Cord and Creese Read online

  CHAPTER II.

  A LIFE TRAGEDY.

  Not a word or a gesture escaped Brandon during the perusal, but afterhe had finished he read the whole through twice, then laying it down, hepaced up and down the room. His olive skin had become of a sickly tawnyhue, his eyes glowed with intense lustre, and his brow was covered withthose gloomy Napoleonic clouds, but not a nerve was shaken by the shockof this dread intelligence.

  Evening came and night; and the night passed, and morning came, but itfound him still there pacing the room.

  Earlier than usual next morning he was at the office, and waited forsome time before the senior partner made his appearance. When he came init was with a smile on his face, and a general air of congratulation toall the world.

  "Well, Brandon," said he, cordially, "that last shipment has turnedout finely. More than a thousand pounds. And it's all your doing. Iobjected, but you were right. Let me congratulate you."

  Something in Brandon's face seemed to surprise the old gentleman, andhe paused for a moment. "Why what's the matter, my boy?" he said, ina paternal voice. "You have not heard any bad news, I hope, in thatletter--I hope it's nothing serious?"

  Brandon gave a faint smile.

  "Serious enough," said he, looking away with an abstracted gaze, "to puta sudden end to my Australian career."

  "Oh no--oh no!" said the other, earnestly; "not so bad as that."

  "I must go home at once."

  "Oh well, that may be, but you will be back again. Take a leave ofabsence for five years if you wish, but don't quit for good. I'll do thebusiness and won't complain, my boy. I'll keep your place comfortablefor you till your return."

  Brandon's stern face softened as he looked at the old man, whosefeatures were filled with the kindest expression, and whose tone showedthe affectionate interest which he felt.

  "Your kindness to me, Mr. Compton," said he, very slowly, and with deepfeeling, "has been beyond all words. Ever since I first came to thiscountry you have been the truest and the best of friends. I hope youknow me well enough to believe that I can never forget it. But now allthis is at an end, and all the bright prospects that I had here mustgive way to the call of the sternest duty. In that letter which Ireceived last night there came a summons home which I can not neglect,and my whole life hereafter must be directed toward the fulfillment ofthat summons. From mid-day yesterday until dawn this morning I pacedmy room incessantly, laying out my plans for the future thus suddenlythrust upon me, and though I have not been able to decide upon any thingdefinite, yet I see plainly that nothing less than a life will enable meto accomplish my duty. The first thing for me to do is to acquaint youwith this and to give up my part in the business."

  Mr. Compton placed his elbow on the table near which he had seatedhimself, leaned his head upon his hand, and looked at the floor. FromBrandon's tone he perceived that this resolution was irrevocable. Thedeep dejection which he felt could not be concealed. He was silent for along time.

  "God knows," said he, at last, "that I would rather have failed inbusiness than that this should have happened."

  Brandon looked away and said nothing.

  "It comes upon me so suddenly," he continued. "I do not know what tothink. And how can I manage these vast affairs without your assistance?For you were the one who did our business. I know that well. I had nohead for it."

  "You can reduce it to smaller proportions." said Brandon; "that caneasily be done."

  The old man sighed.

  "After all," he continued, "it is not the business. It's losing you thatI think of, dear boy. I'm not thinking of the business at all. My griefis altogether about your departure. I grieve, too, at the blow whichmust have fallen on you to make this necessary."

  "The blow is a heavy one," said Brandon; "so heavy that every thing elsein life must be forgotten except the one thought--how to recover fromit; and perhaps, also," he added, in a lower voice, "how to return it."

  Mr. Compton was silent for a long time, and with every minute the deepdejection of his face and manner increased. He folded his arms and shuthis eyes in deep thought.

  "My boy," said he at last, in that same paternal tone which he had usedbefore, and in a mild, calm voice. "I suppose this thing can not behelped, and all that is left for me to do is to bear it as best I may.I will not indulge in any selfish sorrow in the presence of your greatertrouble. I will rather do all in my power to coincide with your wishes.I see now that you must have a good reason for your decision, although Ido not seek to look into that reason."

