"More than that I will do for you," said the little woman, boldly. "I see there is unhappiness; you are suffering, my child. Well, I will plunge into it; I will see your father: this cannot be allowed. It is a dangerous thing to interfere—who knows better than I? But to sit near you is to be inspired; to touch your hand is to gain the courage of a giant. Yes, I will speak to your father; all shall be put right."
The girl scarcely heard her.
"There is another thing I would ask of you," she said, slowly and wistfully, "but not here. May I come to you when the lesson is over?"
"At two: yes."
So it was that Natalie called on her friend shortly after two o'clock and was shown into the little parlor. She was rather pale. She sat down at one side of the table.
"I wished to ask your advice, dear Madame Potecki," she said, in a low voice, and with her eyes down. "Now you must suppose a case. You must suppose that—that two people love each other—better—better than anything else in theworld, and that they are ready to sacrifice a great deal for each other. Well, the man is ordered away! it is a banishment from his own country, perhaps forever; and he is very brave about it, and will not complain. Now you must suppose that the girl is very miserable about his going away, and blames herself; and perhaps—perhaps wishes—to do something to show she understands his nobleness—his devotion; and she would do anything in the world, Madame Potecki—to prove her love to him—"
"But, child, child, why do you tremble so?"
"I wish you to tell me, Madame Potecki—I wish you to tell me—whether—you would consider it unwomanly—unmaidenly—for her to go and say to him, 'You are too brave and unselfish to ask me to go with you. Now I offer myself to you. If you must go, why not I—your wife?"
Madame Potecki started up in great alarm.
"Natalie, what do you mean?"
"I only—wished to—to ask—what you would think."
She was very pale, and her lips were tremulous; but she did not break down. Madame Potecki was apparently far more agitated than she was.
"My child, my child, I am afraid you are on the brink of some wild thing!"
"Is that that I have repeated to you what a girl ought to do?" Natalie said, almost calmly. "Do you think it is what my mother would have done, Madame Potecki? They have told me she was a brave woman."
"—Prends mon coeur, me dit-elle,Oui, mais a la chapelle,Sois mon petit....—Plait-ilTon petit?—Sois mon petit mari!"
"—Prends mon coeur, me dit-elle,Oui, mais a la chapelle,Sois mon petit....—Plait-ilTon petit?—Sois mon petit mari!"
—It was Calabressa who was gayly humming to himself; and it was well that he could amuse himself with hischansonsand his cigarettes, for his friend Edwards was proving anything but an attentive companion. The tall, near-sighted, blond-faced man from the British Museum was far too muchengrossed by the scene around him. They were walking along the quays at Naples; and it so happened that at this moment all the picturesque squalor and lazy life of the place were lit up by the glare reflected from a wild and stormy sunset. The tall, pink-fronted houses; the mules and oxen with their brazen yokes and tinkling bells; the fruit-sellers, and fish-sellers, and water-carriers, in costumes of many hues; the mendicant friars with their cloak and hood of russet-brown; the priests black and clean-shaven; the groups of women, swarthy of face, with head-dresses of red or yellow, clustered round the stalls; the children, in rags of brown, and scarlet, and olive-green, lying about the pavement as if artists had posed them there—all these formed a picture which was almost bewildering in its richness of color, and was no doubt rendered all the more brilliant because of the powerful contrast with the dark and driven sea. For the waters out there were racing in before a stiff breeze, and springing high on the fortresses and rocks; and the clouds overhead were seething and twisting, with many a sudden flash of orange; and then, far away beyond all this color and motion and change, rose the vast and gloomy bulk of Vesuvius, overshadowed and thunderous, as if the mountain were charged with a coming storm.
Calabressa grew impatient, despite his careless song.
"—Me seras tu fidele....—Comme une tourterelle.—Eh bieu, ca va....Ca va!—Ca me va!—Comme ca, ca me va!
"—Me seras tu fidele....—Comme une tourterelle.—Eh bieu, ca va....Ca va!—Ca me va!—Comme ca, ca me va!
—Diable, Monsieur Edouarts! You are very silent. You do not know where we are going, perhaps?"
Edwards started, as if he were waking from a reverie.
"Oh yes, Signor Calabressa," said he, "I am not likely to forget that. Perhaps I think more seriously about it than you. To you it is nothing. But I cannot forget, you see, that you and I are practically conniving at a murder."
"Hush, hush, my dear friend!" said Calabressa, glancing round. "Be discreet! And what a foolish phrase, too! You—you whose business is merely to translate; to preach; to educate a poor devil of a Russian—what have you to do with it? And to speak of murder! Bah! You do not understand the difference, then, between killing a man as an act of private anger and revenge, and executing a man for crimesagainst society? My good friend Edouarts, you have lived all your life among books, but you have not learned any logic—no!"
Edwards was not inclined to go into any abstract argument
"I will do what I have been appointed to do," he said, curtly; "but that cannot prevent my wishing that it had not to be done at all."
"And who knows?" said Calabressa, lightly. "Perhaps, if you are so fearful about your small share, your very little share—it is no more than that of the garcon who helps one on with his coat: is he accessary, too, if a rogue has to be punished?—is he responsible for the sentence, also, if he brushes the boots of the judge?—or the servant of the court who sweeps out the room, is he guilty if there is a miscarriage of justice? No, no; my dear friend Edouarts, do not alarm yourself. Then, I was saying, perhaps it may not be necessary, after all. You perceived, my friend, that when the proposal of his eminence the Cardinal was mentioned, the Secretary Granaglia smiled, and I, thoughtless, laughed. You perceived it, did you not?"
By this time they were in the Chiaja, beyond the Villa Reale; and there were fewer people about. Calabressa stopped and confronted his companion. For the purposes of greater emphasis, he rested his right elbow in the palm of his left hand, while his forefinger was at the point of his nose.
"What?" said he, in this striking attitude, "what if we were both fools—ha? The Secretary Granaglia and myself—what if we were both fools?"
Calabressa abandoned his pose, linked his arm within that of his companion, and walked on with him.
"Come, I will implant something in your mind. I will throw out a fancy; it may take root and flourish; if not, who is the worse? Now, if the Council were really to entertain that proposal of Zaccatelli?"
He regarded his friend Edouarts.
