Cord and Creese Part 58

"Alleluia!"

CHAPTER XXVIII

THIS MUST END.

The note which accompanied Langhetti's journal was as follows:

"HALIFAX, December 18, 1848.

"TERESUOLA VIA DOLCISSIMA,--I send you my journal, _sorella carissima_.

I have been silent for a long time. Forgive me. I have been sad and in affliction. But affliction has turned to joy, and I have learned things unknown before.

"_Teresina mia_, I am coming back to England immediately. You may expect to see me at any time during the next three months. _She_ will be with me; but so sensitive is she--so strange would she be to you--that I do not know whether it will be well for you to see her or not. I dare not let her be exposed to the gaze of any one unknown to her. Yet, sweetest _sorellina_, perhaps I may be able to tell her that I have a dearest sister, whose heart is love, whose nature is n.o.ble, and who could treat her with tenderest care.

"I intend to offer my Opera to the world at London. I will be my own impresario. Yet I want one thing, and that is a Voice. Oh for a Voice like that of Bice! But it is idle to wish for her.

"Never have I heard any voice like hers, my Teresina. G.o.d grant that I may find her!

"Expect soon and suddenly to see your most loving brother,

"PAOLO."

Mrs. Thornton showed this note to Despard the next time they met. He had read the journal in the mean time.

"So he is coming back?" said he.

"Yes."

"And with this marvelous girl?"

"Yes."

"She seems to me like a spirit."

"And to me."

"Paolo's own nature is so lofty and so spiritual that one like her is intelligible to him. Happy is it for her that he found her."

"Paolo is more spiritual than human. He has no materialism. He is spiritual. I am of the earth, earthy; but my brother is a spirit imprisoned, who chafes at his bonds and longs to be free. And think what Paolo has done for her in his sublime devotion!"

"I know others who would do as much," said Despard, in a voice that seemed full of tears; "I know others who, like him, would go to the grave to rescue the one they loved, and make all life one long devotion.

I know others," he continued, "who would gladly die, if by dying they could gain what he has won--the possession of the one they love. Ah me!

Paolo is happy and blessed beyond all men. Between him and her there is no insuperable barrier, no gulf as deep as death."

Despard spoke impetuously, but suddenly checked himself.

"I received," said he, "by the last mail a letter from my uncle in Halifax. He is ordered off to the Cape of Good Hope. I wrote him a very long time ago, as I told you, asking him to tell me without reserve all that he knew about my father's death. I told him plainly that there was a mystery about it which I was determined to solve. I reproached him for keeping it secret from me, and reminded him that I was now a mature man; and that he had no right nor any reason to maintain any farther secrecy.

I insisted on knowing all, no matter what it might be.

"I received his letter by the last mail. Here it is;" and he handed it to her. "Read it when you get home. I have written a few words to you, little playmate, also. He has told me all. Did you know this before?"

"Yes, Lama," said Mrs. Thornton, with a look of sorrowful sympathy.

"You knew all my father's fate?"

"Yes, Lama."

"And you kept it secret?"

"Yes, Lama. How could I bear to tell you and give you pain?"

Her voice trembled as she spoke. Despard looked at her with an indescribable expression.

"One thought," said he, slowly, "and one feeling engrosses all my nature, and even this news that I have heard can not drive it away.

Even the thought of my father's fate, so dark and so mysterious, can not weaken the thoughts that have all my life been supreme. Do you know, little playmate, what those thoughts are?"

She was silent. Despard's hand wandered over the keys. They always spoke in low tones, which were almost whispers, tones which were inaudible except to each other. And Mrs. Thornton had to bow her head close to his to hear what he said.

"I must go," said Despard, after a pause, "and visit Brandon again. I do not know what I can do, but my father's death requires further examination. This man Potts is intermingled with it. My uncle gives dark hints. I must make an examination."

"And you are going away again?" said Mrs. Thornton, sadly.

Despard sighed.

"Would it not be better," said he, as he took her hand in his--"would it not be better for you, little playmate, if I went away from you forever?"

She gave him one long look of sad reproach. Then tears filled her eyes.

"This can not go on forever," she murmured. "It must come to that at last!"

CHAPTER XXIX.

BEATRICE'S JOURNAL.

October 30, 1848.--My recovery has been slow, and I am still far from well. I stay in my room almost altogether. Why should I do otherwise?

Day succeeds day, and each day is a blank.

My window looks on the sea, and I can sit there and feed my heart on the memories which that sea calls up. It is company for me in my solitude.

It is music, though I can not hear its voice. Oh, how I should rejoice if I could get down by its margin and touch its waters! Oh how I should rejoice if those waters would flow over me forever!

November 15.--Why I should write any thing now I do not know. This uneventful life offers nothing to record. Mrs. Compton is as timid, as gentle, and as affectionate as ever. Philips, poor, timorous, kindly soul, sends me flowers by her. Poor wretch, how did he ever get here?