CHAPTER IV
While Foote was cogitating in this way, Browne's cab was rolling alongwestward. He passed Apsley House and the Park, and dodged his way inand out of the traffic through Kensington Gore and the High Street. Bythe time they reached the turning into the Melbury Road he was in thehighest state of good humour, not only with himself but the world ingeneral.
When, however, they had passed the cab-stand, and had turned into thenarrow street which was his destination, all his confidence vanished,and he became as nervous as a weak-minded school-girl. At last thecabman stopped and addressed his fare.
"The fog's so precious thick hereabouts, sir," he said, "that I'm blestif I can see the houses, much less the numbers. Forty-three may behere, or it may be down at the other end. If you like I'll get downand look."
"You needn't do that," said Browne. "I'll find it for myself."
It may have been his nervousness that induced him to do such athing--on that point I cannot speak with authority--but it is quitecertain that when he did get down he handed the driverhalf-a-sovereign. With the characteristic honesty of the Londoncabman, the man informed him of the fact, at the same time remarkingthat he could not give him change.
"Never mind the change," said Browne; adding, with fine cynicism, "Putit into the first charity-box you come across."
The man laughed, and with a hearty "Thank ye, sir; good-night," turnedhis horse and disappeared.
"Now for No. 43," said Browne.
But though he appeared to be so confident of finding it, it soontranspired that the house was more difficult to discover than heimagined. He wandered up one pavement and down the other in search ofit. When he did come across it, it proved to be a picturesque littlebuilding standing back from the street, and boasted a small garden infront. The door was placed at the side. He approached it and rang thebell. A moment later he found himself standing face to face with thegirl he had rescued on the Gieranger Fjord seven months before. It maypossibly have been due to the fact that when she had last seen him hehad been dressed after the fashion of the average well-to-do tourist,and that now he wore a top-hat and a great coat; it is quite certain,however, that for the moment she did not recognise him.
"I am afraid you do not know me," said Browne, with a humility that wasby no means usual with him. But before he had finished speaking shehad uttered a little exclamation of astonishment, and, as the young manafterwards flattered himself, of pleasure.
"Mr. Browne!" she cried. "I beg your pardon, indeed, for notrecognising you. You must think me very rude; but I had no idea ofseeing you here."
"I only learnt your address an hour ago," the young man replied. "Icould not resist the opportunity of calling on you."
"But I am so unknown in London," she answered. "How could you possiblyhave heard of me! I thought myself so insignificant that my presencein this great city would not be known to any one."
"You are too modest," said Browne, with a solemnity that would not havediscredited a State secret. Then he made haste to add, "I cannot tellyou how often I have thought of that terrible afternoon."
"As you may suppose, I have never forgotten it," she answered. "It isscarcely likely I should."
There was a little pause; then she added, "But I don't know why Ishould keep you standing out here like this. Will you not come in?"
Browne was only too glad to do so. He accordingly followed her intothe large and luxuriously furnished studio.
"Won't you sit down?" she said, pointing to a chair by the fire. "Itis so cold and foggy outside that perhaps you would like a cup of tea."
Tea was a beverage in which Browne never indulged, and yet, on thisoccasion, so little was he responsible for his actions that heacquiesced without a second thought.
"How do you prefer it?" she asked. "Will you have it made in theEnglish or the Russian way? Here is a teapot, and here a samovar; hereis milk, and here a slice of lemon. Which do you prefer?"
Scarcely knowing which he chose, Browne answered that he would take it_a la Russe_. She thereupon set to work, and the young man, as hewatched her bending over the table, thought he had never in his lifebefore seen so beautiful and so desirable a woman. And yet, had afemale critic been present, it is quite possible--nay, it is almostprobable that more than one hole might have been picked in herappearance. Her skirt--in order to show my knowledge of thetechnicalities of woman's attire--was of plain merino, and she alsowore a painting blouse that, like Joseph's coat, was of many colours.To go further, a detractor would probably have observed that her hairmight have been better arranged. Browne, however, thought herperfection in every respect, and drank his tea in a whirl ofenchantment. He found an inexplicable fascination in the mere swish ofher skirts as she moved about the room, and a pleasure that he hadnever known before in the movement of her slender hands above the tray.And when, their tea finished, she brought him a case of cigarettes, andbade him smoke if he cared to, it might very well have been said thatthat studio contained the happiest man in England. Outside, they couldhear the steady patter of the rain, and the rattle of traffic reachedthem from the High Street; but inside there was a silence of aNorwegian fjord, and the memory of one hour that never could be effacedfrom their recollections as long as they both should live. Under theinfluence of the tea, and with the assistance of the cigarette, whichshe insisted he should smoke, Browne gradually recovered his presenceof mind. One thing, however, puzzled him. He remembered what theshopman had told him, and for this reason he could not understand howshe came to be the possessor of so comfortable a studio. This,however, was soon explained. The girl informed him that after hisdeparture from Merok (though I feel sure she was not aware that he wasthe owner of the magnificent vessel she had seen in the harbour) shehad been unable to move for upwards of a week. After that she and hercompanion, Madame Bernstein, had left for Christiania, travellingthence to Copenhagen, and afterwards to Berlin. In the latter city shehad met an English woman, also an artist. They had struck up afriendship, with the result that the lady in question, having made upher mind to winter in Venice, had offered her the free use of herLondon studio for that time, if she cared to cross the Channel and takepossession of it.
