THEY MEET AGAIN.
At four o’clock on the morning of Beatrice’s capture Brandon was roused
by a rap at his bedroom door. He rose at once, and slipping on his
dressing-gown, opened it. A man entered.
“Well?” said Brandon.
“Something has happened.”
“What?”
“She didn’t get home last night. The landlady is sitting up for her, and
is terribly frightened.”
“Did you make any inquiries?”
“No, Sir; I came straight here in obedience to your directions.”
“Is that all you know?”
“All.”
“Very well,” said Brandon, calmly, “you may go.”
The man retired. Brandon sat down and buried his head in his hands. Such
news as this was sufficient to overwhelm any one. The man knew nothing
more than this, that she had not returned home and that the landlady was
frightened. In his opinion only one of two things could have happened:
either Langhetti had taken her somewhere, or she had been abducted.
A thousand fancies followed one another in quick succession. It was too
early as yet to go forth to make inquiries; and he therefore was forced
to sit still and form conjectures as to what ought to be done in case
his conjecture might be true. Sitting there, he took a rapid survey of
all the possibilities of the occasion, and laid his plans accordingly.
Brandon had feared some calamity, and with this fear had arranged
to have some one in the house who might give him information. The
information which he most dreaded had come; it had come, too, in the
midst of a time of triumph, when she had become one of the supreme
singers of the age, and had gained all that her warmest admirer might
desire for her.
If she had not been foully dealt with she must have gone with Langhetti.
But if so--where--and why? What possible reason might Langhetti have for
taking her away? This conjecture was impossible.
Yet if this was impossible, and if she had not gone with Langhetti, with
whom could she have gone? If not a friend, then it must have been with
an enemy. But with what enemy? There was only one.
He thought of Potts. He knew that this wretch was capable of any
villainy, and would not hesitate at any thing to regain possession of
the one who had fled from him. Why he should wish to take the trouble
to regain possession of her, except out of pure villainy, he could not
imagine.
With such thoughts as these the time passed heavily. Six o’clock at last
came, and he set out for the purpose of making inquiries. He went first
to the theatre. Here, after some trouble, he found those who had the
place in charge, and, by questioning them, he learned that Beatrice had
left by herself in a cab for her home, and that Langhetti had remained
some time later. He then went to Beatrice’s lodgings to question the
landlady. From there he went to Langhetti’s lodgings, and found that
Langhetti had come home about one o’clock and was not yet up.
Beatrice, therefore, had left by herself; and had not gone any where
with Langhetti. She had not returned home. It seemed to him most
probable that either voluntarily or involuntarily she had come under
the control of Potts. What to do under the circumstances was now the
question.
One course seemed to him the most direct and certain; namely, to go
up to Brandon at once and make inquiries there. From the letters which
Philips had sent he had an idea of the doings of Potts. Other sources
of information had also been secured. It was not his business to do any
thing more than to see that Beatrice should fall into no harm.
By ten o’clock he had acted upon this idea, and was at the railway
station to take the express train. He reached Brandon village about
dusk. He went to the inn in his usual disguise as Mr. Smithers, and sent
up to the Hall for Mr. Potts.
Potts was not there. He then sent for Philips. After some delay Philips
came. His usual timidity was now if possible still more marked, and he
was at first too embarrassed to speak.
“Where is Potts?” asked Brandon, abruptly.
“In London, Sir.”
“He has been there about three weeks, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“So you wrote me. You thought when he went that he was going to hunt up
his daughter.”
“So I conjectured.”
“And he hasn’t got back yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Has he written any word?”
“None that I know of.”
“Did you hear any of them say why he went to get her?”
“Not particularly; but I guessed from what they said that he was afraid
of having her at large.”
“Afraid? Why?”
“Because she knew some secret of theirs.”
“Secret! What secret?” asked Brandon.
“You know, Sir, I suppose,” said Philips, meekly.
Brandon had carried Asgeelo with him, as he was often in the habit of
doing on his journeys. After his interview with Philips he stood outside
on the veranda of the village inn for some time, and then went around
through the village, stopping at a number of houses. Whatever it was
that he was engaged in, it occupied him for several hours, and he did
not get back to the inn till midnight.
