Cord and Creese Part 54

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 ma.n.u.scripts 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 ba.s.so--and their blended strains bore aloft the sublimest of utterances, "Christ is arisen!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 G.o.d 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 h.o.a.ry 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.

CHAPTER XXVI.

CLASPED HANDS.

Their singing went on.

They used to meet once a week and sing in the church at the organ.

Despard always went up to the Grange and accompanied her to the church.

Yet he scarcely ever went at any other time. A stronger connection and a deeper familiarity arose between them, which yet was accompanied by a profound reverence on Despard's part, that never diminished, but as the familiarity increased only grew more tender and more devoted.

There were many things about their music which he had to say to her. It const.i.tuted a common bond between them on which they could talk, and to which they could always revert. It formed a medium for the communion of soul--a lofty, spiritual intercourse, where they seemed to blend, even as their voices blended, in a purer realm, free from the trouble of earth.

Amidst it all Despard had so much to tell her about the nature of the Eastern music that he wrote out a long letter, which he gave her they parted after an unusually lengthy practice. Part of it was on the subject of music, and the rest of a different character.

The next time that they met she gave him a note in response.

"DEAR MR. DESPARD--Why am I not a seraph endowed with musical powers beyond mortal reach? You tell me many things, and never seem to imagine that they are all beyond me. You never seem to think that I am hopelessly commonplace. You are kind in doing what you do, but where is the good where one is so stupid as I am?

"I suppose you have given up visiting the Grange forever. I don't call your coming to take me to the church _visits_. I suppose I may as well give you up. It is as difficult to get you here as if you were the Grand Lama of Thibet.

"Amidst all my stupidities I have two or three ideas which may be useful in our music, if I can only put them in practice. Bear with me, and deal gently with

"Yours, despondingly,

"T. T."

To this Despard replied in a note which he gave her at their next meeting, calling her "Dear Seraph," and signing himself "Grand Lama."

After this they always called each other by these names. Grand Lama was an odd name, but it became the sweetest of sounds to Despard since it was uttered by her lips--the sweetest, the most musical, and the tenderest. As to himself he knew not what to call this dear companion of his youth, but the name Seraph came into use, and grew to be a.s.sociated with her, until at last he never called her any thing else.

Yet after this he used to go to the Grange more frequently. He could not stay away. His steps wandered there irresistibly. An uncontrollable impulse forced him there. She was always alone awaiting him, generally with a sweet confusion of face and a tenderness of greeting which made him feel ready to fall on his knees before her. How else could he feel?

Was she not always in his thoughts? Were not all his sleeping hours one long dream of her? Were not all his waiting thoughts filled with her radiant presence?

"How is it under our control To love or not to love?"

Did he know what it was that he felt for her? He never thought. Enough that he felt. And that feeling was one long agony of intense longing and yearning after her. Had not all his life been filled by that one bright image?

Youth gave it to him. After-years could not efface it. The impress of her face was upon his heart. Her voice was always in his ears. Every word that she had ever spoken to him was treasured up in his memory and heart with an avarice of love which prevented any one word from even being forgotten.

At church and at home, during service and out of it, in the street or in the study, he saw only one face, and heard only one voice. Amidst the bustle of committee meetings he was conscious of her image--a sweet face smiling on him, a tender voice saying "Lama." Was there ever so musical and so dear a word as "Lama?" For him, never.

The hunger of his longing grew stronger every day. That strong, proud, self-secluded nature of his was most intense in all its feelings, and dwelt with concentrated pa.s.sion upon this one object of its idolatry. He had never had any other object but this one.