Cord and Creese

J >> James de Mille >> Cord and Creese

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Brandon had been taken unawares, and the Malay was in the water before
he could think. But he drew his revolver, in which there yet remained
two shots, and, stepping to the taffrail, watched for Zangorri to
reappear.

During the fight a change had come over the scene. The fog had begun to
be dissipated and a wider horizon appeared. As Brandon looked he saw two
vessels upon the smooth surface of the sea. One was the _Falcon_.
The other was a large Malay proa. On the decks of this last was a crowd
of men, perhaps about fifty in number, who stood looking toward the ship
where the fight had been. The sweeps were out, and they were preparing
to move away. But the escape of Zangorri had aroused them, and they were
evidently waiting to see the result. That result lay altogether at the
disposal of the man with the revolver, who stood at the stern from which
Zangorri had leaped.

And now Zangorri's head appeared above the waves, while he took a long
breath ere he plunged again. The revolver covered him. In a moment a
bullet could have plunged into his brain.

But Brandon did not fire. He could not. It was too cold-blooded. True,
Zangorri was stained with countless crimes; but all his crimes at that
moment were forgotten: he did not appear as Zangorri the merciless
pirate, but simply as a wounded wretch, trying to escape from death.
That death Brandon could not deal him.

The sailors were still intent upon the Captain, whose state was
critical, and Brandon alone watched the Malay. Soon he saw those on
board the proa send down a boat and row quickly toward him. They reached
him, dragged him on board, and then rowed back.

Brandon turned away. As yet no one had been in the cabin. He hurried
thither to see if perchance any one was there who might be saved.

He entered the cabin. The first look which he gave disclosed a sight
which was enough to chill the blood of the stoutest heart that ever
beat.

All around the cabin lay human bodies distorted by the agonies of death,
twisted and twined in different attitudes, and still lying in the
position in which death had found them.

One, whose appearance showed him to be the captain, lay grasping the
hair of a Malay, with his sword through his enemy's heart, while a knife
still remained buried in his own. Another lay with his head cut open;
another with his face torn by the explosion of a gun. There were four
whites here and about ten Malays, all dead. But the fourth white was a
woman, who lay dead in front of a door that led to an inner cabin, and
which was now closed. The woman appeared to be about fifty years of age,
her venerable gray hair was stained with blood, and her hand clutched
the arm of a Malay who lay dead by her side.

While Brandon stood looking at this sight he became aware of a movement
in a corner of the cabin where there were five or six bodies heaped
together. He hurried over to the place, and, pulling away the bodies of
several Malays, found at length a Hindu of large stature, in whom life
was by no means extinct, for he was pushing with hands and feet and
making faint efforts to rise. He had been wounded in many places, and
was now quite unconscious.

Brandon dragged away all the bodies, laid him in as easy a posture as
possible, and then rushed up to the deck for some water. Returning he
dashed it over the Hindu, and bound up one or two wounds which seemed
most dangerous.

His care soon brought the Hindu to consciousness.

The man opened his eyes, looked upon Brandon first with astonishment,
then with speechless gratitude, and clasping his hand moaned faintly, in
broken English.

"Bless de Lor! Sahib!"

Brandon hurried up on deck and calling some of the sailors had the Hindu
conveyed there. All crowded around him to ask him questions, and
gradually found out about the attack of the pirates. The ship had been
becalmed the day before, and the Malay proa was in sight, evidently with
evil intentions. They had kept a good watch, and when the fog came had
some hope of escape. But the Malay boats had sought them through the
fog, and had found them. They had resisted well, but were overpowered by
numbers. The Hindu had been cook of the ship, and had fought till the
last by the side of his captain.

Without waiting to hear the Hindu's story Brandon went back to the
cabin. The door that opened into the inner cabin was shut. He tried it.
It was locked. He looked into the keyhole. It was locked from the
inside.

[Illustration: "SHE FLUNG HERSELF ON HER KNEES IN A TRANSPORT OF
GRATITUDE."] "Is any one there?" he asked.

A cry of surprise was the sole answer.

"You are safe. We are friends. Open!" cried Brandon.

Then came the sound of light footsteps, the key was turned, the door
slided back, and there appeared before the astonished eyes of Brandon a
young girl, who, the moment that she saw him, flung herself on her knees
in a transport of gratitude and raised her face to Heaven, while her
lips uttered inaudible words of thanksgiving.

