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  CHAPTER XIV.

  TWO LETTERS.

  Despard did not go back to the Grange for some days. About a week hadpassed since the scenes narrated in the preceding chapter when onemorning, having finished his breakfast, he went into his library and satdown at the table to write. A litter of papers lay all around. The wallswere covered with shelves, filled with books. The table was piled highwith ponderous tomes. Manuscripts were strewn around, and books werescattered on the floor. Yet, amidst all this disorder, some order wasapparent, for many of these books lay open in certain places, and otherswere arranged so as to be within reach.

  Several sheets of paper, covered with writing, lay before him, headed,"The Byzantine Poets." The books were all in Greek. It was the libraryof a hard-working student.

  Very different was the Despard of the library from the Despard who hadvisited the Grange. A stern and thoughtful expression was read in hisface, and his eyes had an abstraction which would have done credit toMr. Thornton himself.

  Taking his seat at the table, he remained for a while leaning his headon his hand in deep thought. Then he took up a pen and drew a piece ofpaper before him to try it. He began to draw upon it the same figurewhich he had marked with his cane on Mrs. Thornton's carpet. He tracedthis figure over and over, until at last the whole sheet was covered.

  Suddenly he flung down the pen, and, taking up the paper, leaned backin his chair with a melancholy face. "What a poor, weak thing I am!"he muttered at last, and let the paper fall to the floor. He leanedhis head on his hand, then resumed his pen and began to make some idlemarks. At length he began to draw.

  Under the fine and delicate strokes of his pen, which were as neatand as exquisite as the most subtle touches of an engraving, a picturegradually rose to view. It was a sea-side scene. The place wasHolby Beach. In the distance was the light-house; and on one side apromontory, which protected the harbor. Upon the shore, looking outtoward the sea, was a beautiful girl, of about sixteen years of age,whose features, as they grew beneath his tender touches, were those ofMrs. Thornton. Then beside her there gradually rose another figure,a youth of about eighteen, with smooth face and clustering locks, wholooked exactly like what the Rev. Courtenay Despard might have been someseven or eight years before. His left arm was around her waist, herarm was thrown up till it touched his shoulder, and his right hand heldhers. Her head leaned against him, and both of them, with a subduedexpression of perfect happiness, tinged with a certain pensive sadness,were looking out upon the setting sun.

  As soon as he finished he looked at the sketch, and then, with a suddenimpulse, tore it into a thousand small fragments. He drew the writtenmanuscript before him with a long and deep-drawn sigh, and began writingwith great rapidity upon the subject of the Byzantine Poets. He had justwritten the following words:

  "The Anacreontic hymns of John Damascenus form a marked contrast to--"when the sentence was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Come in!" Itwas the servant with letters from the post-office. Despard put down hispen gravely, and the man laid two letters on the table. He waitedtill the servant had departed, then seizing one of them, a small one,addressed in a lady's hand, he pressed it vehemently to his lips andtore it open.

  It was as follows:

  "BOTH WERE LOOKING OUT UPON THE SETTING SUN."]

  "DEAR MR. DESPARD,--I suppose I may _never_ expect to see you again. YetI must see you, for yesterday I received a very long letter from Paoloof so singular a character that you will have to explain it to me. Ishall expect you this afternoon, and till then, I remain,

  "Yours sincerely,

  "TERESA THORNTON.

  "THORNTON GRANGE, Friday."

  Despard read this letter a score of times, and placed it reverentlyin an inner drawer of his desk. He then opened the other, and read asfollows:

  "HALIFAX, NOVA SCOTIA, January 12, 1847.

  "MY DEAR COURTENAY,--I was very glad to hear of your appointment asRector of Holby, your old home, and hope that by this time you are fullyestablished in the old Rectory, where you spent so many years. I wasthere often enough in poor old Carson's days to know that it was a fineold place.

  "You will see by this that I am in Halifax, Nova Scotia. My regiment wasordered off here last November, and I am just beginning to feel settled.It is not so cold here as it was in Quebec. There is capital moosehunting up the country. I don't admire my accommodations much; but it isnot a bad little town, considering all things. The people are pleasant,and there is some stir and gayety occasionally.

  "Not long before leaving Quebec, who do you think turned up? No less aperson than Paolo Langhetti, who in the course of his wanderings cameout there. He had known some extraordinary adventures on his voyage out;and these are the immediate cause of this letter.

  "He took passage early in June last in the ship _Tecumseh_, fromLiverpool for Quebec. It was an emigrant ship, and crammed withpassengers. You have heard all about the horrors of that middle passage,which occurred last year, when those infernal Liverpool merchants, forthe sake of patting a few additional pounds in their pockets, sent somany thousands to destruction.

  "The _Tecumseh_ was one of these. It was crammed with emigrants. Youknow Langhetti's extraordinary pluck, and his queer way of devotinghimself for others. Well, what did he do but this: as soon as theship-fever broke out he left the cabin and took up his abode in thesteerage with the sick emigrants. He is very quiet about this, andmerely says that he helped to nurse the sick. I know what that means.

  "The mortality was terrific. Of all the ships that came to Quebec onthat fatal summer the _Tecumseh_ showed the largest record of deaths. Onreaching the quarantine station Langhetti at once insisted on continuinghis attendance on the sick. Hands were scarce, and his offer waseagerly accepted. He staid down there ever so long till the worst of thesickness was over.

