Cord and Creese Part 25

"What is it?"

"I am afraid to p.r.o.nounce 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 ma.n.u.script 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 G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d bless my little sister's husband, and fill his heart with love for the sweetest of children!

"Read this ma.n.u.script 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 pa.s.sage in the s.h.i.+p _Tec.u.mseh_ 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+ps 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 G.o.d! 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 pa.s.sengers! 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 s.h.i.+p put them on board, and he was employed to take them to their proper destination. My G.o.d! 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 cla.s.s. 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 cla.s.sic 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 cla.s.sic, this one is medieval. Bice is a G.o.ddess, 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 pa.s.sengers, separated by the wide gulf of superior rank, for they are manifestly from among the upper cla.s.ses, 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 grat.i.tude, as though kindness and sympathy were unknown to her. "G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+p. 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 grat.i.tude. 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 a.s.sured 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 G.o.d!" was her e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n.

"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 G.o.d! 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 s.h.i.+p. The dread pestilence known as "s.h.i.+p-fever" has appeared. This disease is the terror of emigrant s.h.i.+ps.

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 pa.s.sengers, and have witnessed their misery. Is G.o.d 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 a.s.sisting 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 pa.s.sengers 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. s.h.i.+p almost unmanageable. In the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Talk of putting into some port. Seventy pa.s.sengers dead.

August 2.--Worse yet. Disease has spread into the cabin. Three cabin pa.s.sengers dead. G.o.d have mercy upon poor Mrs. Brandon and sweet Edith!

All the steerage pa.s.sengers, with a few exceptions, prostrate. Frank Brandon is weak but helps me. I work night and day. The s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p. Captain and mate both dead. Ten cabin pa.s.sengers dead. Three more sailors dead.