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Sunrise, a novel by William Black |
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Chapter 33. Intervention |
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_ CHAPTER XXXIII. INTERVENTION The more that Madame Potecki thought over the communication made to her by Natalie, the more alarmed she became. Her pupils received but a very mechanical sort of guidance that afternoon. All through the "One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four" she was haunted by an uneasy consciousness that her protest had not been nearly strong enough. The girl had not seemed in the least impressed by her counsel. And suppose this wild project were indeed carried out, might not she, that is, Madame Potecki, be regarded as an accomplice if she remained silent and did not intervene? On the other hand, although she and Ferdinand Lind were friends of many years standing, she had never quite got over a certain fear of him. She guessed pretty well what underlay that pleasant, plausible exterior of his. And she was not at all sure that, if she went to Mr. Lind and told him that in such and such circumstances his daughter meant to go to America as the wife of George Brand, the first outburst of his anger might not fall on herself. She was an intermeddler. What concern of hers was it? He might even accuse her of having connived at the whole affair, especially during his absence in Philadelphia. But after all, the little Polish lady was exceedingly fond of this girl; and she resolved to go at all hazards and see whether something could not be done to put matters straight. She would call at the chambers in Lisle Street, and make sure of seeing Mr. Lind alone. She would venture to remind him that his daughter was grown up--a woman, not to be treated as a child. As she had been altogether on the father's side in arguing with Natalie, so she would be altogether on the daughter's side in making these representations to Mr. Lind. Perhaps some happy compromise would result. She was, however, exceedingly nervous when, on the following afternoon, she called at Lisle Street, and was preceded up-stairs by the stout old German. In the room into which she was shown Reitzei was seated. Reitzei received her very graciously; they were old friends. But although Madame Potecki on ordinary occasions was fond of listening to the sound of her own voice, she seemed now quite incapable of saying anything. Reitzei had been fortunate enough to hear the new barytone sing at a private house on the previous evening; she did not even ask what impression had been produced. Then Mr. Lind came into the room, and Reitzei left. "How do you do, Madame Potecki?" said he, somewhat curtly. She took it that he was offended because she had come on merely private affairs to his place of business; and this did not tend to lessen her embarrassment. However, she made a brave plunge. "You are surprised," she said, "to find me calling upon you here, are you not? Yes; but I will explain. You see, my dear friend, I wished to see you alone--" "Yes, yes, Madame Potecki; I understand. What is your news?" "It is--about Natalie," she managed to say, and then all the methods of beginning that she had studied went clean out of her mind; and she was reduced to an absolute silence. He did not seem in the least impatient. "Yes; about Natalie?" he repeated, taking up a paper-knife, and beginning to write imaginary letters on the leather of the desk before him. "You will say to me, 'Why do you interfere?'" the little woman managed to say at last. "Meddlers do harm; they are not thanked. But then, my dear friend, Natalie is like my own child to me; for her what would I not do?" Mr. Lind could not fail to see that his visitor was very nervous and agitated: perhaps it was to give her time to compose herself that he said, leisurely, "Yes, Madame Potecki; I know that you and she are great friends; and it is a good thing that the child should have some one to keep her company; perhaps she is a little too much alone. Well, what do you wish to say about her? You run no risk with me. You will not be misunderstood. I know you are not likely to say anything unkind about Natalie." "Unkind!" she exclaimed; and now she had recovered herself somewhat. "Who could do that? Oh no, my dear friend; oh no!" Here was another awkward pause. "My dear Madame Potecki," said Mr. Lind, with a smile, "shall I speak for you? You do not like to say what you have come to say. Shall I speak for you? This is it, is it not? You have become aware of that entanglement that Natalie has got into. Very well. Perhaps she has told you. Perhaps she has told you also that I have forbidden her to have any communication with--well, let us speak frankly--Mr. Brand. Very well. You go with her to the South Kensington Museum; you meet Mr. Brand there. Naturally you think if that comes to my ears I shall suspect you of having planned the meeting; and you would rather come and assure me that you had nothing to do with it. Is it so?" "My dear friend," said Madame Potecki, quickly, "I did not come to you about myself at all! What am I? What matters what happens to an old woman like me? It is not about myself, it is about Natalie that I have come to you. Ah, the dear, beautiful child!--how can one see her unhappy, and not try to do something? Why should she be unhappy? She is young, beautiful, loving; my dear friend, do you wonder that she has a sweetheart?