A SUMMONS.
"Mother," said the girl, in the soft-sounding Magyar, as these two were
together going down-stairs, "give me your hand; let me hold it tight, to
make sure. All the way here I kept terrifying myself by thinking it must
be a dream; that I should wake, and find the world empty without you,
just as before. But now--now with your hand in mine, I am sure."
"Natalushka, you can hear me speak also. Ghosts do not speak like this,
do they?"
Brand had preceded them to open the door. As Natalie was passing him she
paused for a second, and regarded him with the beautiful, tender, dark
eyes.
"I am not likely to forget what I owe to you," she said in English.
He followed them into the cab.
"What you owe to me?" he said, lightly. "You owe me nothing at all. But
if you wish to do me a good turn, you may pretend to be pleased with
whatever old Waters can get together for you. The poor old fellow will
be in a dreadful state. To entertain two ladies, and not a moment of
warning! However, we will show you the river, and the boats and things,
and give him a few minutes' grace."
Indeed, it was entirely as a sort of harmless frolic that he chose to
regard this present excursion of theirs. He was afraid of the effect of
excessive emotion on this worn woman, and he was anxious that she should
see her daughter cheerful and happy. He would not have them think of any
future; above all, he would have nothing said about himself or America;
it was all an affair of the moment--the joyous re-union of mother and
daughter--a pleasant morning with London all busy and astir--the only
serious thing in the whole world the possible anxieties and struggles of
the venerable major-domo in Buckingham Street.
He had not much difficulty in entertaining these two guests of his on
their way down. They professed to be greatly interested in the history
and antiquities of the old-fashioned little thoroughfare over the river;
arrived there, they regarded with much apparent curiosity the houses
pointed out to them as having been the abode of illustrious personages:
they examined the old water gate; and, in ascending the oak staircase,
they heard of painted ceilings and what not with a deep and respectful
attention. But always these two had each other's hand clasped tight, and
occasionally Natalie murmured a little snatch of Magyar. It was only to
make sure, she explained.
Before they reached the topmost story they heard a considerable noise
overhead. It was a one-sided altercation; broken and piteous on the one
hand, voluble and angry on the other.
"It sounds as if Waters were having a row with the man in possession,"
Brand said.
They drew nearer.
"Why, Natalie, it is your friend Kirski!"
Brand was following his two guests up-stairs; and so could not interfere
between the two combatants before they arrived. But the moment that
Natalie appeared on the landing there was a dead silence. Kirski shrunk
back with a slight exclamation, and stood looking from one to the other
with a frightened air. She advanced to him and asked him what was the
matter, in his native tongue. He shrunk farther back. The man could not
or would not speak. He murmured something to himself, and stared at her
as if she were a spectre.
"He has got a letter for you, sir," Waters said; "I have seen the
address; and he will neither leave it nor take it. And as for what he
has been trying to say, Lord A'mighty knows what it is--I don't."
"Very well--all right," Brand said. "You leave him to us. Cut away and
get some luncheon--whatever you can find--at once."
But Natalie had gone nearer to the Russian, and was talking to him in
that fearless, gentle way of hers. By-and-by he spoke, in an uncertain,
almost gasping voice. Then he showed her a letter; and, in obedience to
something she said, went timidly forward and placed it in Brand's hand.
"_A Monsieur,
M. George Brand, Esq.,
Londres._"
This was the superscription; and Brand recognized the handwriting easily
enough.
"The letter is from Calabressa," he said obviously. "Tell him not to be
alarmed. We shall not eat him, however hungry we may be."
Kirski had recovered himself somewhat, and was speaking eagerly to her,
in a timid, anxious, imploring fashion. She listened in silence; but she
was clearly somewhat embarrassed, and when she turned to her lover there
was some flush of color on her face.
"He talks some wild things," she said, "and some foolish things; but he
means no harm. I am sorry for the poor man. He is afraid you are angry
with him; he says he promised never to try to see me; that he would not
have come if he had known. I have told him you are not angry; that it is
not his fault; that you will show that you are not angry."
But first of all Brand ushered his guests into the long, low-roofed
chamber, and drew the portieres across the middle, so that Waters might
have an apartment for his luncheon preparations. Then he opened the
letter. Kirski remained at the door, with his cap in his hand.
