Kitabı oku: «The Red Rat's Daughter», sayfa 13

CHAPTER XXIII

Taking one thing with another, Browne's night after the incident described at the end of the previous chapter was far from being a good one. He could not, try how he would, solve the mystery as to what had become of that envelope. He had hunted the cabin through and through, and searched his pockets times without number, but always with the same lack of success. As he lay turning the matter over and over in his mind, he remembered that he had heard the soft shutting of a door as he descended the companion-ladder, and also that Maas had betrayed considerable embarrassment when he entered the saloon. It was absurd, however, to suppose that he could have had any hand in its disappearance. But the fact remained that the envelope was gone. He rang for his valet, and questioned him; but the man declared that, not only did he know nothing at all about it, but that he had not entered the cabin between dinner-time and when he had prepared his master for the night. It was a singular thing altogether. At last, being unable to remain where he was any longer, he rose and dressed himself and went up to the deck. Day was just breaking. A cloudless sky was overhead, and in the gray light the Peak looked unusually picturesque; the water alongside was as smooth as a sheet of glass; the only signs of life were a few gulls wheeling with discordant cries around a patch of seaweed floating astern.

Browne had been pacing the deck for upwards of a quarter of an hour, when he noticed a sampan pull off from the shore towards the yacht. From where he stood he could plainly distinguish the tall figure of MacAndrew. He accordingly went to the gangway to receive him. Presently one of the women pulling brought her up at the foot of the accommodation-ladder, when the passenger ran up the steps, and gracefully saluted Browne.

"Good-morning," he said. "In spite of the earliness of the hour, I think I am up to time."

"Yes, you are very punctual," answered Browne. "Now, shall we get to business?"

They accordingly walked together in the direction of the smoking-room.

"You mastered the contents of my note, I suppose?" asked MacAndrew, by way of breaking the ice.

"Perfectly," replied Browne; "and I was careful to burn it afterwards."

"Well, now that you have perused it, what do you think of it?" inquired the other. "Do you consider the scheme feasible?"

"Very feasible indeed," Browne replied. "With a decent amount of luck, I think it should stand a very good chance of succeeding.

"I'm very glad to hear that," returned MacAndrew. "I thought you would like it. Now, when the other preliminaries are settled, I can get to work, head down."

"By the other preliminaries I suppose you mean the money?" queried Browne.

MacAndrew looked and laughed.

"Yes; the money," he admitted. "I'm sorry to have to be so mercenary; but I'm afraid it can't be helped. We must grease the machinery with gold, otherwise we shan't be able to set it in motion."

"Very well," rejoined Browne; "that difficulty is easily overcome. I have it all ready for you. If you will accompany me to my cabin we may procure it."

They accordingly made their way to the cabin. Once there, Browne opened his safe, and dragged out a plain wooden box, which he placed upon the floor. MacAndrew observed that there was another of similar size behind it. Browne noticed the expression upon his face, and smiled.

"You're wondering what made me bring so much," he remarked. How well he remembered going to his bank to procure it! He seemed to see the dignified, portly manager seated on his leather chair, and could recall that worthy gentleman's surprise at the curious request Browne made to him.

"But how do you propose to get it ashore?" said the latter to MacAndrew. "It's a heavy box; and what about the Customs authorities?"

"Oh, they won't trouble me," answered MacAndrew coolly. "I shall find a way of getting it in without putting them to the inconvenience of opening it."

"Do you want to count it? There may not be five thousand pounds there."

"I shall have to risk that," MacAndrew replied. "I haven't the time to waste in counting it. I expect it's all right." So saying, he took up the box, and followed Browne to the deck above.

"You quite understand what you've got to do, I suppose?" he asked when they once more stood at the gangway.

"Perfectly," said Browne. "You need not be afraid lest I shall forget. When do you think you will leave?"

"This morning, if possible," MacAndrew replied. "There is no time to be lost. I've got a boat in my eye, and as soon as they can have her ready I shall embark. By the way, if I were in your place I should be extremely careful as to what I said or did in Japan. Excite only one little bit of suspicion, and you will never be able to rectify the error."

