The Red Rat's Daughter

"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 Vendôme. 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 Æneas 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 viâ 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."