* * * * *
"My much-esteemed friend,"--Calabressa wrote, in his ornate,
ungrammatical, and phonetic French--"the poor devil who is the bearer of
this letter is known to you, and yet not altogether known to you. You
know something of his conversion from a wild beast into a man--from the
tiger into a devotee; but you do not, my friend, perhaps entirely know
how his life has become absorbed in one worship, one aspiration, one
desire. The means of the conversion, the instrument, you know, have I
not myself before described it to you? The harassed and bleeding heart,
crushed with scorn and filled with despair--how can a man live with that
in his bosom? He wishes to die. The world has been too cruel to him. But
all at once an angel appears; into the ruins of the wasted life a seed
of kindness is dropped, and then behold the beautiful flower of love
springing up--love that becomes a worship, a religion! Yes, I have said
so much before to you; now I say more; now I entreat you not to check
this beautiful worship--it is sacred. This man goes round the churches;
he stands before the pictures of the saints; he wanders on unsatisfied:
he says there is no saint like the beautiful one in England, who healed
him with her soft words when he was sick to death. But now, my dear
Monsieur Brand, I hear you say to yourself, 'What is my friend
Calabressa after now? Has he taken to the writings of pious sermons? Is
he about to shave his head and put a rope round his waist? My faith,
that is not like that fellow Calabressa!' You are right, my friend. I
describe the creation of the devotee; it is a piece of poetry, as one
might say. But your devotee must have his amulet; is it not so? This is
the meaning and prayer of my letter to you. The bearer of it was willing
to do us a great service; perhaps--if one must confess it--he believed
it was on behalf of the beautiful Natalushka and her father that he was
to undertake the duty that now devolves on some other. One must practice
a little _finesse_ sometimes; what harm is there? Very well. Do you know
what he seeks by way of reward--what he considers the most valuable
thing in the world? It is a portrait of his saint, you understand? That
is the amulet the devotee would have. And I do not further wish to write
to her; no, because she would say, 'What, that is a little matter to do
for my friend Calabressa.' No; I write to you--I write to one who has
knowledge of affairs--and I say to myself, 'If he considers it prudent,
then he will ask the beautiful child to give her portrait to this one
who will worship it.' I have declared to him that I will make the
request; I make it. Do not consider it a trifling matter; it is not to
him; it is the crown of his existence. And if he says, 'Do you see, this
is what I am ready to do for her--I will give my life if she or her
friends wish it;' then I say--I, Calabressa--that a portrait at one
shilling, two shillings, ten shillings, is not so very much in return.
Now, my dear friend, you will consider the prudence of granting his
request and mine. I believe in his faithfulness. If you say to him, 'The
beautiful lady who was kind to you wishes you to do this or do that; or
wishes you never to part with this portrait; or wishes you to keep
silence on this or on that,' you may depend on him. I say so. Adieu! Say
to the little one that there is some one who does not forget her.
Perhaps you will never hear from Calabressa again: remember him not as a
madcap, but as one who wishes you well. To-morrow I start for
Cyprus--then farther--with a light heart. Adieu!
"Calabressa."
* * * * *
He handed the letter to Natalie's mother. The elder woman read the
letter carefully. She laughed quietly; but there were tears in her eyes.
"It is like my old friend Calabressa," she said. "Natalushka, they want
you to give your portrait to this poor creature who adores you. Why not?
Calabressa says he will do whatever you tell him. Tell him, then, not to
part with it; not to show it to any one, and not to say to any one he
has seen either you or me here. Is not that simple? Tell him to come
here to-morrow or next day; you can send the photograph to Mr. Brand."
The girl went to the door, and said a few words to Kirski. He said
nothing in reply, but sunk on his knees, as he had done in Curzon
Street, and took her hand and kissed it; then he rose, and bowed
respectfully to the others, and left.
Presently Waters came in and announced that luncheon was on the table;
the portieres were drawn aside; they passed into the farther end of the
apartment, and sat down. The banquet was not a sumptuous one, and there
were no flowers on the table; but it was everything that any human being
could have done in fifteen minutes; and these were bachelors' rooms.
Natalie took care to make a pretty speech in the hearing of Mr. Waters.
"Yes, but you eat nothing," the host said. "Do you think your mother
will have anything if she sees you indifferent?"
Presently the mother, who seemed to be much amused with something or
other, said in French,
"Ah, my friend, I did not think my child would be so deceitful. I did
not think she would deceive you."
The girl stared with wide eyes.
"She pretended to tell you what this poor man said to her," said the
mother, with a quiet smile. "She forgot that some one else than herself
might know Russian."
Natalie flushed red.
"Mother!" she remonstrated. "I said he had spoken a lot of foolish
things."
"After all," said the mother, "he said no more than what Calabressa says
in the letter. You have been kind to him; he regards you as an angel; he
will give you his life; you, or any one whom you love. The poor man! Did
you see how he trembled?"
Natalie turned to George Brand.
"He said something more than that," said she. "He said he had undertaken
some duty, some service, that was expected to have cost him his life. He
did not know what it was: do you?"
"I do not," said he, answering frankly the honest look of her eyes. "I
can scarcely believe any one was foolish enough to think of intrusting
any serious duty to a man like that. But still Calabressa hints as much;
and I know he left England with Calabressa."
"Natalushka," the mother said, cautiously, and yet with an anxious
scrutiny, "I have often wondered--whether you knew much--much about the
Society."
"Oh no, mother! I am allowed to translate, and sometimes I hear that
help is to be given here or there; but I am in no secrets at all. That
is my misfortune."
