Cord and Creese

I think I had lived this sort of life for three months without seeing either my father or brother.

At the end of that time my father sent for me. He informed me that he intended to give a grand entertainment to the county families, and wanted me to do the honors. He had ordered dress-makers for me; he wished me to wear some jewels which he had in the house, and informed me that it would be the grandest thing of the kind that had ever taken place. Fire-works were going to be let off; the grounds were to be illuminated, and nothing that money could effect would be spared to render it the most splendid festival that could be imagined.

I did as he said. The dress-makers came, and I allowed them to array me as they chose. My father informed me that he would not give me the jewels till the time came, hinting a fear that I might steal them.

At last the evening arrived. Invitations had been sent every where. It was expected that the house would be crowded. My father even ventured to make a personal request that I would adorn myself as well as possible. I did the best I could, and went to the drawing-room to receive the expected crowds.

The hour came and passed, but no one appeared. My father looked a little troubled, but he and John waited in the drawing-room. Servants were sent down to see if any one was approaching. An hour passed. My father looked deeply enraged. Two hours passed. Still no one came. Three hours passed. I waited calmly, but my father and John, who had all the time been drinking freely, became furious. It was now midnight, and all hope had left them. They had been treated with scorn by the whole county.

The servants were laughing at my father’s disgrace. The proud array in the different rooms was all a mockery. The elaborate fire-works could not be used.

My father turned his eyes, inflamed by anger and strong drink, toward me.

“She’s a d——d bad investment,” I heard him say.

“I told you so,” said John, who did not deign to look at me; “but you were determined.”

They then sat drinking in silence for some time.

“Sold!” said my father, suddenly, with an oath.

John made no reply.

“I thought the county would take to her. She’s one of their own sort,” my father muttered.

“If it weren’t for you they might,” said John; “but they ain’t overfond of her dear father.”

“But I sent out the invites in her name.”

“No go anyhow.”

“I thought I’d get in with them all right away, hobnob with lords and baronets, and maybe get knighted on the spot.”

John gave a long scream of laughter.

“You old fool!” he cried; “so that’s what you’re up to, is it? Sir John—ha, ha, ha! You’ll never be made Sir John by parties, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, don’t you be too sure. I’m not put down. I’ll try again,” he continued, after a pause. “Next year I’ll do it. Why, she’ll marry a lord, and then won’t I be a lord’s father-in-law? What do you say to that?”

“When did you get these notions in your blessed head?” asked John.

“Oh, I’ve had them—It’s not so much for myself, Johnnie—but for you. For if I’m a lord you’ll be a lord too.”

“Lord Potts. Ha, ha, ha!”

“No,” said my father, with some appearance of vexation, “not that; we’ll take our title the way all the lords do, from the estates. I’ll be Lord Brandon, and when I die you’ll get the title.”

“And that’s your little game. Well, you’ve played such good little games in your life that I’ve nothing to say, except—‘Go it!’”

“She’s the one that’ll give me a lift.”

“Well, she ought to be able to do something.”

By this time I concluded that I had done my duty and prepared to retire. I did not wish to overhear any of their conversation. As I walked out of the room I still heard their remarks:

“Blest if she don’t look as if she thought herself the Queen,” said John.

“It’s the diamonds, Johnnie.”

“No it ain’t, it’s the girl herself. I don’t like the way she has of looking at me and through me.”

“Why, that’s the way with that kind. It’s what the lords like.”

“I don’t like it, then, and I tell you she’s got to be took down!”

This was the last I heard. Yet one thing was evident to me from their conversation. My father had some wild plan of effecting an entrance into society through me. He thought that after he was once recognized he might get sufficient influence to gain a title and found a family. I also might marry a lord. He thus dreamed of being Lord Brandon, and one of the great nobles of the land.

Amidst my sadness I almost smiled at this vain dream; but yet John’s words affected me strongly—“You’ve played such good little games in your life.” Well I knew with whom they were played. One was with Despard, the other with Brandon.

This then was the reason why he had sent for me from China. The knowledge of his purpose made my life neither brighter nor darker. I still lived on as before.

During these months Mrs. Compton’s tender devotion to me never ceased. I respected her, and forbore to excite that painful fear to which she was subject. Once or twice I forgot myself and began speaking to her about her strange position here. She stopped me with her look of alarm.

“Are you not afraid to be kind to me?” I asked.

She looked at me piteously.

“You are the only one that is kind to me,” I continued. “How have you the courage?”

“I can not help it,” she murmured, “you are so dear to me.”