"Accordingly, in the daytime, I paint here," said the girl; "but MadameBernstein and I have our lodgings in the Warwick Road. I hope you didnot think this was my studio; I should not like to sail under falsecolours."
Browne felt that he would have liked to give her the finest studio thatever artist had used a brush and pencil in. He was wise enough,however, not to say so. He changed the conversation, therefore, byinforming her that he had wintered in Petersburg, remarking at the sametime that he had hoped to have had the pleasure of meeting her there.
"You will never meet me in Petersburg," she answered, her face changingcolour as she spoke. "You do not know, perhaps, why I say this. But Iassure you, you will never meet me or mine within the Czar's dominions."
Browne would have given all he possessed in the world not to have givenutterance to that foolish speech. He apologised immediately, and witha sincerity that made her at once take pity on him.
"Please do not feel so sorry for what you said," she replied. "It wasimpossible for you to know that you had transgressed. The truth is, myfamily are supposed to be very dangerous persons. I do not think, withone exception, we are more so than our neighbours; but, as the law nowstands, we are prohibited. Whether it will ever be different I cannotsay. That is enough, however, about myself. Let us talk of somethingelse."
She had seated herself in a low chair opposite him, with her elbows onher knees and her chin resting on her hand. Browne glanced at her, andremembered that he had once carried her in his arms for upwards of amile. At this thought such a thrill went through him that his teacup,which he had placed on a table beside him, trembled in its saucer.Unable to trust himself any further in that direction, he talked ofLondon, of the weather, of anything that occurred to him; curiouslyenough, however, he did not m
ention his proposed departure for theMediterranean on the morrow. In his heart he had an uneasy feelingthat he had no right to be where he was. But when he thought of thefoggy street outside, and realised how comfortable this room was, withits easy chairs, its polished floor, on which the firelight danced andplayed, to say nothing of the girl seated opposite him, he could notsummon up sufficient courage to say good-bye.
"How strange it seems," she said at last--"does it not?--that you and Ishould be sitting here like this! I had no idea, when we bade eachother good-bye in Norway, that we should ever meet again."
"I felt certain of it," Browne replied, but he failed to add why he wasso sure. "Is it settled how long you remain in England?"
"I do not think so," she answered. "We may be here some weeks; we maybe only a few days. It all depends upon Madame Bernstein."
"Upon Madame Bernstein?" he said, with some surprise.
"Yes," she answered; "she makes our arrangements. You have no idea howbusy she is."
Browne certainly had no idea upon that point, and up to that moment hewas not sure that he was at all interested; now, however, since itappeared that madame controlled the girl's movements, she became amatter of overwhelming importance to him.
For more than an hour they continued to chat; then Browne rose to bidher good-bye.
"Would you think me intrusive if I were to call upon you again?" heasked as he took her hand.
"Do so by all means, if you like," she answered, with charmingfrankness. "I shall be very glad to see you."
Then an idea occurred to him--an idea so magnificent, so delightful,that it almost took his breath away.
"Would you think me impertinent if I inquired how you and MadameBernstein amuse yourselves in the evenings? Have you been to anytheatres or to the opera?"
The girl shook her head. "I have never been inside a theatre inLondon," she replied.
"Then perhaps I might be able to persuade you to let me take you toone," he answered. "I might write to Madame Bernstein and arrange anevening. Would she care about it, do you think?"
"I am sure she would," she answered. "And I know that I should enjoyit immensely. It is very kind of you to ask us."
"It is very kind of you to promise to come," he said gratefully. "ThenI will arrange it for to-morrow night if possible. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," she answered, and held out her little hand to him for thesecond time.
When the front door had closed behind him and he was fairly out in thefoggy street once more, Browne set off along the pavement on his returnjourney, swinging his umbrella and whistling like a schoolboy. To acrusty old bachelor his state of mind would have appeared inexplicable.There was no sort of doubt about it, however, that he was happy; hewalked as if he were treading on air. It was a good suggestion, thatone about the theatre, he said to himself, and he would take care thatthey enjoyed themselves. He would endeavour to obtain the best box atthe opera; they were playing _Lohengrin_ at the time, he remembered.He would send one of his own carriages to meet them, and it should takethem home again. Then a still more brilliant idea occurred to him.Why should he not arrange a nice little dinner at some restaurantfirst? Not one of your flash dining-places but a quiet, comfortablelittle place--Lallemand's, for instance, where the cooking isirreproachable, the wine and waiting faultless, and the company whofrequent it beyond suspicion. And yet another notion, and as itoccurred to him he laughed aloud in the public street.
"There will be three of us," he said, "and the chaperon will need anescort. By Jove! Jimmy called me mad, did he? Well, I'll be revengedon him. _He shall sit beside Madame Bernstein_."