FATHER AND DAUGHTER.
When Ferdinand Lind told Calabressa that Natalie had grown to be a
woman, he no doubt meant what he said; but he himself had not the least
notion what the phrase implied. He could see, of course, that she had
now a woman's years, stature, self-possession; but, for all that, she
was still to him only a child--only the dark-eyed, gentle, obedient
little Natalushka, who used to be so proud when she was praised for her
music, and whose only show of resolution was when she set to work on the
grammar of a new language. Indeed, it is the commonest thing in the
world for a son, or a daughter, or a friend to grow in years without
those nearest them being aware of the fact, until some chance
circumstance, some crisis, causes a revelation, and we are astounded at
the change that time has insidiously made.
Such a discovery was now about to confront Ferdinand Lind. He was to
learn not only that his daughter had left the days of her childhood
behind her, but also that the womanhood to which she had attained was of
a fine and firm character, a womanhood that rung true when tried. And
this is how the discovery was forced on him:
On his arrival in London, Mr. Lind drove first to Lisle Street, to pick
up letters on his way home. Beratinsky had little news about business
matters to impart; but, instead, he began--as Lind was looking at some
of the envelopes--to drop hints about Brand. It was easy to see now, he
said, why the rich Englishman was so eager to join them, and give up his
life in that way. It was not for nothing. Mr. Lind would doubtless hear
more at home; and so forth.
Mr. Lind was thinking of other things; but when he came to understand
what these innuendoes meant, he was neither angry nor impatient. He had
much toleration for human weakness, and he took it that Beratinsky was
only a little off his head with jealousy. He was aware that it had been
Beratinsky's ambition to become his son-in-law: a project that swiftly
came to an end through the perfect unanimity of father and daughter on
that point.
"You are a fool, Beratinsky," he said, as he tied the bundle of letters
together. "At your time of life you should not imagine that every one's
head is full of philandering nonsense. Mr. Brand has something else to
think of; besides, he has been in the midland counties all this time."
"Has he? Who, then, was taking your daughter to dinner-parties, to
theatres--I don't know what?"
Lind dealt gently with this madness.
"Who told you?"
"I have eyes and ears."
"Put them to a better use, Beratinsky."
Then he left, and the hansom carried him along to Curzon Street. Natalie
herself flew to the door when she heard the cab drive up: there she was
to receive him, smiling a welcome, and so like her mother that he was
almost startled. She caught his face in her two hands and kissed him.
"Ah, why did you not let me come to meet you at Liverpool?"
"There were too many with me, Natalie. I was busy. Now get Anneli to
open my portmanteau, and you can find out for yourself all the things I
have brought for you."
"I do not care for them, papa; I like to have you yourself back."
"I suppose you were rather dull, Natalushka, being all by yourself?"
"Sometimes. But I will tell you all that has happened when you are
having breakfast."
"I have had breakfast, child. Now I shall get through my letters, and
you can tell me all that has happened afterward."
This was equivalent to a dismissal; so Natalie went up-stairs, leaving
her father to go into the small study, where lay another bundle of
letters for him.
Almost the first that he opened was from George Brand; and to his
amazement he found, not details about progress in the North, but a
simple, straightforward, respectful demand to be permitted to claim the
hand of Natalie in marriage. He did not conceal the fact that this
proposal had already been made to Natalie herself; he ventured to hope
that it was not distasteful to her; he would also hope that her father
had no objections to urge. It was surely better that the future of a
young girl in her position should be provided for. As regarded by
himself, Mr. Lind's acquaintance with him was no doubt but recent and
comparatively slight; but if he wished any further and natural inquiry
into the character of the man to whom he was asked to intrust his
daughter, Lord Evelyn might be consulted as his closest friend. And a
speedy answer was requested.
This letter was, on the whole, rather a calm and business-like
performance. Brand could appeal to Natalie, and that earnestly and
honestly enough; he felt he could not bring himself to make any such
appeal to her father. Indeed, any third person reading this letter would
have taken it to be more of the nature of a formal demand, or something
required by the conventionalities; a request the answer to which was not
of tremendous importance, seeing that the two persons most interested
had already come to an understanding.
But Mr. Lind did not look at it in that light at all. He was at first
surprised; then vexed and impatient, rather than angry; then determined
to put an end to this nonsense at once. If he had deemed the matter more
serious, he would have sat down and considered it with his customary
fore thought; but he was merely irritated.
"Beratinsky was not so mad as I took him to be, after all," he said to
himself. "Fortunately, the affair has not gone too far."
