When Browne reached the yacht, after bidding good-bye to the girl he
had rescued, he found his friends much exercised in their minds
concerning him. They had themselves been overtaken by the fog, and
very naturally they had supposed that their host, seeing it coming on,
had returned to the yacht without waiting for them. Their surprise,
therefore, when they arrived on board and found him still missing was
scarcely to be wondered at. In consequence, when he descended the
companion ladder and entered the drawing-room, he had to undergo a
cross-examination as to his movements. Strangely enough, this
solicitude for his welfare was far from being pleasing to him. He had
made up his mind to say nothing about the adventure of the afternoon,
and yet, as he soon discovered, it was difficult to account for the
time he had spent ashore if he kept silence on the subject.
Accordingly he made the best excuse that occurred to him, and by
disclosing a half-truth induced them to suppose that he had followed
their party towards the waterfall, and had in consequence been lost in
the fog.
"It was scarcely kind of you to cause us so much anxiety," said Miss
Verney in a low voice as he approached the piano at which she was
seated. "I assure you we have been most concerned about you; and, if
you had not come on board very soon, Captain Marsh and Mr. Foote were
going ashore again in search of you."
"That would have been very kind of them," said Browne, dropping into an
easy-chair; "but there was not the least necessity for it. I am quite
capable of taking care of myself."
"Nasty things mountains," said Jimmy Foote to the company at large. "I
don't trust 'em myself. I remember once on the Rigi going out with old
Simeon Baynes, the American millionaire fellow, you know, and his
daughter, the girl who married that Italian count who fought
Constantovitch and was afterwards killed in Abyssinia. At one place we
very nearly went over the edge, every man-jack of us, and I vowed I'd
never do such a thing again. Fancy the irony of the position! After
having been poverty-stricken all one's life, to drop through the air
thirteen hundred feet in the company of over a million dollars. I'm
perfectly certain of one thing, however: if it hadn't been for the
girl's presence of mind I should not have been here to-day. As it was,
she saved my life, and, until she married, I never could be
sufficiently grateful to her."
"Only until she married!" said Lady Imogen, looking up from the novel
she was reading. "How was it your gratitude did not last longer than
that?"
"Doesn't somebody say that gratitude is akin to love?" answered Foote,
with a chuckle. "Of course I argued that, since she was foolish enough
to show her bad taste by marrying somebody else, it would scarcely have
become me to be grateful."
Browne glanced at Foote rather sharply. What did he mean by talking of
life-saving on mountains, on this evening of all others? Had he heard
anything? But Jimmy's face was all innocence.
At that moment the dressing gong sounded, and every one rose,
preparatory to departing to their respective cabins.
"Where is Maas?" Browne inquired of Marsh, who was the last to leave.
"He is on deck, I think," replied the other; but as he spoke the
individual in question made his appearance down the companion-ladder,
carrying in his hand a pair of field-glasses.
For some reason or another, dinner that night was scarcely as
successful as usual. The English mail had come in, and the Duchess had
had a worrying letter from the Duke, who had been commanded to Osborne
among the salt of the earth, when he wanted to be in the Highlands
among the grouse; Miss Verney had not yet recovered from what she
considered Browne's ill-treatment of herself that afternoon; while one
of the many kind friends of the American Ambassador had forwarded him
information concerning a debate in Congress, in order that he might see
in what sort of estimation he was held by a certain portion of his
fellow-countrymen. Never a very talkative man, Browne this evening was
even more silent than usual. The recollection of a certain pale face
and a pair of beautiful eyes haunted him continually. Indeed, had it
not been for Barrington-Marsh and Jimmy Foote, who did their duty
manfully, the meal would have been a distinct failure as far as its
general liveliness was concerned. As it was, no one was sorry when an
adjournment was made for coffee to the deck above. Under the influence
of this gentle stimulant, however, and the wonderful quiet of the
fjord, things brightened somewhat. But the improvement was not
maintained; the pauses gradually grew longer and more frequent, and
soon after ten o'clock the ladies succumbed to the general inertness,
and disappeared below.
According to custom, the majority of the men immediately adjourned to
the smoking-room for cards. Browne, however, excused himself on the
plea that he was tired and preferred the cool. Maas followed suit;
and, when the others had taken themselves off, the pair stood leaning
against the bulwarks, smoking and watching the lights of the village
ashore.