"You need have no fear on that score," rejoined Browne. "I will take every possible precaution to prevent any one suspecting."

"I'm glad to hear it," MacAndrew returned. "Now, good-bye until we meet on the 13th."

"Good-bye," said Browne; "and good luck go with you!"

They shook hands, and then MacAndrew, picking up his precious box, went down the ladder, and, when he had taken his place in the well, the sampan pushed off for the shore.

"A nice sort of position I shall be in if he should prove to be a swindler," reflected the young man, as he watched the retreating boat. "But it's too late to think of that now. I have gone into the business, and must carry it through, whatever happens."

When Jimmy Foote put in an appearance on deck that morning he found that the city of Victoria had disappeared, and that the yacht was making her way through the Ly-ee-Moon Pass out into the open sea once more.

It was daybreak on the morning of the Thursday following when they obtained their first glimpse of Japan. Like a pin's head upon the horizon was a tiny gray dot, which gradually grew larger and larger until the sacred mountain of Fujiyama, clear-cut against the sky-line, rose from the waves, as if to welcome them to the Land of the Chrysanthemum. Making their way up Yeddo Bay, they at length cast anchor in the harbour of Yokohama. Beautiful as it must appear to any one, to Browne it seemed like the loveliest and happiest corner of Fairyland. He could scarcely believe, after the long time they had been separated, that, in less than half an hour, he would really be holding Katherine in his arms once more. During breakfast he could with difficulty contain his impatience, and he felt as if the excellent appetites which Foote and Maas brought to their meal were personal insults to himself. At length they rose, and he was at liberty to go. At the same moment the captain announced that the steam-launch was alongside.

"Good luck to you, old fellow," said Jimmy, as Browne put on his hat and prepared to be off. "Though love-making is not much in my line, I must say I envy you your happiness. I only wish I were going to see a sweetheart too."

"Madame Bernstein is a widow," remarked Browne, and, ducking his head to avoid the stump of a cigar which Jimmy threw at him, he ran down the accommodation-ladder, jumped into the launch, and was soon steaming ashore.

Reaching the Bund, he inquired in which direction the Club Hotel was situated, and, having been informed, made his way in that direction. He had reached the steps, and was about to ascend them to enter the verandah, when he saw, coming down the passage before him, no less a person than Katherine herself. For weeks past he had been looking forward to this interview, wondering where, how, and under what circumstances it would take place. Again and again he had framed his first speech to her, and had wondered what she would say to him in return. Now that he was confronted with her, however, he found his presence of mind deserting him, and he stood before her, not knowing what to say. On her side she was not so shy. Directly she realized who it was, she ran forward with outstretched hands to greet him.

"Jack, Jack," she cried, her voice trembling with delight, "I had no idea that you had arrived. How long have you been in Japan?"

"We dropped our anchor scarcely an hour ago," he answered. "I came ashore the instant the launch was ready for me."

"How glad I am to see you!" she exclaimed. "It seems years since we said good-bye to each other that miserable day at Marseilles."

"Years!" he cried. "It seems like an eternity to me." Then, looking up at her, as she stood on the steps above him, he continued: "Katherine, you are more beautiful than ever."

A rosy blush spread over her face. "It is because of my delight at seeing you," she whispered. This pretty speech was followed by a little pause, during which he came up the steps and led her along the verandah towards two empty chairs at the farther end. They seated themselves, and, after their more immediate affairs had received attention, he inquired after Madame Bernstein.

"And now tell me what you have arranged to do?" she said, when she had satisfied him that the lady in question was enjoying the best of health. "I received your cablegram from Hong-kong, saying that everything was progressing satisfactorily. You do not know how anxiously I have been waiting to see you."

"And only to hear that?" he asked, with a smile.

"Of course not," she answered. "Still, I think you can easily understand my impatience."

"Of course I understand it, dear," he replied; "and it is only right you should know all I have arranged."

He thereupon narrated to her his interview with MacAndrew, speaking in a low voice, and taking care that no one should overhear him. When he had finished he sat silent for a few moments; then, leaning a little nearer her, he continued, "I want to remind you, dear, to be particularly careful to say nothing at all on the subject to any one, not even to Madame Bernstein. I was warned myself not to say anything; but in your case, of course, it is different."

