothing, for the simple reason that she could not speak.

They drove on. Oh, joy! that baleful presence was for a moment removed.
The driver saw nothing as he drove under the overarching elms--the elms
under which Brandon had sported in his boyhood. He saw not the long,
fervid glance that they cast at one another, in which each seemed to
absorb all the being of the other; he saw not the close clasped hands
with which they clung to one another now as though they would thus cling
to each other forever and prevent separation. He saw not the swift, wild
movement of Brandon when for one instant he flung his arm around
Beatrice and pressed her to his heart. He heard not the beating of that
strong heart; he heard not the low sigh of rapture with which for but
one instant the head of Beatrice sank upon her lover's breast. It was
but for an instant. Then she sat upright again, and their hands sought
each other, thus clinging, thus speaking by a voice which was fully
intelligible to each, which told how each felt in the presence of the
other love unutterable, rapture beyond expression.

The alighted from the carriage. Beatrice led the way into the drawing-
room. No one was there. Brandon went into a recess of one of the windows
which commanded a view of the Park.

"What a beautiful view!" said he, in a conventional voice.

She came up and stood beside him.

"Oh, my darling! Oh, my darling!" he cried, over and over again; and
flinging his arms around her he covered her face with burning kisses.
Her whole being seemed in that supreme moment to be absorbed in his. All
consciousness of any other thing than this unspeakable joy was lost to
her. Before all others she was lofty, high-souled, serene, self-
possessed--with him she was nothing, she lost herself in him.

"Do not fear, my soul's darling," said he; "no harm shall come. My power
is every where--even in this house. All in the village are mine. When
my blow falls you shall be saved."

She shuddered.

"You will leave me here?"

"Heavens! I must," he groaned; "we are the sport of circumstances. Oh,
my darling!" he continued, "you know my story, and my vengeance."

"I know it all," she whispered. "I would wish to die if I could die by
your hand."

"I will save you. Oh, love--oh, soul of mine--my arms are around you!
You are watched--but watched by me."

"You do not know," she sighed. "Alas! your father's voice must be
obeyed, and your vengeance must be taken."

"Fear not," said he; "I will guard you."

She answered nothing. Could she confide in his assurance? She could not.
She thought with horror of the life before her. What could Brandon do?
She could not imagine.

They stood thus in silence for a long time. Each felt that this was
their last meeting, and each threw all life and all thought into the
rapture of this long and ecstatic embrace. After this the impassable
gulf must reopen. She was of the blood of the accursed. They must
separate forever.

He kissed her. He pressed her a thousand times to his heart. His burning
kisses forced a new and feverish life into her, which roused all her
nature. Never before had he dared so to fling open all his soul to her;
never before had he so clasped her to his heart; but now this moment was
a break in the agony of a long separation--a short interval which must
soon end and give way to the misery which had preceded it--and so he
yielded to the rapture of the hour, and defied the future.

The moments extended themselves. They were left thus for a longer time
than they hoped. Potts did not come. They were still clinging to one
another. She had flung her arms around him in the anguish of her
unspeakable love, he had clasped her to his wildly-throbbing heart, and
he was straining her there recklessly and despairingly, when suddenly a
harsh voice burst upon their ears.

"The devil!"

Beatrice did not hear it. Brandon did, and turned his face. Potts stood
before them.

"Mr. Potts!" said he, as he still held Beatrice close to his heart,
"this poor young lady is in wretched health. She nearly fainted. I had
to almost carry her to the window. Will you be good enough to open it,
so as to give her some air? Is she subject to these faints? Poor child!"
he said; "the air of this place ought surely to do you good. I
sympathize with you most deeply, Mr. Potts."

"She's sickly--that's a fact," said Potts. "I'm very sorry that you have
had so much trouble--I hope you'll excuse me. I only thought that she'd
entertain you, for she's very clever. Has all the accomplishments--"

"Perhaps you'd better call some one to take care of her," interrupted
Brandon.

