Sunrise Part 70

"Natalushka," she said at length, in a broken voice, "no fear of any danger threatening myself would have kept me from you; be sure of that.

But there was something else. My father had become compromised--the Austrians said it was a.s.sa.s.sination; it was not!" For a second some hot blood mounted to her cheeks. "I say it was a fair duel, and your grandfather himself was nearly killed; but he escaped, and got into hiding among some faithful friends--poor people, who had known our family in better times. The Government did what they could to arrest him; he was expressly exempted from the amnesty, this old man, who was wounded, who was incapable of movement almost, whom every one expected to die from day to day, and a word would have betrayed him and destroyed him. Can you wonder, Natalushka, with that threat hanging over me--that menace that the moment I spoke to you meant that my father would be delivered to his enemies--that I said 'No, not yet will I speak to my little daughter; I cannot sacrifice my father's life even to the affection of a mother! But soon, when I have given him such care and solace as he has the right to demand from me, then I will set out to see my beautiful child--not with baskets of flowers, haunting the door-steps--not with a little trinket, to drop in her lap, and perhaps set her mind thinking--no, but with open arms and open heart, to see if she is not afraid to call me mother.'"

"Poor mother, how you must have suffered," the girl murmured, holding her close to her bosom. "But with your powerful friends--those to whom you appealed to before--why did you not go to them, and get safety from the terrible threat hanging over you? Could they not protect him, my grandfather, as they saved your cousin Konrad?"

"Alas, child, your grandfather never belonged to the a.s.sociation! Of what use was he to them--a sufferer expecting each day to be his last, and not daring to move beyond the door of the peasant's cottage that sheltered him? many a time he used to say to me, 'Natalie, go to your child. I am already dead; what matters it whether they take me or not?

You have watched the old tree fade leaf by leaf; it is only the stump that c.u.mbers the ground. Go to your child; if they try to drag me from here, the first mile will be the end; and what better can one wish for?'

But no; I could not do that."

Natalie had been thinking deeply; she raised her head, and regarded her mother with a calm, strange look.

"Mother," she said, slowly, "I do not think I will ever enter my father's house again."

The elder woman heard this declaration without either surprise or joy.

She said, simply,

"Do not judge rashly or harshly, Natalushka. Why have I refrained until now from telling you the story but that I thought it better--I thought you would be happier if you continued to respect and love your father.

Then consider what excuses may be made for him--"

"None!" the girl said, vehemently. "To keep you suffering for sixteen years away from your only child, and with the knowledge that at any moment a word on his part might lead out your father to a cruel death--oh, mother mother, you may ask me to forgive, but not to excuse!"

"Ambition--the desire for influence and leadership--is his very life,"

the mother said, calmly. "He cares more for that than anything in the world--wife, child, anything, he would sacrifice to it. But now, child,"

she said, with a concerned look, "can you understand why I have told you the story?"

Natalie looked up bewildered. For a time the interest of this story, intense as it had been to her, had distracted her mind from her own troubles; though all through she been conscious of some impending gloom that seemed to darken the life around her.

"It was not merely to tell you of my sufferings, Natalushka," the mother said at once, gently and anxiously; "they are over. I am happy to be beside you; if you are happy. But when a little time ago you told me of Mr. Brand being ordered away to this duty, and of the fate likely to befall him, I said to myself, 'Ah, no; surely it cannot be the story told twice over. He would not dare to do that again.'"

The girl turned deadly pale.

"My child, that is why I asked you. Mr. Brand disappointed your father, I can see, about the money affair. Then, when he might have been got out of the way by being sent to America, you make matters worse than ever by threatening to go with him."

The girl did not speak, but her eyes were terrified.

"Natalie," the mother said gently, "have I done wrong to put these suspicions into your mind? Have I done wrong to put you into antagonism with your father? My child I cannot see you suffer without revealing to you what I imagine may be the cause--even if it were impossible to fight against it--even if one can only shudder at the cruelty of which some are capable: we can pray G.o.d to give us resignation."

