“That,” said Brandon, “is what your father’s brother gave to me.”
“It’s a lie!” growled Vijal, fiercely.
“It’s true,” said Brandon, calmly, “and it was carved there by your father’s own hand.”
Vijal said nothing for a long time. Brandon arose, and put his pistol in his pocket. Vijal, disencumbering himself from his horse, arose also. The two stood together on the road.
For hours they remained there talking. At last Brandon remounted and rode on to Denton. But Vijal went back to the village of Brandon. He carried with him the creese which Brandon had given him.
CHAPTER LVI. — FATHER AND SON.
Vijal, on going back to Brandon village, went first to the inn where he saw John. To the inquiries which were eagerly addressed to him he answered nothing, but simply said that he wished to see Potts. John, finding him impracticable, cursed him and led the way to the bank.
As Vijal entered Potts locked the door carefully, and then anxiously questioned him. Vijal gave a plain account of every thing exactly as it had happened, but with some important alterations and omissions. In the first place, he said nothing whatever of the long interview which had taken place and the startling information which he had received. In the second place, he assured Potts that he must have attacked the wrong man. For when this man had spared his life he looked at him closely and found out that he was not the one that he ought to have attacked.
“You blasted fool,” cried Potts. “Haven’t you got eyes? D—n you; I wish the fellow, whoever he is, had seized you, or blown your brains out.”
Vijal cast down his eyes humbly.
“I can try again,” said he. “I have made a mistake this time; the next time I will make sure.”
There was something in the tone of his voice so remorseless and so vengeful that Potts felt reassured.
“You are a good lad,” said he, “a good lad. And you’ll try again?”
“Yes,” said Vijal, with flashing eyes.
“You’ll make sure this time?”
“I’ll make sure this time. But I must have some one with me,” he continued. “You need not trouble yourself. Send John with me. He won’t mistake. If he is with me I’ll make sure.”
As the Malay said this a brighter and more vivid flash shone from his eyes. He gave a malevolent smile, and his white teeth glistened balefully. Instantly he checked the smile, and cast down his eyes.
“Ah!” said Potts. “That is very good. John shall go. Johnnie, you don’t mind going, do you?”
“I’ll go,” said John, languidly.
“You’ll know the fellow, won’t you?”
“I rather think I should.”
“But what will you do first?”
“Go to Denton,” said John.
“To Denton?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Brandon is there.”
“How can he be?”
“Simply,” said John, “because I know the man that Vijal attacked must have been Brandon. No other person answers to the description. No other person would be so quick to dodge the cord, and so quick with the revolver. He has humbugged Vijal somehow, and this fool of a nigger has believed him. He was Brandon, and no one else, and I’m going on his track.”
“Well—you’re right, perhaps,” said Potts; “but take care of yourself, Johnnie.”
John gave a dry smile.
“I’ll try to do so and I hope to take care of others also,” said he.
“God bless you, Johnnie!” said Potts, affectionately, not knowing the blasphemy of invoking the blessing of God on one who was setting out to commit murder.
“You’re spooney, dad,” returned John, and he left the bank with Vijal.
John went back to the inn first, and after a few preparations started for Denton. On the way he amused himself with coarse jests at Vijal’s stupidity in allowing himself to be deceived by Brandon, taunted him with cowardice in yielding so easily, and assured him that one who was so great a coward could not possibly succeed in any undertaking.
Toward evening they reached the inn at Denton. John was anxious not to show himself, so he went at once to the inn, directing Vijal to keep a look-out for Brandon and let him know if he saw any one who looked like him. These directions were accompanied and intermingled with numerous threats as to what he would do if Vijal dared to fail in any particular. The Malay listened calmly, showing none of that impatience and haughty resentment which he formerly used to manifest toward John, and quietly promised to do what was ordered.
About ten o’clock John happened to look on of the window. He saw a figure standing where the light from the windows flashed out, which at once attracted his attention. It was the man whom he sought—it was Brandon. Was he stopping at the same inn? If so, why had not Vijal told him? He at once summoned Vijal, who came as calm as ever. To John’s impatient questions as to why he had not told him about Brandon, he answered that Brandon had only come there half an hour previously, and that he had been watching him ever since to see what he was going to do.
“You most keep on watching him, then; do you hear?”
“Yes.”
“And if you let him slip this time, you infernal nigger, you’ll pay dear for it.”
