Sunrise Part 58

"Take me to her; I must see her; I will go at once."

"You shall not," he said, promptly; but he himself was beginning to breathe more freely. "I will not allow you to see her until you are perfectly calm."

He put his hand on her arm gently.

"Natalie," said he, "you must calm yourself--for her sake. She has been suffering; she is weak; any wild scene would do her harm. You must calm yourself, my darling; you must be the braver of the two; you must show yourself very strong--for her sake."

"I am quite calm," she said, with pale lips. She put her left hand over her heart. "It is only my heart that beats so."

"Well, in a little while--"

"Now--now!" she pleaded, almost wildly. "I must see her. When I try to think of it, it is like to drive me mad; I cannot think at all. Let us go!"

"You must think," he said firmly; "you must think of what you are going to say; and your dress, too. Natalie, you must take that piece of scarlet ribbon away; one who is nearly related to you has just died."

She tore it off instantly.

"And you know Magyar, don't you, Natalie?"

"Oh yes, yes."

"Because your mother has been learning English in order to be able to speak to you."

Again she placed her hand over her heart, and there was a look of pain on her face.

"My dearest, let us go! I can bear no more: my heart will break! See, am I not calm enough? Do I tremble?"

"No, you are very courageous," he said, looking at her doubtfully.

"Let us go!--let us go!"

Her entreaties overcame his scruples. The things she had thrown aside on coming in from her morning walk still lay there; she hastily put them on; and she herself led the way down-stairs. He put her into the hansom, and followed; the man drove off. She held her lover's hand tight, as a sign of her grat.i.tude.

"Mind, I depend on you, Natalie," he said.

"Oh, do not fear," she said, rather wildly; "why should one fear? It seems to me all a strange sort of dream; and I shall waken out of it by-and-by, and go back to the house. Why should I be surprised to see her, when she is my constant companion? And do you think I shall not know what to say?--I have talked to her all my life."

But when they had reached the house, and were admitted, this half-hysterical courage had fled.

"One moment, dearest; give me one moment," she said, at the foot of the stairs, as if her breath failed her, and she put her hand on his arm.

"Now, Natalie," he whispered, "you must think of your mother as an invalid--not to be excited, you understand; there is to be no scene."

"Yes, yes," she said, but she scarcely heard him.

"Now go," he said, "and I will wait here."

"No, I wish you to come," she said.

"You ought to be alone with her."

"I wish you to come," she repeated; and she took his hand.

They went up-stairs; the door was wide open; a figure stood in the middle of the room. Natalie entered first; she was very white, that was all. It was the other woman who was trembling--trembling with anxious fears, and forgetful of every one of the English phrases she had learned.

The girl at the door hesitated but for a moment. Breathless, wondering, she beheld this vision--worn as the face was, she recognized in it the features she had learned to love; and there were the dark and tender eyes she had so often held commune with when she was alone. It was only because she was so startled that she thus hesitated; the next instant she was in her mother's arms held tight there, her head against her bosom.

Then the mother began, in her despair,

"My--my daughter--you--do--know me?"

But the girl, not looking up, murmured some few words in a language Brand did not understand; and at the sound of them the mother uttered a wild cry of joy, and drew her daughter closer to her, and laid her streaming, worn, sad face on the beautiful hair. They spoke together in that tongue; the sounds were soft and tender to the ear; perhaps it was the yearning of love that made them so.

Then Natalie remembered her promise. She gently released herself; she led her mother to a sofa, and made her sit down; she threw herself on her knees beside her, and kissed her hand; then she buried her head in her mother's lap. She sobbed once or twice; she was determined not to give way to tears. And the mother stroked the soft hair of the girl, which she could hardly see, for her eyes were full; and from time to time she spoke to her in those gentle, trembling tones, bending over her and speaking close to her ear. The girl was silent; perhaps afraid to awake from a dream.

"Natalie," said George Brand.

She sprung to her feet.

"Oh, I beg your pardon--I beg your pardon!" she said, hurriedly. "I had forgotten--"

"No, you have not forgotten," he said, with a smile. "You have remembered; you have behaved well. Now that I have seen you through it, I am going; you ought to be by yourselves."

"Oh no!" she said, in a bewildered way. "Without you I am useless: I cannot think. I should go on talking and talking to my mother all day, all night--because--because my heart is full. But--but one must do something. Why is she here? She will come home with me--now!"

"Natalie," said he, gravely, "you must not even mention such a thing to her: it would pain her. Can you not see that there are sufficient reasons why she should not go, when she has not been under your father's roof for sixteen years?"

"And why has my father never told me?" the girl said, breathlessly.

"I cannot say."

She thought for a moment; but she was too excited to follow out any train of thinking.

"Ah," she said, "what matter? I have found a great treasure. And you, you shall not go: it will be we three together now. Come!"

She took his hand; she turned to her mother; her face flushed with shyness. She said something, her eyes turned to the ground, in that soft musical language he did not understand.

"I know, my child," the mother answered in French, and she laughed lightly despite her wet eyes. "Do you think one cannot see?--and I have been following you like a spy!"

"Ah, then," said the girl, in the same tongue, "do you see what lies they tell? They say when the mother comes near her child, the heart of the child knows and recognizes her. It is not true! it is not true!--or perhaps one has a colder heart than the others. You have been near to me, mother; I have watched, as you went away crying, and all I said was, 'Ah, the poor lady, I am sorry for her!' I had no more pity for you than Anneli had. Anneli used to say, 'Perhaps, fraulein, she has lost some one who resembles you.'"

"I had lost you--I had lost you," the mother said, drawing the girl toward her again. "But now I have found you again, Natalushka. I thank G.o.d for his goodness to me. I said to myself, 'If my child turns away from me, I will die!' and I thought that if you had any portrait of me, it would be taken when I was young, and you would not care for an old woman grown haggard and plain--"

"Oh, do you think it is for smooth portraits that I care?" the girl said, impetuously. She drew out from some concealed pocket a small case, and opened it. "Do you think it is for smooth faces one cares? There--I will never look at it again!"

She threw it on to the table with a proud gesture.

"But you had it next your heart, Natalushka," said her mother, smiling.