CHAPTER LVII.
MRS. COMPTON'S SECRET.
On the night after the arrival of John, Brandon had left Denton. Hedid not return till the following day. On arriving at the inn he saw anunusual spectacle--the old man on the balcony, the crowd of villagersaround, the universal excitement.
On entering the inn he found some one who for some time had been waitingto see him. It was Philips. Philips had come early in the morning, andhad been over to the cottage. He had learned all about the affair at theinn, 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 hispocket.
Then Philips told him the news which he had learned at the cottage aboutLanghetti. Langhetti and Despard were both there yet, the former verydangerously ill, the latter waiting for some friends. He also told aboutthe affair on the road, the seizure of Clark, and his delivery into thehands of the authorities.
Brandon heard all this with the deepest interest. While the excitementat the inn was still at its height, he hurried off to the magistrateinto whose hands Clark had been committed. After an interview withhim he returned. He found the excitement unabated. He then went to thecottage close by the inn, where Beatrice had found a home, and Langhettia refuge. Philips was with him.
On knocking at the door Asgeelo opened it. They entered the parlor, andin a short time Mrs. Compton appeared. Brandon's first inquiry was afterLanghetti.
"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, wentto 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 shookhands 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 wonderedwhat the cause might be of such a change.
Mrs. Compton stood apart at a little distance, near Philips, and lookedon with a strange expression, half wistful, half timid.
There was a silence which at length became embarrassing. From the roomwhere they were sitting the inn could plainly be seen, with the crowdoutside. Beatrice's eyes were directed toward this. Despard said nota word. At another time he might have been strongly interested in thisman, who on so many accounts was so closely connected with him; but nowthe power of some dominant and all-engrossing idea possessed him, and heseemed to take no notice of any things whatever either without the houseor within.
After looking in silence at the inn for a long time Beatrice withdrewher gaze. Brandon regarded her with a fixed and earnest glance, asthough he would read her inmost soul. She looked at him, and cast downher 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, withoutone touch of softness.
"After all," said she, "he was my father. You had your vengeance totake, 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 mypower. He could not escape. Officers of the law stood ready to do mybidding. Yet I allowed him to leave the Hall in safety. I might havetaken his heart's-blood. I might have handed him over to the law. I didnot."
"No," said Beatrice, in icy tones, "you did not; you sought a deepervengeance. You cared not to take his life. It was sweeter to you totake his son's life and give him agony. Death would have beeninsufficient--anguish was what you wished.
"It is not for me to blame you," she continued, while Brandon lookedat her without a word. "Who am I--a polluted one, of the accursedbrood--who am I, to stand between you and him, or to blame you if youseek for vengeance? I am nothing. You have done kindnesses to me which Inow 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 Ishould not have lived to see this day!"
Roused by her vehemence Despard started from his abstraction and lookedaround.
"It seems to me," said he, "as if you were blaming some one forinflicting 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 inhis agony, dying, torn to pieces by this man's agency, and have pity forhim?"
"Oh!" cried Beatrice, "is he not my father?"
Mrs. Compton looked around with staring eyes, and trembled from head tofoot. Her lips moved--she began to speak, but the words died away on herlips.
"Your father!" said Despard; "his acts have cut him off from adaughter's sympathy."
"Yet he has a father's feelings, at least for his dead son. Never shallI forget his look of anguish as he stood on the balcony. His face wasturned this way. He seemed to reproach me."
"Let me tell you," cried Despard, harshly. "He has not yet madeatonement for his crimes. This is but the beginning. I have a debt ofvengeance to extort from him. One scoundrel has been handed over to thelaw, another lies dead, another is in London in the hands of Langhetti'sfriends, the Carbonari. The worst one yet remains, and my father's voicecries to me day and night from that dreadful ship."
"Your father's voice!" cried Beatrice. She looked at Despard. Their eyesmet. Something passed between them in that glance which brought back theold, mysterious feeling which she had known before. Despard rose hastilyand left the room.
