More than a year had passed since that visit to Thornton Grange which has already been mentioned. Despard had not forgotten or neglected the melancholy case of the Brandon family. He had written in all directions, and had gone on frequent visits.

On his return from one of these he went to the Grange. Mrs. Thornton was sitting in the drawing-room, looking pensively out of the window, when she saw his well-known figure advancing up the avenue. His face was sad, and pervaded by a melancholy expression, which was noticeable now as he walked along.

But when he came into the room that melancholy face suddenly lighted up with the most radiant joy. Mrs. Thornton advanced to meet him, and he took her hand in both of his.

“I ought to say, welcome back again,” said she, with forced liveliness, “but you may have been in Holby a week for all I know. When did you come back? Confess now that you have been secluding yourself in your study instead of paying your respects in the proper quarter.”

Despard smiled. “I arrived home at eleven this morning. It is now three P.M. by my watch. Shall I say how impatiently I have waited till three o’clock should come?

“Oh no! don’t say any thing of the sort. I can imagine all that you would say. But tell me where you have been on this last visit?”

“Wandering like an evil spirit, seeking rest and finding none.”

“Have you been to London again?”

“Where have I not been?”

By this time they had seated themselves.

“My last journey,” said Despard, “like my former ones, was, of course, about the Brandon affair. You know that I have had long conversations with Mr. Thornton about it, and he insists that nothing whatever can be done. But you know, also, that I could not sit down idly and calmly under this conviction. I have felt most keenly the presence of intolerable wrong. Every day I have felt as if I had shared in the infamy of those who neglected that dying man. That was the reason why I wrote to Australia to see if the Brandon who was drowned was really the one I supposed. I heard, you know, that he was the same man, and there is no doubt about that. Then you know, as I told you, that I went around among different lawyers to see if any thing could be done. Nearly all asserted that no redress was possible. That is what Mr. Thornton said. There was one who said that if I were rich enough I might begin a prosecution, but as I am not rich that did me no good. That man would have been glad, no doubt, to have undertaken such a task.”

“What is there in law that so hardens the heart?” said Mrs. Thornton, after a pause. “Why should it kill all sentiment, and destroy so utterly all the more spiritual qualities?”

“I don’t think that the law does this necessarily. It depends after all on the man himself. If I were a lawyer, I should still love music above all things.”

“But did you ever know a lawyer who loved music?”

“I have not known enough of them to answer that. But in England music is not loved so devotedly as in other countries. Is it inconceivable that an Italian lawyer should love music?”

“I don’t know. Law is abhorrent to me. It seems to be a profession that kills the finer sentiments.”

“Why so, more than medicine? The fact is where ordinary men are concerned any scientific profession renders Art distasteful. At least this is so in England. After all, most depends on the man himself, and, one who is born with a keen sensibility to the charms of art will carry it through life, whatever his profession may be.

“But suppose the man himself has neither taste, nor sensibility, nor any appreciation of the beautiful, nor any sympathy whatever with those who love such things, what then?”

Mrs. Thornton spoke earnestly as she asked this.

“Well,” said Despard, “that question answers itself. As a man is born, so he is; and if nature denies him taste or sensibility it makes no difference what is his profession.”

Mrs. Thornton made no reply.

“My last journey,” said Despard, “was about the Brandon case. I went to London first to see if something could not be done. I had been there before on the same errand, but without success. I was equally unsuccessful this time.

“I tried to find out about Potts, the man who had purchased the estate, but learned that it was necessary to go to the village of Brandon. I went there, and made inquiries. Without exception the people sympathized with the unfortunate family, and looked with detestation upon the man who had supplanted them.

“I heard that a young lady went there last year who was reputed to be his daughter. Every one said that she was extraordinarily beautiful, and looked like a lady. She stopped at the inn under the care of a gentleman who accompanied her, and went to the Hall. She has never come out of it since.

“The landlord told me that the gentleman was a pale, sad-looking man, with dark hair and beard. He seemed very devoted to the young lady, and parted with her in melancholy silence. His account of this young lady moved me very strangely. He was not at all a sentimental man, but a burly John Bull, which made his story all the more touching. It is strange, I must say, that one like her should go into that place and never be seen again. I do not know what to think of it, nor did any of those with whom I spoke in the village.”

“Do you suppose that she really went there and never came back?”

“That is what they say.”

“Then they must believe that she is kept there.”

“Yes, so they do.”

“Why do they not take some steps in the matter?”

“What can they do? She is his daughter. Some of the villagers who have been to the Hall at different times say that they heard her playing and singing.”