She sighed and was silent. The mystery about her remained unchanged; her gentle nature, her tender love, and her ever-present fear. What was there in her past that so influenced her life? Had she too been mixed up with the crime on the Vishnu? She! impossible. Yet surely something as dark as that must have been required to throw so black a cloud over her life. Yet what—what could that have been? In spite of myself I associate her secret with the tragedy of Despard. She was in his family long. His wife died. She must have been with her at the time.

The possibilities that have suggested themselves to my mind will one day drive me mad. Alas, how my heart yearns over that lonely man in the drifting ship! And yet, merciful God! who am I that I should sympathize with him? My name is infamy, my blood is pollution.

I spoke to her once in a general way about the past. Had she ever been out of England? I asked.

“Yes,” she answered, dreamily.

“Where?”

She looked at me and said not a word.

At another time I spoke of China, and hinted that perhaps she too knew something about the East. The moment that I said this I repented. The poor creature was shaken from head to foot with a sudden convulsion of fear. This convulsion was so terrible that it seemed to me as though another would be death. I tried to soothe her, but she looked fearfully at me for a long time after.

At another time I asked her directly whether her husband was alive. She looked at me with deep sadness and shook her head. I do not know what position she holds here. She is not housekeeper; none of the servants pay any attention to her whatever. There is an impudent head servant who manages the rest. I noticed that the man who showed me to her room when I first came treats her differently from the rest. Once or twice I saw them talking in one of the halls. There was deep respect in his manner. What he does I have not yet found out. He has always shown great respect to me, though why I can not imagine. He has the same timidity of manner which marks Mrs. Compton. His name is Philips.

I once asked Mrs. Compton who Philips was, and what he did. She answered quickly that he was a kind of clerk to Mr. Potts, and helped him to keep his accounts.

“Has he been with him long?” I continued.

“Yes, a considerable time,” she said—but I saw that the subject distressed her, so I changed it.

For more than three months I remained in my room, but at last, through utter despair, I longed to go out. The noble grounds were there, high hills from which the wide sea was visible—that sea which shall be associated with his memory till I die. A great longing came over me to look upon its wide expanse, and feed my soul with old and dear memories. There it would lie, the same sea from which he so often saved me, over which we sailed till he laid down his noble life at my feet, and I gave back that life to him again.

I used to ascend a hill which was half a mile behind the Hall within the grounds, and pass whole days there unmolested. No one took the trouble to notice what I did, at least I thought so till afterward. There for months I used to go. I would sit and look fixedly upon the blue water, and my imagination would carry me far away to the South, to that island on the African shore, where he once reclined in my arms, before the day when I learned that my touch was pollution to him—to that island where I afterward knelt by him as he lay senseless, slowly coming back to life, when if I might but touch the hem of his garment it was bliss enough for one day. Ah me, how often I have wet his feet with my tears—poor, emaciated feet—and longed to be able to wipe them with my hair, but dared not. He lay unconscious. He never knew the anguish of my love.

Then I was less despairing. The air around was filled with the echo of his voice; I could shut my eyes, and bring him before me. His face was always visible to my soul.

One day the idea came into my head to extend my ramble into the country outside, in order to get a wider view. I went to the gate.

The porter came out and asked what I wanted. I told him.

“You can’t go out,” said he, rudely.

“Why not?”

“Oh, them’s Potts’s orders—that’s enough, I think.”

“He never said so to me,” I replied, mildly.

“That’s no odds; he said so to me, and he told me if you made any row to tell you that you were watched, and might just as well give up at once.”

“Watched!” said I, wonderingly.

“Yes—for fear you’d get skittish, and try and do something foolish. Old Potts is bound to keep you under his thumb.”

I turned away. I did not care much. I felt more surprise than any thing else to think that he would take the trouble to watch me. Whether he did or not was of little consequence. If I could only be where I had the sea before me it was enough.

That day, on going back to the Hall, I saw John sitting on the piazza. A huge bull-dog which he used to take with him every where was lying at his feet. Just before I reached the steps a Malay servant came out of the house.

He was about the same age as John. I knew him to be a Malay when I first saw him, and concluded that my father had picked him up in the East. He was slight but very lithe and muscular, with dark glittering eyes and glistening white teeth. He never looked at me when I met him, but always at the ground, without seeming to be aware of my existence.

The Malay was passing out when John called out to him,

“Hi, there, Vijal!”

Vijal looked carelessly at him.

“Here!” cried John, in the tone with which he would have addressed his dog.

Vijal stopped carelessly.