“I’ll not make a mistake this time,” was Vijal’s answer. And as he spoke his eyes gleamed, and again that baleful smile passed over his face.
“That’s the man,” said John. “You understand that? That’s the man you’ve got to fix, do you hear? Don’t be a fool this time. You must manage it to-night, for I don’t want to wait here forever. I leave it to you. I only came to make sure of the man. I’m tired, and I’m going to bed soon. When I wake to-morrow I expect to hear from you that you have finished this business. If you don’t, d—n you, I’ll wring your infernal nigger’s neck.”
“It will all be done by to-morrow,” said Vijal, calmly.
“Then clear out and leave me. I’m going to bed. What you’ve got to do is to watch that man.”
Vijal retired.
The night passed. When the following morning came John was not up at the ordinary breakfast hour. Nine o’clock came. Ten o’clock. Still he did not appear.
“He’s a lazy fellow,” said the landlord, “though he don’t look like it. And where’s his servant?”
“The servant went back to Brandon at day-break,” was the answer.
Eleven o’clock came. Still there were no signs of John. There was a balcony in the inn which ran in front of the windows of the room occupied by John. After knocking at the door once or twice the landlord tapped at the window and tried to peep in to see if the occupant was awake or not. One part, of the blind was drawn a little aside, and showed the bed and the form of a man still lying there.
“He’s an awful sleeper,” said the landlord. “It’s twelve o’clock, and he isn’t up yet. Well, it’s his business, not mine.”
About half an hour after the noise of wheels was heard, and a wagon drove swiftly into the yard of the inn. An old man jumped out, gave his horse to the hostler, and entered the inn.
He was somewhat flushed and flurried. His eyes twinkled brightly, and there was a somewhat exuberant familiarity in his address to the landlord.
“There was a party who stopped here last night,” said he, “that I wish to see.”
“There was only one person here last night,” answered the landlord; “a young man—”
“A young man, yes—that’s right; I want to see him.”
“Well, as to that,” said the landlord, “I don’t know but you’ll have to wait. He ain’t up yet.”
“Isn’t he up yet?”
“No; he’s an awful sleeper. He went to bed last night early, for his lights were out before eleven, and now it’s nearly one, and he isn’t up.”
“At any rate, I must see him.”
“Shall I wake him?”
{Illustration: HE TORE DOWN THE COVERLET, WHICH CONCEALED THE GREATER PART OF HIS FACE.}
“Yes, and be quick, for I’m in a hurry.”
The landlord went up to the door and knocked loudly. There was no answer. He knocked still more loudly. Still no answer. He then kept up an incessant rapping for about ten minutes. Still there was no answer. He had tried the door before, but it was locked on the inside. He went around to the windows that opened on the balcony; these were open.
He then went down and told the old man that the door was fastened, but that the windows were unfastened. If he chose to go in there he might do so.
“I will do so,” said the other, “for I must see him. I have business of importance.” He went up.
The landlord and some of the servants, whose curiosity was by this time excited, followed after.
The old man opened the window, which swung back on hinges, and entered. There was a man in the bed.
He lay motionless. The old man approached. He recognized the face.
A cold chill went to his heart. He tore down the coverlet, which concealed the greater part of his face. The next moment he fell forward upon the bed.
“Johnnie!” he screamed—“Johnnie!”
There was no answer. The face was rigid and fixed. Around the neck was a faint, bluish line, a mark like what might have been made by a cord.
“Johnnie, Johnnie!” cried the old man again, in piercing tones. He caught at the hands of the figure before him; he tried to pull it forward.
There was no response. The old man turned away and rushed to the window, gasping, with white lips, and bloodshot eyes, and a face of horror.
“He is dead!” he shrieked. “My boy—my son—my Johnnie! Murderer! You have killed him.”
The landlord and the servants started back in horror from the presence of this father in his misery.
It was for but a moment that he stood there. He went back and flung himself upon the bed. Then he came forth again and stood upon the balcony, motionless, white-faced, speechless—his lips muttering inaudible words.
A crowd gathered round. The story soon spread. This was the father of a young man who had stopped at the inn and died suddenly. The crowd that gathered around the inn saw the father as he stood on the balcony.
The dwellers in the cottage that was almost opposite saw him, and Asgeelo brought them the news.
CHAPTER LVII. — MRS. COMPTON’S SECRET.
