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The Red Rat's Daughter

by Guy Boothby · English · Gutenberg #33004 · 459,929 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Red Rat's Daughter

Author: Guy Boothby

Illustrator: Henry Austin


        
Release date: June 27, 2010 [eBook #33004]
                Most recently updated: January 6, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33004

Credits: Produced by Al Haines


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[Illustration: Cover art]





[Frontispiece: "At last .... he drew her up."]






THE RED RAT'S DAUGHTER



By Guy Boothby


AUTHOR OF "DOCTOR NIKOLA," "THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE DEVIL,"
  "PHAROS, THE EGYPTIAN," ETC, ETC




ILLUSTRATED BY HENRY AUSTIN




LONDON

WARD, LOCK AND CO LIMITED

NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE

1899




CHAPTER I

If John Grantham Browne had a fault--which, mind you, I am not prepared
to admit--it lay in the fact that he was the possessor of a cynical wit
which he was apt at times to use upon his friends with somewhat
peculiar effect.  Circumstances alter cases, and many people would have
argued that he was perfectly entitled to say what he pleased.  When a
man is worth a hundred and twenty thousand pounds a year--which, worked
out, means ten thousand pounds a month, three hundred and twenty-eight
pounds, fifteen shillings and fourpence a day, and four-and-sixpence
three-farthings, and a fraction over, per minute--he may surely be
excused if he becomes a little sceptical as to other people's motives,
and is apt to be distrustful of the world in general.  Old Brown, his
father, without the "e," as you have doubtless observed, started life
as a bare-legged street arab in one of the big manufacturing
centres--Manchester or Birmingham, I am not quite certain which.  His
head, however, must have been screwed on the right way, for he made few
mistakes, and everything he touched turned to gold.  At thirty his bank
balance stood at fifteen thousand pounds; at forty it had turned the
corner of a hundred thousand; and when he departed this transitory
life, a young man in everything but years, he left his widow, young
John's mother--his second wife, I may remark in passing, and the third
daughter of the late Lord Rushbrooke--upwards of three and a half
million pounds sterling in trust for the boy.

As somebody wittily remarked at the time, young John, at his father's
death and during his minority, was a monetary Mohammed--he hovered
between two worlds: the Rushbrookes, on one side, who had not two
sixpences to rub against each other, and the Brownes, on the other, who
reckoned their wealth in millions and talked of thousands as we humbler
mortals do of half-crowns.  Taken altogether, however, old Brown was
not a bad sort of fellow.  Unlike so many parvenus, he had the good
sense, the "e" always excepted, not to set himself up to be what he
certainly was not.  He was a working-man, he would tell you with a
twinkle in his eye, and he had made his own way in the world.  He had
never in his life owed a halfpenny, nor, to the best of his knowledge,
had he ever defrauded anybody; and, if he _had_ made his fortune out of
soap, well--and here his eyes would glisten--soap was at least a useful
article, and would wash his millions cleaner than a good many other
commodities he might mention.  In his tastes and habits he was
simplicity itself.  Indeed, it was no unusual sight to see the old
fellow, preparatory to setting off for the City, coming down the steps
of his magnificent town house, dressed in a suit of rough tweed, with
the famous bird's-eye neck-cloth loosely twisted round his throat, and
the soft felt hat upon his head--two articles of attire which no
remonstrance on the part of his wife and no amount of ridicule from the
comic journals could ever induce him to discard.  His stables were full
of carriages, and there was a cab-rank within a hundred yards of his
front door, yet no one had ever seen him set foot in either.  The soles
of his boots were thick, and he had been accustomed to walk all his
life, he would say, and he had no intention of being carried till he
was past caring what became of him.  With regard to his son, the apple
of his eye, and the pride of his old age, his views were entirely
different.  Nothing was good enough for the boy.  From the moment he
opened his eyes upon the light, all the luxuries and advantages wealth
could give were showered upon him.  Before he was short-coated, upwards
of a million had been placed to his credit at the bank, not to be
touched until he came of age.  After he had passed from a dame's school
to Eton, he returned after every holiday with sufficient money loose in
his pocket to have treated the whole school.  When, in the proper order
of things, he went on to Christ Church, his rooms were the envy and the
admiration of the university.  As a matter of fact, he never knew what
it was to have to deny himself anything; and it says something for the
lad's nature, and the father's too, I think, that he should have come
out of it the honest, simple Englishman he was.  Then old John died;
his wife followed suit six months later; and on his twenty-fifth
birthday the young man found himself standing alone in the world with
his millions ready to his hand either to make or mar him.  Little
though he thought it at the time, there was a sufficiency of trouble in
store for him.

He had town houses, country seats, moors and salmon-fishings, yachts
(steam and sailing), racehorses, hunters, coach-horses, polo-ponies,
and an army of servants that a man might very well shudder even to
think of.  But he lacked one thing; he had no wife.  Society, however,
was prepared to remedy this defect.  Indeed, it soon showed that it was
abnormally anxious to do so.  Before he was twenty-two it had been
rumoured that he had become engaged to something like a score of girls,
each one lovelier, sweeter, and boasting blood that was bluer than the
last.  A wiser and an older head might well have been forgiven had it
succumbed to the attacks made upon it; but in his veins, mingled with
the aristocratic Rushbrooke blood, young John had an equal portion of
that of the old soap-boiler; and where the one led him to accept
invitations to country houses at Christmas, or to be persuaded into
driving his fair friends, by moonlight, to supper at the Star and
Garter, the other enabled him to take very good care of himself while
he ran such dangerous risks.  In consequence he had attained the
advanced age of twenty-eight when this story opens, a bachelor, and
with every prospect of remaining so.  But the Blind Bow-Boy, as every
one is aware, discharges his bolts from the most unexpected quarters;
and for this reason you are apt to find yourself mortally wounded in
the very place, of all others, where you have hitherto deemed yourself
most invulnerable.

It was the end of the second week in August; Parliament was up; and
Browne's steam-yacht, the _Lotus Blossom_, twelve hundred tons, lay in
the harbour of Merok, on the Gieranger Fjord, perhaps the most
beautiful on the Norwegian coast.  The guests on board had been
admirably chosen, an art which in most instances is not cultivated as
carefully as it might be.  An ill-assorted house party is bad enough;
to bring the wrong men together on the moors is sufficient to spoil an
otherwise enjoyable holiday; but to ask Jones (who doesn't smoke, who
is wrapped up in politics, reads his leader in the _Standard_ every
morning, and who has played whist every afternoon with the same men at
his club for the last ten years) and De Vere Robinson (who never reads
anything save the _Referee_ and the _Sportsman_, who detests whist, and
who smokes the strongest Trichinopolis day and night) to spend three
weeks cooped up on a yacht would be like putting a kitten and a
cat-killing fox-terrier into a corn-bin and expecting them to have a
happy time together.  Browne, however, knew his business, and his
party, in this particular instance, consisted of the Duchess of
Matlock, wife of the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and her
two pretty daughters, the Ladies Iseult and Imogen; Miss Verney, the
beauty of the season; the Honourable Silas Dobson, the American
Ambassador; his wife and daughter; George Barrington-Marsh, of the 1st
Life; and little Jimmy Foote, a man of no permanent address, but of
more than usual shrewdness, who managed to make a good income out of
his friends by the exercise of that peculiar talent for pleasing which
rendered him indispensable whenever and wherever his fellow-creatures
were gathered together.  In addition to those I have mentioned there
was a man whose interest in this story is so great that it is necessary
he should be described at somewhat greater length.

Should you deem it worth your while to make inquiries at any of the
Chancelleries in order to ascertain whether they happen to be
acquainted with a certain Monsieur Felix Maas, you would probably be
surprised to learn that he is as well known to them as--well--shall we
say the Sultan of Turkey himself? though it would be difficult to
mention in exactly what capacity.  One thing is quite certain; it would
be no easy task to find a man possessed of such peculiar
characteristics as this retiring individual.  At first glance his name
would appear to settle his nationality once and for all.  He would tell
you, however, that he has no right to be considered a Dutchman.  At the
same time he would probably omit to tell you to which kingdom or empire
he ascribes the honour of his birth.  If you travelled with him you
would discover that he speaks the language of every country west of the
Ural Mountains with equal fluency; and though he would appear to be the
possessor of considerable wealth, he never makes the least parade of
it.  In fact, his one and only idea in life would seem to be always
irreproachably dressed and groomed, never to speak unless spoken to,
and at all times to act as if he took no sort of interest whatever in
any person or thing save that upon which he happened to be engaged at
the moment.  When necessity demands it he can be exceedingly amusing;
he never allows himself to be seen with a man or woman who would be
likely to cause him the least loss of prestige; he gives charming
little dinners _a la fourchette_ at his rooms in town twice or thrice
during the season, and is rumoured to be the author, under a _nom de
plume_, of one of the best works on Continental politics that has seen
the light since Talleyrand's day.  So much for Felix Maas.

At one time or another there have been a number of exquisite yachts
built to satisfy the extravagances of millionaires, but never one so
perfect in every detail, and so replete with every luxury, as Browne's
_Lotus Blossom_.  The state-rooms were large and airy; beds occupied
the places of the usual uncomfortable bunks; the dining-saloon was
situated amidships, where the vibration of the screw was least felt;
the drawing-room was arranged aft; and a dainty boudoir for the ladies
extended across the whole width of the counter.  The smoking-room was
in a convenient position under the bridge, and the bathrooms, four in
number, were luxury and completeness itself.  Add to the other
advantages the presence of Felicien, that prince of _chefs_, and little
Georges, once so intimately connected with the English Embassy in
Paris, and it is unnecessary to say more.

Browne himself was an excellent host; and by the time the Norwegian
coast had been sighted the party had settled down comfortably on board.
They visited Christiania, the Bukn, Hardanger, and Sogne, and
eventually found themselves at anchor in the harbour of Merok, on the
Gieranger Fjord.  It is in this lovely bay, overshadowed by its
precipitous mountains, that my story may be properly said to commence.

It is sometimes asserted by a class of people who talk of the Eiffel
Tower as if it were a bit of natural scenery, and of the Matterhorn as
though it were placed in its present position simply for the
entertainment of Cook's tourists, that when you have seen one Norwegian
fjord you have seen them all.  But this statement is, as are the
majority of such assertions, open to contradiction.  The Ryfylke bears
no sort of resemblance, save that they are both incomparably grand, to
the Hardanger, or the Fjaerlands to the Gieranger.  There is, of
course, the same solemnity and the same overwhelming sense of man's
insignificance about them all.  But in every other essential they
differ as completely as Windermere does from the Bitter Lakes of
Suez--shall we say?--or the Marble Arch from the Bridge of Sighs.

"Knowing what we know, and seeing what we see," Maas remarked
confidentially to the Duchess of Matlock as they sat in their chairs on
deck, gazing up at the snow-capped mountains at the head of the fjord,
"one is tempted to believe that Providence, in designing Europe, laid
it out with the express intention of pleasing the British tourist."

"I detest tourists," replied her Grace, as she disentangled the straps
of her field-glasses.  "They cheapen everything, and think nothing of
discussing their hotel bills in the Temple of the Sphinx, or of
comparing and grumbling at their _dhobie's_ accounts under the facade
of the Taj Mahal."

"The inevitable result of a hothouse education, my dear Duchess," said
Jimmy Foote, who was leaning against the bulwarks.  "Believe a poor man
who knows, it is just those three annas overcharge in a _dhobie's_ bill
that spoil the grandeur of the Sphinx and cast a blight over the Great
Pyramid; as far as I am personally concerned, such an imposition would
spoil even the Moti Masjid itself."

"People who quarrel over a few annas have no right to travel," remarked
Mrs. Dobson, with the authority of a woman who rejoices in the
possession of a large income.

"In that case, one trembles to think what would become of the greater
portion of mankind," continued Miss Verney, who was drawing on her
gloves preparatory to going ashore.

"If that were the law, I am afraid I should never get beyond the white
walls of Old England," said Jimmy Foote, shaking his head; "it is only
by keeping a sharp eye on the three annas of which we have been
speaking that I manage to exist at all.  If I might make a suggestion
to the powers that be, it would be to the effect that a university
should be founded in some convenient centre--Vienna, for instance.  It
would be properly endowed, and students might be sent to it from all
parts of the world.  Competent professors would be engaged, who would
teach the pupils how to comport themselves in railway trains and on
board steamboats; who would tell them how to dress themselves to suit
different countries, in order that they might not spoil choice bits of
scenery by inartistic colouring.  Above all, I would have them
instructed in the proper manner of placing their boots outside their
bedroom doors when they retire to rest in foreign hotels.  I remember a
ruffian in Paris some years ago (truth compels me to put it on record
that he was a countryman of yours, Mr. Dobson) who for three weeks
regularly disturbed my beauty sleep by throwing his boots outside his
door in the fashion to which I am alluding.  It's my belief he used to
stand in the centre of his room and pitch them into the corridor,
taking particular care that they should fall exactly above my head."

"It seems to me that I also have met that man," observed Maas quietly,
lighting another cigarette as he spoke.  "He travels a great deal."

"Surely it could not be the same man?" remarked Mrs. Dobson, with an
incredulous air.  "The coincidence would be too extraordinary."  A
smile went round the group; for an appreciation of humour was not the
lady's strong point.

"To continue my proposal," said Foote, with quiet enjoyment.  "In
addition to imparting instruction on the subjects I have mentioned, I
would have my pupils thoroughly grounded in the languages of the
various countries they intend visiting, so that they should not inquire
the French for Eau de Cologne, or ask what sort of vegetable _pate de
foie gras_ is when they encountered it upon their menus.  A proper
appreciation of the beautiful in art might follow, in order to permit
of their being able to distinguish between a Sandro Botticelli and a
'Seaport at Sunrise' by Claude Lorraine."

"A professor who could give instruction upon the intricacies of a
Continental wine list might be added with advantage," put in
Barrington-Marsh.

"And the inevitable result," said Browne, who had joined the party
while Marsh was speaking, "would be that you might as well not travel
at all.  Build an enormous restaurant in London, and devote a portion
of it to every country into which modern man takes himself.  Hang the
walls with tricky, theatrical canvases after the fashion of a
cyclorama; dress your waiters in appropriate costumes, let them speak
the language of the country in which you are supposed to be dining, let
the tables be placed in the centre of the hall, have a band to
discourse national airs, and you would be able to bore yourself to
death in comfort, for the simple reason that every one would talk, eat,
drink, and behave just as respectably as his neighbour.  Half the fun
of moving about the world, as I understand it, lies in the studies of
character presented by one's fellow-creatures.  But, see, the boat is
alongside; let us go ashore while it is fine."

Beautiful as Merok undoubtedly is, it must be admitted that its
amusements are, to say the least of it, limited.  You can lunch at the
hotel, explore the curious little octagonal church, and, if you are a
walker, climb the road that crosses the mountains to Grotlid.  The
views, however, are sublime, for the mountains rise on every hand,
giving the little bay the appearance of an amphitheatre.

"What programme have you mapped out for us?" inquired Miss Verney, who,
as was known to her companions, preferred an easy-chair and a
flirtation on the deck of the yacht to any sort of athletic exercise
ashore.

Browne thereupon explained that the Duchess, who was dressed in
appropriate walking costume, had arranged everything.  They were to
visit the church, do the regulation sights, and, finally, make their
way up the hillside to the Storfos Waterfall, which is the principal,
and almost the only, attraction the village has to offer.  The usual
order of march was observed.  The Duchess and the Ambassador, being the
seniors of the party, led the way; the lady's two daughters, escorted
by Barrington-Marsh and Jimmy Foote--who was too obvious a detrimental
to be worth guarding against--came next; Maas, Mrs. and Miss Dobson
followed close behind them; Miss Verney and Browne brought up the rear.

Everything went merrily as a marriage bell.  After those who had
brought their cameras had snap-shotted the church, and made the usual
mistake with regard to the angles, the party climbed the hill in the
direction of the waterfall.  It was only when they reached it that
those in front noticed that Miss Verney had joined the trio next before
her, and that Browne had disappeared.  He had gone back to the boat,
the lady explained, in order to give some instructions that had been
forgotten.  From her silence, however, and from the expression of
annoyance upon her beautiful lace, the others immediately jumped to the
conclusion that something more serious must have happened than her
words implied.  In this case, however, popular opinion was altogether
at fault.  As a matter of fact, Browne's reason for leaving his guests
to pursue their walk alone was an eminently simple one.  He strolled
down to the boat which had brought them ashore, and, having despatched
it with a message to the yacht, resumed his walk, hoping to overtake
his party before they reached the waterfall.  Unfortunately, however, a
thick mist was descending upon the mountain, shutting out the landscape
as completely as if a curtain had been drawn before it.  At first he
was inclined to treat the matter as of small moment; and, leaving the
road, he continued his walk in the belief that it would soon pass off.
Stepping warily--for mountain paths in Norway are not to be treated
with disrespect--he pushed on for upwards of a quarter of an hour,
feeling sure he must be near his destination, and wondering why he did
not hear the voices of his friends or the thunder of the fall.  At last
he stopped.  The mist was thicker than ever, and a fine but penetrating
rain was falling.  Browne was still wondering what Miss Verney's
feelings would be, supposing she were condemned to pass the night on
the hillside, when he heard a little cry proceeding from a spot, as he
supposed, a few yards ahead of him.  The voice was a woman's, and the
ejaculation was one of pain.  Hearing it, Browne moved forward again in
the hope of discovering whence it proceeded and what had occasioned it.
Search how he would, however, he could see nothing of the person who
had given utterance to it.  At last, in despair, he stood still and
called, and in reply a voice answered in English, "Help me; help me,
please."

"Where are you?" Browne inquired in the same language; "and what is the
matter?"

"I am down here," the voice replied; "and I am afraid I have sprained
my ankle.  I have fallen and cannot get up."

Browne has since confessed that it was the voice that did it.  The
accent, however, was scarcely that of an Englishwoman.

"Are you on a path or on the hillside?" he inquired, after he had
vainly endeavoured to locate her position.

"I am on the hillside," she replied.  "The fog was so thick that I
could not see my way, and I slipped on the bank and rolled down,
twisting my foot under me."

"Well, if you will try to guide me, I will do all in my power to help
you," said Browne; and as he said it he moved carefully towards the
spot whence he imagined the voice proceeded.  From the feel of the
ground under his feet he could tell that he had left the path and was
descending the slope.

"Am I near you now?" he asked.

"I think you must be," was the reply.  And then the voice added, with a
little laugh, "How ridiculous it all is, and how sorry I am to trouble
you!"

Had she known to what this extraordinary introduction was destined to
lead, it is very doubtful whether she would have considered it so full
either of humour or regret as her words implied.

Inch by inch Browne continued his advance, until he could just
distinguish, seated on the ground below him, and clinging with both her
arms to a stunted birch-tree, the figure of the girl for whom he was
searching.  At most she was not more than five feet from him.  Then,
with that suddenness which is the peculiar property of Norwegian mists,
the vapour, which had up to that moment so thickly enveloped them,
rolled away, and the whole landscape was revealed to their gaze.  As he
took in the position, Browne uttered a cry of horror.  The girl had
wandered off the path, slipped down the bank, and was now clinging to a
tree only a few feet removed from the brink of one of the most terrible
precipices along the Norwegian coast.

So overwhelmed was he with horror that for a moment Browne found
himself quite unable to say or do anything.  Then, summoning to his
assistance all the presence of mind of which he was master, he
addressed the girl, who, seeing the danger to which she was exposed,
was clinging tighter than ever to the tree, her face as white as the
paper upon which I am now writing.  For a moment the young man scarcely
knew how to act for the best.  To leave her while he went for
assistance was out of the question; while it was very doubtful, active
as he was, whether he would be able, unaided, to get her up in her
injured condition to the path above.  Ridiculous as the situation may
have appeared in the fog, it had resolved itself into one of absolute
danger now, and Browne felt the perspiration start out upon his
forehead as he thought of what would have happened had she missed the
tree and rolled a few feet farther.  One thing was quite
certain--something must be done; so, taking off his coat, he lowered it
by the sleeve to her, inquiring at the same time whether she thought
she could hold on to it while he pulled her up to the path above.  She
replied that she would endeavour to do so, and thereupon the struggle
commenced.  A struggle it certainly was, and an extremely painful one,
for the girl was handicapped by her injured foot.  What if her nerve
should desert her and she should let go, or the sleeve of the coat
should part company with the body?  In either case there could be but
one result--an instant and terrible death for her.

