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, the inhospitable 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 island which 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 fine and short, and being protected from the withering heat was as fine as that of an English lawn. Up the palm-trees there climbed a thousand parasitic plants, covered with blossoms—gorgeous, golden, rich beyond all description. Birds of starry plumage flitted through the air, as they leaped from tree to tree, uttering a short, wild note; through the spreading branches sighed the murmuring breeze that came from off the ocean; round the shore the low tones of the gently-washing surf were borne as it came in in faint undulations from the outer sea.

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

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

Brandon raised himself on one arm and looked wonderingly around. She started. 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 sick child.

Brandon looked at her fixedly for a long time without speaking. She placed her cool hand on his forehead. His eyes closed as though there were a magnetic power in her touch. After a while, as she removed her hand, he opened his eyes again. He took her hand and held it fervently to 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; that there has been some past life of great sorrow; but I can not think what that sorrow is—I know that there has been some misfortune, but I can not 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 had come 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 the earth 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 a man, I could weep my life out at your feet.”

“Do not weep,” said she, calmly. “The time for tears may yet come; but it is not now.”

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

“I know nothing but this,” said he at last, “that I have felt as though sailing for years over infinite seas. Wave after wave has been impelling us on. A Hindu servant guided the boat. But I lay weak, with my head supported by you, and your arms around me. Yet, of all the days and all the years that ever I have known, these were supreme, for all the time was one long ecstasy. And now, if there is sorrow before me,” he concluded, “I will meet it resignedly, for I have had my heaven already.”

“You have sailed over seas,” said she, sadly; “but I was the helpless one, and you saved me from death.”

“And are you—to me—what I thought?” he asked, with painful vehemence and imploring eyes.

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

He sighed heavily. “Sleep now,” said she, and she again placed her hand upon his forehead. Her touch soothed him. Her voice arose in a low song of 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, and Beatrice made him sleep again. He slept into the next day. On waking there was the same absence of memory. She gave him some cordial to drink, and the draught revived him. Now he was far stronger, and he sat up, leaning against a tree, while Beatrice knelt near him. He looked at her long and earnestly.

“I would wish never to leave this place, but to stay here,” said he. “I know nothing of my past life. I have drunk of Lethe. Yet I can not help struggling 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 wreck took 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, in his efforts to regain knowledge of himself, Beatrice was still the most prominent object in his thoughts. His dream-life persisted in mingling itself with his real life.

“But you,” he cried, earnestly—“you, how have you endured all this? You are weary; you have worn yourself out for me. What can I ever do to show my gratitude? You have watched me night and day. Will you not have more care of your own life?”

The eyes of Beatrice kindled with a soft light. “What is my life?” said she. “Do I not owe it over and over again to you? But I deny that I am worn out.”

Brandon looked at her with earnest, longing eyes. His recovery was rapid. In a few days he was able to go about. Cato procured fish from the waters and game from the woods, so as to save the provisions of the boat, and they looked forward to the time when they might resume their journey. But to Brandon this thought was repugnant, and an hourly struggle now went on within him. Why should he go to England? What could he 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 from afar. It was one of her own songs, such as she could improvise. It spoke of summer isles amidst the sea; of soft winds and spicy breezes; of eternal rest beneath over-shadowing palms. It was a soft, melting strain—a strain of enchantment, sung by one who felt the intoxication of the scene, and whose genius imparted it to others. He was like Ulysses listening to the song of the sirens. It seemed to him as though all nature there joined in that marvelous strain. It was to him as though the very winds were lulled into calm, and a delicious languor stole 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 the sirens.

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 words which the music might clothe.

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

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

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

Now, the more Brandon felt the power of her presence the more he took refuge within himself, avoiding all dangerous topics, speaking only of external things, calling upon her to sing of loftier themes, such as those “cieli immensi” of which she had sung when he first heard her. Thus he fought down the struggles of his own heart, and crushed out those rising impulses which threatened to sweep him helplessly away.

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

In about a fortnight after his recovery from his stupor they were ready to 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 had sheltered them.

This time Beatrice would not let Brandon row while the sun was up. They rowed 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 three days. At the end of that time they saw European houses, beyond which arose some roofs and spires. It was Sierra Leone. Brandon’s conjectures had been right. On landing here Brandon simply said that they had been wrecked in the Falcon, and had escaped on the boat, all the rest having perished. He gave his name as Wheeler. The authorities received these unfortunate ones with great kindness, and Brandon heard that a ship would leave for England on the 6th of March.

The close connection which had existed between them for so many weeks was now severed, and Brandon thought that this might perhaps remove that extraordinary power which he felt that she exerted over him. Not so. In her absence he found himself constantly looking forward toward a meeting with her again. When with her he found the joy that flowed from her presence to be more intense, since it was more concentrated. He began to feel 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 us forget 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 softened by 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 my life 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 been permitted to get beyond control, but now rose visibly, and irresistibly.

“If you have a life to give,” said Beatrice, calmly, returning his fevered gaze with a full look of tender sympathy—“if you have a life to give, let it be given to that purpose of yours to which you are devoted.”

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

Beatrice returned his reproachful gaze with one equally reproachful, and raising 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 feel and know; and it is this, that others require your life, in comparison with whom I am nothing. Ah, my friend,” she continued, in tones of unutterable sadness, “let us be friends here at least, on the sea, for when 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 long silence.