“That does not sound like imprisonment.”

“The caged bird sings.”

“Then you think she is a prisoner?”

“I think it odd that she has never come out, not even to go to church.”

“It is odd.”

“This man Potts excited sufficient interest in my mind to lead me to make many inquiries. I found, throughout the county, that every body utterly despised him. They all thought that poor Ralph Brandon had been almost mad, and, by his madness had ruined his family. Every body believed that Potts had somehow deceived him, but no one could tell how. They could not bring any direct proof against him.

“But I found out in Brandon the sad particulars of the final fate of the poor wife and her unfortunate children. They had been sent away or assisted away by this Potts to America, and had all died either on the way out or shortly after they had arrived, according to the villagers. I did not tell them what I knew, but left them to believe what they chose. It seemed to me that they must have received this information from Potts himself; who alone in that poor community would have been able to trace the fortunes of the unhappy emigrants.”

There was a long silence.

“I have done all that I could,” said Despard, in a disconsolate tone, “and I suppose nothing now remains to be done. When we hear again from Paolo there may be some new information upon which we can act.”

“And you can go back to your Byzantine poets.”

“Yes, if you will assist me.”

“You know I shall only be too happy.”

“And I shall be eternally grateful. You see, as I told you before, there is a field of labor here for the lover of music which is like a new world. I will give you the grandest musical compositions that you have ever seen. I will let you have the old hymns of the saints who lived when Constantinople was the only civilized spot in Europe, and the Christians there were hurling back the Mohammedans. You shall sing the noblest songs that you have ever seen.”

“How—in Greek? You must teach me the alphabet then.”

“No; I will translate them for you. The Greek hymns are all in rhythmical prose, like the Te Deum and the Gloria. A literal translation can be sung as well as the originals. You will then enter into the mind and spirit of the ancient Eastern Church before the days of the schism.

“Yes,” continued Despard, with an enthusiasm which he did not care to conceal, “we will go together at this sweet task, and we will sing the {Greek: cath castaen aemeran}, which holds the same place in the Greek Church that the Te Deum does in ours. We will chant together the Golden Canon of St. John Damascene—the Queen of Canons, the grandest song of ‘Christ is risen’ that mortals ever composed. Your heart and mine will beat together with one feeling at the sublime choral strain. We will sing the ‘Hymn of Victory.’ We will go together over the songs of St. Cosmas, St. Theophanes, and St. Theodore; St. Gregory, St. Anatobus, and St. Andrew of Crete shall inspire us; and the thoughts that have kindled the hearts of martyrs at the stake shall exalt our souls to heaven. But I have more than this. I have some compositions of my own; poor ones, indeed, yet an effort in the right way. They are a collection of those hymns of the Primitive Church which are contained in the New Testament. I have tried to set them to music. They are: ‘Worthy is the Lamb,’ ‘Unto Him that loved us,’ ‘Great and marvelous are thy works,’ and the ‘Trisagion.’ Yes, we will go together at this lofty and heavenly work, and I shall be able to gain a new interpretation from your sympathy.”

Despard spoke with a vehement enthusiasm that kindled his eyes with unusual lustre and spread a glow over his pale face. He looked like some devotee under a sudden inspiration. Mrs. Thornton caught all his enthusiasm; her eyes brightened, and her face also flushed with excitement.

“Whenever you are ready to lead me into that new world of music,” said she, “I am ready to follow.”

“Are you willing to begin next Monday?”

“Yes. All my time is my own.”

“Then I will come for you.”

“Then I will be waiting for you. By-the-way, are you engaged for to-night?”

“No; why?”

“There is going to be a fÊte champÊtre. It is a ridiculous thing for the Holby people to do; but I have to go to play the patroness. Mr. Thornton does not want to go. Would you sacrifice yourself to my necessities, and allow me your escort?”

“Would a thirsty man be willing to accept a cooling draught?” said Despard, eagerly. “You open heaven before me, and ask me if I will enter.”

His voice trembled, and he paused.

“You never forget yourself,” said Mrs. Thornton, with slight agitation, looking away as she spoke.

“I will be back at any hour you say.”

“You will do no such thing. Since you are here you must remain and dine, and then go with me. Do you suppose I would trust you? Why, if I let you go, you might keep me waiting a whole hour.”

“Well, if your will is not law to me what is? Speak, and your servant obeys. To stay will only add to my happiness.”

“Then let me make you happy by forcing you to stay.”

Despard’s face showed his feelings, and to judge by its expression his language had not been extravagant.