She was quite a young girl, with a delicate, slender frame, and features
of extreme loveliness. Her complexion was singularly colorless. Her eyes
were large, dark, and luminous. Her hair fell in rich masses over her
shoulders. In one hand she held a knife, to which she clung with a
death-like tenacity.

"Poor child!" murmured Brandon, in accents of tenderest commiseration.
"It is but little that you could do with that knife."

She looked up at him as she knelt, then looked at the keen glittering
steel, and, with a solemnity of accent which showed how deeply she was
in earnest, murmured, half to herself,

"It could at least have saved me!"

Brandon smiled upon her with such a smile as a father might give at
seeing the spirit or prowess of some idolized son.

"There is no need," he said, with a voice of deep feeling, "there is no
need of that now. You are saved. You are avenged. Come with me." The
girl rose. "But wait," said Brandon, and he looked at her earnestly and
most pityingly. "There are things here which you should not see. Will
you shut your eyes and let me lead you?"

"I can bear it," said the girl. "I will not shut my eyes."

"You must," said Brandon, firmly, but still pityingly, for he thought of
that venerable woman who lay in blood outside the door. The girl looked
at him and seemed at first as though about to refuse. There was
something in his face so full of compassion, and entreaty, and calm
control, that she consented. She closed her eyes and held out her hand.
Brandon took it and led her through the place of horror and up to the
deck.

Her appearance was greeted with a cry of joy from all the sailors. The
girl looked around. She saw the Malays lying dead upon the deck. She saw
the ship that had rescued, and the proa that had terrified her. But she
saw no familiar face.

She turned to Brandon with a face of horror, and with white lips asked:

"Where are they all?"

"Gone," said Brandon.

"What! All?" gasped the girl.

"All--except yourself and the cook."

She shuddered from head to foot; at last, coming closer to Brandon, she
whispered: "And my nurse--?"

Brandon said nothing, but, with a face full of meaning, pointed upward.
The girl understood him. She reeled, and would have fallen had not
Brandon supported her. Then she covered her face with her hands, and,
staggering away to a seat, sank down and wept bitterly.

All were silent. Even the rough sailors respected that grief. Rough! Who
does not know that sailors are often the most tender-hearted of men, and
always the most impulsive, and most quick to sympathy?

So now they said nothing, but stood in groups sorrowing in her sorrow.
The Captain, meanwhile, had revived, and was already on his feet looking
around upon the scene. The Hindu also had gained strength with every
throb of his heart and every breath of the air.

But suddenly a cry arose from one of the men who stood nearest the
hatchway.

"The ship is sinking!"

Every one started. Yes, the ship was sinking. No one had noticed it; but
the water was already within a few feet of the top. No doubt Zangorri
had been scuttling her when he rushed out of the hold at the noise of
the attack.

There was nothing left but to hasten away. There was time to save
nothing. The bodies of the dead had to be left with the ship for their
tomb. In a short time they had all hurried into the boat and were
pulling away. But not too soon. For scarcely had they pulled away half a
dozen boat-lengths from the ship than the water, which had been rising
higher and higher, more rapidly every moment, rushed madly with a final
onset to secure its prey; and with a groan like that of some living
thing the ship went down.

A yell came from over the water. It rose from the Malay proa, which was
moving away as fast as the long sweeps could carry her. But the dead
were not revenged only. They were remembered. Not long after reaching
the _Falcon_ the sailors were summoned to the side which looked
toward the spot where the ship had sunk, and the solemn voice of Brandon
read the burial-service of the Church.

And as he read that service he understood the fate which he had escaped
when the ship passed Coffin Island without noticing his signal.

CHAPTER X.

BEATRICE.

It was natural that a young girl who had gone through so fearful an
ordeal should for some time feel its effects. Her situation excited the
warmest sympathy of all on board the ship; and her appearance was such
as might inspire a chivalrous respect in the hearts of those rough but
kindly and sensitive sailors who had taken part in her rescue.

Her whole appearance marked her as one of no common order. There was
about her an air of aristocratic grace which inspired involuntary
respect; an elegance of manner and complete self-possession which marked
perfect breeding. Added to this, her face had something which is greater
even than beauty--or at least something without which beauty itself is
feeble--namely, character and expression. Her soul spoke out in every
lineament of her noble features, and threw around her the charm of
spiritual exaltation.

