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It was the first time she had sung, as she afterward said, since Langhetti had left Hong-Kong, and she gave herself entirely up to the joy of song. Her voice, long silent, instead of having been injured by the sorrow through which she had passed, was pure, full, marvelous, and thrilling.
Peace would be restored rather than destroyed. "I must find her. I must find her," said Langhetti, speaking half to himself. "I am weak; but much can be done by a resolute will." "Perhaps Mr. Thornton can assist you," said Despard. Langhetti shook his head. "No; he is a man of law, and does not understand the man who acts from feeling.
Thornton exchanged glances, and at last Despard told him that there was a person of the same name at Brandon Hall. She was living in a seclusion so strict that it seemed confinement, and there was a mystery about her situation which he had tried without success to fathom. Langhetti listened with a painful surprise that seemed like positive anguish. "Then I must go myself.
The landlady could tell nothing about him, except that he was a gentleman with dark hair, and very stern eyes that terrified her. He seemed to be very angry or very terrible in some way about Beatrice. Who could this be? thought Langhetti. The landlady did not know his name.
"Langhetti," said Brandon, in a low voice, "does not understand love, or he would not put music in its place." "Yes," said Beatrice. "We spoke once about that. He has his own ideas, which he expressed to me." "What were they?" "I will have to say them as he said them," said she. "For on this theme he had to express himself in music." Brandon waited in rapt expectation.
Now, as he sat there alone, he needed to make his plans for the future. One thing stood out prominently before him, which was that he must go immediately to Quebec to find out finally and absolutely the fate of the family. Then could any thing else be done in England? He thought over the names of those who had been the most intimate friends of his father Thornton, Langhetti, Despard.
Paolo Langhetti used to say that it was useful to keep a diary; not one from day to day, for each day's events are generally trivial, and therefore not worthy of record; but rather a statement in full of more important events in one's life, which may be turned to in later years. I wish I had begun this sixteen months ago, when I first came here.
"He will tell," cried Langhetti, excitedly, "the true story of the Despard murder." "Ah!" said Potts, "now the murder's out. That's what I thought. Don't you suppose I saw through you when you first began to speak so mysteriously? I knew that you had learned some wonderful story, and that you were going to trot it out at the right time.
Was not an Italian name better for a singer? Despard was an English name, and, though aristocratic, was not one which a great singer might have. "I am thinking of other things, my Bicina," said Langhetti, who had never given up his old, fond, fraternal manner toward her. "It has no connection with art. I do not consider the mere effect of the name for one moment."
Art," she continued, musingly, "is open to women as well as to men; and of all arts none are so much so as music. The interpretation of great masters is a blessing to the world. Langhetti used to say that these are the only ones of modern times that have received heavenly inspiration. They correspond to the Jewish prophets.
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