  "Believe me," said Brandon, "I would show you the letter at once, but itis so terrible that I would rather that you should not know. It is worsethan death, and I do not even yet begin to know the worst."

  The old man sighed, and looked at him with deep commiseration.

  "If our separation must indeed be final," said he, at last, "I will takecare that you shall suffer no loss. You shall have your full share ofthe capital."

  "I leave that entirely to you," said Brandon.

  "Fortunately our business is not much scattered. A settlement can easilybe made, and I will arrange it so that you shall not have any loss. Ourbalance-sheet was made out only last month, and it showed our firm to beworth thirty thousand pounds. Half of this is yours, and--"

  "Half!" interrupted the other. "My dear friend, you mean a quarter."

  The old man waved his hand.

  "I said half, and I mean half."

  "I will never consent."

  "You must."

  "Never."

  "You shall. Why, think of the petty business that I was doing whenyou came here. I was worth about four thousand. You have built up thebusiness to its present dimensions. Do you suppose that I don't know?"

  "I can not allow you to make such a sacrifice," said Brandon.

  "Stop," said Mr. Compton. "I have not said all. I attach a condition tothis which I implore you not to refuse. Listen to me, and you will thenbe able to see."

  Mr. Compton rose and looked carefully out into the office. There was noone near. He then returned, locked the door, and drawing his chair closeto Brandon, began, in a low voice:

  "You have your secrets and I have mine. I don't wish to know yours, butmy own I am going to tell to you, not merely for the sake of sympathy,but rather for the sake of your assistance. I am going to tell you who Iam, and why I came out here.

  "My name is not Compton. It is Henry Lawton. All my early life waspassed at York. There I married, had a son, and lived happily foryears--in fact, during the childhood of my boy.

  "It was that boy of mine, Edgar, that led to all my troubles. I supposewe indulged him too much. It was natural. He was our only child, and sowe ruined him. He got beyond our control at last and used to run aboutthe streets of York. I did what I could to save him, but it was toolate.

  "He went on from bad to worse, until at last he got in with a set ofmiscreants who were among the worst in the country. My God! to think howmy boy, once a sweet child, could have fallen so low. But he was weak,and easily led, and so he went on from bad to worse.

  "I can not bear to go into particulars," said the old man, after a longpause. "I will come at once to point. My poor, wretched boy got in withthese miscreants, as I was telling you, and I did not see him from onemonth's end to another. At last a great burglary took place. Three werearrested. Among these two were old offenders, hardened in vice, the onenamed Briggs, the other Crocker; the third was my unhappy boy."

  The old man was silent for some time.

  "I do not think, after all, that he was guilty: but Briggs turned King'sEvidence, and Crocker and my son were condemned to transportation. Therewas no help.

  "I sold out all I had in the world, and in compliance with theentreaties of my poor wife, who nearly went mad with grief, I came outhere. I changed my name to Compton. My boy's term was for three years. Ibegan a business out here, and as my boy behaved well he was able to getpermission to hire out as a servant. I took him nominally as my servant,for no one knew tha
t he was my son, and so we had him with us again.

  "I hoped that the bitter lesson which he had learned would provebeneficial, but I did not know the strength of evil inclinations. Aslong as his term of imprisonment lasted he was content and behaved well;but at last, when the three years were up, he began to grow restive.Crocker was freed at about the same time and my boy fell again under hisevil influence. This lasted for about a year, when, at last, one morninga letter was brought me from him stating that he had gone to India. Mypoor wife was again nearly distracted. She thought of nothing but herboy. She made me take her and go in search of him again. So we wentto India. After a long search I found him there, as I had feared, inconnection with his old, vicious associates. True, they had changedtheir names, and were trying to pass for honest men. Crocker calledhimself Clark, and Briggs called himself Potts."

  "Potts," cried Brandon.

  "Yes," said the other, who was too absorbed in his own thoughts tonotice the surprise of Brandon. "He was in the employ of ColonelDespard, at Calcutta, and enjoyed much of his confidence."

  "What year was this?" asked Brandon.

