Part 20 (1/2)

”He said, 'Little Father, you are worthy to become the husband of the angel: may the day come soon!' I suppose the angel is Miss Lind; she must have been very kind to the man.”

”She only spoke to him; but her voice can be kind,” said Brand, rather absently, and then he left.

Away went the hansom back to Curzon Street. He said to himself that it was not for nothing that this unfortunate wretch Kirski had wandered all the way from the Dnieper to the Thames. He would look after this man. He would do something for him. Five pounds only? And he had been the means of securing this interview, if only for three of four minutes; after the long period of labor and hope and waiting he might have gone without a word at all but for this over-troubled poor devil.

And now--now he might even see her alone for a couple of minutes in the hushed little drawing-room; and she might say if she had heard about what had been done in the North, and about his eagerness to return to the work. One look of thanks; that was enough. Sometimes, by himself up there in the solitary inns, the old fit had come over him; and he had laughed at himself, and wondered at this new fire of occupation and interest that was blazing through his life, and asked himself, as of old, to what end--to what end? But when he heard Natalie Lind's voice, there was a quick good-bye to all questioning. One look at the calm, earnest eyes, and he drank deep of faith, courage, devotion. And surely this story of the man Kirski--what he could tell her of it--would be sufficient to fill up five minutes, eight minutes, ten minute, while all the time he should be able to dwell on her eyes, whether they were downcast, or turned to his with their frank, soft glance. He should be in the perfume of the small drawing-room. He would see the Roman necklace Mazzini had given her gleam on her bosom as she breathed.

He did not know what Natalie Lind had been about during his absence.

”Anneli, Anneli--hither, child!” she called in German. ”Run up to Madame Potecki, and ask her to come and spend the afternoon with me. She must come at once, to lunch with me; I will wait.”

”Yes, Fraulein. What music, Fraulein?”

”None; never mind any music. But she must come at once.”

”Schon, Fraulein,” said the little Anneli, about to depart.

Her young mistress called her back, and paused, with a little hesitation.

”You may tell Elizabeth,” said she, with an indifferent air, ”that it is possible--it is quite possible--it is at least possible--I may have two friends to lunch with me; and she must send at once if she wants anything more. And you could bring me back some fresh flowers, Anneli?”

”Why not, Fraulein?”

”Go quick, then, Anneli--fly like a roe--_durch Wald und auf der Haide_!”

And so it came about that when George Brand was ushered into the scented little drawing-room--so anxious to make the most of the invaluable minutes--he found himself introduced first of all to Madame Potecki, a voluble, energetic little Polish gentlewoman, whose husband had been killed in the Warsaw disturbances of '61, and who now supported herself in London by teaching music. She was eager to know all about the man Kirski, and hoped that he was not wholly a maniac, and trusted that Mr.

Brand would see that her dear child--her adopted daughter, she might say--was not terrified again by the madman.

”My dear madame,” said Brand, ”you must not imagine that it was from terror that Miss Lind handed over the man to me--it was from kindness.

That is more natural to her than terror.”

”Ah, I know the dear child has the courage of an army,” said the little old lady, tapping her adopted daughter on the shoulder with the fan.

”But she must take care of herself while her papa is away in America.”

Natalie rose; and of course Brand rose also, with a sudden qualm of disappointment, for he took that as the signal of his dismissal; and he had scarcely spoken a word to her.

”Mr. Brand,” said she, with some little trifle of embarra.s.sment, ”I know I must have deprived you of your luncheon. It was so kind of you to go at once with the poor man. Would it save you time--if you are not going anywhere--I thought perhaps you might come and have something with madame and myself. You must be dying of hunger.”

He did not refuse the invitation. And behold! when he went down-stairs, the table was already laid for three; had he been expected, he asked himself? Those flowers there, too: he knew it was no maid-servant's fingers that had arranged and distributed them so skilfully.

How he blessed this little Polish lady, and her volubility, and her extravagant, subtle, honest flattery of her dear adopted daughter! It gave him liberty to steep himself in the rich consciousness of Natalie's presence; he could listen in silence for the sound of her voice--he could covertly watch the beauty of her shapely hands--without being considered preoccupied or morose. All he had to do was to say, ”Yes, madame,” or ”Indeed, madame,” the while he knew that Natalie Lind was breathing the same air with him--that at any moment the large, l.u.s.trous dark eyes might look up and meet his. And she spoke little, too; and had scarcely her usual frank self-confidence: perhaps a chance reference of Madame Potecki to the fact that her adopted daughter had been brought up without a mother had somewhat saddened her.

The room was shaded in a measure, for the French silk blinds were down; but there was a soft golden glow prevailing all the same. For many a day George Brand remembered that little luncheon-party; the dull, bronze glow of the room; the flowers; the soft, downcast eyes opposite him; the bright, pleasant garrulity of the little Polish lady; and always--ah, the delight of it!--that strange, trembling, sweet consciousness that Natalie Lind was listening as he listened--that almost he could have heard the beating of her heart.

And a hundred and a hundred times he swore that, whoever throughout the laboring and suffering world might regret that day, the man Kirski should not.

CHAPTER XV.