Cord and Creese

J >> James de Mille >> Cord and Creese

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Finally, this Beatrice was Beatrice Despard, the daughter of Colonel
Despard and the sister of the clergyman then present. She herself,
instead of being the daughter of Potts, had been one of his victims, and
had suffered not the least at his hands.

This astounding revelation was checked by frequent interruptions. The
actual story of her true parentage overwhelmed Beatrice. This was the
awful thought which had occurred to herself frequently before. This was
what had moved her so deeply in reading the manuscript of her father on
that African Isle. This also was the thing which had always made her
hate with such intensity the miscreant who pretended to be her father.

Now she was overwhelmed. She threw herself into the arms of her brother
and wept upon his breast. Courtenay Despard for a moment rose above the
gloom that oppressed him, and pressed to his heart this sister so
strangely discovered. Brandon stood apart, looking on, shaken to the
soul and unnerved by the deep joy of that unparalleled discovery. Amidst
all the speculations in which he had indulged the very possibility of
this had never suggested itself. He had believed most implicitly all
along that Beatrice was in reality the daughter of his mortal enemy. Now
the discovery of the truth came upon him with overwhelming force.

She raised herself from her brother's embrace, and turned and looked
upon the man whom she adored--the one who, as she said, had over and
over again saved her life; the one whose life she, too, in her turn had
saved, with whom she had passed so many adventurous and momentous days--
days of alternating peace and storm, of varying hope and despair. To him
she owed every thing; to him she owed even the rapture of this moment.

As their eyes met they revealed all their inmost thoughts. There was now
no barrier between them. Vanished was the insuperable obstacle, vanished
the impassable gulf. They stood side by side. The enemy of this man--his
foe, his victim--was also hers. Whatever he might suffer, whatever
anguish might have been on the face of that old man who had looked at
her from the balcony, she had clearly no part nor lot now in that
suffering or that anguish. He was the murderer of her father. She was
not the daughter of this man. She was of no vulgar or sordid race. Her
blood was no longer polluted or accursed. She was of pure and noble
lineage. She was a Despard.

"Beatrice," said Brandon, with a deep, fervid emotion in his voice;
"Beatrice, I am yours, and you are mine. Beatrice, it was a lie that
kept us apart. My life is yours, and yours is mine."

He thought of nothing but her. He spoke with burning impetuosity. His
words sank into her soul. His eyes devoured hers in the passion of their
glance.

"Beatrice--my Beatrice!" he said, "Beatrice Despard--"

He spoke low, bending his head to hers. Her head sank toward his breast.

"Beatrice, do you now reproach me?" he murmured.

She held out her hand, while tears stood in her eyes. Brandon seized it
and covered it with kisses. Despard saw this. In the midst of the
anguish of his face a smile shone forth, like sunshine out of a clouded
sky. He looked at these two for a moment.

Langhetti's eyes were closed. Mrs. Compton and her son were talking
apart. Despard looked upon the lovers.

"Let them love," he murmured to himself; "let them love and be happy.
Heaven has its favorites. I do not envy them; I bless them, though I
love without hope. Heaven has its favorites, but I am an outcast from
that favor."

A shudder passed through him. He drew himself up.

"Since love is denied me," he thought, "I can at least have vengeance."

CHAPTER LVIII.

THE MALAY'S VENGEANCE.

Some hours afterward Despard called Brandon outside the cottage, and
walked along the bank which overhung the beach. Arriving at a point
several hundred yards distant from the cottage he stopped. Brandon
noticed a deeper gloom upon his face and a sterner purpose on his
resolute mouth.

"I have called you aside," said Despard, "to say that I am going on a
journey. I may be back immediately. If I do not return, will you say to
any one who may ask"--and here he paused for a moment--"say to any one
who may ask, that I have gone away on important business, and that the
time of my coming is uncertain."

"I suppose you can be heard of at Holby, in case of need."

"I am never going back again to Holby."

Brandon looked surprised.

"To one like you," said Despard, "I do not object to tell my purpose.
You know what it is to seek for vengeance. The only feeling that I have
is that. Love, tenderness, affection, all are idle words with me.

"There are three who pre-eminently were concerned in my father's death,"
continued Despard. "One was Cigole. The Carbonari have him. Langhetti
tells me that he must die, unless he himself interposes to save him. And
I think Langhetti will never so interpose. Langhetti is dying--another
stimulus to vengeance.

