Cord and Creese

by James De Mille

  CHAPTER XXXV.

  BEATRICE'S RECOVERY.

  It was not easy for the overtasked and overworn powers of Beatrice torally. Weeks passed before she opened her eyes to a recognition of theworld around her. It was March when she sank down by the road-side.It was June when she began to recover from the shock of the terribleexcitement through which she had passed.

  Loving hearts sympathized with her, tender hands cared for her, vigilanteyes watched her, and all that love and care could do were unremittinglyexerted for her benefit.

  As Beatrice opened her eyes after her long unconsciousness she lookedaround in wonder, recognizing nothing. Then they rested in equal wonderupon one who stood by her bedside.

  She was slender and fragile in form, with delicate features, whose finelines seemed rather like ideal beauty than real life. The eyes werelarge, dark, lustrous, and filled with a wonderful but mournful beauty.Yet all the features, so exquisite in their loveliness, were transcendedby the expression that dwelt upon them. It was pure, it was spiritual,it was holy. It was the face of a saint, such a face as appears tothe rapt devotee when fasting has done its work, and the quickenedimagination grasps at ideal forms till the dwellers in heaven seem tobecome visible.

  In her confused mind Beatrice at first had a faint fancy that she wasin another state of existence, and that the form before her was one ofthose pure intelligences who had been appointed to welcome her there.Perhaps there was some such thought visible upon her face, for thestranger came up to her noiselessly, and stooping down, kissed her.

  "You are among friends," said she, in a low, sweet voice. "You have beensick long."

  "Where am I?"

  "Among loving friends," said the other, "far away from the place whereyou suffered."

  Beatrice sighed.

  "I hoped that I had passed away forever," she murmured.

  "Not yet, not yet," said the stranger, in a voice of tender yet mournfulsweetness, which had in it an unfathomable depth of meaning. "We mustwait on here, dear friend, till it be His will to call us."

  "And who are you?" asked Beatrice, after a long and anxious look at theface of the speaker.

  "My name is Edith Brandon," said the other, gently.

  "Brandon!--Edith Brandon!" cried Beatrice, with a vehemence whichcontrasted strangely with the scarce-audible words with which she hadjust spoken.

  The stranger smiled with the same melancholy sweetness which she hadshown before.

  "Yes," said she; "but do not agitate yourself, dearest."

  "And have you nursed me?"

  "Partly. But you are in the house of one who is like an angel in herloving care of you."

  "But you--you?" persisted Beatrice; "you did not perish, then, as theysaid?"

  "No," replied the stranger; "it was not permitted me."

  "Thank God!" murmured Beatrice, fervently. "_He_ has one sorrow less.Did _he_ save you?"

  "He," said Edith, "of whom you speak does not know that I am alive, nordo I know where he is. Yet some day we will perhaps meet. And now youmust not speak. You will agitate yourself too much. Here you have thosewho love you. For the one who brought you here is one who would lay downhis life for yours, dearest--he is Paolo Langhetti."

  "Langhetti!" said Beatrice. "Oh, God be thanked!"

  "And she who has taken you to her heart and home is his sister."

  "His sister Teresa, of whom he used to speak so lovingly? Ah! God iskinder to me than I feared. Ah, me! it is as though I had died and haveawaked in heaven."

  "But now I will speak no more, and you must speak no more, for you willonly increase your agitation. Rest, and another time you can ask whatyou please."

  Edith turned away and walked to one of the windows, where she looked outpensively upon the sea.

  From this time Beatrice began to recover rapidly. Langhetti's sisterseemed to her almost like an old friend since she had been associatedwith some of her most pleasant memories. An atmosphere of love wasaround her: the poor sufferer inhaled the pure and life-giving air, andstrength came with every breath.

  At length she was able to sit up, and then Langhetti saw her. He greetedher with all the ardent and impassioned warmth which was so striking acharacteristic of his impulsive and affectionate nature. Then she sawDespard.

  There was something about this man which filled her with indefinableemotions. The knowledge which she had of the mysterious fate of hisfather did not repel her from him. A wonderful and subtle sympathyseemed at once to arise between the two. The stern face of Despardassumed a softer and more genial expression when he saw her. His tonewas gentle and affectionate, almost paternal.

