“And the sad memory of our life belowShall but unite us closer evermore;No net of thine shall looseThee from the eternal bond,Nor shall Revenge have powerTo disunite usthere!”
With a sigh he sat down and buried his face in his hands. His gray hair loosened and fell off as he sat there. At last he raised his head, and revealed the face of a young man whose dark hair showed the gray beard to be false.
Yet when he once more put on his wig none but a most intimate friend with the closest scrutiny could recognize there the features of Louis Brandon.
Many weeks passed on, and music still formed the chief occupation in life for Despard and Mrs. Thornton. His journey to Brandon village had been without result. He knew not what to do. The inquiries which he made every where turned out useless. Finally Thornton informed him that it was utterly hopeless, at a period so long after the event, to attempt to do any thing whatever. Enough had been done long ago. Now nothing more could possibly be effected.
Baffled, but not daunted, Despard fell back for the present from his purpose, yet still cherished it and wrote to different quarters for information. Meantime he had to return to his life at Holby, and Mrs. Thornton was still ready to assist him.
So the time went on, and the weeks passed, till one day in March Despard went up as usual.
On entering the parlor he heard voices, and saw a stranger. Mrs. Thornton greeted him as usual and sat down smiling. The stranger rose, and he and Despard looked at one another.
He was of medium size and slight in figure. His brow was very broad and high. His hair was black, and clustered in curls over his head. His eyes were large, and seemed to possess an unfathomable depth, which gave them a certain undefinable and mystic meaning—liquid eyes, yet lustrous, where all the soul seemed to live and show itself—benignant in their glance, yet lofty like the eyes of a being from some superior sphere. His face was thin and shaven close, his lips also were thin, with a perpetual smile of marvelous sweetness and gentleness hovering about them. It was such a face as artists love to give to the Apostle John—the sublime, the divine, the loving, the inspired.
“You do not know him,” said Mrs. Thornton. “It is Paolo!”
Despard at once advanced and greeted him with the warmest cordiality.
“I was only a little fellow when I saw you last, and you have changed somewhat since then,” said Despard. “But when did you arrive? I knew that you were expected in England, but was not sure that you would come here.”
“What!Teresuola mia,” said Langhetti with a fond smile at his sister. “Were you really not sure,sorellina, that I would come to see you first of all? Infidel!” and he shook his head at her, playfully.
A long conversation followed, chiefly about Langhetti’s plans. He was going to engage a place in London for his opera, but wished first to secure a singer. Oh, if he only could find Bice—his Bicina, the divinest voice that mortal ever heard.
Despard and Mrs. Thornton exchanged glances, and at last Despard told him that there was a person of the same name at Brandon Hall. She was living in a seclusion so strict that it seemed confinement, and there was a mystery about her situation which he had tried without success to fathom.
Langhetti listened with a painful surprise that seemed like positive anguish.
“Then I must go myself. Oh, my Bicina—to what misery have you come—But do you say that you have been there?”
“Yes.”
“Did you go to the Hall?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know the man to be a villain indescribable—”
Langhetti thought for a moment, and then said,
“True, he is all that, and perhaps more than you imagine.”
“I have done the utmost that can be done!” said Despard.
“Perhaps so; still each one wishes to try for himself, and though I can scarce hope to be more successful than you, yet I must try, if only for my own peace of mind. Oh,Bicina cara!to think of her sweet and gentle nature being subject to such torments as those ruffians can inflict!
“You do not know how it is,” said he at last, very solemnly; “but there are reasons of transcendent importance why Bice should be rescued. I can not tell them; but if I dared mention what I hope, if I only dared to speak my thoughts, you—you,” he cried, with piercing emphasis, and in a tone that thrilled through Despard, to whom he spoke, “you would make it the aim of all your life to save her.”
“I do not understand,” said Despard, in astonishment.
“No, no,” murmured Langhetti. “You do not; nor dare I explain what I mean. It has been in my thoughts for years. It was brought to my mind first in Hong Kong, when she was there. Only one person besides Potts can explain; only one.”
“Who?” cried Despard, eagerly.
“A woman named Compton.”
“Compton!”
“Yes. Perhaps she is dead. Alas, and alas, and alas, if she is! Yet could I but see that woman, I would tear the truth from her if I perished in the attempt!”
And Langhetti stretched out his long, slender hand, as though he were plucking out the very heart of some imaginary enemy.
