That evening a number of people were in the principal parlor of the Brandon Inn. It was a cool evening in October; and there was a fire near which the partner of Bigelow, Higginson, & Co. had seated himself.
Clark had come in at the first of the evening and had been there ever since, talking volubly and laughing boisterously. The others were more or less talkative, but none of them rivaled Clark. They were nearly all Brandon people; and in their treatment of Clark there was a certain restraint which the latter either did not wish or care to notice. As for the stranger he sat apart in silence without regarding any one in particular, and giving no indication whether he was listening to what was going on or was indifferent to it all. From time to time Clark threw glances in his direction, and once or twice he tried to draw some of the company out to make remarks about him; but the company seemed reluctant to touch upon the subject, and merely listened with patience.
Clark had evidently a desire in his mind to be very entertaining and lively. With this intent he told a number of stories, most of which were intermingled with allusions to the company present, together with the stranger. At last he gazed at the latter in silence for some little time, and then turned to the company.
“There’s one among us that hasn’t opened his mouth this evening. I call it unsociable. I move that the party proceed to open it forthwith. Who seconds the motion? Don’t all speak at once.”
The company looked at one another, but no one made any reply.
“What! no one speaks! All right; silence gives consent;” and with these words Clark advanced toward the stranger. The latter said nothing, but sat in a careless attitude.
“Friend!” said Clark, standing before the stranger, “we’re all friends here—we wish to be sociable—we think you are too silent—will you be kind enough to open your mouth? If you won’t tell a story, perhaps you will be good enough to sing us a song?”
The stranger sat upright.
“Well,” said he; in the same peculiar harsh voice and slow tone with which he had spoken to Potts, “the request is a fair one, and I shall be happy to open my mouth. I regret to state that having no voice I shall be unable to give you a song, but I’ll be glad to tell a story, if the company will listen.”
“The company will feel honored,” said Clark, in a mocking tone, as he resumed his seat.
The stranger arose, and, going to the fire-place, picked up a piece of charcoal.
Clark sat in the midst of the circle, looking at him with a sneering smile. “It’s rather an odd story,” said the stranger, “and I only heard it the other day; perhaps you won’t believe it, but it’s true.”
“Oh, never mind the truth of it!” exclaimed Clark—“push along.”
The stranger stepped up to the wall over the fire-place.
“Before I begin I wish to make a few marks, which I will explain in process of time. My story is connected with these.”
He took his charcoal and made upon the wall the following marks:
{Illustration: ^ /|\ {three lines, forming short arrow}
He then turned, and stood for a moment in silence.
The effect upon Clark was appalling. His face turned livid, his arms clutched violently at the seat of his chair, his jaw fell, and his eyes were fixed on the marks as though fascinated by them.
The stranger appeared to take no notice of him.
“These marks,” said he, “were, or rather are, upon the back of a friend of mine, about whom I am going to tell a little story.
“The first (/|\) is the Queen’s mark, put on certain prisoners out in Botany Bay, who are totally insubordinate.
“The second (R) signifies ‘run away,’ and is put on those who have attempted to escape.
“The third (+) indicates a murderous assault on the guards. When they don’t hang the culprit they put this on, and those who are branded in this way have nothing but hard work, in chains for life.
“These marks are on the back of a friend of mine, whose name I need not mention, but for convenience sake I will call him Clark.”
Clark didn’t even resent this, but sat mute, with a face of awful expectation.
“My friend Clark had led a life of strange vicissitudes,” said the stranger, “having slipped through the meshes of the law very successfully a great number of times, but finally he was caught, and sent to Botany Bay. He served his time out, and left; but, finally, after a series of very extraordinary adventures in India, and some odd events in the Indian Ocean, he came to England. Bad luck followed him, however. He made an attempt at burglary, and was caught, convicted, and sent back again to his old station at Botany Bay.
“Of course he felt a strong reluctance to stay in such a place, and therefore began to plan an escape; he made one attempt, which was unsuccessful. He then laid a plot with two other notorious offenders. Each of these three had been branded with those letters which I have marked. One of these was named Stubbs, and another Wilson, the third was this Clark. No one knew how they met to make their arrangements, for the prison regulations are very strict; but; they did meet, and managed to confer together. They contrived to get rid of the chains that were fastened around their ankles, and one stormy night they started off and made a run for it.
“The next day the guards were out in pursuit with dogs. They went all day long on their track over a very rough country, and finally came to a river. Here they prepared to pass the night.
