The Red Rat's Daughter

"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'Opéra, – 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 circumstance 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 Titian'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, willy-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 assure 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 unobserved. 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 God, 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 pass 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 gratitude 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.

"Oh no," Katherine replied. "You see, soon after my mother's death it was discovered by some one – I cannot remember who – that one of her brothers was dead, and that by his will I, as his sole heiress, inherited his money. From your point of view it would be nothing, but to me it meant a great deal. It was carefully invested, and it brings me in, in English money, just three hundred pounds a year. Of course we cannot do much with such a sum; but, as we have no expensive tastes, Madame Bernstein and I find that with it, and the sum I make by my painting, we are just able to make both ends meet."

On hearing this Browne pricked up his ears. This was putting a new complexion on the affair.

"Do you mean to say that Madame Bernstein has no income of her own, and that all these years she has been living upon you?"

"Yes. And why not? You cannot realise what a wonderful manager she is. I should not be able to do half as much with it if I had the sole control of my money."

"This is a matter which will have to be attended to in the near future," said Browne to himself. Then, aloud, he added, "Never mind, little woman; when you are my wife Madame shall retire in luxury. She shall not find us ungrateful, believe me. But continue your story. Or, I fancy, you had better let me finish it for you. You have told me that you have lived with Madame Bernstein, or rather, to be correct, that she has lived with you, for many years. You have travelled from place to place about Europe; for some reason or another you have had no fixed home; then you began to paint, and during the whole time you have denied yourself all sorts of things in order that Madame should live in the lap of luxury. Oh, don't dispute it, for I know what has happened as well as if I had been there to see. In the course of your peregrinations you went to Norway. There we met. Six months later you came to London, during which time I had been wondering whether I should ever see you again. Fate arranged that we should meet. I found you even more adorable than before, followed you to Paris, proposed and was accepted, and, like all pretty stories, ours must, and shall end with the music of wedding bells."

"Impossible," she answered. "From what I have already shown you, you must see that it could not be. Had my life been differently situated I should have been proud – you do not know how proud – to be your wife; but, as it is, it is quite out of the question. Some day you will see that yourself, and will thank me for having prevented you from spoiling your life by a foolish marriage."

Browne saw that she was in deadly earnest. He was about to argue the question with her, but the look upon her face stopped him. For the moment he was frightened in spite of himself, and could only stammer out, "I shall never see it."

"You must see it," she answered. "There is a task I have set for myself, which I must finish, come what may."

"Then, whatever it may be, I will share it with you," said Browne. "You must doubt my love, Katherine, if you refuse to let me help you."

"I do not doubt your love," she answered, "but it is quite out of the question that I could avail myself of your assistance in this matter."

"I will not believe it," he continued. "You are only saying it because you do not wish to inculpate me. But I will be inculpated, come what may. Tell me what it is you have to do, and I will help you to carry it through to the best of my ability; helping you where help is needed, and counselling you where you stand in need of advice. In other words, I place myself and all I have in the world at your disposal, darling, to do with as you will."

"You are too noble," she answered; "too good and true. What other man would do as much?"

"Any man," he answered, "who loves a woman as I love you."

"There can be but few who love so well," she replied softly, for her heart was touched more than she could say; "and yet, good as you are, I cannot accept your help. You do not know what I am about to attempt."

"I do not care what it is," he answered; "it makes no sort of difference to my promise."