CHAPTER IX
"Now, Monsieur Browne," said Madame Bernstein, as she seated herselfwith her back to the window, "we can talk in comfort, and, what isbetter still, without fear of being disturbed. It is indeed kind ofyou to come and see me, for I expect you were considerably surprised atreceiving my poor little note yesterday. What you must have thought ofit I dare not think; but I must console myself with the reflection,that it was written in the interests of another person, whose happinessis 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 youhave 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 helpfeeling that, plausible as her words were, and desirous as she appearedto be of helping a third person, she was in some way attempting todeceive 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, onlytoo glad to do anything I can to help you. Perhaps it is regardingMademoiselle 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 justnow."
"I am indeed sorry to hear that," said Browne, a fear of he knew notwhat taking possession of him. "But I hope the trouble is one that canbe easily set right."
"It is possible it may," madame replied. "But I think it depends, ifyou 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 canthat be? I should never forgive myself if I thought I had made MissPetrovitch unhappy."
"Not perhaps exactly in the sense you mean," said madame, moving alittle nearer him, and speaking in a tone that was low andconfidential; "but still you have done so in another way, MonsieurBrowne. Before I go any further, however, it is necessary that Ishould remind you that I am an old woman." Here she smiled a littlecoquettishly, as if to remind him that her words, in this particularinstance, must not be taken too literally. "I am an old woman," shecontinued--"old enough to be your mother, perhaps; at any rate, oldenough to be able to say what I am going to say, without fear of givingoffence, or of having my motives misconstrued. Monsieur Browne, as youare well aware, Katherine is only a young girl, and, like other younggirls, she has her dreams. Into those dreams you have come, and whatis the result? I will leave it to your common-sense, and perhaps alittle to your vanity, to read between the lines. Had you beendifferently situated it would not have mattered. At the time that yourendered her that great service on the mountains above Merok, she hadno idea who you were. But later on, when you were so kind to us inLondon, though you did your best to prevent it, we discovered all aboutyou. Immediately, as is often the way with young girls, a change came.She is simplicity itself. She is also the soul of honour. She fearedto let her true soul be seen, lest you might think that we werecultivating your acquaintance for the sake of your wealth."
"I never dreamt of such a thing," Browne replied indignantly. "That isthe worst part of being a rich man, Madame Bernstein. One-half of theworld preys upon you for your money, while a large number will not befriendly to you lest they may be supposed to be doing the same. Ishould 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 hermark, 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 littlereproachfully. "But perhaps you will tell me what it is you wish me todo?"
"Ah! In asking that question you bring me to the most difficult pointin 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 beoffended 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 spokeagain it was with an abruptness that was most disconcerting. "You mustbe blind indeed," she said, "if you cannot see, Monsieur Browne, thatKatherine loves you."
The revulsion of feeling caused by her announcement of this fact was sostrong that, though Browne tried to speak, he found he was incapable ofuttering a word. And yet, though she seemed so certain of what shesaid, there was something in the way she said it that did not ringquite true.
"Monsieur Browne," she went on, leaning a little forward and speakingwith still greater earnestness, "I feel sure you will understand howmuch all this means, not only to her but to me. Since my poorhusband's death she has been all I have had to live for, and it cuts myheart 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," Madamereplied. Then, shaking her head sadly, she continued: "Ah, MonsieurBrowne, you do not know what it is to love, and to love in vain. Thefavour I am going to ask of you is that you should go away; that youshould not let Katherine see you again."
"But, madame," said Browne, "why should I go away? What if I love heras 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 herhands together--"so very, very different."
"Then let it be as different as you please," cried Browne, springing tohis feet. "For I do love her, and with my whole heart and soul, as Ishould have told her, had she not left London so suddenly the otherday."
Looking back on it now, Browne is obliged to confess that the wholescene was theatrical in the extreme. Madame Bernstein, on hearing thenews, behaved with a most amiable eccentricity; she sprang from herchair, and, taking his hand in hers, pressed it to her heart. If herbehaviour counted for anything, this would seem to have been thehappiest moment of her life. In the middle of it all the sound of alight footstep reached them from the corridor outside.
"Hush!" said Madame Bernstein, holding up her finger in warning. "Itis Katherine! I implore you not to tell her that I have said this toyou."
"You may depend upon my not doing so," Browne answered.
An instant later the girl, whose happiness they appeared to be soanxious to promote, entered the room. Her surprise and confusion atfinding Browne there may be better imagined than described. But if theposition 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 waitsto be told what his punishment will be.
"Monsieur Browne was kind enough to take pity on my loneliness," saidMadame Bernstein, by way of explanation, but with a slight falter inher voice which told the young man that, although she wished him tothink otherwise, she really stood in some awe of her companion. "Wehave had a most interesting discussion on modern French art. I had noidea that Monsieur Browne was so well acquainted with the subject."
"It is the one thing of all others in which I take the greatestpossible interest," replied Browne, with corresponding gravity. But hedared not look at Katherine's face, for he knew she was regarding himwith a perplexed and somewhat disappointed look, as if she were notquite certain whether he was telling the truth. She did not know howto account for his presence there, and in some vague way it frightenedher. It was plain, at any rate, that she placed no sort of reliance inher guardian's somewhat far-fetched explanation.
Seeing that she was likely to be _de trop_, that lady made an excuseand left the room. After she had gone, and the door had closed behindher, things passed from bad to worse with the couple she had leftbehind. Browne knew exactly what he wanted to say, but he did not knowhow to say it. Katherine
said nothing at all; she was waiting for himto make the first move.
At last Browne could bear the silence no longer. Advancing towards thegirl, he managed to obtain possession of her hands before she becameaware of his intention.
Holding them in his, he looked into her face and spoke.
"Katherine," he said, in a voice that trembled with emotion, "cannotyou guess why I am here?"
"I understood that you came to see Madame Bernstein," she faltered, notdaring to look up into his face.
"You know as well as I do that, while I made that the excuse, it wasnot my real reason," he answered. "Katherine, I came to see youbecause 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 inLondon, had you vouchsafed me an opportunity, but you left so suddenlythat I never had the chance of opening my lips. What I want to tellyou, Katherine, is, that I love you with my whole heart and soul; Godknows I love you better than my life, and I shall love you to the dayof my death."
She uttered a little cry, and endeavoured to withdraw her hands fromhis grasp, but he would not let them go.
"Surely you must have known all this long since," he continued withrelentless persistence. "You believe, don't you, that I mean what Isay?"
"I must not hear you," she answered. "I cannot bear it. You do notknow what you are saying."
"I know all I want to know," said Browne; "and I think, Katherine, youon your part know how deeply in earnest I am. Try to remember, beforeyou 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 hearme speak of it?" he said, a little reproachfully.
"No, no," she answered; "it is not that at all. It is that---- Butthere, I cannot, I must not hear you any further. Please do not sayany more about it; I beg of you to forget that you have ever told me ofit."
"But I _must_ say more," cried Browne. "I love you, and I cannot andwill not live without you. I believe that you love me, Katherine; uponmy honour I do. If so, why should you be so cruel to me? Will youanswer 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 heartwere breaking. "It is useless to say more. Such a thing could neverbe."
"But if you love me, it both can and shall be," replied Browne. "Ifyou 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 answermeans 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 letyou 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, witha triumph in his voice that had not been there a moment before. "Nowthat 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 herface with kisses. She struggled to escape, but he was too strong forher. At last he let her go.
"Oh! you do not know what you are doing," she cried. "Why will you notlisten to me and go away before it is too late? I tell you again andagain 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 thatI am your affianced lover. Nothing can alter that. But, hark! if I amnot mistaken, I hear Madame Bernstein."
A moment later the lady in question entered the room. She glanced fromone to the other as if to find out whether they had arrived at anunderstanding. Then Browne advanced and took her hand.
"Madame," he said, "I have the honour to inform you that mademoisellehas decided to be my wife."
"No, no," cried Katherine, as if in a last entreaty. "You must not saythat. I cannot let you say it."
Madame Bernstein took in the situation, and adapted herself to itimmediately. In her usual manner, she expressed her delight at thearrangement they had come to. There was nothing like love, sheaverred, 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 tomy grave in peace, knowing that, whatever happens, you will be wellprotected."
Could one have looked into her brain, I am inclined to believe it wouldhave been found that, while she gave expression to these beautifulideas, they were far from being a true record of her feelings. Suchsentiments, however, were the proper ones to use at that particularmoment, and, having given utterance to them, she felt that she had doneall that could reasonably be expected of her.
"With your permission, madame," said Browne, to whom the idea had onlythat moment occurred, "Katherine and I will spend the whole ofto-morrow in the country together. I should like to take her toFontainebleau. As you are aware, there are a number of pictures there,which, according to your own argument, it is only fit and proper Ishould study in order to perfect myself on the subject of modern Frenchart."
After this Parthian shot, Madame, although she knew that such aproposal was far from being in accordance with the notions of proprietyentertained by the parents and guardians of the country in which theywere at present domiciled, had no objection to raise. On the contrary,she had her own reasons for not desiring to thwart Browne at thecommencement of his engagement, and just when he was likely to provemost useful to her. Accordingly she expressed great delight at thearrangement, 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 theyoung people the impression that she was dwelling on the recollectionof similar excursions in which she and the late lamented Bernstein hadindulged at a similar period.
"To-night we must all dine together to celebrate the event," saidBrowne enthusiastically, taking no notice whatsoever of the good lady'sexpression 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 makethe arrangements, we will meet you wherever you please."
"Shall we say the Maison Doree, then, at eight? Or would you preferthe Cafe Anglais, or Au Lion d'Or?"
"The Maison Doree by all means," said Madame, "and at eight. We willmake a point of being there in good time."
Seeing that it was impossible for him to stay any longer, Browne badeMadame good-bye, and went across the room to where Katherine wasstanding 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 hecould desire, he put the following question to her, so softly thatMadame, standing at the other end of the room, could not hear: "Are youhappy, Katherine?"
"Very happy," she answered in a similar tone. "But I cannot helpfeeling that I am doing very wrong."
"You are doing nothing of the sort," the young man answereddogmatically. "You are doing just the very best and wisest thing awoman could do. You must never say such a thing again. Now, _aurevoir_, until we meet at eight. I shall count the minutes till then."