FRIEND AND SWEETHEART.
Madame Potecki was a useful enough adviser in the small and ordinary
affairs of every-day life, but face to face with a great emergency she
became terrified and helpless.
"My dear, my dear," she kept repeating, in a flurried sort of way, "you
must not do anything rash--you must not do anything wild. Oh, my dear,
take care! it is so wicked for children to disobey their parents!"
"I am no longer a child, Madame Potecki; I am a woman: I know what seems
to me just and unjust; and I only wish to do right." She was now quite
calm. She had mastered that involuntary tremulousness of the lips. It
was the little Polish lady who was agitated.
"My dear Natalie, I will go to your father. I said I would go--even with
your message--though it is a frightful task. But how can I tell him that
you have this other project in your mind? Oh, my dear, be cautious!
don't do anything you will have to repent of in after-years!"
"You need not tell him, dear Madame Potecki, if you are alarmed," said
the girl. "I will tell him myself, when I have come to a decision. So
you cannot say what one ought to do in such circumstances? You cannot
tell me what my mother, for example, would have done in such a case?"
"Oh, I can; I can, my dear," said the other, eagerly. "At least I can
tell you what is best and safest. Is it not for a girl to go by her
father's advice--her father's wishes? Then she is safe. Anything else is
wild, dangerous. My dear, you are far too impulsive. You do not think of
consequences. It is all the affair of the moment with you, and how you
can do some one you love a kindness at the instant. Your heart is warm,
and you are quick to act. All the more reason, I say, that you should go
by some one else's judgment; and who can guide you better than your own
father?"
"I know already what my father wishes," said Natalie.
"Then why not go by that, my dear? Be sure it is the safest. Do you
think I would take it on me to say otherwise? Ah, my clear child,
romance is very beautiful at your age; but one may sacrifice too much
for it."
"It is not a question of romance at all," said Natalie, looking down.
"It is a question of what it is right that a girl should do, in
faithfulness to one whom she loves. But perhaps it is better not to
argue it, for one sees so differently at different ages. And I am very
grateful to you, dear Madame Potecki, for agreeing to take that message
to my father; but I will tell him myself."
She rose. The little woman came instantly and caught her by both hands.
"Is my child going to quarrel with me because I am old and
unsympathetic?"
"Oh no; do not think that!" said Natalie, quickly.
"What you say is quite true, my dear; different ages see differently.
When I was at your age, perhaps I was as liable as anyone to let my
heart get the better of my head. And do I regret it?" The little woman
sighed. "Many a time they warned me against marrying one who did not
stand well with the authorities. But I--I had my opinions, too; I was a
patriot, like the rest. We were all mad with enthusiasm. Ah, the secret
meetings in Warsaw!--the pride of them!--we girls would not marry one
who was not a patriot. But that is all over now; and here am I an old
woman, with nothing left but my old masters, and my china, and my 'One,
two, three, four; one, two, three, four.'"
Here a knock outside warned Natalie that she must leave, another pupil,
no doubt, having arrived; and so she bade good-bye to her friend, not
much enlightened or comforted by her counsel.
That evening Mr. Lind brought Beratinsky home with him to dinner--an
unusual circumstance, for at one time Beratinsky had wished to become a
suitor for Natalie's hand, and had had that project very promptly
knocked on the head by Lind himself. Thereafter he had come but seldom
to the house, and never without a distinct invitation. On this evening
the two men talked almost exclusively between themselves, and Natalie
was not sorry to be allowed to remain an inattentive listener. She was
thinking of other things.
When Beratinsky had gone, Lind turned to his daughter, and said to her
pleasantly,
"Well, Natalie, what have you been about to-day?"
"First of all," said she, regarding him with those fearless eyes of
hers, "I went to South Kensington Museum with Madame Potecki. Mr. Brand
was there."
His manner changed instantly.
"By appointment?" he said, sharply.
"No," she answered. "I thought he would call here, and I told Anneli
where we had gone."
Lind betrayed no expression of annoyance. He only said, coldly,
"Last night I told you it was my wish that he and you should have no
further communication with each other."
"Yes; but is it reasonable, is it fair, is it possible, papa?" she said,
forgetting for a moment her forced composure. "Do you think I can forget
why he is going away?"
"Apparently you do not know why he is going away," her father said. "He
is going to America because his duty commands that he should; because he
has work to do there of more importance than sentimental entanglements
in this country. He understands himself the necessity of his going."
The girl's cheeks burnt red, and she sat silent. How could she accuse
her own father of prevarication? But the crisis was a momentous one.