"I wonder how you and I would have turned out," said Maas quietly, when
they had been standing at the rails for some minutes, "if we had been
born and bred in this little village, and had never seen any sort of
life outside the Geiranger?"
"Without attempting to moralize, I don't doubt but that we should have
been better in many ways," Browne replied. "I can assure you there are
times when I get sick to death of the inane existence we lead."
"_Leben heisst traeumen; weise sein heisst angenehm traeumen_," quoted
Maas, half to himself and half to his cigar. "Schiller was not so very
far out after all."
"Excellent as far as the sentiment is concerned," said Browne, as he
flicked the ash off his cigar and watched it drop into the water
alongside. "But, however desirous we may be of dreaming agreeably, our
world will still take good care that we wake up just at the moment when
we are most anxious to go on sleeping."
"In order that we may not be disillusioned, my friend," said Maas.
"The starving man dreams of City banquets, and wakes to the unpleasant
knowledge that it does not do to go to sleep on an empty stomach. The
debtor imagines himself the possessor of millions, and wakes to find
the man-in-possession seated by his bedside. But there is one cure;
and you should adopt it, my dear Browne."
"What is that?"
"Marriage, my friend! Get yourself a wife and you will have no time to
think of such things. Doesn't your Ben Jonson say that marriage is the
best state for a man in general?"
"Marriage!" retorted Browne scornfully. "It always comes back to that.
I tell you I have come to hate the very sound of the word. From the
way people talk you might think marriage is the pivot on which our
lives turn. They never seem to realise that it is the rock upon which
we most of us go to pieces. What is a London season but a monstrous
market, in which men and women are sold to the highest bidders,
irrespective of inclination or regard? I tell you, Maas, the way these
things are managed in what we call English society borders on the
indecent. Lord A. is rich; consequently a hundred mothers offer him
their daughters. He may be what he pleases--an honourable man, or the
greatest blackguard at large upon the earth. In nine cases out of ten
it makes little or no difference, provided, of course, he has a fine
establishment and the settlements are satisfactory. At the
commencement of the season the girls are brought up to London, to be
tricked out, regardless of expense, by the fashionable dressmakers of
the day. They are paraded here, there, and everywhere, like horses in
a dealer's yard; are warned off the men who have no money, but who
might very possibly make them happy; while they are ordered by the
'home authorities' to encourage those who have substantial bank
balances and nothing else to recommend them. As the question of love
makes no sort of difference, it receives no consideration. After their
friends have sent them expensive presents, which in most cases they
cannot afford to give, but do so in order that they may keep up
appearances with their neighbours and tradesmen, the happy couple stand
side by side before the altar at St. George's and take the most solemn
oath of their lives; that done, they spend their honeymoon in Egypt,
Switzerland, or the Riviera, where they are presented with ample
opportunity of growing tired of one another. Returning to town, the
man usually goes back to his old life and the woman to hers. The
result is a period of mutual distrust and deceit; an awakening follows,
and later on we have the _cause celebre_, and, holding up our hands in
horror, say, 'Dear me, how very shocking!' In the face of all this, we
have the audacity to curl our lips and to call the French system
unnatural!"
"I am afraid, dear Browne, you are not quite yourself to-night," said
Maas, with a gentle little laugh, at the end of the other's harangue.
"The mistake of believing that a marriage, with money on the side of
the man and beauty on that of the woman, must irretrievably result in
misfortune is a very common one. For my part, I am singular enough to
believe it may turn out as well if not better than any other."
"I wasn't aware that optimism was your strong point," retorted Browne.
"For my part I feel, after the quiet of this fjord, as if I could turn
my back on London and never go near it again."
He spoke with such earnestness that Maas, for once in his life, was
almost astonished. He watched his companion as he lit another cigar.
"One thing is quite certain," he said at length, "your walk this
afternoon did you more harm than good. The fog must have got into your
blood. And yet, if you will not think me impertinent for saying so,
Miss Verney gave you a welcome such as many men would go through fire
and water to receive."
Browne grunted scornfully. He was not going to discuss Miss Verney's
opinion of himself with his companion. Accordingly he changed the
subject abruptly by inquiring whether Maas had made any plans for the
ensuing winter.
"I am a methodical man," replied the latter, with a smile at his
companion's naive handling of the situation, "and all my movements are
arranged some months ahead. When this charming voyage is at an end,
and I have thanked you for your delightful hospitality, I shall hope to
spend a fortnight with our dear Duchess in the Midlands; after that I
am due in Paris for a week or ten days; then, like the swallow, I fly
south; shall dawdle along the Mediterranean for three or four months,
probably cross to Cairo, and then work my way slowly back to England in
time for the spring. What do you propose doing?"
