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Sunrise, a novel by William Black |
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Chapter 48. An Appeal |
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_ CHAPTER XLVIII. AN APPEAL This sudden and involuntary confession of alarm and despair no doubt told her story more clearly than anything else could have done. General von Zoesch as he chose to call himself, was excessively concerned; he held her hand till he saw the life returning to the pale, beautiful face: he was profuse and earnest in his apologies. "My dear young lady I beg a thousand pardons!--I had no idea of alarming you; I had no idea you were so deeply interested; come, take my arm, and we will walk down into the open, where the sea-air is cool. I beg a thousand pardons." She had pulled herself together with a desperate effort of will. "You spoke abruptly, signore; you used the word _impossible_! I had imagined it was unknown to you." Her lips were rather pale; but there was a flush of color returning to her face, and her voice had something of the old proud and pathetic ring in it. "Yes," she continued, standing-before him, with her eyes downcast, "I was told that when great trouble came upon me or mine I was to come here--to Naples--and I should find myself under the protection of the greatest power in Europe. My name--my mother's name--was to be enough. And this is the result, that a brave man, who is our friend and dear to us, is threatened with a dishonorable death, and the very power that imposed it on him--the power that was said to be invincible, and wise, and generous--is unable or unwilling to stir hand or foot!" "A dishonorable death, signorina?" "Oh, signore," she said, with a proud indignation, "do not speak to me as if I were a child. Cannot one see what is behind all this secrecy? Cannot one see that you know well what has been done in England by your friends and colleagues? You put this man, who is too proud, too noble, to withdraw from his word, on a service that involves the certain sacrifice of his life! and there is no honor attached to this sacrifice--so he himself has admitted. What does that mean?--what can it mean--but assassination?" He drew back his head a little bit, as if startled, and stared at her. "My dear young lady--" But her courage had not returned to her for nothing. She raised the beautiful, dark, pathetic eyes, and regarded him with an indignant fearlessness. "That is what any one might guess," she said. "But there is more. Signore, you and your friends meditate the assassination of the King of Italy! and you call on an Englishman--an Englishman who has no love of secret and blood-stained ways--" "Stefan!" the mother cried, quickly, and she placed her hand on the general's arm; "do not be angry. Do not heed her--she is a child--she is quick to speak. Believe me, there are other reasons for our coming to you." "Yes, yes, my friend Natalie; all in good time. But I am most anxious to put myself right with the signorina your daughter first of all. Now, my dear young lady," he said, taking her hand, and putting it on his arm, and gently compelling her to walk with him toward the opener space where the sea-air was cool, "I again apologize to you for having spoken unwittingly--" "Oh, signore, do not trouble about that! It is no matter of courtesy or politeness that is in the question: it is the life of one of one's dearest friends. There are other times for politeness." "Stefan," the mother interposed, anxiously, "do not heed her--she is agitated." "My dear Natalie," said the general, smiling, "I admire a brave woman as I admire a brave man. Do not I recognize another of you Berezolyis? The moment you think one of your friends is being wronged, fire and water won't prevent you from speaking out. No, no, my dear young lady," he said, turning to the daughter, "you cannot offend me by being loyal and outspoken." He patted her hand, just as Calabressa had done. "But I must ask you to listen for a moment, to remove one or two misconceptions. It is true I know something of the service which your English friend has undertaken to perform. Believe me, it has nothing to do with the assassination of the King of Italy--nothing in the world." She lifted her dark eyes for a second, and regarded him steadily. "I perceive," said he, "that you pay me the compliment of asking me if I lie. I do not. Reassure yourself: there are no people in this country more loyal to the present dynasty than my friends and myself. We have no time for wild Republican projects." She looked somewhat bewildered. This speculation as to the possible nature of the service demanded of George Brand had been the outcome of many a night's anxious self-communing; and she had indulged in the wild hope that this man, when abruptly challenged, might have been startled into some avowal. For then, would not her course have been clear enough? But now she was thrown back on her former perplexity, with only the one certainty present to her mind--the certainty of the danger that confronted her lover. "My dear young lady," he said, "it is useless for you to ask what that service is, for I shall refuse to answer you. But I assure you that you have my deepest sympathy, and I have seen a good deal of suffering from similar causes. I do not seek to break into your confidence, but I think I understand your position; you will believe me that it is with no light heart that I must repeat the word _impossible_. Need I reason with you? Need I point out to you that there is scarcely any one in the world whom we might select for a dangerous duty who would not have some one who would suffer on his account? Who is without some tie of affection that must be cut asunder--no matter with what pain--when the necessity for the sacrifice arises? You are one of the unhappy ones; you must be brave; you