SOUTHWARD.
After a late, cold, and gloomy spring, a glimpse of early summer shone
over the land; and after a long period of anxious and oftentimes
irritating and disappointing travail--in wet and dismal towns, in
comfortless inns, with associates not always to his liking--George Brand
was hurrying to the South. Ah, the thought of it, as the train whirled
along on this sunlit morning! After the darkness, the light; after
fighting, peace; after the task-work, a smile of reward! No more than
that was his hope; but it was a hope that kept his heart afire and glad
on many a lonely night.
At length his companion, who had slept steadily on ever since they had
entered the train at Carlisle, at about one in the morning, awoke,
rubbed his eyes, and glanced at the window.
"We are going to have a fine day at last, Humphreys," said Brand.
"They have been having better weather in the South, sir."
The man looked like a well-dressed mechanic. He had an intelligent face,
keen and hard. He spoke with the Newcastle burr.
"I wish you would not call me 'sir,'" Brand said, impatiently.
"It comes natural, somehow, sir," said the other, with great simplicity.
"There is not a man in any part of the country, but would say 'sir' to
one of the Brands of Darlington. When Mr. Lind telegraphed to me you
were coming down, I telegraphed back, 'Is he one of the Brands of
Darlington?' and when I got his answer I said to myself, 'Here is the
man to go to the Political Committee of the Trades-union Congress: they
won't fight shy of him.'"
"Well, we have no great cause to grumble at what has been done in that
direction; but that infernal _Internationale_ is doing a deal of
mischief. There is not a trades-unionist in the country who does not
know what is going on in France. A handful of irresponsible madmen
trying to tack themselves on to the workmen's association--well, surely
the men will have more sense than to listen. The _congres ouvrier_ to
change its name, and to become the _congres revolutionnaire_! When I
first went to Jackson, Molyneux, and the others, I found they had a sort
of suspicion that we wanted to make Communists of them and tear society
to pieces."
"You have done more in a couple of months, sir, than we all have done in
the last ten years," his companion said.
"That is impossible. Look at--"
He named some names, certain of them well known enough.
The other shook his head.
"Where we have been they don't believe in London professors, and
speech-makers, and chaps like that. They know that the North is the
backbone and the brain of England, and in the North they want to be
spoken to by a North-countryman."
"I am a Buckinghamshire man."
"That may be where you live, sir: but you are one of the Brands of
Darlington," said the other, doggedly.
By-and-by they entered the huge, resounding station.
"What are you going to do to-night, Humphreys? Come and have some dinner
with me, and we will look in afterward at the Century."
Humphreys looked embarrassed for a moment.
"I was thinking of going to the Coger's Hall, sir," said he, hitting
upon an excuse. "I have heard some good speaking there."
"Mostly bunkum, isn't it?"
"No, sir."
"All right. Then I shall see you to-morrow morning in Lisle Street.
Good-bye."
He jumped into a hansom, and was presently rattling away through the
busy streets. How sweet and fresh was the air, even here in the midst of
the misty and golden city! The early summer was abroad; there was a
flush of green on the trees in the squares. When he got down to the
Embankment, he was quite surprised by the beauty of the gardens; there
were not many gardens in the towns he had chiefly been living in.
He dashed up the narrow wooden stairs.
"Look alive now, Waters: get my bath ready."
"It is ready, sir."
"And breakfast!"
"Whenever you please, sir."
He took off his dust-smothered travelling-coat, and was about to fling
it on the couch, when he saw lying there two pieces of some brilliant
stuff that were strange to him.
"What are these things?"
"They were left, sir, by Mr. ----, of Bond Street, on approval. He will
call this afternoon."
"Tell him to go to the devil!" said Brand, briefly, as he walked off
into his bedroom.
Presently he came back.
"Stay a bit," said he; and he took up the two long strips of
silk-embroidered stuff--Florentine work, probably, of about the end of
the sixteenth century. The ground was a delicate yellowish-gray, with an
initial letter worked in various colors over it. Mr. ----, of Bond
Street, knew that Brand had often amused his idle hours abroad in
picking up things like this, chiefly as presents to lady friends, and
no doubt thought they would be welcome enough, even for bachelors'
rooms.
"Tell him I will take them."
"But the price, sir?"
"Ask him his price; beat him down; and keep the difference."
After bath and breakfast there was an enormous pile of correspondence
awaiting him; for not a single letter referring to his own affairs had
been forwarded to him for over two months. He had thrown his entire time
and care into his work in the North. And now that these arrears had to
be cleared off, he attacked the business with an obvious impatience.