He carried the open letter up-stairs, and found Natalie in the
drawing-room, dusting some pieces of Venetian glass.
"Natalie," he said, with an abruptness that startled her, and in a tone
of anger which was just a little bit affected--"Natalie, what is the
meaning of this folly?"
She turned and regarded him. He held the open letter in his hand. She
said, calmly,
"I do not understand you."
This only vexed him the more.
"I ask you what you have been doing in my absence?" he said, angrily.
"What have you been doing to entitle any man to write me such a letter
as this? His affection! your future!--has he not something else to think
of? And you--you seem not to have been quite so dull when I was away,
after all! Well, it is time to have an end of it. Whatever nonsense may
have been going on, I hope you have both of you come to your senses. Let
me hear no more of it!"
Now she saw clearly what the letter must contain--what had stirred her
father to such an unusual exhibition of wrath. She was a little pale,
but not afraid. There was no tremor in her voice as she spoke.
"I am sorry, papa, you should speak to me like that. I think you forget
that I am no longer a child. I have done nothing that I am ashamed of;
and if Mr. Brand has written to you, I am willing to share the
responsibility of anything he says. You must remember, papa, that I am a
woman, and that I ought to have a voice in anything that concerns my own
happiness."
He looked at her almost with wonder, as if he did not quite recognize
her. Was this the gentle-natured little Natalushka, whose eyes would
fill with tears if she was scolded even in fun?--this tall,
self-possessed girl with the pale face, and the firm and even tones?
"Do you mean to tell me, Natalie, that it is with your consent Brand has
written to me?" her father asked, with frowning brows.
"I did not know he would write. I expected he would."
"Perhaps," said he, with an ironical smile, "perhaps you have taken time
by the forelock, and already promised to be his wife?"
The answer was given with the same proud composure.
"I have not. But I have promised, if I am not his wife, never to be the
wife of any other man."
It was now that Lind began to perceive how serious this matter was. This
was no school-girl, to be frightened out of a passing fancy. He must
appeal to the reason of a woman; and the truth is, that if he had known
he had this to undertake, he would not so hastily have gone into that
drawing-room with the open letter in his hand.
"Sit down Natalie," he said, quite gently. "I want to talk to you. I
spoke hastily; I was surprised and angry. Now let us see calmly how
matters stand; I dare say no great harm has been done yet."
She took a seat opposite him; there was not the least sign of any
girlish breaking down, even when he spoke to her in this kind way.
"I have no doubt you acted quite rightly and prudently when I was away;
and as for Mr. Brand, well, any one can see that you have grown to be a
good-looking young woman, and of course he would like to have a
good-looking young wife to show off among the country people, and to go
riding to hounds with him. Let us see what is involved in your becoming
his wife, supposing that were ever seriously to be thought of. You give
up all your old sympathies and friends, your interest in the work we
have on hand, and you get transferred to a Buckinghamshire country-house
to take the place of the old house-keeper. If you do not hear anything
of what is going on--of our struggles--of your friends all over
Europe--what of that? You will have the kitchen-garden to look after,
and poultry to feed; and your neighbors will talk to you at dinner about
foxes and dogs and horses and the clergyman's charities. It will be a
healthy life, Natalie: perhaps you will get stout and rosy, like an
English matron. But your old friends--you will have forgotten them."
"Never!--never!" she said, vehemently; and, despite herself, her eyes
filled with tears.
"Then we will take Mr. Brand. The Buckinghamshire house is open again.
An Englishman's house is his castle; there is a great deal of work in
superintending it, its entertainments, its dependents. Perhaps he has a
pack of foxhounds; no doubt he is a justice of the peace, and the terror
of poachers. But in the midst of all this hunting, and giving of
dinner-parties, and shooting of pheasants, do you think he has much time
or thought for the future of the millions of poor wretches all over
Europe who once claimed his care? Not much! That was in his days of
irresponsible bachelorhood. Now he is settled down--he is a country
gentleman. The world can set itself right without him. He is anxious
about the price of wheat."
"Ah, how you mistake him, papa!" said she, proudly. And there was a
proud light on her face too as she rose and quickly went to a small
escritoire close by. A few seconds sufficed her to write a short note,
which she brought back to her father.
"There," said she, "I will abide by that test. If he says 'yes,' I will
never see him again--never speak one word to him again."
Her father took the note and read it. It was as follows:
"My Dear Friend,--I am anxious about the future for both of us. If you
will promise me, now and at once, to give up the work you are engaged
in, I will be your wife, when and where you will.
NATALIE."
