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Sunrise, a novel by William Black |
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Chapter 44. Twice-Told Tale |
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_ CHAPTER XLIV. TWICE-TOLD TALE When the door had closed on George Brand, Natalie stood for a second or two uncertain, to collect her bewildered thoughts. She heard his footsteps growing fainter and fainter: the world seemed to sway around her; life itself to be slipping away. Then suddenly she turned, and seized her mother by both her hands. "Child, child, what is the matter?" the mother cried, terrified by the piteous eyes and white lips. "Ah, you could not have guessed," the girl said, wildly, "you could not have guessed from his manner what he has told me, could you? He is not one to say much; he is not one to complain. But he is about to lose his life, mother--to lose his life! and it is I who have led him to this; it is I who have killed him!" "Natalie," the mother exclaimed, turning rather pale, "you don't know what you are saying." "But it is true; do not you understand, mother?" the girl said, despairingly. "The Society has given him some duty to do--now, at once--and it will cost him his life. Oh, do you think he complains?--no, he is not one to complain. He says it is nothing; he has pledged himself; he will obey; and what is the value of his one single life? That is the way he talks, mother. And the parting between him and me--that is so near, so near now--what is that, when there are thousands and thousands of such every time that war is declared? I am to make light of it, mother; I am to think it is nothing at all--that he should be going away to die!" She had been talking quite wildly, almost incoherently; she had not observed that her mother had grown paler than ever; nor had she heard the half-murmured exclamation of the elder woman, "No, no--not the story twice told; he could not do that!" Then, with an unusual firmness and decision, she led her daughter to the easy-chair, and made her sit down. "Natalie," she said, in earnest and grave tones, without any excitement whatever, "you have told me your father was very much against you marrying Mr. Brand." There was no answer. The girl sitting there could only think of that terrible thing facing her in the immediate future. "Natalie," said her mother, firmly, "I wish you to listen. You said your father was opposed to your marriage--that he would not hear of it; and you remember telling me how Mr. Brand had refused to hand over his property to the Society; and you talked of going to America if Mr. Brand were sent? Natalie, this is your father's doing!" She looked up quickly, not understanding. The elder woman flushed slightly, but continued in clear and even tones. "Perhaps I am wrong, Natalushka; perhaps I should not teach you to suspect your father. But that is how I see it--this is what I believe--that Mr. Brand, if what you say is true, is to be sacrificed, not in the interests of the Society, but because your father is determined to get him out of the way." "Oh, mother, it is impossible! How could any one be so cruel?" "It would be strange if the story were to be twice told," the mother said, absently. Then she took a stool beside her daughter, and sat down beside her, and took one of her hands in both hers. It was a reversal of their ordinary position. "Listen, Natalie; I am going to tell you a story," she said, with a curious resignation and sadness in her voice. "I had thought it might be unnecessary to tell it to you; when Mr. Brand spoke of it, I said no. But you will judge for yourself, and it will distract your mind for a little. You must think of a young girl something like yourself, Natalushka; not so handsome as you are, but a little pretty, and with many friends. Oh yes, many friends, for at that time the family were in very brilliant society and had large estates: alas! the estates were soon all lost in politics, and all that remained to the family was their name and some tales of what they had done. Well, this young lady, among all her friends, had one or two sweethearts, as was natural--for there were a great coming and going then, before the troubles broke out, and many visitors at the house--only every one thought she ought to marry her cousin Konrad, for they had been brought up together, and this cousin Konrad was a good-looking young man, and amiable, and her parents would have approved. Are you sure you are listening to my story, Natalushka?" "Oh yes, mother," she said, in a low voice; "I think I understand." "Well," continued the mother, with rather a sad smile, "you know a girl does not always choose the one whom her friends choose for her. Among the two or three sweethearts--that is, those who wished to be sweethearts, do you understand, Natalushka?--there was one who was more audacious, perhaps, more persistent than the others; and then he was a man of great ambition, and of strong political views; and the young lady I was telling you about, Natalushka, had been brought up to the political atmosphere, and had opinions also. She believed this man was capable of doing great things; and her friends not objecting, she, after a few years of waiting, owing to the troubles of political matters, married him." She was silent for a moment or two. "Yes, they were married," she continued, with a sigh, "and for a time every thing was happy, though the political affairs were so untoward, and cost much suffering and danger. The young wife only admired her husband's determined will, his audacity, his ambition after leadership and power. But in the midst of all this, as time went on, he began to grow jealous of the cousin Konrad; and Konrad, though he was a light-hearted young fellow, and meaning no harm whatever, resented being forbidden to see