  "Among the passengers on the _Tecumseh_ were three who belonged to thesuperior class. Their names were Brandon. He took a deep interest inthem. They suffered very much from sickness both during the voyage andat quarantine. The name at once attracted him, being one well known bothto him and to us. At last they all died, or were supposed to have died,at the quarantine station. Langhetti, however, found that one of themwas only in a 'trance state,' and his efforts for resuscitation weresuccessful. This one was a young girl of not more than sixteen years ofage. After her restoration he left the quarantine bringing her with him,and came up to the city. Here he lived for a month or so, until at lasthe heard of me and came to see me.

  "Of course I was delighted to see him, for I always thought him thenoblest fellow that ever breathed, though most undoubtedly cranky ifnot crazy. I told him we were going to Halifax, and as he had no settledplan I made him come here with me.

  "The girl remained for a long time in a state of mental torpor, asthough her brain had been affected by disease, but the journey herehad a beneficial effect on her, and during her stay she has steadilyimproved. About a week ago Langhetti ventured to ask her all aboutherself.

  "What will you say when I tell you that she is the daughter of poorRalph Brandon, of Brandon Hall, your father's friend, whose wretchedfate has made us all so miserable. You know nothing of this, of course;but where was Thornton? Why did not he do something to prevent thishorror, this unutterable calamity? Good God! what suffering there is inthis world!

  "Now, Courtenay, I come to the point. This poor Edith Brandon, stillhalf-dead from her grief, has been able to tell us that she has still arelative living. Her eldest brother Louis went to Australia many yearsago. A few weeks before her father's death he wrote to his son tellinghim everything, and imploring him to come home. She thinks that herbrother must be in England by this time.

  "I want you to hunt up Louis Brandon. Spare no trouble. In the name ofGod, and by the memory of your father, whose most intimate friend wasthis poor old Brandon, I entreat you to search after Louis Brandon tillyou find him, and let him know the fate of his friends. I think ifshe could see him the joy of meeting one relative would restore her t
ohealth.

  "My boy, I know I have said enough. Your own heart will impel you to doall that can be done for the sake of this poor young girl. You can findout the best ways of learning information. You had better go up at onceto London and make arrangements for finding Brandon. Write me soon, andlet me know.

  "Your affectionate uncle,

  "HENRY DESPARD."

  Despard read this letter over and over. Then he put it in his pocket,and walked up and down the room in deep thought. Then he took out Mrs.Thornton's note and studied it for a long time. So the hours passedaway, until at length two o'clock came and he set out for ThorntonGrange.

  On entering the drawing-room, Mrs. Thornton was there.

  "So you have come at last," said she, as they shook hands.

  "As if I would not come ten times a day if I could," was the answer, inan impetuous voice.

  "Still there is no reason why you should persistently avoid the Grange."

  "What would you say if I followed my own impulse, and came here everyday?"

  "I would say, Good-morning, Sir. Still, now that you are here, you muststay."

  "I will stay, whether I must or not."

  "Have you recovered from the effect of my prayer-book yet?"

  "No, nor ever will I. You brought the same one last Sunday."

  "That was in order to weaken the effect. Familiarity breeds contempt,you know."

  "Then all I can say is, that contempt has very extraordinarymanifestations. Among other strange things, it makes me cover my paperwith that pattern when I ought to be writing on the Mosaic Economy."

  "Cosmogony, you mean."

  "Well, then, Cosmogony."

  "Cosmogony is such a delicious word! It has been the hope of my life tobe able to introduce it in a conversation. There is only one other wordthat compares with it."

  "What is it?"

  "I am afraid to pronounce it."

  "Try, at any rate."

  "Idiosyncrasy," said Mrs. Thornton. "For five or six years I have beenon the look-out for an opportunity to use that word, and thus far I havebeen unsuccessful. I fear that if the opportunity did occur I would callit 'idiocracy.' In fact, I know I would."

  "And what would be the difference? Your motive would be right, and it isto motives that we must look, not acts."

  After some further badinage, Mrs. Thornton drew a letter from herpocket.

  "Here," said she, gravely, "is Paolo's letter. Read it, and tell me whatyou think of it."

  Despard took the letter and began to read, while Mrs. Thornton, sittingopposite to him, watched his face.

  The letter was in Italian, and was accompanied by a large andclosely-written manuscript of many pages.

  "HALIFAX, NOVA SCOTIA, January 2, 1847.

  "MY SWEETEST LITTLE SISTER,--I send you my diary, as I promised you, myTeresella, and you will see all my adventures. Take care of yourself,be happy, and let us hope that we may see one another soon. I am well,through the mercy of the good God, and hope to continue so. There is nosuch thing as music in this place, but I have found an organ where Ican play. My Cremona is uninjured, though it has passed through hardtimes--it sends a note of love to my Teresina. Remember your Paolo tothe just and upright Thornton, whom you love. May God bless my littlesister's husband, and fill his heart with love for the sweetest ofchildren!

  "Read this manuscript carefully, Teresuola mia dolcissima, and pray forthe souls of those unhappy ones who perished by the pestilence."