CHAPTER II
When Browne reached the yacht, after bidding good-bye to the girl hehad rescued, he found his friends much exercised in their mindsconcerning him. They had themselves been overtaken by the fog, andvery naturally they had supposed that their host, seeing it coming on,had returned to the yacht without waiting for them. Their surprise,therefore, when they arrived on board and found him still missing wasscarcely to be wondered at. In consequence, when he descended thecompanion ladder and entered the drawing-room, he had to undergo across-examination as to his movements. Strangely enough, thissolicitude for his welfare was far from being pleasing to him. He hadmade up his mind to say nothing about the adventure of the afternoon,and yet, as he soon discovered, it was difficult to account for thetime he had spent ashore if he kept silence on the subject.Accordingly he made the best excuse that occurred to him, and bydisclosing a half-truth induced them to suppose that he had followedtheir party towards the waterfall, and had in consequence been lost inthe fog.
"It was scarcely kind of you to cause us so much anxiety," said MissVerney in a low voice as he approached the piano at which she wasseated. "I assure you we have been most concerned about you; and, ifyou had not come on board very soon, Captain Marsh and Mr. Foote weregoing ashore again in search of you."
"That would have been very kind of them," said Browne, dropping into aneasy-chair; "but there was not the least necessity for it. I am quitecapable of taking care of myself."
"Nasty things mountains," said Jimmy Foote to the company at large. "Idon't trust 'em myself. I remember once on the Rigi going out with oldSimeon Baynes, the American millionaire fellow, you know, and hisdaughter, the girl who married that Italian count who foughtConstantovitch and was afterwards killed in Abyssinia. At one place wevery nearly went over the edge, every man-jack of us, and I vowed I'dnever do such a thing again. Fancy the irony of the position! Afterhaving been poverty-stricken all one's life, to drop through the airthirteen hundred feet in the company of over a million dollars. I'mperfectly certain of one thing, however: if it hadn't been for thegirl's presence of mind I should not have been here to-day. As it was,she saved my life, and, until she married, I never could besufficiently grateful to her."
"Only until she married!" said Lady Imogen, looking up from the novelshe was reading. "How was it your gratitude did not last longer thanthat?"
"Doesn't somebody say that gratitude is akin to love?" answered Foote,with a chuckle. "Of course I argued that, since she was foolish enoughto show her bad taste by marrying somebody else, it would scarcely havebecome me to be grateful."
Browne glanced at Foote rather sharply. What did he mean by talking oflife-saving on mountains, on this evening of all others? Had he heardanything? But Jimmy's face was all innocence.
At that moment the dressing gong sounded, and every one rose,preparatory to departing to their respective cabins.
"Where is Maas?" Browne inquired of Marsh, who was the last to leave.
"He is on deck, I think," replied the other; but as he spoke theindividual in question made his appearance down the companion-ladder,carrying in his hand a pair of field-glasses.
For some reason or another, dinner that night was scarcely assuccessful as usual. The English mail had come in, and the Duchess hadhad a worrying letter from the Duke, who had been commanded to Osborneamong the salt of the earth, when he wanted to be in the Highlandsamong the grouse; Miss Verney had not yet recovered from what sheconsidered Browne's ill-treatment of herself that afternoon; while oneof the many kind friends of the American Ambassador had forwarded himinformation concerning a debate in Congress, in order that he might seein what sort of estimation he was held by a certain portion of hisfellow-countrymen. Never a very talkative man, Browne this evening waseven more silent than usual. The recollection of a certain pale faceand a pair of beautiful eyes haunted him continually. Indeed, had itnot been for Barrington-Marsh and Jimmy Foote, who did their dutymanfully, the meal would have been a distinct failure as far as itsgeneral liveliness was concerned. As it was, no one was sorry when anadjournment was made for coffee to the deck above. Under the influenceof this gentle stimulant, however, and the wonderful quiet of thefjord, things brightened somewhat. But the improvement was notmaintained; the pauses gradually grew longer and more frequent, andsoon after ten o'clock the ladies succumbed to the general inertness,and disappeared below.
According to custom, the majority of the men immediately adjourned tothe smoking-room for cards. Browne, however, excused himself on theplea that he was tired and preferred the cool. Maas followed suit;and, when the others had taken themselves off, the pair stood leaningagainst the bulwarks, smoking and watching the lights of the villageashore.
"I wonder how you and I would have turned out," said Maas quietly, whenthey had been standing at the rails for some minutes, "if we had beenborn and bred in this little village, and had never seen any sort oflife outside the Geiranger?"
"Without attempting to moralize, I don't doubt but that we should havebeen better in many ways," Browne replied. "I can assure you there aretimes when I get sick to death of the inane existence we lead."
