Kitabı oku: «The Red Rat's Daughter», sayfa 3
CHAPTER III
Six months had elapsed since the Lotus Blossom had steamed out of the Gieranger Fjord and its owner had taken his last look at the little village of Merok. During that interval Browne had endeavoured to amuse himself to the best of his ability. In spite of Maas's insinuation to the contrary, he had visited Russia; had shot bears in the company and on the estates of his friend Demetrovitch; had passed south to the Crimea, and thence, by way of Constantinople, to Cairo, where, chancing upon some friends who were wintering in the land of the Pharaohs, he had been persuaded into engaging a dahabîyeh, and had endured the tedious river journey to Luxor and back in the company of a charming French countess, an Austrian archduke, a German diplomatist, and an individual whose accomplishments were as notorious as his tastes were varied. A fortnight in Monte Carlo and a week in Paris had succeeded the Nile trip; and now the first week in March found him, free of engagements, ensconced in the luxurious smoking-room of the Monolith Club in Pall Mall, an enormous cigar between his teeth, and a feeling of regret in his heart that he had been persuaded to leave the warmth and sunshine of the favoured South for what he was now enduring. The morning had been fairly bright, but the afternoon was cold, foggy, and dreary in the extreme. Even the most weather-wise among the men standing at the windows, looking out upon the street, had to admit that they did not know what to make of it. It might only mean rain, they said; it might also mean snow. But that it was, and was going to be still more, unpleasant, nobody seemed for an instant to doubt. Browne stretched himself in his chair beside the fire, and watched the flames go roaring up the chimney, with an expression of weariness upon his usually cheerful countenance.
"What a fool you were, my lad, to come back to this sort of thing!" he said to himself. "You might have known the sort of welcome you would receive. In Cannes the sun has been shining on the Boulevard de la Croisette all day. Here it is all darkness and detestation. I've a good mind to be off again to-night; this sort of thing would give the happiest man the blues."
He was still pursuing this train of thought, when a hand was placed upon his shoulder, and, turning round, he discovered Jimmy Foote standing beside him.
"The very man I wanted to see," said Browne, springing to his feet and holding out his hand. "I give you my word, old fellow, you couldn't have come at a more opportune moment. I was in the act of setting off to find you."
"My dear old chap," replied his friend, "that is my métier: I always turn up at opportune moments, like the kind godmother in the fairy tale. What is it you want of me?"
"I want your company."
"There's nothing I'd give you more willingly," said Jimmy; "I'm tired of it myself. But seriously, what is the matter?"
"Look out of the window," Browne replied. "Do you see that fog?"
"I've not only seen it, I have swallowed several yards of it," Foote answered. "I've been to tea with the Verneys in Arlington Street, and I've fairly had to eat my way here. But why should the weather irritate you? If you're idiot enough to come back from Cairo to London in March, I don't see that you've any right to complain. I only wish Fate had blessed me with the same chance of getting away."
"If she had, where would you go and what would you do?"
"I'd go anywhere and do anything. You may take it from me that the Bard was not very far out when he said that if money goes before, all ways lie open."
"If that's all you want, we'll very soon send it before. Look here, Jimmy; you've nothing to do, and I've less. What do you say to going off somewhere? What's your fancy – Paris, south of France, Egypt, Algiers? One place is like another to me."
"I don't want anything better than Algiers," said Jimmy. "Provided we go by sea, I am your obedient and humble servant to command."
Then, waving his hand towards the gloom outside, he added: "Fog, Rain, Sleet, and Snow, my luck triumphs, and I defy ye!"
"That's settled, then," said Browne, rising and standing before the fire. "I'll wire to Mason to have the yacht ready at Plymouth to-morrow evening. I should advise you to bring something warm with you, for we are certain to find it cold going down Channel and crossing the Bay at this time of the year. In a week, however, we shall be enjoying warm weather once more. Now I must be getting along. You don't happen to be coming my way, I suppose?"
"My dear fellow," said Jimmy, buttoning up his coat and putting on his hat as he spoke, "my way is always your way. Are you going to walk or will you cab it?"
"Walk," Browne replied. "This is not the sort of weather to ride in hansoms. If you are ready, come along."
The two young men passed out of the club and along Pall Mall together. Turning up Waterloo Place, they proceeded in the direction of Piccadilly. The fog was thicker there than elsewhere, and every shop window was brilliantly illuminated in order to display the wares within.
"Oh, by the way, Browne, I've got something to show you," said Foote, as they passed over the crossing of Charles Street. "It may interest you."
