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Sunrise, a novel by William Black |
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Chapter 29. A Good-Night Message |
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_ CHAPTER XXIX. A GOOD-NIGHT MESSAGE Brand had nerved himself for that interview; he had determined to betray neither surprise nor concern; he was prepared for the worst. When it was intimated to him that hence-forth his life was to be lived out beyond the seas, he had appeared to take it as a matter of course. Face to face with his enemy, he would utter no protest. Then, had he not solemnly promised to Natalie that nothing in the world should tempt him from his allegiance? Why should he shrink from going to America, or prefer London to Philadelphia? He had entered into a service that took no heed of such things. But when he had parted from Lind and Molyneux, and got out into the sombre glare of the night-world of London, and when there was no further need for that forced composure, he began more clearly to recognize his position, and his heart grew heavy. This, then, was the end of those visions of loving companionship and constant and sustaining sympathy with which he had dared to fill the future. He had thought little of anything that might be demanded from him so long as he could anticipate Natalie's approval, and be rewarded with a single glance of gratitude from the proud, dark, beautiful eyes. What mattered it to him what became of himself, what circumstances surrounded them, so long as he and she were together? But now a more terrible sacrifice than any he had dreamed of had to be made. The lady of love whom the Pilgrims had sworn to serve was proving herself inexorable indeed: "--Is she a queen, having great gifts to give?
He walked on blindly through the busy streets, seeing nothing around him. His memory was going over the most trivial incidents connected with Natalie, as if every look of hers, every word she had uttered, was now become something inexpressibly precious. Were there not many things he could carry away with him to the land beyond the seas? No distance or time could rob him of the remembrance of that night at the opera--the scent of white rose--her look as she gave him the forget-me-nots. Then the beautiful shining day as they drew near to Dover, and her pride about England, and the loosened curls of hair that blew about her neck. On the very first evening on which he had seen her--she sitting at the table and bending over the zither--her profile touched by the rose-tinted light from the shade of the candle--the low, rich voice, only half heard, singing the old, familiar, tender _Lorelei_. He felt the very touch of her fingers on his arm when she turned to him with reproving eyes: "_Is that the way you answer an appeal for help?_" That poor devil of a Kirski--what had become of him? He would find out from Reitzei; and, before leaving England, would take care that something should be done for the luckless outcast. He should have cause to remember all his life-long that Natalie Lind had interfered in his behalf. Without knowing well how he got there, Brand found himself in Curzon Street. He walked on, perhaps with some vague notion that he might meet Natalie herself, until he arrived at the house. It was quite dark; there was no light in any of the windows; Anneli had not even lit the gas-jet in the narrow hall. He turned away from the door that he felt was now barred against him forever, and walked back to Clarges Street. Lord Evelyn was out; the man did not know when he would be home again. So Brand turned away from that door also, and resumed his aimless wanderings, busy with those pictures of the past. At length he got down to Buckingham Street, and almost mechanically made his way toward his own rooms. He had reached his door, however, when he heard some one speaking within. "I might have known," he said to himself. "That is so like Evelyn." It was indeed Lord Evelyn, who was chatting familiarly with old Waters. But the moment Brand entered he ceased, and a look of anxiety, and even alarm, appeared instantly on the fine, sensitive, expressive face. "What is the matter, Brand? Are you ill?" "No," said the other, dropping into a chair; "only tired--and worried, perhaps. Waters, get me a biscuit and a glass of sherry. Now, when I think of it, I ought to feel tired--I have eaten nothing since eight o'clock this morning." Lord Evelyn jumped to his feet. "Come off at once, Brand. We will go up to the Strand and get you something to eat. Gracious goodness, it is nearly ten o'clock!" "No, no, never mind. I have something to talk to you about, Evelyn." "But why on earth had Waters no dinner waiting for you?" "I did not tell him--I forgot. Never mind; I will have some supper by-and-by. I called on you, Evelyn, about half an hour ago; I might have known you would be here." Lord Evelyn paused for a second or two, while Waters came in and went out again. Then he said, "I can tell by your face, Brand, that something has happened." "Nothing that I had not foreseen." "Did you consent or refuse?" "I refused." "Well?" "Then, as I knew he would, he suggested that I might as well get ready to start for America as soon as possible." Brand was speaking in a light and scornful way; but his face was careworn, and his eyes kept turning to the windows and the dark night outside, as if they were looking at something far away. "About Natalie?" Lord Evelyn asked. "Oh, he was frank enough. He dropped all those roundabout phrases about the great honor, and so forth. He was quite plain. 