“On rising early on the following morning they saw something moving on the top of a hill on the opposite side of the river. On watching it narrowly they saw three men. They hurried on at once in pursuit. The fugitives kept well ahead, however, as was natural; and since they were running for life and freedom they made a better pace.
“But they were pretty well worn out. They had taken no provisions with them, and had not calculated on so close a pursuit. They kept ahead as best they could, and at last reached a narrow river that ran down between cliffs through a gully to the sea. The cliffs on each side were high and bold. But they had to cross it; so down on one side they went, and up the other.
“Clark and Stubbs got up first. Wilson was just reaching the top when the report of a gun was heard, and a bullet struck him in the arm. Groaning in his agony he rushed on trying to keep up with his companions.
“Fortunately for them night came on. They hurried on all night, scarcely knowing where they were going, Wilson in an agony trying to keep up with them. Toward morning they snatched a little rest under a rock near a brook and then hurried forward.
“For two days more they hastened on, keeping out of reach of their pursuers, yet still knowing that they were followed, or at least fearing it. They had gone over a wild country along the coast, and keeping a northward direction. At length, after four days of wandering, they came to a little creek by the sea-shore. There were three houses here belonging to fishermen. They rushed into the first hut and implored food and drink. The men were off to Sydney, but the kind-hearted women gave them what they had. They were terrified at the aspect of these wretched men, whose natural ferocity had been heightened by hardship, famine, and suffering. Gaunt and grim as they were, they seemed more terrible than three wild beasts. The women knew that they were escaped convicts.
{Illustration: HE TOOK HIS CHARCOAL AND MADE UPON THE WALL THE FOLLOWING MARKS.}
“There was a boat lying on the beach. To this the first thoughts of the fugitives were directed. They filled a cask of water and put it on board. They demanded some provisions from the fisherman’s wife. The frightened woman gave them some fish and a few ship-biscuits. They were about to forage for themselves when Wilson, who had been watching, gave the alarm.
“Their pursuers were upon them. They had to run for it at once. They had barely time to rush to the boat and get out a little distance when the guard reached the bench. The latter fired a few shots after them, but the shots took no effect.
“The fugitives put out to sea in the open boat. They headed north, for they hoped to catch some Australian ship and be taken up. Their provisions were soon exhausted. Fortunately it was the rainy season, so that they had a plentiful supply of water, with which they managed to keep their cask filled; but that did not prevent them from suffering the agonies of famine. Clark and Stubbs soon began to look at Wilson with looks that made him quiver with terror. Naturally enough, gentlemen; you see they were starving. Wilson was the weakest of the three, and therefore was at their mercy. They tried, however, to catch fish. It was of no use. There seemed to be no fish in those seas, or else the bits of bread crumb which they put down were not an attractive bait.
“The two men began to look at Wilson with the eyes of fiends—eyes that flamed with foul desire, beaming from deep, hollow orbits which famine had made. The days passed. One morning Wilson lay dead.”
The stranger paused for a moment, amidst an awful silence.
“The lives of these two were preserved a little longer,” he added, in slow, measured tones.
“They sailed on. In a few days Clark and Stubbs began to look at one another. You will understand, gentlemen, that it was an awful thing for these men to cast at each other the same glances which they once cast on Wilson. Each one feared the other; each watched his chance, and each guarded against his companion.
“They could no longer row. The one sat in the bow, the other in the stern, glaring at one another. My friend Clark was a man of singular endurance. But why go into particulars? Enough; the boat drifted on, and at last only one was left.
“A ship was sailing from Australia, and the crew saw a boat drifting. A man was there. They stopped and picked him up. The boat was stained with blood. Tokens of what that blood was lay around. There were other things in the boat which chilled the blood of the sailors. They took Clark on board. He was mad at first, and raved in his delirium. They heard him tell of what he had done. During that voyage no one spoke to him. They touched at Cape Town, and put him ashore.
“My friend is yet alive and well. How do you like my story?”
The stranger sat down. A deep stillness followed, which was suddenly broken by something, half groan and half curse. It was Clark.
He lifted himself heavily from his chair, his face livid and his eyes bloodshot, and staggered out of the room.