To such a charm as this Brandon did not seem indifferent. His usual
self-abstraction seemed to desert him for a time. The part that he had
taken in her rescue of itself formed a tie between them; but there was
another bond in the fact that he alone of all on board could associate
with her on equal terms, as a high-bred gentleman with a high-bred lady.

The Hindu had at once found occupation, for Brandon, who had seen the
stuff that was in him, offered to take him for his servant. He said that
his name was Asgeelo, but he was commonly called Cato, and preferred
that name to any other. He regarded Brandon as his saviour, with all the
superstition which Hindus can feel, and looked up to this saviour as a
superior being. The offer of employment was eagerly accepted, and Cato
at once entered upon the few duties which his situation could require on
ship-board.

Meanwhile the young lady remained unknown. At first she spent the
greater part of her time in her room, and only came out at meal-times,
when the sadness of her face prevented any thing except the most distant
and respectful courtesy. No one knew her name, and no one asked it. Cato
was ignorant of it. She and the old nurse had only been known to him as
the young missis and the old missis.

Brandon, roused from his indifference, did all in his power to mitigate
the gloom of this fair young creature, whom fate had thrown in his way.
He found that his attentions were not unacceptable. At length she came
out more frequently, and they became companions on the quarter-deck.

Brandon was touched by the exhibition which she had made of her
gratitude to himself. She persisted in regarding him alone as the one to
whom she owed her life, and apologized to him for her selfishness in
giving way so greatly to her grief. After a time she ventured to tell
him the story of the voyage which she had been making. She was on her
way from China to England. Her father lived in England, but she had
passed her life in Hong-Kong, having been brought up there by the old
nurse, who had accompanied her on her voyage until that fearful
calamity.

She told him at different times that her father was a merchant who had
business all over the world, and that he had of late taken up his
station in his own home and sent for her.

Of her father she did not say much, and did not seem to know much. She
had never seen him. She had been in Hong-Kong ever since she could
remember. She believed, however, that she was born in England, but did
not know for certain. Her nurse had not known her till she had gone to
China.

It was certainly a curious life, but quite natural, when a busy merchant
devotes all his thoughts to business, and but little attention to his
family. She had no mother, but thought she must have died in India. Yet
she was not sure. Of all this, however, she expected to hear when she
reached home and met her father.

By the time that she had been a month on board Brandon knew much of the
events of her simple life. He saw the strange mixture of fear and
longing with which she looked forward to a meeting with her father. He
learned that she had a brother, also, whom she had never seen, for her
father kept his son with himself. He could not help looking with
inexpressible pity on one so lovely, yet so neglected.

Otherwise, as far as mere money was concerned, she had never suffered.
Her accomplishments were numerous. She was passionately fond of music,
and was familiar with all the classic compositions. Her voice was finely
trained, for she had enjoyed the advantage of the instructions of an
Italian maestro, who had been banished, and had gone out to Hong-Kong as
band-master in the Twentieth Regiment. She could speak French fluently,
and had read almost every thing.

Now after finding out all this Brandon had not found out her name.
Embarrassments arose sometimes, which she could not help noticing, from
this very cause, and yet she said nothing about it. Brandon did not like
to ask her abruptly, since he saw that she did not respond to his hints.
So he conjectured and wondered. He thought that her name must be of the
lordliest kind, and that she for some reason wished to keep it a secret:
perhaps she was noble, and did not like to tell that name which had been
stained by the occupations of trade. All this Brandon thought.

Yet as he thought this, he was not insensible to the music of her soft,
low voice, the liquid tenderness of her eye, and the charm of her
manner. She seemed at once to confide herself to him--to own the
superiority of his nature and seek shelter in it. Circumstances threw
them exclusively into one another's way, and they found each other so
congenial that they took advantage of circumstances to the utmost.

There were others as well as Brandon who found it awkward not to have
any name by which to address her, and chief of these was the good
Captain. After calling her Ma'am and Miss indifferently for about a
month he at last determined to ask her directly; so, one day at the
dinner-table, he said:

"I most humbly beg your pardon, ma'am; but I do not know your name, and
have never had a chance to find it out. If it's no offense, perhaps you
would be so good as to tell it?"

