“It is evident,” said he to Langhetti, “that she has escaped from Brandon Hall during the past night. She will, no doubt, be pursued. What shall we do? If we go back to this inn they will wonder at our bringing her. There is another inn a mile further on.”
“I have been thinking of that,” replied Langhetti. “It will be better to go to the other inn. But what shall we say about her? Let us say she is an invalid going home.”
“And am I her medical attendant?” asked Despard.
“No; that is not necessary. You are her guardian—the Rector of Holby, of course—your name is sufficient guarantee.”
“Oh,” said Despard, after a pause, “I’ll tell you something better yet. I am her brother and she is my sister—Miss Despard.”
As he spoke he looked down upon her marble face. He did not see Langhetti’s countenance. Had he done so he would have wondered. For Langhetti’s eyes seemed to seek to pierce the very soul of Despard. His face became transformed. Its usual serenity vanished, and there was eager wonder, intense and anxious curiosity—an endeavor to see if there was not some deep meaning underlying Despard’s words. But Despard showed no emotion. He was conscious of no deep meaning. He merely murmured to himself as he looked down upon the unconscious face:
“My sick sister—my sister Beatrice.”
Langhetti said not a word, but sat in silence, absorbed in one intense and wondering gaze. Despard seemed to dwell upon this idea, fondly and tenderly.
“She is not one of that brood,” said he, after a pause. “It is in name only that she belongs to them.”
“They are fiends and she is an angel,” said Langhetti.