“Think, Teresuola,” said he, after a while, “if you were in captivity, what would become of my opera? Could I have the heart to think about operas, even if I believed that they contributed to the welfare of the world, if your welfare was at stake? Now you know that next to you stands Bice. I must try and save her—I must give up all. My opera must stand aside till it be God’s will that I give it forth. No, the one object of my life now must be to find Bice, to see her or to see Mrs. Compton, if she is alive.”
“Is the secret of so much importance?” asked Despard.
Langhetti looked at him with mournful meaning.
Despard looked at him wonderingly. What could he mean? How could any one affect him? His peace of mind! That had been lost long ago. And if this secret was so terrible it would distract his mind from its grief, its care, and its longing. Peace would be restored rather than destroyed.
“I must find her. I must find her,” said Langhetti, speaking half to himself. “I am weak; but much can be done by a resolute will.”
“Perhaps Mr. Thornton can assist you,” said Despard.
Langhetti shook his head.
“No; he is a man of law, and does not understand the man who acts from feeling. I can be as logical as he, but I obey impulses which are unintelligible to him. He would simply advise me to give up the matter, adding, perhaps, that I would do myself no good. Whereas he can not understand that it makes no difference to me whether I do myself good or not; and again, that the highest good that I can do myself is to seek after her.”
Mrs. Thornton looked at Despard, but he avoided her glance.
“No,” said Langhetti, “I will ask assistance from another—from you, Despard. You are one who acts as I act. Come with me.”
“When?”
“To-morrow morning.”
“I will.”
“Of course you will. You would not be a Despard if you did not. You would not be the son of your father—your father!” he repeated, in thrilling tones, as his eyes flashed with enthusiasm. “Despard!” he cried, after a pause, “your father was a man whom you might pray to now. I saw him once. Shall I ever forget the day when he calmly went to lay down his life for my father? Despard, I worship your father’s memory. Come with me. Let us emulate those two noble men who once before rescued a captive. We can not risk our lives as they did. Let us at least do what we can.”
“I will do exactly what you say. You can think and I will act.”
“No, you must think too. Neither of us belong to the class of practical men whom the world now delights to honor; but no practical man would go on our errand. No practical man would have rescued my father. Generous and lofty acts must always be done by those who are not practical men.”
“But I must go out. I must think,” he continued. “I will go and walk about the grounds.”
Saying this he left the room.
“Where is Edith Brandon?” asked Despard, after he had gone.
“She is here,” said Mrs. Thornton.
“Have you seen her?”
“Yes.”
“Is she what you anticipated?”
“More. She is incredible. She is almost unearthly. I feel awe of her, but not fear. She is too sweet to inspire fear.”
The last entry in Beatrice’s journal was made by her in the hope that it might be the last.
In her life at Brandon Hall her soul had grown stronger and more resolute. Besides, it had now come to this, that henceforth she must either stay and accept the punishment which they might contrive or fly instantly.
For she had dared them to their faces; she had told them of their crimes; she had threatened punishment. She had said that she was the avenger of Despard. If she had desired instant death she could have said no more than that. Would they pass it by? She knew their secret—the secret of secrets; she had proclaimed it to their faces. She had called Potts a Thug and disowned him as her father; what now remained?
But one thing—flight. And this she was fully resolved to try. She prepared nothing. To gain the outside world was all she wished. The need of money was not thought of; nor if it had been would it have made any difference. She could not have obtained it.
The one idea in her mind was therefore flight. She had concealed her journal under a looser piece of the flooring in one of the closets of her room, being unwilling to encumber herself with it, and dreading the result of a search in case she was captured.
She made no other preparations whatever. A light hat and a thin jacket were all that she took to resist the chill air of March. There was a fever in her veins which was heightened by excitement and suspense.
Mrs. Compton was in her room during the evening. Beatrice said but little. Mrs. Compton talked drearily about the few topics on which she generally spoke. She never dared talk about the affairs of the house.
Beatrice was not impatient, for she had no idea of trying to escape before midnight. She sat silently while Mrs. Compton talked or prosed, absorbed in her own thoughts and plans. The hours seemed to her interminable. Slowly and heavily they dragged on. Beatrice’s suspense and excitement grew stronger every moment, yet by a violent effort she preserved so perfect an outward calm that a closer observer than Mrs. Compton would have failed to detect any emotion.