--and one who is so worthy of her, too: one who is not selfish, who has courage, who will be kind to her. Then I said to myself, 'Ah, what a pity to have father and daughter opposed to each other!' Why might not one step in and say, 'Come, and be friends. You love each other: do not have this coldness that makes a young heart so miserable!'" She had talked quickly and eagerly at last; she was trembling with excitement, she had her eyes fixed on his face to catch the first symptom of acquiescence. But, on the contrary, Mr. Lind remained quite impassive, and he said, coldly, "This is a different matter altogether, Madame Potecki. I do not blame you for interfering; but I must tell you at once that your interference is not likely to be of much use. You see, there are reasons which I cannot explain to you, but which are very serious, why any proposal of marriage between Mr. Brand and Natalie is not to be entertained for a moment. The thing is quite impossible. Very well. She knows this; she knows that I wish all communication between them to cease; nevertheless, she says she will see him every day until he goes. How can you wonder that she is unhappy? Is it not her own doing?" "If she was in reality my child, that is not the way I would speak," said the little woman, boldly. "Unfortunately, my dear Madame Potecki," said Mr. Lind, blandly, "I cannot, as I say, explain to you the reasons which make such a marriage impossible, or you yourself would say it was impossible. Very well, then. If you wish to do a service to your friend Natalie--if you wish to see her less unhappy, you know what advice to give her. A girl who perseveres in wilful disobedience is not likely to be very contented in her mind." Madame Potecki sat silent and perplexed. This man seemed so firm, so reasonable, so assured, it was apparently hopeless to expect any concession from him. And yet what was the use of her going away merely to repeat the advice she had already given? "And in any case," he continued, lightly, "it is not an affair for you to be deeply troubled about, my dear Madame Potecki; on the contrary, it is a circumstance of little moment. If Natalie chooses to indulge this sentiment--well, the fate of empires does not hang on it, and in a little while it will be all right. Youth soon recovers from small disappointments; the girl is not morbid or melancholy. Moreover, she has plenty to occupy her mind with: do not fear that she will be permanently unhappy." All this gave Natalie's friend but scant consolation. She knew something of the girl, she knew it was not a light matter that had made her resolve to share banishment with her lover rather than that he should depart alone. "Yes, she is acting contrary to my wishes," continued Mr. Lind, who saw that his visitor was anxious and chagrined. "But why should you vex yourself with that, my dear madame?--why, indeed? It is only for a few days. When Mr. Brand leaves for America, then she will settle down to her old ways. This episode of sentiment will soon be forgotten. Do not fear for your friend Natalie; she has a healthy constitution; she is not likely to sigh away her life." "But you do not understand, Mr. Lind!" Madame Potecki exclaimed suddenly. "You do not understand. When he leaves for America, there is to be an end? No! You are not aware, then, that if he goes to America, Natalie will go also?" She had spoken quickly, breathlessly, not taking much notice of her words, but she was appalled by the effect they produced. Lind started, as if he had been struck; and for a second, as he regarded her, the eyes set under the heavy brows burnt like coals, and she noticed a curious paleness in his face, especially in the lips. But this lasted only for an instant. When he spoke, he was quite calm, and was apparently considering each word. "Are you authorized to bring me this message?" he said, slowly. "Oh no; oh no!" the little woman exclaimed. "I assure you, my dear friend, I came to you because I thought something was about to happen--something that might be prevented. Ah, you don't know how I love that darling child; and to see her unhappy, and resolved, perhaps, to make some great mistake in her life, how could I help interfering?" "So," continued Lind, apparently weighing every word, "this is what she is bent on! If Brand goes to America, she will go with him?" "I--I--am afraid so," stammered Madame Potecki. "That is what I gathered from her--though it was only an imaginary case she spoke of. But she was pale, and trembling, and how could I stand by and not do something?" He did not answer; his lips were firm set. Unconsciously he was pressing the point of the paper-knife into the leather; it snapped in two. He threw the pieces aside, and said, with a sudden lightness of manner, "Ah, well, my dear madame, you know young people are sometimes very headstrong, and difficult to manage. We must see what can be done in this case. You have not told Natalie you were coming to me?" "No. She asked me at first; then she said she would tell you herself." He regarded her for a second. "There is no reason why you should say you have been here?" "Perhaps not, perhaps not," Madame Potecki said, doubtfully. "No; there is no necessity. But if one were sure that the dear child were to be made any happier--" She did not complete the sentence. "I think you may leave the whole affair in my hands, my dear Madame Potecki," said Lind, in his usual