"You observed, I say, that Granaglia smiled: to him it was ludicrous. I laughed: to me it was farcical—the chatter of abavard. The Pope become the patron of a secret society! The priests become our friends and allies! Very well, my friend; but listen. The little minds see what is absurd; the great minds are serious. Granaglia is a little devil of courage; but he is narrow; he is practical; he has no imagination. I: what am I?—careless, useless, also abavard, if you will. But it occurred to me, after all, when I began to think—what agreat man, a great mind, might say to this proposal. Take a man like Lind: see what he could make of it! 'Do not laugh at it any more, Calabressa,' said I to myself, 'until you hear the opinion of wiser men than yourself.'"
He gripped Edwards's arm tight.
"Listen. To become the allies of the priests it is not necessary to believe everything the priests say. On the other hand, they need not approve all that we are doing, if only they withdraw their opposition. Do you perceive the possibility now? Do you think of the force of that combination? The multitudes of the Catholics encouraged to join!—the Vatican the friend and ally of the Council of the Seven Stars!"
He spoke the last words in a low voice, but he were a proud look.
"And if this proposal were entertained," said Edwards, meditatively, "of course, they would abandon this other business."
"My good friend," said Calabressa, confidentially, "I know that Lind, who sees things with a large vision, is against it. He consents—as you consent to do your little outside part—against his own opinion. More; if he had been on the Council the decree would never have been granted, though De Bedros and a dozen of his daughters had demanded it. 'Calabressa,' he said to me, 'it will do great mischief in England if it is known that we are connected with it.' Well, you see, all this would be avoided if they closed with the Cardinal's offer."
"You are sanguine, Signor Calabressa," said the other.
"Besides, the thirty thousand lire!"' said Calabressa, eagerly. "Do you know what that is? Ah, you English have always too much money!"
"No doubt," said Edwards, with a smile. "We are all up to the neck in gold."
"Thirty thousand lire a year, and the favor of the Vatican; what fools Granaglia and I were to laugh! But perhaps we will find that the Council were wiser."
They had now got out to Posilipo, and the stormy sunset had waned, leaving the sky overclouded and dusk. Calabressa, having first looked up and down the road, stopped by the side of a high wall, over which projected a number of the broken, gray-green, spiny leaves of the cactus—a hedge at the foot of the terrace above.
"Peste!" said he. "How the devil is one to find it out in the dark?"
"Find what out?"
"My good friend," said he, in a whisper, "you are not able by chance to see a bit of thread—a bit of red thread—tied round one of those big leaves?"
Edwards glanced up.
"Not I."
"Ah, well, we must run the risk. Perhaps by accident there may be a meeting."
They walked on for some time, Calabressa becoming more and more watchful. They paused to let a man driving a wagon and a pair of oxen go by; and then Calabressa, enjoining his companion to remain where he was, went on alone.
The changing sky had opened somewhat overhead, and there was a wan twilight shining through the parted clouds. Edwards, looking after Calabressa, could have fancied that the dark figure had disappeared like a ghost; but the old albino had merely crossed the road, opened the one half of a huge gate, and entered a garden.
It was precisely like the gardens of the other villas along the highway—cut in terraces along the steep side of the hill, with winding pathways, and marble lions here and there, and little groves of orange and olive and fig trees; while on one side the sheer descent was guarded by an enormous cactus hedge. The ground was very unequal: on one small plateau a fountain was playing—the trickling of the water the only sound audible in the silence.
Calabressa took out his pocket-book, and tore a leaf from it.
"The devil!" he muttered to himself. "How is one to write in the dark?"
But he managed to scrawl the word "Barsanti;" then he wrapped the paper round a small pebble and approached the fountain. By putting one foot on the edge of the stone basin beneath he could reach over to the curved top, and there he managed to drop the missive into some aperture concealed under the lip. He stepped back, dried his hand with his handkerchief, and then went down one of the pathways to a lower level of the garden.
Here he easily found the entrance to an ordinary sort of grotto—a narrow cave winding inward and ending in a piece of fancy rockwork down which the water was heard to trickle. But he did not go to the end—he stopped about half-way and listened. There was no sound whatever in the dark, except the plash of the tiny water-fall.
Then there was a heavy grating noise, and in the black wall before him appeared a vertical line of orange light. This sudden gleam was so bewildering to the eyes that Calabressa could not see who it was that come out to him; he only knew that the stranger waited for him to pass on into the outer air.
"It is cooler here. To your business, friend Calabressa."
The moment Calabressa recognized this tall, military-looking man, with the closely cropped bullet-head and long silver-white mustache, he whipped off his cap, and said, anxiously,
"A thousand pardons, Excellency! a thousand pardons! Do I interrupt? May not I see Fossati?"
"It is unnecessary. There is much business to-night. One must breathe the air sometimes."
Calabressa for once had completely lost hissang-froid. He could not speak for stammering.
"I assure you, your Excellency, it is death to me to think that I interrupt you."
"But why did you come, then, my friend? To the point."
"Zaccatelli," the other managed to get out.
"Well?"
"There was a proposal. Some days ago I saw Granaglia."
"Well?"
"Pardon me, Excellency. If I had known, not for worlds would I have called you—"
"Come, come my Calabressa," said the other, good-naturedly. "No more apologies. What is it you have to say?—the proposal made by the Cardinal? Yes; we know about that."
"And it has not been accepted?—the decree remains?"
"You waste your breath, my friend. The decree remains, certainly. We are not children; we do not play. What more, my Calabressa?"
But Calabressa had to collect his thoughts. Then he said, slowly,
"It occurred to me when I was in England—there was a poor devil there who would have thrown away his life in a useless act of revenge—well—"
"Well, you brought him over here," said the other, interrupting him. "Your object? Ah, Lind and you being old comrades; and Lind appearing to you to be in a difficulty. But did Lind approve?"
"Not quite," said Calabressa, still hesitating. "He allowed us to try. He was doubtful himself."
"I should have thought so," said the other, ironically. "No, good Calabressa; we cannot accept the services of a maniac. The night has got dark; I cannot see whether you are surprised. How do we know? The man Kirskihas been twice examined—once in Venice, once this morning, when you went down to theLuisa; the reports the same. What! To have a maniac blundering about the gates, attracting every one's notice by his gibberish; then he is arrested with a pistol or a knife in his hand; he talks nonsense about some Madonna; he is frightened into a confession, and we become the laughing-stock of Europe! Impossible, impossible, my Calabressa: where were your wits? No wonder Lind was doubtful—"
"The man is capable of being taught," said Calabressa, humbly.
"We need not waste more breath, my friend. To-night Lind will be reminded why it was necessary that the execution of this decree was intrusted to the English section: he must not send any Russian madman to compromise us."