“Pick up my hat, and hand it to me.”

His hat had fallen down behind him. Vijal stood without moving, and regarded him with an evil smile.

“D—n you, do you hear?” cried John. “Pick up my hat.”

But Vijal did not move.

“If you don’t, I’ll set the dog on you,” cried John, starting to his feet in a rage.

Still Vijal remained motionless.

“Nero!” cried John, furiously, pointing to Vijal, “seize him, Sir.”

The dog sprang up and at once leaped upon Vijal. Vijal warded off the assault with his arm. The dog seized it, and held on, as was his nature. Vijal did not utter a cry, but seizing the dog, he threw him on his back, and flinging himself upon him, fixed his own teeth in the dog’s throat.

John burst into a torrent of the most frightful curses. He ordered Vijal to let go of the dog. Vijal did not move; but while the dog’s teeth were fixed in his arm, his own were still fixed as tenaciously in the throat of the dog.

John sprang forward and kicked him with frightful violence. He leaped on him and stamped on him. At last, Vijal drew a knife from his girdle and made a dash at John. This frightened John, who fell back cursing. Vijal then raised his head.

The dog lay motionless. He was dead. Vijal sat down, his arm running blood, with the knife in his hand, still glaring at John.

During this frightful scene I stood rooted to the spot in horror. At last the sight of Vijal’s suffering roused me. I rushed forward, and tearing the scarf from my neck, knelt down and reached out my hand to stanch the blood.

Vijal drew back. “Poor Vijal,” said I, “let me stop this blood. I can dress wounds. How you suffer!”

He looked at me in bewilderment. Surprise at hearing a kind word in this house of horror seemed to deprive him of speech. Passively he let me take his arm, and I bound it up as well as I could.

All this time John stood cursing, first me, and then Vijal. I said not a word, and Vijal did not seem to hear him, but sat regarding me with his fiery black eyes. When at last I had finished, he rose and still stood staring at me. I walked into the house.

John hurled a torrent of imprecations after me. The last words that I heard were the same as he had said once before. “You’ve got to be took down; and I’ll be d—d if you don’t get took down precious soon!”

I told Mrs. Compton of what had happened. As usual, she was seized with terror. She looked at me with a glance of fearful apprehension. At last she gasped out:

“They’ll kill you.”

“Let them,” said I, carelessly; “it would be better than living.”

“Oh dear!” groaned the poor old thing, and sank sobbing in a chair. I did what I could to soothe her, but to little purpose. She afterward told me that Vijal had escaped further punishment in spite of John’s threats, and hinted that they were half afraid of him.

The next day, on attempting to go out, Philips told me that I was not to be permitted to leave the house. I considered it the result of John’s threat, and yielded without a word.

After this I had to seek distraction from my thoughts within the house. Now there came over me a great longing for music. Once, when in the drawing-room on that famous evening of the abortive fête, which was the only time I ever was there, I had noticed a magnificent grand piano of most costly workmanship. The thought of this came to my mind, and an unconquerable desire to try it arose. So I went down and began to play.

It was a little out of tune, but the tone was marvelously full and sweet. I threw myself with indescribable delight into the charm of the hour. All the old joy which music once used to bring came back. Imagination, stimulated by the swelling harmonies, transported me far away from this prison-house and its hateful associations to that happier time of youth when not a thought of sorrow came over me. I lost myself therein. Then that passed, that life vanished, and the sea-voyage began. The thoughts of my mind and the emotions of my heart passed down to the quivering chords and trembled into life and sound.

I do not know how long I had been playing when suddenly I heard a sob behind me. I started and turned. It was Philips.

He was standing with tears in his eyes and a rapt expression on his emaciated face, his hands hanging listless, and his whole air that of one who had lost all senses save that of hearing. But as I turned and stopped, the spell that bound him was broken. He sighed and looked at me earnestly.

{Illustration: “I STOOD LOOKING AT HIM WITH A GAZE SO FIXED AND INTENSE THAT IT SEEMED AS IF ALL MY BEING WERE CENTERED IN MY EYES."}

“Can you sing?”

“Would you like me to do so?”

“Yes,” he said, in a faint imploring voice.

I began a low song—a strain associated with that same childhood of which I had just been thinking—a low, sad strain, sweet to my ears and to my soul; it spoke of peace and innocence, quiet home joys, and calm delights. My own mind brought before me the image of the house where I had lived, with the shadow of great trees around, and gorgeous flowers every where, where the sultry air breathed soft, and beneath the hot noon all men sank to rest and slumber.

