Part 38 (2/2)
She placed her disengaged hand on the top of his, and said, gently,
”My father perhaps does not quite understand you; perhaps he is too anxious. I, for one, am not anxious--about _that_. Do you know how I trust you, my dearest of friends? Sometimes I have said to myself, 'I will ask him for a pledge. I will say to him that he must promise, that he must swear to me, that whatever happens as between him and me, nothing, nothing, nothing in all the world will induce him to give up what he has undertaken;' but then again I have said to myself, 'No, I can trust him for that.'”
”I think you may, Natalie,” said he, rather absently. ”And yet what could have led me to join such a movement but your own n.o.ble spirit--the glamour of your voice--the thanks of your eyes? You put madness into my blood with your singing.”
”Do you call it madness?” she said, with a faint flush in the pale olive face. ”Is it not rather kindness--is it not justice to others--the desire to help--something that the angels in heaven must feel when they look down and see what a great misery there is in the world?”
”I think you are an angel yourself, Natalie,” said he, quite simply, ”and that you have come down and got among a lot of people who don't treat you too well. However, we must come to the present moment. You spoke of America; now what do you know about that?”
The abrupt question startled her. She had been so overjoyed to see him--her whole soul was so buoyant and radiant with happiness--that she had quite forgotten or dismissed the vague fears that had been of late besetting her. But she proceeded to tell him, with a little hesitation here and there, and with a considerable smoothing down of phrases, what her father had said to her. She tried to make it appear quite reasonable. And all she prayed for was that, if he were sent to America, if they had to part for many years, or forever, she should be permitted to say good-bye to him.
”We are not parted yet,” said Brand, briefly.
The fact was, he had just got a new key to the situation. So that threat about America could serve a double purpose? He was now more than ever convinced that Ferdinand Lind was merely playing off and on with him until this money question should be settled; and that he had been resolved all the time that his daughter should not marry. He was beginning to understand.
”Natalie,” said he, slowly, ”I told you I had something to say to you.
You know your father wrote to me in the North, asking me neither to see you nor write to you until some matter between him and me was settled.
Well, I respected his wish until I should know what the thing was. Now that I do know, it seems to me that you are as much concerned as any one; and that it is not reasonable, it is not possible, I should refrain from seeing you and consulting you.”
”No one shall prevent your seeing me, when it is your wish,” said the girl, in a low voice.
”This, then, is the point: you know enough about the Society to understand, and there is no particular secret. Your father wishes me to enter the higher grade of officers, under the Council; and the first condition is that one surrenders up every farthing of one's property.”
”Yes?”
He stared at her. Her ”Yes?”--with its affectionate interest and its absolute absence of surprise--was almost the exact equivalent of Lord Evelyn's ”Well?”
”Perhaps you would advise me to consent?” he said, almost in the way of a challenge.
”Ah, no,” she said, with a smile. ”It is not for me to advise on such things. What you decide for yourself, that will be right.”
”But you don't understand, my darling. Supposing I were ambitious of getting higher office, which I am not; supposing I were myself willing to sell my property to swell the funds of the Society--and I don't think I should be willing in any case--do you think I would part with what ought to belong to my wife--to you, Natalie? Do you think I would have you marry a beggar--one dependent on the indulgence of people unknown to him?”
And now there was a look of real alarm on the girl's face.
”Ah!” she said, quickly. ”Is not that what my father feared? You are thinking of me when you should think of others. Already I--I--interfere with your duty; I tempt you--”
”My darling, be calm, be reasonable. There is no duty in the matter; your father acknowledges that himself. It is a proposal I am free to accept or reject, as I please; and now I promise you that, as you won't give me any advice, I shall decide without thinking of you at all. Will that satisfy you?”
She remained silent for a second or two, and then she said thoughtfully,
”Perhaps you could decide just as if there were no possibility of my ever being your wife?”
”To please you, I will a.s.sume that too.”
Then she said, after a bit,
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