"The one who has been the cause of this is Clark, another one of my
father's murderers. He is in the hands of the law. His punishment is
certain.

"There yet remains the third, and the worst. Your vengeance is satisfied
on him. Mine is not. Not even the sight of that miscreant in the
attitude of a bereaved father could for one moment move me to pity. I
took note of the agony of his face. I watched his grief with joy. I am
going to complete that joy. He must die, and no mortal can save him from
my hands."

The deep, stern tones of Despard were like the knell of doom, and there
was in them such determinate vindictiveness that Brandon saw all
remonstrance to be useless.

He marked the pale sad face of this man. He saw in it the traces of
sorrow of longer standing than any which he might have felt about the
manuscript that he had read. It was the face of a man who had suffered
so much that life had become a burden.

"You are a clergyman," said Brandon at length, with a faint hope that an
appeal to his profession might have some effect.

Despard smiled cynically.

"I am a man," said he.

"Can not the discovery of a sister," asked Brandon, "atone in some
degree for your grief about your father?"

Despard shook his head wearily.

"No," said he, "I must do something, and only one purpose is before me
now. I see your motive. You wish to stop short of taking that devil's
life. It is useless to remonstrate. My mind is made up. Perhaps I may
come back unsuccessful. If so--I must be resigned, I suppose. At any
rate you know my purpose, and can let those who ask after me know, in a
general way, what I have said."

With a slight bow Despard walked away, leaving Brandon standing there
filled with thoughts which were half mournful, half remorseful.

On leaving Brandon Despard went at once to the inn. The crowd without
had dwindled away to half a dozen people, who were still talking about
the one event of the day. Making his way through these he entered the
inn.

The landlord stood there with a puzzled face, discussing with several
friends the case of the day. More particularly he was troubled by the
sudden departure of the old man, who about an hour previously had
started off in a great hurry, leaving no directions whatever as to what
was to be done with the body up stairs. It was this which now perplexed
the landlord.

Despard listened attentively to the conversation. The landlord mentioned
that Potts had taken the road to Brandon. The servant who had been with
the young man had not been seen. If the old man should not return what
was to be done?

This was enough for Despard, who had his horse saddled without delay and
started also on the Brandon road. He rode on swiftly for some time,
hoping to overtake the man whom he pursued. He rode, however, several
miles without coming in sight of him or of any one like him. At last he
reached that hollow which had been the scene of his encounter with
Clark. As he descended into it he saw a group of men by the road-side
surrounding some object. In the middle of the road was a farmer's wagon,
and a horse was standing in the distance.

[Illustration: "IT WAS POTTS."]

Despard rode up and saw the prostrate figure of a man. He dismounted.
The farmers stood aside and disclosed the face.

It was Potts.

Despard stooped down. It was already dusk but even in that dim light he
saw the coils of a thin cord wound tightly about the neck of this
victim, from one end of which a leaden bullet hung down.

By that light also he saw the hilt of a weapon which had been plunged
into his heart, from which the blood had flowed in torrents.

It was a Malay creese. Upon the handle was carven a name:

JOHN POTTS.

CHAPTER LIX.

[Greek: Deute teleutaion aspasmon domen.]

The excitement which had prevailed through the village of Denton was
intensified by the arrival there of the body of the old man. For his
mysterious death no one could account except one person.

That one was Brandon, whom Despard surprised by his speedy return, and
to whom he narrated the circumstances of the discovery. Brandon knew who
it was that could wield that cord, what arm it was that had held that
weapon, and what heart it was that was animated by sufficient vengeance
to strike these blows.

Despard, finding his purpose thus unexpectedly taken away, remained in
the village and waited. There was one whom he wished to see again. On
the following day Frank Brandon arrived from London. He met Langhetti
with deep emotion, and learned from his brother the astonishing story of
Edith.

On the following day that long-lost sister herself appeared in company
with Mrs. Thornton. Her form, always fragile, now appeared frailer than
ever, her face had a deeper pallor, her eyes an intenser lustre, her
expression was more unearthly. The joy which the brothers felt at
finding their sister was subdued by an involuntary awe which was
inspired by her presence. She seemed to them as she had seemed to others
like one who had arisen from the dead.

