A CLIMAX.
It was a momentous decision that George Brand had to arrive at; and yet
he scarcely seemed to be aware of it. The man had changed so much during
these past six months.
"Do you know, Evelyn," he was saying to his friend, on the very evening
on which his answer was to be given to Ferdinand Lind, "I am beginning
to look on that notion of my going to America with anything but dislike.
Rather the opposite, indeed. I should like to get rid of a lot of old
associations, and start in a new and wider field. With another life to
lead, don't you want another sort of world to live it in?"
Lord Evelyn regarded him. No one had observed with a closer interest the
gradual change that had come over this old friend of his. And he was
proud of it, too; for had it not been partly of his doing?
"One does not breathe free air here," Brand continued, rather
absently--as if his mental vision was fixed on the greater spaces beyond
the seas. "With a new sort of life beginning, wouldn't it be better to
start it under new conditions--feeling yourself unhampered--with nothing
around to disturb even the foolishness of your dreams and hopes? Then
you could work away at your best, leaving the result to time."
"I know perfectly what all that means," Lord Evelyn said. "You are
anxious to get away from Lind. You believe in your work, but you don't
like to be associated with him."
"Perhaps I know a little more than you, Evelyn," said Brand, gently, "of
Lind's relation to the society. He does not represent it to me at all.
He is only one of its servants, like ourselves. But don't let us talk
about him."
"You _must_ talk about him," Lord Evelyn said, as he pulled out his
watch. "It is now seven. At eight you go to the initiation of Molyneux,
and you have promised to give Lind his answer to-night. Well?"
Brand was playing idly with a pocket-pencil. After a minute or two, he
said,
"I promised Natalie to consider this thing without any reference to her
whatever--that I would decide just as if there was no possibility of her
becoming my wife. I promised that; but it is hard to do, Evelyn. I have
tried to imagine my never having seen her, and that I had been led into
this affair solely through you. Then I do think that if you had come to
me and said that my giving up every penny I possess would forward a good
work--would do indirect benefit to a large number of people, and so
forth--I do think I could have said, 'All right, Evelyn; take it.' I
never cared much for money; I fancy I could get on pretty well on a
sovereign a week. I say that if you had come to me with this request--"
"Precisely," Lord Evelyn said, quickly. "You would have said yes, if I
had come to you. But because it is Lind, whom you distrust, you fall
away from the height of self-sacrifice, and regard the proposal from the
point of view of the Waldegrave Club. Mind you, I am not counselling you
one way or the other. I am only pointing out to you that it is your
dislike of Lind that prevents your doing what you otherwise would have
done."
"Very well," said the other, boldly. "Have I not reason to distrust him?
How can I explain his conduct and his implied threats except on the
supposition that he has been merely playing with me, as far as his
daughter is concerned; and that as soon as I had handed over this
property I should find it out? Oh, it is a very pretty scheme
altogether! This heap of English money transferred to the treasury; Lind
at length achieving his ambition of being put on the Council; Natalie
carried off to Italy; and myself granted the honor of stepping into
Lind's shoes in Lisle Street. On the other hand: 'Refuse, and we pack
you off to America.' Now, you know, Evelyn, one does not like to be
threatened into anything!"
"Then you have decided to say, No?"
He did not answer for a second or two; when he did, his manner was quite
changed.
"I rather think I know what both you and Natalie would have me do,
although you won't say so explicitly. And if you and she had come to me
with this proposal, do you think there would have been any difficulty? I
should have been satisfied if she had put her hand in mine, and said,
'Thank you.' Then I should have reminded her that she was sacrificing
something too."
He relapsed into silence again; Lord Evelyn was vaguely conscious that
the minutes were passing by, and that his friend seemed as far off as
ever from any decision.
"You remember the old-fashioned rose-garden, Evelyn?"
"At the beeches? Yes."
"Don't you think Natalie would like the view from that side of the
house? And if she chose that side, I was thinking of having a
conservatory built all the length of the rooms, with steps opening out
into the rose-garden. She could go out there for a stroll of a morning."
So these had been his dreams.
"If I go to America," he said presently, "I should expect you to look
after the old place a little bit. You might take your sisters there
occasionally, and turn them loose; it wants a woman's hand here and
there. Mrs. Alleyne would put you all right; and of course I should send
Waters down, and give up those rooms in Buckingham Street."
"But I cannot imagine your going to America, somehow," Lord Evelyn
said. "Surely there is plenty for you to do here."
"I will say this of Lind, that he is not an idle talker. What he says he
means. Besides, Molyneux can take up my work in the North; he is the
very man."
Again silence. It was now half-past seven.
