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Sunrise, a novel by William Black |
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Chapter 42. A Communication |
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_ CHAPTER XLII. A COMMUNICATION Now, he said to himself, he would think no more; he would act. The long talk with Lord Evelyn had enabled him to pull himself together; there would be no repetition of that half-hysterical collapse. More than one of his officer-friends had confessed to him that they had spent the night before their first battle in abject terror, but that that had all gone off as soon as they were called into action. And as for himself, he had many things to arrange before starting on this hunting-expedition, which was to serve as a cloak for another enterprise. He would have to write at once, for example, to his sister--an invalid widow, who passed her life alternately on the Riviera and in Switzerland--informing her of his intended travels. He would have to see that a sufficient sum was left for Natalie's mother, and put into discreet hands. The money for the man Kirski would have to be properly tied up, lest it should prove a temptation. Why, those two pieces of Italian embroidery lying there, he had bought them months ago, intending to present them to Natalie, but from time to time the opportunity had been missed. And so forth, and so forth. But despite all this fortitude, and these commonplace and practical considerations, his eyes would wander to that little handful of flowers lying on the table, and his thoughts would wander farther still. As he pictured to himself his going to the young Hungarian girl, and taking her hand, and telling her that now it was no longer a parting for a couple of years, but a parting forever, his heart grew cold and sick. He thought of her terrified eyes, of her self-reproaches, of her entreaties, perhaps. "I wish Evelyn would tell her," he murmured aloud, and he went to the window. "Surely it would be better if I were never to see her again." It was a long and agonizing night, despite all his resolutions. The gray morning, appearing palely over the river and the bridges, found him still pacing up and down there, with nothing settled at all, no letter written, no memoranda made. All that the night had done was to increase a hundred-fold his dread of meeting Natalie. And now the daylight only told him that that interview was coming nearer. It had become a question of hours. At last, worn out with fatigue and despair, he threw himself on a couch hard by, and presently sunk into a broken and troubled sleep. For now the mind, emancipated from the control of the will, ran riot; and the quick-changing pictures that were presented to him were full of fearful things that shook his very life with terror. Awake he could force himself to think of this or that; asleep, he was at the mercy of this lurid imagination that seemed to dye each successive scene in the hue of blood. First of all, he was in a great cathedral, sombre and vast, and by the dim light of the candles he saw that some solemn ceremony was going forward. Priests, mitred and robed, sat in a semicircle in front of the altar; on the altar-steps were three figures; behind the altar a space of gloom, from whence issued the soft, clear singing of the choristers. Then, suddenly, into that clear sweet singing broke a loud blare of trumpets; a man bounded on to the altar-steps; there was the flash of a blade--a shriek--a fall; then the roar of a crowd, sullen, and distant, and awful. It is the cry of a great city; and this poor crouching fugitive, who hides behind the fountain in the Place, is watching for his chance to dart away into some place of safety. But the crowd have let him pass; they are merciful; they are glad of the death of their enemy; it is only the police he has to fear. What lane is dark enough? What ruins must he haunt, like a dog, in the night-time? But the night is full of fire, and the stars overhead are red, and everywhere there is a roar and a murmur--_the assassination of the Cardinal_! Well, it is quieter in this dungeon; and soon there will be an end, and peace. But for the letters of fire that burns one's brain the place would be as black as night; and it is still as night; one can sit and listen. And now that dull throbbing sound--and a strain of music--is it the young wife who, all unknowing, is digging her husband's grave? How sad she is! She pities the poor prisoner, whoever he may be. She would not dig this grave if she knew: she calls herself _Fidelio_; she is faithful to her love. But now--but now--though this hole is black as night, and silent, and the waters are lapping outside, cannot one know what is passing there? There are some who are born to be happy. Ah, look at the faithful wife now, as she strikes off her husband's fetters--listen to the glad music, _destin ormai felice!