"What is it?" asked Browne. "A new cigarette or something more atrocious than usual in the way of ties?"
"Better than that," returned his companion, and as he spoke he led his friend towards a picture-shop, in the window of which were displayed a number of works of art. Occupying a prominent position in the centre was a large water-colour, and as Browne glanced at it his heart gave a leap in his breast. It was a view of Merok taken from the spot where he had rescued Katherine Petrovitch from death upwards of seven months before. It was a clever bit of work, and treated in an entirely unconventional fashion.
"It's not by any means bad, is it?" said Foote, after Browne had been looking at it in silence for more than a minute. "If I had the money – But I say, old chap, what is the matter? You are as pale as if you had seen a ghost. Don't you feel well?"
"Perfectly well," his friend replied; "it's the fog."
He did not say that in the corner of the picture he had seen the artist's name, and that that name was the one he had cherished so fondly and for so long a time.
"Just excuse me for a moment, will you?" he said. "I should like to go into the shop and ask a question about that picture."
"All right," said Jimmy. "I'll wait here."
Browne accordingly disappeared inside, leaving Foote on the pavement. As it happened, it was a shop he often visited, and in consequence he was well known to the assistants. When he made his business known to them, the picture was withdrawn from the window and placed before him.
"An excellent bit of work, as you can see for yourself, sir," said the shopman, as he pulled down the electric light and turned it upon the picture. "The young lady who painted it is fast making a name for herself. So far this is the first bit of her work we have had in London; but the Continental dealers assure me they find a ready market for it."
"I can quite believe it," said Browne. "It is an exceedingly pretty sketch. You may send it round to me."
"Very good, sir; thank you. Perhaps you will allow me to show you one or two others while you are here? We have several new works since you paid us a visit last."
"No, thank you," Browne replied. "I only came in to find out whether you could tell me the address of the young lady who painted this. She and I met in Norway some months ago."
"Indeed, sir, I had no idea when I spoke, that you were acquainted. Perhaps you know that she is in London at the present moment. She honoured me by visiting my shop this morning."
"Indeed," said Browne. "In that case you might let me know where I can find her."
"I will do so at once," the man replied. "If you will excuse me for a moment I will have it written out for you."
He disappeared forthwith into an office at the end of the shop, leaving Browne staring at the picture as if he could not take his eyes off it. So engaged was he with the thoughts it conjured up that he quite forgot the fact that he was standing in a shop in London with hansoms and 'buses rolling by outside. In spirit he was on the steep side of a Norwegian mountain, surrounded by fog and rain, endeavouring to discover from what direction a certain cry for help proceeded. Then the fog rolled away, and, looking up at him, he saw what he now knew to be the sweetest and most womanly face upon which he had ever gazed. He was still wrapped in this day-dream when the shopman returned, and roused him by placing on the counter before him an envelope upon which was written: —
Miss KATHERINE PETROVITCH
43, German Park Road, West
"That is it, sir," said the man. "If it would be any convenience to you, sir, it will give me the greatest pleasure to write to the young lady, and to tell her that you have purchased her picture and would like her to call upon you."
"I must beg of you not to do anything of the kind," Browne replied, with the most impressive earnestness. "I must make it a condition of my purchase that you do not mention my name to her in any way."
The shopman looked a little crestfallen. "Very good, sir; since you do not wish it, of course I will be sure not to do so," he answered humbly. "I thought perhaps, having purchased an example of her work, and being such a well-known patron of art, you might be anxious to help the young lady."
"What do you mean by helping her?" inquired Browne. "Do you think she needs assistance?"
"Well, sir, between ourselves," returned the other, "I do not fancy she is very well off. She was in a great hurry, at any rate, to sell this picture."
Browne winced; it hurt him to think that the girl had perhaps been compelled to haggle with this man in order to obtain the mere necessaries of life. He, however, thanked the man for his courtesy, and bidding him send the picture to his residence as soon as possible, left the shop and joined Foote on the pavement outside.
"Well, I hope you have been long enough," remarked that gentleman in an injured tone, as they proceeded up the street together. "Have you purchased everything in the shop?"
"Don't be nasty, Jimmy," said Browne, with sudden joviality. "It doesn't suit you. You are the jolliest little fellow in the world when you are in a good temper; but when you are not – well, words fail me."
"Don't walk me off my legs, confound you!" said Jimmy snappishly. "The night is but young, and we're not performing pedestrians, whatever you may think."
