CHAPTER XIII. — THE BADINAGE OF OLD FRIENDS.
The town of Holby is on the coast of Pembroke. It has a small harbour, with a light-house, and the town itself contains a few thousand people, most of them belonging to the poorer class. The chief house in the town stands on a rising ground a little outside, looking toward the water. Its size and situation render it the most conspicuous object in the neighborhood.
This house, from its appearance, must have been built more than a century before. It belonged to an old family which had become extinct, and now was occupied by a new owner, who had given it another name. This new owner was William Thornton, Esq., solicitor, who had an office in Holby, and who, though very wealthy, still attended to his business with undiminished application. The house had been originally purchased by the father of the present occupant, Henry Thornton, a well-known lawyer in these parts, who had settled here originally a poor young man, but had finally grown gray and rich in his adopted home. He had bought the place when it was exposed for sale, with the intention of founding a new seat for his own family, and had given it the name of Thornton Grange.
Generations of care and tasteful culture had made Thornton Grange one of the most beautiful places in the county. All around were wide parks dotted with ponds and clumps of trees. An avenue of elms led up to the door. A well-kept lawn was in front, and behind was an extensive grove. Every thing spoke of wealth and elegance.
On an afternoon in February a gentleman in clerical dress walked up the avenue, rang at the door, and entering he gave his name to the servant as the Rev. Courtenay Despard. He was the new Rector of Holby, and had only been there one week.
He entered the drawing-room, sat down upon one of the many lounging chairs with which it was filled, and waited. He did not have to wait long. A rapid step was soon heard descending the stairs, and in a few minutes a lady entered. She came in with a bright smile of welcome on her face, and greeted him with much warmth.
Mrs. Thornton was very striking in her appearance. A clear olive complexion and large, dark hazel eyes marked Southern blood. Her hair was black, wavy, and exceedingly luxuriant. Her mouth was small, her hands and feet delicately shaped, and her figure slender and elegant. Her whole air had that indefinable grace which is the sign of high-breeding; to this there was added exceeding loveliness, with great animation of face and elegance of manner. She was a perfect lady, yet not of the English stamp; for her looks and manner had not that cold and phlegmatic air which England fosters. She looked rather like some Italian beauty—like those which enchant us as they smile from the walls of the picture-galleries of Italy.
“I am so glad you have come!” said she. “It is so stupid here, and I expected you an hour ago.”
“Oh, if I had only known that!” said Despard. “For, do you know, I have been dying of ennui.”
“I hope that I may be the means of dispelling it.”
“As surely so as the sun disperses the clouds.”
“You are never at a loss for a compliment.”
“Never when I am with you.”
These few words were spoken with a smile by each, and a slightly melodramatic gesture, as though each was conscious of a little extravagance.
“You must be glad to get to your old home,” she resumed. “You lived here fifteen, no, sixteen years, you know.”
“Eighteen.”
“So it was. I was sixteen when you left.”
“Never to see you again till I came back,” said Despard, with some mournfulness, looking at the floor.
“And since then all has changed.”
“But I have not,” rejoined Despard, in the same tone.
Mrs. Thornton said nothing for a moment.
“By-the-way, I’ve been reading such a nice book,” she resumed. “It has just come out, and is making a sensation. It would suit you, I know.”
“What is it?”
She rose and lifted a book from the table, which she handed to him. He took it, and read the title out loud.
“Christian’s Cross.”
A strange expression passed over his face. He looked at her, holding the book out at arms’-length with feigned consternation.
“And do you have the heart to recommend this book to me, Mrs. Thornton?”
“Why not?”
“Why, it’s religious. Religious books are my terror. How could I possibly open a book like this?”
She laughed.
“You are mistaken,” she said. “It is an ordinary novel, and for the sake of your peace of mind I assure you that there is not a particle of religion in it. But why should you look with such repugnance upon it? The expression of your face is simply horror.”
“Pietistic books have been the bane of my life. The emotional, the rhapsodical, the meditative style of book, in which one garrulously addresses one’s soul from beginning to end, is simply torture to me. You see religion is a different thing. The rhapsody may do for the Tabernacle people, but thoughtful men and women need something different.”
“I am so delighted to hear such sentiments from a clergyman! They entirely accord with my own. Still I must own that your horror struck me as novel, to say the least of it.”
“Would you like me to try to proselytize you?”
“You may try if you wish. I am open to conviction; but the Church of all the ages, the Apostolic, the Catholic, has a strong hold on me.”
“You need not fear that I will ever try to loosen it. I only wish that I may see your face in Trinity Church every Sunday.”
“That happiness shall be yours,” answered Mrs. Thornton. “As there is no Catholic church here, I will give you the honor of my presence at Trinity.”
“If that is the case it will be a place of worship to me.”
He smiled away the extravagance of this last remark, and she only shook her head.
“That is a compliment, but it is awfully profane.”
“Not profanity; say rather justifiable idolatry.”
“Really, I feel overcome; I do not know what to say. At any rate, I hope you will like the book; I know you will find it pleasant.”
“Any thing that comes from you could not be otherwise,” said Despard. “At the same time it is not my habit to read novels singly.”
“Singly! Why how else can one read them?”
“I always read several at a time.”
Mrs. Thornton laughed at the whimsical idea.
“You see,” said Despard, “one must keep up with the literature of the day. I used to read each book as it came out, but at last found satiety. The best novel palls. For my own comfort I had to invent a new plan to stimulate my interest. I will tell you about it. I take ten at a time, spread them on the table in front of me, and read each chapter in succession.”
“Isn’t that a little confusing?”
“Not at all,” said Despard, gravely. “Practice enables one to keep all distinct.”
“But what is the good of it?”
“This,” replied Despard; “you see in each novel there are certain situations. Perhaps on an average there may be forty each. Interesting characters also may average ten each. Thrilling scenes twenty each. Overwhelming catastrophes fifteen each. Now by reading novels singly the effect of all this is weakened, for you only have the work of each in its divided, isolated state, but where you read according to my plan you have the aggregate of all these effects in one combined—that is to say, in ten books which I read at once I have two hundred thrilling scenes, one hundred and fifty overwhelming catastrophes, one hundred interesting characters, and four hundred situations of absorbing fascination. Do you not see what an advantage there is in my plan? By following this rule I have been able to stimulate a somewhat faded appetite, and to keep abreast of the literature of the day.”
