SOME TREASURES.
The next morning Natalie was sitting alone in the little dining-room,
dressed ready to go out. Perhaps she had been crying a little by
herself; but at all events, when she heard the sound of some one being
admitted at the front-door and coming into the passage, she rose, with a
flush of pleasure and relief appearing on her pale and saddened face. It
was Madame Potecki.
"Ah, it is so good of you to come early," said Natalie to her friend,
with a kind of forced cheerfulness. "Shall we start at once? I have been
thinking and thinking myself into a state of misery; and what is the use
of that?"
"Let me look at you," said the prompt little music mistress, taking both
her hands, and regarding her with her clear, shrewd blue eyes. "No; you
are not looking well. The walk will do you good, my dear. Come away,
then."
But Natalie paused in the passage, with some appearance of
embarrassment. Anneli was standing by the door.
"Remember this, Anneli; if any one calls and wishes to see me--and
particularly wishes to see me--you will not say, 'My mistress is gone
out;' you will say, 'My mistress is gone to the South Kensington Museum
with Madame Potecki.' Do you understand that, Anneli?"
"Yes, Fraulein; certainly."
Then they left, going by way of the Park. And the morning was fresh and
bright; the energetic little Polish lady was more talkative and cheerful
than ever; the girl with her had only to listen, with as much appearance
of interest as was possible, considering that her thoughts were so apt
to wonder away elsewhither.
"My dear, what a lovely morning for us to go and look at my treasures!
The other day I was saying to myself, 'There is my adopted daughter
Natalie, and I have not a farthing to leave her. What is the use of
adopting a child if you have nothing to leave her? Then I said to
myself, 'Never mind; I will teach her my theory of living; that will
make her richer than a hundred legacies will do.' Dear, dear! that was
all the legacy my poor husband left to me."
She passed her hand over her eyes.
"Don't you ever marry a man who has anything to do with politics, my
child. Many a time my poor Potecki used to say to me, 'My angel,
cultivate contentment; you may have to live on it some day.'"
"And you have taken his advice, madame; you are very content."
"Why? Because I have my theory. They think that I am poor. It is poor
Madame Potecki, who earns her solitary supper by 'One, two, three, four;
one, two, three, four;' who has not a treasure in the world--except a
young Hungarian lady, who is almost a daughter to her. Well, well; but
you know my way of thinking, my dear, you laugh at it; I know you do.
You say, 'That mad little Madame Potecki.' But some day I will convince
you."
"I am willing to be taught now, madame--seriously. Is it not wise to be
content?"
"I am more than content, my dear; I am proud, I am vain. When I think of
all the treasures that belong to the public, and to me as one of the
public--the Turner landscapes in the National Gallery; the books and
statues in the British Museum; the bronzes and china and jewellery at
South Kensington--do you not think, my dear, that I am thankful I have
no paltry little collection in my own house that I should be ashamed of?
Then look at the care that is taken of them. I have no risk. I am not
disheartened for a day because a servant has broken my best piece of
Nankin blue. I have no trouble and no thought; it is only when I have a
little holiday that I say to myself, 'Well, shall I go and see my
Rembrandts? Or shall I look over my cases of Etruscan rings? Or shall I
go and feast my eyes on the _bleu de roi_ of a piece of jewelled
Sevres?' Oh, my love!"
She clasped her hands in ecstasy. Her volubility had outrun itself and
got choked.
"I will show you three vases," said she, presently, in almost a solemn
way--"I will show you three vases, in white and brown crackle, and put
all the color in the whole of my collection to shame. My dear, I have
never seen in the world anything so lovely--the soft cream-white ground,
the rich brown decoration--the beautiful, bold, graceful shape; and they
only cost sixty pounds!--sixty pounds for three, and they are worth a
kingdom! Why--But really, my dear Natalie, you walk too fast. I feel as
if I were being marched off to prison!"
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" said the girl, laughing. "I am always
forgetting; and papa scolds me often enough for it."
"Have you heard what I told you about those priceless vases in the South
Kensington?"
"I am most anxious to see them, I assure you."
"My blue-and-white," Madame Potecki continued, seriously, "I am afraid
is not always of the best. There are plenty of good pieces, it is true;
but they are not the finest feature of the collection. Oh! the Benares
brocades--I had forgotten them. Ah, my dear, these will make you open
your eyes!"
"But don't you get bewildered, madame, with having to think of so many
possessions?" said Natalie, respectfully.
"No," said the other, in a matter-of-fact way; "I take them one by one.
I pay a morning call here, a morning call there, when I have no
appointments, just to see that everything is going on well."