"Oh, I'll fetch some one. I'm sorry it happened so. I hope you won't
blame me, Sir," said Potts, humbly, and he hurried out of the room.

Beatrice had not moved. She heard Brandon speak to some one, and at
first gave herself up for lost, but in an instant she understood the
full meaning of his words. To his admirable presence of mind she added
her own. She did not move, but allowed her head to rest where it was,
feeling a delicious joy in the thought that Potts was looking on and was
utterly deceived. When he left to call a servant she raised her head and
gave Brandon a last look expressive of her deathless, her unutterable
love. Again and again he pressed her to his heart. Then the noise of
servants coming in roused him. He gently placed her on a sofa, and
supported her with a grave and solemn face.

"Here, Mrs. Compton. Take charge of her," said Potts. "She's been trying
to faint."

Mrs. Compton came up, and kneeling down kissed Beatrice's hands. She
said nothing.

"Oughtn't she to have a doctor?" said Brandon.

"Oh no--she'll get over it. Take her to her room, Mrs. Compton."

"Can the poor child walk?" asked Brandon.

Beatrice rose. Mrs. Compton asked her to take her arm. She did so, and
leaning heavily upon it, walked away.

[Illustration: "THE DEVIL!" ... POTTS STOOD BEFORE THEM.]

"She seems very delicate," said Brandon. "I did not know that you had a
daughter."

Potts sighed.

"I have," said he, "to my sorrow."

"To your sorrow!" said Brandon, with exquisitely simulated sympathy.

"Yes," replied the other. "I wouldn't tell it to every one--but you, Mr.
Smithers, are different from most people. You see I have led a roving
life. I had to leave her out in China for many years with a female
guardian. I suppose she was not very well taken care of. At any rate,
she got acquainted out there with a strolling Italian vagabond, a drum-
major in one of the regiments, named Langhetti, and this villain gained
her affections by his hellish arts. He knew that I was rich, and, like
an unprincipled adventurer, tried to get her, hoping to get a fortune. I
did not know any thing about this till after her arrival home. I sent
for her some time ago and she came. From the first she was very sulky.
She did not treat me like a daughter at all. On one occasion she
actually abused me and called me names to my face. She called me a Thug!
What do you think of that, Mr. Smithers?"

The other said nothing, but there was in his face a horror which Potts
considered as directed toward his unnatural offspring.

"She was discontented here, though I let her have every thing. I found
out in the end all about it. At last she actually ran away. She joined
this infamous Langhetti, whom she had discovered in some way or other.
They lived together for some time, and then went to London, where she
got a situation as an actress. You can imagine by that," said Potts,
with sanctimonious horror, "how low she had fallen.

"Well, I didn't know what to do. I was afraid to make a public demand
for her through the law, for then it would all get into the papers; it
would be an awful disgrace, and the whole county would know it. So I
waited, and a few weeks ago I went to London. A chance occurred at last
which threw her in my way. I pointed out to her the awful nature of the
life she was leading, and offered to forgive her all if she would only
come back. The poor girl consented, and here she is. But I'm very much
afraid," said Potts in conclusion, with a deep sigh, "that her
constitution is broken up. She's very feeble."

Brandon said nothing.

"Excuse me for troubling you with my domestic affairs; but I thought I
ought to explain, for you have had such trouble with her yourself."

"Oh, don't mention it. I quite pitied the poor child, I assure you; and
I sincerely hope that the seclusion of this place, combined with the
pure sea-air, may restore her spirits and invigorate her in mind as well
as in body. And now, Mr. Potts, I will mention the little matter that
brought me here. I have had business in Cornwall, and was on my way home
when I received a letter summoning me to America. I may have to go to
California. I have a very honest servant, whom I have quite a strong
regard for, and I am anxious to put him in some good country house till
I get back. I'm afraid to trust him in London, and I can't take him with
me. He is a Hindu, but speaks English and can do almost any thing. I at
once remembered you, especially as you were close by me, and thought
that In your large establishment you might find a place for him. How is
it?"