"You can trust me," she returned; "I shall say nothing. And so you really think it is likely we shall be able to save him?"

"I feel sure it is," said Browne; "though, of course, I, like you, am somewhat in the dark. Every one who is in the business is so chary of being discovered, that they take particular care not to divulge anything, however small, that may give a hint or clue as to their complicity."

For some time they continued to discuss the question; then Katherine, thinking that it behoved her to acquaint Madame Bernstein with the fact of her lover's arrival, departed into the house. A few moments later she returned, accompanied by the lady in question, who greeted Brown with her usual enthusiasm.

"Ah, monsieur," she cried, "you do not know how triste this poor child has been without you. She has counted every day, almost every minute, until she should see you."

On hearing this Browne found an opportunity of stroking his sweetheart's hand. Madame Bernstein's remark was just the one of all others that would be calculated to cause him the greatest pleasure.

"And now, monsieur, that you are here, what is it you desire we should do?" inquired Madame, when they had exhausted the topics to which I have just referred.

"We must be content to remain here for at least another fortnight," said Browne. "The arrangements I have made cannot possibly be completed until the end of that time."

"Another fortnight?" exclaimed Madame, in some astonishment, and with considerable dismay. "Do you mean that we are to remain idle all that time?"

"I mean that we must enjoy ourselves here for a fortnight," Browne replied. Then, looking out into the street at the queer characters he saw there – the picturesque dresses, the jinrickshas, and the thousand and one signs of Japanese life – he added: "Surely that should not be such a very difficult matter?"

"It would not be difficult," said Madame, as if she were debating the matter with herself, "if one had all one's time at one's disposal, and were only travelling for pleasure; but under the present circumstances how different it is!" She was about to say something further, but she checked herself; and, making the excuse that she had left something in her room, retired to the house.

"Do not be impatient with her, dear," said Katherine softly, when they were alone together. "Remember that her anxiety is all upon my account."

Browne admitted this, and when he had done so the matter was allowed to drop.

CHAPTER XXIV

That afternoon they boarded the yacht, and Katherine renewed her acquaintance with Jimmy Foote. Maas was also introduced to her, and paid her the usual compliments upon her engagement. Later she explored the yacht from stem to stern, expressing her delight at the completeness of every detail. The pleasure she derived from it, however, was as nothing compared with that of her lover, who never for one instant left her side.

"Some day," he said, as they stood together upon the bridge, looking at the harbour and watching the variety of shipping around them, "this vessel will be your own property. You will have to invite whoever you like to stay on board her with you. Do you think you will ever let me come?" He looked into her face, expecting to find a smile there; but, to his astonishment, he discovered that her eyes were filled with tears. "Why, my darling," he cried, "what does this mean? What is the reason of these tears?"

She brushed them hastily away, and tried to appear unconcerned. "I was thinking of all your goodness to me," she replied. "Oh, Jack! I don't know how I can ever repay it."

"I don't want you to repay it," he retorted. "You have done enough already. Have you not honoured me, dear, above all living men? Are you not going to be my wife?"

"That is no return," she answered, shaking her head. "If you give a starving man food, do you think it kind of him to eat it? I had nothing, and you are giving me all. Does the fact that I take it help me to repay it?"

What he said in reply to this does not come within the scope of a chronicler's duty to record. Let it suffice that, when he went below with her, he might very well have been described as the happiest man in Japan. The history of the following fortnight could be easily written in two words, "love and pleasure." From morning till night they were together, seeing everything, exploring the temples, the country tea-houses, spending small fortunes with the curio dealers, and learning to love each other more and more every day. In fact, there was only one cloud in their sky, and that was the question of what was to be done with Maas. Up to that time, that gentleman had shown no sort of inclination to separate himself from the party. Browne could not very well ask him to leave, and yet he had the best of reasons for not wanting him to go on with them. What was to be done? He worried himself almost into a fever to know what he should do. Then, almost at the last minute, Maas settled the question for them, not in an altogether unexpected fashion. Finding his host alone in the verandah of the hotel one evening, he asked outright, without pretence of beating about the bush, whether he might, as an old friend, continue to burden them with his society. Browne found himself placed in a most awkward position. Though he did not want him, he had known Maas for so many years, and they had always been on such a footing of intimacy together, that he felt he could do nothing but consent. He accordingly did so, though with scarcely the same amount of grace, that usually characterized his hospitality. Jimmy Foote, however, expressed himself more freely.

