CHAPTER LIX. — {Greek: Deute teleutaion aspasmon domen.}
The excitement which had prevailed through the village of Denton was intensified by the arrival there of the body of the old man. For his mysterious death no one could account except one person.
That one was Brandon, whom Despard surprised by his speedy return, and to whom he narrated the circumstances of the discovery. Brandon knew who it was that could wield that cord, what arm it was that had held that weapon, and what heart it was that was animated by sufficient vengeance to strike these blows.
Despard, finding his purpose thus unexpectedly taken away, remained in the village and waited. There was one whom he wished to see again. On the following day Frank Brandon arrived from London. He met Langhetti with deep emotion, and learned from his brother the astonishing story of Edith.
On the following day that long-lost sister herself appeared in company with Mrs. Thornton. Her form, always fragile, now appeared frailer than ever, her face had a deeper pallor, her eyes an intenser lustre, her expression was more unearthly. The joy which the brothers felt at finding their sister was subdued by an involuntary awe which was inspired by her presence. She seemed to them as she had seemed to others like one who had arisen from the dead.
At the sight of her Langhetti’s face grew radiant—all pain seemed to leave him. She bent over him, and their wan lips met in the only kiss which they had ever exchanged, with all that deep love which they had felt for one another. She sat by his bedside. She seemed to appropriate him to herself. The others acknowledged this quiet claim and gave way to it.
As she kissed Langhetti’s lips he murmured faintly:
“I knew you would come.”
“Yes,” said Edith. “We will go together.
“Yes, sweetest and dearest,” said Langhetti. “And therefore we meet now never to part again.”
She looked at him fondly.
“The time of our deliverance is near, oh my friend.”
“Near,” repeated Langhetti, with a smile of ecstasy—“near. Yes, you have already by your presence brought me nearer to my immortality.”
Mrs. Thornton was pale and wan; and the shock which she felt at the sight of her brother at first overcame her.
Despard said nothing to her through the day, but as evening came on he went up to her and in a low voice said, “Let us take a walk.”
Mrs. Thornton looked at him earnestly, and then put on her bonnet. It was quite dark as they left the house. They walked along the road. The sea was on their left.
“This is the last that we shall see of one another, Little Playmate,” said Despard, after a long silence. “I have left Holby forever.”
“Left Holby! Where are you going?” asked Mrs. Thornton, anxiously.
“To join the army.”
“The army!”
“Little Playmate,” said Despard, “even my discovery of my father’s death has not changed me. Even my thirst for vengeance could not take the place of my love. Listen—I flung myself with all the ardor that I could command into the pursuit of my father’s murderers. I forced myself to an unnatural pitch of pitilessness and vindictiveness. I set out to pursue one of the worst of these men with the full determination to kill him. God saved me from blood-guiltiness. I found the man dead in the road. After this all my passion for vengeance died out, and I was brought face to face with the old love and the old despair. But each of us would die rather than do wrong, or go on in a wrong course. The only thing left for us is to separate forever.”
“Yes, forever,” murmured Mrs. Thornton.
“Ah, Little Playmate,” he continued, taking her hand, “you are the one who was not only my sweet companion but the bright ideal of my youth. You always stood transfigured in my eyes. You, Teresa, were in my mind something perfect—a bright, brilliant being unlike any other. Whether you were really what I believed you mattered not so far as the effect upon me was concerned. You were at once a real and an ideal being. I believed in you, and believe in you yet.
“I was not a lover; I was a devotee. My feelings toward you are such as Dante describes his feelings toward his Beatrice. My love is tender and reverential. I exalt you to a plane above my own. What I say may sound extravagant to you, but it is actual fact with me. Why it should be so I can not tell. I can only say—I am so made.
“We part, and I leave you; but I shall be like Dante, I suppose, and as the years pass, instead of weakening my love they will only refine it and purify it. You will be to me a guardian angel, a patron saint—your name shall always mingle with my prayers. Is it impious to name your name in prayer? I turn away from you because I would rather suffer than do wrong. May I not pray for my darling?”
“I don’t know what to do,” said Mrs. Thornton, wearily. “Your power over me is fearful. Lama, I would do any thing for your sake. You talk about your memories; it is not for me to speak about mine. Whether you idealize me or not, after all, you must know what I really am.”
{Illustration: “SHE WAS WEEPING. DESPARD FOLDED HER IN HIS ARMS."}
“Would you be glad never to see me again?”
The hand which Despard held trembled.
“If you would be happier,” said she.
“Would you be glad if I could conquer this love of mine, and meet you again as coolly as a common friend?”
“I want you to be happy, Lama,” she replied. “I would suffer myself to make you happy.”
She was weeping. Despard folded her in his arms.
“This once,” said he, “the only time, Little Playmate, in this life.”
