Three weeks had elapsed since that memorable afternoon, when the party
on board the yacht, had obtained their first glimpse of the island of
Saghalien. In pursuance of the plan MacAndrew had revealed to him in
Hong-kong, Browne had left his companions upon the vessel, and for
upwards of forty-eight hours had domiciled himself in a small log-hut
on the northern side of the Bay of Kroptskoi, awaiting news of the man
whom they had come so far, and undertaken so much, to rescue. It was
the night of full moon, and the scene which Browne had before him, as
he stood, wrapped up in his furs, outside the door of the hut, was as
miserable as a man could well desire to become acquainted with. The
settlement, as I have said, was located at the northern end of a small
bay, and had once consisted of upwards of six huts, built upon a slight
eminence, having at its foot a river still ice-bound. At the back rose
a still more precipitous hill, densely clothed with _taiga_, or forest.
So impenetrable, indeed, was it, that even the wolf and bear found a
difficulty in making their way through it. To the right, and almost
unobservable from the huts, was a track that once connected with the
coal-mines of Dui, but was now overgrown and scarcely to be
distinguished from the virgin forest on either side.
On this particular evening, Browne was the reverse of easy in his mind.
He had left the yacht buoyed up by the knowledge that in so doing he
was best serving the woman he loved. It had been arranged with
MacAndrew that they should meet at this hut, not later than the
thirteenth day of that particular month. This, however, was the
evening of the fifteenth, and still neither MacAndrew, nor the man they
were endeavouring to rescue, had put in an appearance. Apart from
every consideration of danger, it was far from being the sort of place
a man would choose in which to spend his leisure. The hut was draughty
and bitterly cold; the scenery was entirely uninviting; he had no one
to speak to; he had to do everything--even his cooking--for himself;
while, away out in the bay, the ice chinked and rattled together
continually, as if to remind him of his miserable position. It was
nearly nine o'clock, and he could very well guess what they were doing
on board the yacht. His guests would be in the drawing-room.
Katharine would be playing one of those soft German folk-songs, of
which she was so fond, and most probably thinking of himself; Madame
Bernstein would be knitting in an easy-chair beside the stove; while
the gentlemen would be listening to the music, and wondering how long
it would be, before they would be at liberty to retire to the
smoking-room and their cigars. He could picture the soft electric
light falling on a certain plain gold ring on Katherine's finger, and
upon the stones of a bracelet upon her slender wrist. Taken
altogether, he did not remember to have felt so home-sick in his life
before. As if to add to his sensation of melancholy, while he was
pursuing this miserable train of thought, a wolf commenced to howl
dismally in the forest behind him. This was the climax. Unable to
bear any more, he retired into the hut, bolted the door, and, wrapping
himself up in his blanket, laid himself down upon his bed and was soon
asleep. When he looked out upon the world next morning he found
himself confronted with a dense fog, which obscured everything--the
forest behind him, the ice-girdled shore in front, and, indeed, all his
world. It is, of course, possible that, in this world of ours, there
may be places with more unpleasant climates than Saghalien, but it
would be difficult to find them. On the west coast the foggy and rainy
days average two hundred and fifty-three out of every three hundred and
sixty-five, and even then the inhabitants are afraid to complain, lest
it might be worse with them. As Browne reflected upon these things, he
understood something of what the life of Katherine's father in this
dreadful place must be. Seeing that it was hopeless to venture out,
and believing that it was impossible the men he expected could put in
an appearance on such a day, Browne retired into his hut, and, having
closed the door carefully, stirred up the fire, and, seating himself
before it, lit a cigar. He had another day's weary waiting before him.
Fortunately, when his boat had brought him ashore from the yacht, it
had also brought him an ample supply of provisions and such other
things, as would help to make life bearable in such a place. On the
rough table in the centre of the hut were arranged a collection of
books of travel and adventure, and, since he did not pretend to be a
blue-stocking, a good half-dozen novels, yellow-back and otherwise.
One of the latter, a story by Miss Braddon, he remembered purchasing at
the Dover bookstall the day he had returned from Paris with Maas. As
he recalled the circumstances he could see again the eager, bustling
crowd upon the platform, the porters in their dingy uniforms, the
bright lamps around the bookstalls, and the cheery clerk who had handed
the novel to him, with a remark about the weather. How different was
his position now! He opened the book and tried to interest himself in
it; the effort, however, was in vain. Do what he would, he could not
rivet his attention upon the story. The perilous adventures of the
hero in the forests of Upper Canada only served to remind him of his
own unenviable position. Little by little the sentences ran into each
other; at length his cigar dropped from his fingers, his head fell
forward, and he was fast asleep. How long he slept it would be
impossible to tell, but when he rose again and went to the door the fog
had drawn off, darkness had fallen, and the brilliant northern stars
were shining in the firmament above. Once more his hopes had proved
futile. Another day had passed, and still he had received no news of
the fugitives. How long was this to go on? Feeling hungry, he shut
the door and set about preparing his evening meal. Taking a large
piece of drift-wood from the heap in the corner, he placed it upon the
fire, and soon the flame went roaring merrily up the chimney. He had
made his tea, and was in the act of opening one of his cans of
preserved meat, when a sound reached him from outside, and caused him
to stop suddenly and glance round, as if in expectation of hearing
something further. It certainly sounded like the step of some one who
was carefully approaching the hut. Who could it be? The nearest
civilization was the township of Dui, which was upwards of a hundred
versts away. He had been warned, also, that the forest was in many
places tenanted by outlaws, whose presence would be far from desirable
at any time. Before he went to the door to draw the bolts he was
careful to feel in the pocket of his coat for his revolver. He
examined it and satisfied himself that it was fully loaded and ready
for use. Then, turning up the lamp, he approached the door, and called
out in English, "Who is there?"
