Part 90 (2/2)
”And now what am I to say, being so far away from you, that will sound pleasant to you, and that you will remember after with kindness? I look back now over the time since I have known you, and it appears a beautiful dream--anxious sometimes, and troubled, but always with a golden future before it that almost bewildered the eyes. And what am I to say of your goodness, so unvarying and constant; and your thoughtfulness; and your great unselfishness and outspokenness? When was there the least misunderstanding between us? I could read your heart like my own. Only once, you remember, was there a chance of a shadow coming between us--through my own folly; and yet perhaps it was only natural for a girl, fancying that everything was going to be smooth and happy in her life, to look back on what she had said in times of trouble, and to be afraid of having spoken with too little reserve. But then you refused to have even the slightest lovers' quarrel; you laughed away my folly. Do you wonder if I was more than ever glad that I had given my life into your wise and generous guidance? And it is not now, when I am speaking to you for the last time, that I can regret having let you know what my feelings were toward you. Oh, my darling! you must not imagine, because these words that I am writing are cold and formal, that my heart beats any the less quickly when I think of you and the days we were together. I said to you that I loved you; I say to you now that I love you with my whole heart, and I have no feeling of shame. If you were here, I would look into your face and repeat it--I think without a blush; I would kiss you; I would tell you that I honor you; that I had looked forward to giving you all the trust and affection and devotion of a wife. That is because I have faith in you; my soul is open and clear to you; read, and if you can find there anything but admiration for your n.o.bleness of heart, and earnest hopes for your happiness, and grat.i.tude to you for all your kindness, then, and not otherwise, shall I have cause for shame.
”Now I have to send you my last word of good-bye--”
[She had borne up so far; but now she put the pen aside, and bent her head down on to her hands, and her frame was shaken with her sobbing.
When she resumed, she could scarcely see for the bitter tears that kept welling her eyes.]
”--and you think, looking at these cold words on the paper, that it was easy for me to do so. It has not been so easy. I pray G.o.d to bless you, and keep you brave and true and unselfish, and give you happiness in the success of your work. And I ask a line from you in reply--not sad, but something that I may look at from time to time, and that will make me believe you have plenty of interests and hopes in the world, and that you do not altogether regret that you and I met, and were friends, for a time.
NATALIE.”
This was a strange thing: she took another sheet of paper, and slowly and with a trembling hand wrote on it these words, ”_Your Wife._” That was all. No doubt it was the signature she had hoped one day to use. She regarded it long, and earnestly, and sadly, until, indeed, she could not see it for the tears that rose afresh into her eyes. Then she tore up the piece of paper hastily, folded her letter and addressed it, without sealing the envelope, and carried it into the other room.
”Read it mother,” she said; and she turned to the window to conceal her tear-stained face.
The mother opened the letter and glanced at it.
”You forget, child,” she said. ”I know so little English. Tell me what it is you have written.”
So she was forced to turn; and apparently, as she spoke, she was quite calm; but there was a darkness underneath her eyes, and there was in her look something of the worn, sad expression of her mother's face. Briefly and simply she repeated the substance of the letter, giving no reasons or justifications. She seemed to take it for granted that her decision was unavoidable, and would be seen to be so by every one.
”Natalushka,” the mother said, looking anxiously at the troubled face, ”do you know what you are about to do? It is an act of expiation for something you have not committed.”
”Could I do otherwise?” she said. ”You, mother: would you have me think of a marriage procured through my father's death? It is too horrible!”
The mother went to her, and took her two hands.
”My poor child, are you to have no happier life than I have had, after all? When I used to see you, I used to say to myself, 'Ah, my little Natalushka will never know what has befallen me--she will have a happy life!' I could see you laughing as you walked in the gardens there. You looked so pleased, so content, so bright and cheerful. And now you also are to have a life of disappointment and sad memories--”
”Oh, you must not talk like that, mother,” the girl said, hastily, in a low voice. ”Have I not you with me? We shall always be together, shall we not? And you know we shall not have time for brooding over what is past; we shall have much to do; we must make a pleasant small home somewhere. Oh, there are many, many people far worse off in the world than we are. So you must think of getting away from Naples, mother; and think of where you would like to live, and where I should be most likely to be able to earn a little. The years will teach us to forget--and--and--And now you know why I do not wish to go back to England.”
Her eyes were cast down, but she was forcing herself to speak quite cheerfully.
”You see, mother, my knowing English is a great advantage. If we were to go to one of the towns on the Riviera, like Nice or Mentone, where so many English families are, one might get pupils who would want to learn English songs as well as Italian and German--”
”Yes, yes, Natalushka; but I am not going to have you slave for me. The little allowance that my cousins send me will do very well for us two, though you will not get so fine dresses. Then, you see, Natalushka, Mentone or Nice would be a dear place to live in.”
”Very well, mother,” said the girl, with the same apparent cheerfulness, ”I will go down and post my letter, and at the same time get the loan of a guide book. Then we shall study the maps, and pick out a nice, quiet, remote little place, where we can live--and forget.”
The last two words were uttered to herself as she opened the door and went out. She sighed a little as she went down the staircase--that was all; she was thinking of things very far away. She pa.s.sed into the hall, and went to the bureau for some postage-stamps. As she stood there, some one, unperceived, came up to her: it was Calabressa.
”Little daughter,” said he, in a trembling voice.
She uttered a slight cry, and shrunk back.
”Little daughter,” said he, holding out his hand.
<script>