"Then I must take him back, your Excellency!"
"No; send him back—with the English scholar. You will remain in Naples, Calabressa. There is something stirring that will interest you."
"I am at your service, Excellency."
"Good-night, dear friend."
The figure beside him had disappeared almost before he had time to return the salutation, and he was left to find his way down to the gate, taking care not to run unawares on one of the long cactus spines. He discovered Edwards precisely where he had left him.
"Ah, Monsieur Edouarts, now you may clap your hands—now you may shout an English 'hurrah!' For you, at all events, there is good news."
"That project has been abandoned, then?" said Edwards, eagerly.
"No, no, no!" said Calabressa, loftily; as if he had never entertained such a possibility. "Do you think the Council is to be played with—is to be bribed by so many and so many lire? No, no. Its decree is inviolable."
"Well, then?"
"Well, then, some stupidities of our Russian friend have saved you: they know everything, these wonderful people: they say, 'No; we will not trust the affair to a madman.' Do you perceive? What you have to do now is to take Kirski back to England."
"And I am not wanted any longer?" said the other, with the same eagerness.
"I presume not. I am. I remain in Naples. For you,you are free. Away to England! I give you my blessing; and to-night—to-night you will give me a bottle of wine."
But presently he added, as they still walked on,
"Friend Edouarts, do you think I should be humiliated because my little plan has been refused? No: it was born of idleness. My freedom was new to me; over in England I had nothing to do. And when Lind objected, I talked him over.Peste, if those fellows of Society had not got at the Russian, all might have been well."
"You will forgive my pointing out," said Edwards, in quite a facetious way, "that all would not have been so well with me, for one. I am very glad to be able to wash my hands of it. You shall have not only one but two bottles of wine with supper, if you please."
"Well, friend Edouarts. I bring you the good news, but I am not the author of it. No; I must confess, I would rather have had my plan carried out. But what matter? One does one's best from time to time—the hours go by—at the end comes sleep, and no one can torment you more."
They walked on for a time in silence. And now before them lay the wonderful sight of Naples ablaze with a dusky yellow radiance in the dark; and far away beyond the most distant golden points, high up in the black deeps of the sky, the constant, motionless, crimson glow of Vesuvius told them where the peaks of the mountain, themselves unseen towered above the sea.
By-and-by they plunged into the great murmuring city.
"You are going back to England, Monsieur Edouarts. You will take Kirski to Mr. Brand, he will be reinstated in his work; Englishmen do not forget their promises. Then I have another little commission for you."
He went into one of the small jeweller's shops, and, after a great deal of haggling—for his purse was not heavy, and he knew the ways of his countrymen—he bought a necklace of pink coral. It was carefully wrapped in wool and put into a box. Then they went outside again.
"You will give this little present, my good friend Edouarts—you will take it, with my compliments, to my beautiful, noble child Natalie; and you will tell her that it did not cost much, but it is only a message—to show her that Calabressa still thinks of her, and loves, her always."
Madame Potecki was a useful enough adviser in the small and ordinary affairs of every-day life, but face to face with a great emergency she became terrified and helpless.
"My dear, my dear," she kept repeating, in a flurried sort of way, "you must not do anything rash—you must not do anything wild. Oh, my dear, take care! it is so wicked for children to disobey their parents!"
"I am no longer a child, Madame Potecki; I am a woman: I know what seems to me just and unjust; and I only wish to do right." She was now quite calm. She had mastered that involuntary tremulousness of the lips. It was the little Polish lady who was agitated.
"My dear Natalie, I will go to your father. I said I would go—even with your message—though it is a frightful task. But how can I tell him that you have this other project in your mind? Oh, my dear, be cautious! don't do anything you will have to repent of in after-years!"
"You need not tell him, dear Madame Potecki, if you are alarmed," said the girl. "I will tell him myself, when I have come to a decision. So you cannot say what one ought to do in such circumstances? You cannot tell me what my mother, for example, would have done in such a case?"
"Oh, I can; I can, my dear," said the other, eagerly. "At least I can tell you what is best and safest. Is it not for a girl to go by her father's advice—her father's wishes? Then she is safe. Anything else is wild, dangerous. My dear, you are far too impulsive. You do not think of consequences. It is all the affair of the moment with you, and how you can do some one you love a kindness at the instant. Your heart is warm, and you are quick to act. All the more reason, I say, that you should go by some one else's judgment; and who can guide you better than your own father?"
"I know already what my father wishes," said Natalie.
"Then why not go by that, my dear? Be sure it is the safest. Do you think I would take it on me to say otherwise? Ah, my clear child, romance is very beautiful at your age; but one may sacrifice too much for it."
"It is not a question of romance at all," said Natalie, looking down. "It is a question of what it is right that a girlshould do, in faithfulness to one whom she loves. But perhaps it is better not to argue it, for one sees so differently at different ages. And I am very grateful to you, dear Madame Potecki, for agreeing to take that message to my father; but I will tell him myself."
She rose. The little woman came instantly and caught her by both hands.
"Is my child going to quarrel with me because I am old and unsympathetic?"
"Oh no; do not think that!" said Natalie, quickly.
"What you say is quite true, my dear; different ages see differently. When I was at your age, perhaps I was as liable as anyone to let my heart get the better of my head. And do I regret it?" The little woman sighed. "Many a time they warned me against marrying one who did not stand well with the authorities. But I—I had my opinions, too; I was a patriot, like the rest. We were all mad with enthusiasm. Ah, the secret meetings in Warsaw!—the pride of them!—we girls would not marry one who was not a patriot. But that is all over now; and here am I an old woman, with nothing left but my old masters, and my china, and my 'One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four.'"
Here a knock outside warned Natalie that she must leave, another pupil, no doubt, having arrived; and so she bade good-bye to her friend, not much enlightened or comforted by her counsel.
That evening Mr. Lind brought Beratinsky home with him to dinner—an unusual circumstance, for at one time Beratinsky had wished to become a suitor for Natalie's hand, and had had that project very promptly knocked on the head by Lind himself. Thereafter he had come but seldom to the house, and never without a distinct invitation. On this evening the two men talked almost exclusively between themselves, and Natalie was not sorry to be allowed to remain an inattentive listener. She was thinking of other things.
When Beratinsky had gone, Lind turned to his daughter, and said to her pleasantly,
"Well, Natalie, what have you been about to-day?"
"First of all," said she, regarding him with those fearless eyes of hers, "I went to South Kensington Museum with Madame Potecki. Mr. Brand was there."