At last, about ten o’clock, Mrs. Compton retired, with many kind wishes to Beatrice, and many anxious counsels as to her health. Beatrice listened patiently, and made some general remarks, after which Mrs. Compton withdrew.
She was now left to herself, and two hours still remained before she could dare to venture. She paced the room fretfully and anxiously, wondering why it was that the time seemed so long, and looking from time to time at her watch in the hope of finding that half an hour had passed, but seeing to her disappointment that only two or three minutes had gone.
At last eleven o’clock came. She stole out quietly into the hall and went to the top of the grand stairway. There she stood and listened.
The sound of voices came up from the dining-room, which was near the hall-door. She knew to whom those voices belonged. Evidently it was not yet the time for her venture.
She went back, controlling her excitement as best she might. At last, after a long, long suspense, midnight sounded.
Again she went to the head of the stairway. The voices were still heard. They kept late hours down there. Could she try now, while they were still up? Not yet.
Not yet. The suspense became agonizing. How could she wait? But she went back again to her room, and smothered her feelings until one o’clock came.
Again she went to the head of the stairway. She heard nothing. She could see a light streaming from the door of the dining-hall below. Lights, also, were burning in the hall itself; but she heard no voices.
Softly and quietly she went down stairs. The lights flashed out through the door of the dining-room into the hall; and as she arrived at the foot of the stairs she heard subdued voices in conversation. Her heart beat faster. They were all there! What if they now discovered her! What mercy would they show her, even if they were capable of mercy?
Fear lent wings to her feet. She was almost afraid to breathe for fear that they might hear her. She stole on quietly and noiselessly up the passage that led to the north end, and at last reached it.
All was dark there. At this end there was a door. On each side was a kind of recess formed by the pillars of the doorway. The door was generally used by the servants, and also by the inmates of the house for convenience.
The key was in it. There was no light in the immediate vicinity. Around it all was gloom. Near by was a stairway, which led to the servants’ hall.
She took the key in her hands, which trembled violently with excitement, and turned it in the lock.
Scarcely had she done so when she heard footsteps and voices behind her. She looked hastily back, and, to her horror, saw two servants approaching with a lamp. It was impossible for her now to open the door and go out. Concealment was her only plan.
But how? There was no time for hesitation. Without stopping to think she slipped into one of the niches formed by the projecting pillars, and gathered her skirts close about her so as to be as little conspicuous as possible. There she stood awaiting the result. She half wished that she had turned back. For if she were now discovered in evident concealment what excuse could she give? She could not hope to bribe them, for she had no money. And, what was worst, these servants were the two who had been the most insolent to her from the first.
She could do nothing, therefore, but wait. They came nearer, and at last reached the door.
“Hallo!” said one, as he turned the key. “It’s been unlocked!”
“It hain’t been locked yet,” said the other.
“Yes, it has. I locked it myself an hour ago. Who could have been here?”
“Any one,” said the other, quietly. “Our blessed young master has, no doubt, been out this way.”
“No, he hasn’t. He hasn’t stirred from his whisky since eight o’clock.”
“Nonsense! You’re making a fuss about nothing. Lock the door and come along.”
“Any how, I’m responsible, and I’ll get a precious overhauling if this thing goes on. I’ll take the key with me this time.”
And saying this, the man locked the door and took out the key. Both of them then descended to the servants’ hall.
The noise of that key as it grated in the lock sent a thrill through the heart of the trembling listener. It seemed to take all hope from her. The servants departed. She had not been discovered. But what was to be done? She had not been prepared for this.
She stood for some time in despair. She thought of other ways of escape. There was the hall-door, which she did not dare to try, for she would have to pass directly in front of the dining-room. Then there was the south door at the other end of the building, which was seldom used. She knew of no others. She determined to try the south door.
Quietly and swiftly she stole away, and glided, like a ghost, along the entire length of the building. It was quite dark at the south end as it had been at the north. She reached the door without accident.
There was no key in it. It was locked. Escape by that way was impossible.
She stood despairing. Only one way was now left, and that lay through the hall-door itself.
Suddenly, as she stood there, she heard footsteps. A figure came down the long hall straight toward her. There was not the slightest chance of concealment here. There were no pillars behind which she might crouch. She must stand, then, and take the consequences. Or, rather, would it not be better to walk forward and meet this new-comer? Yes; that would be best. She determined to do so.
