THE BEECHES.
On the same night Lord Evelyn was in Brand's rooms, arguing,
expostulating, entreating, all to no purpose. He was astounded at the
calmness with which this man appeared to accept the terrible task
imposed on him, and at the stoical indifference with which he looked
forward to the almost certain sacrifice of his own life.
"You have become a fanatic of fanatics!" he exclaimed, indignantly.
George Brand was staring out of the windows into the dark night,
somewhat absently.
"I suppose," he answered, "all the great things that have been done in
the world have been founded in fanaticism. All that I can hope for now
is that this particular act of the Council may have the good effect
they hope from it. They ought to know. They see the sort of people with
whom they have to deal. I should have thought, with Lind, that it was
unwise--that it would shock, or even terrify; but my opinion is neither
here nor there. Further talking is of no use, Evelyn; the thing is
settled; what I have to consider now, as regards myself, is how I can
best benefit a few people whom I am interested in, and you can help me
in that."
"But I appeal to yourself--to your conscience!" Lord Evelyn cried,
almost in despair. "You cannot shift the responsibility to them. You are
answerable for your own actions. I say you are sacrificing your
conscience to your pride. You are saying to yourself, 'Do these
foreigners think that I am afraid?'"
"I am not thinking of myself at all," said Brand, simply; "that is all
over. When I swore to give myself to this Society--to obey the commands
of the Council--then my responsibility ceased. What I have to do is to
be faithful to my oath, and to the promise I have made." Almost
unconsciously he glanced at the ring that Natalie had given him. "You
would not have me skulk back like a coward? You would not have me 'play
and not pay?' What I have undertaken to do I will do."
Presently he added,
"There is something you could do, Evelyn. Don't let us talk further of
myself: I said before, if a single man drops out of the ranks, what
matter?--the army marches on. And what has been concerning me of late is
the effect that this act of the Council may have on our thousands of
friends throughout this country. Now, Evelyn, when--when the affair
comes off, I think you would do a great deal of good by pointing out in
the papers what a scoundrel this man Zaccatelli was; how he had merited
his punishment, and how it might seem justifiable to the people over
there that one should take the law into one's own hands in such an
exceptional case. You might do that, Evelyn, for the sake of the
Society. The people over here don't know what a ruffian he is, and how
he is beyond the ordinary reach of the law, or how the poor people have
groaned under his iniquities. Don't seek to justify me; I shall be
beyond the reach of excuse or execration by that time; but you might
break the shock, don't you see?--you might explain a little--you might
intimate to our friends who have joined us here that they had not joined
any kind of Camorra association. That troubles me more than anything. I
confess to you that I have got quite reconciled to the affair, as far
as any sacrifice on my own part is concerned. That bitterness is over; I
can even think of Natalie."
The last words were spoken slowly, and in a low voice; his eyes were
fixed on the night-world outside. What could his friend say? They talked
late into the night; but all his remonstrances and prayers were of no
avail as against this clear resolve.
"What is the use of discussion?" was the placid answer. "What would you
have me do?--break my oaths--put aside my sacred promise made to
Natalie, and give up the Society altogether? My good fellow, let us talk
of something less impossible."
And indeed, though he deprecated discussion on this point, he was
anxious to talk. The fact was that of late he had come to fear sleep, as
the look of his eyes testified. In the daytime, or as long as he could
sit up with a companion, he could force himself to think only of the
immediate and practical demands of the hour; vain regrets over what
might have been--and even occasional uneasy searchings of conscience--he
could by an effort of will ignore. He had accepted his fate; he had
schooled himself to look forward to it without fear; henceforth there
was to be no indecision, no murmur of complaint. But in the
night-time--in dreams--the natural craving for life asserted itself; it
seemed so sad to bid good-bye forever to those whom he had known and
loved; and mostly always it was Natalie herself who stood there,
regarding him with streaming eyes, and wringing her hands, and sobbing
to him farewell. The morning light, or the first calls in the
thoroughfare below, or the shrieking of some railway-whistle on
Hungerford Bridge brought an inexpressible relief by banishing these
agonizing visions. No matter how soon Waters was astir, he found his
master up before him--dressed, and walking up and down the room, or
reading some evening newspaper of the previous day. Sometimes Brand
occupied himself in getting ready his own breakfast, but he had to
explain to Waters that this was not meant as a rebuke--it was merely
that, being awake early, he wished for some occupation.
Early on the morning after this last despairing protest on the part of
Lord Evelyn, Brand drove up to Paddington Station, on his way to pay a
hurried visit to his Buckinghamshire home. Nearly all his affairs had
been settled in town; there remained some arrangements to be made in the
country. Lord Evelyn was to have joined him in this excursion, but at
the last moment had not put in an appearance; so Brand jumped in just
as the train was starting, and found himself alone in the carriage.
The bundle of newspapers he had with him did not seem to interest him
much. He was more than ever puzzled to account for the continued silence
of Natalie. Each morning he had been confidently expecting to hear from
her--to have some explanation of her sudden departure--but as the days
went by, and no message of any sort arrived, his wonder became merged in
anxiety. It seemed so strange that she should thus absent herself, when
she had been counting on each day on which she might see him as if it
were some gracious gift from Heaven.