his cousin. He refused to cease visiting the house, though the young wife begged him to do so. He was very proud and self-willed, you must know, Natalushka. Well, the husband did not say much, but he was morose, and once or twice he said to his wife, 'It is not your fault that your cousin is impertinent; but let him take care.' Then one day an old friend of his wife's father came to her, and said, 'Do you know what has happened? You are not likely to see your cousin Konrad again. The Russian General ----, whom we bribed with twenty-four thousand rubles to give us ten passports for crossing the frontier, now refuses to give them, and Konrad has been sent to kill him, as a warning to the others; he will be taken, and hanged.' I forgot to tell you, Natalushka, that the girl I am speaking of was in all the secrets of the association which had been started. You are more fortunate; you know nothing." The interest of the listener had now been thoroughly aroused. She had turned toward her mother, and had put her remaining hand over hers. "Well, this friend hinted something more; he hinted that it was the husband of this young wife who had sent Konrad on this mission, and that the means employed had not been quite fair." "Mother, what do you mean?" Natalie said, breathlessly. "I am telling you a story that really happened, Natalushka," said the mother, calmly, and with the same pathetic touch in her voice. "Then the young wife, without consideration--so anxious was she to save the life of her cousin--went straight to the highest authorities of the association, and appealed to them. The influence of her family aided her. She was listened to; there was an examination; what the friend had hinted was found to be true; the commission was annulled; Konrad was given his liberty!" "Yes, yes!" said Natalie, eagerly. "But listen, Natalushka; I said I would tell you the whole story; it has been kept from you for many a year. When it was found that the husband had made use of the machinery of the association for his own ends--which, it appears, was a great crime in their eyes--he was degraded, and forbidden all hope of joining the Council, the ruling body. He was in a terrible rage, for he was mad with ambition. He drove the wife from his house--rather, he left the house himself--and he took away with him their only child, a little girl scarcely two years old; and he threatened the mother with the most terrible penalties if ever again she should speak to her own child! Natalushka, do you understand me? Do you wonder that my face is worn with grief? For sixteen years that mother, who loved her daughter better than anything in the world, was not permitted to speak to her, could only regard her from a distance, and not tell her how she loved her." The girl uttered a cry of compassion, and wound her arms round her mother's neck. "Oh, the cruelty of it!--the cruelty of it, mother! But why did you not come to me? Do you think I would not have left everything to go with you--you, alone and suffering?" For a time the mother could not answer, so deep were her sobs. "Natalushka," she said at length, in a broken voice, "no fear of any danger threatening myself would have kept me from you; be sure of that. But there was something else. My father had become compromised--the Austrians said it was assassination; it was not!" For a second some hot blood mounted to her cheeks. "I say it was a fair duel, and your grandfather himself was nearly killed; but he escaped, and got into hiding among some faithful friends--poor people, who had known our family in better times. The Government did what they could to arrest him; he was expressly exempted from the amnesty, this old man, who was wounded, who was incapable of movement almost, whom every one expected to die from day to day, and a word would have betrayed him and destroyed him. Can you wonder, Natalushka, with that threat hanging over me--that menace that the moment I spoke to you meant that my father would be delivered to his enemies--that I said 'No, not yet will I speak to my little daughter; I cannot sacrifice my father's life even to the affection of a mother! But soon, when I have given him such care and solace as he has the right to demand from me, then I will set out to see my beautiful child--not with baskets of flowers, haunting the door-steps--not with a little trinket, to drop in her lap, and perhaps set her mind thinking--no, but with open arms and open heart, to see if she is not afraid to call me mother.'" "Poor mother, how you must have suffered," the girl murmured, holding her close to her bosom. "But with your powerful friends--those to whom you appealed to before--why did you not go to them, and get safety from the terrible threat hanging over you? Could they not protect him, my grandfather, as they saved your cousin Konrad?" "Alas, child, your grandfather never belonged to the association! Of what use was he to them--a sufferer expecting each day to be his last, and not daring to move beyond the door of the peasant's cottage that sheltered him? many a time he used to say to me, 'Natalie, go to your child. I am already dead; what matters it whether they take me or not? You have watched the old tree fade leaf by leaf; it is only the stump that cumbers the ground. Go to your child; if they try to drag me from here, the first mile will be the end; and what better can one wish for?' But no; I could not do that." Natalie had been thinking deeply; she raised her head, and regarded her mother with a calm, strange look. "Mother," she said, slowly, "I do not think I will ever enter my father's house again." The elder woman heard this declaration without either surprise or joy. She said, simply, "Do not judge rashly or harshly, Natalushka. Why have I refrained until now from telling you the story but that I thought it