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—youmightintimate 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 Brandjumped 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 onein 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 youhave 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," hesaid, at the front-door. "Will you particularly remember this—that none of the portraits here are to be disturbed on any account whatever?"
Natalie slept far from soundly the first night after her arrival in Naples; she was glad when the slow, anxious hours, with all their bewildering uncertainties and forebodings, were over. She rose early, and dressed quickly; she threw open the tall French windows to let in the soft silken air from the sea; then she stepped out on the balcony to marvel once more—she who knew Naples well enough—at the shining beauty around her.
It was a morning to give courage to any one; the air was fresh and sweet; she drank deep of the abundant gladness and brightness of the world. The great plain of waters before her shimmered and sparkled in millions of diamonds; with here and there long splashes of sunny green, and here and there long splashes of purple where the sea-weed showed through. The waves sprung white on the projecting walls of the Castello dell' Ovo, and washed in on the shore with a soft continuous murmur; the brown-sailed fishing-boats went by, showing black or red as they happened to be in sunshine or shadow. Then far away beyond the shining sea the island of Capri lay like a blue cloud on the horizon; and far away beyond the now awakening city near her rose Vesuvius, the twin peaks dark under some swathes of cloud, the sunlight touching the lower slopes into a yellowish green, and shining on the pink fringe of villas along the shore. On so fair and bright a morning hope came as natural to her as singing to a bird. The fears of the night were over; she could not be afraid of what such a day should bring forth.
And yet—and yet—from time to time—and just for a second or so—her heart seemed to stand still. And she was so silent and preoccupied at breakfast, that her mother remarked it; and Natalie had to excuse herself by saying that she was a little tired with the travelling. After breakfast she led her mother into the reading-room, and said, in rather an excited way,
"Now, mother, here is a treat for you; you will get all the English papers here, and all the news."
"You forget, Natalie," said her mother, smiling, "that English papers are not of much use to me."
"Ah, well, the foreign papers," she said, quickly. "You see, mother, I want to go along to a chemist's to get some white rose."
"You should not throw it about the railway carriages so much, Natalushka," the unsuspecting mother said, reprovingly. "You are extravagant."
She did not heed.
"Perhaps they will have it in Naples. Wait until I come back, mother; I shall not be long."
But it was not white-rose scent that was in her mind as she went rapidly away and got ready to go out; and it was not in search of any chemist's shop that she made her way to the Via Roma. Why, she had asked herself that morning, as she stood on the balcony, and drank in the sunlight and the sweet air, should she take the poor tired mother with her on this adventure? If there was danger, she would brave it by herself. She walked quickly—perhaps anxious to make the first plunge.
She had no difficulty in finding the Vico Carlo, though it was one of the narrowest and steepest of the small, narrow, and steep lanes leading off the main thoroughfare into the masses of tall and closely-built houses on the side of the hill. But when she looked up and recognized the little plate bearing the name at the corner, she turned a little pale; something, she knew not what, was now so near.
And as she turned into this narrow and squalid little alley, it seemed as if her eyes, through some excitement or other, observed the objects around her with a strange intensity. She could remember each and every one of them afterward—the fruit-sellers bawling, and the sellers of acidulated drinks out-roaring them; the shoemakers already at work at their open stalls; mules laden with vegetables; a negro monk, with his black woolly head above the brown hood; a venerable letter-writer at a small table, spectacles on nose and pen in hand, with two women whispering to him what he was to write for them. She made her way up the steep lane, through the busy, motley, malodorous crowd, until she reached the corner pointed out to her by Calabressa.
But he had not told her which way to turn, and for a second or two she stood in the middle of the crossing, uncertain and bewildered. A brawny-looking fellow, apparently abutcher, addressed her; she murmured some thanks, and hastily turned away, taking to the right. She had not gone but a few yards when she saw the entrance to a court which, at least, was certainly as dark as that described by Calabressa. She was half afraid that the man who had spoken to her was following her; and so, without further hesitation, she plunged into this gloomy court-yard, which was apparently quite deserted.
She was alone, and she looked around. A second convinced her that she had hit upon the place, as it were by accident. Over her head swung an oil-lamp, that threw but the scantiest orange light into the vague shadows of the place; and in front of her were the open windows of what was apparently a wine-shop. She did not stay to reflect. Perhaps with some little tightening of the mouth—unknown to herself—she walked forward and entered the vaults.
Here, again, no one was visible; there were rows of tuns, certainly, and a musty odor in the place, but no sign of any trade or business being carried on. Suddenly out of the darkness appeared a figure—so suddenly indeed as to startle her. Had this man been seen in ordinary daylight, he would no doubt have looked nothing worse than a familiar type of the fat black-a-vised Italian—not a very comely person, it is true, but not in any way horrible—but now these dusky shadows lent something ghoulish-looking to his bushy head and greasy face and sparkling black eyes.