“What an admirable plan! And do you read all books in that way? Why, one could write ten novels at a time on the same principle, and if so he ought to write very much better.”
“I think I will try it some day. At present I am busily engaged with a learned treatise on the Symbolical Nature of the Mosaic Economy, and—”
“The—what?” cried Mrs. Thornton, breathlessly. “What was that?”
“The Symbolical Nature of the Mosaic Economy,” said Despard, placidly.
“And is the title all your own?”
“All my own.”
“Then pray don’t write the book. The title is enough. Publish that, and see if it does not of itself by its own extraordinary merits bring you undying fame.”
“I’ve been thinking seriously of doing so,” said Despard, “and I don’t know but that I may follow your advice. It will save some trouble, and perhaps amount to just as much in the end.”
“And do you often have such brilliant fancies?”
“No, frankly, not often. I consider that title the one great idea of my life.”
“But do not dwell too much upon that,” said Mrs. Thornton, in a warning voice. “It might make you conceited.”
“Do you think so?” rejoined the other, with a shudder. “Do you really think so? I hope not. At any rate I hope you do not like conceited people?”
“No.”
“Am I conceited?”
“No. I like you,” replied Mrs. Thornton, with a slight bow and a wave of the hand, which she accompanied with a smile.
“And I like you,” said Despard, in the same tone.
“You could not do less.”
“This,” said Despard, with an air of thoughtful seriousness, “is a solemn occasion. After such a tender confession from each of us what remains to be done? What is it that the novels lay down?”
“I’m sure,” returned Mrs. Thornton, with the same assumed solemnity, “it is not for me to say. You must make the proposition.”
“We cannot do any thing less than fly together.”
“I should think not”
“But where?”
“And not only where, but how? By rail, by steamboat, or by canal? A canal strikes me as the best mode of flight. It is secluded.”
“Free from observation,” said Despard.
“Quiet,” rejoined Mrs. Thornton.
“Poetic.”
“Remote.”
“Unfriended.”
“Solitary.”
“Slow.”
“And, best of all, hitherto untried.”
“Yes, its novelty is undeniable.”
“So much so,” said Mrs. Thornton, “that it overwhelms one. It is a bright, original idea, and in these days of commonplace is it not creditable? The idea is mine, Sir, and I will match it with your—what?—your Symbolical Nature of the Mosaic Cosmogony.”
“Economy.”
“But Cosmogony is better. Allow me to suggest it by way of a change.”
“It must be so, since you say it; but I have a weakness for the word Economy. It is derived from the Greek—”
“Greek!” exclaimed Mrs. Thornton, raising her hands. “You surely are not going to be so ungenerous as to quote Greek! Am I not a lady? Will you be so base as to take me at a disadvantage in that way?”
“I am thoroughly ashamed of myself, and you may consider that a tacit apology is going on within my mind whenever I see you.”
“You are forgiven,” said Mrs. Thornton.
“I can not conceive how I could have so far forgotten myself. I do not usually speak Greek to ladies. I consider it my duty to make myself agreeable. And you have no idea how agreeable I can make myself, if I try.”
“I? I have no idea? Is it you who say that, and to me?” exclaimed Mrs. Thornton, in that slight melodramatic tone which she had employed thus far, somewhat exaggerated. “After what I told you—of my feelings?”
“I see I shall have to devote all the rest of my life to making apologies.”
“No. Do not make apologies. Avoid your besetting sins. Otherwise, fond as I am of you”—and she spoke with exaggerated solemnity—“I must regard you as a failure.”
The conversation went on uninterruptedly in this style for some time. It appeared to suit each of them. Despard’s face, naturally grave, assisted him toward maintaining the mock-serious tone which he chose to adopt; and Mrs. Thornton’s peculiar style of face gave her the same advantage. It pleased each to express for the other an exaggerated sentiment of regard. They considered it banter and badinage. How far it was safe was another thing. But they had known one another years before, and were only resuming the manner of earlier times.
Yet, after all, was it safe for the grave Rector of Holby to adopt the inflated style of a troubadour in addressing the Lady of Thornton Grange? Neither of them thought of it. They simply improved the shining hour after this fashion, until at length the conversation was interrupted by the opening of folding-doors, and the entrance of a servant who announced—dinner.
On entering the dining-room Despard was greeted with respectful formality by the master of the house. He was a man of about forty, with the professional air of the lawyer about him, and an abstracted expression of face, such as usually belongs to one who is deeply engrossed in the cares of business. His tone, in spite of its friendliness, was naturally stiff, and was in marked contrast to the warmth of Mrs. Thornton’s greeting.
“How do you like your new quarters?” he asked, as they sat down.
“Very well,” said Despard. “It is more my home, you know, than any other place. I lived there so many years as school-boy with Mr. Carson that it seems natural to take up my station there as home.”
Mr. Thornton relapsed into his abstraction while Despard was speaking, who directed the remainder of his conversation to Mrs. Thornton.
It was light, idle chat, in the same tone as that in which they had before indulged. Once or twice, at some unusually extravagant remark, Mr. Thornton looked up in perplexity, which was not lessened on seeing their perfect gravity.
They had a long discussion as to the meaning of the phrase “the day after to-morrow.” Despard asserted that it meant the same as eternal duration, and insisted that it must be so, since when to-morrow came the day after it was still coming, and when that came there was still the day after. He supported his theory with so much earnestness that Thornton, after listening for a while, took the trouble to go heavily and at length into the whole question, and conclude it triumphantly against Despard.
Then the subject of politics came up, and a probable war with France was considered. Despard professed to take no interest in the subject, since, even if an invasion took place, clergymen could do nothing. They were exempt from military duty in common with gaugers. The mention of this brought on a long discussion as to the spelling of the word gauger. Despard asserted that nobody knew how it was spelled, and that, from the necessities of human nature, it was simply impossible to tell whether it was gauger or guager. This brought out Thornton again, who mentioned several law papers in which the word had been correctly written by his clerks. Despard challenged him on this, and, because Thornton had to confess that he had not examined the word, dictionary in hand, he claimed a victory over him.