"You forget, papa," she said at length, in a low voice, "that when you
returned from abroad and got Mr. Brand's letter, you came to me. You
said that if there was any further question of a--a marriage--between
Mr. Brand and myself, you would have to send him to America. I was to be
the cause of his banishment."
"I spoke hastily--in anger," her father said, with some impatience.
"Quite apart from any such question, Mr. Brand knows that it is of great
importance some one like himself should go to Philadelphia; and at the
moment I don't see any one who could do as well. Have you anything
further to say?"
"No, papa--except good night." She kissed him on the forehead and went
away to her own room.
That was a night of wild unrest for Natalie Lind. It was her father
himself who had represented to her all that banishment from his native
country meant to an Englishman; and in her heart of hearts she believed
that it was through her this doom had befallen George Brand. She knew he
would not complain. He professed to her that it was only in the
discharge of an ordinary duty he was leaving England: others had
suffered more for less reason; it was nothing; why should she blame
herself? But all the same, through this long, restless, agonizing night
she accused herself of having driven him from his country and his
friends, of having made an exile of him. And again and again she put
before herself the case she had submitted to Madame Potecki; and again
and again she asked herself what her own mother would have done, with
her lover going away to a strange land.
In the morning, long before it was light, and while as yet she had not
slept for a second, she rose, threw a dressing-gown round her, lit the
gas, and went to the little escritoire that stood by the window. Her
hand was trembling when she sat down to write, but it was not with the
cold. There was a proud look on her face. This was what she wrote:
"My lover and husband,--You are going away from your own country,
perhaps forever; and I think it is partly through me that all this has
happened. What can I do? Only this; that I offer to go with you, if you
will take me. I am your wife; why should you go alone?"'
There was no signature. She folded the paper, and placed it in an
envelope, and carefully locked it up. Then she put out the light and
went back to bed again, and fell into a sound, happy, contented
sleep--the untroubled sleep of a child.
Then in the morning how bright and light-hearted she was!
Anneli could not understand this change that had suddenly come over her
young mistress. She said little, but there was a happy light on her
face; she sung "Du Schwert an meiner Linken" in snatches, as she was
dressing her hair; and she presented Anneli with a necklace of Turkish
silver coins.
She was down at South Kensington Museum considerably before eleven
o'clock. She idly walked Anneli through the various rooms, pointing out
to her this and that; and as the little Dresden maid had not been in the
Museum before, her eyes were wide open at the sight of such beautiful
things. She was shown masses of rich tapestry and cases of Japanese
lacquer-work; she was shown collections of ancient jewellery and glass;
she went by sunny English landscapes, and was told the story of solemn
cartoons. In the midst of it all George Brand appeared; and the little
German girl, of her own accord, and quite as deftly as Madame Potecki,
devoted herself to the study of some screens of water-colors, just as if
she were one of the Royal Academy pupils.
"We have been looking over Madame Potecki's treasures once more," said
Natalie. He was struck by the happy brightness of her face.
"Ah, indeed!" said he; and he went and brought a couple of chairs, that
together they might regard, if they were so minded, one of those vast
cartoons. "Well, I have good news, Natalie. I do not start until a clear
week hence. So we shall have six mornings here--six mornings all to
ourselves. Do you know what that means to me?"
She took the chair he offered her. She did not look appalled by this
intelligence of his early departure.
"It means six more days of happiness: and do you not think I shall look
back on them with gratitude? And there is not to be a word said about my
going. No; it is understood that we cut off the past and the future for
these six days. We are here; we can speak to each other; that is
enough."'
"But how can one help thinking of the future?" said she, with a mock
mournfulness. "You are going away alone."
"No, not quite alone."
She looked up quickly.
"Why, you know what Evelyn is--the best-hearted of friends," he said to
her. "He insists on going over to America with me, and even talks of
remaining a year or two. He pretends to be anxious to study American
politics."
He could not understand why she laughed--though it was a short, quick,
hysterical laugh, very near to tears.
"You remind me of one of Mr. Browning's poems," she said, half in
apology. "It is about a man who has a friend and a sweetheart. You don't
remember it, perhaps?"
He thought for a moment.
"The fact is," he said, "that when I think of Browning's poems, all
along the line of them, there are some of them seem to burn like fire,
and I cannot see the others."
"This is a very modest little one," said she. "It is a poor poet
starving in a garret; and he tells you he has a friend beyond the sea;
and he knows that if he were to fall ill, and to wake up out of his
sickness, he would find his friend there, tending him like the gentlest
of nurses, even though he got nothing but grumblings about his noisy
boots. And the--the poor fellow--"
She paused for a second.
"He goes on to tell about his sweetheart--who has ruined him--to whom he
has sacrificed his life and his peace and fame--and what would she do?