'Not to be thought of.'" Lord Evelyn remained silent for some time. "I am very sorry, Brand," he said at length; and then he continued with some hesitation--"Do you know--I have been thinking that--that though it's a very extreme thing for a man to give up his fortune--a very extreme thing--I can quite understand how the proposal looked to you very monstrous at first--still, if you put that in the balance as against a man's giving up his native country and the woman whom he is in love with--don't you see--the happiness of people of so much more importance than a sum of money, however large--" "My dear fellow," said Brand, interrupting him, "there is no such alternative--there never was any such alternative. Do you not think I would rather give up twenty fortunes than have to go and bid good-bye to Natalie? It is not a question of money. I suspected before--I know now--that Lind never meant to let his daughter marry. He would not definitely say no to me while he thought I could be persuaded about this money business; as soon as I refused that, he was frank and explicit enough. I see the whole thing clearly enough now. Well, he has not altogether succeeded." His eye happened to light on the ring on his finger, and the frown on his face lifted somewhat. "If I could only forget Lind; if I could forget why it was that I had to go to America, I should think far less of the pain of separation. If I could go to Natalie, and say, 'Look at what we must do, for the sake of something greater than our own wishes and dreams,' then I think I could bid her good-bye without much faltering; but when you know that it is unnecessary--that you are being made the victim of a piece of personal revenge--how can you look forward with any great enthusiasm to the new life that lies before you? That is what troubles me, Evelyn." "I cannot argue the matter with you," his friend said, looking down, and evidently much troubled himself. "I cannot help remembering that it was I let you in for all this--" "Don't say that, Evelyn," Brand broke in, quickly. "Do you think I would have it otherwise? Once in America, I shall no doubt forget how I came to go there. I shall have something to do." "I--I was going to say that--that perhaps you are not quite fair to Lind. You impute motives that may not exist." Lord Evelyn flushed a little; it was almost as if he were excusing or defending one he had no particular wish to defend; but all the same, with some hesitation, he continued, "Consider Lind's position. Mind, your reading of his conduct is only pure assumption. It is quite possible that he would be really and extremely surprised if he knew that you fancied he had been allowing personal feelings to sway his decision. But suppose this--suppose he is honestly convinced that you would be of great service in America. He has seen what you can do in the way of patient persuading of people. I know he has plenty around him who can do the risky business--men who have been adventurous all their lives--who would like nothing better than to be commissioned to set up a secret printing-press next door to the Commissary of Police in St. Petersburg. I say he has plenty of people like that; but very few who have persistence and patience enough to do what you have been doing in the north of England. He told me so himself. Very well. Suppose he thinks that what you have been doing this man Molyneux can carry on? Suppose, in short, that, if he had no daughter at all, he would be anxious to send you to the States?" Brand nodded. There was no harm in letting his friend have his theory. "Very well. Now suppose that, having this daughter, he would rather not have her marry. He says she is of great service to him; and his wish to have her with him always would probably exaggerate that service, unconsciously to himself, if it were proposed to take her away. That is only natural." Brand again assented. "Very well. He discovers that you and she are attached to each other. Probably he does not consider it a very serious affair, so far; but he knows that if you remain in London it would probably become so. Now, Natalie is a girl of firm character; she is very gentle, but she is not a fool. If you remained in London she would probably marry you, whether her father liked it or not, if she thought it was right. He knows that; he knows that the girl is capable of acting on her own judgment. Now put the two things together. Here is this opportune service on which you can be sent. That, according to his view, will be a good thing of itself; it will also effectually prevent a marriage which he thinks would be inexpedient. Don't you see that there may be no personal revenge or malice in the whole affair? He may consider he is acting quite rightly, with regard to the best interests of everybody concerned." "I am sick of him, Evelyn--of hearing of him--of thinking of him," Brand said, impatiently. "Come, let us talk of something else. I wish the whole business of starting for America were over, and I had only the future to think about." "That is not