Natalie Lind was not listening at all; her face was white, her lips firm, her eyes fixed.

"Mother," she said at length, in a low voice, and speaking as if she were weighing each word, "if you think the story is being told again, why should it not be carried out? You appealed, to save the life of one who loved you. And I--why may not I also?"

"Oh, child, child!" the mother cried in terror, laying hold of her arm.

"Do not think of it: anything but that! You do not know how terrible your father is when his anger is aroused: look at what I have suffered.

Natalushka, I will not have you lead the life that I have led; you must not, you dare not, interfere!"

The girl put her hand aside, and sprung to her feet. No longer was she white of face. The blood of the Berezolyis was in her cheeks; her eyes were dilated; her voice was proud and indignant.

"And I," she said, "if this is true--if this is possible--Oh, do you think I am going to see a brave man sent to his death, shamelessly, cruelly, and not do what I can to save him? It is not for you, mother, it is not for one who bears the name that you bear to tell me to be afraid. What I did fear was to live, with him dead. Now--"

The mother had risen quickly to her feet also, and sought to hold her daughter's hands.

"For the sake of Heaven, Natalushka!" she pleaded. "You are running into a terrible danger--"

"Do I care, mother? Do I look as if I cared?" she said, proudly.

"And for no purpose, Natalushka; you will only bring down on yourself the fury of your father, and he will make your life as miserable as he has made mine. And what can you do, child? what can you do but bring ruin on yourself? You are powerless: you have no influence with those in authority as I at one time had. You do not know them: how can you reach them?"

"You forget, mother," the girl said, triumphantly; "was it not you yourself who asked me if I had ever heard of one Bartolotti?"

The mother uttered a slight cry of alarm.

"No, no, Natalushka, I beg of you--"

The girl took her mother in her arms and kissed her. There was a strange joy in her face; the eyes were no longer haggard, but full of light and hope.

"You dear mother," she said, as she gently compelled her to be seated again, "that is the place for you. You will remain here, quiet, undisturbed by any fears; no one shall molest you; and when you have quite recovered from all your sufferings, and when your courage has returned to you, then I will come back and tell you my story. It is story for story, is it not?"'

She rung the bell.

"Pardon me, dear mother; there is no time to be lost. For once I return to my father's house--yes, there is a card there that I must have--"

"But afterward, child, where do you go?" the mother said, though she could scarcely find utterance.

"Why, to Naples, mother; I am an experienced traveller; I shall need no courier."

The blood had mounted into both cheek and forehead; her eyes were full of life and pride; even at such a moment the anxious, frightened mother was forced to think she had never seen her daughter look so beautiful.

The door opened.

"Madame, be so good as to tell Anneli that I am ready."

She turned to her mother.

"Now, mother, it is good-bye for I do not know how long."

"Oh no, it is not, child," said the other, trembling, and yet smiling in spite of all her fears. "If you are going to travel, you must have a courier. I will be your courier, Natalushka."

"Will you come with me, mother?" she cried, with a happy light leaping to her eyes. "Come, then--we will give courage to each other, you and I, shall we not? Ah, dear mother, you have told me your story only in time; but we will go quickly now--you and I together!"

CHAPTER XLV.

SOUTHWARD.

After so much violent emotion the rapid and eager preparations for travel proved a useful distraction. There was no time to lose; and Natalie very speedily found that it was she herself who must undertake the duties of a courier, her mother being far too anxious and alarmed.

Once or twice, indeed, the girl, regarding the worn, sad face, almost repented of having accepted that impulsive offer, and would have proposed to start alone. But she knew that, left in solitude, the poor distressed mother would only torture herself with imaginary fears. As for herself, she had no fear; her heart was too full to have any room for fear. And yet her hand trembled a little as she sat down to write these two messages of farewell. The first ran thus: