The Red Rat's Daughter

"How long do you think it will be before I may venture to see you again?" Browne asked the girl when they were alone together.

"I cannot say," she replied, with an attempt at a smile. "I do not know what Madame Bernstein's arrangements are."

"But surely Madame Bernstein does not control all your actions?" he asked, I fear a little angrily; for he did not like to think she was so dependent on the elder woman.

"No, she does not altogether control them, of course," Katherine replied; "but I always have so much to do for her that I do not feel justified in making any arrangements without first consulting her."

"But you must surely have some leisure," he continued. "Perhaps you shop in the High Street, or walk in the Park or Kensington Gardens on fine mornings. Might I not chance to find you in one of those places?"

"I fear not," she answered, shaking her head. "If it is fine I have my work to do."

"And if it should be wet?" asked Browne, feeling his heart sink within him as he realised that she was purposely placing obstacles in the way of their meeting. "Surely you cannot paint when the days are as gloomy as they have been lately."

"No," she answered; "that is impossible. But it gives me no more leisure than before; for in that case I have letters to write for Madame Bernstein, and she has an enormous amount of correspondence."

Though Browne wondered what that correspondence could be, he said nothing to her on the subject, nor had he any desire to thrust his presence upon the girl when he saw she was not anxious for it. It was plain to him that there was something behind it all – some reason to account for her pallor and her quietness that evening. What that reason was, however, he could not for the life of him understand.

They had arrived at this point when the carriage reached the door. Madame Bernstein and Foote accordingly approached them, and the quartette walked together towards the entrance.

"I thank you many times for your kindness to-night," said Katherine, looking shyly up at Browne.

"Please, don't thank me," he replied. "It is I who should thank you. I hope you have enjoyed yourself."

"Very much indeed," she answered. "I could see Lohengrin a hundred times without growing in the least tired of it."

As she said this they reached the carriage. Browne placed the ladies in it, and shook hands with them as he bade them good-night. He gave the footman his instructions, and presently the carriage rolled away, leaving the two young men standing on the pavement, looking after it. It was a beautiful starlight night, with a touch of frost in the air.

"Are we going to take a cab, or shall we walk?" said Foote.

"Let us walk, that is if you don't mind," Browne replied. "I feel as if I could enjoy a ten-mile tramp to-night after the heat of that theatre."

"I'm afraid I do not," Foote replied. "My idea is the 'Périgord' for a little supper, and then to bed. Browne, old man, I have been through a good deal for you to-night. I like the young lady very much, but Madame Bernstein is – well, she is Madame Bernstein. I can say no more."

"Never mind, old chap," said Browne, patting his companion on the shoulder. "You have the satisfaction of knowing that your martyrdom is appreciated; the time may come when you will want me to do the same thing for you. One good turn deserves another, you know."

"When I want a turn of that description done for me, I will be sure to let you know," Foote continued; "but if I have any sort of luck, it will be many years before I come to you with such a request. When I remember that, but for my folly in showing you that picture in Waterloo Place, we should by this time be on the other side of the Eddystone, en route for the Mediterranean and sunshine, I feel as if I could sit down and weep. However, it is kismet, I suppose?"

Browne offered no reply.

"Are you coming in?" said Foote as they reached the doorstep of the Périgord Club.

"No, thank you, old man," said Browne. "I think, if you will excuse me, I will get home."

"Good-night, then," said Foote; "I shall probably see you in the morning."

Having bidden him good-night, Browne proceeded on his way.

Next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, he betook himself to Kensington Gardens, where he wandered about for upwards of an hour, but saw no sign of the girl he hoped to meet. Leaving the Gardens, he made his way to the High Street, with an equally futile result. Regardless of the time he was wasting, and of everything else, he passed on in the direction of Addison Road. As disappointment still pursued him, he made up his mind to attempt a forlorn hope. Turning into the Melbury Road, he made for German Park Road, and reaching the studio, rang the bell. When the door was opened he found himself confronted with an elderly person, wearing a sack for an apron, and holding a bar of yellow soap in her hand.

"I have called to see Miss Petrovitch," he said.

"She is not at home, sir," the woman replied. "She has not been here this morning. Can I give her any message?"

"I am afraid not," Browne replied. "I wanted to see her personally; but you might tell her that Mr. Browne called."

"Mr. Browne," she repeated. "Very good, sir. You may be sure I will tell her."

Browne thanked her, and, to make assurance doubly sure, slipped five shillings into her hand. Then, passing out of the garden, he made his way back to the High Street. He had not proceeded more than a hundred yards down that interesting thoroughfare, however, before he saw no less a person than Katherine herself approaching him.

They were scarcely a dozen paces apart when she recognised him.

"Good-morning, Miss Petrovitch," he said, raising his hat and speaking a little nervously. "I have just called at your studio in the hope that I might see you. The woman told me that she did not know when you would return. I thought I might possibly meet you here."

It was a poor enough excuse, but the only one he could think of at the moment.

"You wanted to see me?" she said in a tone of surprise.

"Are you angry with me for that?" he asked. "I did not think you would be; but if you are I will go away again. By this time you should know that I have no desire save to make you happy."

This was the first time he had spoken so plainly. Her face paled a little.

"I did not know that you were so anxious to see me," she said, "or I would have made a point of being at home."

All this time they had been standing on the spot where they had first met.

"Perhaps you will permit me to walk a little way with you?" said Browne, half afraid that she would refuse.

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