"_Leben heisst traeumen; weise sein heisst angenehm traeumen_," quotedMaas, half to himself and half to his cigar. "Schiller was not so veryfar out after all."
"Excellent as far as the sentiment is concerned," said Browne, as heflicked the ash off his cigar and watched it drop into the wateralongside. "But, however desirous we may be of dreaming agreeably, ourworld will still take good care that we wake up just at the moment whenwe are most anxious to go on sleeping."
"In order that we may not be disillusioned, my friend," said Maas."The starving man dreams of City banquets, and wakes to the unpleasantknowledge that it does not do to go to sleep on an empty stomach. Thedebtor imagines himself the possessor of millions, and wakes to findthe man-in-possession seated by his bedside. But there is one cure;and you should adopt it, my dear Browne."
"What is that?"
"Marriage, my friend! Get yourself a wife and you will have no time tothink of such things. Doesn't your Ben Jonson say that marriage is thebest state for a man in general?"
"Marriage!" retorted Browne scornfully. "It always comes back to that.I tell you I have come to hate the very sound of the word. From theway people talk you might think marriage is the pivot on which ourlives turn. They never seem to realise that it is the rock upon whichwe most of us go to pieces. What is a London season but a monstrousmarket, in which men and women are sold to the highest bidders,irrespective of inclination or regard? I tell you, Maas, the way thesethings are managed in what we call English society borders on theindecent. Lord A. is rich; consequently a hundred mothers offer himtheir daughters. He may be what he pleases--an honourable man, or thegreatest blackguard at large upon the earth. In nine cases out of tenit makes little or no difference, provided, of course, he has a fineestablishment and the settlements are satisfactory. At thecommencement of the season the girls are brought up to London, to betricked out, regardless of expense, by the fashionable dressmakers ofthe day. They are paraded here, there, and everywhere, like horses ina dealer's yard; are warned off the men who have no money, but whomight very possibly make them happy; while they are ordered by the'home authorities' to encourage those who have substantial bankbalances and nothing else to recommend them. As the question of lovemakes no sort of difference, it receives no consideration. After theirfriends have sent them expensive presents, which in most cases theycannot afford to give, but do so in order that they may keep upappearances with their neighbours and tradesmen, the happy couple standside by side before the altar at St. George's and take the most solemnoath of their lives; that done, they spend their honeymoon in Egypt,Switzerland, or the Riviera, where they are presented with ampleopportunity of growing tired of one another. Returning to town, theman usually goes back to his old life and the woman to hers. Theresult is a period of mutual distrust and deceit; an awakening follows,and later
on we have the _cause celebre_, and, holding up our hands inhorror, say, 'Dear me, how very shocking!' In the face of all this, wehave the audacity to curl our lips and to call the French systemunnatural!"
"I am afraid, dear Browne, you are not quite yourself to-night," saidMaas, with a gentle little laugh, at the end of the other's harangue."The mistake of believing that a marriage, with money on the side ofthe man and beauty on that of the woman, must irretrievably result inmisfortune is a very common one. For my part, I am singular enough tobelieve it may turn out as well if not better than any other."
"I wasn't aware that optimism was your strong point," retorted Browne."For my part I feel, after the quiet of this fjord, as if I could turnmy back on London and never go near it again."
He spoke with such earnestness that Maas, for once in his life, wasalmost astonished. He watched his companion as he lit another cigar.
"One thing is quite certain," he said at length, "your walk thisafternoon did you more harm than good. The fog must have got into yourblood. And yet, if you will not think me impertinent for saying so,Miss Verney gave you a welcome such as many men would go through fireand water to receive."
Browne grunted scornfully. He was not going to discuss Miss Verney'sopinion of himself with his companion. Accordingly he changed thesubject abruptly by inquiring whether Maas had made any plans for theensuing winter.
"I am a methodical man," replied the latter, with a smile at hiscompanion's naive handling of the situation, "and all my movements arearranged some months ahead. When this charming voyage is at an end,and I have thanked you for your delightful hospitality, I shall hope tospend a fortnight with our dear Duchess in the Midlands; after that Iam due in Paris for a week or ten days; then, like the swallow, I flysouth; shall dawdle along the Mediterranean for three or four months,probably cross to Cairo, and then work my way slowly back to England intime for the spring. What do you propose doing?"
"Goodness knows," Browne replied lugubriously. "At first I thought ofRajputana; but I seem to have done, and to be tired of doing,everything. They tell me tigers are scarce in India. This morning Ifelt almost inclined to take a run out to the Cape and have threemonths with the big game."
"You said as much in the smoking-room last night, I remember," Maasreplied. "Pray, what has occurred since then to make you change yourmind?"