So, with a quiet, slow step she walked back through the long corridor. About half-way she met the other. He stopped and started back.
“Miss Potts!” he exclaimed, in surprise.
It was the voice of Philips.
“Ah, Philips,” said she, quietly, “I am walking about for exercise and amusement. I can not sleep. Don’t be startled. It’s only me.”
Philips stood like one paralyzed.
“Don’t be cast down,” he said at last, in a trembling voice. “You have friends, powerful friends. They will save you.”
“What do you mean?” asked Beatrice, in wonder.
“Never mind,” said Philips, mysteriously. “It will be all right. I dare not tell. But cheer up.”
“What do you mean by friends?”
“You have friends who are more powerful than your enemies, that’s all,” said Philips, hurriedly. “Cheer up.”
Beatrice wondered. A vague thought of Brandon came over her mind, but she dismissed it at once. Yet the thought gave her a delicious joy, and at once dispelled the extreme agitation which had thus far disturbed her. Could Philips be connected withhim? Was he in reality considerate about her while shaping the course of his gloomy vengeance? These were the thoughts which flashed across her mind as she stood.
“I don’t understand,” said she, at last; “but I hope it may be as you say. God knows, I need friends!”
She walked away, and Philips also went onward. She walked slowly, until at last his steps died out in the distance. Then a door banged. Evidently she had nothing to fear from him. At last she reached the main hall, and stopped for a moment. The lights from the dining-room were still flashing out through the door. The grand entrance lay before her. There was the door of the hall, the only way of escape that now remained. Dare she try it?
She deliberated long. Two alternatives lay before her—to go back to her own room, or to try to pass that door. To go back was as repulsive as death, in fact more so. If the choice had been placed full before her then, to die on the spot or to go back to her room, she would have deliberately chosen death. The thought of returning, therefore, was the last upon which she could dwell, and that of going forward was the only one left. To this she gave her attention.
At last she made up her mind, and advanced cautiously, close by the wall, toward the hall-door. After a time she reached the door of the dining-room. Could she venture to pass it, and how? She paused. She listened. There were low voices in the room. Then they were still awake, still able to detect her if she passed the door.
She looked all around. The hall was wide. On the opposite side the wall was but feebly lighted. The hall lights had been put out, and those which shone from the room extended forward but a short distance. It was just possible therefore to escape observation by crossing the doorway along the wall that was most distant from it.
Yet before she tried this she ventured to put forward her head so as to peep into the room. She stooped low and looked cautiously and slowly.
The three were there at the farthest end of the room. Bottles and glasses stood before them, and they were conversing in low tones. Those tones, however, were not so low but that they reached her ears. They were speaking abouther.
“How could she have found it out?” said Clark.
“Mrs. Compton only knowsone thing,” said Potts, “and that isthe secret about her. She knows nothing more. How could she?”
“Then how could that cursed girl have found out about the Thug business?” exclaimed John.
There was no reply.
“She’s a deep one,” said John, “d—d deep—deeper than I ever thought. I always said she was plucky—cursed plucky—but now I see she’s deep too—and I begin to have my doubts about the way she ought to be took down.”
“I never could make her out,” said Potts. “And now I don’t even begin to understand how she could know that which only we have known. Do you think, Clark, that the devil could have told her of it?”
“Yes,” said Clark. “Nobody but the devil could have told her that, and my belief is that she’s the devil himself. She’s the only person I ever felt afraid of. D—n it, I can’t look her in the face.”
Beatrice retreated and passed across to the opposite wall. She did not wish to see or hear more. She glided by. She was not noticed. She heard John’s voice—sharp and clear—
“We’ll have to begin to-morrow and take her down—that’s a fact.” This was followed by silence.
Beatrice reached the door. She turned the knob. Oh, joy! it was not locked. It opened.
Noiselessly she passed through; noiselessly she shut it behind her. She was outside. She was free.
The moon shone brightly. It illumined the lawn in front and the tops of the clumps of trees whose dark foliage rose before her. She saw all this; yet, in her eagerness to escape, she saw nothing more, but sped away swiftly down the steps, across the lawn, and under the shade of the trees.