Browne was not aware that he was walking faster than usual, but he slowed down on being remonstrated with. Then he commenced to whistle softly to himself.
"Now you are whistling," said Jimmy, "which is a thing, as you are well aware, that I detest in the street. What on earth is the matter with you to-night? Ten minutes ago you were as glum as they make 'em; nothing suited you. Then you went into that shop and bought that picture, and since you came out you seem bent on making a public exhibition of yourself."
"So I am," said Browne; and then, suddenly stopping in his walk, he rapped with the ferrule of his umbrella on the pavement. "I am going to give an exhibition, and a dashed good one, too. I'll take one of the galleries, and do it in a proper style. I'll have the critics there, and all the swells who buy; and if they don't do as I want, and declare it to be the very finest show of the year, I'll never buy one of their works again." Then, taking his friend's arm, he continued his walk, saying, "What you want, Jimmy, my boy, is a proper appreciation of art. There is nothing like it in the world, take my word for it. Nothing! Nothing at all!"
"You've said that before," retorted his friend, "and you said it with sufficient emphasis to amuse the whole street. If you're going to give me an exposition of art in Regent Street on a foggy afternoon in March, I tell you flatly I'm going home. I am not a millionaire, and my character won't stand the strain. What's the matter with you, Browne? You're as jolly as a sandboy now, and, for the life of me, I don't see how a chap can be happy in a fog like this and still retain his reason."
"Fog, my boy," continued Browne, still displaying the greatest good humour. "I give you my word, there's nothing like a fog in the world. I adore it! I revel in it! Talk about your south of France and sunshine – what is it to London and a fog? A fog did me a very good turn once, and now I'm hanged if another isn't going to do it again. You're a dear little chap, Jimmy, and I wouldn't wish for a better companion. But there's no use shutting your eyes to one fact, and that is you're not sympathetic. You want educating, and when I've a week or two to spare I'll do it. Now I'm going to leave you to think out what I've said. I've just remembered a most important engagement. Let me find a decent hansom and I'll be off."
"I thought you said just now this was not the weather for driving in hansoms? I thought you said you had nothing to do, and that you were going to employ yourself entertaining me? John Grantham Browne, I tell you what it is, you're going in that hansom to a lunatic asylum."
"Better than that, my boy," said Browne, with a laugh, as the cab drew up at the pavement and he sprang in. "Far better than that." Then, looking up through the trap in the roof at the driver, he added solemnly: "Cabby, drive me to 43, German Park Road, as fast as your horse can go."
"But, hold on," said Foote, holding up his umbrella to detain him. "Before you do go, what about to-morrow? What train shall we catch? And have you sent the wire to your skipper to have the yacht in readiness?"
"Bother to-morrow," answered Browne. "There is no to-morrow, there are no trains, there is no skipper, and most certainly there is no yacht. I've forgotten them and everything else. Drive on, cabby. Bye-bye, Jimmy."
The cab disappeared in the fog, leaving Mr. Foote standing before the portico of the Criterion looking after it.
"My friend Browne is either mad or in love," said that astonished individual as the vehicle disappeared in the traffic. "I don't know which to think. He's quite unnerved me. I think I'll go in here and try a glass of dry sherry just to pull myself together. What an idiot I was not to find out who painted that picture! But that's just like me; I never think of things until too late."
When he had finished his sherry he lit a cigarette, and presently found himself making his way towards his rooms in Jermyn Street. As he walked he shook his head solemnly. "I don't like the look of things at all," he said. "I said a lunatic asylum just now; I should have mentioned a worse place – 'St. George's, Hanover Square.' One thing, however, is quite certain. If I know anything of signs, Algiers will not have the pleasure of entertaining me."
CHAPTER IV
While Foote was cogitating in this way, Browne's cab was rolling along westward. He passed Apsley House and the Park, and dodged his way in and out of the traffic through Kensington Gore and the High Street. By the time they reached the turning into the Melbury Road he was in the highest state of good humour, not only with himself but the world in general.
When, however, they had passed the cab-stand, and had turned into the narrow street which was his destination, all his confidence vanished, and he became as nervous as a weak-minded school-girl. At last the cabman stopped and addressed his fare.
"The fog's so precious thick hereabouts, sir," he said, "that I'm blest if I can see the houses, much less the numbers. Forty-three may be here, or it may be down at the other end. If you like I'll get down and look."
"You needn't do that," said Browne. "I'll find it for myself."