September 7, 1849.—{This part begins with a long account of her escape, her fortunes at Holby and London, and her recapture, which is here omitted, as it would be to a large extent a repetition of what has already been stated.}—After Brandon left me my heart still throbbed with the fierce impulse which he had imparted to it. For the remainder of the day I was upheld by a sort of consciousness of his presence. I felt as though he had only left me in person and had surrounded me in some way with his mysterious protection.
Night came, and with the night came gloom. What availed his promise? Could he prevent what I feared? What power could he possibly have in this house? I felt deserted, and my old despair returned.
In the morning I happened to cross the hall to go to Mrs. Compton’s room, when, to my amazement, I saw standing outside the Hindu Asgeelo. Had I seen Brandon himself I could scarcely have been more amazed or overjoyed. He looked at me with a warning gesture.
“How did you get here?” I whispered.
“My master sent me.”
A thrill passed through my veins.
“Do not fear,” he said, and walked mysteriously away.
I asked Mrs. Compton who he was, and she said he was a new servant whom He had just hired. She knew nothing more of him.
September 12.—A week has passed. Thus far I have been left alone. Perhaps they do not know what to do with me. Perhaps they are busy arranging some dark plan.
Can I trust? Oh, Help of the helpless, save me!
Asgeelo is here—but what can one man do? At best he can only report to his master my agony or my death. May that Death soon come. Kindly will I welcome him.
September 15.—Things are certainly different here from what they used to be. The servants take pains to put themselves in my way, so as to show me profound respect. What is the meaning of this? Once or twice I have met them in the hall and have marked their humble bearing. Is it mockery? Or is it intended to entrap me? I will not trust any of them. Is it possible that this can be Brandon’s mysterious power?
Impossible. It is rather a trick to win my confidence: But if so, why? They do not need to trick me. I am at their mercy.
I am at their mercy, and am without defense. What will become of me? What is to be my fate?
Philips has been as devoted as ever. He leaves me flowers every day. He tries to show sympathy. At least I have two friends here—Philips and Asgeelo. But Philips is timid, and Asgeelo is only one against a crowd. There is Vijal—but I have not seen him.
September 25—To-day in my closet I found a number of bottles of different kinds of medicine, used while I was sick. Two of these attracted my attention. Once was labeled “Laudanum,” another was labeled “Hydrocyanic Acid—Poison.” I suppose they used these drugs for my benefit at that time. The sight of them gave me more joy than any thing else that I could have found.
When the time comes which I dread I shall not be without resource. These shall save me.
October 3.—They leave me unmolested. They are waiting for some crushing blow, no doubt. Asgeelo sometimes meets me, and makes signs of encouragement.
To-day Philips met me and said: “Don’t fear—the crisis is coming.” I asked what he meant. As usual he looked frightened and hurried away.
What does he mean? What crisis? The only crisis that I can think of is one which fills me with dread. When that comes I will meet it firmly.
October 10.—Mrs. Compton told me to-day that Philips had gone to London on business. The poor old thing looked very much troubled. I urged her to tell me what was the matter, but she only looked the more terrified. Why she should feel alarm about the departure of Philips for London I can not imagine. Has it any thing to do with me? No. How can it? My fate, whatever it is, must be wrought out here in this place.
October 14.—The dreaded crisis has come at last. Will not this be my last entry? How can I longer avoid the fate that impends?
This afternoon He sent for me to come down.
I went to the dining-room expecting some horror, and I was not disappointed. The three were sitting there as they had sat before, and I thought that there was trouble upon their faces. It was only two o’clock, and they had just finished lunch.
John was the first to speak. He addressed me in a mocking tone.
“I have the honor to inform you,” said he, “that the time has arrived when you are to be took down.”
I paid no attention whatever to these words. I felt calm. The old sense of superiority came over me, and I looked at Him without a tremor.
My tyrant glanced at me with a dark scowl. “After your behavior, girl, you ought to bless your lucky stars that you got off as you did. If I had done right, I’d have made you pay up well for the trouble you’ve given. But I’ve spared you. At the same time I wouldn’t have done so long. I was just arranging a nice little plan for your benefit when this gentleman”—nodding his head to Clark—“this gentleman saved me the trouble.”
I said nothing.
“Come, Clark, speak up—it’s your affair—”
“Oh, you manage it,” said Clark. “You’ve got the ‘gift of gab.’ I never had it.”
“I never in all my born days saw so bold a man as timid with a girl as you are.”
“He’s doin’ what I shouldn’t like to try on,” said John.