The young lady thus addressed flushed crimson, then looked at Brandon,
who was gazing fixedly on his plate, and with visible embarrassment
said, very softly, "Beatrice."

"B. A. Treachy," said the Captain. "Ah! I hope, Miss Treachy, you will
pardon me; but I really found it so everlasting confusing."

A faint smile crossed the lips of Brandon. But Beatrice did not smile.
She looked a little frightened, and then said:

"Oh, that is only my Christian name!"

"Christian name!" said the Captain. "How can that be a Christian name?"

"My surname is--" She hesitated, and then, with an effort, pronounced
the word "Potts."

"'Potts!'" said the Captain, quickly, and with evident surprise. "Oh--
well, I hope you will excuse me."

But the face of Beatrice turned to an ashen hue as she marked the effect
which the mention of that name had produced on Brandon. He had been
looking at his plate like one involved in thought. As he heard the name
his head fell forward, and he caught at the table to steady himself. He
then rose abruptly with a cloud upon his brow, his lips firmly pressed
together, and his whole face seemingly transformed, and hurried from the
cabin.

She did not see him again for a week. He pleaded illness, shut himself
in his state-room, and was seen by no one but Cato.

Beatrice could not help associating this change in Brandon with the
knowledge of her name. That name was hateful to herself. A fastidious
taste had prevented her from volunteering to tell it; and as no one
asked her directly it had not been known. And now, since she had told
it, this was the result.

For Brandon's conduct she could imagine only one cause. He had felt
shocked at such a plebeian name.

The fact that she herself hated her name, and saw keenly how
ridiculously it sounded after such a name as Beatrice, only made her
feel the more indignant with Brandon. "His own name," she thought,
bitterly, "is plebeian--not so bad as mine, it is true, yet still it is
plebeian. Why should he feel so shocked at mine?" Of course, she knew
him only as "_Mr. Wheeler_." "Perhaps he has imagined that I had
some grand name, and, learning my true one, has lost his illusion. He
formerly esteemed me. He now despises me."

Beatrice was cut to the heart; but she was too proud to show any feeling
whatever. She frequented the quarter-deck as before; though now she had
no companion except, at turns, the good-natured Captain and the mate.
The longer Brandon avoided her the more indignant she felt. Her outraged
pride made sadness impossible.

Brandon remained in his state-room for about two weeks altogether. When
at length he made his appearance on the quarter-deck he found Beatrice
there, who greeted him with a distant bow.

There was a sadness in his face as he approached and took a seat near
her which at once disarmed her, drove away all indignation, and aroused
pity.

"You have been sick," she said, kindly, and with some emotion.

"Yes," said Brandon, in a low voice, "but now that I am able to go about
again my first act is to apologize to you for my rudeness in quitting
the table so abruptly as to make it seem like a personal insult to you.
Now I hope you will believe me when I say that an insult to you from me
is impossible. Something like a spasm passed over my nervous system, and
I had to hurry to my room."

"I confess," said Beatrice, frankly, "that I thought your sudden
departure had something to do with the conversation about me. I am very
sorry indeed that I did you such a wrong; I might have known you better.
Will you forgive me?"

Brandon smiled, faintly. "You are the one who must forgive."

"But I hate my name so," burst out Beatrice.

Brandon said nothing.

"Don't you? Now confess."

"How can I--" he began.

"You do, you do!" she cried, vehemently; "but I don't care--for I hate
it."

Brandon looked at her with a sad, weary smile, and said nothing. "You
are sick," she said; "I am thoughtless. I see that my name, in some way
or other, recalls painful thoughts. How wretched it is for me to give
pain to others!"

Brandon looked at her appealingly, and said, "You give pain? Believe me!
believe me! there is nothing but happiness where you are."

At this Beatrice looked confused and changed the conversation. There
seemed after this to be a mutual understanding between the two to avoid
the subject of her name, and although it was a constant mortification to
Beatrice, yet she believed that on his part there was no contempt for
the name, but something very different, something associated with better
memories.

They now resumed their old walks and conversations. Every day bound them
more closely to one another, and each took it for granted that the other
would be the constant companion of every hour in the day.