His manner changed instantly.
"By appointment?" he said, sharply.
"No," she answered. "I thought he would call here, and I told Anneli where we had gone."
Lind betrayed no expression of annoyance. He only said, coldly,
"Last night I told you it was my wish that he and you should have no further communication with each other."
"Yes; but is it reasonable, is it fair, is it possible, papa?" she said, forgetting for a moment her forced composure. "Do you think I can forget why he is going away?"
"Apparently you do not know why he is going away," her father said. "He is going to America because his duty commands that he should; because he has work to do there of more importance than sentimental entanglements in this country. He understands himself the necessity of his going."
The girl's cheeks burnt red, and she sat silent. How could she accuse her own father of prevarication? But the crisis was a momentous one.
"You forget, papa," she said at length, in a low voice, "that when you returned from abroad and got Mr. Brand's letter, you came to me. You said that if there was any further question of a—a marriage—between Mr. Brand and myself, you would have to send him to America. I was to be the cause of his banishment."
"I spoke hastily—in anger," her father said, with some impatience. "Quite apart from any such question, Mr. Brand knows that it is of great importance some one like himself should go to Philadelphia; and at the moment I don't see any one who could do as well. Have you anything further to say?"
"No, papa—except good night." She kissed him on the forehead and went away to her own room.
That was a night of wild unrest for Natalie Lind. It was her father himself who had represented to her all that banishment from his native country meant to an Englishman; and in her heart of hearts she believed that it was through her this doom had befallen George Brand. She knew he would not complain. He professed to her that it was only in the discharge of an ordinary duty he was leaving England: others had suffered more for less reason; it was nothing; why should she blame herself? But all the same, through this long, restless, agonizing night she accused herself of having driven him from his country and his friends, of having made an exile of him. And again and again she put before herself the case she had submitted to Madame Potecki; and again and again she asked herself what her own mother would have done, with her lover going away to a strange land.
In the morning, long before it was light, and while as yet she had not slept for a second, she rose, threw a dressing-gown round her, lit the gas, and went to the little escritoire that stood by the window. Her hand was trembling when she sat down to write, but it was not with the cold. There was a proud look on her face. This was what she wrote:
"My lover and husband,—You are going away from your own country, perhaps forever; and I think it is partly through me that all this has happened. What can I do? Only this; that I offer to go with you, if you will take me. I am your wife; why should you go alone?"'
There was no signature. She folded the paper, and placed it in an envelope, and carefully locked it up. Then she put out the light and went back to bed again, and fell into a sound, happy, contented sleep—the untroubled sleep of a child.
Then in the morning how bright and light-hearted she was!
Anneli could not understand this change that had suddenly come over her young mistress. She said little, but there was a happy light on her face; she sung "Du Schwert an meiner Linken" in snatches, as she was dressing her hair; and she presented Anneli with a necklace of Turkish silver coins.
She was down at South Kensington Museum considerably before eleven o'clock. She idly walked Anneli through the various rooms, pointing out to her this and that; and as the little Dresden maid had not been in the Museum before, her eyes were wide open at the sight of such beautiful things. She was shown masses of rich tapestry and cases of Japanese lacquer-work; she was shown collections of ancient jewellery and glass; she went by sunny English landscapes, and was told the story of solemn cartoons. In the midst of it all George Brand appeared; and the little German girl, of her own accord, and quite as deftly as Madame Potecki, devoted herself to the study of some screens of water-colors, just as if she were one of the Royal Academy pupils.
"We have been looking over Madame Potecki's treasures once more," said Natalie. He was struck by the happy brightness of her face.
"Ah, indeed!" said he; and he went and brought a couple of chairs, that together they might regard, if they were so minded, one of those vast cartoons. "Well, I have good news, Natalie. I do not start until a clear week hence.So we shall have six mornings here—six mornings all to ourselves. Do you know what that means to me?"
She took the chair he offered her. She did not look appalled by this intelligence of his early departure.
"It means six more days of happiness: and do you not think I shall look back on them with gratitude? And there is not to be a word said about my going. No; it isunderstoodthat we cut off the past and the future for these six days. We are here; we can speak to each other; that is enough."'
"But how can one help thinking of the future?" said she, with a mock mournfulness. "You are going away alone."
"No, not quite alone."
She looked up quickly.
"Why, you know what Evelyn is—the best-hearted of friends," he said to her. "He insists on going over to America with me, and even talks of remaining a year or two. He pretends to be anxious to study American politics."
He could not understand why she laughed—though it was a short, quick, hysterical laugh, very near to tears.
"You remind me of one of Mr. Browning's poems," she said, half in apology. "It is about a man who has a friend and a sweetheart. You don't remember it, perhaps?"
He thought for a moment.
"The fact is," he said, "that when I think of Browning's poems, all along the line of them, there are some of them seem to burn like fire, and I cannot see the others."
"This is a very modest little one," said she. "It is a poor poet starving in a garret; and he tells you he has a friend beyond the sea; and he knows that if he were to fall ill, and to wake up out of his sickness, he would find his friend there, tending him like the gentlest of nurses, even though he got nothing but grumblings about his noisy boots. And the—the poor fellow—"
She paused for a second.
"He goes on to tell about his sweetheart—who has ruined him—to whom he has sacrificed his life and his peace and fame—and what would she do? He says,
"'She—I'll tell you—calmly would decreeThat I should roast at a slow fire,If that would compass her desireAnd make her one whom they inviteTo the famous ball to-morrow night.'
"'She—I'll tell you—calmly would decreeThat I should roast at a slow fire,If that would compass her desireAnd make her one whom they inviteTo the famous ball to-morrow night.'
That is—the difference—between a friend and a sweetheart—"
He did not notice that she spoke rather uncertainly, and that her eyes were wet.
"What do you mean, Natalie?"
"That it is a good thing for you that you have a friend. There is one, at all events—who will—who will not let you go away alone."
"My darling!" he said, "what new notion is this you have got into your head? You do not blame yourself for that too? Why, you see, it is a very simple thing for Lord Evelyn, who is an idle man, and has no particular ties binding him, to spend a few months in the States; and when he once finds out that the voyage across is one of the pleasantest holidays a man can take, I have no doubt I shall see him often enough. Now, don't let us talk any more about that—except this one point. Have you promised your father that you will not write to me?"
"Oh no; how could I?"
"And may I write to you?"
"I shall live from week to week expecting your letters," she said simply.