Which way should she go? There was the main avenue which led in a winding direction toward the gate and the porter’s lodge. There was also another path which the servants generally took. This led to the gate also. Beatrice thought that by going down this path she might come near the gate and then turn off to the wall and try and climb over.
A few moments of thought were sufficient for her decision. She took the path and went hurriedly along, keeping on the side where the shadow was thickest.
She walked swiftly, until at length she came to a place where the path ended. It was close by the porter’s lodge. Here she paused to consider.
Late as it was there were lights in the lodge and voices at the door. Some one was talking with the porter. Suddenly the voices ceased and a man came walking toward the place where she stood.
To dart into the thick trees where the shadow lay deepest was the work of a moment. She stood and watched. But the underbrush was dense, and the crackling which she made attracted the man’s attention. He stopped for a moment, and then rushed straight toward the place where she was.
Beatrice gave herself up for lost. She rushed on wildly, not knowing where she went. Behind her was the sound of her pursuer. He followed resolutely and relentlessly. There was no refuge for her but continued flight.
Onward she sped, and still onward, through the dense underbrush, which at every step gave notice of the direction which she had taken. Perhaps if she had been wiser she would have plunged into some thick growth of trees into the midst of absolute darkness and there remained still. As it was she did not think of this. Escape was her only thought, and the only way to this seemed to be by flight.
So she fled; and after her came her remorseless, her unpitying pursuer, fear lent wings to her feet. She fled on through the underbrush that crackled as she passed and gave notice of her track through the dark, dense groves; yet still amidst darkness and gloom her pursuer followed.
{Illustration: “ONWARD SHE SPED, AND STILL ONWARD, THROUGH THE DENSE UNDERBRUSH."}
At last, through utter weakness and weariness, she sank down. Despair came over her. She could do no more.
The pursuer came up. So dense was the gloom in that thick grove that for some time he could not find her. Beatrice heard the crackling of the underbrush all around. He was searching for her.
She crouched down low and scarcely dared to breathe. She took refuge in the deep darkness, and determined to wait till her pursuer might give up his search. At last all was still.
Beatrice thought that he had gone. Yet in her fear she waited for what seemed to her an interminable period. At last she ventured to make a movement. Slowly and cautiously she rose to her feet and advanced. She did not know what direction to take; but she walked on, not caring where she went so long as she could escape pursuit.
Scarcely had she taken twenty steps when she heard a noise. Some one was moving. She stood still, breathless. Then she thought she had been mistaken. After waiting a long time she went on as before. She walked faster. The noise came again. It was close by. She stood still for many minutes.
Suddenly she bounded up, and ran as one runs for life. Her long rest had refreshed her. Despair gave her strength. But the pursuer was on her track. Swiftly, and still more swiftly, his footsteps came up behind her. He was gaining on her. Still she rushed on.
At last a strong hand seized her by the shoulder, and she sank down upon the moss that lay under the forest trees.
“Who are you?” cried a familiar voice.
“Vijal!” cried Beatrice.
The other let go his hold.
“Will you betray me?” cried Beatrice, in a mournful and despairing voice.
Vijal was silent.
“What do you want?” said he, at last. “Whatever you want to do I will help you. I will be your slave.”
“I wish to escape.”
“Come then—you shall escape,” said Vijal.
Without uttering another word he walked on and Beatrice followed. Hope rose once more within her. Hope gave strength. Despair and its weakness had left her. After about half an hour’s walk they reached the park wall.
“I thought it was a poacher,” said Vijal, sadly; “yet I am glad it was you, for I can help you. I will help you over the wall.”
He raised her up. She clambered to the top, where she rested for a moment.
“God bless you, Vijal, and good-by!” said she.
Vijal said nothing.
The next moment she was on the other side. The road lay there. It ran north away from the village. Along this road Beatrice walked swiftly.
On the morning following two travelers left a small inn which lay on the road-side, about ten miles north of Brandon. It was about eight o’clock when they took their departure, driving in their own carriage at a moderate pace along the road.
“Look, Langhetti,” said the one who was driving, pointing with his whip to an object in the road directly in front of them.
Langhetti raised his head, which had been bowed down in deep abstraction, to look in the direction indicated. A figure was approaching them. It looked like a woman. She walked very slowly, and appeared rather to stagger than to walk.
“She appears to be drunk, Despard,” said Langhetti. “Poor wretch, and on this bleak March morning too! Let us stop and see if we can do any thing for her.”