  "1825," replied Mr. Compton. "Crocker," he continued, "was acting as asort of shipping agent, and my son was his clerk. Of course, my firstefforts were directed toward detaching my son from these scoundrels.I did all that I could. I offered to give him half of my property, andfinally all, if he would only leave them forever and come back. Thewretched boy refused. He did not appear to be altogether bad, but he hada weak nature, and could not get rid of the influence of these men.

  "I staid in India for a year and a half, until I found at last thatthere was no hope. I could find nothing to do there, and if I remainedI would have to starve or go out to service. This I could not think ofdoing. So I prepared to come back here. But my wife refused to leave herson. She was resolved, she said, to stay by him till the last. I triedto dissuade her, but could not move her. I told her that I could notbe a domestic. She said that she could do even that for the sake of herboy. And she went off at once and got a situation as nurse with the sameColonel Despard with whom Briggs, or, as he called himself, Potts, wasstaying."

  "What was the Christian name of this Potts?" asked Brandon, calmly.

  "John--John Potts."

  Brandon said nothing further, and Compton resumed.

  "Thus my wife actually left me. I could not stay and be a slave. So Imade her promise to write me, and told her that I would send her as muchmoney as I could. She clung to me half broken-hearted as I left her.Our parting was a bitter one--bitter enough: but I would rather break myheart with grief than be a servant. Besides, she knew that whenever shecame back my heart was open to receive her.

  "I came back to my lonely life out here and lived for nearly two years.At last, in September 1828, a mail arrived from India bringing a letterfrom my wife and Indian papers. The news which they brought well-nighdrove me mad."

  Compton buried his face in his hands and remained silent for some time.

  "You couldn't have been more than a child at that time, but perhaps youmay have heard of the mysterious murder of Colonel Despard?"

  He looked inquiringly at Brandon, but the latter gave no sign.

  "THERE'S SOME MYSTERY ABOUT IT WHICH I CAN'T FATHOM."]

  "Perhaps not," he continued--"no: you were too young, of course. Well,it was in the _Vishnu_, a brig in which the Colonel had embarked forManilla. The brig was laden with hogshead staves and box shooks, andthe Colonel went there partly for his health, partly on business, takingwith him his valet Potts."

  "What became of his family?" interrupted Brandon.

  "He had a son in England at school. His wife had died not long beforethis at one of the hill stations, where she had gone for her health.Grief may have had something to do with the Colonel's voyage, for he wasvery much attached to his wife.

  "Mails used only to come at long intervals in those days and this onebrought the account not only of the Colonel's fate, but of the trial atManilla and the execution of the man that was condemned.

  "It was a very mysterious case. In the month of July a boat arrived atManilla which carried the crew and one passenger from the brig_Vishnu_. One of the men, a Malay named Uracao, was in irons, and he wasimmediately given up to the authorities."

  "Who were the others?"

  "Potts, as he called himself, the Colonel's valet, Clark, three Lascars,and the Captain, an Italian named Cigole. Information was at once laidagainst the Malay. Potts was the chief witness. He said that he sleptin the cabin while the Colonel slept in an inner state-room; that onemorning early he was roused by a frightful shriek and saw Uracao rushingfrom the Colonel's state-room. He sprang up, chased him, and caught himjust as he was about to leap overboard. His creese covered with bloodwas in his hand. The Colonel, when they went to look at him, had histhroat cut from ear to ear. Clark swore that he was steering the vesseland saw Potts catch Uracao, and helped to hold him. The Captain, Cigole,swore that he was waked by the noise, and rushed out in time to seethis. Clark had gone as mate of the vessel. Of the Lascars, two had beendown below, but one was on deck and swore to have seen the same. On thistestimony Uracao was condemned and executed."

  "How did they happen to leave the brig?"

  "They said that a great storm came up about three days' sail fromManilla, the vessel sprang a leak, and they had to take to the boat.Their testimony was very clear indeed, and there were no contradictions;but in spite of all this it was felt to be a very mysterious case, andeven the exhibition of the Malay creese, carefully covered with thestains of blood, did not altogether dispel this feeling."