"What is the pleasure of the young lady?" he said, curtly.
Natalie had been startled.
"I wished to inquire—I wished to mention," she stammered, "one Bartolotti."
But at the same time she was conscious of a strange sinking of the heart. Was this the sort of creature who was expected to save the life of her lover?—this the sort of man to pit against Ferdinand Lind? Poor old Calabressa—she thought he meant well, but he boasted, he was foolish.
This heavy-faced and heavy-bodied man in the dusk did not reply at once. He turned aside, saying,
"Excuse me, signorina, it is dark here; they have neglected to light the lamps as yet."
Then, with much composure, he got a lamp, struck a match, and lit it. The light was not great, but he placed it deliberately so that it shone on Natalie, and then he calmly investigated her appearance.
"Yes, signorina, you mentioned one Bartolotti," he remarked, in a more respectful tone.
Natalie hesitated. According to Calabressa's account, the mere mention of the name was to act as a talisman which would work wonders for her. This obese person merely stood there, awaiting what she should say.
"Perhaps," she said, in great embarrassment, "you know one Calabressa?"
"Ah, Calabressa!" he said, and the dull face lighted up with a little more intelligence. "Yes, of course, one knows Calabressa."
"He is a friend of mine," she said. "Perhaps, if I could see him, he would explain to you—"
"But Calabressa is not here; he is not even in this country, perhaps."
Then silence. A sort of terror seized her. Was this the end of all her hopes? Was she to go away thus? Then came a sudden cry, wrung from her despair.
"Oh, sir, you must tell me if there is no one who can help me! I have come to save one who is in trouble, in danger. Calabressa said to me, 'Go to Naples; go to such and such a place; the mere word Bartolotti will give you powerful friends; count on them; they will not fail one who belongs to the Berezolyis.' And now—"
"Your pardon, signorina: have the complaisance to repeat the name."
"Berezolyi," she answered, quickly; "he said it would be known."
"I for my part do not know it; but that is of no consequence," said the man. "I begin to perceive what it is that you demand. It is serious. I hope my friend Calabressa is justified. I have but to do my duty."
Then he glanced at the young lady—or, rather, at her costume.
"The assistance you demand for some one, signorina: is it a sum of money—is it a reasonable, ordinary sum of money that would be in the question, perhaps?"
"Oh no, signore; not at all!"
"Very well. Then have the kindness to write your name and your address for me: I will convey your appeal."
He brought her writing materials; after a moment's consideration she wrote—"Natalie Lind, the daughter of Natalie Berezolyi. Hotel ——." She handed him the paper.
"A thousand thanks, signorina. To-day, perhaps to-morrow, you will hear from the friends of Calabressa. You will be ready to go where they ask you to go?"
"Oh yes, yes, sir!" she exclaimed. "How can I thank you?"
"It is unnecessary," he said, taking the lamp to show her the way more clearly. "I have the honor to wish you good-morning, signorina." And again he bowed respectfully. "Your most humble servant, signorina."
She returned to the hotel, and found that her mother had gone up-stairs to her own room.
"Natalushka, you have been away trying to find some one?"
"Yes, mother," the girl said, rather sadly.
"Why did you go alone?"
"I thought I would not tire you, dear mother."
Then she described all the circumstances of her morning's visit.
"But why should you be so sad, Natalushka?" the mother said, taking her daughter's hand; "don't you know that fine palaces may have rusty keys? Oh, I can reassure you on that point. You will not have to deal with persons like your friend the wine-merchant—not at all. I know at least as much as that, child. But you see, they have to guard themselves."
Natalie would not leave the hotel for a moment. She pretended to read; but every person who came into the reading-room caused her to look up with a start of apprehensive inquiry. At last there came a note for her. She broke open the envelope hurriedly, and found a plain white card, with these words written on it:
"Be at the Villa Odelschalchi, Portici, at four this afternoon."
Joy leaped to her face again.
"Mother, look!" she cried, eagerly. "After all, we may hope."
"This time you shall not go alone, Natalushka."
"Why not, mother? I am not afraid."
"I may be of use to you, child. There may be friends of mine there—who knows? I am going with you."
In course of time they hired a carriage, and drove away through the crowded and gayly-colored city in the glow of the afternoon. But they had sufficient prudence, before reaching Portici, to descend from the carriage and proceed on foot. They walked quietly along, apparently not much interested in what was around them. Presently Natalie pressed her mother's arm, they were opposite the Villa Odelschalchi—there was the name on the flat pillars by the gate.
This great plain building, which might have been called a palazzo rather than a villa, seemed, on the side fronting thestreet, to be entirely closed—all the casements of the windows being shut. But when they crossed to the gate, and pulled the big iron handle that set a bell ringing, a porter appeared—a big, indolent-looking man, who regarded them calmly, to see which would speak first.
