The Red Rat's Daughter Part 11

Before she could protest he had taken her in his arms and covered her face with kisses. She struggled to escape, but he was too strong for her. At last he let her go.

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

"Since you have confessed that you love me, we will see about that,"

said Browne quietly but determinedly. "In the meantime, remember that I am your affianced lover. Nothing can alter that. But, hark! if I am not mistaken, I hear Madame Bernstein."

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

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

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

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

"I always hoped and prayed that it would be so," she went on to say.

"It has been my wish for years to see you happily married, Katherine.

Now I can feel that my work in life is done, and that I can go down to my grave in peace, knowing that, whatever happens, you will be well protected."

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

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

After this Parthian shot, Madame, although she knew that such a proposal was far from being in accordance with the notions of propriety entertained by the parents and guardians of the country in which they were at present domiciled, had no objection to raise. On the contrary, she had her own reasons for not desiring to thwart Browne at the commencement of his engagement, and just when he was likely to prove most useful to her. Accordingly she expressed great delight at the arrangement, and hoped that they would spend a happy day together.

Having said this, she wiped away an imaginary tear and heaved a sigh, which, taken in conjunction, were doubtless intended to convey to the young people the impression that she was dwelling on the recollection of similar excursions in which she and the late lamented Bernstein had indulged at a similar period.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER X

How Browne got back to his hotel is a mystery to this day. He had an insane desire to tell every one he met of his good fortune. He wanted to do something to make other people as happy as himself, and, for the reason that he could find no one else at the moment, had to be content with overtipping his cabman, and emptying all his spare change into the hands of a beggar in the Place Vendome. The afternoon was gray and cold; but never had the world seemed so fair to him, or so full of sunshine. He told himself over and over again that he was the luckiest man on earth. He had already built himself several castles in the air, from the battlements of which the banner of Love was waving gaily.

What a difference he would make in Katherine's life! She had been poor hitherto; now his wealth, the proper use of which he had never before realised, should be devoted to giving her everything that a woman could dream of or desire. In his satisfaction with himself and the world in general, he even forgot his usual dislike for Madame Bernstein. Was it not due to her action, he asked himself, that the present happy state of affairs had been brought about? In return he would show her that he was grateful. As for the morrow, and the excursion to Fontainebleau, he would send his man at once to arrange for a special train, in order that they might run no risk of being disturbed or inconvenienced by other tourists. On second thoughts, however, he changed his mind. He would not do anything so absurd. He might be a _parvenu_, in a certain sense, but he did not want to prove himself one to her. No; they would go down quietly, sensibly, and unostentatiously like other people.

They would enjoy the outing all the more if they did not attract unnecessary attention. Then another idea struck him, and he acted upon it immediately. Putting on his hat once more, he left the hotel, and proceeded in the direction of a certain jeweller's shop. Having entered it, he approached the counter, and asked for a plain gold ring of heavy pattern. He had at first been tempted to buy her one set with diamonds and a bracelet to correspond--two articles that should be so perfect that even millionaires' wives should envy. That time, however, would come later on. At present all that was wanted was something good, plain, and in perfect taste. He felt sure she would understand his action, and think the better of him for it.

Antic.i.p.ating 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 pa.s.sed the _concierge_, he made his way upstairs to Madame Bernstein's sitting-room. Neither of the ladies was there, but, after he had waited for a few minutes, Katherine put in an appearance, dressed in a tight-fitting costume of some dark material which displayed her slender figure to perfection.

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

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

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

"Let us go," she said. "I have no doubt it will clear up later on.

Must we start at once?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The symbol of my love, darling," he said softly. "As this little circlet of gold surrounds your finger, so my love will encompa.s.s 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.