Thornton, at this, looked away, with the smile of a man who is talking unintelligible things to a child.
Then followed a long conversation between Despard and Mrs. Thornton about religion, art, music, and a miscellaneous assemblage of other things, which lasted for a long time. At length he rose to go. Mrs. Thornton went to a side-table and took up a book.
“Here,” said she, “is the little book you lent me; I ought to have sent it, but I thought you would come for it.”
“And so I will,” said he, “some day.”
“Come for it to-morrow.”
“Will you be at home?”
{Illustration: “MRS. THORNTON, WALKING TO THE WINDOW, LOOKED OUT."}
“Yes.”
“Then of course I’ll come. And now I must tear myself away. Good-night!”
On the following day, at about two o’clock, Despard called again. Mrs. Thornton had been writing, and the desk was strewn with papers.
“I know I am disturbing you,” said he, after the usual greetings. “I see that you are writing, so I will not stay but a moment. I have come, you know, after that little book.”
“Indeed, you are not disturbing me at all. I have been trying to continue a letter which I began to my brother a month ago. There is no hurry about it.”
“And how is Paolo?”
“I have not heard for some time. I ought to hear soon. He went to America last summer, and I have not had a word from him since. My letter is of no importance, I assure you, and now, since you are here, you shall not go. Indeed, I only touched it a minute ago. I have been looking at some pictures till I am so begrimed and inundated with dust that I feel as though I had been resolved into my original element.”
And she held up her hands with a pretty gesture of horror.
Despard looked at her for a moment as she stood in her bright beauty before him. A sudden expression of pain flashed over his face, succeeded by his usual smile.
“Dust never before took so fair a form,” he said, and sat down, looking on the floor.
“For unfailing power of compliment, for an unending supply of neat and pretty speeches, commend me to the Rev. Courtenay Despard.”
“Yet, singularly enough, no one else ever dreamed that of me.”
“You were always so.”
“With you.”
“In the old days.”
“Now lost forever.”
Their voices sank low and expressive of a deep melancholy. A silence followed. Despard at last, with a sudden effort, began talking in his usual extravagant strain about badgers till at last Mrs. Thornton began to laugh, and the radiancy of their spirits was restored. “Strange,” said he, taking up a prayer-book with a peculiar binding, on which there was a curiously intertwisted figure in gilt. “That pattern has been in my thoughts and dreams for a week.”
“How so?”
“Why, I saw it in your hands last Sunday, and my eyes were drawn to it till its whole figure seemed to stamp itself on my mind. See! I can trace it from memory.” And, taking his cane, he traced the curiously involved figure on the carpet.
“And were your thoughts fixed on nothing better than that?”
“I was engaged in worship,” was the reply, with marked emphasis.
“I must take another book next time.”
“Do not. You will only force me to study another pattern.”
Mrs. Thornton laughed lightly, and Despard looked at her with a smile.
“I’m afraid your thoughts wander,” she said, lightly, “as mine do. There is no excuse for you. There is for me. For you know I’m like Naaman; I have to bow my head in the temple of Baal. After all,” she continued, in a more serious voice, “I suppose I shall be able some day to worship before my own altar, for, do you know, I expect to end my days in a convent.”
“And why?”
“For the purpose of perfect religious seclusion.”
Despard looked at her earnestly for a moment. Then his usual smile broke out.
“Wherever you go let me know, and I’ll take up my abode outside the walls and come and look at you every day through the grating.”
“And would that be a help to a religious life?”
“Perhaps not; but I’ll tell you what would be a help. Be a Sister of Charity. I’ll be a Paulist. I’ll devote myself to the sick. Then you and I can go together; and when you are tired I can assist you. I think that idea is much better than yours.”
“Oh, very much, indeed!” said Mrs. Thornton, with a strange, sad look.
“I remember a boy and girl who once used to go hand in hand over yonder shore, and—” He stopped suddenly, and then hastily added, “and now it would be very sad, and therefore very absurd, in one of them to bring up old memories.”
Mrs. Thornton suddenly rose, and, walking to the window, looked out. “I wonder if it will rain to-day!” she said, in a sweet voice, full of a tremulous melancholy.
“There are very dark clouds about,” returned Despard, mournfully.
“I hope there will not be a storm,” she rejoined, with the same sadness. Her hands were held tightly together. “Some things will perish if a storm comes.”
“Let us pray that there may be calm and peace,” said Despard.
She turned and looked at him for a moment. Strange that these two should pass so quickly from gayety to gloom! Their eyes met, and each read in the face of the other sadness beyond words.
CHAPTER XIV. — TWO LETTERS.
Despard did not go back to the Grange for some days. About a week had passed since the scenes narrated in the preceding chapter when one morning, having finished his breakfast, he went into his library and sat down at the table to write. A litter of papers lay all around. The walls were covered with shelves, filled with books. The table was piled high with ponderous tomes. Manuscripts were strewn around, and books were scattered on the floor. Yet, amidst all this disorder, some order was apparent, for many of these books lay open in certain places, and others were arranged so as to be within reach.
Several sheets of paper, covered with writing, lay before him, headed, “The Byzantine Poets.” The books were all in Greek. It was the library of a hard-working student.
Very different was the Despard of the library from the Despard who had visited the Grange. A stern and thoughtful expression was read in his face, and his eyes had an abstraction which would have done credit to Mr. Thornton himself.
Taking his seat at the table, he remained for a while leaning his head on his hand in deep thought. Then he took up a pen and drew a piece of paper before him to try it. He began to draw upon it the same figure which he had marked with his cane on Mrs. Thornton’s carpet. He traced this figure over and over, until at last the whole sheet was covered.
Suddenly he flung down the pen, and, taking up the paper, leaned back in his chair with a melancholy face. “What a poor, weak thing I am!” he muttered at last, and let the paper fall to the floor. He leaned his head on his hand, then resumed his pen and began to make some idle marks. At length he began to draw.
