"Now, Monsieur Browne," said Madame Bernstein, as she seated herself
with her back to the window, "we can talk in comfort, and, what is
better still, without fear of being disturbed. It is indeed kind of
you to come and see me, for I expect you were considerably surprised at
receiving my poor little note yesterday. What you must have thought of
it I dare not think; but I must console myself with the reflection,
that it was written in the interests of another person, whose happiness
is dearer to me than I can make you understand. To tell you the truth,
it is a most delicate matter. I think you will admit as much when you
have heard what I have to say."
Browne accordingly reserved his judgment. His distrust of the woman,
however, was rapidly coming back upon him, and he could not help
feeling that, plausible as her words were, and desirous as she appeared
to be of helping a third person, she was in some way attempting to
deceive himself.
"I beg that you will not consider me at all in the matter," he said,
seeing that he was expected to say something. "I am, as you know, only
too glad to do anything I can to help you. Perhaps it is regarding
Mademoiselle Petrovitch that you desire to speak to me?"
"You have guessed correctly," said madame. "It is about Katherine.
The poor child, as I have reason to know, is in terrible trouble just
now."
"I am indeed sorry to hear that," said Browne, a fear of he knew not
what taking possession of him. "But I hope the trouble is one that can
be easily set right."
"It is possible it may," madame replied. "But I think it depends, if
you will permit me to say so, in a very great measure upon yourself."
"Upon me?" cried the young man, this time with real surprise. "How can
that be? I should never forgive myself if I thought I had made Miss
Petrovitch unhappy."
"Not perhaps exactly in the sense you mean," said madame, moving a
little nearer him, and speaking in a tone that was low and
confidential; "but still you have done so in another way, Monsieur
Browne. Before I go any further, however, it is necessary that I
should remind you that I am an old woman." Here she smiled a little
coquettishly, as if to remind him that her words, in this particular
instance, must not be taken too literally. "I am an old woman," she
continued--"old enough to be your mother, perhaps; at any rate, old
enough to be able to say what I am going to say, without fear of giving
offence, or of having my motives misconstrued. Monsieur Browne, as you
are well aware, Katherine is only a young girl, and, like other young
girls, she has her dreams. Into those dreams you have come, and what
is the result? I will leave it to your common-sense, and perhaps a
little to your vanity, to read between the lines. Had you been
differently situated it would not have mattered. At the time that you
rendered her that great service on the mountains above Merok, she had
no idea who you were. But later on, when you were so kind to us in
London, though you did your best to prevent it, we discovered all about
you. Immediately, as is often the way with young girls, a change came.
She is simplicity itself. She is also the soul of honour. She feared
to let her true soul be seen, lest you might think that we were
cultivating your acquaintance for the sake of your wealth."
"I never dreamt of such a thing," Browne replied indignantly. "That is
the worst part of being a rich man, Madame Bernstein. One-half of the
world preys upon you for your money, while a large number will not be
friendly to you lest they may be supposed to be doing the same. I
should be a cad of the first water if I had ever thought for a moment,
that Miss Petrovitch was capable of such a thing."
From the way he spoke Madame Bernstein saw that she had overshot her
mark, and she was quick to make up for her mistake.
"I do not think I said that we thought so, Monsieur Brown," she said.
"I only remarked that I feared my ward was afraid lest you might do so."
"She might have known me better than that," said Browne a little
reproachfully. "But perhaps you will tell me what it is you wish me to
do?"
"Ah! In asking that question you bring me to the most difficult point
in our interview," she replied. "I will show you why. Before I do so,
however, I want you to give me your promise that you will not be
offended at what I am about to say to you."
"I will certainly promise that," Browne answered.
"I am going to put your friendship to a severe test," Madame continued.
She paused for a moment as if to collect her thoughts. When she spoke
again it was with an abruptness that was most disconcerting. "You must
be blind indeed," she said, "if you cannot see, Monsieur Browne, that
Katherine loves you."
The revulsion of feeling caused by her announcement of this fact was so
strong that, though Browne tried to speak, he found he was incapable of
uttering a word. And yet, though she seemed so certain of what she
said, there was something in the way she said it that did not ring
quite true.
"Monsieur Browne," she went on, leaning a little forward and speaking
with still greater earnestness, "I feel sure you will understand how
much all this means, not only to her but to me. Since my poor
husband's death she has been all I have had to live for, and it cuts my
heart in pieces to see her so unhappy."
"But what would you have me do?" inquired Browne.
"That is the very subject I wished to speak to you about," Madame
replied. Then, shaking her head sadly, she continued: "Ah, Monsieur
Browne, you do not know what it is to love, and to love in vain. The
favour I am going to ask of you is that you should go away; that you
should not let Katherine see you again."
