Cord and Creese Part 51

"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 a.s.sociate of my father--his a.s.sistant 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 pa.s.sed over his.

"Heavens!" he groaned; "look at that face!" I saw my father look at me.

The same horror pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.serted 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.