Cord and Creese | Page 2

looking at his watch. "I am somewhat curious to see how things are
looking. I noticed quotations of wool rather higher than by last mail. If
the papers are correct which I saw then we ought to do very well by
that last cargo."
Mr. Compton smiled.
"Well, Brandon," said he, "if it is so it will show that you are right. You
anticipated a rise about this time, you know. You certainly have a
remarkable forecast about the chances of business."
"I don't think there is much forecast," said Brandon, with a smile. "It
was only the most ordinary calculation made from the well-known fact
that the exportation this year had been slight. But there comes Hedley
now," he continued, moving his head a little to one side so as to look up
the street. "The letters will soon show us all."
Mr. Compton looked out in the direction which Brandon indicated and
saw the clerk approaching. He then settled himself back in his chair,
put his hands in his pockets, threw one leg over the other, and began
whistling a tune with the air of a man who was so entirely prosperous
and contented that no news whether good or evil could greatly affect
his fortunes.
In a short time the clerk entered the inner office and, laying the letters
down upon the table nearest Mr. Compton, he withdrew.
Mr. Compton took up the letters one by one and read the addresses,
while Brandon looked carelessly on. There were ten or twelve of them,
all of which, except one, were addressed to the firm. This one Mr.
Compton selected from among the others, and reaching it out in his
hand said:
"This is for you, Mr. Brandon."

"For me?" repeated Brandon, with marked surprise; and taking the
letter he looked at the address with eager curiosity.
The address was simply as follows:
Louis Brandon, Sydney, New South Wales.
The letters were irregular and loosely formed, as though written by a
tremulous hand--such letters as old men form when the muscles have
become relaxed.
Mr. Compton went on opening the letters of the firm without taking
any further notice of his partner. The latter sat for some time looking at
the letter without venturing to open it. He held it in both hands, and
looked fixedly at that address as though from the address itself he was
trying to extort some meaning.
He held it thus in both hands looking fixedly at it, with his head bent
forward. Had Mr. Compton thought of taking a look at his usually
impassive companion, he would have been surprised at the change
which had taken place in him at the mere sight of that tremulous
handwriting. For in that he had read grief, misfortune, perhaps death;
and as he sat there, pausing before he dared to break the seal, the
contents of the letter had already been conjectured.
Gloom therefore unutterable gathered upon his face; his features fixed
themselves into such rigidity of grief that they became more expressive
than if they had been distorted by passionate emotions; and over his
brow collected cloud upon cloud, which deepened and darkened every
instant till they overshadowed all; and his face in its statuesque
fixedness resembled nothing so much as that which the artist gives to
Napoleon at the crisis hour of Waterloo, when the Guard has recoiled
from its last charge, and from that Imperial face in its fixed agony the
soul itself seems to cry, "Lost!" "Lost!"
Yet it was only for a few minutes. Hastily subduing his feeling
Brandon rose, and clutching the letter in his hand as though it were too
precious to be trusted to his pocket, he quietly left the office and the

warehouse and walked up the street.
He walked on rapidly until he reached a large building which bore the
sign "Australian Hotel." Here he entered, and walked up stairs to a
room, and locked himself in. Then when alone in his own apartments
he ventured to open the letter.
The paper was poor and mean; the handwriting, like that of the address,
was tremulous, and in many places quite illegible; the ink was pale; and
the whole appearance of the letter seemed to indicate poverty and
weakness on the part of the writer. By a very natural impulse Brandon
hesitated before beginning to read, and took in all these things with a
quick glance.
At last he nerved himself to the task and began to read.
This was the letter.
"Brandon, March 10, 1846.
"My dear Boy,--These are the last words which you will ever hear from
your father. I am dying, my dear boy, and dying of a broken heart; but
where I am dying I am afraid to tell you. That bitterness I leave for