"But, madame," said Browne, "why should I go away? What if I love her
as you say she loves me?"
The lady uttered a little cry as if of astonishment.
"If you loved her all would be different," she cried, clasping her
hands together--"so very, very different."
"Then let it be as different as you please," cried Browne, springing to
his feet. "For I do love her, and with my whole heart and soul, as I
should have told her, had she not left London so suddenly the other
day."
Looking back on it now, Browne is obliged to confess that the whole
scene was theatrical in the extreme. Madame Bernstein, on hearing the
news, behaved with a most amiable eccentricity; she sprang from her
chair, and, taking his hand in hers, pressed it to her heart. If her
behaviour counted for anything, this would seem to have been the
happiest moment of her life. In the middle of it all the sound of a
light footstep reached them from the corridor outside.
"Hush!" said Madame Bernstein, holding up her finger in warning. "It
is Katherine! I implore you not to tell her that I have said this to
you."
"You may depend upon my not doing so," Browne answered.
An instant later the girl, whose happiness they appeared to be so
anxious to promote, entered the room. Her surprise and confusion at
finding Browne there may be better imagined than described. But if the
position were embarrassing for her, how much more so was it for Browne!
He stood before her like a schoolboy detected in a fault, and who waits
to be told what his punishment will be.
"Monsieur Browne was kind enough to take pity on my loneliness," said
Madame Bernstein, by way of explanation, but with a slight falter in
her voice which told the young man that, although she wished him to
think otherwise, she really stood in some awe of her companion. "We
have had a most interesting discussion on modern French art. I had no
idea that Monsieur Browne was so well acquainted with the subject."
"It is the one thing of all others in which I take the greatest
possible interest," replied Browne, with corresponding gravity. But he
dared not look at Katherine's face, for he knew she was regarding him
with a perplexed and somewhat disappointed look, as if she were not
quite certain whether he was telling the truth. She did not know how
to account for his presence there, and in some vague way it frightened
her. It was plain, at any rate, that she placed no sort of reliance in
her guardian's somewhat far-fetched explanation.
Seeing that she was likely to be _de trop_, that lady made an excuse
and left the room. After she had gone, and the door had closed behind
her, things passed from bad to worse with the couple she had left
behind. Browne knew exactly what he wanted to say, but he did not know
how to say it. Katherine said nothing at all; she was waiting for him
to make the first move.
At last Browne could bear the silence no longer. Advancing towards the
girl, he managed to obtain possession of her hands before she became
aware of his intention.
Holding them in his, he looked into her face and spoke.
"Katherine," he said, in a voice that trembled with emotion, "cannot
you guess why I am here?"
"I understood that you came to see Madame Bernstein," she faltered, not
daring to look up into his face.
"You know as well as I do that, while I made that the excuse, it was
not my real reason," he answered. "Katherine, I came to see you
because I have something to say to you, which must be said at once,
which cannot be delayed any longer. I would have spoken to you in
London, had you vouchsafed me an opportunity, but you left so suddenly
that I never had the chance of opening my lips. What I want to tell
you, Katherine, is, that I love you with my whole heart and soul; God
knows I love you better than my life, and I shall love you to the day
of my death."
She uttered a little cry, and endeavoured to withdraw her hands from
his grasp, but he would not let them go.
"Surely you must have known all this long since," he continued with
relentless persistence. "You believe, don't you, that I mean what I
say?"
"I must not hear you," she answered. "I cannot bear it. You do not
know what you are saying."
"I know all I want to know," said Browne; "and I think, Katherine, you
on your part know how deeply in earnest I am. Try to remember, before
you speak, that the whole happiness of my life is at stake."
"That is exactly why I say that I cannot listen to you," she answered,
still looking away.
"Is my love so distasteful to you, then, that you cannot bear to hear
me speak of it?" he said, a little reproachfully.
"No, no," she answered; "it is not that at all. It is that---- But
there, I cannot, I must not hear you any further. Please do not say
any more about it; I beg of you to forget that you have ever told me of
it."
"But I _must_ say more," cried Browne. "I love you, and I cannot and
will not live without you. I believe that you love me, Katherine; upon
my honour I do. If so, why should you be so cruel to me? Will you
answer me one question, honestly and straight-forwardly?"
"What is it?"
"Will you be my wife?"
"I cannot. It is impossible," she cried, this time as if her heart
were breaking. "It is useless to say more. Such a thing could never
be."
"But if you love me, it both can and shall be," replied Browne. "If
you love me, there is nothing that can separate us."