"My dear Sir, I shall be proud and happy. I should like, above all
things, to have a man here who is recommended by one like you. The fact
is, my servants are all miserable, and a good one can not often be had.
I shall consider it a favor if I can get him."

"Well, that is all arranged--I have a regard for him, as I said before,
and want to have him in a pleasant situation. His name is Asgeelo, but
we are in the habit of calling him Cato--"

"Cato! a very good name. Where is he now?"

"At the hotel. I will send him to you at once," said Brandon, rising.

"The sooner the better," returned Potts.

"By-the-way, my junior speaks very encouragingly about the prospects of
the Brandon Bank--"

"Does he?" cried Potts, gleefully. "Well, I do believe we're going ahead
of every thing."

"That's right. Boldness is the true way to success."

"Oh, never fear. We are bold enough."

"Good. But I am hurried, and I must go. I will send Asgeelo up, and give
him a letter."

With these words Brandon bowed an adieu and departed. Before evening
Asgeelo was installed as one of the servants.

CHAPTER XLII

LANGHETTI'S ATTEMPT.

Two days after Brandon's visit to Potts, Langhetti reached the village.

A searching examination in London had led him to believe that Beatrice
might now be sought for at Brandon Hall. The police could do nothing for
him. He had no right to her. If she was of age, she was her own
mistress, and must make application herself for her safety and
deliverance; if she was under age, then she must show that she was
treated with cruelty. None of these things could be done, and Langhetti
despaired of accomplishing any thing.

The idea of her being once more in the power of a man like Potts was
frightful to him. This idea filled his mind continually, to the
exclusion of all other thoughts. His opera was forgotten. One great
horror stood before him, and all else became of no account. The only
thing for him to do was to try to save her. He could find no way, and
therefore determined to go and see Potts himself.

It was a desperate undertaking. From Beatrice's descriptions he had an
idea of the life from which she had fled, and other things had given him
a true idea of the character of Potts. He knew that there was scarcely
any hope before him. Yet he went, to satisfy himself by making a last
effort.

He was hardly the man to deal with one like Potts. Sensitive, high-
toned, passionate, impetuous in his feelings, he could not command that
calmness which was the first essential in such an interview. Besides, he
was broken down by anxiety and want of sleep. His sorrow for Beatrice
had disturbed all his thoughts. Food and sleep were alike abominable to
him. His fine-strung nerves and delicate organization, in which every
feeling had been rendered more acute by his mode of life, were of that
kind which could feel intensely wherever the affections were concerned.
His material frame was too weak for the presence of such an ardent soul.
Whenever any emotion of unusual power appeared he sank rapidly.

So now, feverish, emaciated, excited to an intense degree, he appeared
in Brandon to confront a cool, unemotional villain, who scarcely ever
lost his presence of mind. Such a contest could scarcely be an equal
one. What could he bring forward which could in any way affect such a
man? He had some ideas in his own mind which he imagined might be of
service, and trusted more to impulse than any thing else. He went up
early in the morning to Brandon Hall.

Potts was at home, and did not keep Langhetti long waiting. There was a
vast contrast between these two men--the one coarse, fat, vulgar, and
strong; the other refined, slender, spiritual, and delicate, with his
large eyes burning in their deep sockets, and a strange mystery in his
face.

"I am Paolo Langhetti," said he, abruptly--"the manager of the Covent
Garden Theatre."

"You are, are you?" answered Potts, rudely; "then the sooner you get out
of this the better. The devil himself couldn't be more impudent. I have
just saved my daughter from your clutches, and I'm going to pay you off,
too, my fine fellow, before long."

"Your daughter!" said Langhetti. "What she is, and who she is, you very
well know. If the dead could speak they would tell a different story."

"What the devil do you mean," cried Potts, "by the dead? At any rate
you are a fool; for very naturally the dead can't speak; but what
concern that has with my daughter I don't know. Mind, you are playing a
dangerous game in trying to bully me."