Natalie simply produced the card that had been sent to her.
"This is the Villa Odelschalchi, I perceive," she said.
"Oh, it is you, then, signorina?" the porter said, with great respect. "Yes, there was one lady to come here at four o'clock—"
"But the signora is my mother," said Natalie, perhaps with a trifle of impatience.
The man hesitated for a moment, but by this time Natalie, accompanied by her mother, had passed through the cool gray archway into the spacious tessellated court, from which rose on each hand a wide marble staircase.
"Will the signorina and the signora her mother condescend to follow me?" the porter said, leading the way up one of the staircases, the big iron keys still in his hand.
They were shown into an antechamber, but scantily furnished, and the porter disappeared. In a minute or two there came into the room a small, sallow-complexioned man, who was no other than the Secretary Granaglia. He bowed, and, as he did so, glanced from the one to the other of the visitors with scrutiny.
"It is no doubt correct, signorina," said he, addressing himself to Natalie, "that you have brought the signora your mother with you. We had thought you were alone, from the message we received. No matter; only"—and here he turned to Natalie's mother—"only, signora, you will renew your acquaintance with one who wishes to be known by the name of Von Zoesch. I have no doubt the signora understands."
"Oh, perfectly, perfectly!" said the elder woman: she had been familiar with these prudent changes of name all her life.
The Secretary Granaglia bowed and retired.
"It is some one who knows you, mother?" Natalie said, breathlessly.
"Oh, I hope so!" the other answered. She was a little pale, and her fingers were tightly clasped.
Then a heavier step was heard in the empty corridors outside. The door was opened; there appeared a tall and soldierly-looking man, about six feet three in height and perfectly erect, with closely-cropped white hair, a long white mustache, a reddish face, and clear, piercing, light-blue eyes. The moment the elder woman saw him she uttered a slight cry—of joy, it seemed, and surprise—and sprung to her feet.
"Stefan!"
"Natalie!" he exclaimed, in turn with an almost boyish laugh of pleasure, and he came forward to her with both hands outstretched, and took hers. "Why, what good wind has brought you to this country? But I beg a thousand pardons—"
He turned and glanced at Natalie.
"My child," she said, "let me present you to my old friend, General—"
"Von Zoesch," he interrupted, and he took Natalie's hand at the same time. "What, you are the young lady, then, who bearded the lion in his den this morning?—and you were not afraid? No, I can see you are a Berezolyi; if you were a man you would be forever getting yourself and your friends into scrapes, and risking your neck to get them out again. A Berezolyi, truly! 'The more beautiful daughter of a beautiful mother!' But the little scamp knew his insulting iambics were only fit to be thrown into the fire when he made that unjust comparison. Ah, you young people have fresh complexions and bright eyes on your side, but we old people prefer our old friends."
"I hope so, sir," said Natalie, with her eyes bent down.
"And had your father no other messenger that he must employ you?" said this erect, white-haired giant, who regarded her in a kindly way; "or is it that feather-brained fellow Calabressa who has got you to intercede for him? Rest assured. Calabressa will soon be in imminent peril of being laid by the heels, and he is therefore supremely happy."
Before the girl could speak he had turned to the mother.
"Come, my old friend, shall we go out into the garden? I am sorry the reception-rooms in the villa are all dismantled; in truth, we are only temporary lodgers. And I have a great many questions to ask you about old friends, particularly your father."
"Stefan, can you not understand why I have permitted myself to leave Hungary?"
He glanced at her deep mourning.
"Ah, is that so? Well, no one ever lived a braver life. And how he kept up the old Hungarian traditions!—the house a hotel from month's end to month's end: no questions asked but 'Are you a stranger? then my house is yours.'"
He led the way down the stairs, chatting to this old friend of his; and though Natalie was burning with impatience, she forced herself to be silent. Was it not all in her favor that this member of the mysterious Council should recur to these former days, and remind himself of his intimacy with her family? She followed them in silence: he seemed to have forgotten her existence.
They passed through the court-yard, and down some broad steps. The true front of the building was on this seaward side—a huge mass of pink, with green casements. From the broad stone steps a series of terraces, prettily laid out, descended to a lawn; but, instead of passing down that way, the tall, soldierly-looking man led his companion by a side-flight of steps, which enabled them to enter analleecut through a mass of olives and orange and lemon trees. There were fig-trees along the wall by the side of this path; a fountain plashed coolly out there on the lawn, and beyond the opening showed the deep blue of the sea, with the clear waves breaking whitely on the shores.
They sat down on a garden-seat; and Natalie, sitting next her mother, waited patiently and breathlessly, scarcely hearing all this talk about old companions and friends.
At last the general said,
"Now about the business that brought you here: is it serious?"
