A LETTER.
Black night lay over the city, and silence; the river flowed unseen
through the darkness; but a thousand golden points of fire mapped out
the lines of the Embankment and the long curves of the distant bridges.
The infrequent sounds that could be heard were strangely distinct, even
when they were faint and remote. There was a slight rustling of wind in
the trees below the window.
But the night and the silence brought him neither repose nor counsel. A
multitude of bewildering, audacious hopes and distracting fears strove
for mastery in his mind, upsetting altogether the calm and cool judgment
on which he prided himself. His was not a nature to harbor illusions; he
had a hard way of looking at things; and yet--and yet--might not this
chance speech of Lord Evelyn have been something more than a bit of
good-humored raillery? Lord Evelyn was Natalie's intimate friend; he
knew all her surroundings; he was a quick observer; he was likely to
know if this thing was possible. But, on the other hand, how was it
possible that so beautiful a creature, in the perfect flower of her
youth, should be without a lover? He forced himself to remember that she
and her father seemed to see no society at all. Perhaps she was too
useful to him, and he would not have her entangle herself with many
friends. Perhaps they had led too nomadic a life. But even in hotels
abroad, how could she have avoided the admiration she was sure to evoke?
And in Florence, mayhap, or Mentone, or Madrid; and here he began to
conjure up a host of possible rivals, all foreigners, of course, and all
equally detestable, and to draw pictures for him of _tables d'hote_,
with always the one beautiful figure there, unconscious, gentle, silent,
but drawing to her all men's eyes.
There was but the one way of putting an end to this maddening
uncertainty. He dared not claim an interview with her; she might be
afraid of implying too much by granting it; various considerations might
dictate a refusal. But he could write; and, in point of fact,
writing-materials were on the table. Again and again he had sat down and
taken the pen in his hand, only to get up as often and go and stare out
into the yellow glare of the night. For an instant his shadow would fall
on the foliage of the trees below, and then pass away again like a
ghost.
At two-and-twenty love is reckless, and glib of speech; it takes little
heed of the future; the light straw-flame, for however short a period,
leaps up merrily enough. But at two-and-thirty it is more alive to
consequences; it is not the present moment, but the duration of life,
that it regards; it seeks to proceed with a sure foot. And at this
crisis, in the midst of all this irresolution, that was unspeakably
vexatious to a man of his firm nature, Brand demanded of himself his
utmost power of self-control. He would not imperil the happiness of his
life by a hasty, importunate appeal. When at length he sat down,
determined not to rise until he had sent her this message, he forced
himself to write--at the beginning, at least--in a roundabout and
indifferent fashion, so that she should not be alarmed. He began by
excusing his writing to her, saying he had scarcely ever had a chance of
talking to her, and that he wished to tell her something of what had
happened to him since the memorable evening on which he had first met
her at her father's house. And he went on to speak to her of a friend of
his, who used to amuse himself with the notion that he would like to
enter himself at a public school and go through his school life all over
again. There he had spent the happiest of his days; why should he not
repeat them? If only the boys would agree to treat him as one of
themselves, why should he not be hail-fellow-well-met with them, and
once more enjoy the fun of uproarious pillow-battles and have smuggled
tarts and lemonade at night, and tame rabbits where no rabbits should
be, and a profound hero-worship for the captain of the school Eleven,
and excursions out of bounds, when his excess of pocket-money would
enable him to stand treat all round? "Why not?" this friend of his used
to say. "Was it so very impossible for one to get back the cares and
interests, the ambitions, the amusements, the high spirits of one's
boyhood?" And if he now were to tell her that a far greater miracle had
happened to himself? That at an age when he had fancied he had done and
seen most things worth doing and seeing, when the past seemed to
contain everything worth having, and there was nothing left but to try
how the tedious hours could be got over; when a listless _ennui_ was
eating his very heart out--that he should be presented, as it were, with
a new lease of life, with stirring hopes and interests, with a new and
beautiful faith, with a work that was a joy in itself, whether any
reward was to be or no? And surely he could not fail to express to Lord
Evelyn and to herself his gratitude for this strange thing.
These are but the harsh outlines of what, so far, he wrote; but there
was a feeling in it--a touch of gladness and of pathos here and
there--that had never before been in any of his writing, and of which he
was himself unconscious.
But at this point he paused, and his breathing grew quick. It was so
difficult to write in these measured terms. When he resumed, he wrote
more rapidly.
