LANGHETTI’S ATTEMPT.
Two days after Brandon’s visit to Potts, Langhetti reached the village.
A searching examination in London had led him to believe that Beatrice
might now be sought for at Brandon Hall. The police could do nothing
for him. He had no right to her. If she was of age, she was her
own mistress, and must make application herself for her safety and
deliverance; if she was under age, then she must show that she was
treated with cruelty. None of these things could be done, and Langhetti
despaired of accomplishing any thing.
The idea of her being once more in the power of a man like Potts
was frightful to him. This idea filled his mind continually, to the
exclusion of all other thoughts. His opera was forgotten. One great
horror stood before him, and all else became of no account. The only
thing for him to do was to try to save her. He could find no way, and
therefore determined to go and see Potts himself.
It was a desperate undertaking. From Beatrice’s descriptions he had an
idea of the life from which she had fled, and other things had given him
a true idea of the character of Potts. He knew that there was scarcely
any hope before him. Yet he went, to satisfy himself by making a last
effort.
He was hardly the man to deal with one like Potts. Sensitive,
high-toned, passionate, impetuous in his feelings, he could not command
that calmness which was the first essential in such an interview.
Besides, he was broken down by anxiety and want of sleep. His sorrow
for Beatrice had disturbed all his thoughts. Food and sleep were alike
abominable to him. His fine-strung nerves and delicate organization, in
which every feeling had been rendered more acute by his mode of life,
were of that kind which could feel intensely wherever the affections
were concerned. His material frame was too weak for the presence of such
an ardent soul. Whenever any emotion of unusual power appeared he sank
rapidly.
So now, feverish, emaciated, excited to an intense degree, he appeared
in Brandon to confront a cool, unemotional villain, who scarcely ever
lost his presence of mind. Such a contest could scarcely be an equal
one. What could he bring forward which could in any way affect such a
man? He had some ideas in his own mind which he imagined might be of
service, and trusted more to impulse than any thing else. He went up
early in the morning to Brandon Hall.
Potts was at home, and did not keep Langhetti long waiting. There was
a vast contrast between these two men--the one coarse, fat, vulgar, and
strong; the other refined, slender, spiritual, and delicate, with his
large eyes burning in their deep sockets, and a strange mystery in his
face.
“I am Paolo Langhetti,” said he, abruptly--“the manager of the Covent
Garden Theatre.”
“You are, are you?” answered Potts, rudely; “then the sooner you get out
of this the better. The devil himself couldn’t be more impudent. I have
just saved my daughter from your clutches, and I’m going to pay you off,
too, my fine fellow, before long.”
“Your daughter!” said Langhetti. “What she is, and who she is, you very
well know. If the dead could speak they would tell a different story.”
“What the devil do you mean,” cried Potts, “by the dead? At any rate you
are a fool; for very naturally the dead can’t speak; but what concern
that has with my daughter I don’t know. Mind, you are playing a
dangerous game in trying to bully me.”
Potts spoke fiercely and menacingly. Langhetti’s impetuous goal kindled
to a new fervor at this insulting language. He stretched out his long,
thin hand toward Potts, and said:
“I hold your life and fortune in my hand. Give up that girl whom you
call your daughter.”
Potts stood for a moment staring.
“The devil you do!” he cried, at last. “Come, I call that good,
rich, racy! Will your sublime Excellency have the kindness to explain
yourself? If my life is in your hand it’s in a devilish lean and weak
one. It strikes me you’ve got some kink in your brain--some notion or
other. Out with it, and let us see what you’re driving at!”
“Do you know a man named Cigole?” said Langhetti.
“Cigole!” replied Potts, after a pause, in which he had stared hard at
Langhetti; “well, what if I do? Perhaps I do, and perhaps I don’t.”
“He is in my power,” said Langhetti, vehemently.
“Much good may he do you then, for I’m sure when he was in my power he
never did any good to me.”
“He will do good in this case, at any rate,” said Langhetti, with an
effort at calmness. “He was connected with you in a deed which you must
remember, and can tell to the world what he knows.”