  "AS BEATRICE OPENED HER EYES AFTER HER LONGUNCONSCIOUSNESS SHE LOOKED AROUND IN WONDER."]

  What was the feeling that arose within her heart toward this man? Withthe one for her Father who had inflicted on his father so terrible afate, how did she dare to look him in the face or exchange words withhim? Should she not rather shrink away as once she shrank from Brandon?

  Yet she did not shrink. His presence brought a strange peace and calmover her soul. His influence was more potent over her than that ofLanghetti. In this strange company he seemed to her to be the centre andthe chief.

  To Beatrice Edith was an impenetrable mystery. Her whole manner excitedher deepest reverence and at the same time her strongest curiosity. Thefact that she was _his_ sister would of itself have won her heart; butthere were other things about her which affected her strangely.

  Edith moved among the others with a strange, far-off air, an air at oncefull of gentle affection, yet preoccupied. Her manner indicated love,yet the love of one who was far above them. She was like some grownperson associating with young children whom he loved. "Her soul was likea star and dwelt apart."

  Paolo seemed more like an equal; but Paolo himself approached equalityonly because he could understand her best. He alone could enterinto communion with her. Beatrice noticed a profound and unalterablereverence in his manner toward Edith, which was like that which a sonmight pay a mother, yet more delicate and more chivalrous. All this,however, was beyond her comprehension.

  She once questioned Mrs. Thornton, but received no satisfaction. Mrs.Thornton looked mysterious, but shook her head.

  "Your brother treats her like a divinity."

  "I suppose he thinks she is something more than mortal."

  "Do you have that awe of her which I feel?"

  "Yes; and so does every one. I feel toward her as though she belonged toanother world. She takes no interest in this."

  "She nursed me."

  "Oh yes! Every act of love or kindness which she can perform she seeksout and does, but now as you grow better she falls back upon herself."

  Surrounded by such friends as these Beatrice rapidly regained herstrength. Weeks went on, and at length she began to move about, to takelong rides and drives, and to stroll through the Park.

  During these weeks Paolo made known to her his plans. She embraced themeagerly.

  "You have a mission," said he. "It was not for nothing that yourdivine voice was given to you. I have written my opera under the mostextraordinary circumstances. You know what it is. Never have I been ableto decide how it should be represented. I have prayed for a Voice. At mytime of need you were thrown in my way. My Bice, God has sent you. Letus labor together."

  Beatrice grasped eagerly at this idea. To be a singer, to interpretthe thoughts of Langhetti, seemed delightful to her. She would then bedependent on no friend. She would be her own mistress. She would not beforced to lead a life of idleness, with her heart preying upon itself.Music would come to her aid. It would be at once the purpose, theemployment, and the delight of her life. If there was one thing to herwhich could alleviate sorrow and grief it was the exultant joy which wascreated within her by the Divine Art--that Art which alone is common toearth and heaven. And for Beatrice there was this joy, that she had oneof those natures which was so sensitive to music that under its powerheaven itself appeared to open before her.

&
nbsp; All these were lovers of music, and therefore had delights to whichcommon mortals are strangers. To the soul which is endowed with thecapacity for understanding the delights of tone there are joys peculiar,at once pure and enduring, which nothing else that this world gives canequal.

  Langhetti was the high-priest of this charmed circle. Edith wasthe presiding or inspiring divinity. Beatrice was the medium ofutterance--the Voice that brought down heaven to earth.

  Mrs. Thornton and Despard stood apart, the recipients of the sublimeeffects and holy emotions which the others wrought out within them.

  Edith was like the soul.

  Langhetti like the mind.

  Beatrice resembled the material element by which the spiritual iscommunicated to man. Hers was the Voice which spoke.

  Langhetti thought that they as a trio of powers formed a means ofcommunicating new revelations to man. It was natural indeed that hein his high and generous enthusiasm should have some such thoughts asthese, and should look forward with delight to the time when his workshould first be performed. Edith, who lived and moved in an atmospherebeyond human feeling, was above the level of his enthusiasm; butBeatrice caught it all, and in her own generous and susceptible naturethis purpose of Langhetti produced the most powerful effects.