She wept upon his breast.
“{Greek: Teleutaion aspasmon domen}” said Despard, murmuring in a low voice the opening of the song of the dead, so well known, so often song, so fondly remembered—the song which bids fare-well to the dead when the friends bestow the “last kiss.”
He bent down his head. Her head fell. His lips touched her forehead.
She felt the beating of his heart; she felt his frame tremble from head to foot; she heard his deep-drawn breathing, every breath a sigh.
“It is our last farewell,” said he, in a voice of agony.
Then he tore himself away, and, a few minutes later, was riding from the village.
CHAPTER LX. — CONCLUSION.
A month passed. Despard gave no sign. A short note which he wrote to Brandon announced his arrival at London, and informed him that important affairs required his departure abroad.
The cottage was but a small place, and Brandon determined to have Langhetti conveyed to the Hall. An ambulance was obtained from Exeter, and on this Langhetti and Edith were taken away.
On arriving at Brandon Hall Beatrice found her diary in its place of concealment, the memory of old sorrows which could never be forgotten. But those old sorrows were passing away now, in the presence of her new joy.
And yet that joy was darkened by the cloud of a new sorrow. Langhetti was dying. His frail form became more and more attenuated every day, his eyes more lustrous, his face more spiritual. Down every step of that way which led to the grave Edith went with him, seeming in her own face and form to promise a speedier advent in that spirit-world where she longed to arrive. Beside these Beatrice watched, and Mrs. Thornton added her tender care.
Day by day Langhetti grew worse. At last one day he called for his violin. He had caused it to be sent for on a previous occasion, but had never used it. His love for music was satisfied by the songs of Beatrice. Now he wished to exert his own skill with the last remnants of his strength.
Langhetti was propped up by pillows, so that he might hold the instrument. Near him Edith reclined on a sofa. Her large, lustrous eyes were fixed on him. Her breathing, which came and went rapidly, showed her utter weakness and prostration.
Langhetti drew his bow across the strings.
It was a strange, sweet sound, weak, but sweet beyond all words—a long, faint, lingering tone, which rose and died and rose again, bearing away the souls of those who heard it into a realm of enchantment and delight.
That tone gave strength to Langhetti. It was as though some unseen power had been invoked and had come to his aid. The tones came forth more strongly, on firmer pinions, flying from the strings and towering through the air.
The strength of these tones seemed to emanate from some unseen power; so also did their meaning. It was a meaning beyond what might be intelligible to those who listened—a meaning beyond mortal thought.
Yet Langhetti understood it, and so did Edith. Her eyes grew brighter, a flush started to her wan cheeks, her breathing grew more rapid.
The music went on. More subtle, more penetrating, more thrilling in its mysterious meaning, it rose and swelled through the air, like the song of some unseen ones, who were waiting for newcomers to the Invisible land.
Suddenly Beatrice gave a piercing cry. She rushed to Edith’s sofa. Edith lay back, her marble face motionless, her white lips apart, her eyes looking upward. But the lips breathed no more, and in the eyes there no longer beamed the light of life.
At the cry of Beatrice the violin fell from Langhetti’s hand, and he sank back. His face was turned toward Edith. He saw her and knew it all.
{Illustration: LANGHETTI DREW HIS BOW ACROSS THE STRINGS.}
He said not a word, but lay with his face turned toward her. They wished to carry her away, but he gently reproved them.
“Wait!” he murmured. “In a short time you will carry away another also. Wait.”
They waited.
An hour before midnight all was over. They had passed—those pure spirits, from a world which was uncongenial to a fairer world and a purer clime.
They were buried side by side in the Brandon vaults. Frank then returned to London. Mrs. Thornton went back to Holby. The new rector was surprised at the request of the lady of Thornton Grange to be allowed to become organist in Trinity Church. She offered to pension off the old man who now presided there. Her request was gladly acceded to. Her zeal was remarkable. Every day she visited the church to practice at the organ. This became the purpose of her life. Yet of all the pieces two were performed most frequently in her daily practice, the one being the Agnus Dei; the other, the {Greek: teleutaion aspasmon} of St. John Damascene. Peace! Peace! Peace!
Was that cry of hers unavailing? Of Despard nothing was known for some time. Mr. Thornton once mentioned to his wife that the Rev. Courtenay Despard had joined the Eleventh Regiment, and had gone to South Africa. He mentioned this because he had seen a paragraph stating that a Captain Despard had been killed in the Kaffir war, and wondered whether it could by any possibility be their old friend or not.
At Brandon Hall, the one who had been so long a prisoner and a slave soon became mistress.
The gloom which had rested over the house was dispelled, and Brandon and his wife were soon able to look back, even to the darkest period of their lives, without fear of marring their perfect happiness.
THE END.