must try to forget your sufferings, as thousands of wives and sweethearts and daughters have had to forget, in thinking that their relatives and friends died in a good cause." Her heart was proud and indignant no longer; it had grown numbed. The air from the sea felt cold. "I am helpless, signore," she murmured; "I do not know what the cause is. I do not know what justification you have for taking this man's life." He did not answer that. He said, "Perhaps, indeed, it is not those who are called on to sacrifice their life for the general good who suffer most. They can console themselves with thinking of the result. It is their friends--those dearest to them--who suffer, and who many a time would no doubt be glad to become their substitutes. It is true that we--that is, that many associations--recognize the principle of the vicarious performance of duties and punishments; but not any one yet has permitted a woman to become substitute for a man." "What made you think of that, signore?" she asked, regarding him. "I have known some cases," he said, evasively, "where such an offer, I think, would have been made." "It could not be accepted?" "Oh no." "Not even by the power that is the greatest in Europe?" she said, bitterly--"that is invincible and all-generous? Oh, signore, you are too modest in your pretensions! And the Berezolyis--they have done nothing, then, in former days to entitle them to consideration; they are but as anybody in the crowd who might come forward and intercede for a friend; they have no old associates, then, and companions in this Society, that they cannot have this one thing granted them--that they cannot get this one man's life spared to him! Signore, your representatives mistake your powers; more than that, they mistake the strength of your memory, and your friendship!" The red face of the bullet-headed general grew redder still, but not with anger. "Signorina," he said, evidently greatly embarrassed, "you humiliate me. You--you do not know what you ask--" He had led her back to the garden-seat; they had both sat down; he did not notice how her bosom was struggling with emotion. "You ask me to interfere--to commit an act of injustice--" "Oh, signore, signore, this is what I ask!" she cried, quite overcome; and she fell at his feet, and put her clasped hands on his knees, and broke into a wild fit of crying; "this is what I ask of you, signore--this is what I beg from you on my knees--I ask you to give me the life of--of my betrothed!" She buried her face in her hands; her frame was shaken with her sobs. "Little daughter," said he, greatly agitated, "rise; come, remain here for a few moments; I wish to speak to your mother--alone. Natalie!" The elder woman accompanied him a short distance across the lawn; they stood by the fountain. "By Heaven, I would do anything for the child!" he said, rapidly; "but you see, dear friend, how it is impossible. Look at the injustice of it. If we transferred this duty to another person, what possible excuse could we make to him whom we might choose?" He was looking back at the girl. "It will kill her, Stefan," the mother said. "Others have suffered also." The elder woman seemed to collect herself a little. "But I told you we had not said everything to you. The poor child is in despair; she has not thought of all the reasons that induced us to come to you. Stefan, you remember my cousin Konrad?" "Oh yes, I remember Konrad well enough," said the general, absently, for he was still regarding the younger Natalie, who sat on the bench, her hands clasped, her head bent down. "Poor fellow, he came to a sad end at last; but he always carried his life in his hands, and with a gay heart too." "But you remember, do you not, something before that?" the mother said, with some color coming into her face. "You remember how my husband had him chosen--and I myself appealed--and you, Stefan, you were among the first to say that the Society must inquire--" "Ah, but that was different, Natalie. You know why it was that that commission had to be reversed." "Do I know? Yes. What else have I had to think about these sixteen or seventeen years since my child was separated from me?" she said, sadly. "And perhaps I have grown suspicious; perhaps I have grown mad to think that what has happened once might happen again." "What?" he said, turning his clear blue eyes suddenly on her. She did not flinch. "Consider the circumstances, Stefan, and say whether one has no reason to suspect. The Englishman, this Mr. Brand, loves Natalie; she loves him in return; my husband refuses his consent to the marriage; and yet they meet in opposition to his wishes. Then there is another thing that I cannot so well explain, but it is something about a request on my husband's part that Mr. Brand, who is a man of wealth, should accept a certain offer, and give over his property to the funds of the Society." "I understand perfectly," her companion said, calmly. "Well?" "Well, Mr. Brand, thinking of Natalie's future, refuses. But consider this, Stefan, that it had been hinted to him before that in case of his refusal, he might be sent to America to remain there for life." "I perceive, my old friend, that you are reading in your own interpretations into an ordinary matter of business. However--" "But his refusal was immediately followed by that arrangement. He was ordered to go to America. My husband, no doubt considered that that would effectually separate him and Natalie--" "Again you are putting in your own interpretation." "One moment, Stefan. My child is brave; she thought an injustice was being done; she thought it was for her sake that her lover was being sent away, and then she spoke frankly; she said she would go with him." "Yes?" He was now listening with more interest. "You perceive then, my dear friend, my husband was thwarted in every way. Then it was, and quite suddenly, that