"In God's name," cried Brandon, "I say that this man's life was notsought by me, nor the life of any of his. I will tell you all. When hecompassed the death of Uracao, of whom you know, he obtained possessionof his son, then a mere boy, and carried him away. He kept this lad withhim and brought him up with the idea that he was his best friend, andthat he would one day show him his father's murderer. After I mademyself known to him, he told Vijal that I was this murderer. Vijal triedto assassinate me. I foiled him, and could have killed him. But I sparedhis life. I then told him the truth. That is all that I have done. Ofcourse, I knew that Vijal would seek for vengeance. That was not myconcern. Since Potts had sent him to seek my life under a lie, I senthim away with knowledge of the truth. I do not repent that told him; noris there any guilt chargeable to me. The man that lies dead there is notmy victim. Yet if he were--oh, Beatrice! if he were--what then? Couldthat atone for what I have suffered? My father ruined and broken-heartedand dying in a poor-house calls to me always for vengeance. My mothersuffering in the emigrant ship, and dying of the plague amidst horrorswithout 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 isalive?"
"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 hernow."
"Where, where is she?" asked Brandon, wildly.
"In a convent at London."
At this moment Despard entered.
"I
s this true?" asked Brandon, with a deeper agitation than had ever yetbeen 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 thoughtsdrove 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 theworld after my relatives--"
"I will tell you," said Despard.
He sat down and began to tell the story of Edith's voyage and all thatLanghetti 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 aword to say. He listened like one stupefied.
"Thank God!" he cried at last when it was ended; "thank God, I am sparedthis last anguish; I am freed from the thought which for years has beenmost intolerable. The memories that remain are bitter enough, but theyare not so terrible as this. But I must see her. I must find her. Whereis she?"
"Make yourself easy on that score," said Despard, calmly. "She will behere 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 troublesdrove every thing else from my mind."
"Forgive me," said Brandon, "for intruding now. I came in to learn aboutLanghetti. You look upon me with horror. I will withdraw."
Beatrice bowed her head, and tears streamed from her eyes. Brandon tookher hand.
"Farewell," he murmured; "farewell, Beatrice. You will not condemn mewhen 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 hasseveral times been on the point of telling. I have just spoken to himand 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'llprotect you."
She rose, and, leaning on his arm, followed the others into Langhetti'sroom. He was fearfully emaciated. His material frame, worn down by painand confinement, seemed about to dissolve and let free that soaring soulof his, whose fiery impulses had for years chafed against the prisonbars of its mortal inclosure. His eyes shone darkly and luminously fromtheir deep, hollow sockets, and upon his thin, wan, white lips there wasa faint smile of welcome--faint like the smile of the sick, yet sweet asthe smile of an angel.
It was with such a smile that he greeted Brandon, and with both of histhin 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 myEdith! 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 dyingfriend? He did so once."
"He will come," said Brandon, in a voice choked with emotion, as hepressed 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 openthe inside pocket you will find something wrapped in paper. Bring it tome."
Beatrice found the pocket-book and opened it as directed. In the insidepocket there was a thin, small parcel. She opened it and drew forth avery 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 wereall marked with those letters when you were first brought to her. Shedid not know what it meant. 'B' meant Beatrice; but what did 'D' mean?"
All around that bedside exchanged glances of wonder. Mrs. Compton wasmost 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 devilwon't hurt you."
"Now, in my deep interest in you, and in my affection, I tried to findout what this meant. The nurse and I often talked about it. She toldme that your father never cared particularly about you, and that it wasstrange for your clothing to be marked 'D' if your name was Potts. Itwas a thing which greatly troubled her. I made many inquiries. I foundout about the Manilla murder case. From that moment I suspected that 'D'meant Despard.
"Oh, Heavens!" sighed Beatrice, in an agony of suspense. Brandon andDespard stood motionless, waiting for something further.
"This is what I tried to solve. I made inquiries every where. At last Igave it up. So when circumstances threw Beatrice again in my way I triedagain. I have always been baffled There is only, one who can tell--onlyone. She is here, in this room; and, in the name of God, I call upon herto 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 fromexhaustion.
Mrs. Compton was seized with a panic more overpowering than usual. Shegasped 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, ina calm, resolute voice, "your timidity has been your curse. There is noneed for fear now. I will protect you. The man whom you have feared somany years is now ruined, helpless, and miserable. I could destroy himat this moment if I chose. You are foolish if you fear him. Your son iswith you. His arm supports you, and I stand here ready to protect bothyou and your son. Speak out, and tell what you know. Your husband isstill living. He longs for your return. You and your son are free fromyour enemies. Trust in me, and you shall both go back to him and live inpeace."