On the following morning he sent up to the Hall, but Potts had not
yet returned. Philips came to tell him that he had just received a
telegraphic dispatch informing him that Potts would be back that day
about one o’clock. This intelligence at last seemed to promise something
definite.
Brandon found enough to occupy him during the morning among the people
of the neighborhood. He seemed to know every body, and had something
to say to every one. Yet no one looked at him or spoke to him unless
he took the initiative. Last of all, he went to the tailor’s, where he
spent an hour.
Asgeelo had been left at the inn, and sat there upon a bench outside,
apparently idle and aimless. At one o’clock Brandon returned and walked
up and down the veranda.
In about half an hour his attention was attracted by the sound of
wheels. It was Potts’s barouche, which came rapidly up the road. In it
was Potts and a young lady.
Brandon stood outside of the veranda, on the steps, in such a position
as to be most conspicuous, and waited there till the carriage should
reach the place. Did his heart beat faster as he recognized that form,
as he marked the settled despair which had gathered over that young
face--a face that had the fixed and unalterable wretchedness which marks
the ideal face of the Mater Dolorosa?
Brandon stood in such a way that Potts could not help seeing him. He
waved his arm, and Potts stopped the carriage at once.
Potts was seated on the front seat, and Beatrice on the back one.
Brandon walked up to the carriage and touched his hat.
“Mr. Smithers!” cried Potts, with his usual volubility. “Dear me, Sir.
This is really a most unexpected pleasure, Sir.”
While Potts spoke Brandon looked steadily at Beatrice, who cast upon
him a look of wonder. She then sank back in her seat; but her eyes were
still fastened on his as though fascinated. Then, beneath the marble
whiteness of her face a faint tinge appeared, a warm flush, that was the
sign of hope rising from despair. In her eyes there gleamed the flash of
recognition; for in that glance each had made known all its soul to the
other. In her mind there was no perplexing question as to how or why he
came here, or wherefore he wore that disguise; the one thought that she
had was the consciousness that He was here--here before her.
All this took place in an instant, and Potts, who was talking, did not
notice the hurried glance; or if he did, saw in it nothing but a casual
look cast by one stranger upon another.
“I arrived here yesterday,” said Brandon. “I wished to see you about a
matter of very little importance perhaps to you, but it is one which is
of interest to me. But I am detaining you. By-the-way, I am somewhat in
a hurry, and if this lady will excuse me I will drive up with you to the
Hall, so as to lose no time.”
“Delighted, Sir, delighted!” cried Potts. “Allow me, Mr. Smithers, to
introduce you to my daughter.”
Brandon held out his hand. Beatrice held out hers. It was cold as ice,
but the fierce thrill that shot through her frame at the touch of his
feverish hand brought with it such an ecstasy that Beatrice thought it
was worth while to have undergone the horror of the past twenty-four
hours for the joy of this one moment.
Brandon stepped into the carriage and seated himself by her side. Potts
sat opposite. He touched her. He could hear her breathing. How many
months had passed since they sat so near together! What sorrows had they
not endured! Now they were side by side, and for a moment they forgot
that their bitterest enemy sat before them.
There, before them, was the man who was not only a deadly enemy to each,
but who made it impossible for them to be more to one another than they
now were. Yet for a time they forgot this in the joy of the ecstatic
meeting. At the gate Potts got out and excused himself to Brandon,
saying that he would be up directly.
“Entertain this gentleman till I come,” said he to Beatrice, “for he is
a great friend of mine.”
Beatrice said nothing, for the simple reason that she could not speak.
They drove on. Oh, joy! that baleful presence was for a moment removed.
The driver saw nothing as he drove under the overarching elms--the elms
under which Brandon had sported in his boyhood. He saw not the long,
fervid glance that they cast at one another, in which each seemed to
absorb all the being of the other; he saw not the close clasped hands
with which they clung to one another now as though they would thus cling
to each other forever and prevent separation. He saw not the swift,
wild movement of Brandon when for one instant he flung his arm around
Beatrice and pressed her to his heart. He heard not the beating of that
strong heart; he heard not the low sigh of rapture with which for but
one instant the head of Beatrice sank upon her lover’s breast. It was
but for an instant. Then she sat upright again, and their hands sought
each other, thus clinging, thus speaking by a voice which was fully
intelligible to each, which told how each felt in the presence of the
other love unutterable, rapture beyond expression.