  "Have you got the papers yet, or are there any in Sydney that contain anaccount of this affair?"

  "I have kept them all. You may read the whole case if you care aboutit."

  "I should like to, very much," said Brandon, with great calmness.

  "When I heard of this before the mail was opened I felt an agony of fearlest my miserable boy might be implicated in some way. To my immenserelief his name did not occur at all."

  "You got a letter from your wife?" said Brandon, interrogatively.

  "Yes," said the old man, with a sigh. "The last that I ever receivedfrom her. Here it is." And, saying this, he opened his pocket-book andtook out a letter, worn and faded, and blackened by frequent readings.

  Brandon took it respectfully, and read the following:

  "CALCUTTA, August 15, 1828.

  "MY DEAREST HENRY,--By the papers that I send you, you will see what hasoccurred. Our dear Edgar is well, indeed better than usual, and I wouldfeel much cheered if it were not for the sad fate of the poor Colonel.This is the last letter that you will ever receive from me. I am goingto leave this country never to return, and do not yet know where I willgo. Wherever I go I will be with my darling Edgar. Do not worry about meor about him. It will be better for you to try and forget all about us,since we are from this time the same as dead to you. Good-by forever, mydearest husband; it shall be my daily prayer that God may bless you.

  "Your affectionate wife, MARY."

  Brandon read this in silence, and handed it back.

  "A strange letter," said Compton mournfully. "At first it gave a bitterpang to think of my Mary thus giving me up forever, so coldly, and forno reason: but afterward I began to understand why she wrote this.

  "My belief is, that these villains kept my son in their clutches forsome good reason, and that they had some equally good reason for keepingher. There's some mystery about it which I can't fathom. Perhaps sheknew too much about the Colonel's affairs to be allowed to go free. Theymight have detained her by working upon her love for her son, or simplyby terrifying her. She was always a timid soul, poor Mary. That letteris not her composition: there is not a word there that sounds like her,and they no doubt told her what to write, or wrote out something, andmade her copy it.

  "And now," said Compton, after another long pause, "I have got to theend of my story. I know nothing more about them. I have lived here eversince, at first
despairing, but of late more resigned to my lot. Yetstill if I have one desire in life it is to get some trace of these dearones whom I still love as tenderly as ever. You, my dear boy, with yourability may conjecture some way. Besides, you will perhaps be travelingmore or less, and may be able to hear of their fate. This is thecondition that I make. I implore you by your pity for a heart-brokenfather to do as I say and help me. Half! why, I would give all that Ihave if I could get them back again."

  Brandon shuddered perceptibly at the words "heart-broken father;" but hequickly recovered himself. He took Compton's hand and pressed it warmly.

  "Dear friend, I will make no objection to any thing, and I promise youthat all my best efforts shall he directed toward finding them out."

  "Tell them to come to me, that I am rich, and can make them happy."

  "I'll make them go to you if they are alive," said Brandon.

  "God bless you!" ejaculated the old man, fervently.

  Brandon spent the greater part of that day in making businessarrangements, and in reading the papers which Compton had preservedcontaining an account of the Despard murder.

  It was late at night before he returned to his hotel. As he went intothe hall he saw a stranger sitting there in a lounging attitude readingthe Sydney _News_.

  He was a thin, small-sized man, with a foreign air, and quick, restlessmanner. His features were small, a heavy beard and mustache coveredhis face, his brow was low, and his eyes black and twinkling. A sharp,furtive glance which he gave at Brandon attracted the attention of thelatter, for there was something in the glance that meant more than idlecuriosity.

  Even in the midst of his cares Brandon's curiosity was excited. Hewalked with assumed indifference up to the desk as though looking forthe key of his room. Glancing at the hotel book his eye ranged down thecolumn of names till it rested on the last one.

  "_Pietro Cigole_." --Cigole! the name brought singular associations.Had this man still any connection with Potts? The words of his father'sletter rushed into his mind--"His arm may reach even to the antipodesto strike you. Be on your guard. Watch every one. He has some dark planagainst you."

  With these thoughts in his mind Brandon went up to his room.