Boothby Guy
The Red Rat's Daughter

CHAPTER XI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With that he bade Madame good-bye, and made his way down to the street once more. From the Rue Jacquarie to the Louvre is not more than a ten minutes' drive at most – that is to say, if you proceed by the Avenue de l'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.

CHAPTER XII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How did you hear that?" Browne inquired.

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

"And what is it you intend to do?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And what is that?"

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

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

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

"But – "

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

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

"Is it to be a bargain, Katherine?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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