On the night after the arrival of John, Brandon had left Denton. He did not return till the following day. On arriving at the inn he saw an unusual spectacle—the old man on the balcony, the crowd of villagers around, the universal excitement.
On entering the inn he found some one who for some time had been waiting to see him. It was Philips. Philips had come early in the morning, and had been over to the cottage. He had learned all about the affair at the inn, and narrated it to Brandon, who listened with his usual calmness. He then gave him a letter from Frank, which Brandon read, and put in his pocket.
Then Philips told him the news which he had learned at the cottage about Langhetti. Langhetti and Despard were both there yet, the former very dangerously ill, the latter waiting for some friends. He also told about the affair on the road, the seizure of Clark, and his delivery into the hands of the authorities.
Brandon heard all this with the deepest interest. While the excitement at the inn was still at its height, he hurried off to the magistrate into whose hands Clark had been committed. After an interview with him he returned. He found the excitement unabated. He then went to the cottage close by the inn, where Beatrice had found a home, and Langhetti a refuge. Philips was with him.
On knocking at the door Asgeelo opened it. They entered the parlor, and in a short time Mrs. Compton appeared. Brandon’s first inquiry was after Langhetti.
“He is about the same,” said Mrs. Compton.
“Does the doctor hold out any hopes of his recovery?” asked Brandon, anxiously.
“Very little,” said Mrs. Compton.
“Who nurses him?”
“Miss Potts and Mr. Despard.”
“Are they both here?”
“Yes.”
Brandon was silent.
“I will go and tell them that you are here,” said Mrs. Compton.
Brandon made no reply, and Mrs. Compton, taking silence for assent, went to announce his arrival.
In a short time they appeared. Beatrice entered first. She was grave, and cold, and solemn; Despard was gloomy and stern. They both shook hands with Brandon in silence. Beatrice gave her hand without a word, lifelessly and coldly; Despard took his hand abstractedly.
Brandon looked earnestly at Beatrice as she stood there before him, calm, sad, passionless, almost repellent in her demeanor, and wondered what the cause might be of such a change.
Mrs. Compton stood apart at a little distance, near Philips, and looked on with a strange expression, half wistful, half timid.
There was a silence which at length became embarrassing. From the room where they were sitting the inn could plainly be seen, with the crowd outside. Beatrice’s eyes were directed toward this. Despard said not a word. At another time he might have been strongly interested in this man, who on so many accounts was so closely connected with him; but now the power of some dominant and all-engrossing idea possessed him, and he seemed to take no notice of any things whatever either without the house or within.
After looking in silence at the inn for a long time Beatrice withdrew her gaze. Brandon regarded her with a fixed and earnest glance, as though he would read her inmost soul. She looked at him, and cast down her eyes.
“You abhor me!” said he, in a loud, thrilling voice.
She said nothing, but pointed toward the inn.
“You know all about that?”
Beatrice bowed her head silently.
“And you look upon me as guilty?”
She gazed at him, but said nothing. It was a cold, austere gaze, without one touch of softness.
“After all,” said she, “he was my father. You had your vengeance to take, and you have taken it. You may now exult, but my heart bleeds.”
Brandon started to his feet.
“As God lives,” he cried, “I did not do that thing!”
Beatrice looked up mournfully and inquiringly.
“If it had been his base life which I sought,” said Brandon, vehemently, “I might long ago have taken it. He was surrounded on all sides by my power. He could not escape. Officers of the law stood ready to do my bidding. Yet I allowed him to leave the Hall in safety. I might have taken his heart’s-blood. I might have handed him over to the law. I did not.”
“No,” said Beatrice, in icy tones, “you did not; you sought a deeper vengeance. You cared not to take his life. It was sweeter to you to take his son’s life and give him agony. Death would have been insufficient—anguish was what you wished.
“It is not for me to blame you,” she continued, while Brandon looked at her without a word. “Who am I—a polluted one, of the accursed brood—who am I, to stand between you and him, or to blame you if you seek for vengeance? I am nothing. You have done kindnesses to me which I now wish were undone. Oh that I had died under the hand of the pirates! Oh that the ocean had swept me down to death with all its waves! Then I should not have lived to see this day!”
Roused by her vehemence Despard started from his abstraction and looked around.
“It seems to me,” said he, “as if you were blaming some one for inflicting suffering on a man for whom no suffering can be too great. What! can you think of your friend as he lies there in the next room in his agony, dying, torn to pieces by this man’s agency, and have pity for him?”