Taken altogether, it was an experience neither of them would ever be
likely to forget.  At last, inch by inch, foot by foot, he drew her up;
and with every advance she made, the stones she dislodged went tinkling
down the bank, and, rolling over the edge, disappeared into the abyss
below.  When at last she was sufficiently close to enable him to place
his arm round her, and to lift her into safety beside himself, the
reaction was almost more than either of them could bear.  For some
minutes the girl sat with her face buried in her hands, too much
overcome with horror at the narrowness of her escape even to thank her
preserver.  When she _did_ lift her face to him, Browne became aware
for the first time of its attractiveness.  Beautiful, as Miss Verney
was beautiful, she certainly could not claim to be; there was, however,
something about her face that was more pleasing than mere personal
loveliness could possibly have been.

"How did you come to be up here alone?" he inquired, after she had
tried to express her gratitude to him for the service he had rendered
her.

"It was foolish, I admit," she answered.  "I had been painting on the
mountain, and was making my way back to the hotel when the fog caught
me.  Suddenly I felt myself falling.  To save myself I clutched at that
tree, and was still clinging to it when you called to me.  Oh! how can
I thank you?  But for you I might now be----"

She paused, and Browne, to fill in the somewhat painful gap, hastened
to say that he had no desire to be thanked at all.  He insisted that he
had only done what was fit and proper under the circumstances.  It was
plain, however, from the look of admiration he cast upon her, that he
was very well satisfied with the part he had been permitted to play in
the affair.

While, however, they were progressing thus favourably in one direction,
it was evident that they were not yet at an end of their difficulties,
for the young lady, pretend as she might to ignore the fact, was
undoubtedly lame; under the circumstances for her to walk was out of
the question, and Merok was fully a mile, and a very steep mile,
distant from where they were now seated.

"How am I to get home?" the girl inquired.  "I am afraid it will be
impossible for me to walk so far, and no pony could come along this
narrow path to fetch me."

Browne puckered his forehead with thought.  A millionaire is apt to
imagine that nothing in this world is impossible, provided he has his
cheque-book in his pocket and a stylographic pen wherewith to write an
order on his banker.  In this case, however, he was compelled to
confess himself beaten.  There was one way out of it, of course, and
both knew it.  But the young man felt his face grow hot as the notion
occurred to him.

"If you would only let me carry you as far as the main road, I could
easily find a conveyance to take you the rest of the distance," he
faltered.

"Do you think you _could_ carry me?" she answered, with a seriousness
that was more than half assumed.  "I am very heavy."

It might be mentioned here, and with advantage to the story, that in
his unregenerate days Browne had won many weight-lifting competitions;
his modesty, however, prevented his mentioning this fact to her.

"If you will trust me, I think I can manage it," he said; and then,
without waiting for her to protest, he picked the girl up, and, holding
her carefully in his arms, carried her along the path in the direction
of the village.  It was scarcely a time for conversation, so that the
greater portion of the journey was conducted in silence.  When at last
they reached the mountain road--that wonderful road which is one of the
glories of Merok--Browne placed the girl upon the bank, and, calling a
boy whom he could see in the distance, despatched him to the hotel for
assistance.  The youth having disappeared, Browne turned to the girl
again.  The pain she had suffered during that short journey had driven
the colour from her face, but she did her best to make light of it.

"I cannot thank you enough for all you have done for me," she said, and
a little shudder swept over her as the remembrance of how near she had
been to death returned to her.

"I am very thankful I happened to be there at the time," the other
replied with corresponding seriousness.  "If you will be warned by me,
you will be careful for the future how you venture on the mountains
without a guide at this time of the year.  Fogs, such as we have had
to-day, descend so quickly, and the paths are dangerous at the best of
times."

"You may be sure I will be more careful," she replied humbly.  "But do
not let me keep you now; I have detained you too long already.  I shall
be quite safe here."

"You are not detaining me," he answered.  "I have nothing to do.
Besides, I could not think of leaving you until I have seen you safely
on your way back to your hotel.  Have you been in Merok very long?"

"Scarcely a week," the girl replied.  "We came from Hellesylt."

Browne wondered of whom the _we_ might consist.  Was the girl married?
He tried to discover whether or not she wore a wedding-ring, but her
hand was hidden in the folds her dress.

Five minutes later a cabriole made its appearance, drawn by a shaggy
pony and led by a villager.  Behind it, and considerably out of breath,
toiled a stout and elderly lady, who, as soon as she saw the girl
seated on the bank by the roadside, burst into a torrent of speech.

"Russian," said Brown to himself; "her accent puzzled me, but now I
understand."

Then turning to the young man, who was experiencing some slight
embarrassment at being present at what his instinct told him was a
wigging, administered by a lady who was plainly a past mistress at the
art, the girl said in English:--

"Permit me to introduce you to my guardian, Madame Bernstein."

The couple bowed ceremoniously to each other, and then Browne and the
villager between them lifted the girl into the vehicle, the man took
his place at the pony's head, and the strange cortege proceeded on its
way down the hill towards the hotel.  Once there, Browne prepared to
take leave of them.  He held out his hand to the girl, who took it.

"Good-bye," he said.  "I hope it will not be long before you are able
to get about once more."

"Good-bye," she answered; and then, with great seriousness, "Pray,
believe that I shall always be grateful to you for the service you have
rendered me this afternoon."

There was a little pause.  Then, with a nervousness that was by no
means usual to him, he added:--

"I hope you will not think me rude, but perhaps you would not mind
telling me whom I have had the pleasure of helping?"

"My name is Katherine Petrovitch," she answered, with a smile, and then
as frankly returned his question.  "And yours?"

"My name is Browne," he replied; and also smiling as he said it, he
added: "I am Browne's Mimosa Soap, Fragrant and Antiseptic."




CHAPTER II

When Browne reached the yacht, after bidding good-bye to the girl he
had rescued, he found his friends much exercised in their minds
concerning him.  They had themselves been overtaken by the fog, and
very naturally they had supposed that their host, seeing it coming on,
had returned to the yacht without waiting for them.  Their surprise,
therefore, when they arrived on board and found him still missing was
scarcely to be wondered at.  In consequence, when he descended the
companion ladder and entered the drawing-room, he had to undergo a
cross-examination as to his movements.  Strangely enough, this
solicitude for his welfare was far from being pleasing to him.  He had
made up his mind to say nothing about the adventure of the afternoon,
and yet, as he soon discovered, it was difficult to account for the
time he had spent ashore if he kept silence on the subject.
Accordingly he made the best excuse that occurred to him, and by
disclosing a half-truth induced them to suppose that he had followed
their party towards the waterfall, and had in consequence been lost in
the fog.

"It was scarcely kind of you to cause us so much anxiety," said Miss
Verney in a low voice as he approached the piano at which she was
seated.  "I assure you we have been most concerned about you; and, if
you had not come on board very soon, Captain Marsh and Mr. Foote were
going ashore again in search of you."

"That would have been very kind of them," said Browne, dropping into an
easy-chair; "but there was not the least necessity for it.  I am quite
capable of taking care of myself."

"Nasty things mountains," said Jimmy Foote to the company at large.  "I
don't trust 'em myself.  I remember once on the Rigi going out with old
Simeon Baynes, the American millionaire fellow, you know, and his
daughter, the girl who married that Italian count who fought
Constantovitch and was afterwards killed in Abyssinia.  At one place we
very nearly went over the edge, every man-jack of us, and I vowed I'd
never do such a thing again.  Fancy the irony of the position!  After
having been poverty-stricken all one's life, to drop through the air
thirteen hundred feet in the company of over a million dollars.  I'm
perfectly certain of one thing, however: if it hadn't been for the
girl's presence of mind I should not have been here to-day.  As it was,
she saved my life, and, until she married, I never could be
sufficiently grateful to her."

"Only until she married!" said Lady Imogen, looking up from the novel
she was reading.  "How was it your gratitude did not last longer than
that?"

"Doesn't somebody say that gratitude is akin to love?" answered Foote,
with a chuckle.  "Of course I argued that, since she was foolish enough
to show her bad taste by marrying somebody else, it would scarcely have
become me to be grateful."

Browne glanced at Foote rather sharply.  What did he mean by talking of
life-saving on mountains, on this evening of all others?  Had he heard
anything?  But Jimmy's face was all innocence.

At that moment the dressing gong sounded, and every one rose,
preparatory to departing to their respective cabins.

"Where is Maas?" Browne inquired of Marsh, who was the last to leave.

"He is on deck, I think," replied the other; but as he spoke the
individual in question made his appearance down the companion-ladder,
carrying in his hand a pair of field-glasses.

For some reason or another, dinner that night was scarcely as
successful as usual.  The English mail had come in, and the Duchess had
had a worrying letter from the Duke, who had been commanded to Osborne
among the salt of the earth, when he wanted to be in the Highlands
among the grouse; Miss Verney had not yet recovered from what she
considered Browne's ill-treatment of herself that afternoon; while one
of the many kind friends of the American Ambassador had forwarded him
information concerning a debate in Congress, in order that he might see
in what sort of estimation he was held by a certain portion of his
fellow-countrymen.  Never a very talkative man, Browne this evening was
even more silent than usual.  The recollection of a certain pale face
and a pair of beautiful eyes haunted him continually.  Indeed, had it
not been for Barrington-Marsh and Jimmy Foote, who did their duty
manfully, the meal would have been a distinct failure as far as its
general liveliness was concerned.  As it was, no one was sorry when an
adjournment was made for coffee to the deck above.  Under the influence
of this gentle stimulant, however, and the wonderful quiet of the
fjord, things brightened somewhat.  But the improvement was not
maintained; the pauses gradually grew longer and more frequent, and
soon after ten o'clock the ladies succumbed to the general inertness,
and disappeared below.

According to custom, the majority of the men immediately adjourned to
the smoking-room for cards.  Browne, however, excused himself on the
plea that he was tired and preferred the cool.  Maas followed suit;
and, when the others had taken themselves off, the pair stood leaning
against the bulwarks, smoking and watching the lights of the village
ashore.

"I wonder how you and I would have turned out," said Maas quietly, when
they had been standing at the rails for some minutes, "if we had been
born and bred in this little village, and had never seen any sort of
life outside the Geiranger?"

"Without attempting to moralize, I don't doubt but that we should have
been better in many ways," Browne replied.  "I can assure you there are
times when I get sick to death of the inane existence we lead."

"_Leben heisst traeumen; weise sein heisst angenehm traeumen_," quoted
Maas, half to himself and half to his cigar.  "Schiller was not so very
far out after all."

"Excellent as far as the sentiment is concerned," said Browne, as he
flicked the ash off his cigar and watched it drop into the water
alongside.  "But, however desirous we may be of dreaming agreeably, our
world will still take good care that we wake up just at the moment when
we are most anxious to go on sleeping."

"In order that we may not be disillusioned, my friend," said Maas.
"The starving man dreams of City banquets, and wakes to the unpleasant
knowledge that it does not do to go to sleep on an empty stomach.  The
debtor imagines himself the possessor of millions, and wakes to find
the man-in-possession seated by his bedside.  But there is one cure;
and you should adopt it, my dear Browne."

"What is that?"

"Marriage, my friend!  Get yourself a wife and you will have no time to
think of such things.  Doesn't your Ben Jonson say that marriage is the
best state for a man in general?"

"Marriage!" retorted Browne scornfully.  "It always comes back to that.
I tell you I have come to hate the very sound of the word.  From the
way people talk you might think marriage is the pivot on which our
lives turn.  They never seem to realise that it is the rock upon which
we most of us go to pieces.  What is a London season but a monstrous
market, in which men and women are sold to the highest bidders,
irrespective of inclination or regard?  I tell you, Maas, the way these
things are managed in what we call English society borders on the
indecent.  Lord A. is rich; consequently a hundred mothers offer him
their daughters.  He may be what he pleases--an honourable man, or the
greatest blackguard at large upon the earth.  In nine cases out of ten
it makes little or no difference, provided, of course, he has a fine
establishment and the settlements are satisfactory.  At the
commencement of the season the girls are brought up to London, to be
tricked out, regardless of expense, by the fashionable dressmakers of
the day.  They are paraded here, there, and everywhere, like horses in
a dealer's yard; are warned off the men who have no money, but who
might very possibly make them happy; while they are ordered by the
'home authorities' to encourage those who have substantial bank
balances and nothing else to recommend them.  As the question of love
makes no sort of difference, it receives no consideration.  After their
friends have sent them expensive presents, which in most cases they
cannot afford to give, but do so in order that they may keep up
appearances with their neighbours and tradesmen, the happy couple stand
side by side before the altar at St. George's and take the most solemn
oath of their lives; that done, they spend their honeymoon in Egypt,
Switzerland, or the Riviera, where they are presented with ample
opportunity of growing tired of one another.  Returning to town, the
man usually goes back to his old life and the woman to hers.  The
result is a period of mutual distrust and deceit; an awakening follows,
and later on we have the _cause celebre_, and, holding up our hands in
horror, say, 'Dear me, how very shocking!'  In the face of all this, we
have the audacity to curl our lips and to call the French system
unnatural!"

"I am afraid, dear Browne, you are not quite yourself to-night," said
Maas, with a gentle little laugh, at the end of the other's harangue.
"The mistake of believing that a marriage, with money on the side of
the man and beauty on that of the woman, must irretrievably result in
misfortune is a very common one.  For my part, I am singular enough to
believe it may turn out as well if not better than any other."

"I wasn't aware that optimism was your strong point," retorted Browne.
"For my part I feel, after the quiet of this fjord, as if I could turn
my back on London and never go near it again."

He spoke with such earnestness that Maas, for once in his life, was
almost astonished.  He watched his companion as he lit another cigar.

"One thing is quite certain," he said at length, "your walk this
afternoon did you more harm than good.  The fog must have got into your
blood.  And yet, if you will not think me impertinent for saying so,
Miss Verney gave you a welcome such as many men would go through fire
and water to receive."

Browne grunted scornfully.  He was not going to discuss Miss Verney's
opinion of himself with his companion.  Accordingly he changed the
subject abruptly by inquiring whether Maas had made any plans for the
ensuing winter.

"I am a methodical man," replied the latter, with a smile at his
companion's naive handling of the situation, "and all my movements are
arranged some months ahead.  When this charming voyage is at an end,
and I have thanked you for your delightful hospitality, I shall hope to
spend a fortnight with our dear Duchess in the Midlands; after that I
am due in Paris for a week or ten days; then, like the swallow, I fly
south; shall dawdle along the Mediterranean for three or four months,
probably cross to Cairo, and then work my way slowly back to England in
time for the spring.  What do you propose doing?"

"Goodness knows," Browne replied lugubriously.  "At first I thought of
Rajputana; but I seem to have done, and to be tired of doing,
everything.  They tell me tigers are scarce in India.  This morning I
felt almost inclined to take a run out to the Cape and have three
months with the big game."

"You said as much in the smoking-room last night, I remember," Maas
replied.  "Pray, what has occurred since then to make you change your
mind?"

"I do not know, myself," said Browne.  "I feel restless and unsettled
to-night, that is all.  Do you think I should care for Russia?"

"For Russia?" cried his companion in complete surprise.  "What on earth
makes you think of Russia?"

Browne shook his head.

"It's a notion I have," he answered; though, for my own part, I am
certain that, until that moment, he had never thought of it.  "Do you
remember Demetrovitch, that handsome fellow with the enormous moustache
who stayed with me last year at Newmarket?"

"I remember him perfectly," Maas replied; and had Browne been watching
his face, instead of looking at the little hotel ashore, he would in
all probability have noticed that a peculiar smile played round the
corners of his mouth as he said it.  "But what has Demetrovitch to do
with your proposed trip to Russia?  I had an idea that he was ordered
by the Czar to spend two years upon his estates."

"Exactly! so he was.  That accounts for my notion.  He has often asked
me to pay him a visit.  Besides, I have never seen Petersburg in the
winter, and I'm told it's rather good fun."

"You will be bored to death," the other answered.  "If you go, I'll
give you a month in which to be back in England.  Now I think, with
your permission, I'll retire.  It's after eleven, and there's something
about these fjords that never fails to make me sleepy.  Good-night,
_mon cher ami_, and pleasant dreams to you."

Browne bade him good-night, and when the other disappeared into the
companion, returned to his contemplation of the shore.  The night was
so still that the ripple of the wavelets on the beach, half a mile or
so away, could be distinctly heard.  The men had left the smoking-room;
and save the solitary figure of the officer on the bridge, and a hand
forward by the cable range, Browne had the deck to himself.  And yet he
was not altogether alone, for his memory was still haunted by the
recollection of the same sweet face, with the dark, lustrous eyes, that
had been with him all the evening.  Do what he would, he could not
endow the adventure of the afternoon with the common-place air he had
tried to bestow upon it.  Something told him that it was destined to
play a more important part in his life's history than would at first
glance appear to be the case.  And yet he was far from being a
susceptible young man.  The training he had received would have been
sufficient to prevent that.  For upwards of an hour he remained where
he was, thinking and thinking, and yet never coming any nearer a
definite conclusion.  Then, throwing away what remained of his cigar,
he bestowed a final glance upon the shore, and went below to his cabin,
to dream, over and over again, of the adventure that had befallen him
that afternoon.

Whatever else may have been said of it, the weather next morning was
certainly not propitious; the mountains surrounding the bay were hidden
in thick mist, and rain was falling steadily.  After breakfast the male
portion of the party adjourned to the smoking-room, while the ladies
engaged themselves writing letters or with their novels in the
drawing-room below.

Browne alone seemed in good spirits.  While the others were railing at
the fog, and idly speculating as to whether it would clear, he seemed
to derive a considerable amount of satisfaction from it.  About ten
o'clock he announced his intention of going ashore, in order, he said,
that he might confer with a certain local authority regarding their
proposed departure for the south next day.  As a matter of politeness
he inquired whether any of his guests would accompany him, and received
an answer in the negative from all who happened to be in the
smoking-room at the time.  His valet accordingly brought him his
mackintosh, and he had put it on and was moving towards the gangway
when Maas made his appearance from the saloon companion.

"Is it possible you are going ashore?" he inquired in a tone of mild
surprise.  "If so, and you will have me, I will beg leave to accompany
you.  If I stay on board I shall go to sleep, and if I go to sleep I
shall wake up in a bad temper; so that, if you would save your guests
from that annoyance, I should advise you to take me with you."

Though Browne could very well have dispensed with his company, common
politeness prevented him from saying so.  Accordingly he expressed his
pleasure at the arrangement, and when they had descended the gangway
they took their places in the boat together.  For the first time during
the excursion, and also for the first time in the years they had known
each other, Browne felt inclined to quarrel with Maas; and yet there
was nothing in the other's behaviour towards him to which he could take
exception.

Maas could see that Browne was not himself, and he accordingly set
himself to remedy the trouble as far as lay in his power.  So well did
he succeed that by the time the boat reached the tiny landing-stage his
host was almost himself again.

"Now you must do just as you please," said Maas when they had landed.
"Do not consider me in the matter at all, I beg of you; I can amuse
myself very well.  Personally I feel inclined for a walk up the
mountain road."

"Do so, then, by all means," said his host, who was by no means sorry
to hear him arrive at this decision.  "If I were you, however, I should
stick to the road; these mists are not things to be taken lightly."

"I agree with you," said Maas.  Then, bidding the other good-bye, he
set off on his excursion.

Browne, who was conscientiousness itself, walked along the hillside to
the residence of the functionary whom he had professedly come ashore to
see, and when he had consulted him upon the point at issue, made his
way in the direction of the hotel.  Accosting the manager in the hall,
he inquired whether it would be possible to obtain an interview with
Madame Bernstein.

"Most certainly, sir," the man replied.  "If you will follow me I will
conduct you to her."

So saying, he led the way down the long wooden passage towards a room
at the further end.  Into this Browne was ushered, while the man
departed in search of the lady.  What occasioned the delay it is
impossible to say, but fully a quarter of an hour elapsed before madame
made her appearance.  She greeted him with a great appearance of
cordiality.  Taking his hands in hers, she held them while she thanked
him, in fluent French, for what she called his bravery on the preceding
afternoon.

"_Mon Dieu!_" said she.  "What should I have done had you not been
there to help her?  Had she been killed I should never have known
happiness again.  It was such a risk to run.  She is so reckless.  She
fills me with consternation whenever she goes out alone."

This was not at all what Browne had bargained for.  However, under the
circumstances, it would not only have been unwise, but practically
impossible, for him to protest.  You cannot save a young lady's life
and expect to escape her relatives' thanks, however much you may desire
to do so.  After these had been offered to him, however, he managed to
discover an opportunity of inquiring after her.

