Cord and Creese

by James De Mille

  CHAPTER XVII.

  THE SHADOW OF THE AFRICAN FOREST.

  Let us return to the castaways.

  It was morning on the coast of Africa--Africa the mysterious, theinhospitable Africa, _leonum arida nutrix_.

  There was a little harbor into which flowed a shallow, sluggish river,while on each side rose high hills. In front of the harbor was an islandwhich concealed and protected it.

  Here the palm-trees grew. The sides rose steeply, the summit was lofty,and the towering palms afforded a deep, dense shade. The grass was fineand short, and being protected from the withering heat was as fine asthat of an English lawn. Up the palm-trees there climbed a thousandparasitic plants, covered with blossoms--gorgeous, golden, rich beyondall description. Birds of starry plumage flitted through the air, asthey leaped from tree to tree, uttering a short, wild note; through thespreading branches sighed the murmuring breeze that came from off theocean; round the shore the low tones of the gently-washing surf wereborne as it came in in faint undulations from the outer sea.

  Underneath the deepest shadow of the palms lay Brandon. He had lostconsciousness when he fell from the boat; and now for the first time heopened his eyes and looked around upon the scene, seeing these sightsand hearing the murmuring sounds.

  In front of him stood Beatrice, looking with dropped eyelids at thegrass, her arms half folded before her, her head uncovered, her hairbound by a sort of fillet around the crown, and then gathered in greatblack curling masses behind. Her face was pale as usual, and had thesame marble whiteness which always marked it. That face was now pensiveand sad; but there was no weakness there. Its whole expression showedmanifestly the self-contained soul, the strong spirit evenly-poised,willing and able to endure.

  Brandon raised himself on one arm and looked wonderingly around. Shestarted. A vivid flash of joy spread over her face in one bright smile.She hurried up and knelt down by him.

  "Do not move--you are weak," she said, as tenderly as a mother to a sickchild.

  Brandon looked at her fixedly for a long time without speaking. Sheplaced her cool hand on his forehead. His eyes closed as though therewere a magnetic power in her touch. After a while, as she removed herhand, he opened his eyes again. He took her hand and held it ferventlyto his lips. "I know," said he, in a low, dreamy voice, "who you are,and who I am--but nothing more. I know that I have lost all memory; thatthere has been some past life of great sorrow; but I can not think whatthat sorrow is--I know that there has been some misfortune, but I cannot remember what."

  Beatrice smiled sadly. "It will all come to you in time."

  "At first when I waked," he murmured, "and looked around on this scene,I thought that I had at last entered the spirit-world, and that you hadcome with me; and I felt a deep joy that I can never express. But I see,and I know now, that I am yet on the earth. Though what shore of all theearth this is, or how I got here, I know not."

  "You must sleep," said she, gently.

  "And you--you--you," he murmured, with indescribable intensity--"you,companion, preserver, guardian angel--I feel as though, if I were not aman, I could weep my life out at your feet."

  "Do not weep," said she, calmly. "The time for tears may yet come; butit is not now."

  He looked at her, long, earnestly, and inquiringly, still holding herhand, which he had pressed to his lips. An unutterable longing to asksomething was evident; but it was checked by a painful embarrassment.

  "I know nothing but this," said he at last, "that I have felt as thoughsailing for years over infinite seas. Wave after wave has been impellingus on. A Hindu servant guided the boat. But I lay weak, with my headsupported by you, and your arms around me. Yet, of all the days and allthe years that ever I have known, these were supreme, for all thetime was one long ecstasy. And now, if there is sorrow before me,"he concluded, "I will meet it resignedly, for I have had my heavenalready."

  "You have sailed over seas," said she, sadly; "but I was the helplessone, and you saved me from death."

  "And are you--to me--what I thought?" he asked, with painful vehemenceand imploring eyes.

  "I am your nurse," said she, with a melancholy smile.

  He sighed heavily. "Sleep now," said she, and she again placed her handupon his forehead. Her touch soothed him. Her voice arose in a low songof surpassing sweetness. His senses yielded to the subtle incantation,and sleep came to him as he lay.