Both had lived unusual lives. Beatrice had much to say about her Hong-
Kong life, the Chinese, the British officers, and the festivities of
garrison life. Brandon had lived for years in Australia, and was
familiar with all the round of events which may be met with in that
country. He had been born in England, and had lived there, as has
already been mentioned, till he was almost a man, so that he had much to
say about that mother-land concerning which Beatrice felt such
curiosity. Thus they settled down again naturally and inevitably into
constant association with each other.

Whatever may have been the thoughts of Brandon during the fortnight of
his seclusion, or whatever may have been the conclusion to which he
came, he carefully refrained from the most remote hint at the home or
the prospects of Beatrice. He found her on the seas, and he was content
to take her as she was. Her name was a common one. She might be
connected with his enemy, or she might not. For his part, he did not
wish to know.

Beatrice also showed equal care in avoiding the subject. The effect
which had been produced by the mention of her name was still remembered,
and, whatever the cause may have been, both this and her own strong
dislike to it prevented her from ever making any allusion either to her
father or to any one of her family. She had no scruples, however, about
talking of her Hong-Kong life, in which one person seemed to have
figured most prominently--a man who had lived there for years, and given
her instruction in music. He was an Italian, of whom she knew nothing
whatever but his name, with the exception of the fact that he had been
unfortunate in Europe, and had come out to Hong-Kong as bandmaster of
the Twentieth Regiment. His name was Paolo Langhetti.

"Do you like music?" asked Brandon, abruptly.

"Above all things." said Beatrice, with an intensity of emphasis which
spoke of deep feeling.

"Do you play?"

"Somewhat."

"Do you sing?"

"A little. I was considered a good singer in Hong-Kong; but that is
nothing. I sang in the Cathedral. Langhetti was kind enough to praise
me; but then he was so fond of me that whatever I did was right."

Brandon was silent for a little while. "Langhetti was fond of you?" he
repeated, interrogatively, and in a voice of singular sweetness.

"Very," returned Beatrice, musingly. "He always called me 'Bice'--
sometimes 'Bicetta,' 'Bicinola,' 'Bicina;' it was his pretty Italian
way. But oh, if you could hear him play! He could make the violin speak
like a human voice. He used to think in music. He seemed to me to be
hardly human sometimes."

"And he loved to hear you sing?" said Brandon, in the same voice.

"He used to praise me," said Beatrice, meekly. "His praise used to
gratify, but it did not deceive me. I am not conceited, Mr. Wheeler."

"Would you sing for me?" asked Brandon, in accents almost of entreaty,
looking at her with an imploring expression.

Beatrice's head fell. "Not now--not yet--not here," she murmured, with a
motion of her hand. "Wait till we pass beyond this ocean. It seems
haunted."

Brandon understood her tone and gesture.

But the weeks passed, and the months, and they went over the seas,
touching at Mauritius, and afterward at Cape Town, till finally they
entered the Atlantic Ocean, and sailed North. During all this time their
association was close and continuous. In her presence Brandon softened;
the sternness of his features relaxed, and the great purpose of his life
grew gradually fainter.

One evening, after they had entered the Atlantic Ocean, they were
standing by the stern of the ship looking at the waters, when Brandon
repeated his request.

"Would you be willing to sing now?" he asked, gently, and in the same
tone of entreaty which he had used before.

Beatrice looked at him for a moment without speaking. Then she raised
her face and looked up at the sky, with a deep abstraction in her eyes,
as though in thought. Her face, usually colorless, now, in the
moonlight, looked like marble; her dark hair hung in peculiar folds over
her brow--an arrangement which was antique in its style, and gave her
the look of a statue of one of the Muses. Her straight, Grecian
features, large eyes, thin lips, and well-rounded chin--all had the same
classic air, and Brandon, as he looked at her, wondered if she knew how
fair she was. She stood for a moment in silence, and then began. It was
a marvelous and a memorable epoch in Brandon's life. The scene around
added its inspiration to the voice of the singer. The ocean spread afar
away before them till the verge of the horizon seemed to blend sea and
sky together. Overhead the dim sky hung, dotted with innumerable stars,
prominent among which, not far above the horizon, gleamed that glorious
constellation, the Southern Cross. Beatrice, who hesitated for a moment
as if to decide upon her song, at last caught her idea from this scene
around her, and began one of the most magnificent of Italian
compositions:

"I cieli immensi narrano
Del grand' Iddio la gloria."

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