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Sunrise, a novel by William Black |
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Chapter 38. A Summons |
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_ CHAPTER XXXVIII. A SUMMONS "Mother," said the girl, in the soft-sounding Magyar, as these two were together going down-stairs, "give me your hand; let me hold it tight, to make sure. All the way here I kept terrifying myself by thinking it must be a dream; that I should wake, and find the world empty without you, just as before. But now--now with your hand in mine, I am sure." "Natalushka, you can hear me speak also. Ghosts do not speak like this, do they?" Brand had preceded them to open the door. As Natalie was passing him she paused for a second, and regarded him with the beautiful, tender, dark eyes. "I am not likely to forget what I owe to you," she said in English. He followed them into the cab. "What you owe to me?" he said, lightly. "You owe me nothing at all. But if you wish to do me a good turn, you may pretend to be pleased with whatever old Waters can get together for you. The poor old fellow will be in a dreadful state. To entertain two ladies, and not a moment of warning! However, we will show you the river, and the boats and things, and give him a few minutes' grace." Indeed, it was entirely as a sort of harmless frolic that he chose to regard this present excursion of theirs. He was afraid of the effect of excessive emotion on this worn woman, and he was anxious that she should see her daughter cheerful and happy. He would not have them think of any future; above all, he would have nothing said about himself or America; it was all an affair of the moment--the joyous re-union of mother and daughter--a pleasant morning with London all busy and astir--the only serious thing in the whole world the possible anxieties and struggles of the venerable major-domo in Buckingham Street. He had not much difficulty in entertaining these two guests of his on their way down. They professed to be greatly interested in the history and antiquities of the old-fashioned little thoroughfare over the river; arrived there, they regarded with much apparent curiosity the houses pointed out to them as having been the abode of illustrious personages: they examined the old water gate; and, in ascending the oak staircase, they heard of painted ceilings and what not with a deep and respectful attention. But always these two had each other's hand clasped tight, and occasionally Natalie murmured a little snatch of Magyar. It was only to make sure, she explained. Before they reached the topmost story they heard a considerable noise overhead. It was a one-sided altercation; broken and piteous on the one hand, voluble and angry on the other. "It sounds as if Waters were having a row with the man in possession," Brand said. They drew nearer. "Why, Natalie, it is your friend Kirski!" Brand was following his two guests up-stairs; and so could not interfere between the two combatants before they arrived. But the moment that Natalie appeared on the landing there was a dead silence. Kirski shrunk back with a slight exclamation, and stood looking from one to the other with a frightened air. She advanced to him and asked him what was the matter, in his native tongue. He shrunk farther back. The man could not or would not speak. He murmured something to himself, and stared at her as if she were a spectre. "He has got a letter for you, sir," Waters said; "I have seen the address; and he will neither leave it nor take it. And as for what he has been trying to say, Lord A'mighty knows what it is--I don't." "Very well--all right," Brand said. "You leave him to us. Cut away and get some luncheon--whatever you can find--at once." But Natalie had gone nearer to the Russian, and was talking to him in that fearless, gentle way of hers. By-and-by he spoke, in an uncertain, almost gasping voice. Then he showed her a letter; and, in obedience to something she said, went timidly forward and placed it in Brand's hand. "_A Monsieur,
"The letter is from Calabressa," he said obviously. "Tell him not to be alarmed. We shall not eat him, however hungry we may be." Kirski had recovered himself somewhat, and was speaking eagerly to her, in a timid, anxious, imploring fashion. She listened in silence; but she was clearly somewhat embarrassed, and when she turned to her lover there was some flush of color on her face. "He talks some wild things," she said, "and some foolish things; but he means no harm. I am sorry for the poor man. He is afraid you are angry with him; he says he promised never to try to see me; that he would not have come if he had known. I have told him you are not angry; that it is not his fault; that you will show that you are not angry." But first of all Brand ushered his guests into the long, low-roofed chamber, and drew the portieres across the middle, so that Waters might have an apartment for his luncheon preparations. Then he opened the letter. Kirski remained at the door, with his cap in his hand. * * * * * "My much-esteemed friend,"--Calabressa wrote, in his ornate, ungrammatical, and phonetic French--"the poor devil who is the bearer of this letter is known to you, and yet not altogether known to you. You know something of his conversion from a wild beast into a man--from the tiger into a devotee; but you do not, my friend, perhaps entirely know how his life has become absorbed in one worship, one aspiration, one desire. The means of the conversion, the instrument, you know, have I not myself before described it to you? The harassed and bleeding heart, crushed with scorn and filled with despair--how can a man live with that in his bosom? He wishes to die. The world has been