"The poor child is better this morning," Madame replied, solemnly
wagging her head.  "But, alas! it will be several days before she can
hope to put her foot to the ground.  She begged me, however, to thank
you, monsieur, should you call, for your goodness to her."

Try as he would to conceal it, there could be no sort of doubt that
Browne was pleased that she should have thought about him.  He begged
Madame Bernstein to inform her that he had called to inquire, and then
bade her good-bye.  He had hoped to have discovered something
concerning the girl's history; but as it was plain to him that Madame
was not one who would be easily induced to make disclosures, he
abandoned the attempt.

He had passed down the passage, and was in the act of leaving the
hotel, when a voice reached him from a room on the right which caused
him no little surprise.  At the same instant the door opened, and no
less a person than Maas stood before him.

"Why, my dear Browne, really this is most charming," he cried, with a
somewhat exaggerated enthusiasm.  "I had not the very least idea of
finding you here."

"Nor I of seeing you," Browne retorted.  "I understood that you were
going for a walk up the mountain."

"I did go," the other replied, "but the mist was so thick that I
changed my mind and came in here for a glass of Vermouth prior to going
on board.  Believe me, there is nothing like Vermouth for counteracting
the evil effects of fog.  Will you let me persuade you to try a glass?
What they have given me is excellent."

Browne thanked him, but declined.  He did not like finding the man in
the hotel; but as things were, he could not see that he had any right
to complain.  He only hoped that Maas knew nothing of his reason for
being there.  Conversant, however, as he was with his friend's
peculiarities, he felt certain he would say nothing about it to any
one, even supposing that he had discovered it.

Leaving the hotel together, they made their way down to the boat, and
in something less than a quarter of an hour were on board the yacht
once more.  The fog still continued, nor did it lift for the remainder
of the day.

On the following morning they had arranged to leave Merok for Aalsund,
and thence to turn south on their homeward journey.  Fortunately the
weather had cleared sufficiently by the time day dawned to admit of
their departure, and accordingly at the appointed hour, dipping her
ensign to the village in token of farewell, the yacht swung round and
headed for the pass under the Pulpit Rock.  Browne was on the bridge at
the time, and it was with a sensible feeling of regret that he bade
farewell to the little village nestling at the foot of the snow-capped
mountains.  Never did he remember having experienced such regret in
leaving a place before.  Whether he and Katherine Petrovitch would ever
meet again was more than he could tell; it seemed to him extremely
unlikely, and yet----  But at this juncture he shook his head very
wisely at the receding mountains, and told himself that that was a
question which only Fate could decide.




CHAPTER III

Six months had elapsed since the _Lotus Blossom_ had steamed out of the
Gieranger Fjord and its owner had taken his last look at the little
village of Merok.  During that interval Browne had endeavoured to amuse
himself to the best of his ability.  In spite of Maas's insinuation to
the contrary, he had visited Russia; had shot bears in the company and
on the estates of his friend Demetrovitch; had passed south to the
Crimea, and thence, by way of Constantinople, to Cairo, where, chancing
upon some friends who were wintering in the land of the Pharaohs, he
had been persuaded into engaging a _dahabiyeh_, and had endured the
tedious river journey to Luxor and back in the company of a charming
French countess, an Austrian archduke, a German diplomatist, and an
individual whose accomplishments were as notorious as his tastes were
varied.  A fortnight in Monte Carlo and a week in Paris had succeeded
the Nile trip; and now the first week in March found him, free of
engagements, ensconced in the luxurious smoking-room of the Monolith
Club in Pall Mall, an enormous cigar between his teeth, and a feeling
of regret in his heart that he had been persuaded to leave the warmth
and sunshine of the favoured South for what he was now enduring.  The
morning had been fairly bright, but the afternoon was cold, foggy, and
dreary in the extreme.  Even the most weather-wise among the men
standing at the windows, looking out upon the street, had to admit that
they did not know what to make of it.  It might only mean rain, they
said; it might also mean snow.  But that it was, and was going to be
still more, unpleasant, nobody seemed for an instant to doubt.  Browne
stretched himself in his chair beside the fire, and watched the flames
go roaring up the chimney, with an expression of weariness upon his
usually cheerful countenance.

"What a fool you were, my lad, to come back to this sort of thing!" he
said to himself.  "You might have known the sort of welcome you would
receive.  In Cannes the sun has been shining on the Boulevard de la
Croisette all day.  Here it is all darkness and detestation.  I've a
good mind to be off again to-night; this sort of thing would give the
happiest man the blues."

He was still pursuing this train of thought, when a hand was placed
upon his shoulder, and, turning round, he discovered Jimmy Foote
standing beside him.

"The very man I wanted to see," said Browne, springing to his feet and
holding out his hand.  "I give you my word, old fellow, you couldn't
have come at a more opportune moment.  I was in the act of setting off
to find you."

"My dear old chap," replied his friend, "that is my metier: I always
turn up at opportune moments, like the kind godmother in the fairy
tale.  What is it you want of me?"

"I want your company."

"There's nothing I'd give you more willingly," said Jimmy; "I'm tired
of it myself.  But seriously, what is the matter?"

"Look out of the window," Browne replied.  "Do you see that fog?"

"I've not only seen it, I have swallowed several yards of it," Foote
answered.  "I've been to tea with the Verneys in Arlington Street, and
I've fairly had to eat my way here.  But why should the weather
irritate you?  If you're idiot enough to come back from Cairo to London
in March, I don't see that you've any right to complain.  I only wish
Fate had blessed me with the same chance of getting away."

"If she had, where would you go and what would you do?"

"I'd go anywhere and do anything.  You may take it from me that the
Bard was not very far out when he said that if money goes before, all
ways lie open."

"If that's all you want, we'll very soon send it before.  Look here,
Jimmy; you've nothing to do, and I've less.  What do you say to going
off somewhere?  What's your fancy--Paris, south of France, Egypt,
Algiers?  One place is like another to me."

"I don't want anything better than Algiers," said Jimmy.  "Provided we
go by sea, I am your obedient and humble servant to command."

Then, waving his hand towards the gloom outside, he added: "Fog, Rain,
Sleet, and Snow, my luck triumphs, and I defy ye!"

"That's settled, then," said Browne, rising and standing before the
fire.  "I'll wire to Mason to have the yacht ready at Plymouth
to-morrow evening.  I should advise you to bring something warm with
you, for we are certain to find it cold going down Channel and crossing
the Bay at this time of the year.  In a week, however, we shall be
enjoying warm weather once more.  Now I must be getting along.  You
don't happen to be coming my way, I suppose?"

"My dear fellow," said Jimmy, buttoning up his coat and putting on his
hat as he spoke, "my way is always your way.  Are you going to walk or
will you cab it?"

"Walk," Browne replied.  "This is not the sort of weather to ride in
hansoms.  If you are ready, come along."

The two young men passed out of the club and along Pall Mall together.
Turning up Waterloo Place, they proceeded in the direction of
Piccadilly.  The fog was thicker there than elsewhere, and every shop
window was brilliantly illuminated in order to display the wares within.

"Oh, by the way, Browne, I've got something to show you," said Foote,
as they passed over the crossing of Charles Street.  "It may interest
you."

"What is it?" asked Browne.  "A new cigarette or something more
atrocious than usual in the way of ties?"

"Better than that," returned his companion, and as he spoke he led his
friend towards a picture-shop, in the window of which were displayed a
number of works of art.  Occupying a prominent position in the centre
was a large water-colour, and as Browne glanced at it his heart gave a
leap in his breast.  It was a view of Merok taken from the spot where
he had rescued Katherine Petrovitch from death upwards of seven months
before.  It was a clever bit of work, and treated in an entirely
unconventional fashion.

"It's not by any means bad, is it?" said Foote, after Browne had been
looking at it in silence for more than a minute.  "If I had the
money----  But I say, old chap, what is the matter?  You are as pale as
if you had seen a ghost.  Don't you feel well?"

"Perfectly well," his friend replied; "it's the fog."

He did not say that in the corner of the picture he had seen the
artist's name, and that that name was the one he had cherished so
fondly and for so long a time.

"Just excuse me for a moment, will you?" he said.  "I should like to go
into the shop and ask a question about that picture."

"All right," said Jimmy.  "I'll wait here."

Browne accordingly disappeared inside, leaving Foote on the pavement.
As it happened, it was a shop he often visited, and in consequence he
was well known to the assistants.  When he made his business known to
them, the picture was withdrawn from the window and placed before him.

"An excellent bit of work, as you can see for yourself, sir," said the
shopman, as he pulled down the electric light and turned it upon the
picture.  "The young lady who painted it is fast making a name for
herself.  So far this is the first bit of her work we have had in
London; but the Continental dealers assure me they find a ready market
for it."

"I can quite believe it," said Browne.  "It is an exceedingly pretty
sketch.  You may send it round to me."

"Very good, sir; thank you.  Perhaps you will allow me to show you one
or two others while you are here?  We have several new works since you
paid us a visit last."

"No, thank you," Browne replied.  "I only came in to find out whether
you could tell me the address of the young lady who painted this.  She
and I met in Norway some months ago."

"Indeed, sir, I had no idea when I spoke, that you were acquainted.
Perhaps you know that she is in London at the present moment.  She
honoured me by visiting my shop this morning."

"Indeed," said Browne.  "In that case you might let me know where I can
find her."

"I will do so at once," the man replied.  "If you will excuse me for a
moment I will have it written out for you."

He disappeared forthwith into an office at the end of the shop, leaving
Browne staring at the picture as if he could not take his eyes off it.
So engaged was he with the thoughts it conjured up that he quite forgot
the fact that he was standing in a shop in London with hansoms and
'buses rolling by outside.  In spirit he was on the steep side of a
Norwegian mountain, surrounded by fog and rain, endeavouring to
discover from what direction a certain cry for help proceeded.  Then
the fog rolled away, and, looking up at him, he saw what he now knew to
be the sweetest and most womanly face upon which he had ever gazed.  He
was still wrapped in this day-dream when the shopman returned, and
roused him by placing on the counter before him an envelope upon which
was written:--

  Miss KATHERINE PETROVITCH.
  43, _German Park Road, West._


"That is it, sir," said the man.  "If it would be any convenience to
you, sir, it will give me the greatest pleasure to write to the young
lady, and to tell her that you have purchased her picture and would
like her to call upon you."

"I must beg of you not to do anything of the kind," Browne replied,
with the most impressive earnestness.  "I must make it a condition of
my purchase that you do not mention my name to her in any way."

The shopman looked a little crestfallen.  "Very good, sir; since you do
not wish it, of course I will be sure not to do so," he answered
humbly.  "I thought perhaps, having purchased an example of her work,
and being such a well-known patron of art, you might be anxious to help
the young lady."

"What do you mean by helping her?" inquired Browne.  "Do you think she
needs assistance?"

"Well, sir, between ourselves," returned the other, "I do not fancy she
is very well off.  She was in a great hurry, at any rate, to sell this
picture."

Browne winced; it hurt him to think that the girl had perhaps been
compelled to haggle with this man in order to obtain the mere
necessaries of life.  He, however, thanked the man for his courtesy,
and bidding him send the picture to his residence as soon as possible,
left the shop and joined Foote on the pavement outside.

"Well, I hope you have been long enough," remarked that gentleman in an
injured tone, as they proceeded up the street together.  "Have you
purchased everything in the shop?"

"Don't be nasty, Jimmy," said Browne, with sudden joviality.  "It
doesn't suit you.  You are the jolliest little fellow in the world when
you are in a good temper; but when you are not--well, words fail me."

"Don't walk me off my legs, confound you!" said Jimmy snappishly.  "The
night is but young, and we're not performing pedestrians, whatever you
may think."

Browne was not aware that he was walking faster than usual, but he
slowed down on being remonstrated with.  Then he commenced to whistle
softly to himself.

"Now you are whistling," said Jimmy, "which is a thing, as you are well
aware, that I detest in the street.  What on earth is the matter with
you to-night?  Ten minutes ago you were as glum as they make 'em;
nothing suited you.  Then you went into that shop and bought that
picture, and since you came out you seem bent on making a public
exhibition of yourself."

"So I am," said Browne; and then, suddenly stopping in his walk, he
rapped with the ferrule of his umbrella on the pavement.  "I am going
to give an exhibition, and a dashed good one, too.  I'll take one of
the galleries, and do it in a proper style.  I'll have the critics
there, and all the swells who buy; and if they don't do as I want, and
declare it to be the very finest show of the year, I'll never buy one
of their works again."  Then, taking his friend's arm, he continued his
walk, saying, "What you want, Jimmy, my boy, is a proper appreciation
of art.  There is nothing like it in the world, take my word for it.
Nothing!  Nothing at all!"

"You've said that before," retorted his friend, "and you said it with
sufficient emphasis to amuse the whole street.  If you're going to give
me an exposition of art in Regent Street on a foggy afternoon in March,
I tell you flatly I'm going home.  I am not a millionaire, and my
character won't stand the strain.  What's the matter with you, Browne?
You're as jolly as a sandboy now, and, for the life of me, I don't see
how a chap can be happy in a fog like this and still retain his reason."

"Fog, my boy," continued Browne, still displaying the greatest good
humour.  "I give you my word, there's nothing like a fog in the world.
I adore it!  I revel in it!  Talk about your south of France and
sunshine--what is it to London and a fog?  A fog did me a very good
turn once, and now I'm hanged if another isn't going to do it again.
You're a dear little chap, Jimmy, and I wouldn't wish for a better
companion.  But there's no use shutting your eyes to one fact, and that
is you're not sympathetic.  You want educating, and when I've a week or
two to spare I'll do it.  Now I'm going to leave you to think out what
I've said.  I've just remembered a most important engagement.  Let me
find a decent hansom and I'll be off."

"I thought you said just now this was not the weather for driving in
hansoms?  I thought you said you had nothing to do, and that you were
going to employ yourself entertaining me?  John Grantham Browne, I tell
you what it is, you're going in that hansom to a lunatic asylum."

"Better than that, my boy," said Browne, with a laugh, as the cab drew
up at the pavement and he sprang in.  "Far better than that."  Then,
looking up through the trap in the roof at the driver, he added
solemnly: "Cabby, drive me to 43, German Park Road, as fast as your
horse can go."

"But, hold on," said Foote, holding up his umbrella to detain him.
"Before you do go, what about to-morrow?  What train shall we catch?
And have you sent the wire to your skipper to have the yacht in
readiness?"

"Bother to-morrow," answered Browne.  "There is no to-morrow, there are
no trains, there is no skipper, and most certainly there is no yacht.
I've forgotten them and everything else.  Drive on, cabby.  Bye-bye,
Jimmy."

The cab disappeared in the fog, leaving Mr. Foote standing before the
portico of the Criterion looking after it.

"My friend Browne is either mad or in love," said that astonished
individual as the vehicle disappeared in the traffic.  "I don't know
which to think.  He's quite unnerved me.  I think I'll go in here and
try a glass of dry sherry just to pull myself together.  What an idiot
I was not to find out who painted that picture!  But that's just like
me; I never think of things until too late."

When he had finished his sherry he lit a cigarette, and presently found
himself making his way towards his rooms in Jermyn Street.  As he
walked he shook his head solemnly.  "I don't like the look of things at
all," he said.  "I said a lunatic asylum just now; I should have
mentioned a worse place--'St. George's, Hanover Square.'  One thing,
however, is quite certain.  If I know anything of signs, Algiers will
not have the pleasure of entertaining me."




CHAPTER IV

While Foote was cogitating in this way, Browne's cab was rolling along
westward.  He passed Apsley House and the Park, and dodged his way in
and out of the traffic through Kensington Gore and the High Street.  By
the time they reached the turning into the Melbury Road he was in the
highest state of good humour, not only with himself but the world in
general.

When, however, they had passed the cab-stand, and had turned into the
narrow street which was his destination, all his confidence vanished,
and he became as nervous as a weak-minded school-girl.  At last the
cabman stopped and addressed his fare.

"The fog's so precious thick hereabouts, sir," he said, "that I'm blest
if I can see the houses, much less the numbers.  Forty-three may be
here, or it may be down at the other end.  If you like I'll get down
and look."

"You needn't do that," said Browne.  "I'll find it for myself."

It may have been his nervousness that induced him to do such a
thing--on that point I cannot speak with authority--but it is quite
certain that when he did get down he handed the driver
half-a-sovereign.  With the characteristic honesty of the London
cabman, the man informed him of the fact, at the same time remarking
that he could not give him change.

"Never mind the change," said Browne; adding, with fine cynicism, "Put
it into the first charity-box you come across."

The man laughed, and with a hearty "Thank ye, sir; good-night," turned
his horse and disappeared.

"Now for No. 43," said Browne.

But though he appeared to be so confident of finding it, it soon
transpired that the house was more difficult to discover than he
imagined.  He wandered up one pavement and down the other in search of
it.  When he did come across it, it proved to be a picturesque little
building standing back from the street, and boasted a small garden in
front.  The door was placed at the side.  He approached it and rang the
bell.  A moment later he found himself standing face to face with the
girl he had rescued on the Gieranger Fjord seven months before.  It may
possibly have been due to the fact that when she had last seen him he
had been dressed after the fashion of the average well-to-do tourist,
and that now he wore a top-hat and a great coat; it is quite certain,
however, that for the moment she did not recognise him.

"I am afraid you do not know me," said Browne, with a humility that was
by no means usual with him.  But before he had finished speaking she
had uttered a little exclamation of astonishment, and, as the young man
afterwards flattered himself, of pleasure.

"Mr. Browne!" she cried.  "I beg your pardon, indeed, for not
recognising you.  You must think me very rude; but I had no idea of
seeing you here."

"I only learnt your address an hour ago," the young man replied.  "I
could not resist the opportunity of calling on you."

"But I am so unknown in London," she answered.  "How could you possibly
have heard of me!  I thought myself so insignificant that my presence
in this great city would not be known to any one."

"You are too modest," said Browne, with a solemnity that would not have
discredited a State secret.  Then he made haste to add, "I cannot tell
you how often I have thought of that terrible afternoon."

"As you may suppose, I have never forgotten it," she answered.  "It is
scarcely likely I should."

There was a little pause; then she added, "But I don't know why I
should keep you standing out here like this.  Will you not come in?"

Browne was only too glad to do so.  He accordingly followed her into
the large and luxuriously furnished studio.

"Won't you sit down?" she said, pointing to a chair by the fire.  "It
is so cold and foggy outside that perhaps you would like a cup of tea."

Tea was a beverage in which Browne never indulged, and yet, on this
occasion, so little was he responsible for his actions that he
acquiesced without a second thought.

"How do you prefer it?" she asked.  "Will you have it made in the
English or the Russian way?  Here is a teapot, and here a samovar; here
is milk, and here a slice of lemon.  Which do you prefer?"

Scarcely knowing which he chose, Browne answered that he would take it
_a la Russe_.  She thereupon set to work, and the young man, as he
watched her bending over the table, thought he had never in his life
before seen so beautiful and so desirable a woman.  And yet, had a
female critic been present, it is quite possible--nay, it is almost
probable that more than one hole might have been picked in her
appearance.  Her skirt--in order to show my knowledge of the
technicalities of woman's attire--was of plain merino, and she also
wore a painting blouse that, like Joseph's coat, was of many colours.
To go further, a detractor would probably have observed that her hair
might have been better arranged.  Browne, however, thought her
perfection in every respect, and drank his tea in a whirl of
enchantment.  He found an inexplicable fascination in the mere swish of
her skirts as she moved about the room, and a pleasure that he had
never known before in the movement of her slender hands above the tray.
And when, their tea finished, she brought him a case of cigarettes, and
bade him smoke if he cared to, it might very well have been said that
that studio contained the happiest man in England.  Outside, they could
hear the steady patter of the rain, and the rattle of traffic reached
them from the High Street; but inside there was a silence of a
Norwegian fjord, and the memory of one hour that never could be effaced
from their recollections as long as they both should live.  Under the
influence of the tea, and with the assistance of the cigarette, which
she insisted he should smoke, Browne gradually recovered his presence
of mind.  One thing, however, puzzled him.  He remembered what the
shopman had told him, and for this reason he could not understand how
she came to be the possessor of so comfortable a studio.  This,
however, was soon explained.  The girl informed him that after his
departure from Merok (though I feel sure she was not aware that he was
the owner of the magnificent vessel she had seen in the harbour) she
had been unable to move for upwards of a week.  After that she and her
companion, Madame Bernstein, had left for Christiania, travelling
thence to Copenhagen, and afterwards to Berlin.  In the latter city she
had met an English woman, also an artist.  They had struck up a
friendship, with the result that the lady in question, having made up
her mind to winter in Venice, had offered her the free use of her
London studio for that time, if she cared to cross the Channel and take
possession of it.