"Goodness knows," Browne replied lugubriously. "At first I thought of
Rajputana; but I seem to have done, and to be tired of doing,
everything. They tell me tigers are scarce in India. This morning I
felt almost inclined to take a run out to the Cape and have three
months with the big game."
"You said as much in the smoking-room last night, I remember," Maas
replied. "Pray, what has occurred since then to make you change your
mind?"
"I do not know, myself," said Browne. "I feel restless and unsettled
to-night, that is all. Do you think I should care for Russia?"
"For Russia?" cried his companion in complete surprise. "What on earth
makes you think of Russia?"
Browne shook his head.
"It's a notion I have," he answered; though, for my own part, I am
certain that, until that moment, he had never thought of it. "Do you
remember Demetrovitch, that handsome fellow with the enormous moustache
who stayed with me last year at Newmarket?"
"I remember him perfectly," Maas replied; and had Browne been watching
his face, instead of looking at the little hotel ashore, he would in
all probability have noticed that a peculiar smile played round the
corners of his mouth as he said it. "But what has Demetrovitch to do
with your proposed trip to Russia? I had an idea that he was ordered
by the Czar to spend two years upon his estates."
"Exactly! so he was. That accounts for my notion. He has often asked
me to pay him a visit. Besides, I have never seen Petersburg in the
winter, and I'm told it's rather good fun."
"You will be bored to death," the other answered. "If you go, I'll
give you a month in which to be back in England. Now I think, with
your permission, I'll retire. It's after eleven, and there's something
about these fjords that never fails to make me sleepy. Good-night,
_mon cher ami_, and pleasant dreams to you."
Browne bade him good-night, and when the other disappeared into the
companion, returned to his contemplation of the shore. The night was
so still that the ripple of the wavelets on the beach, half a mile or
so away, could be distinctly heard. The men had left the smoking-room;
and save the solitary figure of the officer on the bridge, and a hand
forward by the cable range, Browne had the deck to himself. And yet he
was not altogether alone, for his memory was still haunted by the
recollection of the same sweet face, with the dark, lustrous eyes, that
had been with him all the evening. Do what he would, he could not
endow the adventure of the afternoon with the common-place air he had
tried to bestow upon it. Something told him that it was destined to
play a more important part in his life's history than would at first
glance appear to be the case. And yet he was far from being a
susceptible young man. The training he had received would have been
sufficient to prevent that. For upwards of an hour he remained where
he was, thinking and thinking, and yet never coming any nearer a
definite conclusion. Then, throwing away what remained of his cigar,
he bestowed a final glance upon the shore, and went below to his cabin,
to dream, over and over again, of the adventure that had befallen him
that afternoon.
Whatever else may have been said of it, the weather next morning was
certainly not propitious; the mountains surrounding the bay were hidden
in thick mist, and rain was falling steadily. After breakfast the male
portion of the party adjourned to the smoking-room, while the ladies
engaged themselves writing letters or with their novels in the
drawing-room below.
Browne alone seemed in good spirits. While the others were railing at
the fog, and idly speculating as to whether it would clear, he seemed
to derive a considerable amount of satisfaction from it. About ten
o'clock he announced his intention of going ashore, in order, he said,
that he might confer with a certain local authority regarding their
proposed departure for the south next day. As a matter of politeness
he inquired whether any of his guests would accompany him, and received
an answer in the negative from all who happened to be in the
smoking-room at the time. His valet accordingly brought him his
mackintosh, and he had put it on and was moving towards the gangway
when Maas made his appearance from the saloon companion.
"Is it possible you are going ashore?" he inquired in a tone of mild
surprise. "If so, and you will have me, I will beg leave to accompany
you. If I stay on board I shall go to sleep, and if I go to sleep I
shall wake up in a bad temper; so that, if you would save your guests
from that annoyance, I should advise you to take me with you."
Though Browne could very well have dispensed with his company, common
politeness prevented him from saying so. Accordingly he expressed his
pleasure at the arrangement, and when they had descended the gangway
they took their places in the boat together. For the first time during
the excursion, and also for the first time in the years they had known
each other, Browne felt inclined to quarrel with Maas; and yet there
was nothing in the other's behaviour towards him to which he could take
exception.
