"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."
"But it would afterwards," she said. "Why, do you not remember that I
am the daughter of a convict; that my father was sent to Siberia to
live in chains to the end of his days? He remained there for many
years. Afterwards he was despatched to the island of Saghalien, where
he now is. News has reached us within the last few days that he is
ill, and that unless he leaves the island he will not live another
year."
"How did you hear that?" Browne inquired.
"Through Madame Bernstein," Katherine replied. "Ever since my father
was first arrested she has managed somehow or other to obtain news of
him."
"And what is it you intend to do?"
"To help him to escape," the girl replied.
"But it would be impossible," said Browne, horrified at her
declaration. "You must not dream of such a thing."
"But I do more than dream of it," she replied. "Remember, he is my
father, my own flesh and blood, who is ill and suffering. You say you
love me?"
"I think you know by this time that I do," said Browne.
"Then what would you do if I were seized and carried away to a terrible
island, where my life would be one long torture? Would you not do your
best to rescue me?"
"Of course I would," said Browne indignantly. "You need not ask that."
"Very well, then, you can see now how I feel. I do not say that he was
right in his beliefs or in what he did; on the contrary, I think that
he was distinctly wrong. The fact, however, remains that he is my
father; and, however great his faults may have been, he has at least
been punished for them. Can you picture what his existence must have
been these many years? But of course you cannot. You do not know
anything of Russian prisons. They have been described to me, however,
by one who has seen them, and the account has filled me with such
terror as I have never known in my life before."
"But it would be sheer madness for you to attempt to rescue him," said
Browne. "You could not possibly succeed. Your effort would be
foredoomed to failure."
"It is very probable," she answered; "but would you have me for that
reason draw back? It is my duty to make the attempt, even if I fail.
You would have done the same for your own father, I know, had he been
in the same position. Why should I not therefore do it for mine?"
"Because--why, because it is too preposterous," said Browne, at loss
for a better reason. "I never heard of such a thing. You have not the
least idea of the magnitude of the danger of what you are attempting."
"Perhaps not," she said. "But if all those who make an attempt could
foresee the result, I fancy only a very small percentage would continue
to strive. No; if you love me, you will not try to make a coward of
me, just at the time when I am trying to do what I consider right."
Browne took counsel with himself. The position was the most
extraordinary he had ever faced. In his life he had met with many
peculiar people, but never had he been brought in contact with a young
girl who was willing to give up love, wealth, comfort, every prospect
of happiness, even life itself, in order to attempt what was neither
more nor less than a hopeless and impossible undertaking. And yet,
short as his acquaintance with Katharine had been, he felt that he knew
her well enough to be convinced that she would not abandon her purpose
without a struggle. "Loyalty before all" was his motto where she was
concerned. He loved her, and if it was her desire to assist a by no
means respectable father to escape from the prison in which he was very
rightly confined, he must help her to the best of his abilities,
without considering the cost to himself. It would be a terrible
business; but, at any rate, he would then be able to assure himself
that she did not come to any harm.
"And you are determined to carry out this foolish scheme?" he asked.
"Is there nothing I can say or do that will be at all likely to
dissuade you from your purpose?"
"Nothing at all," she answered slowly, looking him steadily in the
face. "My mind is quite made up."
"Very good, then," he continued; "in that case I will not oppose you
further. Tell me how you propose to set about it."
She shook her head. "I do not know yet," she answered. "But you may
be sure I will do it somehow. There must be a way, if I can only find
it. At any rate, I am not afraid to look for it."
Browne glanced at the pale yet determined face before him, and noted
the strength of the mouth and chin. There was sufficient strength of
mind there to carry the matter through, provided the needful
opportunities were supplied. But would they be forthcoming? One thing
was quite certain, she could not possibly manage with the limited means
at her disposal. There at least she would be compelled to apply to him.
"Katherine," he said at last, "I have told you repeatedly that I love
you, and now I am going to try to prove it to you. You say you are
desirous of rescuing your father. Very good; then I am going to help
you to do so. It will at least demonstrate the sincerity of my love
for you, and will show you that all the assertions I have made are not
merely so much idle chatter, but what I really feel."
"You would help me?" she gasped, staggered for the moment at the
magnitude of his proposal. "Surely you do not know what you are
saying?"
"I mean what I say," he answered. "If you are bent on rescuing your
father I will help you. But I only offer my services on one condition."
"And what is that?"
"That as soon as this business is finished you become my wife."
"But I cannot let you do it," she answered. "Why should I draw you
into it?"
"I do it because I love you, and because you love me," he answered.
"Surely that is sufficient reason."
"But----"
"We'll have no more _buts_, if you please," said Browne. "If it is a
bargain, say so. This is going to be a genuine business contract, of
which the terms are, that I am to do my best to assist your father to
escape, and in return you are to be my wife as soon as the work is
completed."
She looked at him almost tearfully. Though she felt it was her duty as
a daughter to help her father, she nevertheless could not reconcile it
to her conscience to draw the man she loved into danger. By this time
they had risen from the seat, and were standing facing each other.
"Is it to be a bargain, Katherine?"
She did not answer, but, drawing his face down to hers, she kissed him
on the lips.
"I understand," he said; "then we'll count it settled. I'll commence
work to-day, and let you know what arrangements I am able to make. You
trust me, Katherine, do you not?"
"With my whole heart and soul," she answered. "Who has ever been so
good to me as you have been?"
"That has nothing at all to do with it," he said. "Now I'll take you
down to the street, put you in a cab, and send you home to Madame to
tell, or not to tell her, as you think best, the arrangement we have
come to."
"She will thank you as I have done," said Katherine.
"I hope not," said Browne, and, as he said it, he laughed.
She saw his playful meaning, and followed his example. Then Browne
conducted her to the street, and, having placed her in a cab, sent her
home, promising to call later on in the day to report progress. When
she was safely on her way he glanced at his watch, and, finding it was
not yet twelve o'clock, turned into the Amphitryon Club. He found Maas
in the hall putting on his fur coat preparatory to leaving.
"My dear Browne," he said, "where on earth have you hidden yourself
since your arrival in Paris? We have seen nothing of you here."
"I have been too busy," Browne replied, with an air of great
responsibility. "If you only knew all that I have gone through this
morning you would be very much surprised."
"My dear fellow," said Maas, "I believe I should be nothing of the
kind. Vellencourt was married yesterday, and since I heard that news I
am past being surprised at anything. I leave for London to-night.
When do you return?"
"I scarcely know," Browne replied. "It may be to-day, and it may not
be for a week. I am sick of Europe, and am half-thinking of arranging
a yachting trip to the Farther East."
"The deuce you are!" said Maas. "What on earth has put that notion
into your head?"
"What puts notions into anybody's head?" Browne inquired. "I have
often wanted to have a look at the Japanese Sea and the islands to the
north of it. How do you know that I don't aspire to the honour of
reading a paper on the subject before the Geographical Society--eh?"
"Geographical fiddlesticks!" replied the other; and, when he had shaken
Browne by the hand, he bade him "good-bye," and went down the steps,
saying to himself as he did so, "Madame Bernstein, her adopted
daughter, and the islands to the north of Japan. It seems to me, my
dear Browne, that when you start upon this wonderful cruise your old
friend Maas will have to accompany you."