"Accordingly, in the daytime, I paint here," said the girl; "but Madame
Bernstein and I have our lodgings in the Warwick Road.  I hope you did
not think this was my studio; I should not like to sail under false
colours."

Browne felt that he would have liked to give her the finest studio that
ever artist had used a brush and pencil in.  He was wise enough,
however, not to say so.  He changed the conversation, therefore, by
informing her that he had wintered in Petersburg, remarking at the same
time that he had hoped to have had the pleasure of meeting her there.

"You will never meet me in Petersburg," she answered, her face changing
colour as she spoke.  "You do not know, perhaps, why I say this.  But I
assure you, you will never meet me or mine within the Czar's dominions."

Browne would have given all he possessed in the world not to have given
utterance to that foolish speech.  He apologised immediately, and with
a sincerity that made her at once take pity on him.

"Please do not feel so sorry for what you said," she replied.  "It was
impossible for you to know that you had transgressed.  The truth is, my
family are supposed to be very dangerous persons.  I do not think, with
one exception, we are more so than our neighbours; but, as the law now
stands, we are prohibited.  Whether it will ever be different I cannot
say.  That is enough, however, about myself.  Let us talk of something
else."

She had seated herself in a low chair opposite him, with her elbows on
her knees and her chin resting on her hand.  Browne glanced at her, and
remembered that he had once carried her in his arms for upwards of a
mile.  At this thought such a thrill went through him that his teacup,
which he had placed on a table beside him, trembled in its saucer.
Unable to trust himself any further in that direction, he talked of
London, of the weather, of anything that occurred to him; curiously
enough, however, he did not mention his proposed departure for the
Mediterranean on the morrow.  In his heart he had an uneasy feeling
that he had no right to be where he was.  But when he thought of the
foggy street outside, and realised how comfortable this room was, with
its easy chairs, its polished floor, on which the firelight danced and
played, to say nothing of the girl seated opposite him, he could not
summon up sufficient courage to say good-bye.

"How strange it seems," she said at last--"does it not?--that you and I
should be sitting here like this!  I had no idea, when we bade each
other good-bye in Norway, that we should ever meet again."

"I felt certain of it," Browne replied, but he failed to add why he was
so sure.  "Is it settled how long you remain in England?"

"I do not think so," she answered.  "We may be here some weeks; we may
be only a few days.  It all depends upon Madame Bernstein."

"Upon Madame Bernstein?" he said, with some surprise.

"Yes," she answered; "she makes our arrangements.  You have no idea how
busy she is."

Browne certainly had no idea upon that point, and up to that moment he
was not sure that he was at all interested; now, however, since it
appeared that madame controlled the girl's movements, she became a
matter of overwhelming importance to him.

For more than an hour they continued to chat; then Browne rose to bid
her good-bye.

"Would you think me intrusive if I were to call upon you again?" he
asked as he took her hand.

"Do so by all means, if you like," she answered, with charming
frankness.  "I shall be very glad to see you."

Then an idea occurred to him--an idea so magnificent, so delightful,
that it almost took his breath away.

"Would you think me impertinent if I inquired how you and Madame
Bernstein amuse yourselves in the evenings?  Have you been to any
theatres or to the opera?"

The girl shook her head.  "I have never been inside a theatre in
London," she replied.

"Then perhaps I might be able to persuade you to let me take you to
one," he answered.  "I might write to Madame Bernstein and arrange an
evening.  Would she care about it, do you think?"

"I am sure she would," she answered.  "And I know that I should enjoy
it immensely.  It is very kind of you to ask us."

"It is very kind of you to promise to come," he said gratefully.  "Then
I will arrange it for to-morrow night if possible.  Good-bye."

"Good-bye," she answered, and held out her little hand to him for the
second time.

When the front door had closed behind him and he was fairly out in the
foggy street once more, Browne set off along the pavement on his return
journey, swinging his umbrella and whistling like a schoolboy.  To a
crusty old bachelor his state of mind would have appeared inexplicable.
There was no sort of doubt about it, however, that he was happy; he
walked as if he were treading on air.  It was a good suggestion, that
one about the theatre, he said to himself, and he would take care that
they enjoyed themselves.  He would endeavour to obtain the best box at
the opera; they were playing _Lohengrin_ at the time, he remembered.
He would send one of his own carriages to meet them, and it should take
them home again.  Then a still more brilliant idea occurred to him.
Why should he not arrange a nice little dinner at some restaurant
first?  Not one of your flash dining-places but a quiet, comfortable
little place--Lallemand's, for instance, where the cooking is
irreproachable, the wine and waiting faultless, and the company who
frequent it beyond suspicion.  And yet another notion, and as it
occurred to him he laughed aloud in the public street.

"There will be three of us," he said, "and the chaperon will need an
escort.  By Jove!  Jimmy called me mad, did he?  Well, I'll be revenged
on him.  _He shall sit beside Madame Bernstein_."




CHAPTER V

If Browne had ever looked forward to anything in his life, he did to
the dinner-party he had arranged for the evening following his visit to
the studio in the German Park Road.  On more than one occasion he had
entertained royalty at his house in Park Lane, and at various times he
had invited London society to functions which, for magnificence and
completeness, had scarcely ever been equalled and never excelled.  Upon
none of these affairs, however, had he bestowed half so much care and
attention as he did upon the dinner which it is now my duty to
describe.  Having written the formal invitation, he posted it himself;
after which he drove to the restaurant which was to be honoured with
Katherine Petrovitch's presence, and interviewed the proprietor in his
own sanctum.

"Remember, Alphonse," he said to that delightful little man, "good as
the others have been, this must be the very best dinner you have ever
arranged for me.  It must not be long, nor must it be in the least
degree heavy.  You know my taste in wine, and I give you _carte
blanche_ to ransack London for what you consider necessary in the way
of rarities.  Reserve 'No. 6' for me, if it is not already engaged; and
make it look as nice as you possibly can.  I will send the flowers from
my house, and my own man shall arrange them."

Alphonse chuckled and rubbed his hands.  This was just the sort of
order he delighted to receive.

"Ver' good; it shall be done, M'sieu Browne," he said, bowing and
spreading his hands apart in his customary fashion when pleased.  "I
have made you many, many dinners before, but I give you the word of
Alphonse that this shall be the best of all.  _Ma foi!_ but I will give
you a dinner zat for its betterment you cannot get in England.  Ze cost
I will----"

"Never mind the cost," answered the reckless young man; "remember, it
must be the best in every way.  Nothing short of that will do."

"I will satisfy you, m'sieu; never fear that.  It is my honour.
Perhaps it is royalty zat you have to come to my house?"

"It is nothing of the sort," Browne replied scornfully.  "I am asking
two ladies and one gentleman."

Alphonse's face expressed his surprise.  It looked as if his beautiful
dinner was likely to be wasted.

Having arranged the hour and certain other minor details, Browne
returned to his cab once more, and drove off in search of Jimmy Foote.
It was some time before he found him, and, when he did, a considerable
period elapsed before he could obtain speech with him.  Jimmy was at
the Welter Club, playing black pool with two or three youths of his own
type.  From the manner in which their silver was changing hands, it
certainly looked as if that accomplished young gentleman was finding
his time very fully taken up, picking half-crowns off the rim of the
table, placing them in his pocket, and paying them out again.

"Hullo, Browne!" said Bellingham of the Blues, after the black ball had
disappeared into the top pocket and while the marker was spotting it
again.  "Are you coming in?"

"Not if I know it," said Browne, shaking his head.  "Judging from the
anxious expression upon Jimmy's face, things are getting a little too
hot with you all."

At the end of the next round, the latter retired from the game, and,
putting his arm through that of his friend, led him to the smoking-room
on the other side of the hall.

"I hope you have calmed down, old fellow," said Jimmy as they seated
themselves near the fire.  "To what do I owe the honour of seeing you
here to-night?"

"I want you to do me a favour," Browne returned, a little nervously,
for he was afraid of what Jimmy would say when he knew everything.

"Anything you like in the world, old man," said the latter.  "You have
only to ask.  There is nothing wrong, I hope?"

"Nothing at all," replied Browne.  "Rather the other way round, I
fancy.  The fact of the matter is, I have asked two ladies to dine with
me to-morrow evening at Lallemand's, and to go to the Opera afterwards.
I want you to make one of the party."

"The young lady is the painter of that charming Norwegian picture,"
said Jimmy, with imperturbable gravity, "and the other is her chaperon."

"How on earth did you know it?" asked Browne, blushing like a
schoolboy, for the simple reason that he thought his secret was
discovered.

"It's very plain that you never knew I was a wizard," returned his
companion, with a laugh.  "You old duffer; put two and two together for
yourself--that is to say, if you have any brains left to do it with.
In the first place, did you not yesterday afternoon invite me to
accompany you on a delightful yachting trip to the Mediterranean?  You
were tired of England, you said, and I gathered from your remarks that
you were counting the hours until you could say 'good-bye' to her.  We
went for a walk, and as we passed up Waterloo Place I happened to show
you a picture.  You turned as white as a sheet at once, and immediately
dived into the shop, bidding me wait outside.  When you reappeared you
acted the part of an amiable lunatic; talked a lot of bosh about
preferring fogs to sunshine; and when I informed you that you were on
the high-road to an asylum, said it was better than that--you were
going to the German Park Road.  Our yachting cruise has been thrown to
the winds; and now, to make up for it, you have the impudence to ask me
to play gooseberry for you, and try to propitiate me with one of
Lallemand's dinners, which invariably upset me for a week, and a dose
of Wagner which will drive me crazy for a month."

"How do you know I want you to play gooseberry?" asked Browne savagely.
"It's like your impudence to say such a thing."

"How do I know anything?" said Jimmy, with delightful calmness.  "Why,
by the exercise of my own common-sense, of course--a commodity you will
never possess if you go on like this.  You are spoons on this girl, I
suppose, and since there's another coming with her, it's pretty plain
to me somebody must be there to keep that other out of the way."

"You grow very coarse," retorted Browne, now thoroughly on his dignity.

"It's a coarse age, they say," Foote replied.  "Don't I know by
experience exactly what that second party will be like!"

"If you do you are very clever," said Browne.

"One has to be clever to keep pace with the times," Jimmy replied.
"But, seriously, old man, if you want me, I shall be only too glad to
come to your dinner; but, mind, I take no responsibility for what
happens.  I am not going to be called to account by every London mother
who possesses a marriageable daughter."

"You needn't be afraid," said Browne.  "I will absolve you from all
responsibility.  At any rate you assure me that I can depend upon you?"

"Of course you can, and anything else you like besides," Foote replied.
Then, laying his hand upon Browne's shoulder, he added: "My dear old
Jack, in spite of our long acquaintance, I don't think you quite know
me yet.  I talk a lot of nonsense, I'm afraid; but as far as you are
concerned you may depend the heart's in the right place.  Now I come to
think of it, I am not quite certain it would not be better for you to
be decently married and out of harm's way.  Of course, one doesn't like
to see one's pals hurried off like that; but in your case it's
different."

"My dear fellow," said Browne, "as you said just now, you certainly do
talk a lot of nonsense.  Whoever said anything about marriage?  Of
course I'm not going to be married.  I have never contemplated such a
thing.  It's always the way; directly a man shows a little extra
courtesy to a woman, talks to her five minutes longer than he is
accustomed to do, perhaps, or dances with her twice running, you
immediately get the idea that everything is settled between them, and
that all you have to do is to wonder what sort of wedding present you
ought to give them."

"When a man gives himself away as completely as you have done in this
particular instance, it is not to be wondered that his friends think
there is something in the air," said Jimmy.  "However, you know your
own business best.  What time is the dinner?"

"Seven o'clock sharp," said Browne.  "You had better meet me there a
few minutes before.  Don't forget we go to the Opera afterwards."

"I am not likely to forget it," said Jimmy, with a doleful face.

"Very well, good-bye until to-morrow evening."

There was a little pause, and then Browne held out his hand.

"Thank you, Jimmy," he said with a sincerity that was quite
inconsistent with the apparent importance of the subject.  "I felt sure
I could rely upon you."

"Rely upon me always," Jimmy replied.  "I don't think you'll find me
wanting."

With that Browne bade him good-bye, and went out into the street.  He
hailed a cab, and bade the man drive him to Park Lane.

Once it had started, he laid himself back on the cushions and gave free
rein to his thoughts.  Though he had to all intents and purposes denied
it a few minutes before, there could be no doubt that he was in
love--head over ears in love.  He had had many passing fancies before,
it is true, but never had he experienced such a strong attack of the
fever as at present.  As the cab passed along the crowded street he
seemed to see that sweet face, with its dark eyes and hair; that
slender figure, and those beautiful white hands, with their long
tapering fingers; and to hear again the soft tones of Katherine's voice
as she had spoken to him in the studio that afternoon.  She was a queen
among women, he told himself, and was worthy to be loved as such.  But
if she were so beautiful and so desirable, could she be induced to have
anything to do with himself?  Could she ever be brought to love him?
It was consistent with the man's character to be so humble, and yet it
was strange that he should have been so.  Ever since he had been
eligible for matrimony he had been the especial prey of mothers with
marriageable daughters.  They had fawned upon him, had petted him, and
in every way had endeavoured to effect his capture.  Whether or not
Katherine Petrovitch knew of his wealth it was impossible for him to
say.  He hoped she did not.  It was his ambition in life to be loved,
and be loved for himself alone.  If she would trust him, he would
devote his whole life to making her happy, and to proving how well
founded was the faith she had reposed in him.  Vitally important as the
question was, I believe he had never for one moment doubted her.  His
nature was too open for that, while she herself, like Caesar's wife, was
of course above suspicion.  The fact that she had confessed to him that
her family was prohibited in Russia only served to intensify his
admiration for her truthful qualities.  Though he knew nothing of her
history or antecedents, it never for one moment caused him any
uneasiness.  He loved her for herself, not for her family.  When he
went to bed that night he dreamt of her, and when he rose in the
morning he was, if possible, more in love than before.  Fully occupied
as his day usually was, on this occasion he found it more than
difficult to pass the time.  He counted the hours--nay, almost the
minutes--until it should be possible for him to set off to the
restaurant.  By the midday post a charming little note arrived, signed
Katherine Petrovitch.  Browne was in his study when it was brought to
him, and it was with the greatest difficulty he could contain his
impatience until the butler had left the room.  The instant he had done
so, however, he tore open the envelope and drew out the contents.  The
writing was quaint and quite un-English, but its peculiarities only
served to make it the more charming.  It would give Madame Bernstein
and the writer, it said, much pleasure to dine with him that evening.
He read and re-read it, finding a fresh pleasure in it on each
occasion.  It carried with it a faint scent which was as intoxicating
as the perfume of the Lotus Blossom.

Had the beautiful Miss Verney, who, it must be confessed, had more than
once written him letters of the most confidential description, guessed
for a single moment that he preferred the tiny sheet he carried in his
coat-pocket to her own epistles, it is certain her feelings would have
been painful in the extreme.  The fact remains, however, that Browne
preserved the letter, and, if I know anything of human nature, he has
it still.




CHAPTER VI

The dinner that evening must be counted a distinct success.  Browne was
the first to arrive at the rendezvous, and it was not wonderful that he
should have been, considering that he had spent the whole of his day
waiting for that moment.  The owner of the restaurant received him
personally.

"Well, Lallemand," said Browne, with an anxiety that was almost
ludicrous, "how are your preparations?  Is everything ready?"

"Certainly, monsieur," Lallemand replied, spreading his hands apart.
"Everything is ready; Felix himself has done ze cooking, I have chosen
ze wine, and your own gardener has arranged ze flowers.  You have ze
best men-servants in London to wait upon you.  I have procured you four
kinds of fruit that has only a few times been seen in England before;
and now I give you ze word of Lallemand zat you will have ze most
perfect little dinner in ze city of London."

"I am glad to hear it," said Browne.  "I am exceedingly obliged to you
for the trouble you have taken in the matter."

"I beg you will not mention ze trouble, monsieur," replied Lallemand
politely.  "It is ze pleasure of my life to serve you."

He had scarcely spoken before a cab drew up before the door, and Jimmy
Foote made his appearance, clad in immaculate evening-dress.  He
greeted Browne with a somewhat sheepish air, as if he were ashamed of
himself for something, and did not quite know what that something was.

"Well, old man," he said.  "Here I am, you see; up to time, I hope.
How d'ye do, Lallemand?"

"I hope you are most well, Monsieur Foote," replied Lallemand, with one
of his inimitable bows.

"I am better than I shall be after your dinner," Foote replied, with a
smile.  "Human nature is weak.  I am tempted, and I know that I shall
fall."

Browne all this time was showing signs of impatience.  He glanced
repeatedly at his watch, and as seven o'clock drew near he imagined
that every vehicle pulling up outside must contain the two ladies for
whom he was waiting so eagerly.  When at last they did arrive he
hastened to the door to greet them.  Madame Bernstein was the first to
alight, and Katherine Petrovitch followed her a moment later.  She gave
her hand to Browne, and as he took it such a thrill went through him
that it was wonderful the young man did not collapse upon the pavement.

Having conducted them to the room in which they were to take off their
wraps, Browne went in search of Foote, whom he found in the dining-room.

"Pull yourself together, old chap," said Jimmy as he glanced at him;
"you are all on the jump.  What on earth is the matter with you?  Take
my advice and try a pick-me-up."

"I wouldn't touch a drop for worlds," said Browne, with righteous
indignation.  "I wonder you can suggest such a thing."

Instead, he went to the table and moved a flower-vase which was an
eighth of an inch from the centrepiece farther than its companion on
the other side.

"This is as bad a case as I ever remember," said Foote to himself; and
at the same moment Katherine Petrovitch and Madame Bernstein entered
the room.  A somewhat painful surprise was in store for Browne.  There
could be no doubt about one thing: Madame Bernstein had dressed herself
with due regard to the importance of the occasion.  Her gown was of
bright ruby velvet; her arms were entirely bare; and while her bodice
was supported by the most slender of shoulder-straps, it was cut
considerably lower than most people would have considered compatible
with either her age or her somewhat portly appearance.  Round her neck
and studded in her hair were many diamonds, all so palpably false as to
create no suspicion of the means by which she had obtained them.  Her
companion's costume, on the other hand, was simplicity itself.  She was
attired in black, unrelieved by any touch of colour; a plain band of
velvet encircled her throat, and Browne confessed to himself afterwards
that he had never in his life seen anything more becoming.  He
presented Foote to the ladies with due ceremony; and when their places
had been allotted them they sat down to dinner, madame on Browne's
right, Katherine on his left.

Despite the knowledge that the dinner had been prepared by one of the
most admirable _chefs_ in the world, and the fact that Lallemand
himself had given his assurance that everything was satisfactory,
Browne was nevertheless exercised in his mind lest anything should go
wrong.  He might have spared himself the anxiety, however, for the
dinner was perfection itself.  One other thing troubled him, and that
was that the person he was most anxious to please scarcely touched
anything.  But if she did not, Madame Bernstein made ample amends for
her.  She allowed no dish to pass her untasted; the connoisseur was
apparent in her appreciation of the wines, while her praise of the
cooking was volubility itself.  From what he had seen of her, Browne
had been prepared to dislike her intensely; to his surprise, however,
he discovered that she improved on acquaintance.  Seemingly, she had
been everywhere and had seen everything; in her youth she had known
Garibaldi personally, had met Kossuth, and been brought into contact
with many other European liberators.  For this reason alone her
conversation could scarcely have failed to prove interesting.
Katherine, on the other hand, was strangely quiet.

The dinner at an end, the ladies withdrew to put on their cloaks; and
while they were absent Browne ascertained that his carriage was at the
door.  In it they drove to Covent Garden.  The box was on the prompt
side of the house, and was the best that influence and money could
secure.  Madame Bernstein and Katherine Petrovitch took their places in
the front, while Browne managed to manoeuvre his chair into such a
position that he could speak to Katherine without the others
overhearing what he said.

"You are fond of music, are you not?" he inquired as the orchestra took
their places.  He felt as he said it that he need not have asked; with
such a face she could scarcely fail to be.

"I am more than fond of it," she answered, playing with the handle of
her fan.  "Music and painting are my two greatest pleasures."

She uttered a little sigh, which seemed to suggest to Browne that she
had not very much pleasure in her life.  At least, that was the way in
which he interpreted it.

