A NEW HOME.
George Brand set out house-hunting with two exceptional circumstances in
his favor: he knew precisely what he wanted, and he was prepared to pay
for it. Moreover, he undertook the task willingly and cheerfully. It was
something to do. It would fill in a portion of that period of suspense.
It would prevent his harassing himself with speculations as to his own
future--speculations which were obviously useless until he should learn
what was required of him by the Council.
But none the less was he doomed to the house-hunter's inevitable
disappointment. He found, in the course of his devious wanderings
through all sorts of out-of-the way thoroughfares within a certain
radius from Brompton Church, that the houses which came nearest to his
ideal cottage in a walled garden were either too far away from Hyde
Park, or they were not to be let, or they were to be let unfurnished.
So, like a prudent person, he moderated his desires, and began to cast
about for any furnished house of fairly cheerful aspect, with a garden
behind. But here again he found that the large furnished houses were out
of the question, because they were unnecessarily expensive, and that the
smaller ones were mostly to be found in slummy streets; while in both
cases there was a difficulty about servants. The end of it was that he
took the first floor of an old-fashioned house in Hans Place, being
induced to do so partly because the landlady was a bright,
pleasant-looking little Frenchwoman, and partly because the rooms were
furnished and decorated in a fashion not common to lodging-houses.
Then came the question of terms, references, and what not; and on all of
these points Mr. Brand showed himself remarkably complaisant. But when
all this was done he sat down, and said,
"Now I wish you to understand me clearly, madame. This lady I have told
you about has come through much trouble; you are to be kind to her, and
I will see you do not lose by it. Her daughter will come to see her
frequently, perhaps every day; I suppose the young lady's maid can
remain down-stairs somewhere."
"Oh yes, sir."
"Very well. Now if you will be so good as to get me pen and ink I will
give you a check for fifty-two pounds--that is, a pound a week for a
year. You see, there are a number of little kindnesses you could show
this poor lady that would be all the more appreciated if they were not
put down in a book and charged for: you understand? You could find out,
perhaps, from time to time some little delicacy she is fond of. Then
flowers: there is a good florist's shop in Sloane Street is there not?"
"Oh yes, sir."
She brought the ink, and he drew out the check.
"Then when the young lady comes to see her mother you will be very
attentive and kind to her too. You must not wait for them to ask for
this or that; you must come up to the door and say 'Will not the young
lady have a cup of chocolate?' or whatever you can suggest--fruit,
biscuits, wine, or what not. And as these little extras will cost you
something, I cannot allow you to be out of pocket; so here is a fund for
you to draw from; and, of course, not a word to either of the ladies. I
think you understand?"
"Perfectly, sir," said madame.
"Then, if I hear that you have been very kind and obliging, I suppose
one might be allowed from time to time to send you a little
present--something to beautify your house with? You have pretty rooms;
you have shown great taste in decorating them."
"Oh, not I, sir," said the little Frenchwoman; "I took the house as it
stands from Mr. ----."
"The architect," said Brand. "Ah, that explains. But I am surprised he
should have used gas."
"That _was_ my doing," said the landlady, with some pride. "It is a
great improvement. It is so convenient, is it not?"
"My dear madame," said Brand, seriously, "it cannot be convenient to
have one's lungs poisoned with the smoke of London gas. You must on no
account allow this lady who is coming to your house to sit through the
long evenings with gas blazing over her head all the time; why, she
would have continual headache. No, no, you must get a couple of
lamps--one for the piano there, and a smaller reading-one fox this
little table by the fire. Then these sconces, you will get candles for
them, of course; red ones look pretty--not pink, but red."
The French landlady seemed rather dismayed. She had been all smiles and
courtesy so far; but now the bargain did not promise to be so profitable
if this was the way she was to begin. But Brand pulled out his watch.
"If you will allow me," said he, "I will go and get a few things to
make the room look homely. You see this lady must be made as comfortable
as possible, for she will see no one but her daughter, and all the
evenings she will be alone. Now will you be so good as to have the fire
lit? And these little things I am about to get for you, of course they
will become your property; only you need not say who presented them to
you, you perceive?"
The little woman's face grew happy again, and she assured him fervently
and repeatedly that he might trust her to do her best for this lady
about whom he seemed so anxious.
