THE MOTHER.
This beautiful, pale, trembling mother: she stood there, dark against
the light of the window; but even in the shadow how singularly like she
was to Natalie, in the tall, slender, elegant figure, the proud set of
the head, the calm, intellectual brows, and the large, tender, dark
eyes, as soft and pathetic as those of a doe--only this woman's face was
worn and sad, and her hair was silver-gray.
She was greatly agitated, and for a second or two incapable of speech.
But when he began in French to apologize for his intrusion, she eagerly
interrupted him.
"Ah, no, no!" she said, in the same tongue. "Do not waste words in
apology. You have come to tell me about my child, my Natalie: Heaven
bless you for it; it is a great kindness. To-day I saw you walking with
her--listening to her voice--ah, how I envied you!--and once or twice I
thought of going to her and taking her hand, and saying only one
word--'Natalushka!'"
"That would have been a great imprudence," said he gravely. "If you wish
to speak to your daughter--"
"If I wish to speak to her!--if I wish to speak to her!" she exclaimed;
and there were tears in her voice, if there were none in the sad eyes.
"You forget, madame, that your daughter has been brought up in the
belief that you died when she was a mere infant. Consider the effect of
any sudden disclosure."
"But has she never suspected? I have passed her; she has seen me. I gave
her a locket: what did she think?"
"She was puzzled, yes; but how would it occur to the girl that any one
could be so cruel as to conceal from her all those years the fact that
her mother was alive?"
"Then you yourself, monsieur--"
"I knew it from Calabressa."
"Ah, my old friend Calabressa! And he was here, in London, and he saw my
Natalie. Perhaps--"
She paused for a second.
"Perhaps it was he who sent the message. I heard--it was only a word or
two--that my daughter had found a lover."
She regarded him. She had the same calm fearlessness of look that dwelt
in Natalie's eyes.
"You will pardon me, monsieur. Do I guess right? It is to you that my
child has given her love?"
"That is my happiness," said he. "I wish I were better worthy of it."
She still regarded him very earnestly, and in silence.
"When I heard," she said, at length, in a low voice, "that my Natalie
had given her love to a stranger, my heart sunk. I said, 'More than ever
is she away from me now;' and I wondered what the stranger might be
like, and whether he would be kind to her. Now that I see you, I am not
so sad. There is something in your voice, in your look, that tells me to
have confidence in you: you will be kind to Natalie."
She seemed to be thinking aloud: and yet he was not embarrassed by this
confession, nor yet by her earnest look; he perceived how all her
thoughts were really concentrated on her daughter.
"Her father approves?" said this sad-faced, gray-haired woman.
"Oh no; quite the contrary."
"But he is kind to her?" she said, quickly, and anxiously.
"Oh yes," he answered. "No doubt he is kind to her. Who could be
otherwise?"
She had been so agitated at the beginning of this interview that she had
allowed her visitor to remain standing. She now asked him to be seated,
and took a chair opposite to him. Her nervousness had in a measure
disappeared; though at times she clasped the fingers of both hands
together, as if to force herself to be composed.
"You will tell me all about it, monsieur; that I may know what to say
when I speak to my child at last. Ah, heavens, if you could understand
how full my heart is: sixteen years of silence! Think what a mother has
to say to her only child after that time! It was cruel--cruel--cruel!"
A little convulsive sob was the only sign of her emotion, and the
lingers were clasped together.
"Pardon me, madame," said he, with some hesitation; "but, you see, I do
not know the circumstances--"
"You do not know why I dared not speak to my own daughter?" she said,
looking up in surprise. "Calabressa did not tell you?"
"No. There were some hints I did not understand."
"Nor of the reasons that forced me to comply with such an inhuman
demand? Alas! these reasons exist no longer. I have done my duty to one
whose life was sacred to me; now his death has released me from fear; I
come to my daughter now. Ah, when I fold her to my heart, what shall I
say to her--what but this?--'Natalushka, if your mother has remained
away from you all these years, it was not because she did not love
you.'"
He drew his chair nearer, and took her hand.
"I perceive that you have suffered, and deeply. But your daughter will
make amends to you. She loves you now; you are a saint to her; your
portrait is her dearest possession--"
"My portrait?" she said, looking rather bewildered. "Her father has not
forbidden her that, then?"
"It was Calabressa who gave it to her quite recently."
She gently withdrew her hand, and glanced at the table, on which two
books lay, and sighed.