All that he was certain of in the matter was that Lind knew no more than
himself as to where Natalie had gone. One afternoon, going out from his
rooms into Buckingham Street, he caught sight of Beratinsky loitering
about farther up the little thoroughfare, about the corner of John
Street. Beratinsky's back was turned to him, and so he took advantage of
the moment to open the gate, for which he had a private key, leading
down to the old York Gate; from thence he made his way round by Villiers
Street, whence he could get a better view of the little black-a-vised
Pole's proceedings.
He speedily convinced himself that Beratinsky, though occasionally he
walked along in the direction of Adam Street, and though sometimes he
would leisurely stroll up to the Strand, was in reality keeping an eye
on Buckingham Street and he had not the least doubt that he himself was
the object of this surveillance. He laughed to himself. Had these wise
people in Lisle Street, then, discovering that Natalie's mother was in
London, arrived at the conclusion that she and her daughter had taken
refuge in so very open a place of shelter? When Beratinsky was least
expecting any such encounter, Brand went up and tapped him on the
shoulder.
"How do you do, Mr. Beratinsky?" said he, when the other wheeled round.
"This is not the most agreeable place for a stroll. Why do you not go
down to the Embankment Gardens?"
Beratinsky was angry and confused, but did not quite lose his
self-command.
"I am waiting for some one," he said, curtly.
"Or to find out about some one? Well, I will save you some trouble. Lind
wishes to know where his wife and daughter are, I imagine."
"Is that unnatural?"
"I suppose not. I heard he had been down to Hans Place, where Madame
Lind was staying."
"You knew, then?" the other said, quickly.
"Oh yes, I knew. Now, if you will be frank with me, I may be of some
assistance to you. Lind does not know where his wife and daughter are?"
"You know he does not."
"And you--perhaps you fancied that one or other might be sending a
message to me--might call, perhaps--or even that I might have got them
rooms for the time being?"
The Englishman's penetrating gray eyes were difficult to avoid.
"You appear to know a good deal, Mr. Brand," Beratinsky said, somewhat
sulkily. "Perhaps you can tell me where they are now?"
"I can tell you where they are not, and that is in London."
The other looked surprised, then suspicious.
"Oh, believe me or not, as you please: I only wish to save you trouble.
I tell you that, to the best of my belief, Miss Lind and her mother are
not in London, nor in this country even."
"How do you know?"
"Pardon me; you are going too far. I only tell you what I believe. In
return, as I have saved you some trouble, I shall expect you to let me
know if you hear anything about them. Is that too much to ask?"
"Then you really don't know where they are?" Beratinsky said, with a
quick glance.
"I do not; but they have left London--that I know."
"I am very much obliged to you," said the other, more humbly. "I wish
you good evening, Mr. Brand."
"Stay a moment. Can you tell me what Yacov Kirski's address is? I have
something to arrange with him before I leave England."
He took out his note-book, and put down the address that Beratinsky gave
him. Then the latter moved away, taking off his hat politely, but not
shaking hands.
Brand was amused rather than surprised at this little adventure; but
when day after day passed, and no tidings came from Natalie, he grew
alarmed. Each morning he was certain there would be a letter; each
morning the postman rung the bell below, and Waters would tumble down
the stairs at breakneck speed, but not a word from Natalie or her
mother.
At the little Buckinghamshire station at which he stopped he found a
dog-cart waiting to convey him to Hill Beeches; and speedily he was
driving away through the country he knew so well, now somewhat desolate
in the faded tints of the waning of the year; and perhaps, as he drew
near to the red and white house on the hill, he began to reproach
himself that he had not made the place more his home. Though the grounds
and shrubberies were neat and trim enough, there was a neglected look
about the house itself. When he entered, his footsteps rung hollow on
the uncarpeted floors. Chintz covered the furniture; muslin smothered
the chandeliers; everything seemed to be locked up and put away. And
this comely woman of sixty or so who came forward to meet him--a
smiling, gracious dame, with silvery-white hair, and peach-like cheeks,
and the most winning little laugh--was not her first word some hint to
the young master that he had been a long time away, and how the
neighbors were many a time asking her when a young mistress was coming
to the Beeches, to keep the place as it used to be kept in the olden
days?
