"Then you know who she is?" said Natalie, promptly.
"I have a suspicion, at all events; and--and--something may happen--that you will be glad of."
"What, more mysterious presents?" the girl said, lightly; "more messages from Santa Claus?"
He could not answer her. The consciousness that this might be indeed Natalie"s mother who was so near to them; the fear of the possible consequences of any sudden disclosure; the thought that this opportunity might escape him, and he leaving in a few days for America: all these things whirled through his brain in rapid and painful succession. But there was soon to be an end of them. Natalie, still obediently following his instructions, and yet inclined to make light of the whole thing, and himself arrived at the gates of the park; Anneli, as formerly, being somewhat behind. Receiving no intimation from her, they crossed the road to the corner of Great Stanhope Street. But they had not proceeded far when Anneli said,
"Ah, Fraulein, the lady is gone! You may look after her now. See!"
That was enough for George Brand. He had no difficulty in making out the dark figure that Anneli indicated; and he was in no great hurry, for he feared the stranger might discover that she was being followed. But he breathed more freely when he had bidden good-bye to Natalie, and seen her set out for home.
He leisurely walked up Park Lane, keeping an eye from time to time on the figure in black, but not paying too strict attention, lest she should turn suddenly and observe him. In this way he followed her up to Oxford Street; and there, in the more crowded thoroughfare, he lessened the distance between them considerably. He also watched more closely now, and with a strange interest. From the graceful carriage, the beautiful figure, he was almost convinced that that, indeed, was Natalie"s mother; and he began to wonder what he would say to her--how he would justify his interference.
The stranger stopped at a door next a shop in the Edgware Road; knocked, waited, and was admitted. Then the door was shut again.
It was obviously a private lodging-house. He took a half-crown in his hand to bribe the maid-servant, and walked boldly up to the door and knocked. It was not a maid-servant who answered, however; it was a man who looked something like an English butler, and yet there was a foreign touch about his dress--probably, Brand thought, the landlord. Brand pulled out a card-case, and pretended to have some difficulty in getting a card from it.
"The lady who came in just now--" he said, still looking at the cards.
"Madame Berezolyi? Yes, sir."
His heart jumped. But he calmly took out a pencil, and wrote on one of the cards, in French, "_One who knows your daughter would like to see you_."
"Will you be so kind as to take up that card to Madame Berezolyi? I think she will see me. I will wait here till you come down."
The man returned in a couple of minutes.
"Madame Berezolyi will be pleased to see you, sir; will you step this way?"
CHAPTER x.x.xV.
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 pa.s.sed 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 embarra.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances--"
"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.