"Then we shall not say another word about it," said he, lightly. "We have six days to be together: no one can rob us of them. Come, shall we go and have a look at the English porcelain that is on this floor? We have whole heaps of old Chelsea and Crown Derby and that kind of thing at the Beeches: I think I must try and run down there before I go, and send you some. What use is it to me?"
"Oh no, I hope you won't do that," she said quickly, as she rose.
"You don't care about it, perhaps?"
She seemed embarrassed for a moment.
"For old china?" she said, after a moment. "Oh yes, I do. But—but—I think you may find something happen that would make it unnecessary—I mean it is very kind of you—but I hope you will not think of sending me any."
"What do you mean? What is about to happen?"
"It is all a mystery and a secret as yet," she said, with a smile. She seemed so much more light-hearted than she had been the day before.
Then, as they walked by those cases, and admired this or that, she would recur to this forth-coming departure of his, despite of him. And she was not at all sad about it. She was curious; that was all. Was there any difficulty in gettinga cabin at short notice? It was from Liverpool the big steamers sailed, was it not? And it was a very different thing, she understood, travelling in one of those huge vessels, and crossing the Channel in a little cockle-shell. He would no doubt make many friends on board. Did single ladies ever make the voyage? Could a single lady and her maid get a cabin to themselves? It would not be so very tedious, if one could get plenty of books. And so forth, and so forth. She did not study the Chelsea shepherdesses very closely.
"I'll tell you what I wish you would do, Natalie," said he.
"I will do it," she answered.
"When Lord Evelyn comes back—some day I wish you would take Anneli with you for a holiday—and Evelyn would take you down to have a look over the Beeches. You could be back the same night. I should like you to see my mother's portrait."
She did not answer.
"Will you do that?"
"You will know before long," she said, in a low voice, "why I need not promise that to you. But that, or anything else I am willing to do, if you wish it."
The precious moments sped quickly. And as they walked through the almost empty rooms—how silent these were, with the occasional foot-falls on the tiled floors, and once or twice the distant sounding of a bell outside!—again and again he protested against her saying another word about his going away. What did it matter? Once the pain of parting was over, what then? He had a glad work before him. She must not for a moment think she had anything to do with it. And he could not regret that he had ever met her, when he would have these six mornings of happy intercommunion to think over, when the wide seas separated them?
"Natalie," said he, reproachfully, "do you forget the night you and I heardFideliotogether? And you think I shall regret ever having seen you."
She smiled to herself. Her hand clasped a certain envelope that he could not see.
Then the time came for their seeking out Anneli. But as they were going through the twilight of a corridor she stopped him, and her usually frank eyes were downcast. She took out that envelope.
"Dearest," she said, almost inaudibly, "this is something I wish you to read after Anneli and I am gone. I think you will—you will not misunderstand me. If you think—it is—it is too bold, you will remember that I have—no mother toadvise me; and—and you will be kind, and not answer. Then I shall know."
Ten minutes thereafter he was standing alone, in the broad daylight outside, reading the lines she had written early that morning, and in every one of them he read the firm and noble character of the woman he loved. He was almost bewildered by the proud-spirited frankness of her message to him; and involuntarily he thought of the poor devil of a poet in the garret who spoke of his faithful friend and his worthless mistress.
"One is fortunate indeed to have a friend like Evelyn," he said to himself. "But when and has, besides that, the love of a woman like this—then the earth holds something worth living for."
He looked at the brief, proud, pathetic message again—"I am your wife: why should you go alone?" It was Natalie herself speaking in every word.
The more that Madame Potecki thought over the communication made to her by Natalie, the more alarmed she became. Her pupils received but a very mechanical sort of guidance that afternoon. All through the "One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four" she was haunted by an uneasy consciousness that her protest had not been nearly strong enough. The girl had not seemed in the least impressed by her counsel. And suppose this wild project were indeed carried out, might not she, that is, Madame Potecki, be regarded as an accomplice if she remained silent and did not intervene?
On the other hand, although she and Ferdinand Lind were friends of many years standing, she had never quite got over a certain fear of him. She guessed pretty well what underlay that pleasant, plausible exterior of his. And she was not at all sure that, if she went to Mr. Lind and told him that in such and such circumstances his daughter meant to go to America as the wife of George Brand, the first outburst of his anger might not fall on herself. She was an intermeddler. What concern of hers was it? He might even accuse her of having connived at the whole affair, especially during his absence in Philadelphia.
But after all, the little Polish lady was exceedingly fond of this girl; and she resolved to go at all hazards and see whether something could not be done to put matters straight. She would call at the chambers in Lisle Street, and make sure of seeing Mr. Lind alone. She would venture to remind him that his daughter was grown up—a woman, not to be treated as a child. As she had been altogether on the father's side in arguing with Natalie, so she would be altogether on the daughter's side in making these representations to Mr. Lind. Perhaps some happy compromise would result.
She was, however, exceedingly nervous when, on the following afternoon, she called at Lisle Street, and was preceded up-stairs by the stout old German. In the room into which she was shown Reitzei was seated. Reitzei received her very graciously; they were old friends. But although Madame Potecki on ordinary occasions was fond of listening to the sound of her own voice, she seemed now quite incapable of saying anything. Reitzei had been fortunate enough to hear the new barytone sing at a private house on the previous evening; she did not even ask what impression had been produced.
Then Mr. Lind came into the room, and Reitzei left.
"How do you do, Madame Potecki?" said he, somewhat curtly.
She took it that he was offended because she had come on merely private affairs to his place ofbusiness; and this did not tend to lessen her embarrassment. However, she made a brave plunge.
"You are surprised," she said, "to find me calling upon you here, are you not? Yes; but I will explain. You see, my dear friend, I wished to see you alone—"
"Yes, yes, Madame Potecki; I understand. What is your news?"
"It is—about Natalie," she managed to say, and then all the methods of beginning that she had studied went clean out of her mind; and she was reduced to an absolute silence.
He did not seem in the least impatient.
"Yes; about Natalie?" he repeated, taking up a paper-knife, and beginning to write imaginary letters on the leather of the desk before him.
"You will say to me, 'Why do you interfere?'" the little woman managed to say at last. "Meddlers do harm; they are not thanked. But then, my dear friend, Natalie is like my own child to me; for her what would I not do?"
Mr. Lind could not fail to see that his visitor was verynervous and agitated: perhaps it was to give her time to compose herself that he said, leisurely,
"Yes, Madame Potecki; I know that you and she are great friends; and it is a good thing that the child should have some one to keep her company; perhaps she is a little too much alone. Well, what do you wish to say about her? You run no risk with me. You will not be misunderstood. I know you are not likely to say anything unkind about Natalie."