"Ah well, sir, you know how the people do talk," she said, with an
apologetic smile. "And there was Mrs. Diggles, sir, that is at the
Checkers, sir, and she was speaking only the other day, as it might be,
about the old oak cupboard, that you remember, sir, and she was saying,
'Well, I wouldn't give that cupboard to Mahster Brand, though he offered
me twenty pound for it years ago--twenty pound, not a farthing less. My
vather he gave me that cupboard when I was married, and ten shillings
was what he paid for it: and then there was twenty-five shillings paid
for putting that cupboard to rights. And then the wet day that Mahster
Brand was out shooting, and the Checkers that crowded that I had to ask
him and the other gentleman to go into my own room, and what does he say
but, "Mrs. Diggles, I will give you twenty pound for that cupboard of
yourn, once you knock off the feet and the curly bit on the top." Law,
how the gentle-folk do know about sech things: that was exactly what my
vather he paid the twenty-five shillings for. But how could I give him
my cupboard for twenty pound when I had promised it to my nephew? When
I'm taken, that cupboard my nephew shall have.' Well, sir, the people do
say that Mrs. Diggles and her nephew have had a quarrel; and this was
what she was saying to me--begging your pardon, sir--only the other day,
as it might be; says she, 'Mrs. Alleyne, this is what I will do: when
your young mahster brings home a wife to the Beeches, I will make his
lady a wedding-present of that cupboard of mine--that I will, if so be
as she is not too proud to accept it from one in my 'umble station. It
will be a wedding-present, and the sooner the better,' says she--begging
of your pardon, sir."
"It is very kind of her, Mrs. Alleyne. Now let me have the keys, if you
please; I have one or two things to see to, and I will not detain you
now."
She handed him the keys and accepted her dismissal gratefully, for she
was anxious to get off and see about luncheon. Then Brand proceeded to
stroll quietly, and perhaps even sadly, through the empty and resounding
rooms that had for him many memories.
It was a rambling, old-fashioned, oddly-built house, that had been added
on to by successive generations, according to their needs, without much
reference to the original design. It had come into the possession of the
Brands of Darlington by marriage: George Brand's grandfather having
married a certain Lady Mary Heaton, the last representative of an old
and famous family. And these lonely rooms that he now walked
through--remarking here and there what prominence had been given by his
mother to the many trophies of the chase that he himself had sent home
from various parts of the world--were hung chiefly with portraits, whose
costumes ranged from the stiff frill and peaked waist of Elizabeth to
the low neck and ringleted hair of Victoria. But there was in an inner
room which he entered another collection of portraits that seemed to
have a peculiar fascination for him--a series of miniatures of various
members of the Heaton and Brand families, reaching down even to himself,
for the last that was added had been taken when he was a lad, to send to
his mother, then lying dangerously ill at Cannes. There was her own
portrait, too--that of a delicate-looking woman with large, lustrous,
soft eyes and wan cheeks, who had that peculiar tenderness and sweetness
of expression that frequently accompanies consumption. He sat looking at
these various portraits a long time, wondering now and again what this
or that one may have suffered or rejoiced in; but more than all he
lingered over the last, as if to bid those beautiful tender eyes a final
farewell.
He was startled by the sound of some vehicle rattling over the gravel
outside; then he heard some one come walking through the echoing rooms.
Instantly, he scarcely knew why he shut down the lid of the case in
front of him.
"Missed the train by just a second," Lord Evelyn said, coming into the
room; "I am awfully sorry."
"It doesn't matter," Brand answered; "but I am glad you have come. I
have everything squared up in London, I think; there only remains to
settle a few things down here."
He spoke in quite a matter-of-fact way--so much so that his friend
forgot to utter any further and unavailing protest.
"You know I am supposed to be going away abroad for a long time," he
continued. "You must take my place, Evelyn, in a sort of way, and I will
introduce you to-day to the people you must look after. There is a
grandson of my mother's nurse, for example: I promised to do something
for him when he completed his apprenticeship; and two old ladies who
have seen better days--they are not supposed to accept any help, but you
can make wonderful discoveries about the value of their old china, and
carry it off to Bond Street. I will leave you plenty of funds; before my
nephew comes into the place there will be sufficient for him and to
spare. But as for yourself, Evelyn, I want you to take some little
souvenir--how about this?"
He went and fetched a curious old silver drinking-cup, set round the lip
and down the handle with uncut rubies and sapphires.
"I don't like the notion of the thing at all," Lord Evelyn said, rather
gloomily; but it was not the cup that he was refusing thus ungraciously.
"After a time people will give me up for lost; and I have left you ample
power to give any one you can think of some little present, don't you
know, as a memento--whatever strikes your own fancy. I want Natalie to
have that Louis XV. table over there--people rather admire the inlaid
work on it, and the devices inside are endless. However, we will make
out a list of these things afterward. Will you drive me down to the
village now? I want you to see my pensioners."
"All right--if you like," Lord Evelyn said; though his heart was not in
the work.
He walked out of this little room and made his way to the front-door,
fancying that Brand would immediately follow. But Brand returned to that
room, and opened the case of miniatures. Then he took from his pocket a
little parcel, and unrolled it: it was a portrait of Natalie--a
photograph on porcelain, most delicately colored, and surrounded with an
antique silver frame. He gazed for a minute or two at the beautiful
face, and somehow the eyes seemed sad to him. Then he placed the little
portrait--which itself looked like a miniature--next the miniature of
his mother, and shut the case and locked it.
"I beg your pardon, Evelyn, for keeping you waiting," he said, at the
front-door. "Will you particularly remember this--that none of the
portraits here are to be disturbed on any account whatever?"