It may have been his nervousness that induced him to do such a thing – on that point I cannot speak with authority – but it is quite certain that when he did get down he handed the driver half-a-sovereign. With the characteristic honesty of the London cabman, the man informed him of the fact, at the same time remarking that he could not give him change.
"Never mind the change," said Browne; adding, with fine cynicism, "Put it into the first charity-box you come across."
The man laughed, and with a hearty "Thank ye, sir; good-night," turned his horse and disappeared.
"Now for No. 43," said Browne.
But though he appeared to be so confident of finding it, it soon transpired that the house was more difficult to discover than he imagined. He wandered up one pavement and down the other in search of it. When he did come across it, it proved to be a picturesque little building standing back from the street, and boasted a small garden in front. The door was placed at the side. He approached it and rang the bell. A moment later he found himself standing face to face with the girl he had rescued on the Gieranger Fjord seven months before. It may possibly have been due to the fact that when she had last seen him he had been dressed after the fashion of the average well-to-do tourist, and that now he wore a top-hat and a great coat; it is quite certain, however, that for the moment she did not recognise him.
"I am afraid you do not know me," said Browne, with a humility that was by no means usual with him. But before he had finished speaking she had uttered a little exclamation of astonishment, and, as the young man afterwards flattered himself, of pleasure.
"Mr. Browne!" she cried. "I beg your pardon, indeed, for not recognising you. You must think me very rude; but I had no idea of seeing you here."
"I only learnt your address an hour ago," the young man replied. "I could not resist the opportunity of calling on you."
"But I am so unknown in London," she answered. "How could you possibly have heard of me! I thought myself so insignificant that my presence in this great city would not be known to any one."
"You are too modest," said Browne, with a solemnity that would not have discredited a State secret. Then he made haste to add, "I cannot tell you how often I have thought of that terrible afternoon."
"As you may suppose, I have never forgotten it," she answered. "It is scarcely likely I should."
There was a little pause; then she added, "But I don't know why I should keep you standing out here like this. Will you not come in?"
Browne was only too glad to do so. He accordingly followed her into the large and luxuriously furnished studio.
"Won't you sit down?" she said, pointing to a chair by the fire. "It is so cold and foggy outside that perhaps you would like a cup of tea."
Tea was a beverage in which Browne never indulged, and yet, on this occasion, so little was he responsible for his actions that he acquiesced without a second thought.
"How do you prefer it?" she asked. "Will you have it made in the English or the Russian way? Here is a teapot, and here a samovar; here is milk, and here a slice of lemon. Which do you prefer?"
Scarcely knowing which he chose, Browne answered that he would take it à la Russe. She thereupon set to work, and the young man, as he watched her bending over the table, thought he had never in his life before seen so beautiful and so desirable a woman. And yet, had a female critic been present, it is quite possible – nay, it is almost probable that more than one hole might have been picked in her appearance. Her skirt – in order to show my knowledge of the technicalities of woman's attire – was of plain merino, and she also wore a painting blouse that, like Joseph's coat, was of many colours. To go further, a detractor would probably have observed that her hair might have been better arranged. Browne, however, thought her perfection in every respect, and drank his tea in a whirl of enchantment. He found an inexplicable fascination in the mere swish of her skirts as she moved about the room, and a pleasure that he had never known before in the movement of her slender hands above the tray. And when, their tea finished, she brought him a case of cigarettes, and bade him smoke if he cared to, it might very well have been said that that studio contained the happiest man in England. Outside, they could hear the steady patter of the rain, and the rattle of traffic reached them from the High Street; but inside there was a silence of a Norwegian fjord, and the memory of one hour that never could be effaced from their recollections as long as they both should live. Under the influence of the tea, and with the assistance of the cigarette, which she insisted he should smoke, Browne gradually recovered his presence of mind. One thing, however, puzzled him. He remembered what the shopman had told him, and for this reason he could not understand how she came to be the possessor of so comfortable a studio. This, however, was soon explained. The girl informed him that after his departure from Merok (though I feel sure she was not aware that he was the owner of the magnificent vessel she had seen in the harbour) she had been unable to move for upwards of a week. After that she and her companion, Madame Bernstein, had left for Christiania, travelling thence to Copenhagen, and afterwards to Berlin. In the latter city she had met an English woman, also an artist. They had struck up a friendship, with the result that the lady in question, having made up her mind to winter in Venice, had offered her the free use of her London studio for that time, if she cared to cross the Channel and take possession of it.
"Accordingly, in the daytime, I paint here," said the girl; "but Madame Bernstein and I have our lodgings in the Warwick Road. I hope you did not think this was my studio; I should not like to sail under false colours."
