"All right. Then I shall see you to-morrow morning in Lisle Street.
Good-bye."
He jumped into a hansom, and was presently rattling away through the busy streets. How sweet and fresh was the air, even here in the midst of the misty and golden city! The early summer was abroad; there was a flush of green on the trees in the squares. When he got down to the Embankment, he was quite surprised by the beauty of the gardens; there were not many gardens in the towns he had chiefly been living in.
He dashed up the narrow wooden stairs.
"Look alive now, Waters: get my bath ready."
"It is ready, sir."
"And breakfast!"
"Whenever you please, sir."
He took off his dust-smothered travelling-coat, and was about to fling it on the couch, when he saw lying there two pieces of some brilliant stuff that were strange to him.
"What are these things?"
"They were left, sir, by Mr. ----, of Bond Street, on approval. He will call this afternoon."
"Tell him to go to the devil!" said Brand, briefly, as he walked off into his bedroom.
Presently he came back.
"Stay a bit," said he; and he took up the two long strips of silk-embroidered stuff--Florentine work, probably, of about the end of the sixteenth century. The ground was a delicate yellowish-gray, with an initial letter worked in various colors over it. Mr. ----, of Bond Street, knew that Brand had often amused his idle hours abroad in picking up things like this, chiefly as presents to lady friends, and no doubt thought they would be welcome enough, even for bachelors"
rooms.
"Tell him I will take them."
"But the price, sir?"
"Ask him his price; beat him down; and keep the difference."
After bath and breakfast there was an enormous pile of correspondence awaiting him; for not a single letter referring to his own affairs had been forwarded to him for over two months. He had thrown his entire time and care into his work in the North. And now that these arrears had to be cleared off, he attacked the business with an obvious impatience.
Formerly he had been used to dawdle over his letters, getting through a good portion of the forenoon with them and conversations with Waters about Buckinghamshire news. Now, even with that omniscient factotum by his side, his progress was slow, simply because he was hurried. He made dives here and there, without system, without settlement. At last, looking at his watch, he jumped up; it was half-past eleven.
"Some other time, Waters--some other time; the man must wait," he said to the astonished but patient person beside him. "If Lord Evelyn calls, tell him I shall look in at the Century to-night."
"Yes, sir."
Some half-hour thereafter he was standing in Park Lane, his heart beating somewhat quickly, his eyes fixed eagerly on two figures that were crossing the thoroughfare lower down to one of the gates leading into Hyde Park. These were Natalie Lind and the little Anneli. He had known that he would see her thus; he had imagined the scene a thousand times; he had pictured to himself every detail--the trees, the tall railings, the spring flowers in the plots, and the little rosy-cheeked German girl walking by her mistress"s side; and yet, now that this familiar thing had come true, he trembled to behold it; he breathed quickly; he could not go forward to her and hold out his hand. Slowly, for they were walking slowly, he went along to the gate and entered after them; cautiously, lest she should turn suddenly and confront him with her eyes; drawn, and yet fearing to follow. She was talking with some animation to her companion; though even in this profound silence he could not hear the sound of her voice. But he could see the beautiful oval of her face! and sometimes, when she turned with a laugh to the little Anneli, he caught a glimpse of the black eyes and eyelashes, the smiling lips and brilliant teeth; and once or twice she put out the palm of her right hand with a little gesture which, despite her English dress, would have told a stranger that she was of foreign ways. But the look of welcome, the smile of reward that he had been looking forward to?
Well, Mr. Lind was in America; and during his absence his daughter saw but few visitors. There was no particular reason why, supposing that George Brand met Natalie in the street, he should not go up and shake hands with her; and many a time, in these mental pictures of his of her morning walk with the rosy-cheeked Anneli, he imagined himself confronting her under the shadow of the trees, and perhaps walking some way with her, to listen once more to the clear, low vibrations of her musical voice. But no sooner had he seen her come into Park Lane--the vision became real--than he felt he could not go up and speak to her. If he had met her by accident, perhaps he might; but to watch her, to entrap her, to break in on her wished-for isolation under false pretences--all that he suddenly felt to be impossible. He could follow her with his heart; but the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand, the smile of her calm, beautiful, dark eyes, were as remote for him as if she, too, were beyond the broad Atlantic.
He was not much given to introspection and a.n.a.lysis; daring the past two months more especially he had been far too busy to be perpetually asking "Why? why?"--the vice of indolence. It was enough that, in the cold and the wet, there was a fire in his heart that kept him glad with thinking of the fair days to come; and that, in the foggy afternoons or the lonely nights when he was alone, and perhaps despondent or impatient over the stupidity or the contumacy he had had to encounter, there came to him the soft murmur of a voice from far away--proud, sad, and yet full of consolation and hope:
"--But ye that might be clothed with all things pleasant, Ye are foolish that put off the fair soft present, That clothe yourself with the cold future air; When mother and father, and tender sister and brother, And the old live love that was shall be as ye, Dust and no fruit of loving life shall be.
--She shall be yet who is more than all these were, Than sister or wife or father unto us, or mother."
He could hear her voice: he could see the beautiful face grow pale with its proud fervor; he could feel the soft touch of her hand when she came forward and said, "Brother, I welcome you!"
And now that she was there before him, the gladness in his heart at the mere sight of her was troubled with a trembling fear and pain. She was but a stone"s-throw in front of him; but she seemed far away. The world was young around her; and she belonged to the time of youth and of hope; life, that he had been ready to give up as a useless and aimless thing, was only opening out before her, full of a thousand beauties, and wonders, and possibilities. If only he could have taken her hand, and looked into her eyes, and claimed that smile of welcome, he would have been nearer to her. Surely, in one thing at least they were in sympathy.