  When he awaked it was almost evening. Lethargy was still over him, andBeatrice made him sleep again. He slept into the next day. On wakingthere was the same absence of memory. She gave him some cordial todrink, and the draught revived him. Now he was far stronger, and he satup, leaning against a tree, while Beatrice knelt near him. He looked ather long and earnestly.

  "I would wish never to leave this place, but to stay here," said he. "Iknow nothing of my past life. I have drunk of Lethe. Yet I can not helpstruggling to regain knowledge of that past."

  He put his hand in his bosom, as if feeling for some relic.

  "I have something suspended about my neck," said he, "which is precious.Perhaps I shall know what it is after a time."

  Then, after a pause, "Was there not a wreck?" he asked.

  "Yes; and you saved my life."

  "Was there not a fight with pirates?"

  "Yes; and you saved my life," said Beatrice again.

  "I begin to remember," said Brandon. "How long is it since the wrecktook place?"

  "It was January 15."

  "And what is this?"

  "February 6. It is about three weeks."

  "How did I get away?"

  "In a boat with me and the servant."

  "Where is the servant?"

  "Away providing for us. You had a sun-stroke. He carried you up here."

  "How long have I been in this place?"

  "A fortnight."

  Numerous questions followed. Brandon's memory began to return. Yet, inhis efforts to regain knowledge of himself, Beatrice was still the mostprominent object in his thoughts. His dream-life persisted in minglingitself with his real life.

  "But you," he cried, earnestly--"you, how have you endured all this? Youare weary; you have worn yourself out for me. What can I ever do to showmy gratitude? You have watched me night and day. Will you not have morecare of your own life?"

  The eyes of Beatrice kindled with a soft light. "What is my life?" saidshe. "Do I not owe it over and over again to you? But I deny that I amworn out."

  Brandon looked at her with earnest, longing eyes. His recovery wasrapid. In a few days he was able to go about. Cato procured fish fromthe waters and game from the woods, so as to save the provisions of theboat, and they looked forward to the time when they might resume theirjourney. But to Brandon this thought was repugnant, and an hourlystruggle now went on within him. Why should he go to England? What couldhe do? Why should he ever part from her?

  "Oh, to burst all links of habit, and to wander far away, On from island unto island at the gateways of the day!"

  In her presence he might find peace, and perpetual rapture in her smile.

  In the midst of such meditations as these her voice once arose fromafar. It was one of her own songs, such as she could improvise. It spokeof summer isles amidst the sea; of soft winds and spicy breezes; ofeternal rest beneath over-shadowing palms. It was a soft, meltingstrain--a strain of enchantment, sung by one who felt the intoxicationof the scene, and whose genius imparted it to others. He was likeUlysses listening to the song of the sirens. It seemed to him as thoughall nature there joined in that marvelous strain. It was to him asthough the very winds were lulled into calm, and a delicious languorstole upon all his senses.

  "Sweet, sweet, sweet, god Pan, Sweet in the fields by the river, Blinding sweet, oh great god Pan, The sun on the hills forgot to die, And the lily revived, and the dragon-fly Came back to dream by the river."

  It was the [Greek: meligaerun opa], the [Greek: opa kallimon] of thesirens.

  For she had that divine voice which of
itself can charm the soul; but,in addition, she had that poetic genius which of itself could give wordswhich the music might clothe.

  Now, as he saw her at a distance through the trees and marked thestatuesque calm of her classic face, as she stood there, seeming in hersong rather to soliloquize than to sing, breathing forth her music "inprofuse strains of unpremeditated art," the very beauty of the singerand the very sweetness of the song put an end to all temptation.

  "This is folly," he thought. "Could one like that assent to my wildfancy? Would she, with her genius, give up her life to me? No; thatdivine music must be heard by larger numbers. She is one who thinks shecan interpret the inspiration of Mozart and Handel. And who am I?"

  Then there came amidst this music a still small voice, like the voice ofthose helpless ones at home; and this voice seemed one of entreaty andof despair. So the temptation passed. But it passed only to be renewedagain. As for Beatrice, she seemed conscious of no such effect as this.Calmly and serenely she bore herself, singing as she thought, as thebirds sing, because she could not help it. Here she was like one ofthe classic nymphs--like the genius of the spot--like Calypso, onlypassionless.

