The Red Rat's Daughter Part 12

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 pa.s.sed 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'Opera,--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 circ.u.mstance 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 t.i.tian'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, w.i.l.l.y-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 a.s.sure 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 un.o.bserved. 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 G.o.d, 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 pa.s.s 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 grat.i.tude 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.