"Oh yes, very," the mother said, with some color of excitement appearing in her worn face; "it is a friend of ours in England: he has been charged by the Society with some duty that will cost him his life; we have come to intercede for him—to ask you to save him. For the sake of old times, Stefan—"
"Wait a moment," said the other, looking grave. "Do you mean the Englishman?"
"Yes, yes; the same."
"And who has told you what it is purposed to have done?" he asked, with quite a change in his manner.
"No one," she answered, eagerly; "we guess that it is something of great danger."
"And if that is so, are you unfamiliar with persons having to incur danger? Why not an Englishman as well as another? This is an extraordinary freak of yours, Natalie; I cannot understand it. And to have come so far when any one in England—any one of us, I mean—could have told you it was useless."
"But why useless, if you are inclined to interfere?" shesaid, boldly, "and I think my father's family have some title to consideration."
"My old friend," said he, in a kindly way, "what is there in the world I would not do for you if it were within my power? But this is not. What you ask is, to put the matter shortly, impossible—impossible!"
In the brief silence that followed the mother heard a slight sigh: she turned instantly, and saw her daughter, as white as death, about to fall. She caught her in her arms with a slight cry of alarm.
"Here, Stefan, take my handkerchief—dip it in the water—quick!"
The huge, bullet-headed man strode across the lawn to the fountain. As he returned, and saw before him the white-lipped, unconscious girl, who was supported in her mother's arms, he said to himself, "Now I understand."
This sudden and involuntary confession of alarm and despair no doubt told her story more clearly than anything else could have done. General von Zoesch as he chose to call himself, was excessively concerned; he held her hand till he saw the life returning to the pale, beautiful face: he was profuse and earnest in his apologies.
"My dear young lady I beg a thousand pardons!—I had no idea of alarming you; I had no idea you were so deeply interested; come, take my arm, and we will walk down into the open, where the sea-air is cool. I beg a thousand pardons."
She had pulled herself together with a desperate effort of will.
"You spoke abruptly, signore; you used the wordimpossible! I had imagined it was unknown to you."
Her lips were rather pale; but there was a flush of color returning to her face, and her voice had something of the old proud and pathetic ring in it.
"Yes," she continued, standing-before him, with her eyes downcast, "I was told that when great trouble came upon me or mine I was to come here—to Naples—and I should find myself under the protection of the greatest power inEurope. My name—my mother's name—was to be enough. And this is the result, that a brave man, who is our friend and dear to us, is threatened with a dishonorable death, and the very power that imposed it on him—the power that was said to be invincible, and wise, and generous—is unable or unwilling to stir hand or foot!"
"A dishonorable death, signorina?"
"Oh, signore," she said, with a proud indignation, "do not speak to me as if I were a child. Cannot one see what is behind all this secrecy? Cannot one see that you know well what has been done in England by your friends and colleagues? You put this man, who is too proud, too noble, to withdraw from his word, on a service that involves the certain sacrifice of his life! and there is no honor attached to this sacrifice—so he himself has admitted. What does that mean?—what can it mean—but assassination?"
He drew back his head a little bit, as if startled, and stared at her.
"My dear young lady—"
But her courage had not returned to her for nothing. She raised the beautiful, dark, pathetic eyes, and regarded him with an indignant fearlessness.
"That is what any one might guess," she said. "But there is more. Signore, you and your friends meditate the assassination of the King of Italy! and you call on an Englishman—an Englishman who has no love of secret and blood-stained ways—"
"Stefan!" the mother cried, quickly, and she placed her hand on the general's arm; "do not be angry. Do not heed her—she is a child—she is quick to speak. Believe me, there are other reasons for our coming to you."
"Yes, yes, my friend Natalie; all in good time. But I am most anxious to put myself right with the signorina your daughter first of all. Now, my dear young lady," he said, taking her hand, and putting it on his arm, and gently compelling her to walk with him toward the opener space where the sea-air was cool, "I again apologize to you for having spoken unwittingly—"
"Oh, signore, do not trouble about that! It is no matter of courtesy or politeness that is in the question: it is the life of one of one's dearest friends. There are other times for politeness."
"Stefan," the mother interposed, anxiously, "do not heed her—she is agitated."
"My dear Natalie," said the general, smiling, "I admirea brave woman as I admire a brave man. Do not I recognize another of you Berezolyis? The moment you think one of your friends is being wronged, fire and water won't prevent you from speaking out. No, no, my dear young lady," he said, turning to the daughter, "you cannot offend me by being loyal and outspoken."
He patted her hand, just as Calabressa had done.
"But I must ask you to listen for a moment, to remove one or two misconceptions. It is true I know something of the service which your English friend has undertaken to perform. Believe me, it has nothing to do with the assassination of the King of Italy—nothing in the world."
She lifted her dark eyes for a second, and regarded him steadily.
"I perceive," said he, "that you pay me the compliment of asking me if I lie. I do not. Reassure yourself: there are no people in this country more loyal to the present dynasty than my friends and myself. We have no time for wild Republican projects."