Formerly he had been used to dawdle over his letters, getting through a
good portion of the forenoon with them and conversations with Waters
about Buckinghamshire news. Now, even with that omniscient factotum by
his side, his progress was slow, simply because he was hurried. He made
dives here and there, without system, without settlement. At last,
looking at his watch, he jumped up; it was half-past eleven.
"Some other time, Waters--some other time; the man must wait," he said
to the astonished but patient person beside him. "If Lord Evelyn calls,
tell him I shall look in at the Century to-night."
"Yes, sir."
Some half-hour thereafter he was standing in Park Lane, his heart
beating somewhat quickly, his eyes fixed eagerly on two figures that
were crossing the thoroughfare lower down to one of the gates leading
into Hyde Park. These were Natalie Lind and the little Anneli. He had
known that he would see her thus; he had imagined the scene a thousand
times; he had pictured to himself every detail--the trees, the tall
railings, the spring flowers in the plots, and the little rosy-cheeked
German girl walking by her mistress's side; and yet, now that this
familiar thing had come true, he trembled to behold it; he breathed
quickly; he could not go forward to her and hold out his hand. Slowly,
for they were walking slowly, he went along to the gate and entered
after them; cautiously, lest she should turn suddenly and confront him
with her eyes; drawn, and yet fearing to follow. She was talking with
some animation to her companion; though even in this profound silence he
could not hear the sound of her voice. But he could see the beautiful
oval of her face! and sometimes, when she turned with a laugh to the
little Anneli, he caught a glimpse of the black eyes and eyelashes, the
smiling lips and brilliant teeth; and once or twice she put out the
palm of her right hand with a little gesture which, despite her English
dress, would have told a stranger that she was of foreign ways. But the
look of welcome, the smile of reward that he had been looking forward
to?
Well, Mr. Lind was in America; and during his absence his daughter saw
but few visitors. There was no particular reason why, supposing that
George Brand met Natalie in the street, he should not go up and shake
hands with her; and many a time, in these mental pictures of his of her
morning walk with the rosy-cheeked Anneli, he imagined himself
confronting her under the shadow of the trees, and perhaps walking some
way with her, to listen once more to the clear, low vibrations of her
musical voice. But no sooner had he seen her come into Park Lane--the
vision became real--than he felt he could not go up and speak to her. If
he had met her by accident, perhaps he might; but to watch her, to
entrap her, to break in on her wished-for isolation under false
pretences--all that he suddenly felt to be impossible. He could follow
her with his heart; but the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand,
the smile of her calm, beautiful, dark eyes, were as remote for him as
if she, too, were beyond the broad Atlantic.
He was not much given to introspection and analysis; daring the past two
months more especially he had been far too busy to be perpetually asking
"Why? why?"--the vice of indolence. It was enough that, in the cold and
the wet, there was a fire in his heart that kept him glad with thinking
of the fair days to come; and that, in the foggy afternoons or the
lonely nights when he was alone, and perhaps despondent or impatient
over the stupidity or the contumacy he had had to encounter, there came
to him the soft murmur of a voice from far away--proud, sad, and yet
full of consolation and hope:
"--But ye that might be clothed with all things pleasant,
Ye are foolish that put off the fair soft present,
That clothe yourself with the cold future air;
When mother and father, and tender sister and brother,
And the old live love that was shall be as ye,
Dust and no fruit of loving life shall be.
--She shall be yet who is more than all these were,
Than sister or wife or father unto us, or mother."
He could hear her voice: he could see the beautiful face grow pale with
its proud fervor; he could feel the soft touch of her hand when she
came forward and said, "Brother, I welcome you!"
And now that she was there before him, the gladness in his heart at the
mere sight of her was troubled with a trembling fear and pain. She was
but a stone's-throw in front of him; but she seemed far away. The world
was young around her; and she belonged to the time of youth and of
hope; life, that he had been ready to give up as a useless and aimless
thing, was only opening out before her, full of a thousand beauties, and
wonders, and possibilities. If only he could have taken her hand, and
looked into her eyes, and claimed that smile of welcome, he would have
been nearer to her. Surely, in one thing at least they were in sympathy.
There was a bond between them. If the past had divided them, the future
would bring them more together. Did not the Pilgrims go by in bands,
until death struck down its victims here and there?
Natalie knew nothing of all this vague longing, and doubt, and pain in
the breast of one who was so near her. She was in a gay mood. The
morning was beautiful; the soft wind after the rain brought whiffs of
scent from the distant rose-red hawthorn. Though she was here under
shadow of the trees, the sun beyond shone on the fresh and moist grass;
and at the end of the glades there were glimpses of brilliant color in
the foliage--the glow of the laburnum, the lilac blaze of the
rhododendron bushes. And how still the place was! Far off there was a
dull roar of carriages in Piccadilly; but here there was nothing but the
bleating of the sheep, the chirp of the young birds, the stir of the
wind among the elms. Sometimes he could now catch the sound of her
voice.
