Part 90 (1/2)
”Yes, certainly.”
”Then I will telegraph at once to Calabressa to let them know you are coming. Mind you, I am very grateful to you, Evelyn; though I wish I was going in your stead.”
Lord Evelyn got some further instructions as to how he was to discover Calabressa on his arrival in Naples; and that evening he began his journey to the south. He set out, indeed, with a light heart. He knew that Natalie would be glad to have a message from England.
At Genoa he had to break the journey for a day, having some commission to perform on behalf of the Society: this was a parting bequest from Gathorne Edwards. Then on again; and in due time he entered Naples.
He scarcely noticed, as he entered the vehicle and drove away to his hotel, what bare-footed lads outside the station were bawling as they offered the afternoon papers to the newly-arrived pa.s.sengers. What interest had he in Zaccatelli?
But what the news-venders were calling aloud was this:
”_The death of the Cardinal Zaccatelli! Death of Zaccatelli! The death of the Cardinal Zaccatelli!_”
CHAPTER LVII.
FAREWELL!
”Natalushka,” said the tender and anxious mother, laying her hand on the girl's head, ”you must bestir yourself. If you let grief eat into your heart like that, you will become ill; and what shall we do then, in a strange hotel? You must bestir yourself; and put away those sad thoughts of yours. I can only tell you again and again that it was none of your doing. It was the act of the Council: how could you help it? And how can you help it now? My old friend Stefan says it is beyond recall. Come, Natalushka, you must not blame yourself; it is the Council, not you, who have done this; and no doubt they think they acted justly.”
Natalie did not answer. She sighed slightly. Her eyes were turned toward the blue waters beyond the Castello dell' Ovo.
”Child,” the mother continued, ”we must leave Naples.”
”Leave Naples!” the girl cried, with a sudden look of alarm; ”having done nothing--having tried nothing?” Then she added, in a lower voice, ”Well, yes, mother, I suppose it is true what they say, that one can do nothing by remaining. Perhaps--perhaps we ought to go; and yet it is terrible.”
She s.h.i.+vered slightly as she spoke.
”You see, Natalushka,” her mother said, determined to distract her attention somehow, ”this is an expensive hotel; we must be thinking of what money we have left to take us back. We have been here some time; and it is a costly journey, all the way to England.”
”Oh, but not to England--not to England, mother!” Natalie exclaimed, quickly.
”Why not to England, then?”
”Anywhere else, mother,” the daughter pleaded. If you wish it, we will go away: no doubt General von Zoesch knows best; there is no hope. We will go away from Naples, mother; and--and you know I shall not be much of a tax on you. We will live cheaply somewhere; and perhaps I could help a little by teaching music, as Madame Potecki does. Whenever you wish it, I am ready to go.”
”But why not to England?”
”I cannot tell you, mother.”
She rose quickly, and pa.s.sed into her own room and shut the door.
There she stood for a second or two, irresolute and breathless, like one who had just escaped into a place of refuge. Then her eyes fell on her writing desk, which was on a side-table, and open. Slowly, and with a strange, pained expression about her mouth, she went and sat down, and took out some writing materials, and absently and mechanically arranged them before her. Her eyes were tearless, but once or twice she sighed deeply. After a time she began to write with an unsteady hand:
”My Dearest,--You must let me send you a few lines of farewell; for it would be hard if, in saying good-bye, one were not permitted to say a kind word or two that could be remembered afterward. And your heart will have already told you why it is not for you and me now to look forward to the happiness that once seemed to lie before us. You know what a terrible result has followed from my rashness; but then you are free--that is something; for the rest, perhaps it is less misery to die, than to live and know that you have caused another's death. You remember, the night they played _Fidelio_, I told you I should always try to remain worthy of your love; and how could I keep that promise if I permitted myself to think of enjoying a happiness that was made possible at the cost of my father's life? You could not marry a woman so unnatural, so horrible: a marriage purchased at such a price would be foredoomed; there would be a guilty consciousness, a life-long remorse.
But why do I speak? Your heart tells you the same thing. There only remains for us to say good-bye, and to thank G.o.d for the gleam of happiness that shone on us for a little time.
”And you, my dearest of friends, you will send me also a little message, that I can treasure as a remembrance of bygone days. And you must tell me also whether what has occurred has deterred you from going farther, or whether you still remain hoping for better things in the world, and resolved to do what you can to bring them about. That would be a great consolation to me, to know that your life still had a n.o.ble object. Then the world would not be quite blank, either for you or for me; you with your work, I with this poor, kind mother of mine, who needs all the affection I can give her. Then I hope to hear of you from time to time; but my mother and myself do not return to England.