Under the fine and delicate strokes of his pen, which were as neat and as exquisite as the most subtle touches of an engraving, a picture gradually rose to view. It was a sea-side scene. The place was Holby Beach. In the distance was the light-house; and on one side a promontory, which protected the harbor. Upon the shore, looking out toward the sea, was a beautiful girl, of about sixteen years of age, whose features, as they grew beneath his tender touches, were those of Mrs. Thornton. Then beside her there gradually rose another figure, a youth of about eighteen, with smooth face and clustering locks, who looked exactly like what the Rev. Courtenay Despard might have been some seven or eight years before. His left arm was around her waist, her arm was thrown up till it touched his shoulder, and his right hand held hers. Her head leaned against him, and both of them, with a subdued expression of perfect happiness, tinged with a certain pensive sadness, were looking out upon the setting sun.
As soon as he finished he looked at the sketch, and then, with a sudden impulse, tore it into a thousand small fragments. He drew the written manuscript before him with a long and deep-drawn sigh, and began writing with great rapidity upon the subject of the Byzantine Poets. He had just written the following words:
“The Anacreontic hymns of John Damascenus form a marked contrast to—” when the sentence was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Come in!” It was the servant with letters from the post-office. Despard put down his pen gravely, and the man laid two letters on the table. He waited till the servant had departed, then seizing one of them, a small one, addressed in a lady’s hand, he pressed it vehemently to his lips and tore it open.
It was as follows:
{Illustration: “BOTH WERE LOOKING OUT UPON THE SETTING SUN."}
“DEAR MR. DESPARD,—I suppose I may never expect to see you again. Yet I must see you, for yesterday I received a very long letter from Paolo of so singular a character that you will have to explain it to me. I shall expect you this afternoon, and till then, I remain,
“Yours sincerely,
“TERESA THORNTON.
“THORNTON GRANGE, Friday.”
Despard read this letter a score of times, and placed it reverently in an inner drawer of his desk. He then opened the other, and read as follows:
“HALIFAX, NOVA SCOTIA, January 12, 1847.
“MY DEAR COURTENAY,—I was very glad to hear of your appointment as Rector of Holby, your old home, and hope that by this time you are fully established in the old Rectory, where you spent so many years. I was there often enough in poor old Carson’s days to know that it was a fine old place.
“You will see by this that I am in Halifax, Nova Scotia. My regiment was ordered off here last November, and I am just beginning to feel settled. It is not so cold here as it was in Quebec. There is capital moose hunting up the country. I don’t admire my accommodations much; but it is not a bad little town, considering all things. The people are pleasant, and there is some stir and gayety occasionally.
“Not long before leaving Quebec, who do you think turned up? No less a person than Paolo Langhetti, who in the course of his wanderings came out there. He had known some extraordinary adventures on his voyage out; and these are the immediate cause of this letter.
“He took passage early in June last in the ship Tecumseh, from Liverpool for Quebec. It was an emigrant ship, and crammed with passengers. You have heard all about the horrors of that middle passage, which occurred last year, when those infernal Liverpool merchants, for the sake of patting a few additional pounds in their pockets, sent so many thousands to destruction.
“The Tecumseh was one of these. It was crammed with emigrants. You know Langhetti’s extraordinary pluck, and his queer way of devoting himself for others. Well, what did he do but this: as soon as the ship-fever broke out he left the cabin and took up his abode in the steerage with the sick emigrants. He is very quiet about this, and merely says that he helped to nurse the sick. I know what that means.
“The mortality was terrific. Of all the ships that came to Quebec on that fatal summer the Tecumseh showed the largest record of deaths. On reaching the quarantine station Langhetti at once insisted on continuing his attendance on the sick. Hands were scarce, and his offer was eagerly accepted. He staid down there ever so long till the worst of the sickness was over.
“Among the passengers on the Tecumseh were three who belonged to the superior class. Their names were Brandon. He took a deep interest in them. They suffered very much from sickness both during the voyage and at quarantine. The name at once attracted him, being one well known both to him and to us. At last they all died, or were supposed to have died, at the quarantine station. Langhetti, however, found that one of them was only in a ‘trance state,’ and his efforts for resuscitation were successful. This one was a young girl of not more than sixteen years of age. After her restoration he left the quarantine bringing her with him, and came up to the city. Here he lived for a month or so, until at last he heard of me and came to see me.
“Of course I was delighted to see him, for I always thought him the noblest fellow that ever breathed, though most undoubtedly cranky if not crazy. I told him we were going to Halifax, and as he had no settled plan I made him come here with me.
“The girl remained for a long time in a state of mental torpor, as though her brain had been affected by disease, but the journey here had a beneficial effect on her, and during her stay she has steadily improved. About a week ago Langhetti ventured to ask her all about herself.
“What will you say when I tell you that she is the daughter of poor Ralph Brandon, of Brandon Hall, your father’s friend, whose wretched fate has made us all so miserable. You know nothing of this, of course; but where was Thornton? Why did not he do something to prevent this horror, this unutterable calamity? Good God! what suffering there is in this world!
“Now, Courtenay, I come to the point. This poor Edith Brandon, still half-dead from her grief, has been able to tell us that she has still a relative living. Her eldest brother Louis went to Australia many years ago. A few weeks before her father’s death he wrote to his son telling him everything, and imploring him to come home. She thinks that her brother must be in England by this time.
“I want you to hunt up Louis Brandon. Spare no trouble. In the name of God, and by the memory of your father, whose most intimate friend was this poor old Brandon, I entreat you to search after Louis Brandon till you find him, and let him know the fate of his friends. I think if she could see him the joy of meeting one relative would restore her to health.
“My boy, I know I have said enough. Your own heart will impel you to do all that can be done for the sake of this poor young girl. You can find out the best ways of learning information. You had better go up at once to London and make arrangements for finding Brandon. Write me soon, and let me know.
“Your affectionate uncle,
“HENRY DESPARD.”
Despard read this letter over and over. Then he put it in his pocket, and walked up and down the room in deep thought. Then he took out Mrs. Thornton’s note and studied it for a long time. So the hours passed away, until at length two o’clock came and he set out for Thornton Grange.
On entering the drawing-room, Mrs. Thornton was there.
“So you have come at last,” said she, as they shook hands.
“As if I would not come ten times a day if I could,” was the answer, in an impetuous voice.
“Still there is no reason why you should persistently avoid the Grange.”
“What would you say if I followed my own impulse, and came here every day?”
“I would say, Good-morning, Sir. Still, now that you are here, you must stay.”
“I will stay, whether I must or not.”