Browne felt that he would have liked to give her the finest studio that ever artist had used a brush and pencil in. He was wise enough, however, not to say so. He changed the conversation, therefore, by informing her that he had wintered in Petersburg, remarking at the same time that he had hoped to have had the pleasure of meeting her there.
"You will never meet me in Petersburg," she answered, her face changing colour as she spoke. "You do not know, perhaps, why I say this. But I assure you, you will never meet me or mine within the Czar's dominions."
Browne would have given all he possessed in the world not to have given utterance to that foolish speech. He apologised immediately, and with a sincerity that made her at once take pity on him.
"Please do not feel so sorry for what you said," she replied. "It was impossible for you to know that you had transgressed. The truth is, my family are supposed to be very dangerous persons. I do not think, with one exception, we are more so than our neighbours; but, as the law now stands, we are prohibited. Whether it will ever be different I cannot say. That is enough, however, about myself. Let us talk of something else."
She had seated herself in a low chair opposite him, with her elbows on her knees and her chin resting on her hand. Browne glanced at her, and remembered that he had once carried her in his arms for upwards of a mile. At this thought such a thrill went through him that his teacup, which he had placed on a table beside him, trembled in its saucer. Unable to trust himself any further in that direction, he talked of London, of the weather, of anything that occurred to him; curiously enough, however, he did not mention his proposed departure for the Mediterranean on the morrow. In his heart he had an uneasy feeling that he had no right to be where he was. But when he thought of the foggy street outside, and realised how comfortable this room was, with its easy chairs, its polished floor, on which the firelight danced and played, to say nothing of the girl seated opposite him, he could not summon up sufficient courage to say good-bye.
"How strange it seems," she said at last – "does it not? – that you and I should be sitting here like this! I had no idea, when we bade each other good-bye in Norway, that we should ever meet again."
"I felt certain of it," Browne replied, but he failed to add why he was so sure. "Is it settled how long you remain in England?"
"I do not think so," she answered. "We may be here some weeks; we may be only a few days. It all depends upon Madame Bernstein."
"Upon Madame Bernstein?" he said, with some surprise.
"Yes," she answered; "she makes our arrangements. You have no idea how busy she is."
Browne certainly had no idea upon that point, and up to that moment he was not sure that he was at all interested; now, however, since it appeared that madame controlled the girl's movements, she became a matter of overwhelming importance to him.
For more than an hour they continued to chat; then Browne rose to bid her good-bye.
"Would you think me intrusive if I were to call upon you again?" he asked as he took her hand.
"Do so by all means, if you like," she answered, with charming frankness. "I shall be very glad to see you."
Then an idea occurred to him – an idea so magnificent, so delightful, that it almost took his breath away.
"Would you think me impertinent if I inquired how you and Madame Bernstein amuse yourselves in the evenings? Have you been to any theatres or to the opera?"
The girl shook her head. "I have never been inside a theatre in London," she replied.
"Then perhaps I might be able to persuade you to let me take you to one," he answered. "I might write to Madame Bernstein and arrange an evening. Would she care about it, do you think?"
"I am sure she would," she answered. "And I know that I should enjoy it immensely. It is very kind of you to ask us."
"It is very kind of you to promise to come," he said gratefully. "Then I will arrange it for to-morrow night if possible. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," she answered, and held out her little hand to him for the second time.
When the front door had closed behind him and he was fairly out in the foggy street once more, Browne set off along the pavement on his return journey, swinging his umbrella and whistling like a schoolboy. To a crusty old bachelor his state of mind would have appeared inexplicable. There was no sort of doubt about it, however, that he was happy; he walked as if he were treading on air. It was a good suggestion, that one about the theatre, he said to himself, and he would take care that they enjoyed themselves. He would endeavour to obtain the best box at the opera; they were playing Lohengrin at the time, he remembered. He would send one of his own carriages to meet them, and it should take them home again. Then a still more brilliant idea occurred to him. Why should he not arrange a nice little dinner at some restaurant first? Not one of your flash dining-places but a quiet, comfortable little place – Lallemand's, for instance, where the cooking is irreproachable, the wine and waiting faultless, and the company who frequent it beyond suspicion. And yet another notion, and as it occurred to him he laughed aloud in the public street.
"There will be three of us," he said, "and the chaperon will need an escort. By Jove! Jimmy called me mad, did he? Well, I'll be revenged on him. He shall sit beside Madame Bernstein."