At the sight of her Langhetti's face grew radiant--all pain seemed to
leave him. She bent over him, and their wan lips met in the only kiss
which they had ever exchanged, with all that deep love which they had
felt for one another. She sat by his bedside. She seemed to appropriate
him to herself. The others acknowledged this quiet claim and gave way to
it.

As she kissed Langhetti's lips he murmured faintly:

"I knew you would come."

"Yes," said Edith. "We will go together.

"Yes, sweetest and dearest," said Langhetti. "And therefore we meet now
never to part again."

She looked at him fondly.

"The time of our deliverance is near, oh my friend."

"Near," repeated Langhetti, with a smile of ecstasy--"near. Yes, you
have already by your presence brought me nearer to my immortality."

Mrs. Thornton was pale and wan; and the shock which she felt at the
sight of her brother at first overcame her.

Despard said nothing to her through the day, but as evening came on he
went up to her and in a low voice said, "Let us take a walk."

Mrs. Thornton looked at him earnestly, and then put on her bonnet. It
was quite dark as they left the house. They walked along the road. The
sea was on their left.

"This is the last that we shall see of one another, Little Playmate,"
said Despard, after a long silence. "I have left Holby forever."

"Left Holby! Where are you going?" asked Mrs. Thornton, anxiously.

"To join the army."

"The army!"

"Little Playmate," said Despard, "even my discovery of my father's death
has not changed me. Even my thirst for vengeance could not take the
place of my love. Listen--I flung myself with all the ardor that I could
command into the pursuit of my father's murderers. I forced myself to an
unnatural pitch of pitilessness and vindictiveness. I set out to pursue
one of the worst of these men with the full determination to kill him.
God saved me from blood-guiltiness. I found the man dead in the road.
After this all my passion for vengeance died out, and I was brought face
to face with the old love and the old despair. But each of us would die
rather than do wrong, or go on in a wrong course. The only thing left
for us is to separate forever."

"Yes, forever," murmured Mrs. Thornton.

"Ah, Little Playmate," he continued, taking her hand, "you are the one
who was not only my sweet companion but the bright ideal of my youth.
You always stood transfigured in my eyes. You, Teresa, were in my mind
something perfect--a bright, brilliant being unlike any other. Whether
you were really what I believed you mattered not so far as the effect
upon me was concerned. You were at once a real and an ideal being. I
believed in you, and believe in you yet.

"I was not a lover; I was a devotee. My feelings toward you are such as
Dante describes his feelings toward his Beatrice. My love is tender and
reverential. I exalt you to a plane above my own. What I say may sound
extravagant to you, but it is actual fact with me. Why it should be so I
can not tell. I can only say--I am so made.

"We part, and I leave you; but I shall be like Dante, I suppose, and as
the years pass, instead of weakening my love they will only refine it
and purify it. You will be to me a guardian angel, a patron saint--your
name shall always mingle with my prayers. Is it impious to name your
name in prayer? I turn away from you because I would rather suffer than
do wrong. May I not pray for my darling?"

"I don't know what to do," said Mrs. Thornton, wearily. "Your power over
me is fearful. Lama, I would do any thing for your sake. You talk about
your memories; it is not for me to speak about mine. Whether you
idealize me or not, after all, you must know what I really am."

[Illustration: "SHE WAS WEEPING. DESPARD FOLDED HER IN HIS ARMS."]

"Would you be glad never to see me again?"

The hand which Despard held trembled.

"If you would be happier," said she.

"Would you be glad if I could conquer this love of mine, and meet you
again as coolly as a common friend?"

"I want you to be happy, Lama," she replied. "I would suffer myself to
make you happy."

She was weeping. Despard folded her in his arms.

"This once," said he, "the only time, Little Playmate, in this life."

She wept upon his breast.

"[Greek: Teleutaion aspasmon domen]" said Despard, murmuring in a low
voice the opening of the song of the dead, so well known, so often song,
so fondly remembered--the song which bids fare-well to the dead when the
friends bestow the "last kiss."

He bent down his head. Her head fell. His lips touched her forehead.

She felt the beating of his heart; she felt his frame tremble from head
to foot; she heard his deep-drawn breathing, every breath a sigh.

"It is our last farewell," said he, in a voice of agony.

Then he tore himself away, and, a few minutes later, was riding from the
village.

CHAPTER LX.

