Kitabı oku: «The Red Rat's Daughter», sayfa 14
CHAPTER XXV
Three weeks had elapsed since that memorable afternoon, when the party on board the yacht, had obtained their first glimpse of the island of Saghalien. In pursuance of the plan MacAndrew had revealed to him in Hong-kong, Browne had left his companions upon the vessel, and for upwards of forty-eight hours had domiciled himself in a small log-hut on the northern side of the Bay of Kroptskoi, awaiting news of the man whom they had come so far, and undertaken so much, to rescue. It was the night of full moon, and the scene which Browne had before him, as he stood, wrapped up in his furs, outside the door of the hut, was as miserable as a man could well desire to become acquainted with. The settlement, as I have said, was located at the northern end of a small bay, and had once consisted of upwards of six huts, built upon a slight eminence, having at its foot a river still ice-bound. At the back rose a still more precipitous hill, densely clothed with taiga, or forest. So impenetrable, indeed, was it, that even the wolf and bear found a difficulty in making their way through it. To the right, and almost unobservable from the huts, was a track that once connected with the coal-mines of Dui, but was now overgrown and scarcely to be distinguished from the virgin forest on either side.
On this particular evening, Browne was the reverse of easy in his mind. He had left the yacht buoyed up by the knowledge that in so doing he was best serving the woman he loved. It had been arranged with MacAndrew that they should meet at this hut, not later than the thirteenth day of that particular month. This, however, was the evening of the fifteenth, and still neither MacAndrew, nor the man they were endeavouring to rescue, had put in an appearance. Apart from every consideration of danger, it was far from being the sort of place a man would choose in which to spend his leisure. The hut was draughty and bitterly cold; the scenery was entirely uninviting; he had no one to speak to; he had to do everything – even his cooking – for himself; while, away out in the bay, the ice chinked and rattled together continually, as if to remind him of his miserable position. It was nearly nine o'clock, and he could very well guess what they were doing on board the yacht. His guests would be in the drawing-room. Katharine would be playing one of those soft German folk-songs, of which she was so fond, and most probably thinking of himself; Madame Bernstein would be knitting in an easy-chair beside the stove; while the gentlemen would be listening to the music, and wondering how long it would be, before they would be at liberty to retire to the smoking-room and their cigars. He could picture the soft electric light falling on a certain plain gold ring on Katherine's finger, and upon the stones of a bracelet upon her slender wrist. Taken altogether, he did not remember to have felt so home-sick in his life before. As if to add to his sensation of melancholy, while he was pursuing this miserable train of thought, a wolf commenced to howl dismally in the forest behind him. This was the climax. Unable to bear any more, he retired into the hut, bolted the door, and, wrapping himself up in his blanket, laid himself down upon his bed and was soon asleep. When he looked out upon the world next morning he found himself confronted with a dense fog, which obscured everything – the forest behind him, the ice-girdled shore in front, and, indeed, all his world. It is, of course, possible that, in this world of ours, there may be places with more unpleasant climates than Saghalien, but it would be difficult to find them. On the west coast the foggy and rainy days average two hundred and fifty-three out of every three hundred and sixty-five, and even then the inhabitants are afraid to complain, lest it might be worse with them. As Browne reflected upon these things, he understood something of what the life of Katherine's father in this dreadful place must be. Seeing that it was hopeless to venture out, and believing that it was impossible the men he expected could put in an appearance on such a day, Browne retired into his hut, and, having closed the door carefully, stirred up the fire, and, seating himself before it, lit a cigar. He had another day's weary waiting before him. Fortunately, when his boat had brought him ashore from the yacht, it had also brought him an ample supply of provisions and such other things, as would help to make life bearable in such a place. On the rough table in the centre of the hut were arranged a collection of books of travel and adventure, and, since he did not pretend to be a blue-stocking, a good half-dozen novels, yellow-back and otherwise. One of the latter, a story by Miss Braddon, he remembered purchasing at the Dover bookstall the day he had returned from Paris with Maas. As he recalled the circumstances he could see again the eager, bustling crowd upon the platform, the