“Paolo’s own nature is so lofty and so spiritual that one like her is intelligible to him. Happy is it for her that he found her.”
“Paolo is more spiritual than human. He has no materialism. He is spiritual. I am of the earth, earthy; but my brother is a spirit imprisoned, who chafes at his bonds and longs to be free. And think what Paolo has done for her in his sublime devotion!”
“I know others who would do as much,” said Despard, in a voice that seemed full of tears; “I know others who, like him, would go to the grave to rescue the one they loved, and make all life one long devotion. I know others,” he continued, “who would gladly die, if by dying they could gain what he has won—the possession of the one they love. Ah me! Paolo is happy and blessed beyond all men. Between him and her there is no insuperable barrier, no gulf as deep as death.”
Despard spoke impetuously, but suddenly checked himself.
“I received,” said he, “by the last mail a letter from my uncle in Halifax. He is ordered off to the Cape of Good Hope. I wrote him a very long time ago, as I told you, asking him to tell me without reserve all that he knew about my father’s death. I told him plainly that there was a mystery about it which I was determined to solve. I reproached him for keeping it secret from me, and reminded him that I was now a mature man; and that he had no right nor any reason to maintain any farther secrecy. I insisted on knowing all, no matter what it might be.
“I received his letter by the last mail. Here it is;” and he handed it to her. “Read it when you get home. I have written a few words to you, little playmate, also. He has told me all. Did you know this before?”
“Yes, Lama,” said Mrs. Thornton, with a look of sorrowful sympathy.
“You knew all my father’s fate?”
“Yes, Lama.”
“And you kept it secret?”