Maas could see that Browne was not himself, and he accordingly set
himself to remedy the trouble as far as lay in his power. So well did
he succeed that by the time the boat reached the tiny landing-stage his
host was almost himself again.
"Now you must do just as you please," said Maas when they had landed.
"Do not consider me in the matter at all, I beg of you; I can amuse
myself very well. Personally I feel inclined for a walk up the
mountain road."
"Do so, then, by all means," said his host, who was by no means sorry
to hear him arrive at this decision. "If I were you, however, I should
stick to the road; these mists are not things to be taken lightly."
"I agree with you," said Maas. Then, bidding the other good-bye, he
set off on his excursion.
Browne, who was conscientiousness itself, walked along the hillside to
the residence of the functionary whom he had professedly come ashore to
see, and when he had consulted him upon the point at issue, made his
way in the direction of the hotel. Accosting the manager in the hall,
he inquired whether it would be possible to obtain an interview with
Madame Bernstein.
"Most certainly, sir," the man replied. "If you will follow me I will
conduct you to her."
So saying, he led the way down the long wooden passage towards a room
at the further end. Into this Browne was ushered, while the man
departed in search of the lady. What occasioned the delay it is
impossible to say, but fully a quarter of an hour elapsed before madame
made her appearance. She greeted him with a great appearance of
cordiality. Taking his hands in hers, she held them while she thanked
him, in fluent French, for what she called his bravery on the preceding
afternoon.
"_Mon Dieu!_" said she. "What should I have done had you not been
there to help her? Had she been killed I should never have known
happiness again. It was such a risk to run. She is so reckless. She
fills me with consternation whenever she goes out alone."
This was not at all what Browne had bargained for. However, under the
circumstances, it would not only have been unwise, but practically
impossible, for him to protest. You cannot save a young lady's life
and expect to escape her relatives' thanks, however much you may desire
to do so. After these had been offered to him, however, he managed to
discover an opportunity of inquiring after her.
"The poor child is better this morning," Madame replied, solemnly
wagging her head. "But, alas! it will be several days before she can
hope to put her foot to the ground. She begged me, however, to thank
you, monsieur, should you call, for your goodness to her."
Try as he would to conceal it, there could be no sort of doubt that
Browne was pleased that she should have thought about him. He begged
Madame Bernstein to inform her that he had called to inquire, and then
bade her good-bye. He had hoped to have discovered something
concerning the girl's history; but as it was plain to him that Madame
was not one who would be easily induced to make disclosures, he
abandoned the attempt.
He had passed down the passage, and was in the act of leaving the
hotel, when a voice reached him from a room on the right which caused
him no little surprise. At the same instant the door opened, and no
less a person than Maas stood before him.
"Why, my dear Browne, really this is most charming," he cried, with a
somewhat exaggerated enthusiasm. "I had not the very least idea of
finding you here."
"Nor I of seeing you," Browne retorted. "I understood that you were
going for a walk up the mountain."
"I did go," the other replied, "but the mist was so thick that I
changed my mind and came in here for a glass of Vermouth prior to going
on board. Believe me, there is nothing like Vermouth for counteracting
the evil effects of fog. Will you let me persuade you to try a glass?
What they have given me is excellent."
Browne thanked him, but declined. He did not like finding the man in
the hotel; but as things were, he could not see that he had any right
to complain. He only hoped that Maas knew nothing of his reason for
being there. Conversant, however, as he was with his friend's
peculiarities, he felt certain he would say nothing about it to any
one, even supposing that he had discovered it.
Leaving the hotel together, they made their way down to the boat, and
in something less than a quarter of an hour were on board the yacht
once more. The fog still continued, nor did it lift for the remainder
of the day.
On the following morning they had arranged to leave Merok for Aalsund,
and thence to turn south on their homeward journey. Fortunately the
weather had cleared sufficiently by the time day dawned to admit of
their departure, and accordingly at the appointed hour, dipping her
ensign to the village in token of farewell, the yacht swung round and
headed for the pass under the Pulpit Rock. Browne was on the bridge at
the time, and it was with a sensible feeling of regret that he bade
farewell to the little village nestling at the foot of the snow-capped
mountains. Never did he remember having experienced such regret in
leaving a place before. Whether he and Katherine Petrovitch would ever
meet again was more than he could tell; it seemed to him extremely
unlikely, and yet---- But at this juncture he shook his head very
wisely at the receding mountains, and told himself that that was a
question which only Fate could decide.