There was a bond between them. If the past had divided them, the future would bring them more together. Did not the Pilgrims go by in bands, until death struck down its victims here and there?
Natalie knew nothing of all this vague longing, and doubt, and pain in the breast of one who was so near her. She was in a gay mood. The morning was beautiful; the soft wind after the rain brought whiffs of scent from the distant rose-red hawthorn. Though she was here under shadow of the trees, the sun beyond shone on the fresh and moist gra.s.s; and at the end of the glades there were glimpses of brilliant color in the foliage--the glow of the laburnum, the lilac blaze of the rhododendron bushes. And how still the place was! Far off there was a dull roar of carriages in Piccadilly; but here there was nothing but the bleating of the sheep, the chirp of the young birds, the stir of the wind among the elms. Sometimes he could now catch the sound of her voice.
She was in a gay humor. When she got to the Serpentine--the north bank was her favorite promenade; she could see on the other side, just below the line of leaves, the people pa.s.sing and repa.s.sing on horseback; but she was not of them--she found a number of urchins wading. They had no boat; but they had the bung of a barrel, which served, and that they were pushing through the water with twigs and sticks; their shapeless boots they had left on the bank. Now, as it seemed to Brand, who was watching from a distance, she planned a scheme. Anneli was seen to go ahead of the boys, and speak to them. Their attention being thus distracted, the young mistress stepped rapidly down to the tattered boots, and dropped something in each. Then she withdrew, and was rejoined by her maid; they walked away without waiting to see the result of their machinations. But George Brand, following by-and-by, heard one of the urchins call out with wonder that he had found a penny in his shoe; and this extraordinary piece of news brought back his comrades, who rather mechanically began to examine their footgear too. And then the amazement!--and the looks around!--and the examination of the pence, lest that treasure should vanish away! Brand went up to them.
"Look hear you young stupids; don"t you see that tall lady away along there by the boat-house--why don"t you go and thank her?"
But they were either too shy or too incredulous; so he left them. He did not forget the incident.
Perhaps it was that the heavens had grown dark in the southwest, threatening a shower; but, at all events, Natalie soon returned and set out on her homeward way, giving this unknown spy some trouble to escape observation. But when she had pa.s.sed, he again followed, now with even greater unrest and pain at his heart. For would not she soon disappear, and the outer world grow empty, and the dull hours have to be faced? He had come to London with such hope and gladness; now the very sunlight was to be taken out of his life by the shutting of a door in Curzon Street.
Fate, however, was kinder to him than he had dared to hope. As Natalie was returning home, he ventured to draw a little nearer to her, but still with the greatest caution, for he would have been overcome with shame if she had detected him d.o.g.g.i.ng her footsteps in this aimless, if innocent manner. And now that she had got close to her own door, he had drawn nearer still--on the other side of the street; he so longed to catch one more glimpse of the dark eyes smiling, and the mobile, proud mouth. But just as the door was being opened from within, a man who had evidently been watching his chance thrust himself before the two women, barring their way, and proceeded to address Natalie in a vehement, gesticulating fashion, with much clinching of his fists and throwing out of his arms. Anneli had shrunk back a step, for the man was uncouth and unkempt; but the young mistress stood erect and firm, confronting the beggar, or madman, or whoever he was, without the slightest sign of fear.
This was enough for George Brand. He was not thrusting himself unfairly on her seclusion if he interposed to protect her from menace. Instantly he crossed the road.
"Who are you? What do you want?" This was what he said; but what he did was to drive the man back a couple of yards.
A hand was laid on his arm quickly.
"He is in trouble," Natalie said, calmly. "He wants to see papa; he has come a long way; he does not understand that papa is in America. If you could only convince him--But you do not talk Russian."
"I can talk English," said Brand, regarding the maniac-looking person before him with angry brows. "Will you go indoors, Miss Lind, and leave him to me. I will talk an English to him that he will understand."
"Is that the way you answer an appeal for help?" said she, with gentle reproof. "The man is in trouble. If I persuade him to go with you, will you take him to papa"s chambers? Either Beratinsky or Heinrich Reitzei will be there."
"Reitzei is there."
"He will hear what this man has to say. Will you be so kind?"
"I will do anything to rid you of this fellow, who looks more like a madman than a beggar."
She stepped forward and spoke to the man again--her voice sounded gentle and persuasive to Brand, in this tongue which he could not understand.
When she had finished, the uncouth person in the tattered garments dropped on both knees on the pavement, and took her hand in his, and kissed it in pa.s.sionate grat.i.tude. Then he rose, and stood with his cap in his hand.
"He will go with you. I am so sorry to trouble you, Mr. Brand; and I have not even said, "How do you do?""
To hear this beautiful voice after so long a silence--to find those calm, dark, friendly eyes regarding him--bewildered him, or gave him courage, he knew not which. He said to her, with a quick flush on his forehead,
"May I come back to tell you how I succeed?"
She only hesitated for a second.
"If you have time. If you care to take the trouble."
He carried away with him the look of her face--that filled his heart with sunlight. In the hansom, into which he bundled his unkempt companion, if only he had known enough Russian, he would have expressed grat.i.tude to him. Beggar or maniac, or whatever he was, had he not been the means of procuring for George Brand that long-coveted, long-dreamed-of smile of welcome?