When I stopped I turned again. Philips had not changed his attitude. But as I turned he uttered an exclamation and tore out his watch.

“Oh, Heavens!—two hours!” he exclaimed. “He’ll kill me for this.”

With these words he rushed out of the room.

I kept up my music for about ten days, when one day it was stopped forever. I was in the middle of a piece when I heard heavy footsteps behind me. I turned and saw my father. I rose and looked at him with an effort to be respectful. It was lost on him, however. He did not glance at me.

“I came up to say to you,” said he, after a little hesitation, “that I can’t stand this infernal squall and clatter any longer. So in future you just shut up.”

He turned and left me. I closed the piano forever, and went to my room.

The year ended, and a new year began. January passed away. My melancholy began to affect my health. I scarcely ever slept at night, and to eat was difficult. I hoped that I was going to die. Alas! death will not come when one calls. One day I was in my room lying on the couch when Mrs. Compton came. On entering she looked terrified about something. She spoke in a very agitated voice: “They want you down stairs.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Potts and John.”

“Well,” said I, and I prepared to get ready.

“When do they want me?”

“Now,” said Mrs. Compton, who by this time was crying.

“Why are you so agitated?” I asked.

“I am afraid for you.”

“Why so? Can any thing be worse?”

“Ah, my dearest! you don’t know—you don’t know.”

I said nothing more, but went down. On entering the room I saw my father and John seated at a table with brandy before them. A third man was there. He was a thick-set man of about the same height of my father, but more muscular, with a strong, square jaw, thick neck, low brow, and stern face. My father did not show any actual ferocity in his face whatever he felt; but this man’s face expressed relentless cruelty.

On entering the room I walked up a little distance and stood looking at them.

“There, Clark; what do you think of that?” said my father.

The name, Clark, at once made known to me who this man was—that old associate of my father—his assistant on board the Vishnu. Yet the name did not add one whit to the abhorrence which I felt—my father was worse even than he.

The man Clark looked at me scrutinizingly for some time.

“So that’s the gal,” said he, at last.

“That’s the gal,” said my father.

Clark waved his hand at me. “Turn round sideways,” said he.

I looked at him quietly without moving. He repeated the order, but I took no notice of it.

“D—n her!” said he. “Is she deaf?”

“Not a bit of it,” said John; “but she’s plucky. She’d just as soon you’d kill her as not. There isn’t any way of moving her.”

“Turn round!” cried my father, angrily.

I turned as he said. “You see,” said he, with a laugh, “she’s been piously brought up; she honors her father.”

At this Clark burst into a loud laugh.

Some conversation followed about me as I stood there. Clark then ordered me to turn round and face him. I took no notice; but on my father’s ordering it, I obeyed as before. This appeared to amuse them all very greatly, just as the tricks of an intelligent poodle might have done. Clark gave me many commands on purpose to see my refusal, and have my father’s order which followed obeyed.

“Well,” said he, at last, leaning back in his chair, “she is a showy piece of furniture. Your idea isn’t a bad one either.”

He rose from his chair and came toward me. I stood looking at him with a gaze so fixed and intense that it seemed as if all my being were centred in my eyes.

He came up and reached out to take hold of my arm. I stepped back. He looked up angrily. But, for some reason, the moment that he caught sight of my face, an expression of fear passed over his.

“Heavens!” he groaned; “look at that face!” I saw my father look at me. The same horror passed over his countenance. An awful thought came to me. As these men turned their faces away from me in fear I felt my strength going. I turned and rushed from the room. I do not remember any thing more.

It was early in February when this occurred. Until the beginning of August I lay senseless. For the first four months I hovered faintly between life and death.

Why did they not let me die? Why did I not die? Alas! had I died I might now have been beyond this sorrow: I have waked to meet it all again.

Mrs. Compton says she found me on the floor of my own room, and that I was in a kind of stupor. I had no fever or delirium. A doctor came, who said it was a congestion of the brain. Thoughts like mine might well destroy the brain forever.

For a month I have been slowly recovering. I can now walk about the room. I know nothing of what is going on in the house, and wish to know nothing. Mrs. Compton is as devoted as ever.

I have got thus far, and will stop here. I have been several days writing this. I must stop till I am stronger.

CHAPTER XXV. — THE BYZANTINE HYMNISTS.

More than a year had passed since that visit to Thornton Grange which has already been mentioned. Despard had not forgotten or neglected the melancholy case of the Brandon family. He had written in all directions, and had gone on frequent visits.