“Oh!” cried Beatrice, “is he not my father?”
Mrs. Compton looked around with staring eyes, and trembled from head to foot. Her lips moved—she began to speak, but the words died away on her lips.
“Your father!” said Despard; “his acts have cut him off from a daughter’s sympathy.”
“Yet he has a father’s feelings, at least for his dead son. Never shall I forget his look of anguish as he stood on the balcony. His face was turned this way. He seemed to reproach me.”
“Let me tell you,” cried Despard, harshly. “He has not yet made atonement for his crimes. This is but the beginning. I have a debt of vengeance to extort from him. One scoundrel has been handed over to the law, another lies dead, another is in London in the hands of Langhetti’s friends, the Carbonari. The worst one yet remains, and my father’s voice cries to me day and night from that dreadful ship.”
“Your father’s voice!” cried Beatrice. She looked at Despard. Their eyes met. Something passed between them in that glance which brought back the old, mysterious feeling which she had known before. Despard rose hastily and left the room.
“In God’s name,” cried Brandon, “I say that this man’s life was not sought by me, nor the life of any of his. I will tell you all. When he compassed the death of Uracao, of whom you know, he obtained possession of his son, then a mere boy, and carried him away. He kept this lad with him and brought him up with the idea that he was his best friend, and that he would one day show him his father’s murderer. After I made myself known to him, he told Vijal that I was this murderer. Vijal tried to assassinate me. I foiled him, and could have killed him. But I spared his life. I then told him the truth. That is all that I have done. Of course, I knew that Vijal would seek for vengeance. That was not my concern. Since Potts had sent him to seek my life under a lie, I sent him away with knowledge of the truth. I do not repent that told him; nor is there any guilt chargeable to me. The man that lies dead there is not my victim. Yet if he were—oh, Beatrice! if he were—what then? Could that atone for what I have suffered? My father ruined and broken-hearted and dying in a poor-house calls to me always for vengeance. My mother suffering in the emigrant ship, and dying of the plague amidst horrors without a name calls to me. Above all my sweet sister, my pure Edith—”
“Edith!” interrupted Beatrice—“Edith!”
“Yes; do you not know that? She was buried alive.”
“What!” cried Beatrice; “is it possible that you do not know that she is alive?”
“Alive!”
“Yes, alive; for when I was at Holly I saw her.”
Brandon stood speechless with surprise.
“Langhetti saved her,” said Beatrice. “His sister has charge of her now.”
“Where, where is she?” asked Brandon, wildly.
“In a convent at London.”
At this moment Despard entered.
“Is this true?” asked Brandon, with a deeper agitation than had ever yet been seen in him—“my sister, is it true that she is not dead?”
“It is true. I should have told you,” said Despard, “but other thoughts drove it from my mind, and I forgot that you might be ignorant.”
“How is it possible? I was at Quebec myself. I have sought over the world after my relatives—”
“I will tell you,” said Despard.
He sat down and began to tell the story of Edith’s voyage and all that Langhetti had done, down to the time of his rescue of her from death. The recital filled Brandon with such deep amazement that he had not a word to say. He listened like one stupefied.
“Thank God!” he cried at last when it was ended; “thank God, I am spared this last anguish; I am freed from the thought which for years has been most intolerable. The memories that remain are bitter enough, but they are not so terrible as this. But I must see her. I must find her. Where is she?”
“Make yourself easy on that score,” said Despard, calmly. “She will be here to-morrow or the day after. I have written to Langhetti’s sister; she will come, and will bring your sister with her.”
“I should have told you so before,” said Beatrice, “but my own troubles drove every thing else from my mind.”
“Forgive me,” said Brandon, “for intruding now. I came in to learn about Langhetti. You look upon me with horror. I will withdraw.”
Beatrice bowed her head, and tears streamed from her eyes. Brandon took her hand.
“Farewell,” he murmured; “farewell, Beatrice. You will not condemn me when I say that I am innocent?”
“I am accursed,” she murmured.
Despard looked at these two with deep anxiety.
“Stay,” said he to Brandon. “There is something which must be explained. There is a secret which Langhetti has had for years, and which he has several times been on the point of telling. I have just spoken to him and told him that you are here. He says he will tell his secret now, whatever it is. He wishes us all to come in—and you too, especially,” said Despard, looking at Mrs. Compton.
The poor old creature began to tremble.
