Part 56 (1/2)

”That also was good advice,” said Lind, courteously; ”and no doubt Natalie laid it to her heart. No, I am not afraid of her doing anything very wild or reckless. She is sensible; she thinks; she has not been brought up in an atmosphere of sentiment. One may say this or that on the spur of the moment, when one is excited; but when it comes to action, one reasons, one sees what one's duty is. Natalie may have said something to you, madame, about going to America, but not with any serious intention, believe me.”

”Perhaps not,” said Madame Potecki, with considerable hesitation.

”Very well, then,” said Mr. Lind, as he rose, and stood before the chimney-piece mirror, and arranged the ends of his gracefully tied neckerchief. ”We come to another point. It was very kind of you, my dear madame, to bring me the news--to tell me something of that sort had been said; but you know what ill-natured people will remark. You get no appreciation. They call you tale-bearer!”

Madame colored slightly.

”It is ungenerous; it is not a fair requital of kindness; but that is what is said,” he continued. ”Now, I should not like any friend of Natalie's to incur such a charge on her account, do you perceive, madame? And, in these circ.u.mstances, do you not think that it would be better for both you and me to consider that you did not visit me this afternoon; that I know nothing of what idle foolishness Natalie has been talking? Would not that be better? As for me, I am dumb.”

”Oh, very well, my dear friend,” said madame, quickly. ”I would not for the world have Natalie or any one think that I was a mischief-maker--oh no! And did I not promise to you that I should say nothing of my having called on you to-day? It is already a promise.”

He turned round and regarded her.

”Precisely so,” he said. ”You did promise; it was kind of you; and for myself, you may rely on my discretion. Your calling on me--what you repeated to me--all that is obliterated: you understand?”

Madame Potecki understood that very well: but she could not quite make out why he should have come to her this evening, apparently with no object beyond that of reminding her of her promise to say nothing of her visit to Lisle Street.

He lifted his hat from an adjacent chair.

”Now I will leave you to finish your dinner in quiet. You forgive me for interrupting you, do you not? And you will remember, I am sure, not to mention to any one about your having called on me to-day? As for me, it is all wiped out: I know nothing. Adieu, and thanks.”

He shook hands with her in a very friendly manner, and then left, saying he could open the outer door for himself.

He got home in time for dinner: he and Natalie dined together, and he was particularly kind to her; he talked in Magyar, which was his custom when he wished to be friendly and affectionate; he made no reference to George Brand whatsoever.

”Natalie,” said he, casually, ”it was not fair that you were deprived of a holiday this year. You know the reason--there were too many important things going forward. But it is not yet too late. You must think about it--think where you would like to go for two or three weeks.”

She did not answer. It was on that morning that she had placed her written offer in her lover's hands; so far there had been no reply from him.

”And Madame Potecki,” her father continued; ”she is not very rich; she has but little change. Why not take her with you instead of Anneli?”

”I should like to take her away for a time,” said the girl, in a low voice. ”She lives a monotonous life; but she has always her pupils.”

”Some arrangement could be made with them, surely,” her father said, lightly; and then he added, ”Paris is always the safest place to go to when one is in doubt. There you are independent of the weather; there are so many things to see and to do if it rains. Will you think of it, Natalushka?”

”Yes, papa,” she said, though she felt rather guilty. But she was so grateful to have her father talk to her in this friendly way again, after the days of estrangement that had pa.s.sed, that she could not but pretend to fall in with his schemes.

”And I will tell you another thing,” said Mr. Lind. ”I intend to buy you some furs, Natalie, for the winter. These we will get in Paris.”

”I am too much of an expense to you already, papa.”

”You forget,” said he, with mock gravity, ”that you give me your invaluable services as house-keeper, and that so far you have received no salary.”

There was a knock at the outer door.

”Is it nine o'clock already?” he said, in an altered tone.

”Whom do you expect, papa?”

”Gathorne Edwards.”