Presently she said,
"Ah, well, my dear, we are poor weak creatures. Here and there, in my
wanderings I have met things that I almost coveted; but see what an
impossible, monstrous collection they would make! Let me think, now. The
Raphael at Dresden; two Titian portraits in the Louvre; the Venus of
Milo--not the Medici one at all; I would not take it; I swear I would
not accept it, that trivial little creature with the yellow skin!"
"My dear friend, the heavens will fall on you!" her companion exclaimed.
"Wait a moment," said the little music-mistress, reflectively. "I have
not completed my collection. There is a Holy Family of Botticelli's--I
forget where I saw it. And the bust of the Empress Messalina in the
Uffizi: did you ever notice it, Natalie?"
"No."
"Do not forget it when you are in Florence again. You won't believe any
of the stories about her when you see the beautiful refined face; only
don't forget to remark how flat the top of her head is. Well, where are
we, my dear? The bronze head of the goddess in the Castellani
collection: I would have that; and the fighting Temeraire. Will these
do? But then, my dear, even if one had all these things, see what a
monstrous collection they would make. What should I do with them in my
lodgings, even if I had room? No; I must be content with what I have."
By this time they had got down into South Kensington and were drawing
near one of Madame Potecki's great treasure houses.
"Then, you see, my dear Natalie," she continued, "my ownership of these
beautiful things we are going to see is not selfish. It can be
multiplied indefinitely. You may have it too; any one may have it, and
all without the least anxiety!"
"That is very pleasant also," said the girl, who was paying less heed
now. The forced cheerfulness that had marked her manner at starting had
in great measure left her. Her look was absent; she blindly followed her
guide through the little wicket, and into the hushed large hall.
The silence was grateful to her; there was scarcely any one in the
place. While Madame Potecki busied herself with some catalogue or other,
the girl turned aside into a recess, to look at a cast of the effigy on
the tomb of Queen Eleanor of Castile. A tombstone stills the air around
it. Even this gilt plaster figure was impressive; it had the repose of
the dead.
But she had not been standing there for a couple of seconds when she
heard a well-known voice behind her.
"Natalie!"
She knew. There was neither surprise nor shamefacedness in her look when
she turned and saw George Brand before her. Her eyes were as fearless as
ever when they met his; and they were glad, too, with a sudden joy; and
she said, quickly,
"Ah, I thought you would come. I told Anneli."
"It was kind of you--and brave--to let me come to see you."
"Kind?" she said. "How could I do otherwise?"
"But you are looking tired, Natalie."
"I did not sleep much last night. I was thinking."
The tears started to her eyes; she impatiently brushed them aside.
"I know what you were thinking. That is why I came so early to see you.
You were blaming yourself for what has happened. That is not right. You
are not to blame at all. Do you think I gave you that promise for
nothing?"
"You were always like that," she said in a low voice. "Very generous and
unselfish. Yes, I--I--was miserable; I thought if you had never known
me--"
"If I had never known you! You think that would be a desirable thing for
me!--"
But at this moment the hurried, anxious, half-whispered conversation had
to cease, for Madame Potecki came up. Nor was she surprised to find Mr.
Brand there. On the contrary, she said that her time was limited, and
that she could not expect other people to care for old porcelain as much
as she did; and if Mr. Brand would take her dear daughter Natalie to see
some pictures in the rooms up-stairs, she would come and find her out
by-and-by.
"Not at all, dear madame," said Natalie, with some slight flush. "No. We
will go with you to see the three wonderful vases."
So they went, and saw the three crackle vases, and many another piece of
porcelain and enamel and bronze; but always the clever little Polish
woman took care that she should be at some other case, so that she could
not overhear what these two had to say to each other. And they had
plenty to say.
"Why, Natalie, where is your courage? What is the going to America? It
cannot be for ever and ever."
"But even then," she said, in a low, hesitating voice. "If you were
never to see me again, you would blame me for it all. You would regret."
"How can I regret that my life was made beautiful to me, if only for a
time? It was worth nothing to me before. And you are forgetting all
about the ring, and my promise to you."
This light way of talking did not at all deceive her. What had been
torturing her all the night long was the fancy, the suspicion, that her
father was sending her lover to America, not solely with a view to the
work he should have to undertake there, but to insure a permanent
separation between herself and him. That was the cruel bit of it. And
she more than ever admired the manliness of this man, because he would
make no complaint to her. He had uttered no word of protest, for fear of
wounding her. He did not mention her father to her at all; but merely
treated this project of going to America as if it were a part of his
duty that had to be cheerfully accepted.
"After I have once said good-bye to you Natalie" said he, "it will not
be so bad for me. I shall have my work."