  Now, the more Brandon felt the power of her presence the more he tookrefuge within himself, avoiding all dangerous topics, speaking only ofexternal things, calling upon her to sing of loftier themes, such asthose "_cieli immensi_" of which she had sung when he first heard her.Thus he fought down the struggles of his own heart, and crushed outthose rising impulses which threatened to sweep him helplessly away.

  As for Beatrice herself she seemed changeless, moved by no passion andswayed by no impulse. Was she altogether passionless, or was this hermatchless self-control? Brandon thought that it was her nature, and thatshe, like her master Langhetti, found in music that which satisfied allpassion and all desire.

  In about a fortnight after his recovery from his stupor they were readyto leave. The provisions in the boat were enough for two weeks' sail.Water was put on board, and they bade adieu to the island which hadsheltered them.

  This time Beatrice would not let Brandon row while the sun was up. Theyrowed at night, and by day tried to get under the shadow of the shore.At last a wind sprang up; they now sailed along swiftly for two or threedays. At the end of that time they saw European houses, beyond whicharose some roofs and spires. It was Sierra Leone. Brandon's conjectureshad been right. On landing here Brandon simply said that they had beenwrecked in the _Falcon_, and had escaped on the boat, all the resthaving perished. He gave his name as Wheeler. The authorities receivedthese unfortunate ones with great kindness, and Brandon heard that aship would leave for England on the 6th of March.

  The close connection which had existed between them for so many weekswas now severed, and Brandon thought that this might perhaps remove thatextraordinary power which he felt that she exerted over him. Not so. Inher absence he found himself constantly looking forward toward a meetingwith her again. When with her he found the joy that flowed from herpresence to be more intense, since it was more concentrated. He began tofeel alarmed at his own weakness.

  The 6th of March came, and they left in the ship _Juno_ for London.

  Now their intercourse was like that of the old days on board the_Falcon_.

  "It is like the _Falcon_," said Beatrice, on the first evening. "Let usforget all about the journey over the sea, and our stay on the island."

  "I can never forget that I owe my life to you," said Brandon,vehemently.

  "And I," rejoined Beatrice, with kindling eyes, which yet were softenedby a certain emotion of indescribable tenderness--"I--how can I forget!Twice you saved me from a fearful death, and then you toiled to save mylife till your own sank under it."

  "I would gladly give up a thousand lives"--said Brandon, in a low voice,while his eyes were illumined with a passion which had never before beenpermitted to get beyond control, but now rose visibly, and irresistibly.

  "If you have a life to give," said Beatrice, calmly, returning hisfevered gaze with a full look of tender sympathy--"if you have a lifeto give, let it be given to that _purpose_ of yours to which you aredevoted."

  "You refuse it, then!" cried Brandon, vehemently and reproachfully.

  Beatrice returned his reproachful gaze with one equally reproachful, andraising her calm eyes to Heaven, said, in a tremulous voice,

  "You have no right to say so--least of all to _me_. I said what you feeland know; and it is this, that others require your life, in comparisonwith whom I am nothing. Ah, my friend," she continued, in tones ofunutterable sadness, "let us be friends here at least, on the sea, forwhen we reach England we must be separated for evermore!"

  "For evermore!" cried Brandon, in agony.

  "For evermore!" repeated Beatrice, in equal anguish.

  "Do you feel very eager to get to England?" asked Brandon, after a longsilence.

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I know that there is sorrow for me there."

  "If our boat had been destroyed on the shore of that island," he asked,in almost an imploring voice, "would you have grieved?"

  "No."

  "The present is better than the future. Oh, that my dream had continuedforever, and that I had never awaked to the bitterness of life!"

  "That," said Beatrice, with a mournful smile, "is a reproach to me forwatching you."

  "Yet that moment of awaking was sweet beyond all thought," continuedBrandon, in a musing tone, "for I had lost all memory of all thingsexcept you."

  They stood in silence, sometimes looking at one another, sometimes atthe sea, while the dark shadows of the Future swept gloomily beforetheir eyes.