She looked somewhat bewildered. This speculation as to the possible nature of the service demanded of George Brand had been the outcome of many a night's anxious self-communing; and she had indulged in the wild hope that this man, when abruptly challenged, might have been startled into some avowal. For then, would not her course have been clear enough? But now she was thrown back on her former perplexity, with only the one certainty present to her mind—the certainty of the danger that confronted her lover.
"My dear young lady," he said, "it is useless for you to ask what that service is, for I shall refuse to answer you. But I assure you that you have my deepest sympathy, and I have seen a good deal of suffering from similar causes. I do not seek to break into your confidence, but I think I understand your position; you will believe me that it is with no light heart that I must repeat the wordimpossible. Need I reason with you? Need I point out to you that there is scarcely any one in the world whom we might select for a dangerous duty who would not have some one who would suffer on his account? Who is without some tie of affection that must be cut asunder—no matter with what pain—when the necessity for the sacrifice arises? You are one of the unhappy ones; you must be brave; you must try to forget your sufferings, as thousands of wives and sweethearts and daughters have had to forget, in thinking that their relatives and friends died in a good cause."
Her heart was proud and indignant no longer; it had grown numbed. The air from the sea felt cold.
"I am helpless, signore," she murmured; "I do not know what the cause is. I do not know what justification you have for taking this man's life."
He did not answer that. He said,
"Perhaps, indeed, it is not those who are called on to sacrifice their life for the general good who suffer most. They can console themselves with thinking of the result. It is their friends—those dearest to them—who suffer, and who many a time would no doubt be glad to become their substitutes. It is true that we—that is, that many associations—recognize the principle of the vicarious performance of duties and punishments; but not any one yet has permitted a woman to become substitute for a man."
"What made you think of that, signore?" she asked, regarding him.
"I have known some cases," he said, evasively, "where such an offer, I think, would have been made."
"It could not be accepted?"
"Oh no."
"Not even by the power that is the greatest in Europe?" she said, bitterly—"that is invincible and all-generous? Oh, signore, you are too modest in your pretensions! And the Berezolyis—they have done nothing, then, in former days to entitle them to consideration; they are but as anybody in the crowd who might come forward and intercede for a friend; they have no old associates, then, and companions in this Society, that they cannot have this one thing granted them—that they cannot get this one man's life spared to him! Signore, your representatives mistake your powers; more than that, they mistake the strength of your memory, and your friendship!"
The red face of the bullet-headed general grew redder still, but not with anger.
"Signorina," he said, evidently greatly embarrassed, "you humiliate me. You—you do not know what you ask—"
He had led her back to the garden-seat; they had both sat down; he did not notice how her bosom was struggling with emotion.
"You ask me to interfere—to commit an act of injustice—"
"Oh, signore, signore, this is what I ask!" she cried, quite overcome; and she fell at his feet, and put her clasped hands on his knees, and broke into a wild fit of crying; "this is what I ask of you, signore—this is what I beg fromyou on my knees—I ask you to give me the life of—of my betrothed!"
She buried her face in her hands; her frame was shaken with her sobs.
"Little daughter," said he, greatly agitated, "rise; come, remain here for a few moments; I wish to speak to your mother—alone. Natalie!"
The elder woman accompanied him a shortdistance across thelawn; they stood by the fountain.
"By Heaven, I would do anything for the child!" he said, rapidly; "but you see, dear friend, how it is impossible. Look at the injustice of it. If we transferred this duty to another person, what possible excuse could we make to him whom we might choose?"
He was looking back at the girl.
"It will kill her, Stefan," the mother said.
"Others have suffered also."
The elder woman seemed to collect herself a little.
"But I told you we had not said everything to you. The poor child is in despair; she has not thought of all the reasons that induced us to come to you. Stefan, you remember my cousin Konrad?"
"Oh yes, I remember Konrad well enough," said thegeneral, absently, for he was still regarding the younger Natalie, who sat on the bench, her hands clasped, her head bent down. "Poor fellow, he came to a sad end at last; but he always carried his life in his hands, and with a gay heart too."
"But you remember, do you not, something before that?" the mother said, with some color coming into her face. "You remember how my husband had him chosen—and I myself appealed—and you, Stefan, you were among the first to say that the Society must inquire—"
"Ah, but that was different, Natalie. You know why it was that that commission had to be reversed."
"Do I know? Yes. What else have I had to think about these sixteen or seventeen years since my child was separated from me?" she said, sadly. "And perhaps I have grown suspicious; perhaps I have grown mad to think that what has happened once might happen again."
"What?" he said, turning his clear blue eyes suddenly on her.
She did not flinch.
