Boothby Guy
The Red Rat's Daughter

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 Dorée, then, at eight? Or would you prefer the Café Anglais, or Au Lion d'Or?"

"The Maison Dorée 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 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 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 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.