CONCLUSION.

A month passed. Despard gave no sign. A short note which he wrote to
Brandon announced his arrival at London, and informed him that important
affairs required his departure abroad.

The cottage was but a small place, and Brandon determined to have
Langhetti conveyed to the Hall. An ambulance was obtained from Exeter,
and on this Langhetti and Edith were taken away.

On arriving at Brandon Hall Beatrice found her diary in its place of
concealment, the memory of old sorrows which could never be forgotten.
But those old sorrows were passing away now, in the presence of her new
joy.

And yet that joy was darkened by the cloud of a new sorrow. Langhetti
was dying. His frail form became more and more attenuated every day, his
eyes more lustrous, his face more spiritual. Down every step of that way
which led to the grave Edith went with him, seeming in her own face and
form to promise a speedier advent in that spirit-world where she longed
to arrive. Beside these Beatrice watched, and Mrs. Thornton added her
tender care.

Day by day Langhetti grew worse. At last one day he called for his
violin. He had caused it to be sent for on a previous occasion, but had
never used it. His love for music was satisfied by the songs of
Beatrice. Now he wished to exert his own skill with the last remnants of
his strength.

Langhetti was propped up by pillows, so that he might hold the
instrument. Near him Edith reclined on a sofa. Her large, lustrous eyes
were fixed on him. Her breathing, which came and went rapidly, showed
her utter weakness and prostration.

Langhetti drew his bow across the strings.

It was a strange, sweet sound, weak, but sweet beyond all words--a long,
faint, lingering tone, which rose and died and rose again, bearing away
the souls of those who heard it into a realm of enchantment and delight.

That tone gave strength to Langhetti. It was as though some unseen power
had been invoked and had come to his aid. The tones came forth more
strongly, on firmer pinions, flying from the strings and towering
through the air.

The strength of these tones seemed to emanate from some unseen power; so
also did their meaning. It was a meaning beyond what might be
intelligible to those who listened--a meaning beyond mortal thought.

Yet Langhetti understood it, and so did Edith. Her eyes grew brighter, a
flush started to her wan cheeks, her breathing grew more rapid.

The music went on. More subtle, more penetrating, more thrilling in its
mysterious meaning, it rose and swelled through the air, like the song
of some unseen ones, who were waiting for newcomers to the Invisible
land.

Suddenly Beatrice gave a piercing cry. She rushed to Edith's sofa. Edith
lay back, her marble face motionless, her white lips apart, her eyes
looking upward. But the lips breathed no more, and in the eyes there no
longer beamed the light of life.

At the cry of Beatrice the violin fell from Langhetti's hand, and he
sank back. His face was turned toward Edith. He saw her and knew it all.

[Illustration: LANGHETTI DREW HIS BOW ACROSS THE STRINGS.]

He said not a word, but lay with his face turned toward her. They wished
to carry her away, but he gently reproved them.

"Wait!" he murmured. "In a short time you will carry away another also.
Wait."

They waited.

An hour before midnight all was over. They had passed--those pure
spirits, from a world which was uncongenial to a fairer world and a
purer clime.

They were buried side by side in the Brandon vaults. Frank then returned
to London. Mrs. Thornton went back to Holby. The new rector was
surprised at the request of the lady of Thornton Grange to be allowed to
become organist in Trinity Church. She offered to pension off the old
man who now presided there. Her request was gladly acceded to. Her zeal
was remarkable. Every day she visited the church to practice at the
organ. This became the purpose of her life. Yet of all the pieces two
were performed most frequently in her daily practice, the one being the
Agnus Dei; the other, the [Greek: teleutaion aspasmon] of St. John
Damascene. Peace! Peace! Peace!

Was that cry of hers unavailing? Of Despard nothing was known for some
time. Mr. Thornton once mentioned to his wife that the Rev. Courtenay
Despard had joined the Eleventh Regiment, and had gone to South Africa.
He mentioned this because he had seen a paragraph stating that a Captain
Despard had been killed in the Kaffir war, and wondered whether it could
by any possibility be their old friend or not.

At Brandon Hall, the one who had been so long a prisoner and a slave
soon became mistress.

The gloom which had rested over the house was dispelled, and Brandon and
his wife were soon able to look back, even to the darkest period of
their lives, without fear of marring their perfect happiness.

THE END.

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