"Consider the circumstances, Stefan, and say whether one has no reason to suspect. The Englishman, this Mr. Brand, loves Natalie; she loves him in return; my husband refuseshis consent to the marriage; and yet they meet in opposition to his wishes. Then there is another thing that I cannot so well explain, but it is something about a request on my husband's part that Mr. Brand, who is a man of wealth, should accept a certain offer, and give over his property to the funds of the Society."
"I understand perfectly," her companion said, calmly. "Well?"
"Well, Mr. Brand, thinking of Natalie's future, refuses. But consider this, Stefan, that it had been hinted to him before that in case of his refusal, he might be sent to America to remain there for life."
"I perceive, my old friend, that you are reading in your own interpretations into an ordinary matter of business. However—"
"But his refusal was immediately followed by that arrangement. He was ordered to go to America. My husband, no doubt considered that that would effectually separate him and Natalie—"
"Again you are putting in your own interpretation."
"One moment, Stefan. My child is brave; she thought an injustice was being done; she thought it was for her sake that her lover was being sent away, and then she spoke frankly; she said she would go with him."
"Yes?" He was now listening with more interest.
"You perceive then, my dear friend, my husband was thwarted in every way. Then it was, and quite suddenly, that he reversed this arrangement about America, and there fell on Mr. Brand this terrible thing. Knowing what I know, do you not think I had fair cause for suspicion? And when Natalie said, 'Oh, there are those abroad who will remove this great trouble from us,' then I said to myself, 'At all events, the Society does not countenance injustice; it will see that right has been done.'"
The face of the man had grown grave, and for some time he did not speak.
"I see what you suggest, Natalie," he said at length. "It is a serious matter. I should have said your suspicions were idle—that the thing was impossible—but for the fact that it has occurred before. Strange, now, if old ——, whose wisdom and foresight the world is beginning to recognize now, should be proved to be wise on this point too, as on so many others. He used always to say to us: 'When once you find a man unfaithful, never trust him after. When once a man has allowed himself to put his personal advantage before his dutyto such a society as yours, it shows that somewhere or other there is in him the leaven of a self-seeker, which is fatal to all societies. Impose the heaviest penalties on such an offence; cast him out when you have the opportunity.' It would be strange, indeed; it would be like fate; it would appear as though the thing were in the blood, and must come out, no matter what warning the man may have had before. You know, Natalie, what your husband had to endure for his former lapse?"
She nodded her head.
For some time he was again silent, and there was a deeper air of reflection on his face than almost seemed natural to it, for he looked more of a soldier than a thinker.
"If there were any formality," he said, almost to himself, "in the proceedings, one might have just cause to intervene. But your husband, my Natalie," he continued, addressing her directly, "is well trusted by us. He has done us long and faithful service. We should be slow to put any slight upon him, especially that of suspicion."
"That, Stefan," said Natalie's mother, with courage, "is a small matter, surely, compared with the possibility of your letting this man go to his death unjustly. You would countenance, then, an act of private revenge? That is the use you would let the powers of your Society be put to? That is not what Janecki, what Rausch, what Falevitch looked forward to."
The taunt was quite lost on him; he was calmly regarding Natalie. She had not stirred. After that one outburst of despairing appeal there was no more for her to say or to do. She could wait, mutely, and hear what the fate of her lover was to be.
"Unfortunately," said the general, turning and looking up at the vast pink frontage of the villa, "There are no papers here that one can appeal to. I only secured the temporary use of the villa, as being a more fitting place than some to receive the signorina your daughter. But it is possible the Secretary may remember something; he has a good memory. Will you excuse me, Natalie, for a few moments?"
He strode away toward the house. The mother went over to her daughter, and put a hand on her shoulder.
"Courage, Natalushka! You must not despair yet. Ah, my old friend Stefan has a kind heart; there were tears in his eyes when he turned away from your appeal to him. He does not forget old associates."
Von Zoesch almost immediately returned, still looking preoccupied. He drew Natalie's mother aside a few steps, and said,
"This much I may tell you, Natalie: in the proceedings four were concerned—your husband, Mr. Brand, Beratinsky, Reitzei. What do you know of these last two?"
"I? Alas, Stefan, I know nothing of them!"
"And we here little. They are your husband's appointment. I may also tell you, Natalie, that the Secretary is also of my opinion, that it is very unlikely your husband would be so audacious as to repeat his offence of former years, by conspiring to fix this duty on this man to serve his own interests. It would be too audacious, unless his temper had outrun his reason altogether."
"But you must remember, Stefan," she said, eagerly, "that there was no one in England who knew that former story. He could not imagine that I was to be, unhappily, set free to go to my daughter—that I should be at her side when this trouble fell on her—"
"Nevertheless," said he, gently interrupting her, "you have appealed to us: we will inquire. It will be a delicate affair. If there has been any complicity, any unfairness, to summon these men hither would be to make firmer confederates of them than ever. If one could get at them separately, individually—"
He kept pressing his white mustache into his teeth with his forefinger.