“Don’t be afraid, old woman,” said Philips. “Take my arm and I’ll protect you.”
She rose, and, leaning on his arm, followed the others into Langhetti’s room. He was fearfully emaciated. His material frame, worn down by pain and confinement, seemed about to dissolve and let free that soaring soul of his, whose fiery impulses had for years chafed against the prison bars of its mortal inclosure. His eyes shone darkly and luminously from their deep, hollow sockets, and upon his thin, wan, white lips there was a faint smile of welcome—faint like the smile of the sick, yet sweet as the smile of an angel.
It was with such a smile that he greeted Brandon, and with both of his thin white hands pressed the strong and muscular hand of the other.
“And you are Edith’s brother,” he said. “Edith’s brother,” he repeated, resting lovingly upon that name, Edith. “She always said you were alive, and once she told me she should live to see you. Welcome, brother of my Edith! I am a dying man. Edith said her other brother was alive—Frank. Where is Frank? Will he not come to stand by the bedside of his dying friend? He did so once.”
“He will come,” said Brandon, in a voice choked with emotion, as he pressed the hand of the dying man. “He will come, and at once.”
“And you will be all here, then—sweet friends! It is well.”
He paused.
“Bice!” said he at last.
Beatrice, who was sitting by his head, bent down toward him.
“Bice,” said Langhetti. “My pocket-book is in my coat, and if you open the inside pocket you will find something wrapped in paper. Bring it to me.”
Beatrice found the pocket-book and opened it as directed. In the inside pocket there was a thin, small parcel. She opened it and drew forth a very small baby’s stocking.
“Look at the mark,” said Langhetti.
Beatrice did so, and saw two letters marked on it—B. D.
“This was given me by your nurse at Hong Kong. She said your things were all marked with those letters when you were first brought to her. She did not know what it meant. ‘B’ meant Beatrice; but what did ‘D’ mean?”
All around that bedside exchanged glances of wonder. Mrs. Compton was most agitated.
“Take me away,” she murmured to Philips.
But Philips would not.
“Cheer up, old woman!” said he. “There’s nothing to fear now. That devil won’t hurt you.”
“Now, in my deep interest in you, and in my affection, I tried to find out what this meant. The nurse and I often talked about it. She told me that your father never cared particularly about you, and that it was strange for your clothing to be marked ‘D’ if your name was Potts. It was a thing which greatly troubled her. I made many inquiries. I found out about the Manilla murder case. From that moment I suspected that ‘D’ meant Despard.
“Oh, Heavens!” sighed Beatrice, in an agony of suspense. Brandon and Despard stood motionless, waiting for something further.
“This is what I tried to solve. I made inquiries every where. At last I gave it up. So when circumstances threw Beatrice again in my way I tried again. I have always been baffled There is only, one who can tell—only one. She is here, in this room; and, in the name of God, I call upon her to speak out and tell the truth.”
“Who?” cried Despard, while he and Brandon both looked earnestly at Mrs. Compton.
“Mrs. Compton!” said Langhetti; and his voice seemed to die away from exhaustion.
Mrs. Compton was seized with a panic more overpowering than usual. She gasped for breath. “Oh, Lord!” she cried. “Oh, Lord! Spare me! spare me! He’ll kill me!”
Brandon walked up to her and took her hand. “Mrs. Compton,” said he, in a calm, resolute voice, “your timidity has been your curse. There is no need for fear now. I will protect you. The man whom you have feared so many years is now ruined, helpless, and miserable. I could destroy him at this moment if I chose. You are foolish if you fear him. Your son is with you. His arm supports you, and I stand here ready to protect both you and your son. Speak out, and tell what you know. Your husband is still living. He longs for your return. You and your son are free from your enemies. Trust in me, and you shall both go back to him and live in peace.”
Tears fell from Mrs. Compton’s eyes. She seized Brandon’s hand and pressed it to her thin lips.
“You will protect me?” said she.
“Yes.”
“You will save me from him?” she persisted, in a voice of agony.
“Yes, and from all others like him. Do not fear. Speak out.”
Mrs. Compton clung to the arm of her son. She drew a long breath. She looked up into his face as though to gain courage, and then began.
It was a long story. She had been attendant and nurse to the wife of Colonel Despard, who had died in giving birth to a child. Potts had brought news of her death, but had said nothing whatever about the child. Colonel Despard knew nothing of it. Being at a distance at the time, on duty, he had heard but the one fact of his wife’s death, and all other things were forgotten. He had not even made inquiries as to whether the child which he had expected was alive or dead, but had at once given way to the grief of the bereavement, and had hurried off.