“Have you recovered from the effect of my prayer-book yet?”
“No, nor ever will I. You brought the same one last Sunday.”
“That was in order to weaken the effect. Familiarity breeds contempt, you know.”
“Then all I can say is, that contempt has very extraordinary manifestations. Among other strange things, it makes me cover my paper with that pattern when I ought to be writing on the Mosaic Economy.”
“Cosmogony, you mean.”
“Well, then, Cosmogony.”
“Cosmogony is such a delicious word! It has been the hope of my life to be able to introduce it in a conversation. There is only one other word that compares with it.”
“What is it?”
“I am afraid to pronounce it.”
“Try, at any rate.”
“Idiosyncrasy,” said Mrs. Thornton. “For five or six years I have been on the look-out for an opportunity to use that word, and thus far I have been unsuccessful. I fear that if the opportunity did occur I would call it ‘idiocracy.’ In fact, I know I would.”
“And what would be the difference? Your motive would be right, and it is to motives that we must look, not acts.”
After some further badinage, Mrs. Thornton drew a letter from her pocket.
“Here,” said she, gravely, “is Paolo’s letter. Read it, and tell me what you think of it.”
Despard took the letter and began to read, while Mrs. Thornton, sitting opposite to him, watched his face.
The letter was in Italian, and was accompanied by a large and closely-written manuscript of many pages.
“HALIFAX, NOVA SCOTIA, January 2, 1847.
“MY SWEETEST LITTLE SISTER,—I send you my diary, as I promised you, my Teresella, and you will see all my adventures. Take care of yourself, be happy, and let us hope that we may see one another soon. I am well, through the mercy of the good God, and hope to continue so. There is no such thing as music in this place, but I have found an organ where I can play. My Cremona is uninjured, though it has passed through hard times—it sends a note of love to my Teresina. Remember your Paolo to the just and upright Thornton, whom you love. May God bless my little sister’s husband, and fill his heart with love for the sweetest of children!
“Read this manuscript carefully, Teresuola mia dolcissima, and pray for the souls of those unhappy ones who perished by the pestilence.”
CHAPTER XV. — JOURNAL OF PAOLO LANGHETTI.
Liverpool, June 2, 1840.—I promised you, my Teresina, to keep a diary of all my wanderings, and now I begin, not knowing whether it will be worth reading or not, but knowing this: that my corellina will read it all with equal interest, whether it be trivial or important.
I have taken passage in the ship Tecumseh from Liverpool to Quebec. I have embarked in her for no better reason than this, that she is the first that will sail, and I am impatient. The first New York ship does not leave for a fortnight. A fortnight in Liverpool! Horror!
I have been on board to secure my room. I am told that there is a large number of emigrants. It is a pity, but it can not be helped. All ships have emigrants now. Ireland is being evacuated. There will soon be no peasants to till the soil. What enormous misery must be in that most wretched of countries! Is Italy worse? Yes, far worse; for Italy has a past to contrast with the present, whereas Ireland has no past.
At Sea, June 4.—We are many miles out in the Irish Channel. There are six hundred emigrants on board—men, women, and children. I am told that most of these are from Ireland, unhappy Ireland! Some are from England, and are going to seek their fortune in America. As I look on them I think, My God! what misery there is in this world! And yet what can I do to alleviate it? I am helpless. Let the world suffer. All will be right hereafter.
June 10.—Six hundred passengers! They are all crowded together in a manner that is frightful to me. Comfort is out of the question; the direst distress is every where present; the poor wretches only try to escape suffering. During storms they are shut in; there is little ventilation; and the horror that reigns in that hold will not let me either eat or sleep. I have remonstrated with the captain, but without effect. He told me that he could do nothing. The owners of the ship put them on board, and he was employed to take them to their proper destination. My God! what will become of them?
June 15.—There have been a few days of fine weather. The wretched emigrants have all been on deck. Among them I noticed three who, from their appearance, belonged to a different class. There was a lady with a young man and a young girl, who were evidently her children. The lady has once been beautiful, and still bears the traces of that beauty, though her face indicates the extreme of sadness. The son is a man of magnificent appearance, though as yet not full-grown. The daughter is more lovely than any being whom I have ever seen. She is different from my Bicetta. Bice is Grecian, with a face like that of a marble statue, and a soul of purely classic mould. Bice is serene. She reminds me of Artemis. Bice is an artist to her inmost heart. Bice I love as I love you, my Teresina, and I never expect to meet with one who can so interpret my ideas with so divine a voice. But this girl is more spiritual. Bice is classic, this one is medieval. Bice is a goddess, this one a saint. Bice is Artemis, or one of the Muses; this one is Holy Agnes or Saint Cecilia. There is in that sweet and holy face the same depth of devotion which our painters portray on the face of the Madonna. This little family group stand amidst all the other passengers, separated by the wide gulf of superior rank, for they are manifestly from among the upper classes, but still more so by the solemn isolation of grief. It is touching to see the love of the mother for her children, and the love of the children for their mother. How can I satisfy the longings which I feel to express to them my sympathy?
June 21.—I have at length gained my desire. I have become acquainted with that little group. I went up to them this morning in obedience to a resistless impulse, and with the most tender sympathy that I could express; and, with many apologies, offered the young man a bottle of wine for his mother. He took it gratefully and frankly. He met me half-way in my advances. The poor lady looked at me with speechless gratitude, as though kindness and sympathy were unknown to her. “God will reward you, Sir,” she said, in a tremulous voice, “for your sympathy with the miserable.”
“Dear Madame,” said I, “I wish no other reward than the consciousness that I may have alleviated your distress.”
My heart bled for these poor creatures. Cast down from a life which must have once been one of luxury, they were now in the foulest of places, the hold of an emigrant ship. I went back to the captain to see if I could not do something in their behalf. I wished to give up my room to them. He said I could do so if I wished, but that there was no room left in the cabin. Had there been I would have hired one and insisted on their going there.
I went to see the lady, and made this proposal as delicately as I could. There were two berths in my room. I urged her and her daughter to take them. At first they both refused most positively, with tears of gratitude. But I would not be so put off. To the mother I portrayed the situation of the daughter in that den of horror; to the daughter I pointed out the condition of the mother; to the son I showed the position of his mother and sister, and thus I worked upon the holiest feelings of their hearts. For myself I assured them that I could get a place among the sailors in the forecastle, and that I preferred doing so. By such means as these I moved them to consent. They did so with an expression of thankfulness that brought tears to my eyes.
