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 _dahabiyeh_, 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 metier: 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."