_--they take each other's hand--they go away proudly into the glad daylight--husband and wife together for evermore. This poor prisoner listens, though his heart will break. The happy music grows more and more faint--the husband and wife are together now--the beautiful white day is around them--the poor prisoner is left alone: there is no one even coming to bid him farewell. The sleeper moaned in his sleep, and stretched out his hand as if to seek some other hand. "No one--not even a word of good-bye!" he murmured. But then the dream changed. And now it was a wild and windy day in the blowing month of March, and the streams in this Buckinghamshire valley were swollen, and the woods were bare. Who are these two who come into the small and bleak church-yard? They are a mother and daughter; they are all in black; and the face of the daughter is pale, and her eyes filled with tears. Her face is white, and the flowers she carries are white, and that is the white tombstone there in the corner--apart from the others. See how she kneels down at the foot of the grave, and puts the flowers lightly on the grass, and clasps her trembling hands, and prays. "_Natalie--my wife!_" he calls in his sleep. And behold! the white tombstone has letters of fire written on it, and the white flowers are changed to drops of blood, and the two black figures have hurried away and disappeared. How the wind tears down this wide valley, in which there is no sign of life. It is so sad to be left alone. Well, it was about eight o'clock when he was awakened by the entrance of Waters. He jumped up, and looked around, haggard and bewildered. Then his first thought was, "A few more nights like this, and Zaccatelli will have little to fear." He had his bath and breakfast; all the time he was forcing himself into an indignant self-contempt. He held out his hand before him, expecting to see it tremble: but no. This reassured him somewhat. A little before eleven he was at the house in Hans Place. He was immediately shown up-stairs. Natalie's mother was there to receive him, she did not notice he looked tired. "Natalie is coming to you this morning?" he said. "Oh yes; why not? It gives her pleasure, it gives me joy. But I will not keep the child always in the house; no, she must have her walk. Yesterday, after you had left, we went to a very secluded place--a church not far from here, and a cemetery behind." "Oh, yes; I know," he said. "But you might have chosen a more cheerful place for your walk." "Any place is cheerful enough for me when my daughter is with me," said she, simply; "and it is quiet." George Brand sat with his hands clinched. Every moment he thought he should hear Natalie knock at the door below. "Madame," he said, with some little hesitation, "something has happened of serious importance--I mean, of a little importance. When Natalie comes I must tell her--" "And you wish to see her alone, perhaps?" said the mother, lightly. "Why not? And listen--it is she herself, I believe!" A minute afterward the door was opened, and Natalie entered, radiant, happy, with glad eyes. Then she started when she saw George Brand there, but there was no fear in her look. On the contrary, she embraced her mother; then she went to him, and said, with a pleased flush in her face, "I had no message this morning. You did not care, then, for our little bunch of flowers?" He took her hand, and held it for a second. "I thought I should see you to-day, Natalie; I have something to tell you." Her face grew graver. "Is it something serious?" "Well," said he, to gain time, for the mother was still in the room, "it is serious or not serious, as you like to take it. It does not involve the fate of a nation, for example." "It is mysterious, at all events." At this moment the elder woman took occasion to slip noiselessly from the room. "Natalie," said he, "sit down here by me." She put the footstool on which she was accustomed to sit at her mother's side close to his chair, and seated herself. He took her hand and held it tight. "Natalie," said he, in a low voice--and he was himself rather pale--"I am going to tell you something that may perhaps startle you, and even grieve you; but you must keep command over yourself, or you will alarm your mother--" "You are not in danger?" she cried, quickly, but in a low voice: there was something in his tone that alarmed her. "The thing is simple enough," he said, with a forced composure. "You know that when one has joined a certain Society, and especially when one has accepted the responsibilities I have, there is nothing that may not be demanded. Look at this ring, Natalie." "Yes, yes," she said, breathlessly. "That is a sufficient pledge, even if there were no others. I have sworn allegiance to the Society at all hazards; I cannot retreat now." "But is it so very terrible?" she said, hurriedly. "Dearest, I will come over to you in America. I have told my mother; she will take me to you--" "I am not going to America, Natalie." She looked up bewildered. "I have been commissioned to perform another duty, more immediate, more definite. And I must tell you now, Natalie, all that I dare tell you: you must be prepared; it is a duty which will cost me my life!" "Your life?" she repeated, in a bewildered, wild way, and she hastily drew her hand away from his. "Your life?" "Hush, Natalie!" "You are to die!" she exclaimed, and she gazed with terror-stricken eyes into his face. She forgot all about his allegiance to the Society; she forgot all about her theories of self-sacrifice; she only heard that the man she loved was doomed, and she said, in a low, hoarse voice, "And it is I, then, who