"Send it!" she said, proudly. "I am not afraid. If he says 'yes,' I will
never see him again."
The challenge was not accepted. He tore the note in two and flung it
into the grate.
"It is time to put an end to this folly," he said impatiently. "I have
shown you what persistence in it would bring on yourself. You would be
estranged from everything and every one you have hitherto been
interested in; you would have to begin a new life, for which you are not
fitted; you would be the means of doing our cause an irreparable injury.
Yes, I say so frankly. The withdrawal of this man Brand, which would
certainly follow, sooner or later, on his marriage, would be a great
blow to us. We have need of his work; we have still more need of his
money. And it is you, you of all people in the world, who would be the
means of taking him away from us!"
"But it is not so, papa," she said in great distress. "Surely you do not
think that I am begging to be allowed to become his wife? That is for
him to decide; I will follow his wishes as far as I can--as far as you
will allow me, papa. But this I know, that, so far from interfering with
the work he has undertaken, it would only spur him on. Should I have
thought of it otherwise? Ah, surely you know--you have said so to me
yourself--he is not one to go back."
"He is an Englishman; you do not understand Englishmen," her father
said; and then he added, firmly, "You are not to be deterred by what may
happen to yourself. Well, consider what may happen to him. I tell you I
will not have this risk run. George Brand is too valuable to us. If you
or he persist in this folly, it will be necessary to provide against all
contingencies by procuring his banishment."
"Banishment!" she exclaimed, with a quick and frightened look.
"That may not sound much to you," said her father, calmly, "for you have
scarcely what may be called a native country. You have lived anywhere,
everywhere. It is different with an Englishman, who has his birthplace,
his family estate, his friends in England."
"What do you mean, papa?" said she, in a low voice. She had not been
frightened by the fancy picture he had drawn of her own future, but this
ominous threat about her lover seemed full of menace.
"I say that, at all hazards," Lind continued, looking at her from under
the bushy eyebrows, "this folly must be brought to an end. It is not
expedient that a marriage between you and Mr. Brand should even be
thought of. You have both got other duties, inexorable duties. It is my
business to see that nothing comes in the way of their fulfilment. Do
you understand?"
She sat dumb now, with a vague fear about the future of her lover; for
herself she had no fear.
"Some one must be sent to Philadelphia, to remain there probably for his
lifetime. Do not drive me to send George Brand."
"Papa!" It was a cry of appeal; but he paid no heed. This matter he was
determined to settle at once.
"Understand, this idle notion must be dropped; otherwise George Brand
goes to the States forthwith, and remains there. Fortunately, I don't
suppose the matter has gone far enough to cause either of you any deep
misery. This is not what one would call a madly impassioned letter."
She scarcely perceived the sneer; some great calamity had befallen her,
of which she as yet scarcely knew the extent; she sat mute and
bewildered--too bewildered to ask why all this thing should be.
"That may not seem much to you," he said, in the same cold, implacable
way. "But banishment for life from his native country, his home, his
friends, is something to an Englishman. And if we are likely to lose his
work in this country through a piece of sentimental folly, we shall take
care not to lose it in America."
She rose.
"Is that all, papa?"
She seemed too stunned to say any more.
He rose also, and took her hand.
"It is better to have a clear understanding, Natalie. Some might say
that I object to your marrying because you are a help to me, and your
going away would leave the house empty. Perhaps you may have some kind
friend put that notion into your head. But that is not the reason why I
speak firmly to you, why I show you you must dismiss this fancy of the
moment--if you have entertained it as well as he--as impossible. I have
larger interests at stake; I am bound to sacrifice every personal
feeling to my duty. And I have shown you what would be the certain
result of such a marriage; therefore, I say, such a marriage is not to
be thought of. Come, now, Natalie, you claim to be a woman: be a woman!
Something higher is wanted from you. What would all our friends think of
you if you were to sink into a position like that--the house-keeper of a
country squire?"
She said nothing; but she went away to her own room and sat down, her
face pale, her heart like lead. And all her thought was of this possible
doom hanging over him if he persisted; and she guessed, knowing
something of him, whether he was likely to be dissuaded by a threat.
Then, for a second or so, a wild despairing fancy crossed her mind, and
her fingers tightened, and the proud mouth grew firm. If it was through
her that this penalty of banishment overtook him, why should she not do
as others had done?
But no--that was impossible. She had not the courage to make such an
offer. She could only sit and think; and the picture before her
imagination was that of her lover sailing away from his native land.
She saw the ship getting farther and farther away from English shores,
until it disappeared altogether in a mist of rain--and tears.