“See here,” said my tyrant, sternly, “this gentleman has very kindly consented to take charge of you. He has even gone so far as to consent to marry you. He will actually make you his wife. In my opinion he’s crazy, but he’s got his own ideas. He has promised to give you a tip-top wedding. If it had been left to me,” he went on, sternly, “I’d have let you have something very different, but he’s a soft-hearted fellow, and is going to do a foolish thing. It’s lucky for you though. You’d have had a precious hard time of it with me, I tell you. You’ve got to be grateful to him; so come up here, and give him a kiss, and thank him.”
So prepared was I for any horror that this did not surprise me.
“Do you hear?” he cried, as I stood motionless. I said nothing.
“Do as I say, d—n you, or I’ll make you.”
“Come,” said Clark, “don’t make a fuss about the wench now—it’ll be all right. She’ll like kissing well enough, and be only too glad to give me one before a week.”
“Yes, but she ought to be made to do it now.”
“Not necessary, Johnnie; all in good time.”
My master was silent for some moments. At last he spoke again:
“Girl,” said he. “You are to be married tomorrow. There won’t be any invited guests, but you needn’t mind that. You’ll have your husband, and that’s more than you deserve. You don’t want any new dresses. Your ball dress will do.”
“Come, I won’t stand that,” said Clark. “She’s got to be dressed up in tip-top style. I’ll stand the damage.”
“Oh, d—n the damage. If you want that sort of thing, it shall be done. But there won’t be time.”
“Oh well, let her fix up the best way she can.”
At this I turned and left the room. None of them tried to prevent me. I went up to my chamber, and sat down thinking. The hour had come.
This is my last entry. My only refuge from horror unspeakable is the Poison.
Perhaps one day some one will find my journal where it is concealed. Let them learn from it what anguish may be endured by the innocent.
May God have mercy upon my soul! Amen.
October 14, 11 o’clock.—Hope!
Mrs. Compton came to me a few minutes since. She had received a letter from Philips by Asgeelo. She said the Hindu wished to see me. He was at my door. I went there. He told me that I was to fly from Brandon Hall at two o’clock in the morning. He would take care of me. Mrs. Compton said she was to go with me. A place had been found where we could get shelter.
Oh my God, I thank thee! Already when I heard this I was mixing the draught. Two o’clock was the hour on which I had decided for a different kind of flight.
Oh God! deliver the captive. Save me, as I put my trust in thee! Amen.
The hour which Beatrice had mentioned in her diary was awaited by herewith feverish impatience. She had confidence in Asgeelo, and this confidence was heightened by the fact that Mrs. Compton was going to accompany her. The very timidity of this poor old creature would have prevented her from thinking of escape on any ordinary occasion; but now the latter showed no fear. She evinced a strange exultation. She showed Philips’s letter to Beatrice, and made her read it over and over again. It contained only a few words.
“The time has come at last. I will keep my word to you, dear old woman. Be ready tonight to leave Brandon Hall and those devils forever. The Hindu will help you.
“EDGAR.”
Mrs. Compton seemed to think far more of the letter than of escaping. The fact that she had a letter seemed to absorb all her faculties, and no other idea entered her mind. Beatrice had but few preparations to make; a small parcel contained all with which she dared to encumber herself. Hastily making it up she waited in extreme impatience for the time.
At last two o’clock came. Mrs. Compton was in her room. There was a faint tap at the door. Beatrice opened it. It was Asgeelo. The Hindu stood with his finger on his lips, and then moved away slowly and stealthily. They followed.
The Hindu led the way, carrying a small lantern. He did not show any very great caution, but moved with a quiet step, thinking it sufficient if he made no noise. Beatrice followed, and Mrs. Compton came last, carrying nothing but the note from Philips, which she clutched in her hand as though she esteemed it the only thing of value which she possessed.
{ILLUSTRATION: “THE GIGANTIC FIGURE OF ASGEELO STOOD ERECT, ONE ARM CLUTCHING THE THROAT OF HIS ASSAILANT, AND THE OTHER HOLDING THE KNIFE ALOFT."}
In spite of Beatrice’s confidence in Asgeelo she felt her heart sink with dread as she passed through the hall and down the great stairway. But no sound disturbed them. The lights were all out and the house was still. The door of the dining-room was open, but no light shone through.
Asgeelo led the way to the north door. They went on quietly without any interruption, and at last reached it. Asgeelo turned the key and held the door half open for a moment. Then he turned and whispered to them to go out.