The afternoon passed quietly. Dinner was served up. Thornton came in, and greeted Despard with his usual abstraction, leaving his wife to do the agreeable. After dinner, as usual, he prepared for a nap, and Despard and Mrs. Thornton started for the fÊte.

It was to be in some gardens at the other end of Holby, along the shore. The townspeople had recently formed a park there, and this was one of the preliminaries to its formal inauguration. The trees were hung with innumerable lamps of varied colors. There were bands of music, and triumphal arches, and gay festoons, and wreaths of flowers, and every thing that is usual at such a time.

On arriving, Despard assisted Mrs. Thornton from the carriage and offered his arm. She took it, but her hand rested so lightly on it that its touch was scarce perceptible. They walked around through the illuminated paths. Great crowds of people were there. All looked with respectful pleasure at Mrs. Thornton and the Rector.

“You ought to be glad that you have come,” said she. “See how these poor people feel it: we are not persons of very great consequence, yet our presence is marked and enjoyed.”

“All places are alike to me,” answered Despard, “when I am with you. Still, there are circumstances about this which will make it forever memorable to me.”

“Look at those lights,” exclaimed Mrs. Thornton, suddenly; “what varied colors!”

“Let us walk into that grotto,” said Despard, turning toward a cool, dark place which lay before them.

Here, at the end of the grotto, was a tree, at the foot of which was a seat. They sat down and staid for hours. In the distance the lights twinkled and music arose. They said little, but listened to the confused murmur which in the pauses of the music came up from afar.

Then they rose and walked back. Entering the principal path a great crowd streamed on which they had to face.

Despard sighed. “You and I,” said he, stooping low and speaking in a sad voice, “are compelled to go against the tide.”

“Shall we turn back and go with it?”

“We can not.”

“Do you wish to turn aside?”

“We can not. We must walk against the tide, and against the rush of men. If we turn aside there is nothing but darkness.”

They walked on in silence till they reached the gate.

“The carriage has not come,” said Mrs. Thornton.

“Do you prefer riding?”

“No.”

“It is not far. Will you walk?”

“With pleasure.”

They walked on slowly. About half-way they met the carriage. Mrs. Thornton ordered it back, saying that she would walk the rest of the way.

They walked on slowly, saying so little that at last Mrs. Thornton began to speak about the music which they had proposed to undertake. Despard’s enthusiasm seemed to have left him. His replies were vague and general. On reaching the gate he stood still for a moment under the trees and half turned toward her. “You don’t say any thing about the music?” said she.

“That’s because I am so stupid. I have lost my head. I am not capable of a single coherent idea.”

“You are thinking of something else all the time.”

“My brain is in a whirl. Yes, I am thinking of something else.”

“Of what?”

“I’m afraid to say.”

Mrs. Thornton was silent. They entered the gate and walked up the avenue, slowly and in silence. Despard made one or two efforts to stop, and then continued. At last they reached the door. The lights were streaming brightly from window. Despard stood, silently.

“Will you not come in?”

“No, thank you,” said he, dreamily. “It is rather too late, and I must go. Good-night.”

He held out his hand. She offered hers, and he took it. He held it long, and half stooped as though he wished to say something. She felt the throbbing of his heart in his hand as it clasped hers. She said nothing. Nor did Despard seem able to say any thing. At last he let go her hand slowly and reluctantly.

“You will not forget the music?” said he.

“No.”

“Good-night.”

He took her hand again in both of his. As the light shone through the windows she saw his face—a face full of longing beyond words, and sadness unutterable.

“Good-night,” she faltered.

He let go her hand, and turning away, was lost amidst the gloom. She waited till the sound of his footsteps had died away, and then went into the house.

On the following morning Despard was walking along when he met her suddenly at a corner of the street. He stopped with a radiant face, and shaking hands with her, for a moment was unable to speak.

“This is too much happiness,” he said at last. “It is like a ray of light to a poor captive when you burst upon me so suddenly. Where are you going?”

“Oh, I’m only going to do a little shopping.”

“I’m sure I wish that I could accompany you to protect you.”

“Well, why not?”

“On the whole, I think that shopping is not my forte, and that my presence would not be essential.”

He turned, however, and walked with her some distance, as far as the farthest shop in the town. They talked gayly and pleasantly about the fÊte. “You will not forget the music,” said he, on parting. “Will you come next Monday? If you don’t, I won’t be responsible for the consequences.”

“Do you mean to say, Sir, that you expect me to come alone?”

“I did not hope for any thing else.”

“Why, of course, you must call for me. If you do not I won’t go.”

Despard’s eyes brightened.

“Oh, then, since you allow me so sweet a privilege, I will go and accompany you.”