Then the curtain went up, and Browne was forced to be silent.  I think,
if you were to ask him now which was the happiest evening of his life,
he would answer, "That on which I saw Lohengrin with Katherine
Petrovitch."  If the way in which the time slipped by could be taken as
any criterion, it must certainly have been so, for the evening seemed
scarcely to have begun ere it was over and the National Anthem was
being played.  When the curtain descended the two young men escorted
the ladies to the entrance hall, where they waited while the carriage
was being called.  It was at this juncture that Jimmy proved of use.
Feeling certain Browne would be anxious to have a few minutes alone
with Katherine, he managed, with great diplomacy, to draw Madame
Bernstein on one side, on the pretence of telling her an amusing story
concerning a certain Continental military attache with whom they were
both acquainted.

"How long do you think it will be before I may venture to see you
again?" Browne asked the girl when they were alone together.

"I cannot say," she replied, with an attempt at a smile.  "I do not
know what Madame Bernstein's arrangements are."

"But surely Madame Bernstein does not control all your actions?" he
asked, I fear a little angrily; for he did not like to think she was so
dependent on the elder woman.

"No, she does not altogether control them, of course," Katherine
replied; "but I always have so much to do for her that I do not feel
justified in making any arrangements without first consulting her."

"But you must surely have some leisure," he continued.  "Perhaps you
shop in the High Street, or walk in the Park or Kensington Gardens on
fine mornings.  Might I not chance to find you in one of those places?"

"I fear not," she answered, shaking her head.  "If it is fine I have my
work to do."

"And if it should be wet?" asked Browne, feeling his heart sink within
him as he realised that she was purposely placing obstacles in the way
of their meeting.  "Surely you cannot paint when the days are as gloomy
as they have been lately."

"No," she answered; "that is impossible.  But it gives me no more
leisure than before; for in that case I have letters to write for
Madame Bernstein, and she has an enormous amount of correspondence."

Though Browne wondered what that correspondence could be, he said
nothing to her on the subject, nor had he any desire to thrust his
presence upon the girl when he saw she was not anxious for it.  It was
plain to him that there was something behind it all--some reason to
account for her pallor and her quietness that evening.  What that
reason was, however, he could not for the life of him understand.

They had arrived at this point when the carriage reached the door.
Madame Bernstein and Foote accordingly approached them, and the
quartette walked together towards the entrance.

"I thank you many times for your kindness to-night," said Katherine,
looking shyly up at Browne.

"Please, don't thank me," he replied.  "It is I who should thank you.
I hope you have enjoyed yourself."

"Very much indeed," she answered.  "I could see _Lohengrin_ a hundred
times without growing in the least tired of it."

As she said this they reached the carriage.  Browne placed the ladies
in it, and shook hands with them as he bade them good-night.  He gave
the footman his instructions, and presently the carriage rolled away,
leaving the two young men standing on the pavement, looking after it.
It was a beautiful starlight night, with a touch of frost in the air.

"Are we going to take a cab, or shall we walk?" said Foote.

"Let us walk, that is if you don't mind," Browne replied.  "I feel as
if I could enjoy a ten-mile tramp to-night after the heat of that
theatre."

"I'm afraid I do not," Foote replied.  "My idea is the 'Perigord' for a
little supper, and then to bed.  Browne, old man, I have been through a
good deal for you to-night.  I like the young lady very much, but
Madame Bernstein is--well, she is Madame Bernstein.  I can say no more."

"Never mind, old chap," said Browne, patting his companion on the
shoulder.  "You have the satisfaction of knowing that your martyrdom is
appreciated; the time may come when you will want me to do the same
thing for you.  One good turn deserves another, you know."

"When I want a turn of that description done for me, I will be sure to
let you know," Foote continued; "but if I have any sort of luck, it
will be many years before I come to you with such a request.  When I
remember that, but for my folly in showing you that picture in Waterloo
Place, we should by this time be on the other side of the Eddystone,
_en route_ for the Mediterranean and sunshine, I feel as if I could sit
down and weep.  However, it is _kismet_, I suppose?"

Browne offered no reply.

"Are you coming in?" said Foote as they reached the doorstep of the
Perigord Club.

"No, thank you, old man," said Browne.  "I think, if you will excuse
me, I will get home."

"Good-night, then," said Foote; "I shall probably see you in the
morning."

Having bidden him good-night, Browne proceeded on his way.

Next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, he betook himself to
Kensington Gardens, where he wandered about for upwards of an hour, but
saw no sign of the girl he hoped to meet.  Leaving the Gardens, he made
his way to the High Street, with an equally futile result.  Regardless
of the time he was wasting, and of everything else, he passed on in the
direction of Addison Road.  As disappointment still pursued him, he
made up his mind to attempt a forlorn hope.  Turning into the Melbury
Road, he made for German Park Road, and reaching the studio, rang the
bell.  When the door was opened he found himself confronted with an
elderly person, wearing a sack for an apron, and holding a bar of
yellow soap in her hand.

"I have called to see Miss Petrovitch," he said.

"She is not at home, sir," the woman replied.  "She has not been here
this morning.  Can I give her any message?"

"I am afraid not," Browne replied.  "I wanted to see her personally;
but you might tell her that Mr. Browne called."

"Mr. Browne," she repeated.  "Very good, sir.  You may be sure I will
tell her."

Browne thanked her, and, to make assurance doubly sure, slipped five
shillings into her hand.  Then, passing out of the garden, he made his
way back to the High Street.  He had not proceeded more than a hundred
yards down that interesting thoroughfare, however, before he saw no
less a person than Katherine herself approaching him.

They were scarcely a dozen paces apart when she recognised him.

"Good-morning, Miss Petrovitch," he said, raising his hat and speaking
a little nervously.  "I have just called at your studio in the hope
that I might see you.  The woman told me that she did not know when you
would return.  I thought I might possibly meet you here."

It was a poor enough excuse, but the only one he could think of at the
moment.

"You wanted to see me?" she said in a tone of surprise.

"Are you angry with me for that?" he asked.  "I did not think you would
be; but if you are I will go away again.  By this time you should know
that I have no desire save to make you happy."

This was the first time he had spoken so plainly.  Her face paled a
little.

"I did not know that you were so anxious to see me," she said, "or I
would have made a point of being at home."

All this time they had been standing on the spot where they had first
met.

"Perhaps you will permit me to walk a little way with you?" said
Browne, half afraid that she would refuse.

"I shall be very pleased," she answered promptly.

Thereupon they walked back in the direction of the studio.

At the gate they stopped.  She turned and faced him, and as she did so
she held out her hand; it was plain that she had arrived at a decision
on some important point.

"Good-bye, Mr. Browne," she said, and as she said it Browne noticed
that her voice trembled and her eyes filled with tears.  He could bear
it no longer.

"Miss Petrovitch," he began, "you must forgive my rudeness; but I feel
sure that you are not happy.  Will you not trust me and let me help
you?  You know how gladly I would do so."

"There is no way in which you can help me," she answered, and then she
bade him good-bye, and, with what Browne felt sure was a little sob,
vanished into the studio.  For some moments he stood waiting where he
was, overwhelmed by the suddenness of her exit, and hoping she might
come out again; then, realising that she did not intend doing so, he
turned on his heel and made his way back to the High Street, and so to
Park Lane.  His afternoon was a broken and restless one; he could not
rid himself of the recollection of the girl's face, and he felt as sure
as a man could well be that something was amiss.  But how was he to
help her?  At any rate he was going to try.

The clocks in the neighbourhood were striking eleven next morning as he
alighted from his hansom and approached the door of the studio.  He
rang the bell, but no answer rewarded him.  He rang again, but with the
same result.

Not being able to make any one hear, he returned to his cab and set off
for the Warwick Road.  Reaching the house, the number of which
Katherine had given him, he ascended the steps and rang the bell.  When
the maid-servant answered his summons, he inquired for Miss Petrovitch.

"Miss Petrovitch?" said the girl, as if she were surprised.  "She is
not here, sir.  She and Madame Bernstein left for Paris this morning."




CHAPTER VII

When Browne heard the maid's news, his heart sank like lead.  He could
scarcely believe his ill-fortune.  Only a moment before he had been
comforting himself with the thought that he would soon be standing face
to face with Katherine, ready to ask her a question which should decide
the happiness of his life.  Now his world seemed suddenly to have
turned as black as midnight.  Why had she left England so suddenly?
What had taken her away?  Could it have been something in connection
with that mysterious business of Madame Bernstein's of which he had
heard so much of late?  Then another idea struck him.  Perhaps it was
the knowledge that she was leaving that had occasioned her unhappiness
on the previous afternoon.  The maid who had opened the door to him,
and whose information had caused him such disappointment, was a typical
specimen of the London boarding-house servant, and yet there was
sufficient of the woman left in her to enable her to see that her news
had proved a crushing blow to the man standing before her.

"Can you tell me at what hour they left?" Browne inquired.  "I was
hoping to have seen Miss Petrovitch this morning."

"I can tell you what the time was exactly," the girl replied.  "It was
on the stroke of nine when they got into the cab."

"Are you quite certain upon that point?" he asked.

"Quite certain, sir," she answered.  "I know it was nine o'clock,
because I had just carried in the first floor's breakfast; and a
precious noise, sir, he always makes if it is not on the table punctual
to the minute.  There were some letters for Madame Bernstein by the
post, which the other girl took up to her bedroom.  As soon as she read
them she sent down for Mrs. Jimson and called for her bill.  'I leave
for Paris in an hour's time, Mrs. Jimson,' says she, sort of
short-like, for I heard her myself; 'so make me out my bill and let me
have it quickly.'"

"And did Miss Petrovitch appear at all surprised or put out at having
to leave London at such short notice?" Browne asked, not without a
little trepidation.

"Well, sir, that was exactly what I was a-going to tell you," the girl
replied, dropping her voice a little, and glancing back over her
shoulder into the house, as if she were afraid of being overheard.
"She did seem precious put out about it; at least so the other girl
says.  Jane tells me she feels certain Miss Petrovitch had been crying,
her eyes were that red, and when she went into the room she and madame
were at it hammer and tongs.

"I suppose they left no message for any one?" Browne inquired, refusing
to comment on what the girl had just told him.

"Not as I know of, sir," the young woman replied.  "But if you will
just wait a minute I'll go in and ask Mrs. Jimson.  She will be sure to
know."

Browne contained his patience as best he could for some five or six
minutes.  Then the girl returned and shook her head.

"There's no message of any sort, sir," she said; "at least not as Mrs.
Jimson knows of."

"Thank you," said Browne simply.  "I am much obliged to you."

As he said it he slipped half a sovereign into the girl's hand.  The
bribe completed the effect the touch of romance, combined with his
pleasing personality, to say nothing of his smart cab drawn up beside
the pavement, had already produced.  Not only would she have told him
all she knew, but, had she dared, she would have gone so far as to have
expressed her sympathy with him.

Browne was about to descend the steps, when another idea occurred to
him, and he turned to the girl again.

"You do not happen to be aware of their address in Paris, I suppose?"
he inquired.  "I have a particular reason for asking the question."

"Hush, sir!" she whispered.  "If you really want to know it, I believe
I can find out for you.  Madame Bernstein wrote it down for Mrs.
Jimson, so that she could send on any letters that came for her.  I
know where Mrs. Jimson put the piece of paper, and if you'll just wait
a minute longer, I'll see if I can find it for you and copy it out.  I
won't be a minute longer than I can help."

Feeling very much as if he were being guilty of a dishonourable action,
Browne allowed her to depart upon her errand.  This time she was
somewhat longer away, but when she returned she carried, concealed in
her hand, a small slip of paper.  He took it from her, and, once more
thanking her for her kindness, returned to his cab.

"Home, Williams," he cried to his coachman, "and as quickly as
possible.  I have no time to spare."

As the vehicle sped along in the direction of the High Street, Browne
unfolded and glanced at the paper the girl had given him.  Upon it,
written in a clumsy hand, was the address he wanted, and which he would
have fought the world to obtain.

"Madame Bernstein," so it ran, "35, Rue Jacquarie, Paris."

"Very good," said Browne to himself triumphantly.  "Now I know where to
find them.  Let me see!  They were to leave London in an hour from nine
o'clock; that means that they started from Victoria and are travelling
_via_ Newhaven and Dieppe.  Now, there's a train from Charing Cross,
_via_ Dover and Calais, at eleven.  If I can catch that I shall be in
Paris an hour and a half after them."

He consulted his watch anxiously, to find that he had barely an hour in
which to pack his bag and to get to the station.  However, if it could
be done, he was determined to do it; accordingly he bade his man drive
faster.  Reaching Park Lane, he rang for his valet, and when that
somewhat stolid individual put in an appearance, bade him pack a few
necessaries and be ready to start for the Continent at once.  Being a
well-drilled servant, and accustomed, by long usage, to his master's
rapid flittings from place to place, the man offered no comment, but
merely saying, "Very good, sir," departed to carry out his instructions.

Two minutes to eleven found Browne standing upon the platform at
Charing Cross Station.  It was not until he was comfortably installed
in the carriage and the train was rolling out of the station, that the
full meaning of what he was doing struck him.  Why was he leaving
England?  To follow this girl.  And why?  For one very good
reason--_because he loved her_!  But why _should_ he have loved her,
when, with his wealth, he could have married the daughter of almost any
peer in England; when, had he so desired, he could have chosen his wife
from among the most beautiful or most talented women in Europe?
Katherine Petrovitch, attractive and charming as she was, was neither
as beautiful, rich, or clever as a hundred women he had met.  And yet
she was the one in the world he desired for his wife.

So concerned was he about her that, when they reached Dover, his first
thought was to examine the sea in order to convince himself that she
had had a good crossing.  He boarded the steamer, the lines were cast
off, and presently the vessel's head was pointing for the Continent.
Little by little the English coast dropped behind them and the shores
of France loomed larger.  Never before had the coast struck him as
being so beautiful.  He entered the train at Calais with a fresh
satisfaction as he remembered that every revolution of the wheels was
bringing him closer to the woman he loved.  The lights were lit in the
cafes and upon the boulevards, when he reached Paris, and as he drove
through the crowded streets in the direction of the hotel he usually
affected the city seemed all glitter, gaiety, and life.

Familiar as he was with the city, it seemed altogether different to him
to-night.  The loungers in the courtyard of the hotel, the bustling
waiters, the very chambermaids, served to remind him that, while in the
flesh he was still the same John Grantham Browne, in the spirit he was
an altogether separate and distinct individual from the man they had
previously known.  On reaching his own room he opened the window, leant
out, and looked upon Paris by night.  The voice of the great city spoke
to him, and greeted him as with the sweetest music.  Once more he was
sharing the same city with Katherine Petrovitch, breathing the same
air, and hearing the same language.

Shutting the window at last, he washed off the stains of travel,
changed his attire, and descended to the dining-hall.

Having no desire to lose time, he resolved to institute inquiries at
once about the Rue Jacquarie, and to seek, and if possible to obtain,
an interview with Katherine before she could possibly depart from Paris
again.  How was he to know that Madame Bernstein's plans might not
necessitate another removal to Rome, Berlin, or St. Petersburg?--in
which case he might very easily lose sight of her altogether.  He had
never trusted madame, and since her departure from England he was even
less disposed to do so than before.  There was something about her that
he did not altogether appreciate.  He had told himself that he did not
like her the first day he had met her at Merok, and he was even more
convinced of the fact now.  What the link was between the two women he
could not think, and he was almost afraid to attempt to solve the
mystery.

Dinner at an end, he rose and went to his room to put on a cloak.  In
love though he was, he had still sufficient of his father's prudence
left to be careful of his health.

Descending to the courtyard once more, he called a fiacre, and, when
the man had driven up, inquired whether he knew where the Rue Jacquarie
was.  The man looked at him with some show of surprise.

"Oui, m'sieu," he replied, "I know the Rue Jacquarie, of course;
but----"

"Never mind any buts," Browne replied, as he jumped into the cab.  "I
have business in the Rue Jacquarie, so drive me there at once."

"To what number?" the man inquired, in a tone that implied that he was
not over-anxious for the job.

"Never mind the number," said Browne; "drive me to the corner and set
me down there."

The man whipped up his horse, and they started _via_ the Rue Tronchet.
Turning into the Rue St. Honore, and thence into the Place de la
Madeleine, they proceeded in the direction of Montmartre.  For some
time Browne endeavoured to keep tally of the route; eventually,
however, he was obliged to relinquish the attempt in despair.  From one
street they passed into another, and to Browne it seemed that every one
was alike.  At last the driver stopped his horse.

"This is the Rue Jacquarie," he said, pointing with his whip down a
long and somewhat dingy thoroughfare.

Browne bade him wait for him, and then proceeded down the street on
foot in search of No. 35.  After the magnificent quarter of the city in
which he had installed himself, the Rue Jacquarie seemed mean and
contemptible in the extreme.  The houses were small and dingy, and it
was plain that they were occupied by people who were not the possessors
of any conspicuous degree of wealth.  He walked the whole length of the
street in search of No. 35, and, not finding it, returned upon the
other side.  At last he discovered the house he wanted.  He thereupon
crossed the road, and, standing on the opposite pavement, regarded it
steadfastly.

Lights shone from three of the windows, and Browne's pulses beat more
quickly as he reflected that it was just possible one of them might
emanate from Katherine's room.

It was now close upon ten o'clock, and if all had gone well with them
the girl should now have been in Paris some three hours.  It was
extremely unlikely that, after such a journey, she would have gone out,
so that he had every reason for feeling certain she must be in the
house before him.  In spite of the thin rain that was falling, he stood
and watched the building for some minutes.  Once a woman's shadow
passed across a blind upon the second floor, and Browne felt his heart
leap as he saw it.  A few moments later a man and a woman passed the
concierge.  They paused upon the doorstep to wish some one within
"good-night"; then, descending the steps, they set off in the same
direction in which Browne himself had come.  Before doing so, however,
they turned and looked up and down the street, as if they were afraid
they might be observed.  Seeing Browne watching the house, they
hastened their steps, and presently disappeared down a side
thoroughfare.  For an ordinary observer this small event might have had
little or no significance; but to Browne, in whose mind indefinable
suspicions were already shaping themselves, it seemed more than a
little disquieting.  That they had noticed him, and that they were
alarmed by the knowledge that he was watching the house, was as plain
as the lights in the windows opposite.  But why they should have been
so frightened was what puzzled him.  What was going on in the house, or
rather what had they been doing that they should fear being overlooked?
He asked himself these questions as he paced down the street in the
direction of his cab.  But he could not answer them to his satisfaction.

"Drive me to the Amphitryon Club," he said, as he took his place in the
vehicle once more; and then continued to himself, "I'd give something
to understand what it all means."




CHAPTER VIII

Now the Amphitryon Club is situated in the Avenue de l'Opera, as all
the world knows, and is one of the most exclusive and distinguished
clubs in Europe.  Browne had been a member for many years, and during
his stays in Paris was usually to be found there.

It was a fine building, in which everything was done in the most
sumptuous and luxurious fashion.  You might lunch there on bread and
cheese or a Porter-house steak; but the bread, the cheese, and the
steak, while unpretentious in themselves, would be the very best
obtainable of their kind.  What led him there on that particular
evening Browne did not quite know.  It was Destiny!  Blind Fate had him
in hand, and was luring him on to what was to be the most momentous
half-hour of his life.  He knew he was pretty certain of finding some
one there with whom he was acquainted; but he was certainly not
prepared for the surprise, which greeted him, when he pushed open the
swing-doors and passed into the smoking-room.  Seated in a chair by the
fire, and looking into it in the meditative fashion of a man, who has
dined well and feels disinclined for much exertion, was no less a
person than Maas.

"Mon cher ami," he cried, springing to his feet and holding out his
hand, "this is a delightful surprise.  I had no notion you were in
Paris."

"I only arrived this evening," Browne replied.  "But I might return the
compliment, for I thought you were in St. Petersburg."

"No such thing," said Maas, shaking his head.  "Petersburg at this time
of the year does not agree with my constitution.  To be able to
appreciate it one must have Slav blood in one's veins, which I am
discourteous enough to be glad to say I have not.  But what brings you
to the gay city?  Is it on business or pleasure?  But there, I need not
ask.  I should have remembered that business does not enter into your
life."

"A false conclusion on your part," said Browne as he lit a cigar.  "For
a man who has nothing to do, I have less leisure than many people who
declare they are overworked."

"By the way," Maas continued, "they tell me we have to congratulate you
at last."