“Dear Madame,” said I, “you will break my heart if you talk so. Take the room and say nothing. I have been a wanderer for years, and can live any where.”
It was not till then that I found out their names. I told them mine. They looked at one another in astonishment. “Langhetti?” said the mother.
“Yes.”
“Did you ever live in Holby?”
“Yes. My father was organist in Trinity Church, and I and my sister lived there some years. She lives there still.”
“My God!” was her ejaculation.
“Why?” I asked, with eager curiosity. “What do you know about Holby, and about Langhetti?”
She looked at me with solemn earnestness. “I,” said she, “am the wife, and these are the children of one who was your father’s friend. He who was my husband, and the father of these children, was Ralph Brandon, of Brandon Hall.”
I stood for a moment stupefied. Then I burst into tears. Then I embraced them all, and said I know not what of pity and sympathy and affection. My God! to think of such a fate as this awaiting the family of Ralph Brandon. Did you know this, oh, Teresina? If so, why did you keep it secret? But no—you could not have known it. If you had this would not have happened.
They took my room in the cabin—the dear ones—Mrs. Brandon and the sweet Edith. The son Frank and I stay together among the emigrants. Here I am now, and I write this as the sun is getting low, and the uproar of all these hundreds is sounding in my ears.
June 30.—There is a panic in the ship. The dread pestilence known as “ship-fever” has appeared. This disease is the terror of emigrant ships. Surely there was never any vessel so well adapted to be the prey of the pestilence as this of ours! I have lived for ten days among the steerage passengers, and have witnessed their misery. Is God just? Can he look down unmoved upon scenes like these? Now that the disease has come, where will it stop?
July 3.—The disease is spreading. Fifteen are prostrate. Three have died.
July 10.—Thirty deaths have occurred, and fifty are sick. I am assisting to nurse them.
July 15.—Thirty-four deaths since my last. One hundred and thirty are sick. I will labor here if I have to die for it.
July 18.—If this is my last entry let this diary be sent to Mrs. Thornton, care of William Thornton, Holby, Pembroke, England—(the above entry was written in English, the remainder was all in Italian, as before). More than two hundred are sick. Frank Brandon is down. I am afraid to let his mother know it. I am working night and day. In three days there have been forty-seven deaths. The crew are demoralized and panic-stricken.
July 23.—Shall I survive these horrors? More than fifty new deaths have occurred. The disease has spread among the sailors. Two are dead, and seven are sick. Horror prevails. Frank Brandon is recovering slowly. Mrs. Brandon does not know that he has been sick. We send word that we are afraid to come for fear of communicating the disease to her and to Edith.
July 27.—More than half of the sailors are sick. Eleven dead. Sixty-seven passengers dead since last report. Frank Brandon almost well, and helping me in my work.
July 30.—Nearly all the sailors more or less sick—five new deaths among them. Ship almost unmanageable. In the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Talk of putting into some port. Seventy passengers dead.
August 2.—Worse yet. Disease has spread into the cabin. Three cabin passengers dead. God have mercy upon poor Mrs. Brandon and sweet Edith! All the steerage passengers, with a few exceptions, prostrate. Frank Brandon is weak but helps me. I work night and day. The ship is like a floating pest-house. Forty new deaths since last report.
August 7.—Drifting along, I know not how, up the St. Lawrence. The weather calm, and two or three sailors able to manage the ship. Captain and mate both dead. Ten cabin passengers dead. Three more sailors dead. Only thirty-two steerage passengers dead since last report, but nearly all are sick. Hardly any one to attend to them.
August 10.—Mrs. Brandon and Edith both sick. Frank prostrate again. God in heaven, have mercy!
August 15.—Mrs. Brandon and Edith very low. Frank better.
August 16.—Quarantine Station, Gosse Island. I feel the fever in my veins. If I die, farewell, sweetest sister.
December 28, Halifax, Nova Scotia.—More than four months have elapsed since my last entry, and during the interval marvelous things have occurred. These I will now try to recall as I best can.
My last entry was made on the day of the arrival of the Tecumseh at the Quarantine Station, Gosse Island, Quebec. We were delayed there for two days. Every thing was in confusion. A large number of ships had arrived, and all were filled with sick. The authorities were taken by surprise; and as no arrangements had ever been made for such a state of things the suffering was extreme. The arrival of the Tecumseh with her frightful record of deaths, and with several hundred sick still on board, completed the confusion. At last the passengers were removed somehow, I know not how or when, for I myself on the evening of our arrival was struck down by the fever. I suppose that Frank Brandon may have nursed me at first; but of that I am not sure. There was fearful disorder. There were few nurses and fewer doctors; and as fast as the sick died they were hurried hastily into shallow graves in the sand. I was sick for two or three weeks, and knew nothing of what was going on. The first thing that I saw on coming to my senses was Edith Brandon.
She was fearfully changed. Unutterable grief dwelt upon her sweet young face, which also was pale and wan from the sickness through which she had passed. An awful feeling shot through me. My first question was, “Is your mother on shore?”
She looked at me for a moment in solemn silence, and, slowly raising her hand, pointed upward.
“Your brother?” I gasped.
She turned her head away. I was silent. They were dead, then. O God! and this child—what had she not been suffering? My mind at once, in its agony of sympathy with her, burst through the clouds which sickness had thrown around it. “Poor child!” I said. “And why are you here?”
“Where else can I go?” she answered, mournfully.
“At least, you should not wear yourself out by my bedside.”
“You are the only one left whom I know. I owe you far more than the small attendance which I have given you.”
“But will you not take some rest?”
“Hush! Wait till you are stronger. You are too weak now to think of these things.”
She laid her thin hand on my forehead gently. I turned my head away, and burst into a flood of tears. Why was it that this child was called upon to endure such agony? Why, in the midst of that agony, did she come to me to save my life? I did not resist her any longer on that day; but the next day I was stronger, and made her go and repose herself.
