Part 39 (2/2)
So the two walked away together. This Edwards who now accompanied Calabressa was a man of about thirty, who looked younger; tall, fair, with a slight stoop, a large forehead, and blue eyes that stared near-sightedly through spectacles. The ordinary expression of his face was grave even to melancholy, but his occasional smile was humorous, and when he laughed the laugh was soft and light like that of a child. His knowledge of modern languages was considered to be almost unrivalled, though he had travelled but little.
When, in this little room, Calabressa had at length finished his letter and dusted it over with sand, he was not at all loath to show it to this master of modern speech. Calabressa was proud of his French; and if he would himself have acknowledged that it was perhaps here and there of doubtful idiom and of phonetic spelling, would he not have claimed for it that it was fluent, incisive, and ornate?
”My valued friend, it is not permitted me to answer your questions in precise terms; but he to whom you have had the goodness to extend your bountiful protection is well and safe, and under my own care. No; he goes not back to Russia. His thoughts are different; his madness travels in other directions; it is no longer revenge, it is adoration and grat.i.tude that his heart holds. And you, can you not guess who has worked the miracle? Think of this: you have a poor wretch who is distracted by injuries and suffering; he goes away alone into Europe; he is buffeted about with the winds of hunger and thirst and cold: he cannot speak; he is like a dog--a wild beast that people drive away from their door. And all at once some one addresses him in gentle tones: it is the voice of an angel to him! You plough and harrow the poor wretch's heart with suffering and contempt and hopelessness, until it is a desert, a wilderness; but some one, by accident, one day drops a seed of kindness into it, and behold! the beautiful flower of love springing up, and all the man's life going into it! Can you understand--you who ought to understand? Were you not present when the bewildered, starved, hunted creature heard that gentle voice of pity, like an angel speaking from heaven? And if the beautiful girl, who will be the idol of my thoughts through my remaining years, if she does not know that she has rescued a human soul from despair, you will tell her--tell her from me, from Calabressa. What would not Kirski do for her? you might well ask. The patient regards the physician who has cured him with grat.i.tude: this is more that grat.i.tude, it is wors.h.i.+p. What she has preserved she owns; he would give his life to her, to you, to any one whom she regards with affection. For myself, I do not say such things; but she may count on me also, while one has yet life.
”I am yours, and hers, Calabressa.”
The letter was handed to Gathorne Edwards with a proud air; and he read it, and handed it back.
”This man Kirski is not so much of a savage as you imagine,” he said.
”He learns quickly, and forgets nothing. He can repeat all the articles of members.h.i.+p; but it is No. 5 that he is particularly fond of. You have not heard him go over it, Calabressa?”
”I? No. He does not waste my time that way.”
”His p.r.o.nunciation,” continued the younger man, with a smile, ”is rather like the cracking of dry twigs. 'Article 5. Whatever punishment may be decreed against any Officer, Companion, or Friend of the Society may be vicariously borne by any other Officer, Companion, or Friend who of his own full and free consent acts as subst.i.tute; the original offender becoming thereby redeemed, acquitted, and released.' And then he invariably adds: 'Why not make me of some use? To myself my life is nothing.'”
At this moment there was a tapping at the door.
”It is himself,” said Edwards.
”Enter!” Calabressa called out.
The man who now came into the room was a very different looking person from the wild, unkempt creature who had confronted Natalie Lind in Curzon Street. The voluminous red beard and mustache had been cropped; he wore the clothes of a decent workman, with a foreign touch here and there; he was submissive and docile in look.
”Well, where have you been, my friend?” Calabressa said to him in Italian.
Kirski glanced at Gathorne Edwards, and began to speak to him in Russian.
”Will you explain for me, little father? I have been to many churches.”
”The police will not suspect him if he goes there,” said Calabressa, laughing.
”And to the shops in the Piazza San Marco, where the pictures are of the saints.”
”Well?”
”Little father, I can find no one of the saints so beautiful as that one in England that the Master Calabressa knows.”
Calabressa laughed again.
”Allons, mon grand enfant! Tell him that if it is only a likeness he is hunting for, I can show him one.”
With that he took out from his breast-pocket a small pocket book, opened it, found a certain photograph, and put it on the table, shoving it over toward Kirski. The dim-eyed Russian did not dare to touch it; but he stooped over it, and he put one trembling hand on each side of it, as if he would concentrate the light, and gazed at this portrait of Natalie Lind until he could see nothing at all for the tears that came into his eyes. Then he rose abruptly, and said something rapidly to Edwards.
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