too cruel to him. But all at once an angel appears; into the ruins of the wasted life a seed of kindness is dropped, and then behold the beautiful flower of love springing up--love that becomes a worship, a religion! Yes, I have said so much before to you; now I say more; now I entreat you not to check this beautiful worship--it is sacred. This man goes round the churches; he stands before the pictures of the saints; he wanders on unsatisfied: he says there is no saint like the beautiful one in England, who healed him with her soft words when he was sick to death. But now, my dear Monsieur Brand, I hear you say to yourself, 'What is my friend Calabressa after now? Has he taken to the writings of pious sermons? Is he about to shave his head and put a rope round his waist? My faith, that is not like that fellow Calabressa!' You are right, my friend. I describe the creation of the devotee; it is a piece of poetry, as one might say. But your devotee must have his amulet; is it not so? This is the meaning and prayer of my letter to you. The bearer of it was willing to do us a great service; perhaps--if one must confess it--he believed it was on behalf of the beautiful Natalushka and her father that he was to undertake the duty that now devolves on some other. One must practice a little _finesse_ sometimes; what harm is there? Very well. Do you know what he seeks by way of reward--what he considers the most valuable thing in the world? It is a portrait of his saint, you understand? That is the amulet the devotee would have. And I do not further wish to write to her; no, because she would say, 'What, that is a little matter to do for my friend Calabressa.' No; I write to you--I write to one who has knowledge of affairs--and I say to myself, 'If he considers it prudent, then he will ask the beautiful child to give her portrait to this one who will worship it.' I have declared to him that I will make the request; I make it. Do not consider it a trifling matter; it is not to him; it is the crown of his existence. And if he says, 'Do you see, this is what I am ready to do for her--I will give my life if she or her friends wish it;' then I say--I, Calabressa--that a portrait at one shilling, two shillings, ten shillings, is not so very much in return. Now, my dear friend, you will consider the prudence of granting his request and mine. I believe in his faithfulness. If you say to him, 'The beautiful lady who was kind to you wishes you to do this or do that; or wishes you never to part with this portrait; or wishes you to keep silence on this or on that,' you may depend on him. I say so. Adieu! Say to the little one that there is some one who does not forget her. Perhaps you will never hear from Calabressa again: remember him not as a madcap, but as one who wishes you well. To-morrow I start for Cyprus--then farther--with a light heart. Adieu! "Calabressa." * * * * * He handed the letter to Natalie's mother. The elder woman read the letter carefully. She laughed quietly; but there were tears in her eyes. "It is like my old friend Calabressa," she said. "Natalushka, they want you to give your portrait to this poor creature who adores you. Why not? Calabressa says he will do whatever you tell him. Tell him, then, not to part with it; not to show it to any one, and not to say to any one he has seen either you or me here. Is not that simple? Tell him to come here to-morrow or next day; you can send the photograph to Mr. Brand." The girl went to the door, and said a few words to Kirski. He said nothing in reply, but sunk on his knees, as he had done in Curzon Street, and took her hand and kissed it; then he rose, and bowed respectfully to the others, and left. Presently Waters came in and announced that luncheon was on the table; the portieres were drawn aside; they passed into the farther end of the apartment, and sat down. The banquet was not a sumptuous one, and there were no flowers on the table; but it was everything that any human being could have done in fifteen minutes; and these were bachelors' rooms. Natalie took care to make a pretty speech in the hearing of Mr. Waters. "Yes, but you eat nothing," the host said. "Do you think your mother will have anything if she sees you indifferent?" Presently the mother, who seemed to be much amused with something or other, said in French, "Ah, my friend, I did not think my child would be so deceitful. I did not think she would deceive you." The girl stared with wide eyes. "She pretended to tell you what this poor man said to her," said the mother, with a quiet smile. "She forgot that some one else than herself might know Russian." Natalie flushed red. "Mother!" she remonstrated. "I said he had spoken a lot of foolish things." "After all," said the mother, "he said no more than what Calabressa says in the letter. You have been kind to him; he regards you as an angel; he will give you his life; you, or any one whom you love. The poor man! Did you see how he trembled?" Natalie turned to George Brand. "He said something more than that," said she. "He said he had undertaken some duty, some service, that was expected to have cost him his life. He did not know what it was: do you?" "I do not," said he, answering frankly the honest look of her eyes. "I can scarcely believe any one was foolish enough to think of intrusting any serious duty to a man like that. But still Calabressa hints as much; and I know he left England with Calabressa." "Natalushka," the mother said, cautiously, and yet with an anxious scrutiny, "I have often wondered--whether you knew much--much about the Society." "Oh no, mother! I am allowed to translate, and sometimes I hear that help is to be given here or there; but I am in no secrets at all. That is my misfortune." The