porters in their dingy uniforms, the bright lamps around the bookstalls, and the cheery clerk who had handed the novel to him, with a remark about the weather. How different was his position now! He opened the book and tried to interest himself in it; the effort, however, was in vain. Do what he would, he could not rivet his attention upon the story. The perilous adventures of the hero in the forests of Upper Canada only served to remind him of his own unenviable position. Little by little the sentences ran into each other; at length his cigar dropped from his fingers, his head fell forward, and he was fast asleep. How long he slept it would be impossible to tell, but when he rose again and went to the door the fog had drawn off, darkness had fallen, and the brilliant northern stars were shining in the firmament above. Once more his hopes had proved futile. Another day had passed, and still he had received no news of the fugitives. How long was this to go on? Feeling hungry, he shut the door and set about preparing his evening meal. Taking a large piece of drift-wood from the heap in the corner, he placed it upon the fire, and soon the flame went roaring merrily up the chimney. He had made his tea, and was in the act of opening one of his cans of preserved meat, when a sound reached him from outside, and caused him to stop suddenly and glance round, as if in expectation of hearing something further. It certainly sounded like the step of some one who was carefully approaching the hut. Who could it be? The nearest civilization was the township of Dui, which was upwards of a hundred versts away. He had been warned, also, that the forest was in many places tenanted by outlaws, whose presence would be far from desirable at any time. Before he went to the door to draw the bolts he was careful to feel in the pocket of his coat for his revolver. He examined it and satisfied himself that it was fully loaded and ready for use. Then, turning up the lamp, he approached the door, and called out in English, "Who is there?"
"The powers be thanked, it's you!" said a voice, which he plainly recognised as that of MacAndrew. "Open the door and let us in, for we're more dead than alive."
"Thank God you're come at last," exclaimed Browne, as he did as the other requested. A curious picture was revealed by the light which issued from the open door.
Standing before the hut was a tall man with a long gray beard, clad in a heavy cloak of the same colour, who held in his arms what looked more like a bundle of furs than a human being.
"Who are you?" cried Browne in astonishment, for this tall, gaunt individual of seventy was certainly not MacAndrew; "and what have you got there?"
"I'll tell you everything in good time," replied the other in English. "In the meantime just catch hold of this chap's feet, and help me to carry him into the hut. I am not quite certain that he isn't done for."
Without asking any further questions, though he was dying to do so, Browne complied with the other's request, and between them the two men carried the bundle into the hut and placed it in a chair before the fire.
"Brandy!" said MacAndrew laconically; and Browne immediately produced a flask from a bag and unscrewed the lid. He poured a quantity of the spirit into a cup, and then placed it to the sick man's lips, while MacAndrew chafed his hands and removed his heavy boots.
"I have been expecting you for the last two days," Browne began, as soon as they had time to speak to each other.
"It couldn't be managed," returned MacAndrew. "As it was I got away sooner than I expected. The pursuit was so hot that we were compelled to take to the woods, where, as ill-luck had it, we lost ourselves, and have been wandering about for the last four days. It was quite by chance that we reached here at all. I believe another day would have seen the end of this fellow. He knocked up completely this morning."
As he spoke the individual in the chair opened his eyes and gazed about him in a dazed fashion. Browne looked at him more carefully than he had yet done, and found a short man with a small bullet head, half of which was shaven, the remainder being covered with a ferocious crop of red hair. Though he would probably not have confessed so much, he was conscious of a feeling of intense disappointment, for, from what he had heard from Katherine and Madame Bernstein, he had expected to see a tall, aristocratic individual, who had suffered for a cause he believed to be just, and whom sorrow had marked for her own. This man was altogether different.
"Monsieur Petrovitch," said Browne in a tone, that might very well have suggested that he was anxious to assure himself as to the other's identity; "or rather, I should say, Monsieur – "
"Petrovitch will do very well for the present," the other replied in a querulous voice, as if he were tired, and did not want to be bothered by such minor details. "You are Monsieur Browne, I presume – my Katherine's affianced husband?"