“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 continued forever, and that I had never awaked to the bitterness of life!”

“That,” said Beatrice, with a mournful smile, “is a reproach to me for watching you.”

“Yet that moment of awaking was sweet beyond all thought,” continued Brandon, in a musing tone, “for I had lost all memory of all things except you.”

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

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

“To-morrow we part,” said Beatrice, as she stood with Brandon on the quarter-deck.

“No,” said Brandon; “there will be no one to meet you here. I must take you 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 very last.”

Suddenly she looked at him with the solemn gaze of one whose soul was filled with thoughts that overpowered every common feeling. It was a glance lofty and serene and unimpassioned, like that of some spirit which has passed beyond human cares, but sad as that of some prophet of woe.

“Louis Brandon!”

At this mention of his name a flash of unspeakable surprise passed over Brandon’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 when you lay under the trees and I was sure that you were dead. There was no beating 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 my arms, and wept in my despair. At your feet Cato knelt and mourned in his Hindu fashion. Then mechanically and hopelessly he made a last trial to see if you were really dead, so that he might prepare your grave. He put his hand under your clothes against your heart. He held it there for a long time. Your heart gave no answer. He withdrew it, and in doing so took something away that was suspended about your neck. This was a metallic 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 one sometimes uses in prayer—a passionless monotone, without agitation and without shame.

Brandon answered not a word.

“Take my hand,” she said, “or I can not go through. This only can give me strength.”

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

“I thought you dead, and knew the full measure of despair. Now, when these were given me, I wished to know the secret of the man who had twice 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 my life was due to you, therefore, as yours was gone, mine should replace it, and be devoted to the purpose which you had undertaken.

“I opened first the metallic case. It was under the dim shade of the African forest, and while holding on my knees the head of the man who had laid down his life for me. You know what I read there. I read of a father’s love and agony. I read there the name of the one who had driven him to death. The shadows of the forest grew darker around me; as the full meaning of that revelation came over my soul they deepened into blackness, and I fell senseless by your side.

{Illustration: “I THOUGHT YOU DEAD, AND KNEW THE FULL MEASURE OF DESPAIR."}

“Better had Cato left us both lying there to die, and gone off in the boat himself. But he revived me. I laid you down gently, and propped up your head, but never again dared to defile you with the touch of one so infamous as I.

“There still remained the other package, which I read—how you reached that island, and how you got that MS., I neither know nor seek to discover; I only know that all my spirit awaked within me as I read those words. A strange, inexplicable feeling arose. I forgot all about you and your griefs. My whole soul was fixed on the figure of that bereaved and solitary man, who thus drifted to his fate. He seemed to speak to me. A fancy, born out of frenzy, no doubt, for all that horror well-nigh drove me mad—a fancy came to me that this voice, which had come from a distance of eighteen years, had spoken to me; a wild fancy, because I was eighteen years old, that therefore I was connected with these eighteen years, filled my whole soul. I thought that this MS. was mine, and the other one yours. I read it over and over, and over yet again, till every word forced itself into my memory—till you and your sorrows sank into oblivion beside the woes of this man.

“I sat near you all that night. The palms sighed in the air. I dared not touch you. My brain whirled. I thought I heard voices out at sea, and figures appeared in the gloom. I thought I saw before me the form of Colonel Despard. He looked at me with sadness unutterable, yet with soft pity and affection, and extended his hand as though to bless me. Madder fancies than ever then rushed through my brain. But when morning came and 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 and praised God for this, but did not dare to touch you. I folded up the treasures, and told Cato to put them again around your neck. Then I watched you till you recovered.

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

“I have awakened to infamy; for what is infamy if it be not this, to bear the name I bear? Something more than pride or vanity has been the foundation of that feeling of shame and hate with which I have always regarded it. And I have now died to my former life, and awakened to a new one.

“Louis Brandon, the agonies which may be suffered by those whom you seek to avenge I can conjecture but I wish never to hear. I pray God that I may never know what it might break my heart to learn. You must save them, 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 on among them, sharing their infamy and their fate. When your blow falls I will not turn away. I will think of those dear ones of yours who have suffered, and for their sakes will accept the blow of revenge.”

Brandon had held her hand in silence, and with a convulsive pressure during these words. As she stopped she made a faint effort to withdraw it. 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—a tone of infinite mournfulness—“I have known it long, and I would say also, ‘Louis Brandon, I love you,’ if it were not that this would be the last infamy; that you, Brandon, of Brandon Hall, should be loved by one who bears my name.”

The hours of the night passed away. They stood watching the English shores, speaking little. Brandon clung to her hand. They were sailing up the 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 thrilled through 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 Sierra Leone had insisted on replenishing Beatrice’s wardrobe, so that she showed no appearance of having gone through the troubles which had afflicted her on sea and shore.

Brandon took her to a hotel and then went to his agent’s. He also examined the papers for the last four months. He read in the morning journals a notice which had already appeared of the arrival of the ship off the Nore, and the statement that three of the passengers of the Falcon had reached Sierra Leone. He communicated to the owners of the Falcon the particulars of the loss of the ship, and earned their thanks, for they were able to get their insurance without waiting a year, as is necessary where nothing is heard of a missing vessel.

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

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

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

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