"Unkind!" she exclaimed; and now she had recovered herself somewhat. "Who could do that? Oh no, my dear friend; oh no!"
Here was another awkward pause.
"My dear Madame Potecki," said Mr. Lind, with a smile, "shall I speak for you? You do not like to say what you have come to say. Shall I speak for you? This is it, is it not? You have become aware of that entanglement that Natalie has got into. Very well. Perhaps she has told you. Perhaps she has told you also that I have forbidden her to have any communication with—well, let us speak frankly—Mr. Brand. Very well. You go with her to the South Kensington Museum; you meet Mr. Brand there. Naturally you think if that comes to my ears I shall suspect you of having planned the meeting; and you would rather come and assure me that you had nothing to do with it. Is it so?"
"My dear friend," said Madame Potecki, quickly, "I did not come to you about myself at all! What am I? What matters what happens to an old woman like me? It is not about myself, it is about Natalie that I have come to you. Ah, the dear, beautiful child!—how can one see her unhappy, and not try to do something? Why should she be unhappy? She is young, beautiful, loving; my dear friend, do you wonder that she has a sweetheart?—and one who is so worthy of her, too: one who is not selfish, who has courage, who will be kind to her. Then I said to myself, 'Ah, what a pity to have father and daughter opposed to each other!' Why might not one step in and say, 'Come, and be friends. You love each other: do not have this coldness that makes a young heart so miserable!'"
She had talked quickly and eagerly at last; she was trembling with excitement, she had her eyes fixed on his face to catch the first symptom of acquiescence.
But, on the contrary, Mr. Lind remained quite impassive, and he said, coldly,
"This is a different matter altogether, Madame Potecki.I do not blame you for interfering; but I must tell you at once that your interference is not likely to be of much use. You see, there are reasons which I cannot explain to you, but which are very serious, why any proposal of marriage between Mr. Brand and Natalie is not to be entertained for a moment. The thing is quite impossible. Very well. She knows this; she knows that I wish all communication between them to cease; nevertheless, she says she will see him every day until he goes. How can you wonder that she is unhappy? Is it not her own doing?"
"If she was in reality my child, that is not the way I would speak," said the little woman, boldly.
"Unfortunately, my dear Madame Potecki," said Mr. Lind, blandly, "I cannot, as I say, explain to you the reasons which make such a marriage impossible, or you yourself would say it was impossible. Very well, then. If you wish to do a service to your friend Natalie—if you wish to see her less unhappy, you know what advice to give her. A girl who perseveres in wilful disobedience is not likely to be very contented in her mind."
Madame Potecki sat silent and perplexed. This man seemed so firm, so reasonable, so assured, it was apparently hopeless to expect any concession from him. And yet what was the use of her going away merely to repeat the advice she had already given?
"And in any case," he continued, lightly, "it is not an affair for you to be deeply troubled about, my dear Madame Potecki; on the contrary, it is a circumstance of little moment. If Natalie chooses to indulge this sentiment—well, the fate of empires does not hang on it, and in a little while it will be all right. Youth soon recovers from small disappointments; the girl is not morbid or melancholy. Moreover, she has plenty to occupy her mind with: do not fear that she will be permanently unhappy."
All this gave Natalie's friend but scant consolation. She knew something of the girl, she knew it was not a light matter that had made her resolve to share banishment with her lover rather than that he should depart alone.
"Yes, she is acting contrary to my wishes," continued Mr. Lind, who saw that his visitor was anxious and chagrined. "But why should you vex yourself with that, my dear madame?—why, indeed? It is only for a few days. When Mr. Brand leaves for America, then she will settle down to her old ways. This episode of sentiment will soon be forgotten. Do notfear for your friend Natalie; she has a healthy constitution; she is not likely to sigh away her life."
"But you do not understand, Mr. Lind!" Madame Potecki exclaimed suddenly. "You do not understand. When he leaves for America, there is to be an end? No! You are not aware, then, that if he goes to America, Natalie will go also?"
She had spoken quickly, breathlessly, not taking much notice of her words, but she was appalled by the effect they produced. Lind started, as if he had been struck; and for a second, as he regarded her, the eyes set under the heavy brows burnt like coals, and she noticed a curious paleness in his face, especially in the lips. But this lasted only for an instant. When he spoke, he was quite calm, and was apparently considering each word.
"Are you authorized to bring me this message?" he said, slowly.
"Oh no; oh no!" the little woman exclaimed. "I assure you, my dear friend, I came to you because I thought something was about to happen—something that might be prevented. Ah, you don't know how I love that darling child; and to see her unhappy, and resolved, perhaps, to make some great mistake in her life, how could I help interfering?"
"So," continued Lind, apparently weighing every word, "this is what she is bent on! If Brand goes to America, she will go with him?"
"I—I—am afraid so," stammered Madame Potecki. "That is what I gathered from her—though it was only an imaginary case she spoke of. But she was pale, and trembling, and how could I stand by and not do something?"
He did not answer; his lips were firm set. Unconsciously he was pressing the point of the paper-knife into the leather; it snapped in two. He threw the pieces aside, and said, with a sudden lightness of manner,
"Ah, well, my dear madame, you know young people are sometimes very headstrong, and difficult to manage. We must see what can be done in this case. You have not told Natalie you were coming to me?"
"No. She asked me at first; then she said she would tell you herself."
He regarded her for a second.
"There is no reason why you should say you have been here?"
"Perhaps not, perhaps not," Madame Potecki said, doubtfully. "No; there is no necessity. But if one were sure that the dear child were to be made any happier—"
She did not complete the sentence.
"I think you may leave the whole affair in my hands, my dear Madame Potecki," said Lind, in his usual courteous fashion. He spoke, indeed, as if it were a matter of the most trifling importance. "I think I can promise you that Natalie shall not be allowed to imperil the happiness of her life by taking any rash steps. In the mean time, I am your debtor that you have come and told me. It was considerate of you, Madame Potecki; I am obliged to you."
The little woman was practically dismissed. She rose, still doubtful, and hesitated. But what more could she say?
"I am not to tell her, then?" she said.
"If you please, not."
When he had graciously bowed her out, he returned to his seat at the desk; and then the forced courtesy of his manner was abandoned. His brows gathered down; his lips were again firm set; he bent one of the pieces of the paper-knife until that snapped too; and when some one knocked at the door, he answered sharply in German.