"Yes, that is my name," the young man answered. "I cannot tell you how thankful your daughter will be to have you back with her once more."
To this the man offered no reply, but sat staring into the fire with half-closed eyes. His behaviour struck Browne unpleasantly. Could the man have lost his former affection for his daughter? If not, why was it he refrained from making further inquiries about the girl, who had risked so much to save him? MacAndrew, however, stepped into the breach.
"You will have to be a bit easy with him at first, Mr. Browne," he said. "They are always like this when they first get free. You must remember that, for a good many years, he has never been asked to act or think for himself. I have seen many like this before. Once get him on board your yacht, away from every thought and association of his old life, and you will find that he will soon pick up again."
"And Madame Bernstein?" asked the man in the chair, as if he were continuing a train of thoughts suggested by their previous conversation.
"She is very well," said Browne, "and is also anxiously awaiting your coming. She has taken the greatest possible interest in your escape."
"Ah!" said the man, and then fell to musing again.
By this time Browne had placed before him a large bowl of smoking beef-extract, which had been prepared by a merchant in England, who had little dreamt the use it would be put to in the Farthest East. As soon as the old man had satisfied his hunger, Browne led him to his own sleeping-place, and placed him upon it, covering him with the fur rugs. Then he returned to the table, and, seating himself at it, questioned MacAndrew, while the other stowed away an enormous meal, as if to make up for the privations he had lately endured. From him Browne learnt all the incidents of their journey. Disguised as a Russian fur merchant, MacAndrew had made his way to the town of Dui, where he had made inquiries, and located the man he wanted. At first it was difficult to get communication with him; but once that was done the rest was comparatively easy. They reached the forest and made for the coast, with the result that has already been narrated.
"Between ourselves," said MacAndrew, "our friend yonder is scarcely the sort of man to travel with. He hasn't the heart of a louse, and is as suspicious as a rat."
Browne said nothing; he was thinking of Katherine, and what her feelings would be, when he should present this man to her as the father she had so long revered. He began to think that it would have been better, not only for the man himself, but for all parties concerned, if they had left him to meet his fate on the island.
CHAPTER XXVI
"Now, what about the yacht?" inquired MacAndrew. "We mustn't be caught here. It is impossible to say how soon the troops may be after us. There is a guard-house in Aniwa Bay; and they are certain to know before long, that a man has escaped from Dui and is heading this way."
"The yacht will be within signalling distance of this hut to-night at midnight," said Browne. "And you can see for yourself there are some rockets in that corner which I can fire. Then, within half an hour, she will send a boat ashore."
"Good," he remarked in a tone of approval. "Very good. You are the sort of man I like to do business with. For my part, I shall not be sorry to get out of this." He pointed to his disguise.
"I dare say you will not," answered Browne. "You have succeeded wonderfully well. I cannot tell you how much obliged I am to you."
"I am equally obliged to you," said MacAndrew, "so we can cry quits. I flatter myself that, all things considered, it has been a pretty good escape; but I could tell you of one or two which have been better. We mustn't shout too soon, however; we are not out of the wood yet." As he spoke he mixed himself another glass of grog and lit a cigar, the smoke of which he puffed through his nose with the enjoyment of a man, to whom such a luxury had been forbidden for some time past. Browne followed his example, and the two men smoked in silence, while the ex-Nihilist snored on the bed in the corner. Hour after hour they talked on. As Browne had suspected, MacAndrew proved the most interesting companion in the world. His life had been one long series of hairbreadth escapes; he had fought both for civilization and against it; had sold his services to native sultans and rajahs, had penetrated into the most dangerous places, and had met the most extraordinary people. Strange to relate, with it all, he had still preserved the air of a gentleman.
"Oxford man?" asked Browne after a moment's pause, without taking his eyes off the fire, and still speaking in the same commonplace tone. The other mentioned the name of a certain well-known college. Both felt that there was no more to be said, and they accordingly relapsed into silence.