The alighted from the carriage. Beatrice led the way into the
drawing-room. No one was there. Brandon went into a recess of one of the
windows which commanded a view of the Park.
“What a beautiful view!” said he, in a conventional voice.
She came up and stood beside him.
“Oh, my darling! Oh, my darling!” he cried, over and over again; and
flinging his arms around her he covered her face with burning kisses.
Her whole being seemed in that supreme moment to be absorbed in his. All
consciousness of any other thing than this unspeakable joy was lost
to her. Before all others she was lofty, high-souled, serene,
self-possessed--with him she was nothing, she lost herself in him.
“Do not fear, my soul’s darling,” said he; “no harm shall come. My power
is every where--even in this house. All in the village are mine. When my
blow falls you shall be saved.”
She shuddered.
“You will leave me here?”
“Heavens! I must,” he groaned; “we are the sport of circumstances. Oh,
my darling!” he continued, “you know my story, and my vengeance.”
“I know it all,” she whispered. “I would wish to die if I could die by
your hand.”
“I will save you. Oh, love--oh, soul of mine--my arms are around you!
You are watched--but watched by me.”
“You do not know,” she sighed. “Alas! your father’s voice must be
obeyed, and your vengeance must be taken.”
“Fear not,” said he; “I will guard you.”
She answered nothing. Could she confide in his assurance? She could not.
She thought with horror of the life before her. What could Brandon do?
She could not imagine.
They stood thus in silence for a long time. Each felt that this was
their last meeting, and each threw all life and all thought into the
rapture of this long and ecstatic embrace. After this the impassable
gulf must reopen. She was of the blood of the accursed. They must
separate forever.
He kissed her. He pressed her a thousand times to his heart. His burning
kisses forced a new and feverish life into her, which roused all her
nature. Never before had he dared so to fling open all his soul to her;
never before had he so clasped her to his heart; but now this moment was
a break in the agony of a long separation--a short interval which must
soon end and give way to the misery which had preceded it--and so he
yielded to the rapture of the hour, and defied the future.
The moments extended themselves. They were left thus for a longer time
than they hoped. Potts did not come. They were still clinging to
one another. She had flung her arms around him in the anguish of her
unspeakable love, he had clasped her to his wildly-throbbing heart, and
he was straining her there recklessly and despairingly, when suddenly a
harsh voice burst upon their ears.
“The devil!”
Beatrice did not hear it. Brandon did, and turned his face. Potts stood
before them.
“Mr. Potts!” said he, as he still held Beatrice close to his heart,
“this poor young lady is in wretched health. She nearly fainted. I had
to almost carry her to the window. Will you be good enough to open it,
so as to give her some air? Is she subject to these faints? Poor
child!” he said; “the air of this place ought surely to do you good. I
sympathize with you most deeply, Mr. Potts.”
“She’s sickly--that’s a fact,” said Potts. “I’m very sorry that you have
had so much trouble--I hope you’ll excuse me. I only thought that she’d
entertain you, for she’s very clever. Has all the accomplishments--”
“Perhaps you’d better call some one to take care of her,” interrupted
Brandon.
“Oh, I’ll fetch some one. I’m sorry it happened so. I hope you won’t
blame me, Sir,” said Potts, humbly, and he hurried out of the room.
Beatrice had not moved. She heard Brandon speak to some one, and at
first gave herself up for lost, but in an instant she understood the
full meaning of his words. To his admirable presence of mind she added
her own. She did not move, but allowed her head to rest where it was,
feeling a delicious joy in the thought that Potts was looking on and was
utterly deceived. When he left to call a servant she raised her head and
gave Brandon a last look expressive of her deathless, her unutterable
love. Again and again he pressed her to his heart. Then the noise of
servants coming in roused him. He gently placed her on a sofa, and
supported her with a grave and solemn face.
“Here, Mrs. Compton. Take charge of her,” said Potts. “She’s been trying
to faint.”
Mrs. Compton came up, and kneeling down kissed Beatrice’s hands. She
said nothing.
