"Oh yes, signorina, I knew her," he said, with an apparent carelessness, but he was regarding her all the same. "Yes, I knew her well. We were friends long before she married. What, are you surprised that I am so old? Do you know that I can remember you when you were a very little thing--at Dunkirk it was--and what a valiant young lady you were, and you would go to fight the Russians all by yourself! And you--you do not remember your mother?"
"I cannot tell," she said, sadly. "They say it is impossible, and yet I seem to remember one who loved me, and my grief when I asked for her and found she would never come back--or else that is only my recollection of what I was told by others. But what of that? I know where she is now: she is my constant companion. I know she loved me; I know she is always regarding me; I talk to her, so that I am never quite alone; at night I pray to her, as if she were a saint--"
She turned aside somewhat; her eyes were full of tears. Calabressa said quickly,
"Ah, signorina, why recall what is so sad? It is so useless. _Allons donc!_ shall I tell you of my surprise when I saw you first? A ghost--that is nothing! It is true, your father warned me. He said, "The little Natalushka is a woman now." But how could one believe it?"
She had recovered her composure; she begged him to be seated.
"_Bien!_ One forgets. Then my old mother--my dear young lady, even I, old as I am, have a mother--what does she do but draw a prize in the Austro-Hungarian lottery--a huge prize--enough to demoralize one for life--five thousand florins. More remarkable still, the money is paid.
Not so remarkable, my good mother declares she will give half of it to an undutiful son, who has never done very well with money in this world.
We come to the _denouement_ quickly. "What," said I, "shall I do with my new-found liberty and my new-found money? To the devil with banks! I will be off and away to the land of fogs to see my little friend Natalushka, and ask her what she thinks of the Russians now." And the result? My little daughter, you have given me such a fright that I can feel my hands still trembling."
"I am very sorry," said she, with a smile. This gay manner of his had driven away her sad memories. It seemed quite natural to her that he should address her as "My little daughter."
"But where are the fogs? It is a paradise that I have reached--the air clear and soft, the gardens beautiful. This morning I said to myself, "I will go early. Perhaps the little Natalushka will be going out for a walk; perhaps we will go together." No, signorina," said he, with a mock-heroic bow, "it was not with the intention of buying you toys. But was I not right? Do I not perceive by your costume that you were about to go out?"
"That is nothing, signore," said she. "It would be very strange if I could not give up my morning walk for an old friend of my father"s."
"_An contraire_, you shall not give up your walk," said he, with great courtesy. "We will go together; and then you will tell me about your father."
She accepted this invitation without the slightest scruple. It did not occur to her--as it would naturally have occurred, to most English girls--that she would rather not go walking in Hyde Park with a person who looked remarkably like the leader of a German band.
But Calabressa had known her mother.
"Ah, signore," said she, when they had got into the outer air, "I shall be so grateful to you if you will tell me about my mother. My father will not speak of her; I dare not awaken his grief again; he must have suffered much. You will tell me about her."
"My little daughter, your father is wise. Why awaken old sorrows? You must not spoil your eyes with more crying."
And then he went on to speak of all sorts of things, in his rapid, interjectional fashion--of his escape from prison mostly--until he perceived that she was rather silent and sad.
"Come then," said he, "we will sit down on this seat. Give me your hand."
She placed her hand in his without hesitation; and he patted it gently, and said how like it was to the hand of her mother.
"You are a little taller than she was," said he; "a little--not much.
Ah, how beautiful she was! She had many sweethearts."
He was silent for a minute or two.
"Some of them richer, some of them of n.o.bler birth than your father; and one of them her own cousin, whom all her family wanted her to marry. But you know, little daughter, your father is a very determined man--"
"But she loved him the best?" said the girl, quickly.
"Ah, no doubt, no doubt," said Calabressa. "He is very kind to you, is he not?"
"Oh yes. Who could be kinder? But about my mother, signore?"
Calabressa seemed somewhat embarra.s.sed.
"To say the truth, little daughter, how am I to tell you? I scarcely ever saw her after she married. Before then, you must imagine yourself as you are to think of her picture: and she was very much beloved--and very fond of horses. Is not that enough to tell? Ah, yes, another thing: she was very brave when there was any danger; and you know all the family were strong patriots; and one or two got into sad trouble. When her father--that is your grandfather, little daughter--when he failed to escape into Turkey after the a.s.sa.s.sination--"
Here Calabressa stopped, and then gave a slight wave of his hand.
"These are matters not interesting to you. But when her father had to seek a hiding-place she went with him in despite of everybody. I do not suppose he would be alive now but for her devotion."
"Is my mother"s father alive?" the girl said, with eyes wide open.
"I believe so; but the less said about it the better, little daughter."
"Why has my father never told me?" she asked, with the same almost incredulous stare.
"Have I not hinted? The less said the better. There are some things no government will amnesty. Your grandfather was a good patriot, little daughter."
Thereafter for some minutes silence. Slight as was the information Calabressa had given her, it was of intensest interest to her. There was much for her to think over. Her mother, whom she had been accustomed to regard as a beautiful saint, placed far above the common ways of earth, was suddenly presented to her in a new light. She thought of her young, handsome, surrounded with lovers, proud-spirited and patriotic--a devoted daughter, a brave woman.
"You also loved her?" she said to Calabressa.
The man started. She had spoken quite innocently--almost absently: she was thinking that he, too, must have loved the brave young Hungarian girl as all the world loved her.
"I?" said Calabressa. "Oh yes, I was a friend of hers for many years. I taught her Italian; she corrected my Magyar. Once her horse ran way; I was walking, and saw her coming; there was a wagon and oxen, and I shouted to the man; he drew the oxen right across the road, and barred the way. Ah, how angry she used to be--she pretended to be--when they told her I had saved her life! She was a bold rider."
Presently Calabressa said, with a lighter air,
"Come, let us talk of something else--of you, _par exemple_. How do you like the English? You have many sweethearts among them, of course."
"No, signore, I have no sweethearts," said Natalie, without any trace of embarra.s.sment.
"What! Is is possible? When I saw your father in Venice, and he told me the little Natalushka had grown to be a woman. I said to him, "Then she will marry an Englishman.""
"And what did he say?" the girl asked, with a startled look on her face.
"Oh, little, very little. If there was no possibility, why should he say much?"
"I have no sweethearts," said Natalie, simply; "but I have a friend--who wishes to be more than a friend. And it is now, when I have to answer him, it is now that I know what a sad thing it is to have no mother."
The pathetic vibration that Brand had noticed was in her voice; her eyes were downcast, her hands clasped. For a second or two Calabressa was silent.
"I am not idly curious, my little daughter," he said at length, and very gently; "but if you knew how long your mother and I were friends, you would understand the interest I feel in you, and why I came all this way to see the little Natalushka. So, one question, dear little one. Does your father approve?"
"Ah, how can I tell?"
He took her hand, and his face was grave.
"Listen now," said he; "I am going to give you advice. If your mother could speak to you, this is what she would say: Whatever happens--whatever happens--do not thwart your father"s wishes."
She wished to withdraw her hand, but he still held it.