The deep, stern tones of Despard were like the knell of doom, and there was in them such determinate vindictiveness that Brandon saw all remonstrance to be useless.
He marked the pale sad face of this man. He saw in it the traces of sorrow of longer standing than any which he might have felt about the manuscript that he had read. It was the face of a man who had suffered so much that life had become a burden.
“You are a clergyman,” said Brandon at length, with a faint hope that an appeal to his profession might have some effect.
Despard smiled cynically.
“I am a man,” said he.
“Can not the discovery of a sister,” asked Brandon, “atone in some degree for your grief about your father?”
Despard shook his head wearily.
“No,” said he, “I must do something, and only one purpose is before me now. I see your motive. You wish to stop short of taking that devil’s life. It is useless to remonstrate. My mind is made up. Perhaps I may come back unsuccessful. If so—I must be resigned, I suppose. At any rate you know my purpose, and can let those who ask after me know, in a general way, what I have said.”
With a slight bow Despard walked away, leaving Brandon standing there filled with thoughts which were half mournful, half remorseful.
On leaving Brandon Despard went at once to the inn. The crowd without had dwindled away to half a dozen people, who were still talking about the one event of the day. Making his way through these he entered the inn.