  The voyage passed on until at last the English shores were seen, andthey sailed up the Channel amidst the thronging ships that pass to andfro from the metropolis of the world.

  "To-morrow we part," said Beatrice, as she stood with Brandon on thequarter-deck.

  "No," said Brandon; "there will be no one to meet you here. I must takeyou to your home."

  "To my home! You?" cried Beatrice, starting back. "You dare not."

  "I dare."

  "Do you know what it is?"

  "I do not seek to know. I do not ask; but yet I think I know."

  "And yet _you_ offer to go?"

  "I must go. I must see you to the very last."

  "Be it so," said Beatrice, in a solemn voice, "since it is the verylast."

  Suddenly she looked at him with the solemn gaze of one whose soul wasfilled with thoughts that overpowered every common feeling. It was aglance lofty and serene and unimpassioned, like that of some spiritwhich has passed beyond human cares, but sad as that of some prophet ofwoe.

  "Louis Brandon!"

  At this mention of his name a flash of unspeakable surprise passed overBrandon's face. She held out her hand. "Take my hand," said she, calmly,"and hold it so that I may have strength to speak."

  "Louis Brandon!" said she, "there was a time on that African island whenyou lay under the trees and I was sure that you were dead. There was nobeating to your heart, and no perceptible breath. The last test failed,the last hope left me, and I knelt by your head, and took you in myarms, and wept in my despair. At your feet Cato knelt and mourned in hisHindu fashion. Then mechanically and hopelessly he made a last trial tosee if you were really dead, so that he might prepare your grave. He puthis hand under your clothes against your heart. He held it there for along time. Your heart gave no answer. He withdrew it, and in doingso took something away that was suspended about your neck. This was ametallic case and a package wrapped in oiled silk. He gave them to me."

  Beatrice had spoken with a sad, measured tone--such a tone as onesometimes uses in prayer--a passionless monotone, without agitation andwithout shame.

  Brandon answered not a word.

  "Take my hand," she said, "or I can not go through. This only can giveme strength."

  He clasped it tightly in both of his. She drew a long breath, andcontinued:

  "I thought you dea
d, and knew the full measure of despair. Now, whenthese were given me, I wished to know the secret of the man who hadtwice rescued me from death, and finally laid down his life for my sake.I did it not through curiosity. I did it," and her voice rose slightly,with solemn emphasis--"I did it through a holy feeling that, since mylife was due to you, therefore, as yours was gone, mine should replaceit, and be devoted to the purpose which you had undertaken.

  "I opened first the metallic case. It was under the dim shade of theAfrican forest, and while holding on my knees the head of the man whohad laid down his life for me. You know what I read there. I read of afather's love and agony. I read there the name of the one who had drivenhim to death. The shadows of the forest grew darker around me; as thefull meaning of that revelation came over my soul they deepened intoblackness, and I fell senseless by your side.

  "I THOUGHT YOU DEAD, AND KNEW THE FULL MEASURE OFDESPAIR."]

  "Better had Cato left us both lying there to die, and gone off in theboat himself. But he revived me. I laid you down gently, and propped upyour head, but never again dared to defile you with the touch of one soinfamous as I.

  "There still remained the other package, which I read--how you reachedthat island, and how you got that MS., I neither know nor seek todiscover; I only know that all my spirit awaked within me as I readthose words. A strange, inexplicable feeling arose. I forgot all aboutyou and your griefs. My whole soul was fixed on the figure of thatbereaved and solitary man, who thus drifted to his fate. He seemed tospeak to me. A fancy, born out of frenzy, no doubt, for all that horrorwell-nigh drove me mad--a fancy came to me that this voice, which hadcome from a distance of eighteen years, had spoken to me; a wild fancy,because I was eighteen years old, that therefore I was connected withthese eighteen years, filled my whole soul. I thought that this MS. wasmine, and the other one yours. I read it over and over, and over yetagain, till every word forced itself into my memory--till you and yoursorrows sank into oblivion beside the woes of this man.