On his return from one of these he went to the Grange. Mrs. Thornton was sitting in the drawing-room, looking pensively out of the window, when she saw his well-known figure advancing up the avenue. His face was sad, and pervaded by a melancholy expression, which was noticeable now as he walked along.

But when he came into the room that melancholy face suddenly lighted up with the most radiant joy. Mrs. Thornton advanced to meet him, and he took her hand in both of his.

“I ought to say, welcome back again,” said she, with forced liveliness, “but you may have been in Holby a week for all I know. When did you come back? Confess now that you have been secluding yourself in your study instead of paying your respects in the proper quarter.”

Despard smiled. “I arrived home at eleven this morning. It is now three P.M. by my watch. Shall I say how impatiently I have waited till three o’clock should come?

“Oh no! don’t say any thing of the sort. I can imagine all that you would say. But tell me where you have been on this last visit?”

“Wandering like an evil spirit, seeking rest and finding none.”

“Have you been to London again?”

“Where have I not been?”

By this time they had seated themselves.

“My last journey,” said Despard, “like my former ones, was, of course, about the Brandon affair. You know that I have had long conversations with Mr. Thornton about it, and he insists that nothing whatever can be done. But you know, also, that I could not sit down idly and calmly under this conviction. I have felt most keenly the presence of intolerable wrong. Every day I have felt as if I had shared in the infamy of those who neglected that dying man. That was the reason why I wrote to Australia to see if the Brandon who was drowned was really the one I supposed. I heard, you know, that he was the same man, and there is no doubt about that. Then you know, as I told you, that I went around among different lawyers to see if any thing could be done. Nearly all asserted that no redress was possible. That is what Mr. Thornton said. There was one who said that if I were rich enough I might begin a prosecution, but as I am not rich that did me no good. That man would have been glad, no doubt, to have undertaken such a task.”

“What is there in law that so hardens the heart?” said Mrs. Thornton, after a pause. “Why should it kill all sentiment, and destroy so utterly all the more spiritual qualities?”

“I don’t think that the law does this necessarily. It depends after all on the man himself. If I were a lawyer, I should still love music above all things.”

“But did you ever know a lawyer who loved music?”

“I have not known enough of them to answer that. But in England music is not loved so devotedly as in other countries. Is it inconceivable that an Italian lawyer should love music?”

“I don’t know. Law is abhorrent to me. It seems to be a profession that kills the finer sentiments.”

“Why so, more than medicine? The fact is where ordinary men are concerned any scientific profession renders Art distasteful. At least this is so in England. After all, most depends on the man himself, and, one who is born with a keen sensibility to the charms of art will carry it through life, whatever his profession may be.

“But suppose the man himself has neither taste, nor sensibility, nor any appreciation of the beautiful, nor any sympathy whatever with those who love such things, what then?”

Mrs. Thornton spoke earnestly as she asked this.

“Well,” said Despard, “that question answers itself. As a man is born, so he is; and if nature denies him taste or sensibility it makes no difference what is his profession.”

Mrs. Thornton made no reply.

“My last journey,” said Despard, “was about the Brandon case. I went to London first to see if something could not be done. I had been there before on the same errand, but without success. I was equally unsuccessful this time.

“I tried to find out about Potts, the man who had purchased the estate, but learned that it was necessary to go to the village of Brandon. I went there, and made inquiries. Without exception the people sympathized with the unfortunate family, and looked with detestation upon the man who had supplanted them.

“I heard that a young lady went there last year who was reputed to be his daughter. Every one said that she was extraordinarily beautiful, and looked like a lady. She stopped at the inn under the care of a gentleman who accompanied her, and went to the Hall. She has never come out of it since.

“The landlord told me that the gentleman was a pale, sad-looking man, with dark hair and beard. He seemed very devoted to the young lady, and parted with her in melancholy silence. His account of this young lady moved me very strangely. He was not at all a sentimental man, but a burly John Bull, which made his story all the more touching. It is strange, I must say, that one like her should go into that place and never be seen again. I do not know what to think of it, nor did any of those with whom I spoke in the village.”

“Do you suppose that she really went there and never came back?”

“That is what they say.”

“Then they must believe that she is kept there.”

“Yes, so they do.”

“Why do they not take some steps in the matter?”

“What can they do? She is his daughter. Some of the villagers who have been to the Hall at different times say that they heard her playing and singing.”

“That does not sound like imprisonment.”

“The caged bird sings.”

“Then you think she is a prisoner?”

“I think it odd that she has never come out, not even to go to church.”

“It is odd.”