"Rum thing this world of ours, isn't it?" said MacAndrew after a little while. "Look at me. I started with everything in my favour; eldest son, fine old place in the country, best of society; for all I know I might have ended my days as a J.P. and member for my county. The Fates, however, were against it; in consequence I am sitting here to-night, disguised as a Russian fur-trader. It's a bit of a transformation scene – isn't it? I wonder what my family would say if they could see me?"
"I wonder what some of my friends would say if they could see me?" continued Browne. "If I'd been told a year ago that I should be doing this sort of thing, I should never have believed it. We never know what's in store for us, do we? By the way, what's the time?" He consulted his watch, and discovered that it only wanted ten minutes of twelve o'clock. "In ten minutes we'll fire the first rocket," he said. "It's to be hoped it's clear weather. Let us pray that there's not another vessel outside, who, seeing our signal, may put in and send a boat to discover what is the matter."
"You're quite sure that the yacht will be there, I suppose?" asked MacAndrew.
"As sure as I can be," replied Browne. "I told my captain to hang about at night, and to look round this coast at midnight, so that if we did signal he might be ready. Of course, there's no saying what may have turned up; but we must hope for the best. How is our friend yonder?"
MacAndrew crossed the hut and bent over the man lying on the bed. He was still sleeping.
"Poor beggar! he is quite played out," said the other. "It will be a long time before he will forget his tramp with me. I had to carry him the last three miles on my back, like a kiddy; and in that thick scrub it's no joke, I can assure you."
Though Browne was quite able to agree with him, he did not give the matter much consideration. He was thinking of Katherine and of the meeting, that was shortly to take place between the father and daughter. At last, after what seemed an infinity of waiting, the hands of his watch stood at midnight. Having acquainted MacAndrew with his intention, he took up a rocket, opened the door of the hut, and went outside. To his intense relief, the fog had drawn off, and the stars were shining brightly. Not a sound was to be heard, save the sighing of the wind in the trees behind the hut, and the clinking of the ice on the northern side of the bay. To the southward it was all clear water, and it was there that Mason had arranged to send the boat.
"To be or not to be?" murmured Browne, as he struck the match and applied it to the rocket. There was an instant's pause, and then a tongue of fire flashed into the darkness, soaring up and up, until it broke in a myriad of coloured lights overhead. It seemed to Browne, while he waited and watched, as if the beating of his heart might be heard at least a mile away. Then suddenly, from far out at sea, came a flash of light, which told him that his signal had been observed.
"They see us," he cried in a tone of delight. "They are getting the boat under way by this time, I expect, and in less than an hour we shall be on board. We had better get ready as soon as possible." With that they turned into the hut once more, and MacAndrew shook the sleeping man upon the bed.
"Wake up, little father," he cried in Russian. "It's time for you to say good-bye to Saghalien."
The instantaneous obedience, which had so long been a habit with him, brought the man to his feet immediately. Browne, however, could see that he scarcely realized what was required of him.
"Come," said Browne, "it is time for us to be off. Your daughter is anxiously awaiting you."
"Ah, to be sure – to be sure," replied the other in French. "My dear daughter. Forgive me if I do not seem to realize that I shall see her so soon. Is it possible she will know me after all these long years? When last I saw her she was but a little child."
"Her heart, however, is the same," answered Browne. "I can assure you that she has treasured your memory as few daughters would have done. Indeed, it is to her, more than any one else, that you owe your escape. But for her endeavours you would be in Dui now. But let us be off; we are wasting our time talking here when we should be making ourselves scarce."
"But what about these things?" asked MacAndrew, pointing to the books on the table, the crockery on the shelf, and the hundred and one other things in the hut. "What do you intend doing with them?"
"I scarcely know," replied Browne. "The better plan would be for us to take with us what we can carry and leave the rest. If they are of no other use, they will at least give whoever finds them something to think about."
"I wish him joy of his guesses," rejoined MacAndrew, as he led the old man out of the hut.