Beatrice took two or three steps forward, when suddenly a dark figure emerged from the stairway that led to the servants’ hall and with a sudden spring, advanced to Asgeelo.
The latter dropped the lamp, which fell with a rattle on the floor but still continued burning. He drew a long, keen knife from his breast, and seized the other by the throat.
Beatrice started back. By the light that flickered on the floor she saw it all. The gigantic figure of Asgeelo stood erect, one arm clutching the throat of his assailant, and the other holding the knife aloft.
Beatrice rushed forward and caught the uplifted arm.
“Spare him!” she said, in a low whisper. “He is my friend. He helped me to escape once before.”
She had recognized Vijal.
The Hindu dropped his arm and released his hold. The Malay staggered back and looked earnestly at Beatrice. Recognizing her, he fell on his knees and kissed her hand.
“I will keep your secret,” he murmured.
Beatrice hurried out, and the others followed. They heard the key turn in the door after them. Vijal had locked it from the inside.
Asgeelo led the way with a swift step. They went down the main avenue, and at length reached the gate without any interruption. The gates were shut.
Beatrice looked around in some dread for fear of being discovered. Asgeelo said nothing, but tapped at the door of the porter’s lodge. The door soon opened, and the porter came out. He said nothing, but opened the gates in silence.
They went out. The huge gates shut behind them. They heard the key turn in the lock. In her excitement Beatrice wondered at this, and saw that the porter must also be in the secret. Was this the work of Brandon?
They passed down the road a little distance, and at length reached a place where there were two coaches and some men.
One of these came up and took Mrs. Compton. “Come, old woman,” said he; “you and I are to go in this coach.” It was too dark to see who it was; but the voice sounded like that of Philips. He led her into the coach and jumped in after her.
There was another figure there. He advanced in silence, and motioned to the coach without a word. Beatrice followed; the coach door was opened, and she entered. Asgeelo mounted the box. The stranger entered the coach and shut the door.
Beatrice had not seen the face of this man; but at the sight of the outline of his figure a strange, wild thought came to her mind. As he seated himself by her side a thrill passed through every nerve. Not a word was spoken.
He reached out one hand, and caught hers in a close and fervid clasp. He threw his arm about her waist, and drew her toward him. Her head sank in a delicious languor upon his breast; and she felt the fast throbbing of his heart as she lay there. He held her pressed closely for a long while, drawing quick and heavy breaths, and not speaking a word. Then he smoothed her brow, stroked her hair, and caressed her cheek. Every touch of his made her blood tingle.
“Do you know who I am?” said at last a well-known voice.
She made no answer, but pressed his hand and nestled more closely to his heart.
The carriages rushed on swiftly. They went through the village, passed the inn, and soon entered the open country. Beatrice, in that moment of ecstasy, knew not and cared not whither they were going. Enough that she was with him.
“You have saved me from a fate of horror,” said she, tremulously; “or rather, you have prevented me from saving myself.”
“How could you have saved yourself?”
“I found poison.”
She felt the shudder that passed through his frame. He pressed her again to his heart, and sat for a long time in silence.
“How had you the heart to let me go back when you could get me away so easily?” said she, after a time, in a reproachful tone.
“I could not save you then,” answered he, “without open violence. I wished to defer that for the accomplishment of a purpose which you know. But I secured your safety, for all the servants at Brandon Hall are in my pay.”
“What! Vijal too?”
“No, not Vijal; he was incorruptible; but all the others. They would have obeyed your slightest wish in any respect. They would have shed their blood for you, for the simple reason that I had promised to pay each man an enormous sum if he saved you from any trouble. They were all on the look out. You never were so watched in your life. If you had chosen to run off every man of them would have helped you, and would have rejoiced at the chance of making themselves rich at the expense of Potts. Under these circumstances I thought you were safe.”
“And why did you not tell me?”
“Ah! love, there are many things which I must not tell you.”
He sighed. His sombre tone brought back her senses which had been wandering. She struggled to get away. He would not release her.
“Let me go!” said she. “I am of the accursed brood—the impure ones! You are polluted by my touch!”
“I will not let you go,” returned he, in a tone of infinite sweetness. “Not now. This may be our last interview. How can I let you go?”
“I am pollution.”
“You are angelic. Oh, let us not think of other things. Let us banish from our minds the thought of that barrier which rises between us. While we are here let us forget every thing except that we love one another. To-morrow will come, and our joy will be at an end forever. But you, darling, will be saved! I will guard you to my life’s end, even though I can not come near you.”