It was almost dusk when he went out; most of the shops in Sloane Street
had their windows lit. He set about this further task of his with an
eager delight. For although it was ostensibly for Natalie's mother that
he was buying this and buying that, there was an underlying
consciousness that Natalie herself would be pleased--that many and many
a time she would occupy that pretty little sitting-room, that perhaps
she might guess who it was who had been so thoughtful about her mother
and herself. Fortunately Sloane Street is an excellent shopping
thoroughfare; he got everything he wanted--even wax candles of the
proper tint of red. He first of all went to the florist's and got fruit
and flowers enough to decorate a hall. Then from shop to shop he
wandered, buying books here, a couple of lamps there, a low,
softly-cushioned easy-chair, a fire-screen, pastils, tins of sweet
biscuits, a dozen or two of Hungarian wine, a tea-making apparatus, a
box of various games, some white rose scent, and he was very near adding
a sewing-machine, but thought he would wait to see whether she
understood the use of that instrument. All these and many other articles
were purchased on the explicit condition that they were to be delivered
in Hans Place within the following half-hour.
Then he went back to the lodging-house, carrying in his hand the red
candles. These he placed himself in the sconces, and lit them; the
effect was good, now that the fire was blazing cheerfully. One by one
the things arrived; and gradually the lodging-house sitting-room grew
more and more like a home. He put the flowers here and there about the
place, the little Frenchwoman having brought him such, small jars and
vases as were in her possession--these fortunately including a couple of
bits of modern Venetian glass. The reading-lamp was lit and put on the
small table; the newly imported easy-chair was drawn to the fire; some
books and the evening papers scattered about. He lit one of the
pastils, put the fire-screen in its place, and had a last look round.
Then he got into a hansom and drove up to the house in the Edgware Road.
He was immediately admitted and shown up-stairs. Natalie's mother rose
to receive him; he fancied she had been crying.
"I am come to take you to your new rooms," he said, cheerfully. "They
are better than these."
"Ah, that is kind of you," she said, also speaking in French; "but in
truth what do I care where I am? My heart is full of joy. It is enough
for me to sit quiet and say to myself, 'My child loves me. She has not
turned away from me. She is more beautiful even than I had believed; and
she has a good heart. I have no longer any fear.'"
"Yes, madame," said he, "but you must not sit quiet and think like that,
or you will become ill, and then how are you to go out walking with
Natalie? You have many things to do, and many things to decide on. For
example, you will have to explain to her how it is you may not go to her
father's house. At this moment what other thing than that do you imagine
she is thinking about? She will ask you."
"I would rather not tell her," said the mother, absently; "it is better
she should not know."
He hesitated for a second or two.
"Then it is impossible that a reconciliation between your husband and
yourself--"
"Oh no, no!" she said, somewhat sadly; "that is impossible, now."
"And you are anxious he should not know that you and your daughter see
each other."
"I am not so anxious," she said. "I have faith in Natalushka: I can
perceive her courage. But perhaps it would be better."
"Very well. Then come to these other rooms I have got for you; they are
in a more secluded neighborhood."
"Very well, monsieur. I have but few things with me. I will be ready
soon."
In less than half an hour after that the French landlady was receiving
her new guest; and so eager was she to show to the English gentleman her
gratitude for his substantial presents, that her officious kindness was
almost burdensome.
"I thank you," said the new-comer, with a smile, as the landlady brought
her a cushion for her back the moment she sat down in the easy chair,
"but I am not yet an invalid."
Then would madame have some tea? Or perhaps madame had not dined? There
was little in the house; but something could be prepared at once; from
to-morrow morning madame's instructions would be fulfilled to the
letter. To get rid of her, Brand informed her that madame had not dined,
and would be glad to have anything that happened to be in the house.
Then she left, and he was about to leave also.
"No," said the beautiful mother to him, with a smile on the pale face.
"Sit down; I have something to say to you."
He sat down, his hat still in his hand.
"I have not thanked you," she said. "I see who has done all this: do you
think a stranger would know to have the white-rose scent for me that
Natalie uses? She was right: you are kind--you think of others."
"It is nothing--it is nothing," he said, hastily, and with all an
Englishman's embarrassment.
"My dear friend," said his companion, with a grave kindness in her tone,
and a look of affectionate interest in her eyes, "I am going to prove my
gratitude to you. I am going to prevent--what do you call it?--a lover's
quarrel."
He started.