The mother seemed much relieved.
"It is not a misfortune, child. You are happier as you are, I think.
Then," she added, with a quick glance, "you have never heard of
one--Bartolotti?"
"No," she answered; but directly afterwards she exclaimed, "Oh yes, yes!
Bartolotti, that is the name Calabressa gave me. He said if ever I was
in very serious trouble, I was to go to Naples; and that was the
password. But I thought to myself, 'If I am in trouble, why should I not
go to my own father?'"
The mother rose and went to the girl, and put her arm round her
daughter's neck, and stooped down.
"Natalushka," said she, earnestly, "you are wiser than Calabressa. If
you are in trouble, do not seek any help that way. Go to your father."
"And to you, mother," said she, drawing down the worn, beautiful face
and kissing it. "Why not to you also? Why not to you both?"
The mother smiled, and patted the girl's head, and then returned to the
other side of the table. Waters brought in some fruit, fresh from Covent
Garden.
He also brought in a letter, which he put beside his master's plate.
Brand did not even look at it; he pushed it aside, to give him more
room. But in pushing it aside he turned it somewhat and Natalie's eye
happening to fall on the address, she perceived at once that it was in
the handwriting of her father.
"Dearest," said she, in a low voice, and rather breathlessly, "the
letter is from papa."
"From your father?" said he, without any great concern. Then he turned
to Natalie's mother. "Will you excuse me? My friends are determined to
remind me of their existence to-day."
But this letter was much shorter than Calabressa's, though it was
friendly enough.
"My Dear Mr. Brand," it ran,--"I am glad to hear that you acted with so
much promptitude that your preparations for departure are nearly
complete. You are soldier-like. I have less scruples, therefore, in
asking you to be so kind as to give me up to-morrow evening from
half-past nine onward, for the consideration of a very serious order
that has been transmitted to us from the Council. You will perceive that
this claims precedence over any of our local arrangements; and as it may
even involve the abandonment of your voyage to America, it will be
advisable to give it immediate consideration. I trust the hour of
half-past nine will not interfere with any engagement.
"Your colleague and friend, Ferdinand Lind."
This was all that an ordinary reader would have seen in the letter; but
Brand observed also, down at the left-hand corner, a small mark in green
color. That tiny arrow, with the two dots--the whole almost
invisible--changed the letter from an invitation into a command. It
signified "On business of the Council."
He laid down the letter, and said lightly to Natalie,
"Now I have some news for you. I may not have to go to America after
all."
"You are not going to America?" she said, in a bewildered way. "Oh, if
it were possible--if it were possible!" she murmured, "I would say I was
too happy. God is too good to me--to have them both given back to me in
one day--both of them in one day--"
"Natalie," said he, gently, "it is only a possibility, you know."
"But it is possible!" she said; and there was a quick, strange, happy
light in her face. "It _is_ possible, is it not?"
Then she glanced at her mother; and her face, that had been somewhat
pale, was pale no longer; the blood mounted to her forehead; her eyes
were downcast.
"It would please you, would it not?" she said, somewhat formally and in
a low and timid voice. The mother, unobserved, smiled.
"Oh yes," he said, cheerfully. "But even if I go to America, expect
your mother and you to be arriving at Sandy Hook; and what then? In a
couple of years--it is not a long time--I should have a small steamer
there to meet you, and we could sail up the bay together."
Luncheon over, they went to the window, and greatly admired the view of
the gardens below and the wide river beyond; and they went round the
room examining the water-colors, and bits of embroidery, and knickknacks
brought from many lands, and they were much interested in one or two
portraits. Altogether they were charmed with the place, though the elder
lady said, in her pretty, careful French, that it was clear no woman's
hand was about, otherwise there would have been white curtains at the
windows besides those heavy straight folds of red. Brand said he
preferred to have plenty of light in the room; and, in fact, at this
moment the sunlight was painting squares of beautiful color on the faded
old Turkey-carpet. All this time Natalie had shown much reserve.
When the mother and daughter were in the cab together going to Edgware
Road--George Brand was off by himself to Brompton--the mother said,
"Natalushka, why was your manner so changed to Mr. Brand, after you
heard he might not be going to America?"
The girl hesitated for a moment, and her eyes were lowered.
"You see, mother," she said, with some embarrassment, "when one is in
great trouble and difficulty--and when you wish to show sympathy--then,
perhaps, you speak too plainly. You do not think of choosing very
prudent words; your heart speaks for you; and one may say things that a
girl should not be too ready to confess. That is when there is great
trouble, and you are grieved for some one. But--but--when the trouble
goes away--when it is all likely to come right--one remembers--"
The explanation was rather stammering and confused.
"But at least, mother," she added, with her eyes still downcast, "at
least I can be frank with you. There is no harm in my telling you that I
love you."
The mother pressed the hand that she held in hers.
"And if you tell me often enough, Natalushka, perhaps I shall begin to
believe you."