"If Calabressa were not such a talker," he said, absently. "But he has ingenuity, the feather-brained devil."
"Stefan, I could trust everything to Calabressa," she said.
"In the mean time," he said, "I will not detain you. If you remain at the same hotel we shall be able to communicate with you. I presume yourcarriageis outside?"
"It is waiting for us a little way off."
He accompanied them into the tessellated court-yard, but not to the gate. He bade good-bye to his elder friend; then he took the younger lady's hand and held it, and regarded her.
"Figliuola mia," he said, with a kindly glance, "I pity you if you have to suffer. We will hope for better things: if it is impossible, you have a brave heart."
When they had left he went up the marble staircase and along the empty corridor until he reached a certain room.
"Granaglia, can you tell me where our friend Calabressa may happen to be at this precise moment?"
"At Brindisi, I believe, Excellenza."
"At Brindisi still. The devil of a fellow is not so impatient as I had expected. Ah, well. Have the goodness to send for him, friend Granaglia, and bid him come with speed."
"Most willingly, Excellenza."
One warm, still afternoon Calabressa was walking quickly along the crowded quays of Naples, when he was beset by a more than usually importunate beggar—a youth of about twelve, almost naked.
"Something for bread, signore—for the love of God—my father taken to heaven, my mother starving—bread, signore—"
"To the devil with you!" said Calabressa.
"May you burst!" replied the polite youth, and he tried to kick Calabressa's legs and make off at the same time.
This feat he failed in, so that, as he was departing, Calabressa hit him a cuff on the side of the head which sent him rolling. Then there was a howl, and presently there was a universal tumult of women, calling out, "Ah, the German! ah, the foreigner!" and so forth, and drawing threateningly near. Calabressa sought in his pockets for a handful of small copper coins, turned, threw them high in the air, and did not stay to watch the effect of the shower on the heads of the women, but walked quietly away.
However, in thus suddenly turning, he had caught sight—even with his near-sighted eyes—of an unwholesome-looking young man, pale, clean-shaven, with bushy black hair, whom he recognized. He appeared to pay no attention, but walked quickly on. Taking one or two unnecessary turnings, he became convinced that the young man, as he had suspected, was following him: then, without more ado, and even without looking behind him, he set out for his destination, which was Posilipo.
In due course of time he began to ascend the wooded hill with its villas and walls and cactus-hedges. At a certain turning, where he could not be observed by any one behind him, he turned sharp off to the left, and stood behind a wooden gate; a couple of minutes afterward the young mancame along, more rapidly now, for he no doubt fancied that Calabressa had disappeared ahead.
Calabressa stepped out from his hiding-place, went after him, and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, stared, and endeavored to appear angry and astonished.
"Oh yes, to be sure," said Calabressa, with calm sarcasm, "at your disposition, signore. So we were not satisfied with selling photographs and pebbles to the English on board the steamer; we want to get a little Judas money; we sell ourselves to the weasels, the worms, the vermin—"
"Oh, I assure you, signore—" the shaven-faced youth exclaimed, much more humbly.
"Oh, I assure you too, signore," Calabressa continued, facetiously. "And you, you poor innocent, you have not been with the weasels six weeks when you think you will try your nose in tracking me. Body of Bacchus, it is too insolent!"
"I assure you, signore—"
"Now, behold this, my friend: we must give children like you a warning. If you had been a little older, and not quite so foolish, I should have had you put on the Black List of my friends the Camorristi—you understand? But you—we will cure you otherwise. You know the Englishman's yacht that has come into the Great Harbor—"
"Signore, I beg of you—"
"Beg of the devil!" said Calabressa, calmly. "Between the Englishman's yacht and the Little Mole you will find a schooner moored—her name.La Svezia; do not forget—La Svezia. To-morrow you will go on board of her, ask for the captain, go down below, and beg him to be so kind as to give you twelve stripes—"
"Signore—"
"Another word,mouchard, and I make it twenty. He will give you a receipt, which you will sign, and bring to me; otherwise, down goes your name on the list. Which do you prefer? Oh, we will teach some of you young weasels a lesson! I have the honor to wish you a good morning."
Calabressa touched his hat politely, and walked on, leaving the young man petrified with rage and fear.
By-and-by he began to walk more leisurely and with more circumspection, keeping a sharp lookout, as well as his near-sighted eyes allowed, on any passer-by or vehicle he happened to meet. At length, and with the same precautions he had used on a former occasion, he entered the grounds of the villa he had sought out in the company of Gathorne Edwards, and made his way up to the fountain on the little plateau. But now his message had been previously prepared; he dropped it into the receptacle concealed beneath the lip of the fountain, and then descended the steep little terracesuntilhe got round to the entrance of the grotto.