It was Gathorne Edwards who entered.
"Well, you have got back?" he said, with but scant civility. "Where is Calabressa?"
The tall, pale, stooping man looked round with some caution.
"There is no one—no one but Reitzei," said Lind, impatiently.
"Calabressa is detained in Naples—the General's orders," said the other, in rather a low voice. "I did not write—I thought it was not safe to put anything on paper; more especially as we discovered that Kirski was being watched."
"No wonder," said Lind, scornfully. "A fool of a madman being taken about by a fool of a mountebank!"
Edwards stared at him. Surely this man, who was usually the most composed, and impenetrable, and suave of men, must have been considerably annoyed thus to give way to a petulant temper.
"But the result, Edwards: well?"
"Refused!"
Lind laughed sardonically.
"Who could have doubted? Of course the council do not think that I approved of that mad scheme?"
"At all events, sir," said Edwards, submissively, "you permitted it."
"Permitted it! Yes; to please old Calabressa, who imagines himself a diplomatist. But who could have doubted what the end would be? Well, what further?"
"I understand that a message is on its way to you from the council," said the other, speaking in still lower tones, "giving further instructions. They consider it of great importance that—it—should be done by one of the English section; so that no one may imagine it arises from a private revenge."
Lind was toying with one of the pieces of the broken paper-knife.
"Zaccatelli has had the warning," Edwards continued. "Granaglia took it. The Cardinal is mad with fright—will do anything."
Lind seemed to rouse himself with an effort.
"I beg your pardon, friend Edwards. I did not hear. What were you saying?"
"I was saying that the Cardinal had had the decree announced to him, and is mad with fear, and he will do anything. He offers thirty thousand lire a year; not only that, but he will try to get his Holiness to give his countenance to the Society. Fancy, as Calabressa says, what the world would say to an alliance between the Vatican and the SOCIETY OF THE SEVEN STARS!"
Lind seemed incapable of paying attention to this new visitor, so absorbed was he in his own thoughts. He had again to rouse himself forcibly.
"Yes," he said, "you were saying, friend Edwards, that the Starving Cardinal had become aware of the decree. Yes; well, then?"
"Did you not hear, sir? He thinks there should be an alliance between the Vatican and the Society."
"His Eminence is jocular, considering how near he is to the end of his life," said Lind, absently.
"Further," Edwards continued, "he has sent back the daughter of old De Bedros, who, it seems, first claimed the decree against him; and he is to give her a dowry of ten thousand lire when she marries. But all these promises and proposals do not seem to have weighed much with the council."
Here Edwards stopped. He perceived plainly that Lind—who sat with his brows drawn down, and a sombre look on his face—was not listening to him at all. Presently Lind rose, and said,
"My good Edwards, I have some business of serious importance to attend to at once. Now you will give me the report of your journey some other time. To-night—at nine o'clock?"
"Yes, sir; if that will suit you."
"Can you come to my house in Curzon Street at nine?"
"Yes, certainly."
"Very well. I am your debtor. But stay a moment. Of course, I understand from you that nothing that has happened interferes with the decree against our excellent friend the Cardinal?"
"So it appears."
"The Council are not to be bought over by idle promises?"
"Apparently not."
"Very well. Then you will come to-night at nine; in my little study there will be no interruption; you can give me all the details of your holiday. Ha, my friend Edwards," he added more pleasantly, as he opened the door for his visitor, "would it not be better for you to give up that Museum altogether, and come over to us? Then you would have many a pleasant little trip."
"I suspect the Museum is most likely to give me up," said Edwards, with a laugh, as he descended the narrow twilight stairs.
Then Lind returned to his desk, and sat down. A quarter of an hour afterward, when Reitzei came into the room, he found him still sitting there, without any papers whatsoever before him. The angry glance that Lind directed to him as he entered told him that the master did not wish to be disturbed; so he picked up a book of reference by way of excuse, and retreated into the farther room, leaving Lind once more alone.
This was an October morning, in the waning of the year; and yet so bright and clear and fresh was it, even in the middle of London, that one could have imagined the spring had returned. The world was full of a soft diffused light, from the pale clouds sailing across the blue to the sheets of silver widening out on the broad bosom of the Thames; but here and there the sun caught some shining surface—the lip of a marble fountain, the glass of a lamp on the Embankment, orthe harness of some merchant-prince's horses prancing into town—and these were sharp jewel-like gleams amidst the vague general radiance. The air was sweet and clear; the white steam blown from the engines on Hungerford Bridge showed that the wind was westerly. Two lovers walked below, in the Embankment gardens, probably listening but little to the murmur of the great city around them. Surely the spring had come again, and youth and love and hope! The solitary occupant of this chamber that overlooked the gardens and the shining river did not stay to ask why his heart should be so full of gladness, why this beautiful morning should yield him so much delight. He was thinking chiefly that on such a morning Natalie would be abroad soon; she loved the sunlight and the sweet air.
It was far too fine a morning, indeed, to spend in a museum, even with all Madame Potecki's treasures spread out before one. So, instead of going to South Kensington, he went straight up to Curzon Street. Early as he was, he was not too early, for he was leisurely walking along the pavement when, ahead of him, he saw Natalie and her little maid come forth and set out westward. He allowed them to reach the park gates; then he overtook them. Anneli fell a little way behind.
Now, whether it was the brightness of the morning had raised her spirits, or that she had been reasoning herself into a more courageous frame of mind, it was soon very clear that Natalie was not at all so anxious andembarrassedas she had shown herself the day before when they parted.
"There was no letter from you this morning," she said, with a smile, though she did not look up into his face. "Then I have offered myself to you, and am refused?"
"How could I write?" he said. "I tried once or twice, and then I saw I must wait until I could tell you face to face all that I think of your bravery and your goodness. And now that I see you Natalie, it is not a bit better: I can't tell you; I am so happy to be near you, to be beside you, and hear your voice, that I don't think I can say anything at all."
"I am refused, then?" said she, shyly.
"Refused!" he exclaimed. "There are some things one cannot refuse—like the sunshine. But do you know what a terrible sacrifice you are making?"
"It is you, then, who are making no sacrifice at all," she said, reproachfully. "What do I sacrifice more than every girl must sacrifice when she marries? England is not myhome as it is your home; we have lived everywhere; I have no childhood's friends to leave, as many a girl has."
"Your father—"
"After a little while my father will scarcely miss me; he is too busy."
But presently she added,
"If you had remained in England I should never have been your wife."
"Why?" he said with some surprise.