“Well, what if he does?” said Potts.
“He will tell,” cried Langhetti, excitedly, “the true story of the
Despard murder.”
“Ah!” said Potts, “now the murder’s out. That’s what I thought.
Don’t you suppose I saw through you when you first began to speak so
mysteriously? I knew that you had learned some wonderful story, and that
you were going to trot it out at the right time. But if you think you’re
going to bully me you’ll find it hard work.
“Cigole is in my power,” said Langhetti, fiercely.
“And so you think I am, too?” sneered Potts.
“Partly so.”
“Why?”
“Because he was an accomplice of yours in the Despard murder.”
“So he says, no doubt; but who’ll believe him?”
“He is going to turn Queen’s evidence!” said Langhetti, solemnly.
“Queen’s evidence!” returned Potts, contemptuously, “and what’s his
evidence worth--the evidence of a man like that against a gentleman of
unblemished character?”
“He will be able to show what the character of that gentleman is,”
rejoined Langhetti.
“Who will believe him?”
“No one can help it.”
“You believe him, no doubt. You and he are both Italians--both dear
friends--and both enemies of mine; but suppose I prove to the world
conclusively that Cigole is such a scoundrel that his testimony is
worthless?”
“You can’t,” cried Langhetti, furiously.
Potts cast a look of contempt at him--
“Can’t I!” He resumed: “How very simple, how confiding you must be,
my dear Langhetti! Let me explain my meaning. You got up a wild charge
against a gentleman of character and position about a murder. In the
first place, you seem to forget that the real murderer has long since
been punished. That miserable devil of a Malay was very properly
convicted at Manilla, and hanged there. It was twenty years ago. What
English court would consider the case again after a calm and impartial
Spanish court has settled it finally, and punished the criminal? They
did so at the time when the case was fresh, and I came forth honored
and triumphant. You now bring forward a man who, you hint, will make
statements against me. Suppose he does? What then? Why, I will show what
this man is. And you, my dear Langhetti, will be the first one whom I
will bring up against him. I will bring you up under oath, and make you
tell how this Cigole--this man who testifies against me--once made a
certain testimony in Sicily against a certain Langhetti senior, by which
that certain Langhetti senior was betrayed to the Government, and was
saved only by the folly of two Englishmen, one of whom was this same
Despard. I will show that this Langhetti senior was your father,
and that the son, instead of avenging, or at any rate resenting,
his father’s wrong, is now a bosom friend of his father’s intended
murderer--that he has urged him on against me. I will show, my dear
Langhetti, how you have led a roving life, and, when a drum-major at
Hong Kong, won the affections of my daughter; how you followed her here,
and seduced her away from a kind father; how at infinite risk I regained
her; how you came to me with audacious threats; and how only the dread
of further scandal, and my own anxious love for my daughter, prevented
me from handing you over to the authorities. I will prove you to be a
scoundrel of the vilest description, and, after such proof as this, what
do you think would be the verdict of an English jury, or of any judge in
any land; and what do you think would be your own fate? Answer me that.”
Potts spoke with savage vehemence. The frightful truth flashed at once
across Langhetti’s mind that Potts had it in his power here to show
all this to the world. He was overwhelmed. He had never conceived the
possibility of this. Potts watched him silently, with a sneer on his
face.
“Don’t you think that you had better go and comfort yourself with your
dear friend Cigole, your father’s intended murderer?” said he at length.
“Cigole told me all about this long ago. He told me many things about
his life which would be slightly damaging to his character as a witness,
but I don’t mind telling you that the worst thing against him in English
eyes is his betrayal of your father. But this seems to have been a very
slight matter to you. It’s odd too; I’ve always supposed that Italians
understood what vengeance means.”
Langhetti’s face bore an expression of agony which he could not conceal.
Every word of Potts stung him to the soul. He stood for some time in
silence. At last, without a word, he walked out of the room.
His brain reeled. He staggered rather than walked. Potts looked after
him with a smile of triumph. He left the Hall and returned to the
village.