“Mrs. Compton!” said Langhetti; and his voice seemed to die away from exhaustion.
Mrs. Compton was seized with a panic more overpowering than usual. She gasped for breath. “Oh, Lord!” she cried. “Oh, Lord! Spare me! spare me! He’ll kill me!”
Brandon walked up to her and took her hand. “Mrs. Compton,” said he, in a calm, resolute voice, “your timidity has been your curse. There is no need for fear now. I will protect you. The man whom you have feared so many years is now ruined, helpless, and miserable. I could destroy him at this moment if I chose. You are foolish if you fear him. Your son is with you. His arm supports you, and I stand here ready to protect both you and your son. Speak out, and tell what you know. Your husband is still living. He longs for your return. You and your son are free from your enemies. Trust in me, and you shall both go back to him and live in peace.”
Tears fell from Mrs. Compton’s eyes. She seized Brandon’s hand and pressed it to her thin lips.
“You will protect me?” said she.
“Yes.”
“You will save me from him?” she persisted, in a voice of agony.
“Yes, and from all others like him. Do not fear. Speak out.”
Mrs. Compton clung to the arm of her son. She drew a long breath. She looked up into his face as though to gain courage, and then began.
It was a long story. She had been attendant and nurse to the wife of Colonel Despard, who had died in giving birth to a child. Potts had brought news of her death, but had said nothing whatever about the child. Colonel Despard knew nothing of it. Being at a distance at the time, on duty, he had heard but the one fact of his wife’s death, and all other things were forgotten. He had not even made inquiries as to whether the child which he had expected was alive or dead, but had at once given way to the grief of the bereavement, and had hurried off.