likely," said Lord Evelyn, gently. "You cannot cut yourself away from everything like that. There will be _some_ memories." Waters here appeared with a tray, and speedily placed on the table a lobster, some oysters, and a bottle of Chablis. "There you are, Evelyn; have some supper." "Not unless you have some." "By-and-by--" "No, now." So the two friends drew in their chairs. "I have been thinking," said Lord Evelyn--with a slight flush, for he was telling a lie--"I have been thinking for some time back I should like to go to America for a year or two. There are some political phases I should like to study." Brand looked at him. "You never thought of it before to-night. But it is like you to think of it now." "Oh, I assure you," said the other, hastily, "there are points of great interest in the political life of America that one could only properly study on the spot--hearing the various opinions, don't you know--and seeing how the things practically work. I should have gone long before now, but that I dreaded the passage across. When do you go?" "It is not settled yet." "What line shall you go by?" "I don't know." Lord Evelyn paused for a moment; then he said, "I'll go with you, Brand." Well, he had not the heart even to protest; for he thoroughly understood the generous friendship that had prompted such an offer. He might remonstrate afterward; now he would not. On the contrary, he began to speak of his experience of the various lines; of the delight of the voyage to any one not abnormally sensitive to sea-sickness; of the humors of the bagmen; of the occupations and amusements on board; of dolphins, fog-horns, icebergs, rope-quoits, grass-widows, and the chances of poker. It was all a holiday excursion, then? The two friends lit their cigars and went back to their arm-chairs. The tired and haggard look on George Brand's face had for the moment been banished. But by-and-by he said, rather absently, "I suppose, hereafter, Natalie and you will have many a talk over what has happened. And you will go there just as usual, and spend the evening, and hear her read, or listen to her singing with the zither. It seems strange. Perhaps she will be able to forget altogether--to cut this unhappy episode out of her life, as it were." Then he added, as if speaking to himself, "No, she is not likely to forget." Lord Evelyn looked up. "In the mean time, does she know about your going?" "I presume not--not yet. But I must see her and tell her unless, indeed, Lind should try to prevent that too. He might lay injunctions on her that she was not to see me again." "That is true," his friend said. "He might command. But the question is whether she would obey. I have known Natalie Lind longer than you have. She is capable of thinking and acting for herself." Nothing further was said on this point; they proceeded to talk of other matters. It was perhaps a quarter of an hour afterward--close on eleven o'clock--that Waters knocked at the door and then came into the room. "A letter for you, sir." A quick glance at the envelope startled him. "How did you get it?" he said instantly. "A girl brought it, sir, in a cab. She is gone again. There was no answer, she said." Waters withdrew. Brand hastily opened the letter, and read the following lines, written in pencil, apparently with a trembling hand: "Dearest,--I spent this evening with Madame Potecki. My father came for me, and on the way home has told me something of what has occurred. It was for the purpose of telling me that you and I must not meet again--never, never. My own, I cannot allow you to pass a single night, or a single hour, thinking such a thing possible. Have I not promised to you? When it is your wish to see me, come to me: I am yours. Good-night, and Heaven guard you! "NATALIE." George Brand turned to his friend. "This," said he; but his lip trembled, and he stopped for a second. Then he continued: "This is a message from her, Evelyn. And I know what poor old Calabressa would say of it, if he were here. He would say: 'This is what might have been expected from the daughter of Natalie Berezolyi!'" "She knows, then?" "Yes," said he, still looking at the hastily written lines in pencil, "and it is as you imagined. Her father has told her we must not see each other again, and she has refused to be bound by any such injunction. I rather fancy she thinks he must have conveyed the same intimation to me; at all events, she has written at once to assure me that she will not break her promise to me. It was kindly meant; was it not? I wish Anneli had waited for a second." He folded up the letter and put it in his pocket-book: it was one more treasure he should carry with him to America. But when, later on, Evelyn had left, he took it out again, and re-read again and again the irregular, hurried, pencilled lines, and thought of the proud, quick, generous spirit that had prompted them. And was she still awake and thinking? And could her heart hear, through the silence of the night, the message of love and gratitude that he sent her? "_Good-night, and Heaven guard you!_" It had been a troubled and harassing day for him; but this tender good-night message came in at the close of it like a strain of sweet music that he would carry with him into the land of dreams. _ |
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