better--I thought you would be happier if you continued to respect and love your father. Then consider what excuses may be made for him--" "None!" the girl said, vehemently. "To keep you suffering for sixteen years away from your only child, and with the knowledge that at any moment a word on his part might lead out your father to a cruel death--oh, mother mother, you may ask me to forgive, but not to excuse!" "Ambition--the desire for influence and leadership--is his very life," the mother said, calmly. "He cares more for that than anything in the world--wife, child, anything, he would sacrifice to it. But now, child," she said, with a concerned look, "can you understand why I have told you the story?" Natalie looked up bewildered. For a time the interest of this story, intense as it had been to her, had distracted her mind from her own troubles; though all through she been conscious of some impending gloom that seemed to darken the life around her. "It was not merely to tell you of my sufferings, Natalushka," the mother said at once, gently and anxiously; "they are over. I am happy to be beside you; if you are happy. But when a little time ago you told me of Mr. Brand being ordered away to this duty, and of the fate likely to befall him, I said to myself, 'Ah, no; surely it cannot be the story told twice over. He would not dare to do that again.'" The girl turned deadly pale. "My child, that is why I asked you. Mr. Brand disappointed your father, I can see, about the money affair. Then, when he might have been got out of the way by being sent to America, you make matters worse than ever by threatening to go with him." The girl did not speak, but her eyes were terrified. "Natalie," the mother said gently, "have I done wrong to put these suspicions into your mind? Have I done wrong to put you into antagonism with your father? My child I cannot see you suffer without revealing to you what I imagine may be the cause--even if it were impossible to fight against it--even if one can only shudder at the cruelty of which some are capable: we can pray God to give us resignation." Natalie Lind was not listening at all; her face was white, her lips firm, her eyes fixed. "Mother," she said at length, in a low voice, and speaking as if she were weighing each word, "if you think the story is being told again, why should it not be carried out? You appealed, to save the life of one who loved you. And I--why may not I also?" "Oh, child, child!" the mother cried in terror, laying hold of her arm. "Do not think of it: anything but that! You do not know how terrible your father is when his anger is aroused: look at what I have suffered. Natalushka, I will not have you lead the life that I have led; you must not, you dare not, interfere!" The girl put her hand aside, and sprung to her feet. No longer was she white of face. The blood of the Berezolyis was in her cheeks; her eyes were dilated; her voice was proud and indignant. "And I," she said, "if this is true--if this is possible--Oh, do you think I am going to see a brave man sent to his death, shamelessly, cruelly, and not do what I can to save him? It is not for you, mother, it is not for one who bears the name that you bear to tell me to be afraid. What I did fear was to live, with him dead. Now--" The mother had risen quickly to her feet also, and sought to hold her daughter's hands. "For the sake of Heaven, Natalushka!" she pleaded. "You are running into a terrible danger--" "Do I care, mother? Do I look as if I cared?" she said, proudly. "And for no purpose, Natalushka; you will only bring down on yourself the fury of your father, and he will make your life as miserable as he has made mine. And what can you do, child? what can you do but bring ruin on yourself? You are powerless: you have no influence with those in authority as I at one time had. You do not know them: how can you reach them?" "You forget, mother," the girl said, triumphantly; "was it not you yourself who asked me if I had ever heard of one Bartolotti?" The mother uttered a slight cry of alarm. "No, no, Natalushka, I beg of you--" The girl took her mother in her arms and kissed her. There was a strange joy in her face; the eyes were no longer haggard, but full of light and hope. "You dear mother," she said, as she gently compelled her to be seated again, "that is the place for you. You will remain here, quiet, undisturbed by any fears; no one shall molest you; and when you have quite recovered from all your sufferings, and when your courage has returned to you, then I will come back and tell you my story. It is story for story, is it not?"' She rung the bell. "Pardon me, dear mother; there is no time to be lost. For once I return to my father's house--yes, there is a card there that I must have--" "But afterward, child, where do you go?" the mother said, though she could scarcely find utterance. "Why, to Naples, mother; I am an experienced traveller; I shall need no courier." The blood had mounted into both cheek and forehead; her eyes were full of life and pride; even at such a moment the anxious, frightened mother was forced to think she had never seen her daughter look so beautiful. The door opened. "Madame, be so good as to tell Anneli that I am ready." She turned to her mother. "Now, mother, it is good-bye for I do not know how long." "Oh no, it is not, child," said the other, trembling, and yet smiling in spite of all her fears. "If you are going to travel, you must have a courier. I will be your courier, Natalushka." "Will you come with me, mother?" she cried, with a happy light leaping to her eyes. "Come, then--we will give courage to each other, you and I, shall we not? Ah, dear mother, you have told me your story only in time; but we will go quickly now--you and I together!" _ |
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