The Red Rat's Daughter

"You cannot imagine," she said, "how it pains me to have to tell you my pitiful tale. And yet I feel that I should be doing you a far greater wrong if I were to keep silence. It is not for myself that I feel this, but for you. Whatever may be my fate, whatever may come later, I want you always to remember that."

"I will remember," her lover replied softly. "But you must not think of me at all, dear. I am content to serve you. Now tell me everything."

Once more she was silent for a few moments, as though she were collecting her thoughts; then she commenced her tale.

CHAPTER XII

"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."

CHAPTER XIII

It may very safely be taken for granted, I think, that the happiness or unhappiness, success or non-success, of one's life is brought about not so much by deliberate education or design, if I may so express it, as by some small event, the proper importance of which is far from being recognisable at the time. For instance, had Browne not undertaken that yachting cruise to Norway when he did, it is scarcely probable he would ever have met Katherine Petrovitch. In that case he would very possibly have married the daughter of some impecunious peer, have bolstered up a falling house with his wealth, have gone into Parliament, received a title in due course, and would eventually have descended to the family vault, in most respects a mediocre man. But, as Fate willed, he did go to Norway – met Katherine, fell in love with her, and now – But there, with such a long story before me, it will scarcely do for me to risk an anti-climax by anticipating. Let it suffice that, after he had said "good-bye" to Maas, he lunched at the club, deriving a certain amount of pleasure meanwhile from the knowledge that he was engaged in a business which, should it become known, would undoubtedly plunge him into a considerable amount of hot water! And when you come to think of it, how strange is the pleasure the human mind finds in the possession of a secret! In our childhood it is a joy second only to the delight of a new toy. Anarchism, Nihilism, Fenianism, and indeed the fundamental principle of every order of secret society, is the same thing, only on a larger and more dangerous scale, carried out by perverted imaginations and in the wrong direction. The fact, however, remains, that Browne, as I have said, derived a considerable amount of satisfaction from the feeling that he was, in a certain sense, a conspirator. Plainly as he had expressed himself to Katherine, however, it is extremely doubtful whether he himself realised how difficult and dangerous the task he had taken upon himself was likely to prove. The Russian Government, at the best of times, is like dynamite, a thing to be handled carefully; and one minute's consideration was sufficient to show him that the work he had pledged himself to undertake was not one that, in the event of things going wrong, would entitle him to the sympathy of his own Government. He thought of the Duke of Matlock, and wondered what he would say if it should ever become known that he, John Grantham Browne, had assisted in the escape of a Russian Nihilist from the island of Saghalien. He could very well imagine the pious horror of the Duchess when the various rumours, which would be certain to go the round of the clubs, should reach her ears. And this suggested a still more unpleasant reflection. What if he should fail in his attempt to rescue the man, and should find himself in the clutches of the Russian Bear? What would his fate be then? His own country could scarcely demand his release, seeing that he would, in all probability, be caught red-handed. He put the thought away from him, however, as having nothing to do with the case. It was Katherine's father who stood in need of assistance, and it was Katherine's happiness which was at stake. That was enough for him. With the remembrance of her gratitude, and of the look he had seen in her face, when he had promised to help her, still fresh in his mind, such a thing as counting the cost was not to be thought of. Having finished his lunch, he returned to his hotel, to find a note upon his sitting-room table. It was from Katherine. He opened it, with a feeling that was half eagerness and half fear in his heart, and read as follows:

"DEAR LOVE, – How can I make you see how good I think you are, and how little I deserve such treatment at your hands! There is no one else in the world who would do what you have done, and I shall thank God always for sending you to my assistance. Believe me, I know how much you are risking, and how much you are giving up, and are willing to forfeit, for my sake. Oh, if I could only repay you as you deserve! But, come what may, you will always have my love, and my life-long gratitude. To-night an old friend will be with us, who in happier days knew my father. Will you not come and let me introduce you to him?"

The letter was signed, "Your loving Katherine," and to Browne this seemed to be the pith and essence of its contents. How different it was from the note he had received that morning! They were as different as light and darkness, as black and white, as any simile that could be employed. In one she had declared that it was impossible for her ever to become his wife, and in the other she signed herself, "Your loving Katherine." Of course he would go that evening, not because the old man had been acquainted with her father, for he would have gone just as willingly if he had had a bowing acquaintance with her grandmother. All he wanted was the opportunity of seeing Katherine, of being in the same house and room with her, of watching the woman he loved, and who had promised to be his wife.

Accordingly, that evening after dinner, he hailed a cab and drove to the Rue Jacquarie. As he passed along the crowded thoroughfares, he could not help contrasting the different occasions on which he had visited that street. The first time had been on the night of his arrival in Paris, when he had gone there in order to locate the house; the next was that on which he had repaired there in response to the note from Madame Bernstein; then, again, on the morning of that happy day they had spent together at Fontainebleau; while the last was after that miserable letter he had received from Katherine, in which she bade him give up the idea that she could ever become his wife.

On this occasion it was indeed a happy young man who jumped out of the vehicle and nodded to the concierge as he passed her and ran up the stairs. When he knocked at the door of Madame's sitting-room, a voice from within told him to enter. He did so, to find Katherine, Madame, and an old gentleman, whom he had never seen before, seated there. Katherine hastened forward to greet him. If he had not already been rewarded for all the anxiety and pain he had experienced during the last few days, and for the promise he had given that morning, the look upon her face now would have fully compensated him.

"I thought you would come," she said; and then, dropping her voice a little, she added, "I have been watching the hands of the clock, and waiting for you."

But, even if Katherine were so kind in her welcome to him, she was not destined to have the whole ceremony in her hands, for by this time Madame Bernstein had risen from her chair and was approaching him. Browne glanced at her, and his instinct told him what was coming. Knowing the lady so well, he felt convinced she would not permit such an opportunity to pass without making the most of it.

"Ah, Monsieur Browne," she began, her voice trembling with emotion and the ready tear rising in her eye, "you cannot understand how we feel towards you. Katherine has told me of your act of self-sacrifice. It is noble of you; it is grand! But Heaven will reward you for your goodness to an orphan child."

"My dear Madame Bernstein," said Browne, who by this time was covered with confusion, "you really must not thank me like this. I do not deserve it. I am not doing much after all; and besides, it is for Katherine's sake, and that makes the difference. If we succeed, as I hope and trust we shall, it will be an adventure that we shall remember all our lives long." He stopped suddenly, remembering that there was a third person present who might not be in the secret. Being an ingenuous youth, the thought of his indiscretion caused him to blush furiously. Katherine, however, was quick to undeceive him.