For two successive days she came back. On the third day she did not appear. The fourth day also she was absent. Rude nurses attended to me. They knew nothing of her. My anxiety inspired me with such energy that on the fourth day I rose from my bed and staggered about to find her if possible.
All was still confusion. Thousands of sick were on the island. The mistake of the first week had not yet been repaired. No one knew any thing of Edith. I sought her through all the wards. I went to the superintendent, and forced him to make inquiries about her. No one could tell any thing.
My despair was terrible. I forced the superintendent to call up all the nurses and doctors, and question them all, one by one. At last an old Irish woman, with an awful look at me, hinted that she could tell something about her, and whispered a word or two in the superintendent’s ear. He started back, with a fearful glance.
“What is it? Tell, in God’s name!”
“The dead-house,” he murmured.
“Where is it? Take me there!” I cried to the woman. I clutched her arm and staggered after her.
It was a long, low shed, open on all sides. Twelve bodies lay there. In the middle of the row was Edith. She was more beautiful than an angel. A smile wreathed her lips; her eyes looked as though she slumbered. I rushed up to her and caught her in my arms. The next moment I fell senseless.
When I revived I was lying in one of the sick-sheds, with a crowd of sufferers around me. I had only one thought, and that was Edith. I rose at once, weak and trembling, but the resolve of my soul gave strength to my body. An awful fear had taken possession of me, which was accompanied by a certain wild hope. I hurried, with staggering feet, to the dead-house.
All the bodies were gone. New ones had come in.
“Where is she?” I cried to the old woman who had charge there. She knew to whom I referred.
“Buried,” said she.
I burst out into a torrent of imprecations. “Where have they buried her? Take me to the place!” I cried, as I flung a piece of gold to the woman. She grasped it eagerly. “Bring a spade, and come quick, for God’s sake! She is not dead!”
How did I have such a mad fancy? I will tell you. This ship-fever often terminates in a sort of stupor, in which death generally takes place. Sometimes, however, the patient who has fallen into this stupor revives again. It is known to the physicians as the “trance state.” I had seen cases of this at sea. Several times people were thrown overboard when I thought that they did not have all the signs of death, and at last, in two cases of which I had charge, I detained the corpses three days, in spite of the remonstrances of the other passengers. These two revived. By this I knew that some of those who were thrown overboard were not dead. Did I feel horror at this, my Teresa? No. “Pass away,” I said, “unhappy ones. You are not dead. You live in a better life than this. What matters it whether you died by the fever or by the sea?”
But when I saw Edith as she lay there my soul felt assured that she was not dead, and an unutterable convulsion of sorrow overwhelmed me. Therefore I fainted. The horror of that situation was too much for me. To think of that angelic girl about to be covered up alive in the ground; to think of that sweet young life, which had begun so brightly, terminating amidst such black darkness!
“Now God help me!” I cried, as I hurried on after the woman; “and bring me there in time.” There! Where? To the place of the dead. It was there that I had to seek her.
“How long had she been in that house before I fainted?” I asked, fearfully.
“Twenty-four hours.”
“And when did I faint?”
“Yesterday.”
A pang shot through me. “Tell me,” I cried, hoarsely, “when she was buried.”
“Last night.”
“O God!” I groaned, and I could say no more; but with new strength given to me in that hour of agony I rushed on.
It was by the eastern shore of the island. A wide flat was there, washed on one side by the river. Here more than a thousand mounds arose. Alas! could I ever hope to find her!
“Do you know where they have laid her?” I asked, tremblingly.
“Yes,” said the woman, confidently.
Hope returned faintly. She led the way.
The moon beamed out brightly from behind a cloud, illumining the waste of mounds. The river murmured solemnly along the shore. All my senses were overwhelmed in the madness of that hour. The moon seemed enlarged to the dimensions of a sky; the murmur of the river sounded like a cataract, and in the vast murmur I heard voices which seemed then like the voices of the dead. But the lustre of that exaggerated glow, and the booming concord of fancied spirit-voices were all contemned as trifles. I cared for nothing either natural or supernatural. Only one thought was present—the place where she was laid.
We reached it at last. At the end of a row of graves we stopped. “Here,” said the woman, “are twelve graves. These were made last night. These are those twelve which you saw.”
“And where—where, O God, is SHE!”
“There,” replied the woman, pointing to one which was the third from the end.
“Do not deceive me!” I cried, imploringly. “Are you sure? For I will tear up all these till I find her.”
“I am sure, for I was the one who buried her. I and a man—”
I seized the spade and turned up the soil. I labored incessantly for what seemed an endless period. I had thrown out much earth but had not yet reached her. I felt my fitful strength failing me. My mind, too, seemed entering into a state of delirium. At last my knees gave way, and I sank down just as my spade touched something which gave back a hollow sound.
My knees gave way, and I sank down. But I would not give up. I tore up handfuls of earth and threw them into the air.
“Oh, Edith!” I cried, “I am here! I am coming! I am coming!”
“Come, Sir,” said the woman, suddenly, in her strong voice, yet pityingly. “You can do nothing. I will dig her out in a minute.”
{Illustration: “I TOOK HER IN MY ARMS AND BROUGHT HER FORTH FROM THE GRAVE,” ETC.}
“God forever bless you!” I cried, leaping out and giving place to her. I watched her as she threw out the earth. Hungrily I gazed, devouring that dark aperture with my eyes till at last the rough boards appeared.
Then I leaped down. I put my fingers at the edge and tore at it till it gave way. The lid was only fastened with a few nails. My bleeding fingers clutched it. It yielded to my frantic exertions.
O my God! was there ever a sight on earth like that which now met my eyes as I raised the lid and looked below? The moon, which was high in the sky, streamed down directly into the narrow cell. It showed me the one whom I sought. Its bright beams threw a lustre round that face which was upturned toward me. Ah me! how white was that face; like the face of some sleeping maiden carved in alabaster. Bathed in the moonbeams it lay before me, all softened and refined and made pure; a face of unearthly beauty. The dark hair caught the moon’s rays, and encircled the head like a crown of immortality. Still the eyes were closed as though in slumber; still the lips were fixed into a smile. She lay as one who had fallen into a deep, sweet sleep—as one who in that sleep has dreams, in which are visions of more than earthly beauty, and scenes of more than mortal happiness.