"Look here, Jack, old man," said the latter to Browne, when he was informed what had taken place, "you know as well as I do that Maas and I were never the greatest of friends. I tell you this because I don't want you to think I am saying, behind his back, what I would not say to his face. At the same time, I do think that you ought to have told him straight out that he couldn't come."

"How on earth could I do that?" asked Browne. "Besides being exceedingly rude, it would have given the whole show away. What possible sort of excuse could I have made for not wanting him on board?"

"I don't know what sort of excuse you could have made," replied Jimmy; "all I know is that you ought to have made it. You have other people besides yourself to consider in the matter."

The deed was done, however, and could not be undone. For this reason, when the yacht said good-bye to the lovely harbour of Yokohama, and Treaty Point was astern, Maas stood upon the deck watching it fade away and drop below the sea-line.

"And now that we are on our way again, my dear Browne," said Maas when the others had gone below, "what is our destination?"

"Of our ultimate destination I am not yet quite certain," answered Browne, who was anxious to gain time to think before he committed himself. "But at first we are going north to have a look at the Sea of Okhotsk. My fiancée's father has been residing on an island there for many years, and it is our intention to pick him up and to bring him home, in order that he may be present at our wedding."

"In other words," put in Maas, "you are conniving at the escape of a Russian convict from Saghalien. Is that so?"

Browne uttered a cry that was partly one of astonishment, and partly one of terror. He could scarcely believe he had heard aright. This was the second time, since they had been on board the yacht, that Maas had played him this sort of trick, and he did not want to be taken in again. Was the other really aware of what they were going to do, or was this, as on the previous occasion, a shot fired at random?

"My dear fellow," he began, as unconcernedly as his excitement would permit, "what on earth do you mean? Help a Russian convict to escape? Surely you must have taken leave of your senses."

"Look here," said Maas with unusual emphasis, "what is the use of your attempting to keep a secret? Nature never intended you for a conspirator. You may not have guessed it, but I have seen for some considerable time past, long before we left Europe in fact, that there was trouble in the wind. Otherwise, why do you think I should have accompanied you to the East, so many thousand weary miles from Paris and civilization?"

"Because your health was bad," Browne replied. "At least, that is what you said yourself. Was that not so?"

"My health is as good as your own," the other answered. "No, Browne, I invented that excuse because I wanted to come with you; because I had some sort of notion of what you were about to do."

"But, even supposing it should be so, how could you have known it?"

"I will tell you. Do you remember the night at the Amphitryon Club when you told me that you were thinking of taking a trip to the Farther East?"

Browne admitted that he did remember it.

"Well, I happened to know who the lady was to whom you were paying such marked attention. I happened to mention her name one day to an old friend, who immediately replied, 'I know the young lady in question; she is the daughter of the famous Polowski, the Nihilist, who was sent to Siberia, and who is now confined upon the island of Saghalien.' Then you spoke of your yachting voyage to the Farther East, and I put two and two together, and resolved that, happen what might, I would see you through the business. You see how candid I am with you."

"And do you mean to say that you knew all the time what I was going to do?"

"All the time," said Maas. "Did not I give you a hint at breakfast on the morning following our joining the yacht at Southampton? I am your friend, Browne; and, as your friend, I want to be allowed to stand by you in your hour of danger. For it is dangerous work you are engaged upon, as I suppose you know."

"And do you really mean that you are going to help me to get this man out of his place of captivity?" inquired Browne, putting on one side the other's reference to their friendship.

"If you are going to do it, I'm certainly going to stand by you," Maas replied. "That's why I am here."

"And all the time I was wishing you at Hanover, because I thought, that if you knew, you would disapprove."