In his designs on Colonel Despard, Potts feared that the knowledge of the existence of a child might keep him in India, and distract his mind from its sorrow. Therefore he was the more anxious not only to keep this secret, but also to prevent it from ever being known to Colonel Despard. With this idea he hurried the preparation of the Vishnu to such an extent that it was ready for sea almost immediately, and left with Colonel Despard on that ill-fated voyage.
Mrs. Compton had been left in India with the child. Her son joined her, in company with John, who, though only a boy, had the vices of a grown man. Months passed before Potts came back. He then took her along with the child to China, and left the latter with a respectable woman at Hong Kong, who was the widow of a British naval officer. The child was Beatrice Despard.
Potts always feared that Mrs. Compton might divulge his secret, and therefore always kept her with him. Timid by nature to an unusual degree, the wretched woman was in constant fear for her life, and as years passed on this fear was not lessened. The sufferings which she felt from this terror were atoned for, however, by the constant presence of her son, who remained in connection with Potts, influenced chiefly by the ascendency which this villain had over a man of his weak and timid nature. Potts had brought them to England, and they had lived in different places, until at last Brandon Hall had fallen into his hands. Of the former occupants of Brandon Hall, Mrs. Compton knew almost nothing. Very little had ever been said about them to her. She knew scarcely any thing about them, except that their names were Brandon, and that they had suffered misfortunes.
Finally, this Beatrice was Beatrice Despard, the daughter of Colonel Despard and the sister of the clergyman then present. She herself, instead of being the daughter of Potts, had been one of his victims, and had suffered not the least at his hands.
This astounding revelation was checked by frequent interruptions. The actual story of her true parentage overwhelmed Beatrice. This was the awful thought which had occurred to herself frequently before. This was what had moved her so deeply in reading the manuscript of her father on that African Isle. This also was the thing which had always made her hate with such intensity the miscreant who pretended to be her father.
Now she was overwhelmed. She threw herself into the arms of her brother and wept upon his breast. Courtenay Despard for a moment rose above the gloom that oppressed him, and pressed to his heart this sister so strangely discovered. Brandon stood apart, looking on, shaken to the soul and unnerved by the deep joy of that unparalleled discovery. Amidst all the speculations in which he had indulged the very possibility of this had never suggested itself. He had believed most implicitly all along that Beatrice was in reality the daughter of his mortal enemy. Now the discovery of the truth came upon him with overwhelming force.
She raised herself from her brother’s embrace, and turned and looked upon the man whom she adored—the one who, as she said, had over and over again saved her life; the one whose life she, too, in her turn had saved, with whom she had passed so many adventurous and momentous days—days of alternating peace and storm, of varying hope and despair. To him she owed every thing; to him she owed even the rapture of this moment.
As their eyes met they revealed all their inmost thoughts. There was now no barrier between them. Vanished was the insuperable obstacle, vanished the impassable gulf. They stood side by side. The enemy of this man—his foe, his victim—was also hers. Whatever he might suffer, whatever anguish might have been on the face of that old man who had looked at her from the balcony, she had clearly no part nor lot now in that suffering or that anguish. He was the murderer of her father. She was not the daughter of this man. She was of no vulgar or sordid race. Her blood was no longer polluted or accursed. She was of pure and noble lineage. She was a Despard.
“Beatrice,” said Brandon, with a deep, fervid emotion in his voice; “Beatrice, I am yours, and you are mine. Beatrice, it was a lie that kept us apart. My life is yours, and yours is mine.”
He thought of nothing but her. He spoke with burning impetuosity. His words sank into her soul. His eyes devoured hers in the passion of their glance.
“Beatrice—my Beatrice!” he said, “Beatrice Despard—”
He spoke low, bending his head to hers. Her head sank toward his breast.
“Beatrice, do you now reproach me?” he murmured.
She held out her hand, while tears stood in her eyes. Brandon seized it and covered it with kisses. Despard saw this. In the midst of the anguish of his face a smile shone forth, like sunshine out of a clouded sky. He looked at these two for a moment.
Langhetti’s eyes were closed. Mrs. Compton and her son were talking apart. Despard looked upon the lovers.