Tears fell from Beatrice’s eyes. He felt them hot upon his hand. He sighed deeply.
“I am of the accursed brood!—the accursed!—the accursed! You dishonor your name by touching me.”
Brandon clang to her. He would not let her go. She wept there upon his breast, and still murmured the words, “Accursed! accursed!”
Their carriage rolled on, behind them came the other; on for mile after mile, round the bays and creeks of the sea, until at last they reached a village.
“This is our destination,” said Brandon.
“Where are we?” sighed Beatrice.
“It is Denton,” he replied.
The coach stopped before a little cottage. Asgeelo opened the door. Brandon pressed Beatrice to his heart.
“For the last time, darling,” he murmured.
She said nothing. He helped her out, catching her in his arms as she descended, and lifting her to the ground. Mrs. Compton was already waiting, having descended first. Lights were burning in the cottage window.
“This is your home for the present,” said Brandon. “Here you are safe. You will find every thing that you want, and the servants are faithful. You may trust them.”
He shook hands, with Mrs. Compton, pressed the hand of Beatrice, and leaped into the coach.
“Good-by,” he called, as Asgeelo whipped the horses.
“Good-by forever,” murmured Beatrice through her tears.
About this time Despard received a call from Langhetti. “I am going away,” said the latter, after the preliminary greetings. “I am well enough now to resume my search after Beatrice.”
“Beatrice?”
“Yes.”
“What can you do?”
“I haven’t an idea; but I mean to try to do something.”
Langhetti certainly did not look like a man who was capable of doing very much, especially against one like Potts. Thin, pale, fragile, and emaciated, his slender form seemed ready to yield to the pressure of the first fatigue which he might encounter. Yet his resolution was strong, and he spoke confidently of being able in some mysterious way to effect the escape of Beatrice. He had no idea how he could do it. He had exerted his strongest influence, and had come away discomfited. Still he had confidence in himself and trust in God, and with these he determined to set out once more, and to succeed or perish in the attempt.
After he had left Despard sat moodily in his study for some hours. At last a visitor was announced. He was a man whom Despard had never seen before, and who gave his name as Wheeler.
The stranger on entering regarded Despard for some time with an earnest glance in silence. At last he spoke: “You are the son of Lionel Despard, are you not?”
“Yes,” said Despard, in some surprise.
“Excuse me for alluding to so sad an event; but you are, of course, aware of the common story of his death.”
“Yes,” replied Despard, in still greater surprise.
“That story is known to the world,” said the stranger. “His case was publicly tried at Manilla, and a Malay was executed for the crime.”
“I know that,” returned Despard, “and I know, also, that there were some, and that there still are some, who suspect that the Malay was innocent.”
“Who suspected this?”
“My uncle Henry Despard and myself.”
“Will you allow me to ask you if your suspicions pointed at any one?”
“My uncle hinted at one person, but he had nothing more than suspicions.”
“Who was the man?”
“A man who was my father’s valet, or agent, who accompanied him on that voyage, and took an active part in the conviction of the Malay.”
“What was his name?”
“John Potts.”
“Where does he live now?”
“In Brandon.”
“Very well. Excuse my questions, but I was anxious to learn how much you knew. You will see shortly that they were not idle. Has any thing ever been done by any of the relatives to discover whether these suspicions were correct?”
“At first nothing was done. They accepted as an established fact the decision of the Manilla court. They did not even suspect then that any thing else was possible. It was only subsequent circumstances that led my uncle to have some vague suspicions.”
“What were those, may I ask?”
“I would rather not tell,” said Despard, who shrank from relating to a stranger the mysterious story of Edith Brandon.
“It is as well, perhaps. At any rate, you say there were no suspicions expressed till your uncle was led to form them?”
“No.”
“About how long ago was this?”
“About two years ago—a little more, perhaps. I at once devoted myself to the task of discovering whether they could be maintained. I found it impossible, however, to learn any thing. The event had happened so long ago that it had faded out of men’s minds. The person whom I suspected had become very rich, influential, and respected. In fact, he was unassailable, and I have been compelled to give up the effort.”
“Would you like to learn something of the truth?” asked the stranger, in a thrilling voice.
Despard’s whole soul was roused by this question.
“More than any thing else,” replied he.