he reversed this arrangement about America, and there fell on Mr. Brand this terrible thing. Knowing what I know, do you not think I had fair cause for suspicion? And when Natalie said, 'Oh, there are those abroad who will remove this great trouble from us,' then I said to myself, 'At all events, the Society does not countenance injustice; it will see that right has been done.'" The face of the man had grown grave, and for some time he did not speak. "I see what you suggest, Natalie," he said at length. "It is a serious matter. I should have said your suspicions were idle--that the thing was impossible--but for the fact that it has occurred before. Strange, now, if old ----, whose wisdom and foresight the world is beginning to recognize now, should be proved to be wise on this point too, as on so many others. He used always to say to us: 'When once you find a man unfaithful, never trust him after. When once a man has allowed himself to put his personal advantage before his duty to such a society as yours, it shows that somewhere or other there is in him the leaven of a self-seeker, which is fatal to all societies. Impose the heaviest penalties on such an offence; cast him out when you have the opportunity.' It would be strange, indeed; it would be like fate; it would appear as though the thing were in the blood, and must come out, no matter what warning the man may have had before. You know, Natalie, what your husband had to endure for his former lapse?" She nodded her head. For some time he was again silent, and there was a deeper air of reflection on his face than almost seemed natural to it, for he looked more of a soldier than a thinker. "If there were any formality," he said, almost to himself, "in the proceedings, one might have just cause to intervene. But your husband, my Natalie," he continued, addressing her directly, "is well trusted by us. He has done us long and faithful service. We should be slow to put any slight upon him, especially that of suspicion." "That, Stefan," said Natalie's mother, with courage, "is a small matter, surely, compared with the possibility of your letting this man go to his death unjustly. You would countenance, then, an act of private revenge? That is the use you would let the powers of your Society be put to? That is not what Janecki, what Rausch, what Falevitch looked forward to." The taunt was quite lost on him; he was calmly regarding Natalie. She had not stirred. After that one outburst of despairing appeal there was no more for her to say or to do. She could wait, mutely, and hear what the fate of her lover was to be. "Unfortunately," said the general, turning and looking up at the vast pink frontage of the villa, "There are no papers here that one can appeal to. I only secured the temporary use of the villa, as being a more fitting place than some to receive the signorina your daughter. But it is possible the Secretary may remember something; he has a good memory. Will you excuse me, Natalie, for a few moments?" He strode away toward the house. The mother went over to her daughter, and put a hand on her shoulder. "Courage, Natalushka! You must not despair yet. Ah, my old friend Stefan has a kind heart; there were tears in his eyes when he turned away from your appeal to him. He does not forget old associates." Von Zoesch almost immediately returned, still looking preoccupied. He drew Natalie's mother aside a few steps, and said, "This much I may tell you, Natalie: in the proceedings four were concerned--your husband, Mr. Brand, Beratinsky, Reitzei. What do you know of these last two?" "I? Alas, Stefan, I know nothing of them!" "And we here little. They are your husband's appointment. I may also tell you, Natalie, that the Secretary is also of my opinion, that it is very unlikely your husband would be so audacious as to repeat his offence of former years, by conspiring to fix this duty on this man to serve his own interests. It would be too audacious, unless his temper had outrun his reason altogether." "But you must remember, Stefan," she said, eagerly, "that there was no one in England who knew that former story. He could not imagine that I was to be, unhappily, set free to go to my daughter--that I should be at her side when this trouble fell on her--" "Nevertheless," said he, gently interrupting her, "you have appealed to us: we will inquire. It will be a delicate affair. If there has been any complicity, any unfairness, to summon these men hither would be to make firmer confederates of them than ever. If one could get at them separately, individually--" He kept pressing his white mustache into his teeth with his forefinger. "If Calabressa were not such a talker," he said, absently. "But he has ingenuity, the feather-brained devil." "Stefan, I could trust everything to Calabressa," she said. "In the mean time," he said, "I will not detain you. If you remain at the same hotel we shall be able to communicate with you. I presume your carriage is outside?" "It is waiting for us a little way off." He accompanied them into the tessellated court-yard, but not to the gate. He bade good-bye to his elder friend; then he took the younger lady's hand and held it, and regarded her. "Figliuola mia," he said, with a kindly glance, "I pity you if you have to suffer. We will hope for better things: if it is impossible, you have a brave heart." When they had left he went up the marble staircase and along the empty corridor until he reached a certain room. "Granaglia, can you tell me where our friend Calabressa may happen to be at this precise moment?" "At Brindisi, I believe, Excellenza." "At Brindisi still. The devil of a fellow is not so impatient as I had expected. Ah, well. Have the goodness to send for him, friend Granaglia, and bid him come with speed." "Most willingly, Excellenza." _ |
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