"Upon what?" Browne inquired.  "What have I done now that the world
should desire to wish me well?"

"I refer to your approaching marriage," said Maas.  "Deauville was in
here the other day, _en route_ to Cannes, and he told us that it was
stated in a London paper that you were about to be married.  I told him
I felt sure he must be mistaken.  If you had been I should probably
have known it."

"It's not true," said Browne angrily.  "Deauville should know better
than to attach any credence to such a story."

"Exactly what I told him," said Maas, with his usual imperturbability.
"I said that, at his age, he should know better than to believe every
silly rumour he sees in the press.  I assured him that you were worth a
good many married men yet."

As he said this Maas watched Browne's face carefully.  What he saw
there must have satisfied him on certain points upon which he was
anxious for information, for he smiled a trifle sardonically, and
immediately changed the conversation by inquiring what Browne intended
doing that night.

"Going home to bed," said Browne promptly.  "I have had a long day's
travelling, and I've a lot to do to-morrow.  I think, if you'll excuse
me, old chap, I'll wish you good-night now."

"Good-night," said Maas, taking his hand.  "When shall I see you again?
By the way, I hope, if it's any convenience to you, you'll let me put
my rooms at your disposal.  But there, I forgot you have your own
magnificent palace to go to.  To offer you hospitality would be
superfluous."

"You talk of my house as if I should be likely to go there," said
Browne scornfully.  "You know as well as I do that I never enter the
doors.  What should I do in a caravanserai like that?  No; I am staying
at the usual place in the Place Vendome.  Now, good-night once more."

"Good-night," said Maas, and Browne accordingly left the room.  When
the swingdoors had closed behind him Maas went back to his chair and
lit another cigarette.

"Our friend Browne is bent upon making a fool of himself," he said to
his cigarette; "and, what is worse, he will put me to a lot of trouble
and inconvenience.  At this stage of the proceedings, however, it would
be worse than useless to endeavour to check him.  He has got the bit
between his teeth, and would bolt right out if I were to try to bring
him to a standstill.  The only thing that can be done, as far as I can
see, is to sit still and watch the comedy, and step in like the god out
of the machine, when all is ready."

Having thus expressed himself, he lit another cigarette, and went off
in search of the supper Browne had declined.

Browne's first night in Paris was destined to prove a restless one.
Whether it was the journey or his visit to the Rue Jacquarie that was
responsible for it, I cannot say; one thing, however, is quite certain:
do what he would, he could not sleep.  He tried all the proverbial
recipes in vain.  He walked about his room, drank a glass of cold
water, tried to picture sheep jumping over a hedge; but in vain.  Do
what he would, the drowsy god would not listen to his appeal.  Indeed,
the first beams of the morning sun were stealing into his room before
his eyelids closed.  When his man came in to dress him he felt as
drowsy as if he had not closed his eyes all night.  He was not going to
lie in bed, however.  During breakfast he debated with himself what he
should do with regard to the Rue Jacquarie.  Should he loiter about the
streets in the hope of intercepting Katherine when she went abroad?  Or
should he take the bull by the horns and march boldly up to the house
and ask for an interview?  Anxious as he was to see her, he had no
desire to thrust his presence upon her if it was not wanted.  He knew
that she would be the first to resent that, and yet he felt he _must_
see her, happen what might.  As soon as breakfast was finished he put
on his hat and set out for a stroll.  The clouds of the previous night
had departed, the sky was blue, and the breeze fresh and invigorating.
Many a bright eye and captivating glance was thrown at the healthy,
stalwart young Englishman, who carried himself as if fatigue were a
thing unknown to him.  Then, suddenly, he found himself face to face
with Katherine Petrovitch!

He lifted his hat mechanically, but for a moment he stood rooted to the
spot with surprise, not knowing what to say or do.  Great as was his
astonishment, however, hers was infinitely greater.  She stood before
him, her colour coming and going, and with a frightened look in her
eyes.

"Mr. Browne, what does this mean?" she asked, with a little catch of
the breath.  "You are the last person I expected to see in Paris."

"I was called over here on important business," he replied, with
unblushing mendacity; and as he said it he watched her face, and found
it more troubled than he had ever yet seen it.  "But why, even if we
are surprised to see each other, should we remain standing here?" he
continued, for want of something better to say.  "May I not walk a
short distance with you?"

"If you wish it," she replied, but with no great display of
graciousness.  It was very plain that she did not attach very much
credence to his excuse, and it was equally certain that she was
inclined to resent it.  Nothing was said on the latter point, however,
and they strolled along the pavement together, he wondering how he
could best set himself right with her, and she combating a feeling of
impending calamity, and at the same time trying to convince herself
that she was extremely angry with him, not only for meeting her, but
for being in Paris at all.  It was not until they reached the Rue des
Tuileries that Browne spoke.

"May we not go into the Gardens?" he asked a little nervously.  "I
always think that the children one sees there are the sweetest in
Europe."

"If you wish," Katherine replied coldly.  "I shall not be able to stay
very long, however, as Madame Bernstein will be expecting me."

Browne felt inclined to anathematise Madame Bernstein, as he had done
several times before; but he wisely kept his thoughts to himself.  They
accordingly crossed the road and entered the Gardens by the Broad Walk.
Passing the Omphale by Eude and the statue of AEneas bearing Anchises
through the flames of Troy, they entered one of the small groves on the
right, and seated themselves upon two chairs they found there.  An
awkward silence followed, during which Katherine looked away in the
direction they had come, while Browne, his elbows on his knees, dug
viciously into the path with the point of his umbrella, as if he would
probe his way down to the nether regions before he would let her get an
inkling of his embarrassment.  Three children with their attendant
_bonnes_ passed them while they were so occupied, and one small toddler
of four or five stopped and regarded the silent couple before him.
Katherine smiled at the child's chubby, earnest face, and Browne took
this as a sign that the ice was breaking, though not so quickly as he
could have wished.

"I am afraid you are angry with me," he said, after the child had
passed on his way again and they were left to each other's company.
"How have I been unfortunate enough to offend you?"

"I do not know that you have offended me at all," the girl replied,
still looking away from him.  "After all your kindness to me, I should
be very ungrateful if I were to treat you so."

"But there can be no doubt you _are_ offended," Browne replied.  "I
could see from the expression on your face, when I met you on the
boulevard just now, that you were annoyed with me for being there."

"I must confess I was surprised," she answered; "still, I certainly did
not wish you to think I was annoyed."

Browne thereupon took fresh heart, and resolved upon a bold plunge.
"But you were not pleased?" he said, and as he said it he watched her
to see what effect his words produced.  She still kept her face turned
away.  "Don't you think it was a little unkind of you to leave London
so suddenly without either saying good-bye or giving the least warning
of your intentions?" he continued, his spirits rising with every word
he uttered.

"I was not certain that we were to leave so soon," the girl replied.
"It was not until yesterday morning that we found it would be necessary
for us to set off at once.  But how did you know that we _had_ left?"

Browne fell into the trap unheedingly.

"Because I called at your lodgings an hour after you had left, in the
hope of seeing you," he answered promptly.  "The servant who opened the
door to me informed me that you and Madame Bernstein had departed for
Paris.  You may imagine my surprise."

"But if you were there within an hour of our leaving, what train did
you catch?" she inquired, with a simplicity that could scarcely have
failed to entrap him.

"The eleven o'clock express from Charing Cross _via_ Dover and Calais,"
he replied.

"You admit, then, that your important business in Paris was to follow
us?" she answered, and as she said it Browne realised what a mistake he
had made.  She rose without another word, and made as if she would
leave the Gardens.  Browne also sprang to his feet, and laid his hand
upon her arm as if to detain her.

"Again I fear I have offended you," he said; "but believe me, I had not
the least intention of doing so.  I think at least you should know me
well enough for that."

"But you should not have followed me at all," she said, her womanly wit
showing her that if she wished to escape she must beg the question and
attack the side issue.  "It was not kind of you."

"Not kind?" he cried.  "But why should it not be?  I cannot see that I
have done anything wrong; and, even if I have, will you not be
merciful?"

Large tears had risen in her eyes; her manner was firm, nevertheless.
It seemed to Browne later on, when he recalled all that had happened on
that memorable morning, as if two emotions, pride and love, were
struggling in her breast for the mastery.

"Will you not forgive me?" he asked, more humbly than he had probably
ever spoken to a human being in his life before.

"If you will promise not to repeat the offence," she replied, with a
feeble attempt at a smile.  "Remember, if I _do_ forgive you, I shall
expect you to adhere to your word."

"You do not know how hard it is for me to promise," said Browne; "but
since you wish it, I will do as you desire.  I promise you I will not
follow you again."

"I thank you," she answered, and held out her hand.  "I must go now, or
madame will be wondering what has become of me.  Good-bye, Mr. Browne."

"But do you mean that I am never to see you again?" he inquired in
consternation.

"For the moment that is a question I cannot answer," she replied.  "I
have told you before that my time is not my own; nor do I know how long
we shall remain in Paris."

"But if I am to promise this, will you not promise _me_ something in
return?" he asked, with a tremble in his voice that he could not
control.

"What is it you wish me to promise?" she inquired suspiciously.  "You
must tell me first."

"It is that you will not leave Paris without first informing me," he
answered.  "I will not ask you to tell me where you are going, or ask
for an interview.  All I desire is that you should let me know that you
are leaving the city."

She was silent for a moment.

"If you will give me your address, I will promise to write and let you
know," she said at last.

"I thank you," he answered.  Then, refusing to allow him to accompany
her any farther, she held out her hand and bade him good-bye.  Having
done so, she passed up the Broad Walk in the direction they had come,
and presently was lost to his view.

"Well, I am a fool if ever there was one," said Browne to himself when
he was alone.  "If only I had kept a silent tongue in my head about
that visit to the Warwick Road, I should not be in the hole I am now.
I've scored one point, however; she has promised to let me know when
she leaves Paris.  I will stay here until that time arrives, on the
chance of meeting her again, and then----.  Well, what matters what
happens then?  How sweet she is!"

The young man heaved a heavy sigh, and returned to his hotel by the Rue
de Rivoli.

From that moment, and for upwards of a week, he neither saw nor heard
anything further of her.  Although he paraded the streets with untiring
energy, and even went so far as to pay periodical visits on foot to the
Rue Jacquarie, he was always disappointed.  Then assistance came to
him, and from a totally unexpected quarter.

Upon returning to his hotel, after one of his interminable
peregrinations, he found upon the table in his sitting-room a note,
written on pale-pink paper and so highly scented that he became aware
of its presence there almost before he entered the room.  Wondering
from whom it could have come, for the writing was quite unknown to him,
he opened it and scanned the contents.  It was written in French, and,
to his surprise, proved to be from Madame Bernstein.

"My dear Monsieur Browne," it ran, "if you could spare a friend a few
moments of your valuable time, I should be so grateful if you could let
me see you.  The matter upon which I desire to consult you, as my
letter would lead you to suppose, is an exceedingly important one.
Should you chance to be disengaged to-morrow (Thursday) afternoon, I
will remain in, in the hope of seeing you.--  Always your friend, and
never more than now,

"SOPHIE BERNSTEIN."


Browne read this curious epistle three times, and each time was farther
from being able to understand it.  What was this matter upon which
Madame Bernstein desired to consult him?  Could it have any connection
with Katherine?  If not, what else could it possibly be?  And why did
she call herself his friend, and wind up with "and never more than
now"?  It had one good point, however; it would, in all probability,
furnish him with another opportunity of seeing the girl he loved.  And
yet there were twenty hours to be disposed of before he could possibly
keep the appointment.  Never in his life had time seemed so long.

Punctually to the minute he arrived at the door of the commonplace
building in the Rue Jacquarie.  The _concierge_ looked out from her
cubby-hole at him, and inquired his business.  In reply he asked the
number of Madame Bernstein's rooms, and, having been informed, went
upstairs in search of them.  He had not very far to go, however, for he
encountered madame herself on the landing half-way up.

"Ah, monsieur!" she cried, holding out her hand with an impetuous
gesture, that was as theatrical as her usual behaviour, "this is most
kind of you to come to see me so promptly.  I know that I am
trespassing both upon your good nature and your time."

"I hope you will not mention that," said Browne politely.  "If I can be
of any use to you, I think you know you may command me."

"It is not for myself that I have asked you to come," she answered.
"But do not let us talk here.  Will you not accompany me to my rooms?"

She accordingly led the way up the next flight of stairs and along a
corridor to a room that was half drawing-room half boudoir.  Madame
carefully closed the door, and then bade him be seated.  Browne took
possession of an easy-chair, wondering what was going to happen next.




CHAPTER IX

"Now, Monsieur Browne," said Madame Bernstein, as she seated herself
with her back to the window, "we can talk in comfort, and, what is
better still, without fear of being disturbed.  It is indeed kind of
you to come and see me, for I expect you were considerably surprised at
receiving my poor little note yesterday.  What you must have thought of
it I dare not think; but I must console myself with the reflection,
that it was written in the interests of another person, whose happiness
is dearer to me than I can make you understand.  To tell you the truth,
it is a most delicate matter.  I think you will admit as much when you
have heard what I have to say."

Browne accordingly reserved his judgment.  His distrust of the woman,
however, was rapidly coming back upon him, and he could not help
feeling that, plausible as her words were, and desirous as she appeared
to be of helping a third person, she was in some way attempting to
deceive himself.

"I beg that you will not consider me at all in the matter," he said,
seeing that he was expected to say something.  "I am, as you know, only
too glad to do anything I can to help you.  Perhaps it is regarding
Mademoiselle Petrovitch that you desire to speak to me?"

"You have guessed correctly," said madame.  "It is about Katherine.
The poor child, as I have reason to know, is in terrible trouble just
now."

"I am indeed sorry to hear that," said Browne, a fear of he knew not
what taking possession of him.  "But I hope the trouble is one that can
be easily set right."

"It is possible it may," madame replied.  "But I think it depends, if
you will permit me to say so, in a very great measure upon yourself."

"Upon me?" cried the young man, this time with real surprise.  "How can
that be?  I should never forgive myself if I thought I had made Miss
Petrovitch unhappy."

"Not perhaps exactly in the sense you mean," said madame, moving a
little nearer him, and speaking in a tone that was low and
confidential; "but still you have done so in another way, Monsieur
Browne.  Before I go any further, however, it is necessary that I
should remind you that I am an old woman."  Here she smiled a little
coquettishly, as if to remind him that her words, in this particular
instance, must not be taken too literally.  "I am an old woman," she
continued--"old enough to be your mother, perhaps; at any rate, old
enough to be able to say what I am going to say, without fear of giving
offence, or of having my motives misconstrued.  Monsieur Browne, as you
are well aware, Katherine is only a young girl, and, like other young
girls, she has her dreams.  Into those dreams you have come, and what
is the result?  I will leave it to your common-sense, and perhaps a
little to your vanity, to read between the lines.  Had you been
differently situated it would not have mattered.  At the time that you
rendered her that great service on the mountains above Merok, she had
no idea who you were.  But later on, when you were so kind to us in
London, though you did your best to prevent it, we discovered all about
you.  Immediately, as is often the way with young girls, a change came.
She is simplicity itself.  She is also the soul of honour.  She feared
to let her true soul be seen, lest you might think that we were
cultivating your acquaintance for the sake of your wealth."

"I never dreamt of such a thing," Browne replied indignantly.  "That is
the worst part of being a rich man, Madame Bernstein.  One-half of the
world preys upon you for your money, while a large number will not be
friendly to you lest they may be supposed to be doing the same.  I
should be a cad of the first water if I had ever thought for a moment,
that Miss Petrovitch was capable of such a thing."

From the way he spoke Madame Bernstein saw that she had overshot her
mark, and she was quick to make up for her mistake.

"I do not think I said that we thought so, Monsieur Brown," she said.
"I only remarked that I feared my ward was afraid lest you might do so."

"She might have known me better than that," said Browne a little
reproachfully.  "But perhaps you will tell me what it is you wish me to
do?"

"Ah!  In asking that question you bring me to the most difficult point
in our interview," she replied.  "I will show you why.  Before I do so,
however, I want you to give me your promise that you will not be
offended at what I am about to say to you."

"I will certainly promise that," Browne answered.

"I am going to put your friendship to a severe test," Madame continued.
She paused for a moment as if to collect her thoughts.  When she spoke
again it was with an abruptness that was most disconcerting.  "You must
be blind indeed," she said, "if you cannot see, Monsieur Browne, that
Katherine loves you."

The revulsion of feeling caused by her announcement of this fact was so
strong that, though Browne tried to speak, he found he was incapable of
uttering a word.  And yet, though she seemed so certain of what she
said, there was something in the way she said it that did not ring
quite true.

"Monsieur Browne," she went on, leaning a little forward and speaking
with still greater earnestness, "I feel sure you will understand how
much all this means, not only to her but to me.  Since my poor
husband's death she has been all I have had to live for, and it cuts my
heart in pieces to see her so unhappy."

"But what would you have me do?" inquired Browne.

"That is the very subject I wished to speak to you about," Madame
replied.  Then, shaking her head sadly, she continued: "Ah, Monsieur
Browne, you do not know what it is to love, and to love in vain.  The
favour I am going to ask of you is that you should go away; that you
should not let Katherine see you again."

"But, madame," said Browne, "why should I go away?  What if I love her
as you say she loves me?"

The lady uttered a little cry as if of astonishment.

"If you loved her all would be different," she cried, clasping her
hands together--"so very, very different."

"Then let it be as different as you please," cried Browne, springing to
his feet.  "For I do love her, and with my whole heart and soul, as I
should have told her, had she not left London so suddenly the other
day."

Looking back on it now, Browne is obliged to confess that the whole
scene was theatrical in the extreme.  Madame Bernstein, on hearing the
news, behaved with a most amiable eccentricity; she sprang from her
chair, and, taking his hand in hers, pressed it to her heart.  If her
behaviour counted for anything, this would seem to have been the
happiest moment of her life.  In the middle of it all the sound of a
light footstep reached them from the corridor outside.

"Hush!" said Madame Bernstein, holding up her finger in warning.  "It
is Katherine!  I implore you not to tell her that I have said this to
you."

"You may depend upon my not doing so," Browne answered.

An instant later the girl, whose happiness they appeared to be so
anxious to promote, entered the room.  Her surprise and confusion at
finding Browne there may be better imagined than described.  But if the
position were embarrassing for her, how much more so was it for Browne!
He stood before her like a schoolboy detected in a fault, and who waits
to be told what his punishment will be.

"Monsieur Browne was kind enough to take pity on my loneliness," said
Madame Bernstein, by way of explanation, but with a slight falter in
her voice which told the young man that, although she wished him to
think otherwise, she really stood in some awe of her companion.  "We
have had a most interesting discussion on modern French art.  I had no
idea that Monsieur Browne was so well acquainted with the subject."

"It is the one thing of all others in which I take the greatest
possible interest," replied Browne, with corresponding gravity.  But he
dared not look at Katherine's face, for he knew she was regarding him
with a perplexed and somewhat disappointed look, as if she were not
quite certain whether he was telling the truth.  She did not know how
to account for his presence there, and in some vague way it frightened
her.  It was plain, at any rate, that she placed no sort of reliance in
her guardian's somewhat far-fetched explanation.

Seeing that she was likely to be _de trop_, that lady made an excuse
and left the room.  After she had gone, and the door had closed behind
her, things passed from bad to worse with the couple she had left
behind.  Browne knew exactly what he wanted to say, but he did not know
how to say it.  Katherine said nothing at all; she was waiting for him
to make the first move.

At last Browne could bear the silence no longer.  Advancing towards the
girl, he managed to obtain possession of her hands before she became
aware of his intention.

Holding them in his, he looked into her face and spoke.

"Katherine," he said, in a voice that trembled with emotion, "cannot
you guess why I am here?"

"I understood that you came to see Madame Bernstein," she faltered, not
daring to look up into his face.

"You know as well as I do that, while I made that the excuse, it was
not my real reason," he answered.  "Katherine, I came to see you
because I have something to say to you, which must be said at once,
which cannot be delayed any longer.  I would have spoken to you in
London, had you vouchsafed me an opportunity, but you left so suddenly
that I never had the chance of opening my lips.  What I want to tell
you, Katherine, is, that I love you with my whole heart and soul; God
knows I love you better than my life, and I shall love you to the day
of my death."

She uttered a little cry, and endeavoured to withdraw her hands from
his grasp, but he would not let them go.

"Surely you must have known all this long since," he continued with
relentless persistence.  "You believe, don't you, that I mean what I
say?"