"I wish, though, it had been something more exciting," Brand said. "I
should not have minded having a turn at the Syrian business; I am not
much afraid of risking my neck. There is not much danger in
Philadelphia."
"But look here, Brand," said Lord Evelyn, regarding him attentively.
"You are speaking with great equanimity about your going to America;
possibly you might like the change well enough; but do I understand you
that you are prepared to go alone?"
Brand looked up; he understood what was meant.
"If I am ordered--yes."
He held out his right hand; on the third finger there was a massive gold
ring--a plain hoop, without motto or design whatever.
"There," said he, "is the first ring I ever wore. It was given to me
this afternoon, to remind me of a promise; and that promise is to me
more binding than a hundred oaths."
He rose with a sigh.
"Ah, well, Evelyn, whatever happens we will not complain. There have
been compensations."
"But you have not told me what answer you mean to give to Lind."
"Suppose I wait until I see him before deciding?"
"Then you will say, No. You have allowed your distrust of him to become
a sort of mania, and the moment you see him the mere sight of him will
drive you into antagonism."
"I tell you what I wish I could do, Evelyn," said the other, laughing:
"I wish I could turn over everything I have got to you, and escape
scot-free to America and start my own life free and unencumbered."
"And alone?"
His face grew grave again.
"There is nothing possible else!" said he.
It was nearly eight o'clock when he left. As he walked along Piccadilly,
a clear and golden twilight was shining over the trees in the Green
Park. All around him was the roar of the London streets; but it was not
that that he heard. Was it not rather the sound of a soft, low voice,
and the silvery notes of the zither? His memory acted as a sea-shell,
and brought him an echo from other days and other climes.
"Behold the beautiful night--the wind sleeps drowsily--the silent
shores slumber in the dark:
"Sul placido elemento
Vien meco a navigar!
"The soft wind moves--as it stirs among the leaves--it moves and
dies--among the murmur of the water:
"Lascia l'amico tetto,
Vien meco a navigar!
"Now on the spacious mantle--of the already darkening heavens--see,
oh the shining wonder--how the white stars tremble:
"Sul l'onde addormentate
Vien meco a navigar!"
This was the voice that he heard amidst the roar of the London streets.
Would he hear it far away on the wide Atlantic, with the shores of
England hidden behind the mists of rain? To-night was to decide what the
future of his life was to be.
If Natalie had appeared at this moment, and said to him, "Dearest, let
it be as my father wishes;" or if Lord Evelyn had frankly declared to
him that it was his duty to surrender his possessions to this Society to
which he had devoted his life, there would have been not a moment's
hesitation. But now he was going to see a man whom he suspected and was
inclined to hate, and his nature began to harden. It would be a question
between one man of the world and another. Sentiment would be put aside.
He would no longer be played with. A man should be master of his own
affairs.
This was what he said to himself. But he had quite forgotten his
determination to consider this matter as if no Natalie existed; and his
resolve to exclude sentiment altogether did not interfere with the fact
that always, if unconsciously, there remained in his mind a certain
picture he had been dreaming a good deal about of late. It was a picture
of an old-fashioned rose-garden in the light of an English summer
morning, with a young wife walking there, herself taller and fairer than
any flower. Would she sing, in her gladness, the songs of other lands,
to charm the sweet English air? There was that one about _O dolce
Napoli!--o suol beato!_--
When he got to Lisle Street, every one had arrived except Molyneux
himself. Mr. Lind was gravely polite to him. Of course no mention could
then be made about private affairs; the talk going on was all about the
East, and how certain populations were faring.
Presently the pink-faced farmer-agitator was ushered in, looking a
little bit alarmed. But this frightened look speedily disappeared, and
gave place to one of mild astonishment, as he appeared to recognize the
faces of one or two of those in the room. The business of the evening,
so far as the brief formalities were concerned, was speedily got over,
and five of the members of the small assembly immediately left.
"Now, Mr. Molyneux," said Ferdinand Lind, pleasantly, "Mr. Brand and I
have some small private matters to talk over: will you excuse us if we
leave you for a few minutes? Here are some articles of our association
which you may look over in the mean time. May I trouble you to follow
me, Mr. Brand?"
Brand followed him into an inner and smaller room, and sat down.
"You said you would have your mind made up to-day with regard to the
proposal I put before you," Mr. Lind observed, with a matter-of-fact
air, as he drew in his chair to the small table.
Brand simply nodded, and said "Yes." He was measuring his man. He
thought his manner was a good deal too suave.
"But allow me to say, my dear Mr. Brand, that, as far I am concerned,
there is no hurry. Have you given yourself time? It is a matter of
moment; one should consider."