mother seemed much relieved. "It is not a misfortune, child. You are happier as you are, I think. Then," she added, with a quick glance, "you have never heard of one--Bartolotti?" "No," she answered; but directly afterwards she exclaimed, "Oh yes, yes! Bartolotti, that is the name Calabressa gave me. He said if ever I was in very serious trouble, I was to go to Naples; and that was the password. But I thought to myself, 'If I am in trouble, why should I not go to my own father?'" The mother rose and went to the girl, and put her arm round her daughter's neck, and stooped down. "Natalushka," said she, earnestly, "you are wiser than Calabressa. If you are in trouble, do not seek any help that way. Go to your father." "And to you, mother," said she, drawing down the worn, beautiful face and kissing it. "Why not to you also? Why not to you both?" The mother smiled, and patted the girl's head, and then returned to the other side of the table. Waters brought in some fruit, fresh from Covent Garden. He also brought in a letter, which he put beside his master's plate. Brand did not even look at it; he pushed it aside, to give him more room. But in pushing it aside he turned it somewhat and Natalie's eye happening to fall on the address, she perceived at once that it was in the handwriting of her father. "Dearest," said she, in a low voice, and rather breathlessly, "the letter is from papa." "From your father?" said he, without any great concern. Then he turned to Natalie's mother. "Will you excuse me? My friends are determined to remind me of their existence to-day." But this letter was much shorter than Calabressa's, though it was friendly enough. "My Dear Mr. Brand," it ran,--"I am glad to hear that you acted with so much promptitude that your preparations for departure are nearly complete. You are soldier-like. I have less scruples, therefore, in asking you to be so kind as to give me up to-morrow evening from half-past nine onward, for the consideration of a very serious order that has been transmitted to us from the Council. You will perceive that this claims precedence over any of our local arrangements; and as it may even involve the abandonment of your voyage to America, it will be advisable to give it immediate consideration. I trust the hour of half-past nine will not interfere with any engagement. "Your colleague and friend, Ferdinand Lind." This was all that an ordinary reader would have seen in the letter; but Brand observed also, down at the left-hand corner, a small mark in green color. That tiny arrow, with the two dots--the whole almost invisible--changed the letter from an invitation into a command. It signified "On business of the Council." He laid down the letter, and said lightly to Natalie, "Now I have some news for you. I may not have to go to America after all." "You are not going to America?" she said, in a bewildered way. "Oh, if it were possible--if it were possible!" she murmured, "I would say I was too happy. God is too good to me--to have them both given back to me in one day--both of them in one day--" "Natalie," said he, gently, "it is only a possibility, you know." "But it is possible!" she said; and there was a quick, strange, happy light in her face. "It _is_ possible, is it not?" Then she glanced at her mother; and her face, that had been somewhat pale, was pale no longer; the blood mounted to her forehead; her eyes were downcast. "It would please you, would it not?" she said, somewhat formally and in a low and timid voice. The mother, unobserved, smiled. "Oh yes," he said, cheerfully. "But even if I go to America, expect your mother and you to be arriving at Sandy Hook; and what then? In a couple of years--it is not a long time--I should have a small steamer there to meet you, and we could sail up the bay together." Luncheon over, they went to the window, and greatly admired the view of the gardens below and the wide river beyond; and they went round the room examining the water-colors, and bits of embroidery, and knickknacks brought from many lands, and they were much interested in one or two portraits. Altogether they were charmed with the place, though the elder lady said, in her pretty, careful French, that it was clear no woman's hand was about, otherwise there would have been white curtains at the windows besides those heavy straight folds of red. Brand said he preferred to have plenty of light in the room; and, in fact, at this moment the sunlight was painting squares of beautiful color on the faded old Turkey-carpet. All this time Natalie had shown much reserve. When the mother and daughter were in the cab together going to Edgware Road--George Brand was off by himself to Brompton--the mother said, "Natalushka, why was your manner so changed to Mr. Brand, after you heard he might not be going to America?" The girl hesitated for a moment, and her eyes were lowered. "You see, mother," she said, with some embarrassment, "when one is in great trouble and difficulty--and when you wish to show sympathy--then, perhaps, you speak too plainly. You do not think of choosing very prudent words; your heart speaks for you; and one may say things that a girl should not be too ready to confess. That is when there is great trouble, and you are grieved for some one. But--but--when the trouble goes away--when it is all likely to come right--one remembers--" The explanation was rather stammering and confused. "But at least, mother," she added, with her eyes still downcast, "at least I can be frank with you. There is no harm in my telling you that I love you." The mother pressed the hand that she held in hers. "And if you tell me often enough, Natalushka, perhaps I shall begin to believe you." _ |
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