  In the church where Mrs. Thornton and Despard had so often met therewas now a new performance. Here Langhetti played, Beatrice sang, Edithsmiled as she heard the expression of heavenly ideas, and Despard andMrs. Thornton found themselves borne away from all common thoughts bythe power of that sublime rehearsal.

  As time passed and Beatrice grew stronger Langhetti became moreimpatient about his opera. The voice of Beatrice, always marvelous,had not suffered during her sickness. Nay, if any thing, it had grownbetter; her soul had gained new susceptibilities since Langhettilast saw her, and since she could understand more and feel more, herexpression itself had become more subtle and refined. So that Voicewhich Langhetti had always called divine had put forth new powers, andbe, if he believed himself the High-Priest and Beatrice the Pythian, sawthat her inspiration had grown more delicate and more profound.

  "We will not set up a new Delphi," said he. "Our revelations are notnew. We but give fresh and extraordinary emphasis to old and eternaltruths."

  In preparing for the great work before them it was necessary to get aname for Beatrice. Her own name was doubly abhorrent--first, from herown life-long hate of it, which later circumstances had intensified;and, secondly, from the damning effect which such a name would have onthe fortune of any _artiste_. Langhetti wished her to take his name, butDespard showed an extraordinary pertinacity on this point.

  "No," said he, "I am personally concerned in this. I adopted her. Sheis my sister. Her name is Despard. If she takes any other name I shallconsider it as an intolerable slight."

  He expressed himself so strongly that Beatrice could not refuse.Formerly she would have considered that it was infamous for her to takethat noble name; but now this idea had become weak, and it was with astrange exultation that she yielded to the solicitations of Despard.

  Langhetti himself yielded at once. His face bore an expression ofdelight which seemed inexplicable to Beatrice. She asked him why he feltsuch pleasure. Was not an Italian name better for a singer? Despard wasan English name, and, though aristocratic, was not one which a greatsinger might have.

  "I am thinking of other things, my Bicina," said Langhetti, who hadnever given up his old, fond, fraternal manner toward her. "It has noconnection with art. I do not consider the mere effect of the name forone moment."

  "What is it, then, that you do consider?"

  "Other things."

  "What other things?"

  "Not connected with Art," continued Langhetti, evasively. "I will tellyou some day when the time comes."

  "Now you are exciting my curiosity," said Beatrice, in a low and earnesttone. "You do not know what thoughts you excite within me. Either youought not to excite such ideas, or if you do, it is your duty to satisfythem."

  "It is not time yet."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "That is a secret."

  "Of course; you make it one; but if it is one connected with me, thensurely I ought to know."

  "It is not time yet for you to know."

  "When will it be time?"

  "I can not tell."

  "And you will therefore keep it a secret forever?"

  "I hope, my Bicina, that the time will come before long."

  "Yet why do you wait, if you know or even suspect any thing in which Iam concerned?"

  "I wish to spare you."

  "That is not necessary. Am I so weak that I can not bear to hear anything which you may have to tell? You forget what a life I have had fortwo years. Such a life might well prepare me for any thing."

  "If it were merely something which might create sorrow I would tell it.I believe that you have a self-reliant nature, which has grown strongerthrough affliction. But that which I have to tell is different. It isof such a character that it would of necessity destroy any peace of mindwhich you have, and fill you with hopes and feelings that could never besatisfied."

  "Yet even that I could bear. Do you not see that by your very vaguenessyou are exciting my thoughts and hopes? You do not know what I know."

  "What do you know?" asked Langhetti, eagerly.

  Beatrice hesitated. No; she could not tell. That would be to tell allthe holiest secrets of her heart. For she must then tell about Brandon,and the African island, and the manuscript which he carried and whichhad been taken from his bosom. Of this she dared not speak.

  She was silent.

  "You can not _know_ any thing," said Langhetti. "You may suspect much.I only have suspicions. Yet it would not be wise to communicate theseto you, since they would prove idle and without result." So theconversation ended, and Langhetti still maintained his secret, thoughBeatrice hoped to find it out.

  At length she was sufficiently recovered to be able to begin the workto which Langhetti wished to lead her. It was August, and Langhettiwas impatient to be gone. So when August began he made preparations todepart, and in a few days they were in London. Edith was left with Mrs.Thornton. Beatrice had an attendant who went with her, half chaperonhalf lady's maid.