"I must not hear you," she answered.  "I cannot bear it.  You do not
know what you are saying."

"I know all I want to know," said Browne; "and I think, Katherine, you
on your part know how deeply in earnest I am.  Try to remember, before
you speak, that the whole happiness of my life is at stake."

"That is exactly why I say that I cannot listen to you," she answered,
still looking away.

"Is my love so distasteful to you, then, that you cannot bear to hear
me speak of it?" he said, a little reproachfully.

"No, no," she answered; "it is not that at all.  It is that----  But
there, I cannot, I must not hear you any further.  Please do not say
any more about it; I beg of you to forget that you have ever told me of
it."

"But I _must_ say more," cried Browne.  "I love you, and I cannot and
will not live without you.  I believe that you love me, Katherine; upon
my honour I do.  If so, why should you be so cruel to me?  Will you
answer me one question, honestly and straight-forwardly?"

"What is it?"

"Will you be my wife?"

"I cannot.  It is impossible," she cried, this time as if her heart
were breaking.  "It is useless to say more.  Such a thing could never
be."

"But if you love me, it both can and shall be," replied Browne.  "If
you love me, there is nothing that can separate us."

"There is everything.  You do not know how impossible it is."

"If there is a difficulty I will remove it.  It shall cease to exist.
Come, Katherine, tell me that you love me."

She did not reply.

"Will you not confess it?" he repeated.  "You know what your answer
means to me.  Say that you do, and nothing shall part us; I swear it.
If you do not, then I give you my word I will go away, and never let
you see my face again."

This time she looked up at him with her beautiful eyes full of tears.

"I _do_ love you," she whispered; and then added, in a louder voice,
"but what is the use of my saying so, when it can make no difference?"

"It makes all the difference in the world, darling," cried Browne, with
a triumph in his voice that had not been there a moment before.  "Now
that I know you love me, I can act.  I am not afraid of anything."
Before she could protest he had taken her in his arms and covered her
face with kisses.  She struggled to escape, but he was too strong for
her.  At last he let her go.

"Oh! you do not know what you are doing," she cried.  "Why will you not
listen to me and go away before it is too late?  I tell you again and
again that you are deluding yourself with false hopes.  Come what may,
I can never be your wife.  It is impossible."

"Since you have confessed that you love me, we will see about that,"
said Browne quietly but determinedly.  "In the meantime, remember that
I am your affianced lover.  Nothing can alter that.  But, hark! if I am
not mistaken, I hear Madame Bernstein."

A moment later the lady in question entered the room.  She glanced from
one to the other as if to find out whether they had arrived at an
understanding.  Then Browne advanced and took her hand.

"Madame," he said, "I have the honour to inform you that mademoiselle
has decided to be my wife."

"No, no," cried Katherine, as if in a last entreaty.  "You must not say
that.  I cannot let you say it."

Madame Bernstein took in the situation, and adapted herself to it
immediately.  In her usual manner, she expressed her delight at the
arrangement they had come to.  There was nothing like love, she
averred, in the world.

"I always hoped and prayed that it would be so," she went on to say.
"It has been my wish for years to see you happily married, Katherine.
Now I can feel that my work in life is done, and that I can go down to
my grave in peace, knowing that, whatever happens, you will be well
protected."

Could one have looked into her brain, I am inclined to believe it would
have been found that, while she gave expression to these beautiful
ideas, they were far from being a true record of her feelings.  Such
sentiments, however, were the proper ones to use at that particular
moment, and, having given utterance to them, she felt that she had done
all that could reasonably be expected of her.

"With your permission, madame," said Browne, to whom the idea had only
that moment occurred, "Katherine and I will spend the whole of
to-morrow in the country together.  I should like to take her to
Fontainebleau.  As you are aware, there are a number of pictures there,
which, according to your own argument, it is only fit and proper I
should study in order to perfect myself on the subject of modern French
art."

After this Parthian shot, Madame, although she knew that such a
proposal was far from being in accordance with the notions of propriety
entertained by the parents and guardians of the country in which they
were at present domiciled, had no objection to raise.  On the contrary,
she had her own reasons for not desiring to thwart Browne at the
commencement of his engagement, and just when he was likely to prove
most useful to her.  Accordingly she expressed great delight at the
arrangement, and hoped that they would spend a happy day together.
Having said this, she wiped away an imaginary tear and heaved a sigh,
which, taken in conjunction, were doubtless intended to convey to the
young people the impression that she was dwelling on the recollection
of similar excursions in which she and the late lamented Bernstein had
indulged at a similar period.

"To-night we must all dine together to celebrate the event," said
Browne enthusiastically, taking no notice whatsoever of the good lady's
expression of woe.  "Where shall it be?"

Katherine was about to protest, but she caught Madame's eye in time,
and desisted.

"I am sure we shall be charmed," returned Madame.  "If you will make
the arrangements, we will meet you wherever you please."

"Shall we say the Maison Doree, then, at eight?  Or would you prefer
the Cafe Anglais, or Au Lion d'Or?"

"The Maison Doree by all means," said Madame, "and at eight.  We will
make a point of being there in good time."

Seeing that it was impossible for him to stay any longer, Browne bade
Madame good-bye, and went across the room to where Katherine was
standing by the window.

"Good-bye," he said, and as he did so he took her hand.

Looking into her eyes, which were filled with as much love as even he
could desire, he put the following question to her, so softly that
Madame, standing at the other end of the room, could not hear: "Are you
happy, Katherine?"

"Very happy," she answered in a similar tone.  "But I cannot help
feeling that I am doing very wrong."

"You are doing nothing of the sort," the young man answered
dogmatically.  "You are doing just the very best and wisest thing a
woman could do.  You must never say such a thing again.  Now, _au
revoir_, until we meet at eight.  I shall count the minutes till then."




CHAPTER X

How Browne got back to his hotel is a mystery to this day.  He had an
insane desire to tell every one he met of his good fortune.  He wanted
to do something to make other people as happy as himself, and, for the
reason that he could find no one else at the moment, had to be content
with overtipping his cabman, and emptying all his spare change into the
hands of a beggar in the Place Vendome.  The afternoon was gray and
cold; but never had the world seemed so fair to him, or so full of
sunshine.  He told himself over and over again that he was the luckiest
man on earth.  He had already built himself several castles in the air,
from the battlements of which the banner of Love was waving gaily.
What a difference he would make in Katherine's life!  She had been poor
hitherto; now his wealth, the proper use of which he had never before
realised, should be devoted to giving her everything that a woman could
dream of or desire.  In his satisfaction with himself and the world in
general, he even forgot his usual dislike for Madame Bernstein.  Was it
not due to her action, he asked himself, that the present happy state
of affairs had been brought about?  In return he would show her that he
was grateful.  As for the morrow, and the excursion to Fontainebleau,
he would send his man at once to arrange for a special train, in order
that they might run no risk of being disturbed or inconvenienced by
other tourists.  On second thoughts, however, he changed his mind.  He
would not do anything so absurd.  He might be a _parvenu_, in a certain
sense, but he did not want to prove himself one to her.  No; they would
go down quietly, sensibly, and unostentatiously like other people.
They would enjoy the outing all the more if they did not attract
unnecessary attention.  Then another idea struck him, and he acted upon
it immediately.  Putting on his hat once more, he left the hotel, and
proceeded in the direction of a certain jeweller's shop.  Having
entered it, he approached the counter, and asked for a plain gold ring
of heavy pattern.  He had at first been tempted to buy her one set with
diamonds and a bracelet to correspond--two articles that should be so
perfect that even millionaires' wives should envy.  That time, however,
would come later on.  At present all that was wanted was something
good, plain, and in perfect taste.  He felt sure she would understand
his action, and think the better of him for it.

Anticipating a large order from the wealthy young Englishman, whom he
recognised immediately, the shopkeeper was a little disappointed.  But
he tried not to show it.  With his precious purchase in his pocket, the
happy young man returned to his hotel to dress for the evening's
entertainment.  Needless to say, he was the first to arrive at the
rendezvous, but it was not very long before Madame Bernstein and
Katherine put in an appearance.  Browne met them at the door and
conducted them upstairs to the room he had reserved.  If the dinner he
had given them in London had proved a success, this one was destined to
prove much more so.  Madame and Browne were in the highest spirits,
while Katharine, though a little shy and reserved, had improved
considerably since the afternoon.  Before they separated, arrangements
were completed for the morning's excursion.  Browne, it was settled,
was to call for Katherine in time to catch the early train, and, in
return for the trust reposed in him, he pledged himself to return her
safely to her guardian before nine in the evening.  Before he retired
to rest that night he opened the window of his bedroom and studied the
heavens with an anxious face.  A few clouds were to be seen away to the
north-west, but elsewhere the stars were shining brightly.  Taken
altogether, there seemed to be every reasonable chance of their having
a fine day for the excursion.

But, alas! how futile are human hopes, for when he woke next morning a
grievous disappointment was in store for him.  Clouds covered the sky,
and a thick drizzle was falling.  A more miserable and dispiriting
prelude to the day could scarcely be imagined.  His disappointment was
intense; and yet, in a life that seemed as dead to him now as the
Neolithic Period, he remembered that he had gone cub-hunting in
England, had fished in Norway, and shot over his deer-forest in the
Highlands in equally bad weather, and without a grumble or a protest.
On the present occasion, however, everything was different; it seemed
to him as if he had a personal grievance to settle with Dame Nature;
and in this spirit he dressed, ate his breakfast, and finally set off
in a cab for the Rue Jacquarie.  Whether Katherine would go out or not
he could not say, but he half-expected she would decline.  Having
passed the _concierge_, he made his way upstairs to Madame Bernstein's
sitting-room.  Neither of the ladies was there, but, after he had
waited for a few minutes, Katherine put in an appearance, dressed in a
tight-fitting costume of some dark material which displayed her slender
figure to perfection.

"What a terrible day!" she said, as she glanced out of the window.  "Do
you think we can go?"

"I will leave it for you to decide," he answered.  "If you consider it
too wet we can easily put it off for another day."

Something in his face must have told her how disappointed he would be
if she refused.  She accordingly took pity on him.

"Let us go," she said.  "I have no doubt it will clear up later on.
Must we start at once?"

"If we wish to catch the train we should leave here in about ten
minutes at latest," he answered.

She thereupon left the room, to return presently with a cup of steaming
chocolate.

"I made this for you myself," she said.  "It will keep you warm.  While
you are drinking it, if you will excuse me, I will go and get ready."

When she returned they made their way to the cab, and in it set off for
the railway station.  Rain was still falling as the train made its way
along the beautiful valley of the Yeres, and it had not ceased when
they had reached Melun.  After that Dame Nature changed her mind, and,
before they reached their destination, the clouds were drawing off, and
long streaks of blue sky were to be plainly observed all round the
horizon.  They left the station in a flood of sunshine; and by the time
they had crossed the gravelled courtyard and approached the main
entrance to the palace, the sun was as warm and pleasant as on a spring
day.

It would be difficult to over-estimate the pleasure Browne derived from
that simple excursion.  He had visited Fontainebleau many times before,
but never had he thought it so beautiful or half so interesting as he
did on the present occasion.  When she had overcome the first novelty
of her position, Katherine adapted herself to it with marvellous
celerity.  Side by side they wandered through those rooms of many
memories, in the wake of the custodian, whom they could not persuade to
allow them to pass through alone, even under the stimulus of a large
gratuity.  Passing through the apartments of Napoleon, of Marie
Antoinette, of Francis the First, they speculated and mused over the
cradle of the infant king of Rome, and the equally historic table upon
which Napoleon signed his abdication.

The wonders of the palace exhausted, they proceeded into the gardens,
visited and fed the famous carp, tested the merits of the labyrinth,
and marvelled at the vineries.  Finally they returned to the village in
search of luncheon.  The afternoon was devoted to exploring the forest,
and when dusk had descended they dined at the Hotel de France et
d'Angleterre, and afterwards returned to Paris.  It was during the
homeward journey, that Browne found occasion to carry out a little
scheme, of which he had been thinking all day.  Taking from his pocket
the ring he had purchased on the previous evening, he secured
Katherine's hand and slipped it on her slender finger.

"The symbol of my love, darling," he said softly.  "As this little
circlet of gold surrounds your finger, so my love will encompass you on
every side throughout your life.  Wear it in remembrance of my words."

Her heart being too full to answer him, she could only press his hand,
and leave it to him to understand.

Faithful to his promise, he delivered Katherine into the keeping of her
guardian before nine o'clock.  Both declared that they had had a
delightful day, and Madame Bernstein expressed her joy at hearing it.
It seemed to Browne, however, that there was an air of suppressed
excitement about her on this particular evening which he could not
understand.  When he bade them good-bye he returned to his hotel,
feeling that he had come to the end of the happiest day of all his life.

Next morning he was standing in the hall preparatory to going out, when
his servant approached him and handed him a note.  One glance at the
address was sufficient to tell him from whom it came.  He had only seen
the handwriting once before, but every letter had been engraved upon
his heart.  He tore it open, delighted at receiving it, yet wondering
at her reason for communicating with him.

"Dear love," it began, "when you asked me the other day to be your
wife, I tried so hard to make you see that what you wished was quite
impossible.  Yesterday we were so happy together; and now I have had
some news which makes me see, even more clearly than I did then, that I
have no right to let you link your life with mine.  Hard as it is for
me to have to say it, I have no choice left but to do so.  You must
forget me; and, if you can, forgive me.  But remember always this
promise that I give you: if I cannot marry you, no other man shall ever
call me wife.--KATHERINE PETROVITCH."

Browne stood for some moments, like a man dazed, in the hall among the
crowd of happy tourists, holding the letter in his hand, and staring
straight before him.  His whole being seemed numbed and dead.  He could
not understand it; he could not even realise that she was attempting to
put herself out of his life for ever.

"There must be some mistake," he whispered to himself; and then added:
"She admits that she loves me, and yet she wants to give me up.  I will
not allow myself to think that it can be true.  I must go to her at
once, and see her, and hear it from her own lips before I will believe."

He thereupon went out into the street, called a cab, and set off for
the Rue Jacquarie.




CHAPTER XI

When Browne reached the Rue Jacquarie, after his receipt of the letter
which had caused him so much pain and consternation, it was to learn
that Katherine was not at home, and to find Madame Bernstein in her
sitting-room, sniffing vigorously at a bottle of smelling-salts, and on
the verge of hysterics.  Seeing Browne, she sprang to her feet with a
cry that was half one of relief, and half of fear.

"Oh, Monsieur Browne," said she, "Heaven be praised that you have come!
I have had such terrible trouble this morning, and have passed through
such a scene with Katherine that my nerves are quite unstrung."

"Where is Katherine?" Browne inquired almost angrily, and quite
ignoring the description of her woes; "and what is the meaning of the
letter she wrote me this morning?"

"You must not be angry with her," said Madame, approaching and laying
her hand gently upon his arm, while she looked up into his face, with
what was intended to be a piteous expression.  "The poor child is only
doing what she deems to be right.  You would not have her act
otherwise, I know."

"You understand my feelings, I think," Browne replied bluntly.  "At the
same time, I know how over-conscientious she is apt to be in such
matters.  Cannot I see her?  Where is she?"

"She has gone out," said Madame, with a sigh.  "She and I, I am sorry
to say, had a little disagreement this morning over her treatment of
you.  I know it was very wrong of me, and that you will hate me for it;
but I could not help it.  I could not let her spoil her own life and
yours without uttering a protest.  As a result, she did what she always
does--that is to say, she put on her hat and cape, and went for a walk."

"But have you no notion where I could find her?" asked Browne, who was
beginning to feel that everything and everybody were conspiring against
him.  "Has she any usual haunts, where I should run a moderate chance
of coming across her?"

"On that point I am afraid I can say nothing," answered Madame.  "She
seldom takes me into her confidence.  Yet, stay; I _do_ remember having
heard her once say that, when she was put out by anything, the only
thing that could soothe her, and set her right again, was a visit to
the picture galleries at the Louvre."

"You are sure you know of no other place?"

"None whatever," replied the lady.  "The pictures at the Louvre are the
only things in Paris in which she seems to take any interest.  She is
insane on the subject."

"In that case I'll try the Louvre at once," said Browne, picking up his
hat.

"But let me first explain to you the reason of all that has happened,"
said Madame, stretching out her hand as if to detain him.

"Thank you," Browne returned, with greater coldness than he had ever
yet spoken to her; "but, if you do not mind, I would rather hear that
from her own lips."

With that he bade Madame good-bye, and made his way down to the street
once more.  From the Rue Jacquarie to the Louvre is not more than a ten
minutes' drive at most--that is to say, if you proceed by the Avenue de
l'Opera,--and yet to Browne it seemed as if he were hours in the cab.
On entering the museum he made his way direct to the picture galleries.
The building had not been long open, and for this reason only a few
people were to be seen in the corridors, a circumstance for which
Browne was devoutly thankful.  It was not until he reached Room IV.
that he knew he was not to have his journey in vain.  Standing before
Titian's "Entombment of Christ," her hands clasped before her, was
Katherine.  Her whole being seemed absorbed in enjoyment of the
picture, and it was not until he was close to her that she turned and
saw him.  When she did, he noticed that her face was very white and
haggard, and that she looked as if she had not slept for many nights.

"Oh, why have you followed me?" she asked piteously.

"I have come to acknowledge in person the letter you sent me this
morning," he answered.  "Surely, Katherine, you did not think I should
do as you asked me, and go away without even bidding you good-bye?"

"I hoped you would," she answered, and her lips trembled as she uttered
the words.

"Then you do not know me," he replied, "nor do you know yourself.  No,
darling; you are my affianced wife, and I refuse to go.  What is more,
I will not give you up, come what may.  Surely you do not think that
mine is such a fair-weather love that it must be destroyed by the first
adverse wind?  Try it and see."

"But I cannot and must not," she answered; and then she added, with
such a weight of sorrow in her voice, that it was as much as he could
do to prevent himself from taking her in his arms and comforting her,
"Oh, you can have no idea how unhappy I am!"

"The more reason that I should be with you to comfort you, darling," he
declared.  "What am I here for, if not to help you?  You do not seem to
have realised my proper position in the world.  If you are not very
careful, I shall pick you up and carry you off to the nearest parson,
and marry you, willy-nilly; and after that you'll be obliged to put the
management of your affairs in my hands, whether you want to or not."

She looked at him a little reproachfully.

"Please don't joke about it," she said.  "I assure you it is by no
means a laughing matter to me."

"Nor is it to me," answered Browne.  "I should have liked you to have
seen my face when I read your letter.  I firmly believe I was the most
miserable man in Europe."

She offered no reply to this speech, and perhaps that was why a little
old gentleman, the same old man in the threadbare black cloak and
old-fashioned hat who haunts the galleries, and who entered at that
moment, imagined that they were quarrelling.

"Come," said the young man at last, "let us find a place where we can
sit down and talk unobserved.  Then we'll thrash the matter out
properly."

"But it will be no use," replied Katherine.  "Believe me, I have
thought it out most carefully, and have quite made up my mind what I
must do.  Please do not ask me to break the resolutions I have made."

"I will not ask you to do anything but love me, dear," returned Browne.
"The unfortunate part of it is, you see, I also have made resolutions
that you, on your side, must not ask me to break.  In that case it
seems that we have come to a deadlock, and the only way out of it is
for us to start afresh, to discuss the matter thoroughly, and so arrive
at an understanding.  Come along; I know an excellent corner, where we
can talk without fear of being disturbed.  Let us find it."

Seeing that to protest would be useless, and deriving a feeling of
safety from his masterfulness, she allowed him to lead her along the
galleries until they reached the corner to which he had referred.  No
one was in sight, not even the little old man in the cloak, who was
probably gloating, according to custom, over the "Venus del Pardo" in
Room VI.

"Now let us sit down," said Browne, pointing to the seat, "and you must
tell me everything.  Remember, I have a right to know; and reflect also
that, if there is any person in this wide world who can help you, it is
I, your husband in the sight of God, if not by the law of man."

He took her hand, and found that it was trembling.  He pressed it
within his own as if to give her courage.

"Tell me everything, darling," he said--"everything from the very
beginning to the end.  Then I shall know how to help you.  I can see
that you have been worrying yourself about it more than is good for
your health.  Let me share the responsibility with you."

She had to admit to herself that, after all, it was good to have a man
to lean upon, to feel that such a pillar of strength was behind her.
For this reason she unconsciously drew a little closer to him, as
though she would seek shelter in his arms and defy the world from that
place of security.

"Now let me have your story," said Browne.  "Hide nothing from me; for
only when I know all, shall I be in a position to say how I am to help
you."