He says,
"'She
--I'll tell you--calmly would decree
That I should roast at a slow fire,
If that would compass her desire
And make her one whom they invite
To the famous ball to-morrow night.'
That is--the difference--between a friend and a sweetheart--"
He did not notice that she spoke rather uncertainly, and that her eyes
were wet.
"What do you mean, Natalie?"
"That it is a good thing for you that you have a friend. There is one,
at all events--who will--who will not let you go away alone."
"My darling!" he said, "what new notion is this you have got into your
head? You do not blame yourself for that too? Why, you see, it is a very
simple thing for Lord Evelyn, who is an idle man, and has no particular
ties binding him, to spend a few months in the States; and when he once
finds out that the voyage across is one of the pleasantest holidays a
man can take, I have no doubt I shall see him often enough. Now, don't
let us talk any more about that--except this one point. Have you
promised your father that you will not write to me?"
"Oh no; how could I?"
"And may I write to you?"
"I shall live from week to week expecting your letters," she said
simply.
"Then we shall not say another word about it," said he, lightly. "We
have six days to be together: no one can rob us of them. Come, shall we
go and have a look at the English porcelain that is on this floor? We
have whole heaps of old Chelsea and Crown Derby and that kind of thing
at the Beeches: I think I must try and run down there before I go, and
send you some. What use is it to me?"
"Oh no, I hope you won't do that," she said quickly, as she rose.
"You don't care about it, perhaps?"
She seemed embarrassed for a moment.
"For old china?" she said, after a moment. "Oh yes, I do. But--but--I
think you may find something happen that would make it unnecessary--I
mean it is very kind of you--but I hope you will not think of sending me
any."
"What do you mean? What is about to happen?"
"It is all a mystery and a secret as yet," she said, with a smile. She
seemed so much more light-hearted than she had been the day before.
Then, as they walked by those cases, and admired this or that, she would
recur to this forth-coming departure of his, despite of him. And she was
not at all sad about it. She was curious; that was all. Was there any
difficulty in getting a cabin at short notice? It was from Liverpool
the big steamers sailed, was it not? And it was a very different thing,
she understood, travelling in one of those huge vessels, and crossing
the Channel in a little cockle-shell. He would no doubt make many
friends on board. Did single ladies ever make the voyage? Could a single
lady and her maid get a cabin to themselves? It would not be so very
tedious, if one could get plenty of books. And so forth, and so forth.
She did not study the Chelsea shepherdesses very closely.
"I'll tell you what I wish you would do, Natalie," said he.
"I will do it," she answered.
"When Lord Evelyn comes back--some day I wish you would take Anneli with
you for a holiday--and Evelyn would take you down to have a look over
the Beeches. You could be back the same night. I should like you to see
my mother's portrait."
She did not answer.
"Will you do that?"
"You will know before long," she said, in a low voice, "why I need not
promise that to you. But that, or anything else I am willing to do, if
you wish it."
The precious moments sped quickly. And as they walked through the almost
empty rooms--how silent these were, with the occasional foot-falls on
the tiled floors, and once or twice the distant sounding of a bell
outside!--again and again he protested against her saying another word
about his going away. What did it matter? Once the pain of parting was
over, what then? He had a glad work before him. She must not for a
moment think she had anything to do with it. And he could not regret
that he had ever met her, when he would have these six mornings of happy
intercommunion to think over, when the wide seas separated them?
"Natalie," said he, reproachfully, "do you forget the night you and I
heard _Fidelio_ together? And you think I shall regret ever having seen
you."
She smiled to herself. Her hand clasped a certain envelope that he could
not see.
Then the time came for their seeking out Anneli. But as they were going
through the twilight of a corridor she stopped him, and her usually
frank eyes were downcast. She took out that envelope.
"Dearest," she said, almost inaudibly, "this is something I wish you to
read after Anneli and I am gone. I think you will--you will not
misunderstand me. If you think--it is--it is too bold, you will remember
that I have--no mother to advise me; and--and you will be kind, and not
answer. Then I shall know."
Ten minutes thereafter he was standing alone, in the broad daylight
outside, reading the lines she had written early that morning, and in
every one of them he read the firm and noble character of the woman he
loved. He was almost bewildered by the proud-spirited frankness of her
message to him; and involuntarily he thought of the poor devil of a poet
in the garret who spoke of his faithful friend and his worthless
mistress.
"One is fortunate indeed to have a friend like Evelyn," he said to
himself. "But when and has, besides that, the love of a woman like
this--then the earth holds something worth living for."
He looked at the brief, proud, pathetic message again--"_I am your wife:
why should you go alone?_" It was Natalie herself speaking in every
word.