"The English tongue is so difficult," she said. "And I have so much--so
much--to say! I have written out many things that I wish to tell her;
and have repeated them, and repeated them; but the sound is not
right--the sound is not like what my heart wishes to say to her."
"Reassure yourself, madame, on that point," said he, cheerfully: "I
should imagine there is scarcely any language in Europe that your
daughter does not know something of. You will not have to speak English
to her at all."
She looked up with bright eagerness in her eyes.
"But not Magyar?"
"I do not know for certain," he said, "for I don't know Magyar myself;
but I am almost convinced she must know it. She has told me so much
about her countrymen that used to come about the house; yes, surely they
would speak Magyar."
A strange happy light came into the woman's face; she was communing with
herself--perhaps going over mentally some tender phrases, full of the
soft vowel sounds of the Magyar tongue.
"That," said she, presently, and in a low voice, "would be my crowning
joy. I have thought of what I should say to her in many languages; but
always 'My daughter, I love you,' did not have the right sound. In our
own tongue it goes to the heart. I am no longer afraid: my girl will
understand me."
"I should think," said he, "you will not have to speak much to assure
her of your love."
She seemed to become a great deal more cheerful; this matter had
evidently been weighing on her mind.
"Meanwhile," she said, "you promised to tell me all about Natalie and
yourself. Her father does not approve of your marrying. Well, his
reasons?"
"If he has any, he is careful to keep them to himself," he said. "But I
can guess at some of them. No doubt he would rather not have Natalie
marry; it would deprive him of an excellent house-keeper. Then
again--and this is the only reason he does give--he seems to consider it
would be inexpedient as regards the work we are all engaged in--"
"You!" she said, with a sudden start. "Are you in the Society also?"
"Certainly, madame."
"What grade?"
He told her.
"Then you are helpless if he forbids your marriage."
"On the contrary, madame, my marriage or non-marriage has nothing
whatever to do with my obedience to the Society."
"He has control over Natalie--"
"Until she is twenty-one," he answered promptly.
"But," she said, regarding him with some apprehension in her eyes, "you
do not say--you do not suggest--that the child is opposed to her
father--that she thinks of marrying you, when she may legally do so,
against his wish?"
"My dear madame," said he, "it will be difficult for you to understand
how all this affair rests until you get to know something more about
Natalie herself. She is not like other girls. She has courage; she has
opinions of her own: when she thinks that such and such a thing is
right, she is not afraid to do it, whatever it may be. Now, she believes
her father's opposition to be unjust; and--and perhaps there is
something else that has influenced her: well, the fact is, I am ordered
off to America, and--and the girl has a quick and generous nature, and
she at once offered to share what she calls my banishment."
"To leave her father's house!" said the mother, with increasing alarm.
Brand looked at her. He could not understand this expression of anxious
concern. If, as he was beginning to assure himself, Lind was the cause
of that long and cruel separation between mother and daughter, why
should this woman be aghast at the notion of Natalie leaving such a
guardian? Or was it merely a superstitious fear of him, similar to that
which seemed to possess Calabressa?
"In dealing with your daughter, madame," he continued, "one has to be
careful not to take advantage of her forgetfulness of herself. She is
too willing to sacrifice herself for others. Now to-day we were
talking--as she is not free to marry until she is twenty-one--about her
perhaps going over to America under the guardianship of Madame
Potecki--"
"Madame Potecki."
"She is a friend of your daughter's--almost a mother to her; and I am
not sure but that Natalie would willingly do that--more especially under
your guardianship, in preference to that of Madame Potecki--"
"Oh no, no!" she exclaimed, instantly. "She must not dare her father
like that. Oh, it would be terrible! I hope you will not allow her."
"It is not a question of daring; the girl has courage enough for
anything," he said coolly. "The thing is that it would involve too great
a sacrifice on her part; and I was exceedingly selfish to think of it
for a moment. No; let her remain in her father's house until she is free
to act as her own mistress; then, if she will come to me, I shall take
care that a proper home is provided for her. She must not be a wanderer
and a stranger."
"But even then, when she is free to act, you will not ask her to disobey
her father? Oh, it will be too terrible!"
Again he regarded her with amazement.
"What do you mean, madame? What is terrible? Or is it that you are
afraid of him? Calabressa spoke like that."
"You do not know of what he is capable," she said, with a sigh.