“This man Potts excited sufficient interest in my mind to lead me to make many inquiries. I found, throughout the county, that every body utterly despised him. They all thought that poor Ralph Brandon had been almost mad, and, by his madness had ruined his family. Every body believed that Potts had somehow deceived him, but no one could tell how. They could not bring any direct proof against him.

“But I found out in Brandon the sad particulars of the final fate of the poor wife and her unfortunate children. They had been sent away or assisted away by this Potts to America, and had all died either on the way out or shortly after they had arrived, according to the villagers. I did not tell them what I knew, but left them to believe what they chose. It seemed to me that they must have received this information from Potts himself; who alone in that poor community would have been able to trace the fortunes of the unhappy emigrants.”

There was a long silence.

“I have done all that I could,” said Despard, in a disconsolate tone, “and I suppose nothing now remains to be done. When we hear again from Paolo there may be some new information upon which we can act.”

“And you can go back to your Byzantine poets.”

“Yes, if you will assist me.”

“You know I shall only be too happy.”

“And I shall be eternally grateful. You see, as I told you before, there is a field of labor here for the lover of music which is like a new world. I will give you the grandest musical compositions that you have ever seen. I will let you have the old hymns of the saints who lived when Constantinople was the only civilized spot in Europe, and the Christians there were hurling back the Mohammedans. You shall sing the noblest songs that you have ever seen.”

“How—in Greek? You must teach me the alphabet then.”

“No; I will translate them for you. The Greek hymns are all in rhythmical prose, like the Te Deum and the Gloria. A literal translation can be sung as well as the originals. You will then enter into the mind and spirit of the ancient Eastern Church before the days of the schism.

“Yes,” continued Despard, with an enthusiasm which he did not care to conceal, “we will go together at this sweet task, and we will sing the {Greek: cath castaen aemeran}, which holds the same place in the Greek Church that the Te Deum does in ours. We will chant together the Golden Canon of St. John Damascene—the Queen of Canons, the grandest song of ‘Christ is risen’ that mortals ever composed. Your heart and mine will beat together with one feeling at the sublime choral strain. We will sing the ‘Hymn of Victory.’ We will go together over the songs of St. Cosmas, St. Theophanes, and St. Theodore; St. Gregory, St. Anatobus, and St. Andrew of Crete shall inspire us; and the thoughts that have kindled the hearts of martyrs at the stake shall exalt our souls to heaven. But I have more than this. I have some compositions of my own; poor ones, indeed, yet an effort in the right way. They are a collection of those hymns of the Primitive Church which are contained in the New Testament. I have tried to set them to music. They are: ‘Worthy is the Lamb,’ ‘Unto Him that loved us,’ ‘Great and marvelous are thy works,’ and the ‘Trisagion.’ Yes, we will go together at this lofty and heavenly work, and I shall be able to gain a new interpretation from your sympathy.”

Despard spoke with a vehement enthusiasm that kindled his eyes with unusual lustre and spread a glow over his pale face. He looked like some devotee under a sudden inspiration. Mrs. Thornton caught all his enthusiasm; her eyes brightened, and her face also flushed with excitement.

“Whenever you are ready to lead me into that new world of music,” said she, “I am ready to follow.”

“Are you willing to begin next Monday?”

“Yes. All my time is my own.”

“Then I will come for you.”

“Then I will be waiting for you. By-the-way, are you engaged for to-night?”

“No; why?”

“There is going to be a fête champêtre. It is a ridiculous thing for the Holby people to do; but I have to go to play the patroness. Mr. Thornton does not want to go. Would you sacrifice yourself to my necessities, and allow me your escort?”

“Would a thirsty man be willing to accept a cooling draught?” said Despard, eagerly. “You open heaven before me, and ask me if I will enter.”

His voice trembled, and he paused.

“You never forget yourself,” said Mrs. Thornton, with slight agitation, looking away as she spoke.

“I will be back at any hour you say.”

“You will do no such thing. Since you are here you must remain and dine, and then go with me. Do you suppose I would trust you? Why, if I let you go, you might keep me waiting a whole hour.”

“Well, if your will is not law to me what is? Speak, and your servant obeys. To stay will only add to my happiness.”

“Then let me make you happy by forcing you to stay.”

Despard’s face showed his feelings, and to judge by its expression his language had not been extravagant.

The afternoon passed quietly. Dinner was served up. Thornton came in, and greeted Despard with his usual abstraction, leaving his wife to do the agreeable. After dinner, as usual, he prepared for a nap, and Despard and Mrs. Thornton started for the fête.