courteous fashion. He spoke, indeed, as if it were a matter of the most trifling importance. "I think I can promise you that Natalie shall not be allowed to imperil the happiness of her life by taking any rash steps. In the mean time, I am your debtor that you have come and told me. It was considerate of you, Madame Potecki; I am obliged to you." The little woman was practically dismissed. She rose, still doubtful, and hesitated. But what more could she say? "I am not to tell her, then?" she said. "If you please, not." When he had graciously bowed her out, he returned to his seat at the desk; and then the forced courtesy of his manner was abandoned. His brows gathered down; his lips were again firm set; he bent one of the pieces of the paper-knife until that snapped too; and when some one knocked at the door, he answered sharply in German. It was Gathorne Edwards who entered. "Well, you have got back?" he said, with but scant civility. "Where is Calabressa?" The tall, pale, stooping man looked round with some caution. "There is no one--no one but Reitzei," said Lind, impatiently. "Calabressa is detained in Naples--the General's orders," said the other, in rather a low voice. "I did not write--I thought it was not safe to put anything on paper; more especially as we discovered that Kirski was being watched." "No wonder," said Lind, scornfully. "A fool of a madman being taken about by a fool of a mountebank!" Edwards stared at him. Surely this man, who was usually the most composed, and impenetrable, and suave of men, must have been considerably annoyed thus to give way to a petulant temper. "But the result, Edwards: well?" "Refused!" Lind laughed sardonically. "Who could have doubted? Of course the council do not think that I approved of that mad scheme?" "At all events, sir," said Edwards, submissively, "you permitted it." "Permitted it! Yes; to please old Calabressa, who imagines himself a diplomatist. But who could have doubted what the end would be? Well, what further?" "I understand that a message is on its way to you from the council," said the other, speaking in still lower tones, "giving further instructions. They consider it of great importance that--it--should be done by one of the English section; so that no one may imagine it arises from a private revenge." Lind was toying with one of the pieces of the broken paper-knife. "Zaccatelli has had the warning," Edwards continued. "Granaglia took it. The Cardinal is mad with fright--will do anything." Lind seemed to rouse himself with an effort. "I beg your pardon, friend Edwards. I did not hear. What were you saying?" "I was saying that the Cardinal had had the decree announced to him, and is mad with fear, and he will do anything. He offers thirty thousand lire a year; not only that, but he will try to get his Holiness to give his countenance to the Society. Fancy, as Calabressa says, what the world would say to an alliance between the Vatican and the SOCIETY OF THE SEVEN STARS!" Lind seemed incapable of paying attention to this new visitor, so absorbed was he in his own thoughts. He had again to rouse himself forcibly. "Yes," he said, "you were saying, friend Edwards, that the Starving Cardinal had become aware of the decree. Yes; well, then?" "Did you not hear, sir? He thinks there should be an alliance between the Vatican and the Society." "His Eminence is jocular, considering how near he is to the end of his life," said Lind, absently. "Further," Edwards continued, "he has sent back the daughter of old De Bedros, who, it seems, first claimed the decree against him; and he is to give her a dowry of ten thousand lire when she marries. But all these promises and proposals do not seem to have weighed much with the council." Here Edwards stopped. He perceived plainly that Lind--who sat with his brows drawn down, and a sombre look on his face--was not listening to him at all. Presently Lind rose, and said, "My good Edwards, I have some business of serious importance to attend to at once. Now you will give me the report of your journey some other time. To-night--at nine o'clock?" "Yes, sir; if that will suit you." "Can you come to my house in Curzon Street at nine?" "Yes, certainly." "Very well. I am your debtor. But stay a moment. Of course, I understand from you that nothing that has happened interferes with the decree against our excellent friend the Cardinal?" "So it appears." "The Council are not to be bought over by idle promises?" "Apparently not." "Very well. Then you will come to-night at nine; in my little study there will be no interruption; you can give me all the details of your holiday. Ha, my friend Edwards," he added more pleasantly, as he opened the door for his visitor, "would it not be better for you to give up that Museum altogether, and come over to us? Then you would have many a pleasant little trip." "I suspect the Museum is most likely to give me up," said Edwards, with a laugh, as he descended the narrow twilight stairs. Then Lind returned to his desk, and sat down. A quarter of an hour afterward, when Reitzei came into the room, he found him still sitting there, without any papers whatsoever before him. The angry glance that Lind directed to him as he entered told him that the master did not wish to be disturbed; so he picked up a book of reference by way of excuse, and retreated into the farther room, leaving Lind once more alone. _ |
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