What wonder, he made bold to ask her, if amidst all this bewildering
change some still stranger dream of what might be possible in the future
should have taken possession of him? She and he were leagued in sympathy
as regarded the chief object of their lives; it was her voice that had
inspired him; might he not hope that they should go forward together, in
close friendship at least, if there could be nothing more? And as to
that something more, was there no hope? He could give himself no grounds
for any such hope; and yet--so much had happened to him, and mostly
through her, that he could set no limit to the possibilities of
happiness that lay in her generous hands. When he saw her among others,
he despaired; when he thought of her alone, and of the gentleness of her
heart, he dared to hope. And if this declaration of his was distressing
to her, how easy it was for her to dismiss and forget it. If he had
dared too much, he had himself to blame. In any case, she need not fear
that her refusal should have the effect of dissociating them in those
wider interests and sympathies to which he had pledged himself. He was
not one to draw back. And if he had alarmed or offended her, he appealed
to her charity--to that great kindness which she seemed eager to extend
to all living creatures. How could such a vision of possible happiness
have arisen in his mind without his making one effort, however
desperate, to realize it? At the worst, she would forgive.
This was, in brief, the substance of what he wrote; but when, after many
an anxious re-reading, he put the letter in an envelope, he was
miserably conscious how little it conveyed of all the hope and desire
that had hold of his heart. But then, he argued with himself, if she
inclined her ear so far, surely he would have other and better
opportunities of pleading with her; whereas, if he had been dreaming of
impossibilities, then he and she would meet the more easily in the
future that he had not given too vehement an expression to all the love
and admiration he felt for her. He could not sacrifice her friendship
also--her society--the chances of listening from time to time to the
musical low, soft voice.
Carrying this fateful letter in his hand, he went down stairs and out
into the cool night air. And now he was haunted by a hundred fears.
Again and again he was on the point of turning back to add something, to
alter something, to find some phrase that would appeal more closely to
her heart. And then all of a sudden he convinced himself that he should
not have written at all. Why not have gone to see her, at any risk, to
plead with herself? But then he would have had to write to beg for a
_tete-a-tete_ interview; and would not that be more distinctly alarming
than this roundabout epistle, which was meant to convey so much
indirectly? Finally, he arrived at the pillar letter-box: and this
indisputable fact brought an end to his cogitations. If he had gone
walking onward he would have wasted the night in fruitless counsel. He
would have repeated again and again the sentences he had used; striven
to picture her as she read; wondered if he ought not still to go back
and strengthen his prayer. But now it was to be yes or no. Well, he
posted the letter; and then he breathed more freely. The die was cast,
for good or ill.
And, indeed, no sooner was the thing done than his spirits rose
considerably, and he walked on with a lighter heart. This solitary
London, all lamp-lit and silent, was a beautiful city. "_Schlaf selig
und suss_," the soft stirring of the night-wind seemed to say: let her
not dread the message the morning would bring! He thought of the other
cities she must have visited; and if--ah, the dream of it!--if he and
she were to go away together to behold the glories of the moonlight on
the lagoon, and the wonders of the sunrise among the hills! He had been
in Rome, he remembered, a wonderful coronet of rubies: would not that do
for the beautiful black masses of hair? Or pearls? She did not appear to
have much jewellery. Or rather--seeing that such things are possible
between husband and wife--would she not accept the value, and far more
than the value, of any jewellery she could desire, to be given away in
acts of kindness? That would be more like Natalie.
He walked on, his heart full of an audacious joy; for now this was the
picture before him; a Buckinghamshire hill; a red and white house among
the beeches; and a spacious lawn looking out on the far and wooded
plain, with its villages, and spires, and tiny curls of smoke. And this
foreign young lady become an English house-mistress; proud of her
nectarines and pineapples; proud of her Hungarian horses; proud of the
quiet and comfort of the home she can offer to her friends, when they
come for a space to rest from their labors.... "_Schlaf selig und
suss!_" the night-wind seemed to say: "The white morning is bringing
with it a message!"
To him the morning brought an end to all those golden dreams of the
night. There action had set in. His old misgivings returned with
redoubled force. For one thing, there was a letter from Reitzei, saying
that the man Kirski had at length consented to begin to work at his
trade, and that Miss Lind need fear no further annoyance; and somehow he
did not like to see her name written in this foreign way of writing. She
belonged to these foreigners; her cares and interests were not those of
one who would feel at home in that Buckhamshire home; she was remote.
And, of course, in her manifold wanderings--in those hotels in which she
had to pass the day, when her father was absent at his secret
interviews--how could she avoid making acquaintances? Even among those
numerous friends of her father's there must have been some one here or
there to accompany her in her drives in the Prater, in her evenings at
La Scala, in her morning walk along the Chiaja. He remembered how seldom
he had seen her; she might have many more friends in London than he had
dreamed of. Who could see her, and remain blind to her beauty? Who could
know her, and remain insensible to the fascination of her enthusiasm,
her faith in the right, her courage, her hope, her frank friendship with
those who would help?
