"Not perhaps exactly in the sense you mean," said madame, moving a little nearer him, and speaking in a tone that was low and confidential; "but still you have done so in another way, Monsieur Browne. Before I go any further, however, it is necessary that I should remind you that I am an old woman." Here she smiled a little coquettishly, as if to remind him that her words, in this particular instance, must not be taken too literally. "I am an old woman," she continued--"old enough to be your mother, perhaps; at any rate, old enough to be able to say what I am going to say, without fear of giving offence, or of having my motives misconstrued. Monsieur Browne, as you are well aware, Katherine is only a young girl, and, like other young girls, she has her dreams. Into those dreams you have come, and what is the result? I will leave it to your common-sense, and perhaps a little to your vanity, to read between the lines. Had you been differently situated it would not have mattered. At the time that you rendered her that great service on the mountains above Merok, she had no idea who you were. But later on, when you were so kind to us in London, though you did your best to prevent it, we discovered all about you. Immediately, as is often the way with young girls, a change came.
She is simplicity itself. She is also the soul of honour. She feared to let her true soul be seen, lest you might think that we were cultivating your acquaintance for the sake of your wealth."
"I never dreamt of such a thing," Browne replied indignantly. "That is the worst part of being a rich man, Madame Bernstein. One-half of the world preys upon you for your money, while a large number will not be friendly to you lest they may be supposed to be doing the same. I should 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 her mark, 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 little reproachfully. "But perhaps you will tell me what it is you wish me to do?"
"Ah! In asking that question you bring me to the most difficult point in 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 be offended 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 spoke again it was with an abruptness that was most disconcerting. "You must be blind indeed," she said, "if you cannot see, Monsieur Browne, that Katherine loves you."
The revulsion of feeling caused by her announcement of this fact was so strong that, though Browne tried to speak, he found he was incapable of uttering a word. And yet, though she seemed so certain of what she said, there was something in the way she said it that did not ring quite true.
"Monsieur Browne," she went on, leaning a little forward and speaking with still greater earnestness, "I feel sure you will understand how much all this means, not only to her but to me. Since my poor husband"s death she has been all I have had to live for, and it cuts my heart 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," Madame replied. Then, shaking her head sadly, she continued: "Ah, Monsieur Browne, you do not know what it is to love, and to love in vain. The favour I am going to ask of you is that you should go away; that you should not let Katherine see you again."
"But, madame," said Browne, "why should I go away? What if I love her as 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 her hands together--"so very, very different."
"Then let it be as different as you please," cried Browne, springing to his feet. "For I do love her, and with my whole heart and soul, as I should have told her, had she not left London so suddenly the other day."
Looking back on it now, Browne is obliged to confess that the whole scene was theatrical in the extreme. Madame Bernstein, on hearing the news, behaved with a most amiable eccentricity; she sprang from her chair, and, taking his hand in hers, pressed it to her heart. If her behaviour counted for anything, this would seem to have been the happiest moment of her life. In the middle of it all the sound of a light footstep reached them from the corridor outside.
"Hush!" said Madame Bernstein, holding up her finger in warning. "It is Katherine! I implore you not to tell her that I have said this to you."
"You may depend upon my not doing so," Browne answered.
An instant later the girl, whose happiness they appeared to be so anxious to promote, entered the room. Her surprise and confusion at finding Browne there may be better imagined than described. But if the position were embarra.s.sing for her, how much more so was it for Browne!
He stood before her like a schoolboy detected in a fault, and who waits to be told what his punishment will be.
"Monsieur Browne was kind enough to take pity on my loneliness," said Madame Bernstein, by way of explanation, but with a slight falter in her voice which told the young man that, although she wished him to think otherwise, she really stood in some awe of her companion. "We have had a most interesting discussion on modern French art. I had no idea that Monsieur Browne was so well acquainted with the subject."
"It is the one thing of all others in which I take the greatest possible interest," replied Browne, with corresponding gravity. But he dared not look at Katherine"s face, for he knew she was regarding him with a perplexed and somewhat disappointed look, as if she were not quite certain whether he was telling the truth. She did not know how to account for his presence there, and in some vague way it frightened her. It was plain, at any rate, that she placed no sort of reliance in her guardian"s somewhat far-fetched explanation.
Seeing that she was likely to be _de trop_, that lady made an excuse and left the room. After she had gone, and the door had closed behind her, things pa.s.sed from bad to worse with the couple she had left behind. Browne knew exactly what he wanted to say, but he did not know how to say it. Katherine said nothing at all; she was waiting for him to make the first move.
At last Browne could bear the silence no longer. Advancing towards the girl, he managed to obtain possession of her hands before she became aware of his intention.
Holding them in his, he looked into her face and spoke.
"Katherine," he said, in a voice that trembled with emotion, "cannot you guess why I am here?"
"I understood that you came to see Madame Bernstein," she faltered, not daring to look up into his face.
"You know as well as I do that, while I made that the excuse, it was not my real reason," he answered. "Katherine, I came to see you because 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 in London, had you vouchsafed me an opportunity, but you left so suddenly that I never had the chance of opening my lips. What I want to tell you, Katherine, is, that I love you with my whole heart and soul; G.o.d knows I love you better than my life, and I shall love you to the day of my death."
She uttered a little cry, and endeavoured to withdraw her hands from his grasp, but he would not let them go.
"Surely you must have known all this long since," he continued with relentless persistence. "You believe, don"t you, that I mean what I say?"
"I must not hear you," she answered. "I cannot bear it. You do not know what you are saying."
"I know all I want to know," said Browne; "and I think, Katherine, you on your part know how deeply in earnest I am. Try to remember, before you 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 hear me speak of it?" he said, a little reproachfully.
"No, no," she answered; "it is not that at all. It is that---- But there, I cannot, I must not hear you any further. Please do not say any more about it; I beg of you to forget that you have ever told me of it."
"But I _must_ say more," cried Browne. "I love you, and I cannot and will not live without you. I believe that you love me, Katherine; upon my honour I do. If so, why should you be so cruel to me? Will you answer 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 heart were breaking. "It is useless to say more. Such a thing could never be."
"But if you love me, it both can and shall be," replied Browne. "If you 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 answer means 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 let you 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, with a triumph in his voice that had not been there a moment before. "Now that I know you love me, I can act. I am not afraid of anything."