you know. For my part, I consider Paolo the sublimest of men. When I saw him last I was only a boy, and he came with his seraphic face and his divine music to give me an inspiration which has biased my life ever since. I have only known one spirit like his among those whom I have met.”
An indescribable sadness passed over his face. “But now,” he continued, suddenly, “I suppose Thornton must see my uncle’s letter. His legal mind may discern some things which the law may do in this case. Edith is beyond all consolation from human beings, and still farther beyond all help from English law. But if Louis Brandon can be found the law may exert itself in his favor. In this respect be may be useful, and I have no doubt he would take up the case earnestly, out of his strong sense of justice.”
When Thornton came in to dinner Despard handed him his uncle’s letter. The lawyer read it with deep attention, and without a word.
Mrs. Thornton looked agitated—sometimes resting her head on her hand, at others looking fixedly at her husband. As soon as he had finished she said, in a calm, measured tone:
“I did not know before that Brandon of Brandon Hall and all his family had perished so miserably.”
Thornton started, and looked at her earnestly. She returned his gaze with unutterable sadness in her eyes.
“He saved my father’s life,” said she. “He benefited him greatly. Your father also was under slight obligations to him. I thought that things like these constituted a faint claim on one’s gratitude, so that if one were exposed to misfortune he might not be altogether destitute of friends.”
Thornton looked uneasy as his wife spoke.
“My dear,” said he, “you do not understand.”
“True,” she answered; “for this thing is almost incredible. If my father’s friend has died in misery, unpitied and unwept, forsaken by all, do I not share the guilt of ingratitude? How can I absolve myself from blame?”