It was to be in some gardens at the other end of Holby, along the shore. The townspeople had recently formed a park there, and this was one of the preliminaries to its formal inauguration. The trees were hung with innumerable lamps of varied colors. There were bands of music, and triumphal arches, and gay festoons, and wreaths of flowers, and every thing that is usual at such a time.

On arriving, Despard assisted Mrs. Thornton from the carriage and offered his arm. She took it, but her hand rested so lightly on it that its touch was scarce perceptible. They walked around through the illuminated paths. Great crowds of people were there. All looked with respectful pleasure at Mrs. Thornton and the Rector.

“You ought to be glad that you have come,” said she. “See how these poor people feel it: we are not persons of very great consequence, yet our presence is marked and enjoyed.”

“All places are alike to me,” answered Despard, “when I am with you. Still, there are circumstances about this which will make it forever memorable to me.”

“Look at those lights,” exclaimed Mrs. Thornton, suddenly; “what varied colors!”

“Let us walk into that grotto,” said Despard, turning toward a cool, dark place which lay before them.

Here, at the end of the grotto, was a tree, at the foot of which was a seat. They sat down and staid for hours. In the distance the lights twinkled and music arose. They said little, but listened to the confused murmur which in the pauses of the music came up from afar.

Then they rose and walked back. Entering the principal path a great crowd streamed on which they had to face.

Despard sighed. “You and I,” said he, stooping low and speaking in a sad voice, “are compelled to go against the tide.”

“Shall we turn back and go with it?”

“We can not.”

“Do you wish to turn aside?”

“We can not. We must walk against the tide, and against the rush of men. If we turn aside there is nothing but darkness.”

They walked on in silence till they reached the gate.

“The carriage has not come,” said Mrs. Thornton.

“Do you prefer riding?”

“No.”

“It is not far. Will you walk?”

“With pleasure.”

They walked on slowly. About half-way they met the carriage. Mrs. Thornton ordered it back, saying that she would walk the rest of the way.

They walked on slowly, saying so little that at last Mrs. Thornton began to speak about the music which they had proposed to undertake. Despard’s enthusiasm seemed to have left him. His replies were vague and general. On reaching the gate he stood still for a moment under the trees and half turned toward her. “You don’t say any thing about the music?” said she.

“That’s because I am so stupid. I have lost my head. I am not capable of a single coherent idea.”

“You are thinking of something else all the time.”

“My brain is in a whirl. Yes, I am thinking of something else.”

“Of what?”

“I’m afraid to say.”

Mrs. Thornton was silent. They entered the gate and walked up the avenue, slowly and in silence. Despard made one or two efforts to stop, and then continued. At last they reached the door. The lights were streaming brightly from window. Despard stood, silently.

“Will you not come in?”

“No, thank you,” said he, dreamily. “It is rather too late, and I must go. Good-night.”

He held out his hand. She offered hers, and he took it. He held it long, and half stooped as though he wished to say something. She felt the throbbing of his heart in his hand as it clasped hers. She said nothing. Nor did Despard seem able to say any thing. At last he let go her hand slowly and reluctantly.

“You will not forget the music?” said he.

“No.”

“Good-night.”

He took her hand again in both of his. As the light shone through the windows she saw his face—a face full of longing beyond words, and sadness unutterable.

“Good-night,” she faltered.

He let go her hand, and turning away, was lost amidst the gloom. She waited till the sound of his footsteps had died away, and then went into the house.

On the following morning Despard was walking along when he met her suddenly at a corner of the street. He stopped with a radiant face, and shaking hands with her, for a moment was unable to speak.

“This is too much happiness,” he said at last. “It is like a ray of light to a poor captive when you burst upon me so suddenly. Where are you going?”

“Oh, I’m only going to do a little shopping.”

“I’m sure I wish that I could accompany you to protect you.”

“Well, why not?”

“On the whole, I think that shopping is not my forte, and that my presence would not be essential.”

He turned, however, and walked with her some distance, as far as the farthest shop in the town. They talked gayly and pleasantly about the fête. “You will not forget the music,” said he, on parting. “Will you come next Monday? If you don’t, I won’t be responsible for the consequences.”

“Do you mean to say, Sir, that you expect me to come alone?”

“I did not hope for any thing else.”

“Why, of course, you must call for me. If you do not I won’t go.”

Despard’s eyes brightened.

“Oh, then, since you allow me so sweet a privilege, I will go and accompany you.”

“If you fail me I will stay at home,” said she, laughingly.