Browne remained behind to put out the lamp. As he did so a smile passed over his face. How foolish it seemed to be taking precautions, when he would, in all human probability, never see the place again! The fire upon the hearth was burning merrily. Little by little it would grow smaller, the flames would die down, a mass of glowing embers would follow, then it would gradually grow black, and connection with the place would be done with for ever and a day. Outside it was brilliant starlight, and for this reason they were able easily to pick their way down the path towards the place where Captain Mason had promised to have the boat.
So weak was the old man, however, that it took something like half an hour to overcome even the short distance they had to go. He could scarcely have done as much had not MacAndrew and Browne lent him their support. At last they reached the water's edge, where, to their joy, they found the boat awaiting them.
"Is that you, Phillips?" inquired Browne.
"Yes, sir, it's me," the third mate replied. "Captain Mason sent us away directly your signal was sighted."
"That's right," said Browne. "Now, just keep your boat steady while we help this gentleman aboard."
The boat's crew did their best to keep her in position while MacAndrew and Browne lifted Monsieur Petrovitch in. It was a difficult business, but at last they succeeded; then, pushing her off, they started for the yacht. For some time not a word was spoken. MacAndrew had evidently his own thoughts to occupy him; Katherine's father sat in a huddled-up condition; while Browne was filled with a nervousness that he could neither explain nor dispel.
At last they reached the yacht and drew up at the foot of the accommodation-ladder. Looking up the side, Browne could see Captain Mason, Jimmy Foote, and Maas leaning over watching them. It had been previously arranged that the meeting between the father and daughter should take place in the deckhouse, not on the deck itself.
"Is he strong enough to walk up?" the captain inquired of Browne. "If not, shall I send a couple of hands down to carry him?"
"I think we can manage it between us," said Browne; and accordingly he and MacAndrew, assisted by the mate, lifted the sick man on to the ladder, and half-dragged, half-carried him up to the deck above.
"Where is Miss Petrovitch?" Browne asked, when they reached the deck.
"In the house, sir," the captain replied. "We thought she would prefer to be alone there. She knows that you have arrived."
"In that case I will take you to her at once," said Browne to the old man, and slipping his arm through his, he led him towards the place in question. When he pushed open the door he assisted the old man to enter; and, having done so, found himself face to face with Katherine. She was deadly pale, and was trembling violently. Madame Bernstein was also present; and, if such a thing were possible, the latter was perhaps the more agitated of the two. Indeed, Browne found his own voice failing him as he said, "Katherine, I have brought you your father!"
There was a moment's hesitation, though what occasioned it is difficult to say. Then Katherine advanced and kissed her father. She had often pictured this moment, and thought of the joy she would feel in welcoming him back to freedom. Now, however, that the moment had arrived it seemed as if she could say nothing.
"Father," she faltered at last, "thank Heaven you have escaped." She looked at him, and, as she did so, Browne noticed the change that came over her face. It was as if she had found herself confronted with some one she did not expect to see. And yet she tried hard not to let the others see her surprise.
"Katherine, my daughter," replied the old man, "do you remember me?"
"Should I be likely to forget?" answered Katherine. "Though I was such a little child when you went away, I can remember that terrible night perfectly."
Here Madame Bernstein interposed, with tears streaming down her face. "Stefan," she sobbed, "Heaven be thanked you have at last come back to us!"
Thinking it would be as well if he left them to themselves for a short time, Browne stepped out of the house on to the deck, and closed the door behind him. He found MacAndrew, Maas, and Jimmy Foote standing together near the saloon companion-ladder.
"Welcome back again," began Jimmy, advancing with outstretched hand. "By Jove! old man, you must have had a hard time of it. But you have succeeded in your undertaking, and that's the great thing, after all – is it not?"
"Yes, I have succeeded," returned Browne, in the tone of a man who is not quite certain whether he has or not. "Now, the question for our consideration is, what we ought to do. What do you say, MacAndrew; and you, Maas?"