They drove on, and as they met the woman Despard stopped.
She was young and extraordinarily beautiful. Her face was thin and white. Her clothing was of fine materials but scanty and torn to shreds. As they stopped she turned her large eyes up despairingly and stood still, with a face which seemed to express every conceivable emotion of anguish and of hope. Yet as her eyes rested on Langhetti a change came over her. The deep and unutterable sadness of her face passed away, and was succeeded by a radiant flash of joy. She threw out her arms toward him with a cry of wild entreaty.
The moment that Langhetti saw her he started up and stood for an instant as if paralyzed. Her cry came to his ears. He leaped from the carriage toward her, and caught her in his arms.
“Oh, Bice! Alas, my Bicina!” he cried, and a thousand fond words came to his lips.
Beatrice looked up with eyes filled with grateful tears; her lips murmured some inaudible sentences; and then, in this full assurance of safety, the resolution that had sustained her so long gave way altogether. Her eyes closed, she gave a low moan, and sank senseless upon his breast.
Langhetti supported her for a moment, then gently laid her down to try and restore her. He chafed her hands, and did all that is usually done in such emergencies. But here the case was different—it was more than a common faint, and the animation now suspended was not to be restored by ordinary efforts.
Langhetti bowed over her as he chafed her hands. “Ah, my Bicina,” he cried; “is it thus I find you! Ah, poor thin hand! Alas, white wan face! What suffering has been yours, pure angel, among those fiends of hell!”
He paused, and turned a face of agony toward Despard. But as he looked at him he saw a grief in his countenance that was only second to his own. Something in Beatrice’s appearance had struck him with a deeper feeling than that merely human interest which the generous heart feels in the sufferings of others.
“Langhetti,” said he, “let us not leave this sweet angel exposed to this bleak wind. We must take her back to the inn. We have gained our object. Alas! the gain is worse than a failure.”
“What can we do?”
“Let us put her in the carriage between us, and drive back instantly.”
Despard stooped as he spoke, raised her reverently in his arms, and lifted her upon the seat. He sprang in and put his arms around her senseless form, so as to support her against himself. Langhetti looked on with eyes that were moist with a sad yet mysterious feeling.
Then he resumed his place in the carriage.
“Oh, Langhetti!” said Despard, “what is it that I saw in the face of this poor child that so wrings my heart? What is this mystery of yours that you will not tell?”
“I can not solve it,” said Langhetti, “and therefore I will not tell it.”
“Tell it, whatever it is.”
“No, it is only conjecture as yet, and I will not utter it.”
“And it affects me?”
“Deeply.”
“Therefore tell it.”
“Therefore I must not tell it; for if it prove baseless I shall only excite your feeling in vain.”
“At any rate let me know. For I have the wildest fancies, and I wish to know if it is possible that they are like your own.”
“No, Despard,” said Langhetti. “Not now. The time may come, but it has not yet.”
Beatrice’s head leaned against Despard’s shoulder as she reclined against him, sustained by his arm. Her face was upturned; a face as white as marble, her pure Grecian features showing now their faultless lines like the sculptured face of some goddess. Her beauty was perfect in its classic outline. But her eyes were closed, and her wan, white lips parted; and there was a sorrow on her face which did not seem appropriate to one so young.
{Illustration: “HE LEAPED FROM THE CARRIAGE TOWARD HER, AND CAUGHT HER IN HIS ARMS."}
“Look,” said Langhetti, in a mournful voice. “Saw you ever in all your life any one so perfectly and so faultlessly beautiful? Oh, if you could but have seen her, as I have done, in her moods of inspiration, when she sang! Could I ever have imagined such a fate as this for her?”
“Oh, Despard!” he continued, after, a pause in which the other had turned his stern face to him without a word—“Oh, Despard! you ask me to tell you this secret. I dare not. It is so wide-spread. If my fancy be true, then all your life must at once be unsettled, and all your soul turned to one dark purpose. Never will I turn you to that purpose till I know the truth beyond the possibility of a doubt.”
“I saw that in her face,” said Despard, “which I hardly dare acknowledge to myself.”
“Do not acknowledge it, then, I implore you. Forget it. Do not open up once more that old and now almost forgotten sorrow. Think not of it even to yourself.”
Langhetti spoke with a wild and vehement urgency which was wonderful.