He did not fail her, but at the appointed time went up to the Grange. Some strangers were there, and Mrs. Thornton gave him a look of deep disappointment. The strangers were evidently going to spend the day, so Despard, after a short call, withdrew. Before he left, Mrs. Thornton absented herself on some pretext for a few moments, and as he quitted the room she went to the door with him and gave him a note.

He walked straight home, holding the note in his hands till he reached his study; then he locked himself in, opened the note, and read as follows:

“DEAR MR. DESPARD,—How does it happen that things turn out just as they ought not? I was so anxious to go with you to the church to-day about our music. I know my own powers; they are not contemptible; they are not uncultivated; they are simply, and wholly, and irretrievably commonplace. That much I deem it my duty to inform you.

“These wretched people, who have spoiled a day’s pleasure, dropped upon me as suddenly as though they had come from the skies. They leave on Thursday morning. Come on Thursday afternoon. If you do not I will never forgive you. On that day give up your manuscripts and books for music and the organ, and allot some portion of your time to, Yours,

“T.T.”

On Thursday Despard called, and Mrs. Thornton was able to accompany him. The church was an old one, and had one of the best organs in Wales. Despard was to play and she to sing. He had his music ready, and the sheets were carefully and legibly written out from the precious old Greek scores which he loved so dearly and prized so highly.

They began with the canon for Easter-day of St. John Damascene, who, according to Despard, was the best of the Eastern hymnists. Mrs. Thornton’s voice was rich and full. As she came to the {Greek: anastaseos haemera}—Resurrection Day—it took up a tone of indescribable exaltation, blending with the triumph peal of the organ. Despard added his own voice—a deep, strong, full-toned basso—and their blended strains bore aloft the sublimest of utterances, “Christ is arisen!”

{Illustration: AND THEIR BLENDED STRAINS BORE ALOFT THE SUBLIMEST OF UTTERANCES, ‘CHRIST IS ARISEN’}

Then followed a more mournful chant, full of sadness and profound melancholy, the {Greek: teleutaion aspasmon}—the Last Kiss—the hymn of the dead, by the same poet.

Then followed a sublimer strain, the hymn of St. Theodore on the Judgment—{Greek: taen haemeran taen phriktaen}—where all the horrors of the day of doom are set forth. The chant was commensurate with the dread splendors of the theme. The voices of the two singers blended in perfect concord. The sounds which were thus wrought out bore themselves through the vaulted aisles, returning again to their own ears, imparting to their own hearts something of the awe with which imagination has enshrouded the Day of days, and giving to their voices that saddened cadence which the sad spirit can convey to its material utterance.

Despard then produced some composition of his own, made after the manner of the Eastern chants, which he insisted were the primitive songs of the early Church. The words were those fragments of hymns which are imbedded in the text of the New Testament. He chose first the song of the angels, which was first sung by “a great voice out of heaven”—{Greek: idou, hae skaenae tou Deou}—Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men!

The chant was a marvelous one. It spoke of sorrow past, of grief stayed, of misery at an end forever, of tears dried, and a time when “there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying.” There was a gentle murmur in the flow of that solemn, soothing strain which was like the sighing of the evening wind among the hoary forest trees; it soothed and comforted; it brought hope, and holy calm, and sweet peace.

As Despard rose from the organ Mrs. Thornton looked at him with moistened eyes.

“I do not know whether your song brings calm or unrest,” said she, sadly, “but after singing it I would wish to die.”

“It is not the music, it is the words,” answered Despard, “which bring before us a time when there shall be no sorrow or sighing.”

“May such a time ever be?” murmured she.

“That,” he replied, “it is ours to aim after. There is such a world. In that world all wrongs will be righted, friends will be reunited, and those severed here through all this earthly life will be joined for evermore.”

Their eyes met. Their spirit lived and glowed in that gaze. It was sad beyond expression, but each one held commune with the other in a mute intercourse, more eloquent than words.

Despard’s whole frame trembled. “Will you sing the Ave Maria?” he asked, in a low, scarce audible voice. Her head dropped. She gave a convulsive sigh. He continued: “We used to sing it in the old days, the sweet, never-forgotten days now past forever. We sang it here. We stood hand in hand.”

His voice faltered.

“Sing,” he said, after a time.

“I can not”

Despard sighed. “Perhaps it is better not; for I feel as though, if you were to sing it, my heart would break.”

“Do you believe that hearts can break?” she asked gently, but with indescribable pathos.

Despard looked at her mournfully, and said not a word.