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 Vendôme. 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 aparvenu, 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 theconcierge, 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 Yerès, 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 Hôtel 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.
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; Idoremember 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'Opéra,—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.
"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."
"Youmustsee 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 Iwillbe 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 morebuts, 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."
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, hedidgo 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 theconciergeas 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 thought of his indiscretion caused him to blush furiously. Katherine, however, was quick to undeceive him.
"You need have no fear," she said; "we are all friends here. Let me introduce you to Herr Otto Sauber, who, as I told you in my letter, is an old friend of my father's."
The old man, sitting at the farther end of the room, rose and hobbled forward to take Browne's hand. He was a strange-looking little fellow. His face was small and round, his skin was wrinkled into a thousand furrows, while his hair was snow-white, and fell upon his shoulders in wavy curls. His age could scarcely have been less than seventy. Trouble had plainly marked him for her own; and if his threadbare garments could be taken as any criterion, he was on the verge of actual poverty. Whatever his nationality may have been, he spoke French, which was certainly not his mother-tongue, with considerable fluency.
"My dear young friend," he said, as he took Browne's hand, "allow me, as an old man and a patriot, to thank you for what you are about to do. I sum up my feelings when I say that it is an action I do not think you will ever regret." Then, placing his hand on the girl's shoulder, he continued: "I am, as I understand Katherine has told you, an old friend of her father's. I remember him first as a strong, high-spirited lad, who had not a base thought in his nature. I remember him later as a man of more mature years, whose whole being was saddened by the afflictions and wrongs his fellow-countrymen were suffering; and still later on I wished him God-speed upon his weary march, with his brother exiles, to Siberia. In God's good time, and through your agency, I look forward to welcoming him among us once more. Madame Bernstein tells me you love the little Katherine here. If so, I can only say that I think you are going the right way to prove it. I pray that you may know long life and happiness together."
The old gentleman was genuinely affected. Large tears trickled down his weather-beaten cheeks, and his voice became thick and husky. Browne's tender heart was touched by this unexpected display of emotion, and he felt a lump rising in his throat, that for a few seconds threatened to choke him. And yet, what was there to account for it? Only a young man, a pretty girl, a stout middle-aged lady in a puce gown, and a seedy old foreigner, who, in days long gone by, had known the young girl's father. After this little episode they quieted down somewhat, and Madame Bernstein proposed that they should discuss the question they had so much at heart. They did so accordingly, with the exception of the old gentleman, who sat almost silent. It was not until he heard her expound the subject, that Browne became aware of the extent and thoroughness of Madame's knowledge concerning Russia and her criminal administration. She was familiar with every detail, even to the names and family histories of the various governors and officers; she knew who might be considered venal, and whom it would be dangerous to attempt to bribe; who were lenient with their charges, and who lost no opportunity of tyrannizing over the unfortunates whom Fate had placed in their power. Listening to her one might very well have supposed that she had herself travelled every verst of that weary road. Plan after plan she propounded, until Browne felt his brain reel under the strain of it. A little before midnight he rose to leave, and Herr Sauber followed his example.
"If Monsieur Browne is walking in the direction of the Rue de l'Opéra, I should be glad of his company," he said. "That is to say, if he has no objection to being hindered by a poor old cripple, who can scarcely draw one foot after the other."
Browne expressed the pleasure such a walk would afford him; and, when they had bidden the ladies good-night, they set off together.