"I have considered."
His tone was firm: one would have thought he had never had any
hesitation at all. But his decision had not been definitely arrived at
until, some quarter of an hour before, he had met Ferdinand Lind face to
face.
"I may say at once that I prefer to remain in my present grade."
He was watching Lind as he spoke. There was a slight, scarcely
perceptible, movement of the eyebrows; that was all. The quiet courtesy
of his manner remained undisturbed.
"That is your decision, then?" he said, just as if some trifling matter
had been arranged.
"Perhaps I need not bother you with my reasons," Brand continued,
speaking slowly and with precision, "but there are several."
"I have no doubt you have given the subject serious consideration,"
said Mr. Lind, without expressing any further interest or curiosity.
Now this was not at all what George Brand wanted. He wanted to have his
suspicions allayed or confirmed. He wanted to let this man know how he
read the situation.
"One reason I may as well name to you, Mr. Lind," said he, being forced
to speak more plainly. "If I were to marry, I should like to give my
wife a proper home. I should not like her to marry a pauper--one
dependent on the complaisance of other people. And really it has seemed
to me strange that you, with your daughter's future, your daughter's
interests to think of, should have made this proposal--"
Lind interrupted him with a slight deprecatory motion of the hand.
"Pardon me," said he. "Let us confine ourselves to business, if you
please."
"I presume it is a man's business to provide for the future of his
wife," said Brand, somewhat hotly, his pride beginning to kick against
this patronizing graciousness of manner.
"I must beg of you, my dear sir," said Mr. Lind, with the same calm
courtesy, "to keep private interests and projects entirely outside of
this matter, which relates to the Society alone, and your duty, and the
wishes of those with whom you are associated. You have decided?--very
well. I am sorry; but you are within your right."
"How can you talk like that?" said Brand, bluntly. "Sorry that your
daughter is not to marry a beggar?"
"I must decline to have Natalie introduced into this subject in any way
whatever," said Mr. Lind.
"Let us drop the subject, then," said Brand, in a friendly way, for he
was determined to have some further enlightenment. "Now about Natalie.
May I ask you plainly if you have any objection to a marriage between
her and myself?"
The answer was prompt and emphatic.
"I have every objection. I have said before that it would be inexpedient
in many ways. It is not to be thought of."
Brand was not surprised by this refusal; he had expected it; he had put
the question as a matter of form.
"Now one other question, Mr. Lind, and I shall be satisfied," said he,
watching the face of the man opposite him with a keen scrutiny. "Was it
ever your intention, at any time, to give your consent to our marriage,
in any circumstances whatever?"
Ferdinand Lind was an admirable actor.
"Is it worth while discussing imaginary things--possibilities only?" he
said, carelessly.
"Because, you see," continued Brand, who was not to be driven from his
point, "any plain and ordinary person, looking from the outside at the
whole affair, might imagine that you had been merely temporizing with
me, neither giving nor refusing your consent, until I had handed over
this money; and that, as you had never intended to let your daughter
marry, that was the reason why you did not care whether I retained a
penny of my own property or not."
Lind did not flinch for an instant; nor was there the slightest trace of
surprise, or annoyance, or resentment in his look. He rose and pushed
back his chair.
"Suppose we let outsiders think what they please, Mr. Brand," said he,
with absolute composure. "We have more serious matters to attend to."
Brand rose also. He guessed what was coming, and he had nerved himself
to face it. The whole course of this man's action was now as clear to
him as noonday.
"I have been considering further the suggestion I mentioned to you the
other day, that you should go over to some of the big American cities,"
said Mr. Lind, almost with an indifferent air as he turned over some
papers. "We are strong there; you will find plenty of friends; but what
is wanted is cohesion, arrangement, co-operation. Now you say yourself
this Mr. Molyneux would be an admirable successor to you in the North?"
"None better," said Brand. This sentence of banishment had been
foreseen; he knew how to encounter it when it came.
"I think, on the whole, it would be advisable then. When could you go?"
"I could start to-night," he said. But then, despite himself, a blush of
embarrassment mounted to his forehead, and he added quickly, "No; not
to-night. The day after to-morrow."
"There is no need for any such great hurry," said Mr. Lind, with his
complaisant smile. "You will want much direction, many letters. Come,
shall we join your friend in the other room?"
The two men, apparently on the best of terms, went back to Molyneux, and
the talk became general. George Brand, as he sat there, kept his right
hand shut tight, that so he could press the ring that Natalie had given
him; and when he thought of America, it was almost with a sense of
relief. She would approve; he would not betray his promise to her But
if only that one moment were over in which he should have to bid her
farewell!