Instead of passing in by this cleft in the rockwork, however, he found awaiting him there the person who had summoned him—the so-called General Von Zoesch. Calabressa was somewhat startled, but he said, "Your humble servant, Excellenza," and removed his cap.
"Keep your hat on your head, friend Calabressa," said the other, good-naturedly; "you are as old as I am."
He seated himself on a projecting ledge of the rockwork, and motioned to Calabressa to do likewise on the other side of the entrance. They were completely screened from observation by a mass of olive and fig trees, to say nothing of the far-stretching orangeshrubberybeyond.
"The Council have paid you a high compliment, my Calabressa," the general said, plunging at once into the matter. "They have resolved to intrust you with a very difficult mission."
"It is a great honor."
"You won't have to risk your neck, which will no doubt disappoint you, but you will have to show us whether there is the stuff of a diplomatist in you."
"Oh, as for that, Excellenza,"Calabressasaid confidently, "one can be abavardat times, for amusement, for nonsense; and one can at times be silent when there is necessity."
"You know of the affair of Zaccatelli. The agent has been found, as we desired in England. I understand you know him; his name is Brand."
Calabressa uttered an exclamation.
"Excellenza, do you know what you have said? You pierce my heart. Why he of all those in England? He is the betrothed of Natalie's daughter—the Natalie Berezolyi, Excellenza, who married Ferdinand Lind—"
"I know it," said the other, calmly. "I have seen the young lady. She is a beautiful child."
"She is more than that—she is a beautiful-souled child!" said Calabressa, in great agitation, "and she has a tender heart. I tell you it will kill her, Excellenza! Oh, it is infamous! it is not to be thought of!" He jumped to his feet and spoke in a rapid, excited way. "I say it is not to be thought of. I appeal—I, Calabressa—to the honorable the members of the Council: I say that I am ready to be hissubstitute—they cannot deny me—I appeal to the laws of the Society—"'
"Calm yourself—calm yourself," said the general; but Calabressa would not be calm.
"I will not have my beautiful child have this grief put upon her!—you, Excellenza, will help my appeal to the Council—they cannot refuse me—what use am I to anybody or myself? I say that the daughter of my old friend Natalie shall not have her lover taken from her; it is I, Calabressa, who claim to be his substitute!"
"Friend Calabressa, I desire you to sit down and listen. The story is brief that I have to tell you. This man Brand is chosen by the usual ballot. The young lady does not know for what duty, of course, but believes it will cost him his life. She is in trouble; she recollects your giving her some instructions; what does she do but start off at once for Naples, to put her head right into the den of the black bear Tommaso!"
"Ah, the brave little one! She did not forget Calabressa and the little map, then?"
"I have seen her and her mother."
"Her mother, also? Here, in Naples, now?"
"Yes."
"Great Heaven! What a fool I was to come through Naples and not to know—but I was thinking of that little viper."
"You will now be good enough to listen, my Calabressa."
"I beg your Excellency's pardon a thousand times."
"It appears that both mother and daughter are beset with the suspicion that this duty has been put upon their English friend by unfair means. At first I said to myself these suspicions were foolish; they now appear to me more reasonable. You, at all events, are acquainted with the old story against Ferdinand Lind; you know how he forfeited his life to the Society; how it was given back to him. You would think it impossible he would risk such another adventure. Well, perhaps I wrong him; but there is a possibility; there are powerful reasons, I can gather, why he should wish to get rid of this Englishman."
Calabressa said nothing now, but he was greatly excited.
"We had been urging him about money, Calabressa mio—that I will explain to you. It has been coming in slowest of all from England, the richest of the countries, and just when we had so much need. Then, again, there is a vacancy in the Council, and Lind has a wish that way. What happens?He tries to induce the Englishman to take an officership and give us his fortune; the Englishman refuses; he says then, 'Part from my daughter, and go to America.' The daughter says, 'If he goes, I follow.' You perceive, my friend, that if this story is true, and it is consecutive and minute as I received it, there was a reason for our colleague Lind to be angry, and to be desirous of making it certain that this Englishman who had opposed him should not have his daughter."
"I perceive it well, Excellenza. Meanwhile?"
"Meanwhile, that is all. Only, when an old friend—when one who has such claims on our Society as a Berezolyi naturally has—comes and tells you such a story, you listen with attention and respect. You may believe, or you may not believe; one prefers not to believe when the matter touches upon the faith of a colleague who has been trustworthy for many years. But at the same time, if the Council, being appealed to, and being anxious above all things that no wrong should be done, were to find an agent—prudent, silent, cautious—who might be armed with plenary powers of pardon, for example, supposing there were an accomplice to be bribed—if the Council were to commission such a one as you, my Calabressa, to institute inquiries, and perhaps to satisfy those two appellants that no injustice has been done, you would undertake the task with diligence, with a sense of responsibility, would you not?"