“Do you not see,” said Despard, “that you rouse my curiosity to an intolerable degree?”
“Be it so; at any rate it is better to suffer from curiosity than to feel what you must feel if I told you what I suspect.”
Had it been any other man than Langhetti Despard would have been offended. As it was he said nothing, but began to conjecture as to the best course for them to follow.
“It is evident,” said he to Langhetti, “that she has escaped from Brandon Hall during the past night. She will, no doubt, be pursued. What shall we do? If we go back to this inn they will wonder at our bringing her. There is another inn a mile further on.”
“I have been thinking of that,” replied Langhetti. “It will be better to go to the other inn. But what shall we say about her? Let us say she is an invalid going home.”
“And am I her medical attendant?” asked Despard.
“No; that is not necessary. You are her guardian—the Rector of Holby, of course—your name is sufficient guarantee.”
“Oh,” said Despard, after a pause, “I’ll tell you something better yet. I am her brother and she is my sister—Miss Despard.”
As he spoke he looked down upon her marble face. He did not see Langhetti’s countenance. Had he done so he would have wondered. For Langhetti’s eyes seemed to seek to pierce the very soul of Despard. His face became transformed. Its usual serenity vanished, and there was eager wonder, intense and anxious curiosity—an endeavor to see if there was not some deep meaning underlying Despard’s words. But Despard showed no emotion. He was conscious of no deep meaning. He merely murmured to himself as he looked down upon the unconscious face:
“My sick sister—my sister Beatrice.”
Langhetti said not a word, but sat in silence, absorbed in one intense and wondering gaze. Despard seemed to dwell upon this idea, fondly and tenderly.
“She is not one of that brood,” said he, after a pause. “It is in name only that she belongs to them.”
“They are fiends and she is an angel,” said Langhetti.
“Heaven has sent her to us; we most preserve her forever.”
“If she lives,” said Langhetti, “she must never go back.”
“Go back!” cried Despard. “Better far for her to die.”
“I myself would die rather than give her up.”
“And I, too. But we will not. I will adopt her. Yes, she shall cast away the link that binds her to these accursed ones—her vile name. I will adopt her. She shall have my name—she shall be my sister. She shall be Beatrice Despard.
“And surely,” continued Despard, looking tenderly down, “surely, of all the Despard race there was never one so beautiful and so pure as she.”
Langhetti did not say a word, but looked at Despard and the one whom he thus called his adopted sister with an emotion which he could not control. Tears started to his eyes; yet over his brow there came something which is not generally associated with tears—a lofty, exultant expression, an air of joy and peace.
“Your sister,” said Despard, “shall nurse her back to health. She will do so for your sake, Langhetti—or rather from her own noble and generous instincts. In Thornton Grange she will, perhaps, find some alleviation for the sorrows which she may have endured. Our care shall be around her, and we can all labor together for her future welfare.”
They at length reached the inn of which they had spoken, and Beatrice was tenderly lifted out and carried up stairs. She was mentioned as the sister of the Rev. Mr. Despard, of Holby, who was bringing her back from the sea-side, whither she had gone for her health. Unfortunately, she had been too weak for the journey.
The people of the inn showed the kindest attention and warmest sympathy. A doctor was sent for, who lived at a village two miles farther on.
Beatrice recovered from her faint, but remained unconscious. The doctor considered that her brain was affected. He shook his head solemnly over it; as doctors always do when they have nothing in particular to say. Both Langhetti and Despard knew more about her case than he did.
They saw that rest was the one thing needed. But rest could be better attained in Holby than here; and besides, there was the danger of pursuit. It was necessary to remove her; and that, too, without delay. A closed carriage was procured without much difficulty, and the patient was deposited therein.
A slow journey brought them by easy stages to Holby. Beatrice remained unconscious. A nurse was procured, who traveled with her. The condition of Beatrice was the same which she described in her diary. Great grief and extraordinary suffering and excitement had overtasked the brain, and it had given way. So Despard and Langhetti conjectured.
At last they reached Holby. They drove at once to Thornton Grange.
“What is this?” cried Mrs. Thornton, who had heard nothing from them, and ran out upon the piazza to meet them as she saw them coming.
“I have found Bice,” said Langhetti, “and have brought her here.”
“Where is she?”
“There,” said Langhetti. “I give her to your care—it is for you to give her back to me.”