He felt a shudder sweep over her as he said this, and a considerable
interval elapsed before she replied.  When she did her voice was harsh
and strained, as if she were nerving herself to make an admission,
which she would rather not have allowed to pass her lips.

"You cannot imagine," she said, "how it pains me to have to tell you my
pitiful tale.  And yet I feel that I should be doing you a far greater
wrong if I were to keep silence.  It is not for myself that I feel
this, but for you.  Whatever may be my fate, whatever may come later, I
want you always to remember that."

"I will remember," her lover replied softly.  "But you must not think
of me at all, dear.  I am content to serve you.  Now tell me
everything."

Once more she was silent for a few moments, as though she were
collecting her thoughts; then she commenced her tale.




CHAPTER XII

"To begin with, I must tell you that my name is not Petrovitch at all:
it is Polowski; Petrovitch was my mother's maiden name.  Why I adopted
it, instead of bearing my father's, you will understand directly.  I
was born in Warsaw, where my parents at the time had a temporary home.
Though she died when I was only seven years old, I can distinctly
remember my mother as a tall, beautiful Hungarian woman, who used to
sing me the sweetest songs I have ever heard in my life every evening
when I went to bed.  Oh, how well I can recall those songs!"  Her eyes
filled with tears at the recollection.  "Then there came a time when
she did not put me to bed, and when I was not allowed to see her.
Night after night I cried for her, I remember, until one evening an old
woman, in whose charge I had often been left, when my father and mother
were absent from the city, told me that I should never see her again,
for she was dead.  I did not know the meaning of death then; but I have
learnt since that there are things which are worse, infinitely worse,
than merely ceasing to live.  My recollections of that period are not
very distinct; but I can recall the fact that my poor mother lay in a
room at the back of the house, and that old Maritza wept for her
continually.  There was much mystery also; and once an old gray-haired
man said to some one in my presence, '_Do you think he will be fool
enough to come when they are watching for him at every turn?_'  To
which the other replied, '_I am sure he will come, for he loved her._'
Then came the funeral, a dark and dreary day, which, when I look back
upon it all now, seems like the beginning of a new life to me.  I was
only a little child, and when they brought me home from the cemetery I
fell asleep almost before my head touched the pillow.  In the middle of
the night I was awakened by a loud cry, a trampling on the stairs, and
a moment later the noise of men fighting in the corridor outside my
room.  Terrified almost out of my senses, I crouched in my little bed
and listened.  Then an order was given by some one, followed by the
sound of more trampling on the stairs, and after that all was silence.
Though, of course, I did not know it then, my father had been arrested
by the police as a dangerous Nihilist, and, a month later, was on his
way to Siberia.  It was not until I was old enough to understand, that
I heard that he had been concerned in an attempt upon the life of the
Czar.  From what was told me then, and from what I have since learnt,
there seems to have been little or no doubt but that he was connected
with a dangerous band of Nihilists, and that he was not only mixed up
in the affair for which he was condemned to penal servitude for life,
but that he was one of the originators of the plot itself.  And yet the
only recollection I have of him is of a kind and loving father who,
when he was at home, used to tell me fairy stories, and who declared
his wife to be the sweetest woman in the world."

"Poor little girl," said Browne, pressing the hand he held, "you had
indeed an unhappy childhood; but you have not yet told me how you came
to be placed under the guardianship of Madame Bernstein."

"She was an old friend of my father's," Katherine replied; "and when my
mother died, and he was sent to Siberia, she adopted me.  I owe her a
debt of gratitude that I can never repay; for, though she is perhaps a
little peculiar in some things, she has been a very good and kind
friend to me."

"And have you always been--well, shall we say--dependent on her?" asked
Browne, with a little diffidence, for it was a delicate matter for a
young man to touch upon with a proud and high-spirited girl.

"Oh no," Katherine replied.  "You see, soon after my mother's death it
was discovered by some one--I cannot remember who--that one of her
brothers was dead, and that by his will I, as his sole heiress,
inherited his money.  From your point of view it would be nothing, but
to me it meant a great deal.  It was carefully invested, and it brings
me in, in English money, just three hundred pounds a year.  Of course
we cannot do much with such a sum; but, as we have no expensive tastes,
Madame Bernstein and I find that with it, and the sum I make by my
painting, we are just able to make both ends meet."

On hearing this Browne pricked up his ears.  This was putting a new
complexion on the affair.

"Do you mean to say that Madame Bernstein has no income of her own, and
that all these years she has been living upon you?"

"Yes.  And why not?  You cannot realise what a wonderful manager she
is.  I should not be able to do half as much with it if I had the sole
control of my money."

"This is a matter which will have to be attended to in the near
future," said Browne to himself.  Then, aloud, he added, "Never mind,
little woman; when you are my wife Madame shall retire in luxury.  She
shall not find us ungrateful, believe me.  But continue your story.
Or, I fancy, you had better let me finish it for you.  You have told me
that you have lived with Madame Bernstein, or rather, to be correct,
that she has lived with you, for many years.  You have travelled from
place to place about Europe; for some reason or another you have had no
fixed home; then you began to paint, and during the whole time you have
denied yourself all sorts of things in order that Madame should live in
the lap of luxury.  Oh, don't dispute it, for I know what has happened
as well as if I had been there to see.  In the course of your
peregrinations you went to Norway.  There we met.  Six months later you
came to London, during which time I had been wondering whether I should
ever see you again.  Fate arranged that we should meet.  I found you
even more adorable than before, followed you to Paris, proposed and was
accepted, and, like all pretty stories, ours must, and shall end with
the music of wedding bells."

"Impossible," she answered.  "From what I have already shown you, you
must see that it could not be.  Had my life been differently situated I
should have been proud--you do not know how proud--to be your wife;
but, as it is, it is quite out of the question.  Some day you will see
that yourself, and will thank me for having prevented you from spoiling
your life by a foolish marriage."

Browne saw that she was in deadly earnest.  He was about to argue the
question with her, but the look upon her face stopped him.  For the
moment he was frightened in spite of himself, and could only stammer
out, "I shall never see it."

"You _must_ see it," she answered.  "There is a task I have set for
myself, which I must finish, come what may."

"Then, whatever it may be, I will share it with you," said Browne.
"You must doubt my love, Katherine, if you refuse to let me help you."

"I do not doubt your love," she answered, "but it is quite out of the
question that I could avail myself of your assistance in this matter."

"I will not believe it," he continued.  "You are only saying it because
you do not wish to inculpate me.  But I _will_ be inculpated, come what
may.  Tell me what it is you have to do, and I will help you to carry
it through to the best of my ability; helping you where help is needed,
and counselling you where you stand in need of advice.  In other words,
I place myself and all I have in the world at your disposal, darling,
to do with as you will."

"You are too noble," she answered; "too good and true.  What other man
would do as much?"

"Any man," he answered, "who loves a woman as I love you."

"There can be but few who love so well," she replied softly, for her
heart was touched more than she could say; "and yet, good as you are, I
cannot accept your help.  You do not know what I am about to attempt."

"I do not care what it is," he answered; "it makes no sort of
difference to my promise."

"But it would afterwards," she said.  "Why, do you not remember that I
am the daughter of a convict; that my father was sent to Siberia to
live in chains to the end of his days?  He remained there for many
years.  Afterwards he was despatched to the island of Saghalien, where
he now is.  News has reached us within the last few days that he is
ill, and that unless he leaves the island he will not live another
year."

"How did you hear that?" Browne inquired.

"Through Madame Bernstein," Katherine replied.  "Ever since my father
was first arrested she has managed somehow or other to obtain news of
him."

"And what is it you intend to do?"

"To help him to escape," the girl replied.

"But it would be impossible," said Browne, horrified at her
declaration.  "You must not dream of such a thing."

"But I do more than dream of it," she replied.  "Remember, he is my
father, my own flesh and blood, who is ill and suffering.  You say you
love me?"

"I think you know by this time that I do," said Browne.

"Then what would you do if I were seized and carried away to a terrible
island, where my life would be one long torture?  Would you not do your
best to rescue me?"

"Of course I would," said Browne indignantly.  "You need not ask that."

"Very well, then, you can see now how I feel.  I do not say that he was
right in his beliefs or in what he did; on the contrary, I think that
he was distinctly wrong.  The fact, however, remains that he is my
father; and, however great his faults may have been, he has at least
been punished for them.  Can you picture what his existence must have
been these many years?  But of course you cannot.  You do not know
anything of Russian prisons.  They have been described to me, however,
by one who has seen them, and the account has filled me with such
terror as I have never known in my life before."

"But it would be sheer madness for you to attempt to rescue him," said
Browne.  "You could not possibly succeed.  Your effort would be
foredoomed to failure."

"It is very probable," she answered; "but would you have me for that
reason draw back?  It is my duty to make the attempt, even if I fail.
You would have done the same for your own father, I know, had he been
in the same position.  Why should I not therefore do it for mine?"

"Because--why, because it is too preposterous," said Browne, at loss
for a better reason.  "I never heard of such a thing.  You have not the
least idea of the magnitude of the danger of what you are attempting."

"Perhaps not," she said.  "But if all those who make an attempt could
foresee the result, I fancy only a very small percentage would continue
to strive.  No; if you love me, you will not try to make a coward of
me, just at the time when I am trying to do what I consider right."

Browne took counsel with himself.  The position was the most
extraordinary he had ever faced.  In his life he had met with many
peculiar people, but never had he been brought in contact with a young
girl who was willing to give up love, wealth, comfort, every prospect
of happiness, even life itself, in order to attempt what was neither
more nor less than a hopeless and impossible undertaking.  And yet,
short as his acquaintance with Katharine had been, he felt that he knew
her well enough to be convinced that she would not abandon her purpose
without a struggle.  "Loyalty before all" was his motto where she was
concerned.  He loved her, and if it was her desire to assist a by no
means respectable father to escape from the prison in which he was very
rightly confined, he must help her to the best of his abilities,
without considering the cost to himself.  It would be a terrible
business; but, at any rate, he would then be able to assure himself
that she did not come to any harm.

"And you are determined to carry out this foolish scheme?" he asked.
"Is there nothing I can say or do that will be at all likely to
dissuade you from your purpose?"

"Nothing at all," she answered slowly, looking him steadily in the
face.  "My mind is quite made up."

"Very good, then," he continued; "in that case I will not oppose you
further.  Tell me how you propose to set about it."

She shook her head.  "I do not know yet," she answered.  "But you may
be sure I will do it somehow.  There must be a way, if I can only find
it.  At any rate, I am not afraid to look for it."

Browne glanced at the pale yet determined face before him, and noted
the strength of the mouth and chin.  There was sufficient strength of
mind there to carry the matter through, provided the needful
opportunities were supplied.  But would they be forthcoming?  One thing
was quite certain, she could not possibly manage with the limited means
at her disposal.  There at least she would be compelled to apply to him.

"Katherine," he said at last, "I have told you repeatedly that I love
you, and now I am going to try to prove it to you.  You say you are
desirous of rescuing your father.  Very good; then I am going to help
you to do so.  It will at least demonstrate the sincerity of my love
for you, and will show you that all the assertions I have made are not
merely so much idle chatter, but what I really feel."

"You would help me?" she gasped, staggered for the moment at the
magnitude of his proposal.  "Surely you do not know what you are
saying?"

"I mean what I say," he answered.  "If you are bent on rescuing your
father I will help you.  But I only offer my services on one condition."

"And what is that?"

"That as soon as this business is finished you become my wife."

"But I cannot let you do it," she answered.  "Why should I draw you
into it?"

"I do it because I love you, and because you love me," he answered.
"Surely that is sufficient reason."

"But----"

"We'll have no more _buts_, if you please," said Browne.  "If it is a
bargain, say so.  This is going to be a genuine business contract, of
which the terms are, that I am to do my best to assist your father to
escape, and in return you are to be my wife as soon as the work is
completed."

She looked at him almost tearfully.  Though she felt it was her duty as
a daughter to help her father, she nevertheless could not reconcile it
to her conscience to draw the man she loved into danger.  By this time
they had risen from the seat, and were standing facing each other.

"Is it to be a bargain, Katherine?"

She did not answer, but, drawing his face down to hers, she kissed him
on the lips.

"I understand," he said; "then we'll count it settled.  I'll commence
work to-day, and let you know what arrangements I am able to make.  You
trust me, Katherine, do you not?"

"With my whole heart and soul," she answered.  "Who has ever been so
good to me as you have been?"

"That has nothing at all to do with it," he said.  "Now I'll take you
down to the street, put you in a cab, and send you home to Madame to
tell, or not to tell her, as you think best, the arrangement we have
come to."

"She will thank you as I have done," said Katherine.

"I hope not," said Browne, and, as he said it, he laughed.

She saw his playful meaning, and followed his example.  Then Browne
conducted her to the street, and, having placed her in a cab, sent her
home, promising to call later on in the day to report progress.  When
she was safely on her way he glanced at his watch, and, finding it was
not yet twelve o'clock, turned into the Amphitryon Club.  He found Maas
in the hall putting on his fur coat preparatory to leaving.

"My dear Browne," he said, "where on earth have you hidden yourself
since your arrival in Paris?  We have seen nothing of you here."

"I have been too busy," Browne replied, with an air of great
responsibility.  "If you only knew all that I have gone through this
morning you would be very much surprised."

"My dear fellow," said Maas, "I believe I should be nothing of the
kind.  Vellencourt was married yesterday, and since I heard that news I
am past being surprised at anything.  I leave for London to-night.
When do you return?"

"I scarcely know," Browne replied.  "It may be to-day, and it may not
be for a week.  I am sick of Europe, and am half-thinking of arranging
a yachting trip to the Farther East."

"The deuce you are!" said Maas.  "What on earth has put that notion
into your head?"

"What puts notions into anybody's head?" Browne inquired.  "I have
often wanted to have a look at the Japanese Sea and the islands to the
north of it.  How do you know that I don't aspire to the honour of
reading a paper on the subject before the Geographical Society--eh?"

"Geographical fiddlesticks!" replied the other; and, when he had shaken
Browne by the hand, he bade him "good-bye," and went down the steps,
saying to himself as he did so, "Madame Bernstein, her adopted
daughter, and the islands to the north of Japan.  It seems to me, my
dear Browne, that when you start upon this wonderful cruise your old
friend Maas will have to accompany you."




CHAPTER XIII

It may very safely be taken for granted, I think, that the happiness or
unhappiness, success or non-success, of one's life is brought about not
so much by deliberate education or design, if I may so express it, as
by some small event, the proper importance of which is far from being
recognisable at the time.  For instance, had Browne not undertaken that
yachting cruise to Norway when he did, it is scarcely probable he would
ever have met Katherine Petrovitch.  In that case he would very
possibly have married the daughter of some impecunious peer, have
bolstered up a falling house with his wealth, have gone into
Parliament, received a title in due course, and would eventually have
descended to the family vault, in most respects a mediocre man.  But,
as Fate willed, he _did_ go to Norway--met Katherine, fell in love with
her, and now----  But there, with such a long story before me, it will
scarcely do for me to risk an anti-climax by anticipating.  Let it
suffice that, after he had said "good-bye" to Maas, he lunched at the
club, deriving a certain amount of pleasure meanwhile from the
knowledge that he was engaged in a business which, should it become
known, would undoubtedly plunge him into a considerable amount of hot
water!  And when you come to think of it, how strange is the pleasure
the human mind finds in the possession of a secret!  In our childhood
it is a joy second only to the delight of a new toy.  Anarchism,
Nihilism, Fenianism, and indeed the fundamental principle of every
order of secret society, is the same thing, only on a larger and more
dangerous scale, carried out by perverted imaginations and in the wrong
direction.  The fact, however, remains, that Browne, as I have said,
derived a considerable amount of satisfaction from the feeling that he
was, in a certain sense, a conspirator.  Plainly as he had expressed
himself to Katherine, however, it is extremely doubtful whether he
himself realised how difficult and dangerous the task he had taken upon
himself was likely to prove.  The Russian Government, at the best of
times, is like dynamite, a thing to be handled carefully; and one
minute's consideration was sufficient to show him that the work he had
pledged himself to undertake was not one that, in the event of things
going wrong, would entitle him to the sympathy of his own Government.
He thought of the Duke of Matlock, and wondered what he would say if it
should ever become known that he, John Grantham Browne, had assisted in
the escape of a Russian Nihilist from the island of Saghalien.  He
could very well imagine the pious horror of the Duchess when the
various rumours, which would be certain to go the round of the clubs,
should reach her ears.  And this suggested a still more unpleasant
reflection.  What if he should fail in his attempt to rescue the man,
and should find himself in the clutches of the Russian Bear?  What
would his fate be then?  His own country could scarcely demand his
release, seeing that he would, in all probability, be caught
red-handed.  He put the thought away from him, however, as having
nothing to do with the case.  It was Katherine's father who stood in
need of assistance, and it was Katherine's happiness which was at
stake.  That was enough for him.  With the remembrance of her
gratitude, and of the look he had seen in her face, when he had
promised to help her, still fresh in his mind, such a thing as counting
the cost was not to be thought of.  Having finished his lunch, he
returned to his hotel, to find a note upon his sitting-room table.  It
was from Katherine.  He opened it, with a feeling that was half
eagerness and half fear in his heart, and read as follows:

"DEAR LOVE,--How can I make you see how good I think you are, and how
little I deserve such treatment at your hands!  There is no one else in
the world who would do what you have done, and I shall thank God always
for sending you to my assistance.  Believe me, I know how much you are
risking, and how much you are giving up, and are willing to forfeit,
for my sake.  Oh, if I could only repay you as you deserve!  But, come
what may, you will always have my love, and my life-long gratitude.
To-night an old friend will be with us, who in happier days knew my
father.  Will you not come and let me introduce you to him?"

The letter was signed, "Your loving Katherine," and to Browne this
seemed to be the pith and essence of its contents.  How different it
was from the note he had received that morning!  They were as different
as light and darkness, as black and white, as any simile that could be
employed.  In one she had declared that it was impossible for her ever
to become his wife, and in the other she signed herself, "Your loving
Katherine."  Of course he would go that evening, not because the old
man had been acquainted with her father, for he would have gone just as
willingly if he had had a bowing acquaintance with her grandmother.
All he wanted was the opportunity of seeing Katherine, of being in the
same house and room with her, of watching the woman he loved, and who
had promised to be his wife.

Accordingly, that evening after dinner, he hailed a cab and drove to
the Rue Jacquarie.  As he passed along the crowded thoroughfares, he
could not help contrasting the different occasions on which he had
visited that street.  The first time had been on the night of his
arrival in Paris, when he had gone there in order to locate the house;
the next was that on which he had repaired there in response to the
note from Madame Bernstein; then, again, on the morning of that happy
day they had spent together at Fontainebleau; while the last was after
that miserable letter he had received from Katherine, in which she bade
him give up the idea that she could ever become his wife.

On this occasion it was indeed a happy young man who jumped out of the
vehicle and nodded to the _concierge_ as he passed her and ran up the
stairs.  When he knocked at the door of Madame's sitting-room, a voice
from within told him to enter.  He did so, to find Katherine, Madame,
and an old gentleman, whom he had never seen before, seated there.
Katherine hastened forward to greet him.  If he had not already been
rewarded for all the anxiety and pain he had experienced during the
last few days, and for the promise he had given that morning, the look
upon her face now would have fully compensated him.

"I thought you would come," she said; and then, dropping her voice a
little, she added, "I have been watching the hands of the clock, and
waiting for you."

But, even if Katherine were so kind in her welcome to him, she was not
destined to have the whole ceremony in her hands, for by this time
Madame Bernstein had risen from her chair and was approaching him.
Browne glanced at her, and his instinct told him what was coming.
Knowing the lady so well, he felt convinced she would not permit such
an opportunity to pass without making the most of it.

"Ah, Monsieur Browne," she began, her voice trembling with emotion and
the ready tear rising in her eye, "you cannot understand how we feel
towards you.  Katherine has told me of your act of self-sacrifice.  It
is noble of you; it is grand!  But Heaven will reward you for your
goodness to an orphan child."

"My dear Madame Bernstein," said Browne, who by this time was covered
with confusion, "you really must not thank me like this.  I do not
deserve it.  I am not doing much after all; and besides, it is for
Katherine's sake, and that makes the difference.  If we succeed, as I
hope and trust we shall, it will be an adventure that we shall remember
all our lives long."  He stopped suddenly, remembering that there was a
third person present who might not be in the secret.  Being an
ingenuous youth, the th

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