“Let them love,” he murmured to himself; “let them love and be happy. Heaven has its favorites. I do not envy them; I bless them, though I love without hope. Heaven has its favorites, but I am an outcast from that favor.”
A shudder passed through him. He drew himself up.
“Since love is denied me,” he thought, “I can at least have vengeance.”
CHAPTER LVIII. — THE MALAY’S VENGEANCE.
Some hours afterward Despard called Brandon outside the cottage, and walked along the bank which overhung the beach. Arriving at a point several hundred yards distant from the cottage he stopped. Brandon noticed a deeper gloom upon his face and a sterner purpose on his resolute mouth.
“I have called you aside,” said Despard, “to say that I am going on a journey. I may be back immediately. If I do not return, will you say to any one who may ask”—and here he paused for a moment—“say to any one who may ask, that I have gone away on important business, and that the time of my coming is uncertain.”
“I suppose you can be heard of at Holby, in case of need.”
“I am never going back again to Holby.”
Brandon looked surprised.
“To one like you,” said Despard, “I do not object to tell my purpose. You know what it is to seek for vengeance. The only feeling that I have is that. Love, tenderness, affection, all are idle words with me.
“There are three who pre-eminently were concerned in my father’s death,” continued Despard. “One was Cigole. The Carbonari have him. Langhetti tells me that he must die, unless he himself interposes to save him. And I think Langhetti will never so interpose. Langhetti is dying—another stimulus to vengeance.
“The one who has been the cause of this is Clark, another one of my father’s murderers. He is in the hands of the law. His punishment is certain.
“There yet remains the third, and the worst. Your vengeance is satisfied on him. Mine is not. Not even the sight of that miscreant in the attitude of a bereaved father could for one moment move me to pity. I took note of the agony of his face. I watched his grief with joy. I am going to complete that joy. He must die, and no mortal can save him from my hands.”
The deep, stern tones of Despard were like the knell of doom, and there was in them such determinate vindictiveness that Brandon saw all remonstrance to be useless.
He marked the pale sad face of this man. He saw in it the traces of sorrow of longer standing than any which he might have felt about the manuscript that he had read. It was the face of a man who had suffered so much that life had become a burden.
“You are a clergyman,” said Brandon at length, with a faint hope that an appeal to his profession might have some effect.
Despard smiled cynically.
“I am a man,” said he.
“Can not the discovery of a sister,” asked Brandon, “atone in some degree for your grief about your father?”
Despard shook his head wearily.
“No,” said he, “I must do something, and only one purpose is before me now. I see your motive. You wish to stop short of taking that devil’s life. It is useless to remonstrate. My mind is made up. Perhaps I may come back unsuccessful. If so—I must be resigned, I suppose. At any rate you know my purpose, and can let those who ask after me know, in a general way, what I have said.”
With a slight bow Despard walked away, leaving Brandon standing there filled with thoughts which were half mournful, half remorseful.
On leaving Brandon Despard went at once to the inn. The crowd without had dwindled away to half a dozen people, who were still talking about the one event of the day. Making his way through these he entered the inn.
The landlord stood there with a puzzled face, discussing with several friends the case of the day. More particularly he was troubled by the sudden departure of the old man, who about an hour previously had started off in a great hurry, leaving no directions whatever as to what was to be done with the body up stairs. It was this which now perplexed the landlord.
Despard listened attentively to the conversation. The landlord mentioned that Potts had taken the road to Brandon. The servant who had been with the young man had not been seen. If the old man should not return what was to be done?
This was enough for Despard, who had his horse saddled without delay and started also on the Brandon road. He rode on swiftly for some time, hoping to overtake the man whom he pursued. He rode, however, several miles without coming in sight of him or of any one like him. At last he reached that hollow which had been the scene of his encounter with Clark. As he descended into it he saw a group of men by the road-side surrounding some object. In the middle of the road was a farmer’s wagon, and a horse was standing in the distance.
{Illustration: “IT WAS POTTS."}
Despard rode up and saw the prostrate figure of a man. He dismounted. The farmers stood aside and disclosed the face.
It was Potts.
Despard stooped down. It was already dusk but even in that dim light he saw the coils of a thin cord wound tightly about the neck of this victim, from one end of which a leaden bullet hung down.
By that light also he saw the hilt of a weapon which had been plunged into his heart, from which the blood had flowed in torrents.
It was a Malay creese. Upon the handle was carven a name:
JOHN POTTS.