have murdered you!" "Natalie!" he cried, and he would have taken her hand again, but she withdrew from him, shuddering. She clasped her hands over her face. "Oh, do not touch me," she said, "do not come near me. I have murdered you: it is I who have murdered you!" "For Heaven's sake, Natalie, be calm!" he said to her, in a low, earnest voice. "Think of your mother: do not alarm her. You knew we might be parted for years--well, this parting is a little worse to bear, that is all--and you, who gave me this ring, you are not going to say a word of regret. No, no, Natalushka, many thousands and thousands of people in the world have gone through what stands before us now, and wives have parted from their husbands without a single tear, so proud were they." She looked up quickly; her face was white. "I have no tears," she said, "none! But some wives have gone with their husbands into the danger, and have died too--ah, how happy that were for any one!--and I, why may not I go? I am not afraid to die." He laid his hand gently on the dark hair. "My child, it is impossible," he said; and then he added, rather sadly, "It is not an enterprise that any one is likely to gain any honor by--it is far from that; but it has to be undertaken--that is enough. As for you--you have your mother to care for now; will not that fill your life with gladness?" "How soon--do--you go away?" she asked, in a low voice. "Almost immediately," he said, watching her. She had not shed a single tear, but there was a strange look on her face. "Nothing is to be said about it. I shall be supposed to have started on a travelling-expedition, that is all." "And you go--forever?" "Yes." She rose. "We shall see you yet before you go?" "Natalie," he said, in despair, "I had come to try to say good-bye to you; but I cannot, my darling, I cannot! I must see you again." "I do not understand why you should wish to see again one like me," she said, slowly, and the voice did not sound like her own voice. "I have given you over to death: and, more than that, to a death that is not honorable; and, yet I cannot even tell you that I am grieved. But there is pain here." She put her hand over her heart; she staggered back a little bit; he caught her. "Natalie--Natalie!" "It is a pain that kills," she said, wildly. "Natalie, where is your courage? I give my life without question; you must bear your part too." She still held her hand over her bosom. "Yet," she said, as if she had not heard him, "that is what they say; it kills, this pain in the heart. Why not--if one does not wish to live?" At this moment the door was opened, and the mother came into the room. "Madame," said Brand, quickly, "come and speak to your daughter. I have had to tell her something that has upset her, perhaps, for a moment; but you will console her; she is brave." "Child, how you tremble, and how cold your hands are!" the mother cried. "It does not matter, mother. From every pain there is a release, is there not?" "I do not understand you, Natalushka?" "And I--and I, mother--" She was on the point of breaking down, but she held firm. Then she released herself from her mother's hold, and went forward and took her lover's hand, and regarded him with the sad, fearless, beautiful eyes. "I have been selfish," she said; "I have been thinking of myself, when that is needless. For me there will be a release--quickly enough: I shall pray for it. Now tell me what I must do: I will obey you." "First, then," said he, speaking in a low voice, and in English, so that her mother should not understand, "you must make light of this affair, or you will distress your mother greatly, and she is not able to bear distress. Some day, if you think it right, you may tell her; you know nothing that could put the enterprise in peril; she will be as discreet and silent as yourself, Natalie. Then you must put it out of your mind, my darling, that you have any share in what has occurred. What have I to regret? My life was worthless to me; you made it beautiful for a time; perhaps, who knows, it may after all turn out to have been of some service, and then there can be no regret at all. They think so, and it is not for me to question." "May I not tell my mother now?" she said, imploringly. "Dearest, how can I speak to her, and be thinking of you far away?" "As you please, Natalie. The little I have told you or Evelyn can do no harm, so long as you keep it among yourselves." "But I shall see again?" It was her heart that cried to him. "Oh yes, Natalie," he said, gravely. "I may not have to leave England for a week or two. I will see you as often as I can until I go, my darling, though it may only be torture to you." "Torture?" she said, sadly. "That will come after--until there is an end of the pain." "Hush, you must not talk like that. You have now one with you whom it is your duty to support and console. She has not had a very happy life either, Natalie." He was glad now that he was able to leave this terror-stricken girl in such tender hands. And as for himself, he found, when he had left, that somehow the strengthening of another had strengthened himself. He had less dread of the future; his face was firm; the time for vain regrets was over. _ |
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