Part 72 (1/2)

The last words were spoken slowly, and in a low voice; his eyes were fixed on the night-world outside. What could his friend say? They talked late into the night; but all his remonstrances and prayers were of no avail as against this clear resolve.

”What is the use of discussion?” was the placid answer. ”What would you have me do?--break my oaths--put aside my sacred promise made to Natalie, and give up the Society altogether? My good fellow, let us talk of something less impossible.”

And indeed, though he deprecated discussion on this point, he was anxious to talk. The fact was that of late he had come to fear sleep, as the look of his eyes testified. In the daytime, or as long as he could sit up with a companion, he could force himself to think only of the immediate and practical demands of the hour; vain regrets over what might have been--and even occasional uneasy searchings of conscience--he could by an effort of will ignore. He had accepted his fate; he had schooled himself to look forward to it without fear; henceforth there was to be no indecision, no murmur of complaint. But in the night-time--in dreams--the natural craving for life a.s.serted itself; it seemed so sad to bid good-bye forever to those whom he had known and loved; and mostly always it was Natalie herself who stood there, regarding him with streaming eyes, and wringing her hands, and sobbing to him farewell. The morning light, or the first calls in the thoroughfare below, or the shrieking of some railway-whistle on Hungerford Bridge brought an inexpressible relief by banis.h.i.+ng these agonizing visions. No matter how soon Waters was astir, he found his master up before him--dressed, and walking up and down the room, or reading some evening newspaper of the previous day. Sometimes Brand occupied himself in getting ready his own breakfast, but he had to explain to Waters that this was not meant as a rebuke--it was merely that, being awake early, he wished for some occupation.

Early on the morning after this last despairing protest on the part of Lord Evelyn, Brand drove up to Paddington Station, on his way to pay a hurried visit to his Buckinghams.h.i.+re home. Nearly all his affairs had been settled in town; there remained some arrangements to be made in the country. Lord Evelyn was to have joined him in this excursion, but at the last moment had not put in an appearance; so Brand jumped in just as the train was starting, and found himself alone in the carriage.

The bundle of newspapers he had with him did not seem to interest him much. He was more than ever puzzled to account for the continued silence of Natalie. Each morning he had been confidently expecting to hear from her--to have some explanation of her sudden departure--but as the days went by, and no message of any sort arrived, his wonder became merged in anxiety. It seemed so strange that she should thus absent herself, when she had been counting on each day on which she might see him as if it were some gracious gift from Heaven.

All that he was certain of in the matter was that Lind knew no more than himself as to where Natalie had gone. One afternoon, going out from his rooms into Buckingham Street, he caught sight of Beratinsky loitering about farther up the little thoroughfare, about the corner of John Street. Beratinsky's back was turned to him, and so he took advantage of the moment to open the gate, for which he had a private key, leading down to the old York Gate; from thence he made his way round by Villiers Street, whence he could get a better view of the little black-a-vised Pole's proceedings.

He speedily convinced himself that Beratinsky, though occasionally he walked along in the direction of Adam Street, and though sometimes he would leisurely stroll up to the Strand, was in reality keeping an eye on Buckingham Street and he had not the least doubt that he himself was the object of this surveillance. He laughed to himself. Had these wise people in Lisle Street, then, discovering that Natalie's mother was in London, arrived at the conclusion that she and her daughter had taken refuge in so very open a place of shelter? When Beratinsky was least expecting any such encounter, Brand went up and tapped him on the shoulder.

”How do you do, Mr. Beratinsky?” said he, when the other wheeled round.

”This is not the most agreeable place for a stroll. Why do you not go down to the Embankment Gardens?”

Beratinsky was angry and confused, but did not quite lose his self-command.

”I am waiting for some one,” he said, curtly.

”Or to find out about some one? Well, I will save you some trouble. Lind wishes to know where his wife and daughter are, I imagine.”

”Is that unnatural?”

”I suppose not. I heard he had been down to Hans Place, where Madame Lind was staying.”

”You knew, then?” the other said, quickly.

”Oh yes, I knew. Now, if you will be frank with me, I may be of some a.s.sistance to you. Lind does not know where his wife and daughter are?”

”You know he does not.”

”And you--perhaps you fancied that one or other might be sending a message to me--might call, perhaps--or even that I might have got them rooms for the time being?”

The Englishman's penetrating gray eyes were difficult to avoid.

”You appear to know a good deal, Mr. Brand,” Beratinsky said, somewhat sulkily. ”Perhaps you can tell me where they are now?”

”I can tell you where they are not, and that is in London.”

The other looked surprised, then suspicious.

”Oh, believe me or not, as you please: I only wish to save you trouble.

I tell you that, to the best of my belief, Miss Lind and her mother are not in London, nor in this country even.”

”How do you know?”

”Pardon me; you are going too far. I only tell you what I believe. In return, as I have saved you some trouble, I shall expect you to let me know if you hear anything about them. Is that too much to ask?”