"There is everything. You do not know how impossible it is."
"If there is a difficulty I will remove it. It shall cease to exist.
Come, Katherine, tell me that you love me."
She did not reply.
"Will you not confess it?" he repeated. "You know what your answer
means to me. Say that you do, and nothing shall part us; I swear it.
If you do not, then I give you my word I will go away, and never let
you see my face again."
This time she looked up at him with her beautiful eyes full of tears.
"I _do_ love you," she whispered; and then added, in a louder voice,
"but what is the use of my saying so, when it can make no difference?"
"It makes all the difference in the world, darling," cried Browne, with
a triumph in his voice that had not been there a moment before. "Now
that I know you love me, I can act. I am not afraid of anything."
Before she could protest he had taken her in his arms and covered her
face with kisses. She struggled to escape, but he was too strong for
her. At last he let her go.
"Oh! you do not know what you are doing," she cried. "Why will you not
listen to me and go away before it is too late? I tell you again and
again that you are deluding yourself with false hopes. Come what may,
I can never be your wife. It is impossible."
"Since you have confessed that you love me, we will see about that,"
said Browne quietly but determinedly. "In the meantime, remember that
I am your affianced lover. Nothing can alter that. But, hark! if I am
not mistaken, I hear Madame Bernstein."
A moment later the lady in question entered the room. She glanced from
one to the other as if to find out whether they had arrived at an
understanding. Then Browne advanced and took her hand.
"Madame," he said, "I have the honour to inform you that mademoiselle
has decided to be my wife."
"No, no," cried Katherine, as if in a last entreaty. "You must not say
that. I cannot let you say it."
Madame Bernstein took in the situation, and adapted herself to it
immediately. In her usual manner, she expressed her delight at the
arrangement they had come to. There was nothing like love, she
averred, in the world.
"I always hoped and prayed that it would be so," she went on to say.
"It has been my wish for years to see you happily married, Katherine.
Now I can feel that my work in life is done, and that I can go down to
my grave in peace, knowing that, whatever happens, you will be well
protected."
Could one have looked into her brain, I am inclined to believe it would
have been found that, while she gave expression to these beautiful
ideas, they were far from being a true record of her feelings. Such
sentiments, however, were the proper ones to use at that particular
moment, and, having given utterance to them, she felt that she had done
all that could reasonably be expected of her.
"With your permission, madame," said Browne, to whom the idea had only
that moment occurred, "Katherine and I will spend the whole of
to-morrow in the country together. I should like to take her to
Fontainebleau. As you are aware, there are a number of pictures there,
which, according to your own argument, it is only fit and proper I
should study in order to perfect myself on the subject of modern French
art."
After this Parthian shot, Madame, although she knew that such a
proposal was far from being in accordance with the notions of propriety
entertained by the parents and guardians of the country in which they
were at present domiciled, had no objection to raise. On the contrary,
she had her own reasons for not desiring to thwart Browne at the
commencement of his engagement, and just when he was likely to prove
most useful to her. Accordingly she expressed great delight at the
arrangement, and hoped that they would spend a happy day together.
Having said this, she wiped away an imaginary tear and heaved a sigh,
which, taken in conjunction, were doubtless intended to convey to the
young people the impression that she was dwelling on the recollection
of similar excursions in which she and the late lamented Bernstein had
indulged at a similar period.
"To-night we must all dine together to celebrate the event," said
Browne enthusiastically, taking no notice whatsoever of the good lady's
expression of woe. "Where shall it be?"
Katherine was about to protest, but she caught Madame's eye in time,
and desisted.
"I am sure we shall be charmed," returned Madame. "If you will make
the arrangements, we will meet you wherever you please."
"Shall we say the Maison Doree, then, at eight? Or would you prefer
the Cafe Anglais, or Au Lion d'Or?"
"The Maison Doree by all means," said Madame, "and at eight. We will
make a point of being there in good time."
Seeing that it was impossible for him to stay any longer, Browne bade
Madame good-bye, and went across the room to where Katherine was
standing by the window.
"Good-bye," he said, and as he did so he took her hand.
Looking into her eyes, which were filled with as much love as even he
could desire, he put the following question to her, so softly that
Madame, standing at the other end of the room, could not hear: "Are you
happy, Katherine?"
"Very happy," she answered in a similar tone. "But I cannot help
feeling that I am doing very wrong."
"You are doing nothing of the sort," the young man answered
dogmatically. "You are doing just the very best and wisest thing a
woman could do. You must never say such a thing again. Now, _au
revoir_, until we meet at eight. I shall count the minutes till then."