"The powers be thanked, it's you!" said a voice, which he plainly
recognised as that of MacAndrew. "Open the door and let us in, for
we're more dead than alive."
"Thank God you're come at last," exclaimed Browne, as he did as the
other requested. A curious picture was revealed by the light which
issued from the open door.
Standing before the hut was a tall man with a long gray beard, clad in
a heavy cloak of the same colour, who held in his arms what looked more
like a bundle of furs than a human being.
"Who are you?" cried Browne in astonishment, for this tall, gaunt
individual of seventy was certainly not MacAndrew; "and what have you
got there?"
"I'll tell you everything in good time," replied the other in English.
"In the meantime just catch hold of this chap's feet, and help me to
carry him into the hut. I am not quite certain that he isn't done for."
Without asking any further questions, though he was dying to do so,
Browne complied with the other's request, and between them the two men
carried the bundle into the hut and placed it in a chair before the
fire.
"Brandy!" said MacAndrew laconically; and Browne immediately produced a
flask from a bag and unscrewed the lid. He poured a quantity of the
spirit into a cup, and then placed it to the sick man's lips, while
MacAndrew chafed his hands and removed his heavy boots.
"I have been expecting you for the last two days," Browne began, as
soon as they had time to speak to each other.
"It couldn't be managed," returned MacAndrew. "As it was I got away
sooner than I expected. The pursuit was so hot that we were compelled
to take to the woods, where, as ill-luck had it, we lost ourselves, and
have been wandering about for the last four days. It was quite by
chance that we reached here at all. I believe another day would have
seen the end of this fellow. He knocked up completely this morning."
As he spoke the individual in the chair opened his eyes and gazed about
him in a dazed fashion. Browne looked at him more carefully than he
had yet done, and found a short man with a small bullet head, half of
which was shaven, the remainder being covered with a ferocious crop of
red hair. Though he would probably not have confessed so much, he was
conscious of a feeling of intense disappointment, for, from what he had
heard from Katherine and Madame Bernstein, he had expected to see a
tall, aristocratic individual, who had suffered for a cause he believed
to be just, and whom sorrow had marked for her own. This man was
altogether different.
"Monsieur Petrovitch," said Browne in a tone, that might very well have
suggested that he was anxious to assure himself as to the other's
identity; "or rather, I should say, Monsieur----"
"Petrovitch will do very well for the present," the other replied in a
querulous voice, as if he were tired, and did not want to be bothered
by such minor details. "You are Monsieur Browne, I presume--my
Katherine's affianced husband?"
"Yes, that is my name," the young man answered. "I cannot tell you how
thankful your daughter will be to have you back with her once more."
To this the man offered no reply, but sat staring into the fire with
half-closed eyes. His behaviour struck Browne unpleasantly. Could the
man have lost his former affection for his daughter? If not, why was
it he refrained from making further inquiries about the girl, who had
risked so much to save him? MacAndrew, however, stepped into the
breach.
"You will have to be a bit easy with him at first, Mr. Browne," he
said. "They are always like this when they first get free. You must
remember that, for a good many years, he has never been asked to act or
think for himself. I have seen many like this before. Once get him on
board your yacht, away from every thought and association of his old
life, and you will find that he will soon pick up again."
"And Madame Bernstein?" asked the man in the chair, as if he were
continuing a train of thoughts suggested by their previous conversation.
"She is very well," said Browne, "and is also anxiously awaiting your
coming. She has taken the greatest possible interest in your escape."
"Ah!" said the man, and then fell to musing again.
By this time Browne had placed before him a large bowl of smoking
beef-extract, which had been prepared by a merchant in England, who had
little dreamt the use it would be put to in the Farthest East. As soon
as the old man had satisfied his hunger, Browne led him to his own
sleeping-place, and placed him upon it, covering him with the fur rugs.
Then he returned to the table, and, seating himself at it, questioned
MacAndrew, while the other stowed away an enormous meal, as if to make
up for the privations he had lately endured. From him Browne learnt
all the incidents of their journey. Disguised as a Russian fur
merchant, MacAndrew had made his way to the town of Dui, where he had
made inquiries, and located the man he wanted. At first it was
difficult to get communication with him; but once that was done the
rest was comparatively easy. They reached the forest and made for the
coast, with the result that has already been narrated.
"Between ourselves," said MacAndrew, "our friend yonder is scarcely the
sort of man to travel with. He hasn't the heart of a louse, and is as
suspicious as a rat."
Browne said nothing; he was thinking of Katherine, and what her
feelings would be, when he should present this man to her as the father
she had so long revered. He began to think that it would have been
better, not only for the man himself, but for all parties concerned, if
they had left him to meet his fate on the island.