"If I were in your place I would get away as soon as possible," answered the former.
"I agree with you," put in Jimmy. "By Jove! I do."
"I cannot say that I do," added Maas. "In the first place, you must remember where you are. This is an extremely dangerous coast about here, and if anything goes wrong and your boat runs ashore, the man you have come to rescue will be no better off than he was before. If I were in your place, Browne – and I'm sure Captain Mason will agree with me – I should postpone your departure until to-morrow morning. There's nothing like having plenty of daylight in matters of this sort."
Browne scarcely knew what to say. He was naturally very anxious to get away; at the same time he was quite aware of the dangers of the seas in which his boat was, just at that time. He accordingly went forward and argued it out with Mason, whom he found of very much the same opinion as Maas.
"We have not much to risk, sir, by waiting," said that gentleman; "and, as far as I can see, we've everything to gain. A very strong current sets from the northward; and, as you can see for yourself, a fog is coming up. I don't mind telling you, sir, I've no fancy for manoeuvring about here in the dark."
"Then you think it would be wiser for us to remain at anchor until daylight?" asked Browne.
"If you ask me to be candid with you," the skipper replied, "I must say I do, sir."
"Very good, then," answered Browne. "In that case we will remain." Without further discussion, he made his way to the smoking-room, where he announced to those assembled there, that the yacht would not get under way till morning.
"'Pon my word, Browne, I think you're right," continued Maas. "You don't want to run any risks, do you? You'll be just as safe here, if not safer, than you would be outside."
"I'm not so sure of that," retorted Jimmy; and then, for some reason not specified, a sudden silence fell upon the party.
A quarter of an hour later Browne made his way to the deck-house again. He found Katherine and her father alone together, the man fast asleep and the girl kneeling by his side.
"Dearest," said Katherine softly, as she rose and crossed the cabin to meet her lover, "I have not thanked you yet for all you have done for – for him and for me."
She paused towards the end of her speech, as if she scarcely knew how to express herself; and Browne, for whom her every action had some significance, was quick to notice it.
"What is the matter, dear?" he asked. "Why do you look so sadly at me?"
She was about to answer, but she changed her mind.
"Sad?" she murmured, as if surprised. "Why should I be sad? I should surely be the happiest girl in the world to-night."
"But you are not," he answered. "I can see you're unhappy. Come, dear, tell me everything. You are grieved, I suppose, at finding your father so changed? Is not that so?"
"Partly," she answered in a whisper; and then, for some reason of her own, she added quietly, "but Madame recognised him at once, though she had not seen him for so many years. My poor father, how much he has suffered!"
Browne condoled with her, and ultimately succeeded in inducing her to retire to her cabin, assuring her that MacAndrew and himself would in turns watch by her father's side until morning.
"How good you are!" she said, and kissed him softly. Then, with another glance at the huddled-up figure in the easy-chair, but without kissing him, as Browne had quite expected she would do, she turned and left the cabin.
It was just two o'clock, and a bitterly cold morning. Though Browne had declared that MacAndrew would share his vigil with him, he was not telling the truth, knowing that the other must be worn out after his travels of the last few days. For this reason he persuaded Jimmy to take him below, and to get him to bed at once. Then he himself returned to the deck-house, and set to work to make Katherine's father as comfortable as possible for the night.
Just after daylight Browne was awakened by a knocking at the door. He crossed and opened it. It proved to be the captain. He was plainly under the influence of intense excitement.
"I don't know how to tell you, sir," he said. "I assure you I would not have had it happened for worlds. I have never been so upset in my life by anything."
"But what has happened?" inquired Browne, with a sudden sinking at his heart. "Something has gone wrong in the engine-room," replied the captain, "and until it has been repaired it will be impossible for us to get under way."
At that instant the second officer appeared, and touched the captain on the shoulder, saying something in an undertone.
"What is it?" asked Browne. "What else is wrong?"
"He reports that a man-o'-war can be just descried upon the horizon, and he thinks she is a Russian!"
