"Natalushka," she said at length, in a broken voice, "no fear of any danger threatening myself would have kept me from you; be sure of that. But there was something else. My father had become compromised—the Austrians said it was assassination; it was not!" For a second some hot blood mounted to her cheeks. "I say it was a fair duel, and your grandfather himself was nearly killed; but he escaped, and got into hiding among some faithful friends—poor people, who had known our family in better times. The Government did what they could to arrest him; he was expressly exempted from the amnesty, this old man, who was wounded, who was incapable of movement almost, whom every one expected to die from day to day, and a word would have betrayed him and destroyed him. Can you wonder, Natalushka, with that threat hanging over me—that menace that the moment I spoke to you meant that my father would be delivered to his enemies—that I said 'No, not yet will I speak to my little daughter; I cannot sacrifice my father's life even to the affection of a mother! But soon, when I
have given him such care and solace as he has the right to demand from me, then I will set out to see my beautiful child—not with baskets of flowers, haunting the door-steps—not with a little trinket, to drop in her lap, and perhaps set her mind thinking—no, but with open arms and open heart, to see if she is not afraid to call me mother.'"
"Poor mother, how you must have suffered," the girl murmured, holding her close to her bosom. "But with your powerful friends—those to whom you appealed to before—why did you not go to them, and get safety from the terrible threat hanging over you? Could they not protect him, my grandfather, as they saved your cousin Konrad?"
"Alas, child, your grandfather never belonged to the association! Of what use was he to them—a sufferer expecting each day to be his last, and not daring to move beyond the door of the peasant's cottage that sheltered him? many a time he used to say to me, 'Natalie, go to your child. I am already dead; what matters it whether they take me or not? You have watched the old tree fade leaf by leaf; it is only the stump that cumbers the ground. Go to your child; if they try to drag me from here, the first mile will be the end; and what better can one wish for?' But no; I could not do that."
Natalie had been thinking deeply; she raised her head, and regarded her mother with a calm, strange look.
"Mother," she said, slowly, "I do not think I will ever enter my father's house again."
The elder woman heard this declaration without either surprise or joy. She said, simply,
"Do not judge rashly or harshly, Natalushka. Why have I refrained until now from telling you the story but that I thought it better—I thought you would be happier if you continued to respect and love your father. Then consider what excuses may be made for him—"
"None!" the girl said, vehemently. "To keep you suffering for sixteen years away from your only child, and with the knowledge that at any moment a word on his part might lead out your father to a cruel death—oh, mother mother, you may ask me to forgive, but not to excuse!"
"Ambition—the desire for influence and leadership—is his very life," the mother said, calmly. "He cares more for that than anything in the world—wife, child, anything, he would sacrifice to it. But now, child," she said, with a concerned look, "can you understand why I have told you the story?"