"Yesterday," she continued, still regarding him in that kindly way,
"before we left your rooms, Natalushka was very reserved toward you; was
it not so? I perceived it; and you?"
"I--I thought she was tired," he stammered.
"To-morrow you are to fetch her here; and what if you find her still
more reserved--even cold toward you? You will be pained, perhaps
alarmed. Ah, my dear friend, life is made very bitter sometimes by
mistakes; so it is that I must tell you the reason. The child loves you;
be sure of that. Yes; but she thinks that she has been too frank in
saying so--in time of trouble and anxiety; and now--now that you are
perhaps not going to America--now that perhaps all the trouble is
over--now she is beginning to think she ought to be a little more
discreet, as other young ladies are. The child means no harm, but you
and she must not quarrel."
He took her hand to bid her good-bye.
"Natalie and I are not likely to quarrel," said he, cheerfully. "Now I
am going away. If I stayed, you would do nothing but talk about her,
whereas it is necessary that you should have some dinner, then read one
of these books for an hour or so, then go to bed and have a long, sound
night's rest. You must be looking your brightest when she comes to see
you to-morrow."
And indeed, as it turned out subsequently, this warning; of the
mother's was not wholly unnecessary. Next day at eleven o'clock, as had
previously been arranged, Brand met Natalie at the corner of Great
Stanhope Street to escort her to the house to which her mother had
removed. He had not even got into the park with her when he perceived
that her manner was distinctly reserved. Anneli was with her, and she
kept talking from time to time to the little maid, who was thus obliged,
greatly against her will, to walk close to her mistress. At last Brand
said,
"Natalie, have I offended you?"
"Oh no!" she said, in a hurried, low voice.
"Natalie," said he, very gently, "I once heard of a wicked creature who
was determined to play the hypocrite, and might have done a great deal
of mischief, only she had a most amiable mother, who stepped in and gave
somebody else a warning. Did you ever hear of such a wicked person?"
The blood mounted to her face. By this time Anneli had taken leave to
fall behind.
"Then," said the girl, with some hesitation, and yet with firmness, "you
will not misunderstand me. If all the circumstances are to be altered,
then--then you must forget what I have said to you in moments of
trouble. I have a right to ask it. You must forget the past altogether."
"But it is impossible!"
"It is necessary."
For some minutes they walked on in silence. Then he felt a timid touch
on his arm; her hand had been laid there, deprecatingly, for a moment.
"Are you angry with me?"
"No, I am not," said he, frankly, "for the very reason that what you ask
is impossible, unnecessary, absurd. You might as well ask me to forget
that I am alive. In any case, isn't it rather too soon? Are you so sure
that all the trouble is past? Wait till the storm is well over, and we
are going into port, then we will put on our Sunday manners to go
ashore."
"I am afraid you are angry with me," she said again, timidly.
"You could not make me, if you tried," he said, simply; "but I am proud
of you, Natalie--proud of the courage and clearness and frankness of
your character, and I don't like to see you fall away from that, and
begin to consider what a school-mistress would think of you."
"It is not what any one may think of me that I consider; it is what I
think of myself," she answered, in the same low voice.
They reached Hans Place. The mother was at the door of the room to
welcome them. She took her daughter by the hand and led her in.
"Look round, Natalushka," she said. "Can you guess who has arranged all
this for me--for me and for you?"
The girl almost instantly turned--her eyes cast down--and took her
lover's hand, and kissed it in silence. That was all.
Then said he, lightly, as he shoved the low easy-chair nearer the fire,
"Come, madame, and sit down here; and you, Natalushka, here is a stool
for you, that you will be able to lean your head on your mother's knee.
There; it is a very pretty group: do you know why I make you into a
picture? Well, you see, these are troubled times; and one has one's work
to do; and who can tell what may happen? But don't you see that,
whatever may happen, I can carry away with me this picture; and always,
wherever I may be, I can say to myself that Natalie and her mother are
together in the quiet little room, and that they are happy. Now I must
bid you good-bye; I have a great deal of business to-day with my
solicitor. And the landlady, madame: how does she serve you?"
"She overwhelms me with kindness."
"That is excellent," said he, as he shook hands with them and, against
both their protests, took his leave.
He carried away that picture in his mind. He had left these two
together, and they were happy. What mattered it to him what became of
himself?
It was on the evening of that day that he had to obey the summons of the
Council.