"When do you go?" she asked, with rather a white face.
"I don't know yet. It may be a matter of days. You will let me see you
again, my darling--soon?"
"I shall be here every morning, if you wish it" she answered.
"To-morrow, then?"
"To-morrow, at eleven. Anneli will come with me. I should have waited in
on the hope of seeing you this morning; but it was an old engagement
with Madame Potecki. Ah, how good she is! Do you see how she pretends to
be interested in those things?"
"I will send her a present of some old china before I leave England,"
said Brand.
"No, no," said Natalie, with a faint smile appearing on the sad face.
"It would destroy her theory. She does not care for anything at home so
long as she possesses these public treasures. She is very content.
Indeed, she earns enough to be charitable. She has many poor
dependents."
By-and-by Madame Potecki, with great evident reluctance, confessed that
she had to return, as one of her pupils would be at her house by
half-past twelve. But would not Mr. Brand take her dear adopted child to
see some of the pictures? It was a pity that she should be dragged away,
and so forth.
But Natalie promptly put an end to these suggestions by saying that she
would prefer to return with Madame Potecki; and, it being now past
twelve, as soon as they got outside she engaged a cab. George Brand saw
them off, and then returned into the building. He wished to look again
at the objects she had looked at, to recollect every word she had
uttered; to recall the very tones in which she had spoken. And this
place was so hushed and quiet.
Meanwhile, as the occupants of the cab were journeying northward,
Natalie took occasion to say to her companion, with something of a
heightened color,
"You must not imagine, dear madame, that I expected to see Mr. Brand at
the Museum when I promised to go with you."
"But what if you had expected, my child?" said the good-natured
music-mistress. "What harm is there?"
"But this morning I did expect him to come, and that is why I left the
message with Anneli," continued the girl. "Because, do you know, madame,
he is going to America; and when he goes I may not see him for many
years."
"My child!" the demonstrative little woman exclaimed, catching hold of
the girl's hand.
But Natalie was not inclined to be sympathetic at this moment.
"Now I wish you, dear Madame Potecki," she continued in a firm voice,
"to do me a favor. I would rather not speak to my father about Mr.
Brand. I wish you to tell him for me that so long as Mr. Brand remains
in England I shall continue to see him; and that as I do not choose he
should come to my father's house, I shall see him as I saw him this
morning."
"My love, my love, what a frightful duty! Is it necessary?"
"It is necessary that my father should know, certainly."
"But what responsibility!"
"You have no responsibility whatever. Anneli will go with me. All that I
ask of you, dear Madame Potecki, is to take the message to my father.
You will; will you not?"
"More than that I will do for you," said the little woman, boldly. "I
see there is unhappiness; you are suffering, my child. Well, I will
plunge into it; I will see your father: this cannot be allowed. It is a
dangerous thing to interfere--who knows better than I? But to sit near
you is to be inspired; to touch your hand is to gain the courage of a
giant. Yes, I will speak to your father; all shall be put right."
The girl scarcely heard her.
"There is another thing I would ask of you," she said, slowly and
wistfully, "but not here. May I come to you when the lesson is over?"
"At two: yes."
So it was that Natalie called on her friend shortly after two o'clock
and was shown into the little parlor. She was rather pale. She sat down
at one side of the table.
"I wished to ask your advice, dear Madame Potecki," she said, in a low
voice, and with her eyes down. "Now you must suppose a case. You must
suppose that--that two people love each other--better--better than
anything else in the world, and that they are ready to sacrifice a
great deal for each other. Well, the man is ordered away! it is a
banishment from his own country, perhaps forever; and he is very brave
about it, and will not complain. Now you must suppose that the girl is
very miserable about his going away, and blames herself; and
perhaps--perhaps wishes--to do something to show she understands his
nobleness--his devotion; and she would do anything in the world, Madame
Potecki--to prove her love to him--"
"But, child, child, why do you tremble so?"
"I wish you to tell me, Madame Potecki--I wish you to tell
me--whether--you would consider it unwomanly--unmaidenly--for her to go
and say to him, 'You are too brave and unselfish to ask me to go with
you. Now I offer myself to you. If you must go, why not I--your wife?"
Madame Potecki started up in great alarm.
"Natalie, what do you mean?"
"I only--wished to--to ask--what you would think."
She was very pale, and her lips were tremulous; but she did not break
down. Madame Potecki was apparently far more agitated than she was.
"My child, my child, I am afraid you are on the brink of some wild
thing!"
"Is that that I have repeated to you what a girl ought to do?" Natalie
said, almost calmly. "Do you think it is what my mother would have done,
Madame Potecki? They have told me she was a brave woman."