  "I sat near you all that night. The palms sighed in the air. I dared nottouch you. My brain whirled. I thought I heard voices out at sea, andfigures appeared in the gloom. I thought I saw before me the form ofColonel Despard. He looked at me with sadness unutterable, yet with softpity and affection, and extended his hand as though to bless me. Madderfancies than ever then rushed through my brain. But when morning cameand the excitement had passed I knew that I had been delirious.

  "When that morning came I went over to look at you. To my amazement,you were breathing. Your life was renewed of itself. I knelt down andpraised God for this, but did not dare to touch you. I folded up thetreasures, and told Cato to put them again around your neck. Then Iwatched you till you recovered.

  "But on that night, and after reading those MSS., I seemed to havepassed into another stage of being. I can say things to you now which Iwould not have dared to say before, and strength is given me to tell youall this before we part for evermore.

  "I have awakened to infamy; for what is infamy if it be not this, tobear the name I bear? Something more than pride or vanity has been thefoundation of that feeling of shame and hate with which I have alwaysregarded it. And I have now died to my former life, and awakened to anew one.

  "Louis Brandon, the agonies which may be suffered by those whom you seekto avenge I can conjecture but I wish never to hear. I pray God thatI may never know what it might break my heart to learn. You must savethem, you must also avenge them. You are strong, and you are implacable.When you strike your blow will be crushing.

  "But I must go and bear my lot among those you strike; I will wait onamong them, sharing their infamy and their fate. When your blow fallsI will not turn away. I will think of those dear ones of yours who havesuffered, and for their sakes will accept the blow of revenge."

  Brandon had held her hand in silence, and with a convulsive pressureduring these words. As she stopped she made a faint effort to withdrawit. He would not let her. He raised it to his lips and pressed it there.

  Three times he made an effort to speak, and each time failed. At last,with a strong exertion, he uttered, in a hoarse voice and broken tones,

  "Oh, Beatrice! Beatrice! how I love you!"

  "I know it," said she, in the same monotone which she had used before--atone of infinite mournfulness--"I have known it long, and I would sayalso, 'Louis Brandon, I love you,' if it were not that this would be thelast infamy; that you, Brandon, of Brandon Hall, should be loved by onewho bears my name."

  The hours of the night passed away. They stood watching the Englishshores, speaking little. Brandon clung to her hand. They were sailing upthe Thames. It was about four in the morning.

  "We shall soon be there," said he; "sing to me for the last time. Sing,and forget for a moment that we must part."

  Then, in a low voice, of soft but penetrating tones, which thrilledthrough every fibre of Brandon's being. Beatrice began to sing:

  "Love made us one: our unity Is indissoluble by act of thine, For were this mortal being ended, And our freed spirits in the world above, Love, passing o'er the grave, would join us there, As once he joined us here: And the sad memory of the life below Would but unite as closer evermore. No act of thine may loose Thee from the eternal bond, Nor shall Revenge have power To disunite us _there_!"

  On that same day they landed in London. The Governor's lady at SierraLeone had insisted on replenishing Beatrice's wardrobe, so that sheshowed no appearance of having gone through the troubles which hadafflicted her on sea and shore.

  Brandon took her to a hotel and then went to his agent's. He alsoexamined the papers for the last four months. He read in the morningjournals a notice which had already appeared of the arrival of the shipoff the Nore, and the statement that three of the passengers of the_Falcon_ had reached Sierra Leone. He communicated to the owners ofthe _Falcon_ the particulars of the loss of the ship, and earned theirthanks, for they were able to get their insurance without waiting ayear, as is necessary where nothing is heard of a missing vessel.

  He traveled with Beatrice by rail and coach as far as the village ofBrandon. At the inn he engaged a carriage to take her up to her father'shouse. It was Brandon Hall, as he very well knew.

  But little was said during all this time. Words were useless. Silenceformed the best communion for them. He took her hand at parting. Shespoke not a word; his lips moved, but no audible sound escaped. Yet intheir eyes as they fastened themselves on one another in an intense gazethere was read all that unutterable passion of love, of longing, and ofsorrow that each felt.

  The carriage drove off. Brandon watched it. "Now farewell. Love,forever," he murmured, "and welcome Vengeance!"