"I should never have married against my father's wishes," she said, thoughtfully. "No. My promise to you was that I would be your wife, or the wife of no one. I would have kept that promise. But as long as we could have seen each other, and been with each other from time to time, I don't think I could have married against my father's wish. Now it is quite different. Your going to America has changed it all. Ah, my dear friend, you don't know what I suffered one or two nights before I could decide what was right for me to do!"
"I can guess," he said, in a low voice, in answer to that brief sigh of hers.
Then she grew more cheerful in manner.
"But that is all over; and now, am I accepted? I think you are like Naomi: it was only when she saw that Ruth was very determined to go with her that she left off protesting. And I am to consider America as my future home? Well, at all events, one will be able to breathe freely there. It is not a country weighed down with standing armies and conscriptions and fortifications. How could one live in a town like Coblentz, or Metz, or Brest? The poor wretches marching this way and marching that—you watch them from your hotel window—the young men and the middle-aged men—and you know that they would rather be away at their farms, or in their factories, or saw-pits, or engine-houses, working for their wives and children—"
"Natalie," said he, "you are only half a woman: you don't care about military glory."
"It is the most mean, the most cruel and contemptible thing under the sun!" she said, passionately. "What is the quality that makes a great hero—a great general—nowadays? Courage? Not a bit. It is callousness!—an absolute indifference to the slaughtering of human lives! You sit in your tent—you sit on horseback—miles away from the fighting; and if the poor wretches are being destroyed here or there in too great quantities, if they are ridden down by the horsesand torn to pieces by the mitrailleuses, 'Oh, clap on another thousand or two: the place must be taken at all risks.' Yes, indeed; but not much risk to you! For if you fail—if all the thousands of men have been hurled against the stone and lead only to be thrown back crushed and murdered—why, you have fought with great courage—you, the great general, sitting in your saddle miles away; it isyouwho have shown extraordinary courage!—but numbers were against you: and if you win, you have shown still greater courage; and the audacity of the movement was so and so; and your dogged persistence was so and so; and you get another star for your breast; and all the world sings your praises. And who is to court-martial a great hero for reckless waste of human life? Who is to tell him that he is a cruel-hearted coward? Who is to take him to the fields he has saturated with blood, and compel him to count the corpses; or to take him to the homesteads he has ruined throughout the land, and ask the women and sons and the daughters what they think of this marvellous courage? Oh no; he is away back in the capital—there is a triumphal procession; all we want now is another war-tax—for the peasant must pay with his money as well as with his blood—and another levy of the young men to be taken and killed!"
This was always a sore point with Natalie; and he did not seek to check her enthusiasm with any commonplace and obvious criticisms. When she got into one of these moods of proud indignation, which was not seldom, he loved her all the more. There was something in the ring of her voice that touched him to the heart. Such noble, quick, generous sympathy seemed to him far too beautiful and rare a thing to be met by argument and analysis. When he heard that pathetic tremulousness in her voice, he was ready to believe anything. When he looked at the proud lips and the moistened eyes, what cause that had won such eloquent advocacy would he not have espoused?
"Ah, well, Natalie," said he, "some day the mass of the people of the earth will be brought to see that all that can be put a stop to, if they so choose. They have the power:Zahlen regieren die Welt; and how can one be better employed than in spreading abroad knowledge, and showing the poorer people of the earth how the world might be governed if they would only ally themselves together? It would be more easy to persuade them if we had all of us your voice and your enthusiasm."
"Mine?" she said. "A woman's talking is not likely tobe of much use. But," she added, rather hesitatingly, "at least—she can give her sympathy—and her love—to those who are doing the real work."
"And I am going to earn yours, Natalie," said he, cheerfully, "to such a degree as you have never dreamed of, when you and I together are away in the new world. And that reminds me now you must not be frightened; but there is a little difficulty. Of course you thought of nothing, when you wrote those lines, but of doing a kindness; that was like you; your heart speaks quickly. Well—"
He himself seemed somewhat embarrassed.
"You see, Natalie, there would be no difficulty at all if you and I could get married within the next few days."
Her eyes were cast down, and she was silent.
"You don't think it possible you could get your father to consent?" he said, but without much hope.
"Oh no, I think not; I fear not," she said, in a low voice.
"Then you see, Natalie," he continued—and he spoke quite lightly, as if it was merely an affair of a moment—"there would be this little awkwardness: you are not of age; unless you get your father's consent, you cannot marry until you are twenty-one. It is not a long time—"
"I did not think of it," she said, very hurriedly, and even breathlessly. "I only thought it—it seemed hard you should go away alone—and I considered myself already your wife—and I said, 'What ought I to do?' And now—now you will tell me what to do. I do not know—I have no one to ask."
"Do you think," said he, after a pause, "that you wouldforgetme, if you were to remain two years in England while I was in America?"
She regarded him for a moment with those large, true eyes of hers; and she did not answer in words.
"There is another way; but—it is asking too much," he said.
"What is it?" she said, calmly.
"I was thinking," he said, with some hesitation, "that if I could bribe Madame Potecki to leave her music-lessons—and take charge of you—and bring you to America—and you and she might live there until you are twenty-one—but I see it is impossible. It is too selfish. I should not have thought of it. What are two years, Natalie?"
The girl answered nothing; she was thinking deeply. When she next spoke, it was about Lord Evelyn, and of the probability of his crossing to the States, and remaining there for a year or two; and she wanted to know more about thegreat country beyond the seas, and what was Philadelphia like.
Well, it was not to be expected that these two, so busy with their own affairs, were likely to notice much that was passing around them, as the forenoon sped rapidly away, and Natalie had to think of getting home again. But the little German maid servant was not so engrossed. She was letting her clear, observant blue eyes stray from the pretty young ladies riding in the Row to the people walking under the trees, and from them again to the banks of the Serpentine, where the dogs were barking at the ducks. In doing so she happened to look a little bit behind her; then suddenly she started, and said to herself, 'Herr Je!' But the little maid had her wits about her. She pretended to have seen nothing. Gradually, however, she lessened the distance between herself and her young mistress; then, when she was quite up to her, and walking abreast with her, she said, in a low, quick voice.
"Fraulein! Fraulein!"
"What is it, Anneli?"
George Brand was listening too. He wondered that the girl seemed so excited, and yet spoke low, and kept her eyes fixed on the ground.
"Ah, do not look round, Fraulein!" said she, in the same hurried way. "Do not look round! But it is the lady who gave you the locket. She is walking by the lake. She is watching you."