She was in a gay humor. When she got to the Serpentine--the north bank
was her favorite promenade; she could see on the other side, just below
the line of leaves, the people passing and repassing on horseback; but
she was not of them--she found a number of urchins wading. They had no
boat; but they had the bung of a barrel, which served, and that they
were pushing through the water with twigs and sticks; their shapeless
boots they had left on the bank. Now, as it seemed to Brand, who was
watching from a distance, she planned a scheme. Anneli was seen to go
ahead of the boys, and speak to them. Their attention being thus
distracted, the young mistress stepped rapidly down to the tattered
boots, and dropped something in each. Then she withdrew, and was
rejoined by her maid; they walked away without waiting to see the result
of their machinations. But George Brand, following by-and-by, heard one
of the urchins call out with wonder that he had found a penny in his
shoe; and this extraordinary piece of news brought back his comrades,
who rather mechanically began to examine their footgear too. And then
the amazement!--and the looks around!--and the examination of the pence,
lest that treasure should vanish away! Brand went up to them.
"Look hear you young stupids; don't you see that tall lady away along
there by the boat-house--why don't you go and thank her?"
But they were either too shy or too incredulous; so he left them. He did
not forget the incident.
Perhaps it was that the heavens had grown dark in the southwest,
threatening a shower; but, at all events, Natalie soon returned and set
out on her homeward way, giving this unknown spy some trouble to escape
observation. But when she had passed, he again followed, now with even
greater unrest and pain at his heart. For would not she soon disappear,
and the outer world grow empty, and the dull hours have to be faced? He
had come to London with such hope and gladness; now the very sunlight
was to be taken out of his life by the shutting of a door in Curzon
Street.
Fate, however, was kinder to him than he had dared to hope. As Natalie
was returning home, he ventured to draw a little nearer to her, but
still with the greatest caution, for he would have been overcome with
shame if she had detected him dogging her footsteps in this aimless, if
innocent manner. And now that she had got close to her own door, he had
drawn nearer still--on the other side of the street; he so longed to
catch one more glimpse of the dark eyes smiling, and the mobile, proud
mouth. But just as the door was being opened from within, a man who had
evidently been watching his chance thrust himself before the two women,
barring their way, and proceeded to address Natalie in a vehement,
gesticulating fashion, with much clinching of his fists and throwing out
of his arms. Anneli had shrunk back a step, for the man was uncouth and
unkempt; but the young mistress stood erect and firm, confronting the
beggar, or madman, or whoever he was, without the slightest sign of
fear.
This was enough for George Brand. He was not thrusting himself unfairly
on her seclusion if he interposed to protect her from menace. Instantly
he crossed the road.
"Who are you? What do you want?" This was what he said; but what he did
was to drive the man back a couple of yards.
A hand was laid on his arm quickly.
"He is in trouble," Natalie said, calmly. "He wants to see papa; he has
come a long way; he does not understand that papa is in America. If you
could only convince him--But you do not talk Russian."
"I can talk English," said Brand, regarding the maniac-looking person
before him with angry brows. "Will you go indoors, Miss Lind, and leave
him to me. I will talk an English to him that he will understand."
"Is that the way you answer an appeal for help?" said she, with gentle
reproof. "The man is in trouble. If I persuade him to go with you, will
you take him to papa's chambers? Either Beratinsky or Heinrich Reitzei
will be there."
"Reitzei is there."
"He will hear what this man has to say. Will you be so kind?"
"I will do anything to rid you of this fellow, who looks more like a
madman than a beggar."
She stepped forward and spoke to the man again--her voice sounded gentle
and persuasive to Brand, in this tongue which he could not understand.
When she had finished, the uncouth person in the tattered garments
dropped on both knees on the pavement, and took her hand in his, and
kissed it in passionate gratitude. Then he rose, and stood with his cap
in his hand.
"He will go with you. I am so sorry to trouble you, Mr. Brand; and I
have not even said, 'How do you do?'"
To hear this beautiful voice after so long a silence--to find those
calm, dark, friendly eyes regarding him--bewildered him, or gave him
courage, he knew not which. He said to her, with a quick flush on his
forehead,
"May I come back to tell you how I succeed?"
She only hesitated for a second.
"If you have time. If you care to take the trouble."
He carried away with him the look of her face--that filled his heart
with sunlight. In the hansom, into which he bundled his unkempt
companion, if only he had known enough Russian, he would have expressed
gratitude to him. Beggar or maniac, or whatever he was, had he not been
the means of procuring for George Brand that long-coveted,
long-dreamed-of smile of welcome?