“Where is it?” cried Despard, in wild excitement.
“Here,” said the stranger, and he laid a package upon the table.
Despard seized it, and tore open the coverings. At the first sight he recognized the handwriting of his father, familiar to him from old letters written to him when he was a child—letters which he had always preserved, and every turn of which was impressed upon his memory. The first glance was sufficient to impress upon his mind the conviction that the stranger’s tale was true.
Without another word he began to read it. And as he read all his soul became associated with that lonely man, drifting in his drifting ship. There he read the villainy of the miscreant who had compassed his death, and the despair of the castaway.
That suffering man was his own father. It was this that gave intensity to his thoughts as he read. The dying man bequeathed his vengeance to Ralph Brandon, and his blessing to his son.
Despard read over the manuscript many times. It was his father’s words to himself.
“I am in haste,” said the stranger. “The manuscript is yours. I have made inquiries for Ralph Brandon, and find that he is dead. It is for you to do as seems good. You are a clergyman, but you are also a man; and a father’s wrongs cry to Heaven for vengeance.”
“And they shall be avenged!” exclaimed Despard, striking his clenched hand upon the table.
“I have something more before I go,” continued the stranger, mournfully—“something which you will prize more than life. It was worn next your father’s heart till he died. I found it there.”
Saying this he handed to Despard a miniature, painted on enamel, representing a beautiful woman, whose features were like his own.