Part 54 (2/2)

Brand looked at her. He could not understand this expression of anxious concern. If, as he was beginning to a.s.sure himself, Lind was the cause of that long and cruel separation between mother and daughter, why should this woman be aghast at the notion of Natalie leaving such a guardian? Or was it merely a superst.i.tious fear of him, similar to that which seemed to possess Calabressa?

”In dealing with your daughter, madame,” he continued, ”one has to be careful not to take advantage of her forgetfulness of herself. She is too willing to sacrifice herself for others. Now to-day we were talking--as she is not free to marry until she is twenty-one--about her perhaps going over to America under the guardians.h.i.+p of Madame Potecki--”

”Madame Potecki.”

”She is a friend of your daughter's--almost a mother to her; and I am not sure but that Natalie would willingly do that--more especially under your guardians.h.i.+p, in preference to that of Madame Potecki--”

”Oh no, no!” she exclaimed, instantly. ”She must not dare her father like that. Oh, it would be terrible! I hope you will not allow her.”

”It is not a question of daring; the girl has courage enough for anything,” he said coolly. ”The thing is that it would involve too great a sacrifice on her part; and I was exceedingly selfish to think of it for a moment. No; let her remain in her father's house until she is free to act as her own mistress; then, if she will come to me, I shall take care that a proper home is provided for her. She must not be a wanderer and a stranger.”

”But even then, when she is free to act, you will not ask her to disobey her father? Oh, it will be too terrible!”

Again he regarded her with amazement.

”What do you mean, madame? What is terrible? Or is it that you are afraid of him? Calabressa spoke like that.”

”You do not know of what he is capable,” she said, with a sigh.

”All the more reason,” he said, directly, ”why she should be removed from his guardians.h.i.+p. But permit me to say, madame, that I do not quite share your apprehensions. I have seen nothing of the bogey kind about your husband. Of course, he is a man of strong will, and he does not like to be thwarted: without that strength of character he could not have done what he has done. But he also knows that his daughter is no longer a child, and when the proper time comes you will find that his common sense will lead him to withdraw an opposition which would otherwise be futile. Do I explain myself clearly? My dear madame, have no anxiety about the future of your daughter. When you see herself, when you speak to her, you will find that she is one who is not given to fear.”

For a moment the apprehensive look left her face. She remained silent, a happier light coming into her eyes.

”She is not sad and sorrowful, then?” she said, presently.

”Oh no; she is too brave.”

”What beautiful hair she has!” said this worn-faced woman with the sad eyes. ”Ah, many a time I have said to myself that when I take her to my heart I will feel the beautiful soft hair; I will stroke it; her head will lie on my bosom, and I will gather courage from her eyes: when she laughs my heart will rejoice! I have lived many years in solitude--in secret, with many apprehensions; perhaps I have grown timid and fearful; once I was not so. But I have been troubling myself with fears; I have said, 'Ah, if she looks coldly on me, if she turns away from me, then my heart will break!'”

”I do not think you have much to fear,” said he, regarding the beautiful, sad face.

”I have tried to catch the sound of her voice,” she continued, absently, and her eyes were filled with tears, ”but I could not do that. But I have watched her, and wondered. She does not seem proud and cold.”

”She will not be proud or cold to you,” he said, ”when she is kindness and gentleness to all the world.”

”And--and when shall you see her again?” she asked, timidly.

”Now,” he said. ”If you will permit me, I will go to her at once. I will bring her to you.”

”Oh no!” she exclaimed hastily drying her eyes. ”Oh no! She must not find a sad mother, who has been crying. She will be repelled. She will think, 'I have enough of sadness.' Oh no, you must let me collect myself: I must be very brave and cheerful when my Natalie comes to me. I must make her laugh, not cry.”

”Madame,” said he, gravely, ”I may have but a few days longer in England: do you think it is wise to put off the opportunity? You see, she must be prepared; it would be a terrible shock if she were to know suddenly. And how can one tell what may happen to-morrow or next day? At the present moment I know she is at home; I could bring her to you directly.”

”Just now?” she said; and she began to tremble again. She rose and went to a mirror.

”She could not recognize herself in me. She would not believe me. And I should frighten her with my mourning and my sadness.”

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