Tears fell from Mrs. Compton's eyes. She seized Brandon's hand andpressed 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. Shelooked 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 ofColonel Despard, who had died in giving birth to a child. Potts hadbrought news of her death, but had said nothing whatever about thechild. Colonel Despard knew nothing of it. Being at a distance at thetime, on duty, he had heard but the one fact of his wife's death, andall other things were forgotten. He had not even made inquiries as towhether the child which he had expected was alive or dead, but had atonce given way to the grief of the bereavement, and had hurried off.
In his designs on Colonel Despard, Potts feared that the knowledge ofthe existence of a child might keep him in India, and distract his mindfrom its sorrow. Therefore he was the more anxious not only to keep thissecret, but also to prevent it from ever being known to Colonel Despard.With this idea he hurried the preparation of the _Vishnu_ to such anextent that it was ready for sea almost immediately, and left withColonel 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 grownman. Months passed before Potts came back. He then took her along withthe child to China, and left the latter with a respectable woman atHong Kong, who was the widow of a British naval officer. The child wasBeatrice Despard.
Potts always feared that Mrs. Compton might divulge his secret, andtherefore always kept her with him. Timid by nature to an unusuald
egree, the wretched woman was in constant fear for her life, and asyears passed on this fear was not lessened. The sufferings which shefelt from this terror were atoned for, however, by the constant presenceof her son, who remained in connection with Potts, influenced chiefly bythe ascendency which this villain had over a man of his weak andtimid nature. Potts had brought them to England, and they had lived indifferent places, until at last Brandon Hall had fallen into his hands.Of the former occupants of Brandon Hall, Mrs. Compton knew almostnothing. Very little had ever been said about them to her. She knewscarcely any thing about them, except that their names were Brandon, andthat they had suffered misfortunes.
Finally, this Beatrice was Beatrice Despard, the daughter of ColonelDespard and the sister of the clergyman then present. She herself,instead of being the daughter of Potts, had been one of his victims, andhad suffered not the least at his hands.
This astounding revelation was checked by frequent interruptions. Theactual story of her true parentage overwhelmed Beatrice. This was theawful thought which had occurred to herself frequently before. This waswhat had moved her so deeply in reading the manuscript of her fatheron that African Isle. This also was the thing which had always made herhate with such intensity the miscreant who pretended to be her father.
Now she was overwhelmed. She threw herself into the arms of her brotherand wept upon his breast. Courtenay Despard for a moment rose abovethe gloom that oppressed him, and pressed to his heart this sister sostrangely discovered. Brandon stood apart, looking on, shaken to thesoul and unnerved by the deep joy of that unparalleled discovery. Amidstall the speculations in which he had indulged the very possibility ofthis had never suggested itself. He had believed most implicitly allalong that Beatrice was in reality the daughter of his mortal enemy. Nowthe discovery of the truth came upon him with overwhelming force.
She raised herself from her brother's embrace, and turned and lookedupon the man whom she adored--the one who, as she said, had over andover again saved her life; the one whose life she, too, in her turnhad saved, with whom she had passed so many adventurous and momentousdays--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 thismoment.
As their eyes met they revealed all their inmost thoughts. There was nowno barrier between them. Vanished was the insuperable obstacle, vanishedthe impassable gulf. They stood side by side. The enemy of this man--hisfoe, his victim--was also hers. Whatever he might suffer, whateveranguish might have been on the face of that old man who had lookedat her from the balcony, she had clearly no part nor lot now in thatsuffering or that anguish. He was the murderer of her father. She wasnot the daughter of this man. She was of no vulgar or sordid race. Herblood was no longer polluted or accursed. She was of pure and noblelineage. 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 thatkept us apart. My life is yours, and yours is mine."
He thought of nothing but her. He spoke with burning impetuosity. Hiswords sank into her soul. His eyes devoured hers in the passion of theirglance.
"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 seizedit and covered it with kisses. Despard saw this. In the midst of theanguish of his face a smile shone forth, like sunshine out of a cloudedsky. He looked at these two for a moment.
Langhetti's eyes were closed. Mrs. Compton and her son were talkingapart. 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 Ilove without hope. Heaven has its favorites, but I am an outcast fromthat favor."
A shudder passed through him. He drew himself up.
"Since love is denied me," he thought, "I can at least have vengeance."
Cord and Creese Page 57
