Part 39 (1/2)

”One word more, dearest; you must grant me this--that I may always be able to think of it when I am alone and far from you, and be able to rea.s.sure myself: it is the promise I thought I could do so well without.

Now you will give it me?”

”What promise?”

”That whatever happens to you or to me, whatever my father demands of me, and wherever you may have to go, you will never withdraw from what you have undertaken.”

He met the earnest, pleading look of those beautiful eyes without flinching. His heart was light enough, so far as such a promise was concerned. Heavier oaths than that lay on him.

”That is simple enough, Natalie,” said he. ”I promise you distinctly that nothing shall cause me to swerve from my allegiance to the Society; I will give absolute and implicit obedience, and the best of such work as I can do. But they must not ask me to forget my Natalie.”

She rose, still holding his hand, and stood by him, so that he could not quite see her face. Then she said, in a very low voice indeed,

”Dearest, may I give you a ring?--you do not wear one at all--”

”But surely, Natalie, it is for me to choose a ring for you?”

”Ah, it is not that I mean,” she said, quickly, and with her face flus.h.i.+ng. ”It is a ring that will remind you of the promise you have given me to-day--when we may not be able to see each other.”

CHAPTER XXVII.

KIRSKI.

To this pale student from the Reading-room of the British Museum, as he stands on a bridge crossing one of the smaller ca.n.a.ls, surely the scene around him must seem one fitted to gladden the heart; for it is Venice at mid-day, in glowing sunlight: the warm cream-white fronts of the marble palaces and cas.e.m.e.nted houses, the tall campanili with their golden tips, the vast and glittering domes of the churches, all rising fair and dream-like into the intense dark-blue of a cloudless sky. How the hot sunlight brings out all the beautiful color of the place--the richly laden fruit-stalls in the Riva dei Schiavoni; the russet and saffron sails of the vessels; the ca.n.a.l-boats coming in to the steps with huge open tuns of purple wine to be ladled out with copper buckets; and then all around the s.h.i.+ning, twinkling plain of the green-hued sea, catching here and there a reflection from the softly red walls of San Giorgio and the steel-gray gleaming domes of Santa Maria della Salute.

Then the pa.s.sers-by: these are not like the dusky ghosts that wander through the pale-blue mists of Bloomsbury. Here comes a buxom water-carrier, in her orange petticoat and sage-green shawl, who has the two copper cans at the end of the long piece of wood poised on her shoulders, pretty nearly filled to the brim. Then a couple of the gayer gondoliers in white and blue, with fancy waist-belts, and rings in their ears. A procession of black-garbed monks wends slowly along; they have come from the silence of the Armenian convent over there at the horizon.

Some wandering minstrels shoot their gondola into the mouth of the ca.n.a.l, and strike up a gay waltz, while they watch the shaded balconies above. Here is a Lascar ash.o.r.e from the big steamer that is to start for Alexandria on the morrow. A company of soldiers, with blue coats, canvas trousers, and white gaiters, half march and half trot along to the quick, crackling music of the buglers. A swarthy-visaged maiden, with the calm brow of a Madonna, appears in the twilight of a balcony, with a packet of maize in her hand, and in a minute or two she is surrounded with a cloud of pigeons. Then this beggar--a child of eight or ten--red-haired and blue-eyed: surely she has stepped out of one of t.i.tian's pictures? She whines and whimpers her prayers to him; but there is something in her look that he has seen elsewhere. It belongs to another century.

From these reveries Mr. Gathorne Edwards was aroused by some one tapping him on the shoulder. It was Calabressa.

”My dear Monsieur Edouarts,” said he, in a low voice--for the red-haired little beggar was still standing there expectant--”he has gone over to the s.h.i.+pping-place. We must follow later on. Meanwhile, regard this letter that has just been forwarded to me. Ah, you English do not forget your promises!”

Edwards threw a piece of money to the child, who pa.s.sed on. Then he took the letter and read it. It was in French.

”Dear Calabressa,--I want you to tell me what you have done with Yakov Kirski. They seem unwilling to say here, and I do not choose to inquire further. But I undertook to look after him, and I understood he was getting on very well, and now you have carried him off. I hope it is with no intention of allowing him to go back to Russia, where he will simply make an attempt at murder, and fall into the hands of the police.

Do not let the poor devil go and make a fool of himself. If you want money to send him back to England, show this letter, or forward it to Messrs. ----, who will give you what you want.

”Your friend, George Brand.

”P.S.--I have seen your beautiful caged little bird. I can say no more at present, but that she shall not suffer through any neglect of mine.”

”What is that about the caged bird?” said Edwards.

”Ah, the caged bird?” said Calabressa. ”The caged bird?--do you see, that is a metaphor. It is nothing; one makes one's little joke. But I was saying, my dear friend, that you English do not promise, and then forget. No; he says, 'I will befriend this poor devil of a Kirski;' and here he comes inquiring after him. Now I must answer the letter; you will accompany me, Monsieur Edouarts? Ten minutes in my little room, and it is done.”