“If you fail me I will stay at home,” said she, laughingly.

He did not fail her, but at the appointed time went up to the Grange. Some strangers were there, and Mrs. Thornton gave him a look of deep disappointment. The strangers were evidently going to spend the day, so Despard, after a short call, withdrew. Before he left, Mrs. Thornton absented herself on some pretext for a few moments, and as he quitted the room she went to the door with him and gave him a note.

He walked straight home, holding the note in his hands till he reached his study; then he locked himself in, opened the note, and read as follows:

“DEAR MR. DESPARD,—How does it happen that things turn out just as they ought not? I was so anxious to go with you to the church to-day about our music. I know my own powers; they are not contemptible; they are not uncultivated; they are simply, and wholly, and irretrievably commonplace. That much I deem it my duty to inform you.

“These wretched people, who have spoiled a day’s pleasure, dropped upon me as suddenly as though they had come from the skies. They leave on Thursday morning. Come on Thursday afternoon. If you do not I will never forgive you. On that day give up your manuscripts and books for music and the organ, and allot some portion of your time to, Yours,

“T.T.”

On Thursday Despard called, and Mrs. Thornton was able to accompany him. The church was an old one, and had one of the best organs in Wales. Despard was to play and she to sing. He had his music ready, and the sheets were carefully and legibly written out from the precious old Greek scores which he loved so dearly and prized so highly.

They began with the canon for Easter-day of St. John Damascene, who, according to Despard, was the best of the Eastern hymnists. Mrs. Thornton’s voice was rich and full. As she came to the {Greek: anastaseos haemera}—Resurrection Day—it took up a tone of indescribable exaltation, blending with the triumph peal of the organ. Despard added his own voice—a deep, strong, full-toned basso—and their blended strains bore aloft the sublimest of utterances, “Christ is arisen!”

{Illustration: AND THEIR BLENDED STRAINS BORE ALOFT THE SUBLIMEST OF UTTERANCES, ‘CHRIST IS ARISEN’}

Then followed a more mournful chant, full of sadness and profound melancholy, the {Greek: teleutaion aspasmon}—the Last Kiss—the hymn of the dead, by the same poet.

Then followed a sublimer strain, the hymn of St. Theodore on the Judgment—{Greek: taen haemeran taen phriktaen}—where all the horrors of the day of doom are set forth. The chant was commensurate with the dread splendors of the theme. The voices of the two singers blended in perfect concord. The sounds which were thus wrought out bore themselves through the vaulted aisles, returning again to their own ears, imparting to their own hearts something of the awe with which imagination has enshrouded the Day of days, and giving to their voices that saddened cadence which the sad spirit can convey to its material utterance.

Despard then produced some composition of his own, made after the manner of the Eastern chants, which he insisted were the primitive songs of the early Church. The words were those fragments of hymns which are imbedded in the text of the New Testament. He chose first the song of the angels, which was first sung by “a great voice out of heaven”—{Greek: idou, hae skaenae tou Deou}—Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men!

The chant was a marvelous one. It spoke of sorrow past, of grief stayed, of misery at an end forever, of tears dried, and a time when “there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying.” There was a gentle murmur in the flow of that solemn, soothing strain which was like the sighing of the evening wind among the hoary forest trees; it soothed and comforted; it brought hope, and holy calm, and sweet peace.

As Despard rose from the organ Mrs. Thornton looked at him with moistened eyes.

“I do not know whether your song brings calm or unrest,” said she, sadly, “but after singing it I would wish to die.”

“It is not the music, it is the words,” answered Despard, “which bring before us a time when there shall be no sorrow or sighing.”

“May such a time ever be?” murmured she.

“That,” he replied, “it is ours to aim after. There is such a world. In that world all wrongs will be righted, friends will be reunited, and those severed here through all this earthly life will be joined for evermore.”

Their eyes met. Their spirit lived and glowed in that gaze. It was sad beyond expression, but each one held commune with the other in a mute intercourse, more eloquent than words.

Despard’s whole frame trembled. “Will you sing the Ave Maria?” he asked, in a low, scarce audible voice. Her head dropped. She gave a convulsive sigh. He continued: “We used to sing it in the old days, the sweet, never-forgotten days now past forever. We sang it here. We stood hand in hand.”

His voice faltered.

“Sing,” he said, after a time.

“I can not”

Despard sighed. “Perhaps it is better not; for I feel as though, if you were to sing it, my heart would break.”

“Do you believe that hearts can break?” she asked gently, but with indescribable pathos.

Despard looked at her mournfully, and said not a word.