Sunrise Part 49

"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 s.n.a.t.c.hes, 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 ma.s.ses of rich tapestry and cases of j.a.panese lacquer-work; she was shown collections of ancient jewellery and gla.s.s; 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 grat.i.tude? And there is not to be a word said about my going. No; it is understood that 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 decree That I should roast at a slow fire, If that would compa.s.s her desire And make her one whom they invite To 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 embarra.s.sed 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 getting a 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 c.o.c.kle-sh.e.l.l. 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 heard _Fidelio_ together? 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 to advise 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 n.o.ble 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.