He was impatient with the veteran Waters this morning; and Waters was
himself fractious, and inclined to resent sarcasm. He had just heard
from Buckinghamshire that his substitute had, for some reason or other,
intrusted the keys of the wine-cellar to one of the house-maids; and
that that industrious person had seized the opportunity to tilt up all
the port-wine she could lay her hands on in order to polish the bottles
with a duster.
"Well," said his master, "I suppose she collected the cobwebs and sold
them to a wine-merchant: they would be invaluable."
Waters said nothing, but resolved to have a word with the young woman
when he went down.
The morning was fine; in any case, Brand could not have borne the
distress of waiting in all day, on the chance of her reply coming. He
had to be moving. He walked up to Lisle Street, and saw Reitzei, on the
pretext of talking about Kirski.
"Lind will be back in a week," said the pallid-faced smart young man.
"He writes with great satisfaction, which always means something in his
case. I should not wonder if he and his daughter went to live in the
States."
"Oh, indeed," said Brand, coldly; but the words made his heart tremble.
"Yes. And if you would only go through the remaining degrees, you might
take his place--who knows?"
"Who knows, indeed?" said Brand. "But I don't covet the honor."
There was something in his tone which made the other look up.
"I mean the responsibility," he said, quickly.
"You see," observed Reitzei, leaning back in his chair, "one must admit
you are having rather hard lines. Your work is invaluable to us--Lind is
most proud of it--but it is tedious and difficult, eh? Now if they were
to give you something like the Syrian business--"
"What is that?"
"Oh, only one of the many duties the Society has undertaken," said
Reitzei, carelessly. "Not that I approve because the people are
Christians; it is because they are numerically weak; and the Mahommedans
treat them shamefully. There is no one knows about it; no one to make a
row about it; and the Government won't let the poor wretches import arms
to defend themselves. Very well: very well, messieurs! But your
Government allow the importation of guns for sport. Ha! and then, if one
can find money, and an ingenious English firm to make rifle-barrels to
fit into the sporting-gun stock can you conceive any greater fun than
smuggling these barrels into the country? My dear fellow, it is
glorious: we could have five hundred volunteers! But at the same time I
say your work is more valuable to us. No one but an Englishman could do
it. Every one knows of your success."
Brand thanked Reitzei for his good opinion, and rather absently took up
his hat and left. Instinctively he made his way westward. He was sure to
see her, at a distance, taking this morning stroll of hers: might he not
guess something from her face as to what her reply would be? She could
not have written so soon; she would take time to consider; even a
refusal would, he knew, be gently worded.
In any case, he would see her; and if her answer gave no hope, it would
be the last time on which he would follow that graceful figure from afar
with his eyes, and wonder to himself what the low and musical voice was
saying to Anneli. And as he walked on, he grew more and more
downhearted. It was a certainty that, out of all those friends of her
father's some one must have dreamed of possessing this beautiful prize
for his own.
When, after not much waiting, he saw Natalie and Anneli cross into the
Park, he had so reasoned himself into despair that he was not
surprised--at least he tried to convince himself that he was not
surprised--to perceive that the former was accompanied by a stranger,
the little German maid-servant walking not quite with them, and yet not
altogether behind them. He could almost have expected this; and yet his
eyes seemed hot, and he had some difficulty in trying to make out who
this might be. And at this great distance he could only gather that he
was foreign in appearance, and that he wore a peaked cap in place of a
hat.
He dared not follow them now; and he was about to turn away when he saw
Natalie's new companion motion to her to sit down on one of the seats.
He sat down, too; and he took her hand, and held it in his. What then?
This man looking on from a distance, with a bitter heart, had no thought
against her. Was it not natural for so beautiful a girl to have a lover?
But that this fellow--this foreigner--should degrade her by treating her
as if she were a nursery-maid flirting with one of the soldiers from the
barracks down there, this filled him with bitterness and hatred. He
turned and walked away with a firm step. He had no ill thoughts of her,
whatever message she might send him. At the worst, she had been generous
to him; she had filled his life with love and hope; she had given him a
future. If this dream were shattered, at least he could turn elsewhere,
and say, "Labor, be thou my good."
Meanwhile, of this stranger? He had indeed taken Natalie Lind's hand in
his, and Natalie let it remain there without hesitation.
"My little daughter," said he to her in Italian, "I could have
recognized you by your hands. You have the hands of your mother: no one
in the world had more beautiful hands than she had. And now I will tell
you about her, if you promise not to cry any more."
It was Calabressa who spoke.