"It only goes to show how little we know our true friends," continued Maas. "If you feel that you can trust me now, do not let us have any more half-measures. Let me be with you hand and glove, or put me ashore somewhere, and get me out of the way. I don't want to push myself in where I am not wanted."

Browne was genuinely touched. "My dear old fellow," he answered, putting his hand on Maas's shoulder, "I must confess I feel as if I had treated you very badly. If you are really disposed to help me, I shall be only too glad of your assistance. It's a big job, and a hideously risky one. I don't know what on earth I shall do if we fail."

Then, in the innocence of his heart, Browne told him as much of their arrangements as he had revealed to Jimmy Foote. Maas expressed his sympathy, and forthwith propounded several schemes for getting the unhappy man to a place of safety, when they had got him on board the yacht. He went so far as to offer to land on the island, and to make his way into the interior in the hope of being able to render some assistance should it be necessary.

"Well, you know your own business best," said Jimmy Foote to Browne, when the latter had informed him of the discovery he had made. "But I can't say that I altogether like the arrangement. If he had guessed our secret, why didn't he let us know that he knew it? It seems to me that there is a little bit of underhand work somewhere."

"I think you are misjudging him," returned Browne; "upon my word I do. Of one thing there can be no sort of doubt, and that is, that whatever he may have known, he is most anxious to help."

"Is he?" exclaimed Jimmy, in a tone that showed that he was still more than a little sceptical concerning Maas's good intentions. "I don't set up to be much of a prophet; but I am willing to go so far as to offer to lay a hundred pounds to a halfpenny, that we shall find he has been hoodwinking us somewhere before we've done."

Jimmy spoke with such unusual gravity that Browne looked at him in surprise. "Oh, you may look," answered Jimmy; "but you won't stare away what I think. Browne, old man," he continued, "you and I were at school together; we have been pals for a very long time; and I'm not going to see you, just when you're booked to settle down happily with your wife, and become a respectable member of society, upset and spoil everything by a foolish action."

"Thank you, Jimmy," said Browne. "I know you mean well by me; but, at the same time, you must not let your liking for me make you unjust to other people. Maas has proved himself my friend, and I should be mean indeed if I ventured to doubt him."

"All right," replied Jimmy; "go your way. I'll say no more."

That evening Browne realized his long-felt wish. He and Katherine promenaded the deck together, as the yacht sped on its way, across the seas, towards their goal, and talked for hours together of their hopes and aspirations. When at last she and Madame Bernstein bade the gentlemen good-night, the latter adjourned to the smoking-room to discuss their plan of action. Maas had been evidently thinking the matter over, for he was prepared with one or two new suggestions, which struck the company as being eminently satisfactory. So sincere was he, and so anxious to be of service, that when at last they bade each other good-night, and he had retired below, Jimmy turned to Browne, who was standing beside the bulwark, and said: —

"Jack, old boy, I believe, after all, that I've done that man an injustice. I do think now that he is really anxious to do what he can."

"I'm glad indeed to hear you say so," Browne rejoined; "for I'm sure he is most anxious to be of use. Forgive me if I was a bit sharp to you this afternoon. I cannot tell you how grateful I feel to you for all your kindness."

"Fiddlesticks!" muttered Jimmy. "There's no talk of kindness between us."

Fourteen days after leaving Yokohama, and a little before sunset, those on board the yacht caught their first glimpse of the Russian island, of which they had come in search. At first it was scarcely discernible; then, little by little, it grew larger, until its steep and abrupt rocks could be distinctly seen, with a far-away line of distant mountain-peaks, stretching to the northward.

Katharine, Madame Bernstein, and the three young men were upon the bridge at the time. Browne, who held his sweetheart's hand, could feel her trembling. Madame Bernstein appeared by far the most excited of the group. Advanced though the time of year was, the air was bitterly cold. But, for once in a way, the Yezo Strait, usually so foggy, was now devoid even of a vestige of vapour. The season was a late one, and for some hours they had been passing packs of drift ice; but as they closed up on the land it could be seen lying in thick stacks along the shore.

"That is Cape Siretoko," said Browne. "It is the most southerly point of Saghalien."