“Oughtn’t she to have a doctor?” said Brandon.
“Oh no--she’ll get over it. Take her to her room, Mrs. Compton.”
“Can the poor child walk?” asked Brandon.
Beatrice rose. Mrs. Compton asked her to take her arm. She did so, and
leaning heavily upon it, walked away.
[Illustration: “THE DEVIL!” ... POTTS STOOD BEFORE THEM.]
“She seems very delicate,” said Brandon. “I did not know that you had a
daughter.”
Potts sighed.
“I have,” said he, “to my sorrow.”
“To your sorrow!” said Brandon, with exquisitely simulated sympathy.
“Yes,” replied the other. “I wouldn’t tell it to every one--but you, Mr.
Smithers, are different from most people. You see I have led a roving
life. I had to leave her out in China for many years with a female
guardian. I suppose she was not very well taken care of. At any rate,
she got acquainted out there with a strolling Italian vagabond, a
drum-major in one of the regiments, named Langhetti, and this villain
gained her affections by his hellish arts. He knew that I was rich,
and, like an unprincipled adventurer, tried to get her, hoping to get
a fortune. I did not know any thing about this till after her arrival
home. I sent for her some time ago and she came. From the first she was
very sulky. She did not treat me like a daughter at all. On one occasion
she actually abused me and called me names to my face. She called me a
Thug! What do you think of that, Mr. Smithers?”
The other said nothing, but there was in his face a horror which Potts
considered as directed toward his unnatural offspring.
“She was discontented here, though I let her have every thing. I found
out in the end all about it. At last she actually ran away. She joined
this infamous Langhetti, whom she had discovered in some way or other.
They lived together for some time, and then went to London, where she
got a situation as an actress. You can imagine by that,” said Potts,
with sanctimonious horror, “how low she had fallen.
“Well, I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid to make a public demand
for her through the law, for then it would all get into the papers; it
would be an awful disgrace, and the whole county would know it. So I
waited, and a few weeks ago I went to London. A chance occurred at last
which threw her in my way. I pointed out to her the awful nature of the
life she was leading, and offered to forgive her all if she would only
come back. The poor girl consented, and here she is. But I’m very
much afraid,” said Potts in conclusion, with a deep sigh, “that her
constitution is broken up. She’s very feeble.”
Brandon said nothing.
“Excuse me for troubling you with my domestic affairs; but I thought I
ought to explain, for you have had such trouble with her yourself.”
“Oh, don’t mention it. I quite pitied the poor child, I assure you; and
I sincerely hope that the seclusion of this place, combined with the
pure sea-air, may restore her spirits and invigorate her in mind as well
as in body. And now, Mr. Potts, I will mention the little matter that
brought me here. I have had business in Cornwall, and was on my way home
when I received a letter summoning me to America. I may have to go to
California. I have a very honest servant, whom I have quite a strong
regard for, and I am anxious to put him in some good country house till
I get back. I’m afraid to trust him in London, and I can’t take him with
me. He is a Hindu, but speaks English and can do almost any thing. I
at once remembered you, especially as you were close by me, and thought
that In your large establishment you might find a place for him. How is
it?”
“My dear Sir, I shall be proud and happy. I should like, above all
things, to have a man here who is recommended by one like you. The fact
is, my servants are all miserable, and a good one can not often be had.
I shall consider it a favor if I can get him.”
“Well, that is all arranged--I have a regard for him, as I said before,
and want to have him in a pleasant situation. His name is Asgeelo, but
we are in the habit of calling him Cato--”
“Cato! a very good name. Where is he now?”
“At the hotel. I will send him to you at once,” said Brandon, rising.
“The sooner the better,” returned Potts.
“By-the-way, my junior speaks very encouragingly about the prospects of
the Brandon Bank--”
“Does he?” cried Potts, gleefully. “Well, I do believe we’re going ahead
of every thing.”
“That’s right. Boldness is the true way to success.”
“Oh, never fear. We are bold enough.”
“Good. But I am hurried, and I must go. I will send Asgeelo up, and give
him a letter.”
With these words Brandon bowed an adieu and departed. Before evening
Asgeelo was installed as one of the servants.