Potts spoke fiercely and menacingly. Langhetti's impetuous goal kindled
to a new fervor at this insulting language. He stretched out his long,
thin hand toward Potts, and said:

"I hold your life and fortune in my hand. Give up that girl whom you
call your daughter."

Potts stood for a moment staring.

"The devil you do!" he cried, at last. "Come, I call that good, rich,
racy! Will your sublime Excellency have the kindness to explain
yourself? If my life is in your hand it's in a devilish lean and weak
one. It strikes me you've got some kink in your brain--some notion or
other. Out with it, and let us see what you're driving at!"

"Do you know a man named Cigole?" said Langhetti.

"Cigole!" replied Potts, after a pause, in which he had stared hard at
Langhetti; "well, what if I do? Perhaps I do, and perhaps I don't."

"He is in my power," said Langhetti, vehemently.

"Much good may he do you then, for I'm sure when he was in my power he
never did any good to me."

"He will do good in this case, at any rate," said Langhetti, with an
effort at calmness. "He was connected with you in a deed which you must
remember, and can tell to the world what he knows."

"Well, what if he does?" said Potts.

"He will tell," cried Langhetti, excitedly, "the true story of the
Despard murder."

"Ah!" said Potts, "now the murder's out. That's what I thought. Don't
you suppose I saw through you when you first began to speak so
mysteriously? I knew that you had learned some wonderful story, and that
you were going to trot it out at the right time. But if you think you're
going to bully me you'll find it hard work.

"Cigole is in my power," said Langhetti, fiercely.

"And so you think I am, too?" sneered Potts.

"Partly so."

"Why?"

"Because he was an accomplice of yours in the Despard murder."

"So he says, no doubt; but who'll believe him?"

"He is going to turn Queen's evidence!" said Langhetti, solemnly.

"Queen's evidence!" returned Potts, contemptuously, "and what's his
evidence worth--the evidence of a man like that against a gentleman of
unblemished character?"

"He will be able to show what the character of that gentleman is,"
rejoined Langhetti.

"Who will believe him?"

"No one can help it."

"You believe him, no doubt. You and he are both Italians--both dear
friends--and both enemies of mine; but suppose I prove to the world
conclusively that Cigole is such a scoundrel that his testimony is
worthless?"

"You can't," cried Langhetti, furiously.

Potts cast a look of contempt at him--

"Can't I!" He resumed: "How very simple, how confiding you must be, my
dear Langhetti! Let me explain my meaning. You got up a wild charge
against a gentleman of character and position about a murder. In the
first place, you seem to forget that the real murderer has long since
been punished. That miserable devil of a Malay was very properly
convicted at Manilla, and hanged there. It was twenty years ago. What
English court would consider the case again after a calm and impartial
Spanish court has settled it finally, and punished the criminal? They
did so at the time when the case was fresh, and I came forth honored and
triumphant. You now bring forward a man who, you hint, will make
statements against me. Suppose he does? What then? Why, I will show what
this man is. And you, my dear Langhetti, will be the first one whom I
will bring up against him. I will bring you up under oath, and make you
tell how this Cigole--this man who testifies against me--once made a
certain testimony in Sicily against a certain Langhetti senior, by which
that certain Langhetti senior was betrayed to the Government, and was
saved only by the folly of two Englishmen, one of whom was this same
Despard. I will show that this Langhetti senior was your father, and
that the son, instead of avenging, or at any rate resenting, his
father's wrong, is now a bosom friend of his father's intended murderer
--that he has urged him on against me. I will show, my dear Langhetti,
how you have led a roving life, and, when a drum-major at Hong Kong, won
the affections of my daughter; how you followed her here, and seduced
her away from a kind father; how at infinite risk I regained her; how
you came to me with audacious threats; and how only the dread of further
scandal, and my own anxious love for my daughter, prevented me from
handing you over to the authorities. I will prove you to be a scoundrel
of the vilest description, and, after such proof as this, what do you
think would be the verdict of an English jury, or of any judge in any
land; and what do you think would be your own fate? Answer me that."

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