Now it was with me as though at that unequaled vision I had drawn into my inmost being some sudden stimulus—a certain rapture of newborn strength; strength no longer fitful and spasmodic, but firm, well fortified and well sustained.
I took her in my arms and brought her forth from the grave into the life of earth.
Ah me! how light a thing was that frail and slender figure which had been worn down by the unparalleled suffering through which she had passed. This thought transfixed me with a pang of anguish—even awed the rapture that I felt at clasping her in my arms.
But now that I had her, where was I to seek for a place of shelter? I turned to the woman and asked: “Is there any secluded place where she may sleep undisturbed till she wakes—”
“No, there is none but what is crowded with the sick and dying in all this island.”
“I must have some place.”
“There is only one spot that is quiet.”
“What one?”
“The dead-house.”
I shuddered. “No, not there. See,” said I, and I handed her a piece of gold. “Find me some place and you shall have still more.”
“Well,” she said, hesitatingly, “I have the room where me and my man live. I suppose we could give up that.”
“Take me there, then.”
“Shall I help you carry her?”
“No,” I answered, drawing back my pure Edith from her outstretched hands. “No, I will carry her.”
The woman went on without a word. She led the way back to the low and dismal sheds which lay there like a vast charnel-house, and thence to a low hut some distance away from all, where she opened a door. She spoke a few words to a man, who finally withdrew. A light was burning. A rude cot was there. Here I laid the one whom I carried.
“Come here,” said I, “three times a day. I will pay you well for this.”
The woman left. All night long I watched. She lay unmoved and unchanged. Where was her spirit wandering? Soared it among the splendors of some far-off world? Lingered it amidst the sunshine of heavenly glory? Did her seraphic soul move amidst her peers in the assemblage of the holy? Was she straying amidst the trackless paths of ether with those whom she had loved in life, and who had gone before?
All night long I watched her as she lay with her marble face and her changeless smile. There seemed to be communicated to me an influence from her which opened the eyes of my spiritual sense; and my spirit sought to force itself upon her far-off perceptions, that so it might catch her notice and bring her back to earth.
The morning dawned. There was no change. Mid-day came, and still there was no change. I know not how it was, but the superintendent had heard about the grave being opened, and found me in the hut. He tried to induce me to give back to the grave the one whom I had rescued. The horror of that request was so tremendous that it force me into passionless calm. When I refused he threatened. At his menace I rejoined in such language that he turned pale.
“Murderer!” said I, sternly, “is it not enough that you have sent to the grave many wretches who were not dead? Do you seek to send back to death this single one whom I have rescued? Do you want all Canada and all the world to ring with the account of the horrors done here, where people are buried alive? See, she is not dead. She is only sleeping. And yet you put her in the grave.”
“She is dead!” he cried, in mingled fear and anger—“and she must be buried.”
“She is not dead,” said I, sternly, as I glared on him out of my intensity of anguish—“she is not dead: and if you try to send her to death again you must first send me. She shall not pass to the grave except over my corpse, and over the corpse of the first murderer that dares to lay hands on her.”
He started back—he and those who were with him. “The man is mad,” they said.
They left me in peace. I grow excited as I write. My hand trembles. Let me be calm.
She awoke that night. It was midnight, and all was still. She opened her eyes suddenly, and looked full at me with an earnest and steadfast stare. At last a long, deep-drawn sigh broke the stillness of that lone chamber.
“Back again”—she murmured, in a scarce audible voice—“among men, and to earth. O friends of the Realm of Light, must I be severed from your lofty communion!”
As she spoke thus the anguish which I had felt at the grave was renewed. “You have brought me back,” said she, mournfully.
“No,” I returned, sadly—“not I. It was not God’s will that you should leave this life. He did not send death to you. You were sleeping, and I brought you to this place.”
“I know all,” she murmured, closing her eyes. “I heard all while my spirit was away. I know where you found me.”
“I am weary,” she said, after a silence. Her eyes closed again. But this time the trance was broken. She slept with long, deep breathing, interrupted by frequent sighs. I watched her through the long night. At first fever came. Then it passed. Her sleep became calm, and she slumbered like a weary child.
Early in the morning the superintendent came, followed by a dozen armed men. He entered with a frown. I met him with my hand upraised to hush him, and led him gently to the bedside.
“See,” I whispered—“but for me she would have been BURIED ALIVE!”
The man seemed frozen into dumbness. He stood ghastly white with horror, thick drops started from his forehead, his teeth chattered, he staggered away. He looked at me with a haunted face, such as belongs to one who thinks he has seen a spirit.
“Spare me,” he faltered; “do not ruin me. God knows I have tried to do my best!”
I waved him off. “Leave me. You have nothing to fear.” He turned away with his white face, and departed in silence with his men.
After a long sleep Edith waked again. She said nothing. I did not wish her to speak. She lay awake, yet with closed eyes, thinking such thoughts as belong to one, and to one alone, who had known what she had known.
I did not speak to her, for she was to me a holy being, not to be addressed lightly. Yet she did not refuse nourishment, and grew stronger, until at last I was able to have her moved to Quebec. There I obtained proper accommodations for her and good nurses.
I have told you what she was before this. Subsequently there came a change. The nurses and the doctors called it a stupor.
There was something in her face which inspired awe among all who saw her. If it is the soul of man that gives expression to the features, then her soul must have been familiar with things unknown to us. How often have I seen her in walking across the room stop suddenly and stand fixed on the spot, musing and sad! She commonly moved about as though she saw nothing, as though she walked in a dream, with eyes half closed, and sometimes murmuring inaudible words. The nurses half loved and half feared her. Yet there were some little children in the house who felt all love and no fear, for I have seen her smiling on them with a smile so sweet that it seemed to me as if they stood in the presence of their guardian angel. Strange, sad spirit, what thoughts, what memories are these which make her life one long reverie, and have taken from her all power to enjoy the beautiful that dwells on earth! She fills all my thoughts with her loneliness, her tears, and her spiritual face, bearing the marks of scenes that can never be forgotten. She lives and moves amidst her recollections. What is it that so overwhelms all her thoughts? That face of hers appears as though it had bathed itself in the atmosphere of some diviner world than this: and her eyes seem as if they may have gazed upon the Infinite Mystery.