“There is a sand-bank,” began the stranger, “three hundred miles south of the island of Java, which goes by the name of Coffin Island. It is so called on account of a rock of peculiar shape at the eastern extremity. I was coming from the East, on my way to England, when a violent storm arose, and I was cast ashore alone upon that island. This may seem extraordinary to you, but what I have to tell is still more extraordinary. I found food and water there, and lived for some time. At last another hurricane came and blew away all the sand from a mound at the western end. This mound had been piled about a wrecked vessel—a vessel wrecked twenty years ago, twenty years ago,” he repeated, with startling emphasis, “and the name of that vessel was the Vishnu.”
“The Vishnu!” cried Despard, starting to his feet, while his whole frame was shaken by emotion at this strange narrative. “Vishnu!”
“Yes, the Vishnu!” continued the stranger.
“You know what that means. For many years that vessel had lain there, entombed amidst the sands, until at last I—on that lonely isle—saw the sands swept away and the buried ship revealed. I went on board. I entered the cabin. I passed through it. At last I entered a room at one corner. A skeleton lay there. Do you know whose it was?”
“Whose?” cried Despard, in a frenzy of excitement.
“Your father’s!” said the stranger, in an awful voice.
“God in heaven!” exclaimed Despard, and he sank back into his seat.
“In his hand he held a manuscript, which was his last message to his friends. It was inclosed in a bottle. The storm had prevented him from throwing it overboard. He held it there as though waiting for some one to take it. I was the one appointed to that task. I took it. I read it, and now that I have arrived in England I have brought it to you.”
“Where is it?” cried Despard, in wild excitement.
“Here,” said the stranger, and he laid a package upon the table.
Despard seized it, and tore open the coverings. At the first sight he recognized the handwriting of his father, familiar to him from old letters written to him when he was a child—letters which he had always preserved, and every turn of which was impressed upon his memory. The first glance was sufficient to impress upon his mind the conviction that the stranger’s tale was true.
Without another word he began to read it. And as he read all his soul became associated with that lonely man, drifting in his drifting ship. There he read the villainy of the miscreant who had compassed his death, and the despair of the castaway.
That suffering man was his own father. It was this that gave intensity to his thoughts as he read. The dying man bequeathed his vengeance to Ralph Brandon, and his blessing to his son.
Despard read over the manuscript many times. It was his father’s words to himself.
“I am in haste,” said the stranger. “The manuscript is yours. I have made inquiries for Ralph Brandon, and find that he is dead. It is for you to do as seems good. You are a clergyman, but you are also a man; and a father’s wrongs cry to Heaven for vengeance.”
“And they shall be avenged!” exclaimed Despard, striking his clenched hand upon the table.
“I have something more before I go,” continued the stranger, mournfully—“something which you will prize more than life. It was worn next your father’s heart till he died. I found it there.”
Saying this he handed to Despard a miniature, painted on enamel, representing a beautiful woman, whose features were like his own.
“My mother!” cried Despard, passionately, and he covered the miniature with kisses.
“I buried your father,” said the stranger, after a long pause. “His remains now lie on Coffin Island, in their last resting-place.”
“And who are you? What are you? How did you find me out? What is your object?” cried Despard, eagerly.
“I am Mr. Wheeler,” said the stranger, calmly; “and I come to give you these things in order to fulfill my duty to the dead. It remains for you to fulfill yours.”
“That duty shall be fulfilled!” exclaimed Despard. “The law does not help me: I will help myself. I know some of these men at least. I will do the duty of a son.”
The stranger bowed and withdrew.
Despard paced the room for hours. A fierce thirst for vengeance had taken possession of him. Again and again he read the manuscript, and after each reading his vengeful feeling became stronger.
At last he had a purpose. He was no longer the imbecile—the crushed—the hopeless. In the full knowledge of his father’s misery his own became endurable.
In the morning he saw Langhetti and told him all.
“But who is the stranger?” Despard asked in wonder.
“It can only be one person,” said Langhetti, solemnly.
“Who?”
“Louis Brandon. He and no other. Who else could thus have been chosen to find the dead? He has his wrongs also to avenge.”
Despard was silent. Overwhelming thoughts crowded upon him. Was this man Louis Brandon?
“We must find him,” said he. “We must gain his help in our work. We must also tell him about Edith.”
“Yes,” replied Langhetti. “But no doubt he has his own work before him; and this is but part of his plan, to rouse you from inaction to vengeance.”