The Red Rat's Daughter - Guy Boothby (ebook reader 7 inch txt) 📗

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; God 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." Before she could protest he had taken her in his arms and covered her face with kisses. She struggled to escape, but he was too strong for her. At last he let her go.

"Oh! you do not know what you are doing," she cried. "Why will you not listen to me and go away before it is too late? I tell you again and again 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 that I am your affianced lover. Nothing can alter that. But, hark! if I am not mistaken, I hear Madame Bernstein."

A moment later the lady in question entered the room. She glanced from one to the other as if to find out whether they had arrived at an understanding. Then Browne advanced and took her hand.

"Madame," he said, "I have the honour to inform you that mademoiselle has decided to be my wife."

"No, no," cried Katherine, as if in a last entreaty. "You must not say that. I cannot let you say it."

Madame Bernstein took in the situation, and adapted herself to it immediately. In her usual manner, she expressed her delight at the arrangement they had come to. There was nothing like love, she averred, 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 to my grave in peace, knowing that, whatever happens, you will be well protected."

Could one have looked into her brain, I am inclined to believe it would have been found that, while she gave expression to these beautiful ideas, they were far from being a true record of her feelings. Such sentiments, however, were the proper ones to use at that particular moment, and, having given utterance to them, she felt that she had done all that could reasonably be expected of her.

"With your permission, madame," said Browne, to whom the idea had only that moment occurred, "Katherine and I will spend the whole of to-morrow in the country together. I should like to take her to Fontainebleau. As you are aware, there are a number of pictures there, which, according to your own argument, it is only fit and proper I should study in order to perfect myself on the subject of modern French art."

After this Parthian shot, Madame, although she knew that such a proposal was far from being in accordance with the notions of propriety entertained by the parents and guardians of the country in which they were at present domiciled, had no objection to raise. On the contrary, she had her own reasons for not desiring to thwart Browne at the commencement of his engagement, and just when he was likely to prove most useful to her. Accordingly she expressed great delight at the arrangement, 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 the young people the impression that she was dwelling on the recollection of similar excursions in which she and the late lamented Bernstein had indulged at a similar period.

"To-night we must all dine together to celebrate the event," said Browne enthusiastically, taking no notice whatsoever of the good lady's expression 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 make the arrangements, we will meet you wherever you please."

"Shall we say the Maison Doree, then, at eight? Or would you prefer the Cafe Anglais, or Au Lion d'Or?"

"The Maison Doree by all means," said Madame, "and at eight. We will make a point of being there in good time."

Seeing that it was impossible for him to stay any longer, Browne bade Madame good-bye, and went across the room to where Katherine was standing 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 he could desire, he put the following question to her, so softly that Madame, standing at the other end of the room, could not hear: "Are you happy, Katherine?"

"Very happy," she answered in a similar tone. "But I cannot help feeling that I am doing very wrong."

"You are doing nothing of the sort," the young man answered dogmatically. "You are doing just the very best and wisest thing a woman could do. You must never say such a thing again. Now, _au revoir_, until we meet at eight. I shall count the minutes till then."


CHAPTER X


How Browne got back to his hotel is a mystery to this day. He had an insane desire to tell every one he met of his good fortune. He wanted to do something to make other people as happy as himself, and, for the reason that he could find no one else at the moment, had to be content with overtipping his cabman, and emptying all his spare change into the hands of a beggar in the Place Vendome. The afternoon was gray and cold; but never had the world seemed so fair to him, or so full of sunshine. He told himself over and over again that he was the luckiest man on earth. He had already built himself several castles in the air, from the battlements of which the banner of Love was waving gaily. What a difference he would make in Katherine's life! She had been poor hitherto; now his wealth, the proper use of which he had never before realised, should be devoted to giving her everything that a woman could dream of or desire. In his satisfaction with himself and the world in general, he even forgot his usual dislike for Madame Bernstein. Was it not due to her action, he asked himself, that the present happy state of affairs had been brought about? In return he would show her that he was grateful. As for the morrow, and the excursion to Fontainebleau, he would send his man at once to arrange for a special train, in order that they might run no risk of being disturbed or inconvenienced by other tourists. On second thoughts, however, he changed his mind. He would not do anything so absurd. He might be a _parvenu_, in a certain sense, but he did not want to prove himself one to her. No; they would go down quietly, sensibly, and unostentatiously like other people. They would enjoy the outing all the more if they did not attract unnecessary attention. Then another idea struck him, and he acted upon it immediately. Putting on his hat once more, he left the hotel, and proceeded in the direction of a certain jeweller's shop. Having entered it, he approached the counter, and asked for a plain gold ring of heavy pattern. He had at first been tempted to buy her one set with diamonds and a bracelet