"All the more reason," he said, directly, "why she should be removed
from his guardianship. But permit me to say, madame, that I do not quite
share your apprehensions. I have seen nothing of the bogey kind about
your husband. Of course, he is a man of strong will, and he does not
like to be thwarted: without that strength of character he could not
have done what he has done. But he also knows that his daughter is no
longer a child, and when the proper time comes you will find that his
common sense will lead him to withdraw an opposition which would
otherwise be futile. Do I explain myself clearly? My dear madame, have
no anxiety about the future of your daughter. When you see herself, when
you speak to her, you will find that she is one who is not given to
fear."
For a moment the apprehensive look left her face. She remained silent, a
happier light coming into her eyes.
"She is not sad and sorrowful, then?" she said, presently.
"Oh no; she is too brave."
"What beautiful hair she has!" said this worn-faced woman with the sad
eyes. "Ah, many a time I have said to myself that when I take her to my
heart I will feel the beautiful soft hair; I will stroke it; her head
will lie on my bosom, and I will gather courage from her eyes: when she
laughs my heart will rejoice! I have lived many years in solitude--in
secret, with many apprehensions; perhaps I have grown timid and fearful;
once I was not so. But I have been troubling myself with fears; I have
said, 'Ah, if she looks coldly on me, if she turns away from me, then my
heart will break!'"
"I do not think you have much to fear," said he, regarding the
beautiful, sad face.
"I have tried to catch the sound of her voice," she continued, absently,
and her eyes were filled with tears, "but I could not do that. But I
have watched her, and wondered. She does not seem proud and cold."
"She will not be proud or cold to you," he said, "when she is kindness
and gentleness to all the world."
"And--and when shall you see her again?" she asked, timidly.
"Now," he said. "If you will permit me, I will go to her at once. I will
bring her to you."
"Oh no!" she exclaimed hastily drying her eyes. "Oh no! She must not
find a sad mother, who has been crying. She will be repelled. She will
think, 'I have enough of sadness.' Oh no, you must let me collect
myself: I must be very brave and cheerful when my Natalie comes to me. I
must make her laugh, not cry."
"Madame," said he, gravely, "I may have but a few days longer in
England: do you think it is wise to put off the opportunity? You see,
she must be prepared; it would be a terrible shock if she were to know
suddenly. And how can one tell what may happen to-morrow or next day? At
the present moment I know she is at home; I could bring her to you
directly."
"Just now?" she said; and she began to tremble again. She rose and went
to a mirror.
"She could not recognize herself in me. She would not believe me. And I
should frighten her with my mourning and my sadness."
"I do not think you need fear, madame."
She turned to him eagerly.
"Perhaps you would explain to her? Ah, would you be so kind! Tell her I
have seen much trouble of late. My father has just died, after years of
illness; and we were kept in perpetual terror. You will tell her why I
dared not go to her before: oh no! not that--not that!"
"You forget, madame, that I myself do not know."
"It is better she should not know--better she should not know!" she
said, rapidly. "No, let the girl have confidence in her father while she
remains in his house. Perhaps some time she may know; perhaps some one
who is a fairer judge than I will tell her the story and make excuses:
it must be that there is some excuse."
"She will not want to know; she will only want to come to you."
"But half an hour, give me half an hour," she said, and she glanced
round the room. "It is so poor a chamber."
"She will not think of the chamber."
"And the little girl with her--she will remain down-stairs, will she
not? I wish to be alone, quite alone, with my child." Her breath came
and went quickly, and she clasped her fingers tight. "Oh, monsieur, my
heart will break if my child is cold to me!"
"That is the last thing you have to fear," said he, and he rose. "Now
calm yourself, madame. Recollect, you must not frighten your daughter.
And it will be more than half an hour before I bring her to you; it will
take more than that for me to break it to her."
She rose also; but she was obviously so excited that she did not know
well what she was doing. All her thoughts were about the forth-coming
interview.
"You are sure she understands the Magyar?" she said again.
"No, I do not know. But why not speak in French to her?"
"It does not sound the same--it does not sound the same: and a
mother--can only--talk to her child--"
"You must calm yourself, dear madame. Do you know that your daughter
believes you to have been a miracle of courage and self-reliance? What
Calabressa used to say to her was this: 'Natalushka, when you are in
trouble you will be brave; you will show yourself the daughter of
Natalie Berezolyi.'"
"Yes, yes," she said, quickly, as she again dried her eyes, and drew
herself up. "I beg you to pardon me. I have thought so much of this
meeting, through all these years, that my hearts beats too quickly now.
But I will have no fear. She will come to me; I am not afraid: she will
not turn away from me. And how am I to thank you for your great
kindness?" she added, as he moved to the door.
"By being kind to Natalie when I am away in America," said he. "You
will not find it a difficult task."