"I do not know, myself," said Browne. "I feel restless and unsettledto-night, that is all. Do you think I should care for Russia?"
"For Russia?" cried his companion in complete surprise. "What on earthmakes you think of Russia?"
Browne shook his head.
"It's a notion I have," he answered; though, for my own part, I amcertain that, until that moment, he had never thought of it. "Do youremember Demetrovitch, that handsome fellow with the enormous moustachewho stayed with me last year at Newmarket?"
"I remember him perfectly," Maas replied; and had Browne been watchinghis face, instead of looking at the little hotel ashore, he would inall probability have noticed that a peculiar smile played round thecorners of his mouth as he said it. "But what has Demetrovitch to dowith your proposed trip to Russia? I had an idea that he was orderedby the Czar to spend two years upon his estates."
"Exactly! so he was. That accounts for my notion. He has often askedme to pay him a visit. Besides, I have never seen Petersburg in thewinter, and I'm told it's rather good fun."
"You will be bored to death," the other answered. "If you go, I'llgive you a month in which to be back in England. Now I think, withyour permission, I'll retire. It's after eleven, and there's somethingabout these fjords that never fails to make me sleepy. Good-night,_mon cher ami_, and pleasant dreams to you."
Browne bade him good-night, and when the other disappeared into thecompanion, returned to his contemplation of the shore. The night wasso still that the ripple of the wavelets on the beach, half a mile orso away, could be distinctly heard. The men had left the smoking-room;and save the solitary figure of the officer on the bridge, and a handforward by the cable range, Browne had the deck to himself. And yet hewas not altogether alone, for his memory was still haunted by therecollection of the same sweet face, with the dark, lustrous eyes, thathad been with him all the evening. Do what he would, he could notendow the adventure of the afternoon with the common-place air he hadtried to bestow upon it. Something told him that it was destined toplay a more important part in his life's history than would at firstglance appear to be the case. And yet he was far from being asusceptible young man. The training he had received would have beensufficient to prevent that. For upwards of an hour he remained wherehe was, thinking and thinking, and yet never coming any nearer adefinite conclusion. Then, throwing away what remained of his cigar,he bestowed a final glance upon the shore, and went below to his cabin,to dream, over and over again, of the adventure that had befallen himthat afternoon.
Whatever else may have been said of it, the weather next morning wascertainly not propitious; the mountains surrounding the bay were hiddenin thick mist, and rain was falling steadily. After breakfast the maleportion of the party adjourned to the smoking-room, while the ladiesengaged themselves writing letters or with their novels in thedrawing-room below.
Browne alone seemed in good spirits. While the others were railing atthe fog, and idly speculating as to whether it would clear, he seemedto derive a considerable amount of satisfaction from it. About teno'clock he announced his intention of going ashore, in order, he said,that he might confer with a certain local authority regarding theirproposed departure for the south next day. As a matter of politenesshe inquired whether any of his guests would accompany him, and receivedan answer in the negative from all who happened to be in thesmoking-room at the time. His valet accordingly brought him hismackintosh, and he had put it on and was moving towards the gangwaywhen Maas made his appearance from the saloon companion.
"Is it possible you are going ashore?" he inquired in a tone of mildsurprise. "If so, and you will have me, I will beg leave to accompanyyou. If I stay on board I shall go to sleep, and if I go to sleep Ishall wake up in a bad temper; so that, if you would save your guestsfrom that annoyance, I should advise you to take me with you."
Though Browne could very well have dispensed with his company, commonpoliteness prevented him from saying so. Accordingly he expressed hispleasure at the arrangement, and when they had descended the gangwaythey took their places in the boat together. For the first time duringthe excursion, and also for the first time in the years they had knowneach other, Browne felt inclined to quarrel with Maas; and yet therewas nothing in the other's behaviour towards him to which he could takeexception.
Maas could see that Browne was not himself, and he accordingly sethimself to remedy the trouble as far as lay in his power. So well didhe succeed that by the time the boat reached the tiny landing-stage hishost was almost himself again.
"Now you must do just as you please," said Maas when they had landed."Do not consider me in the matter at all, I beg of you; I can amusemyself very well. Personally I feel inclined for a walk up themountain road."
"Do so, then, by all means," said his host, who was by no means sorryto hear him arrive at this decision. "If I were you, however, I shouldstick to the road; these mists are not things to be taken lightly."
"I agree with you," said Maas. Then, bidding the other good-bye, heset off on his excursion.
Browne, who was conscientiousness itself, walked along the hillside tothe residence of the functionary whom he had professedly come ashore tosee, and when he had consulted him upon the point at issue, made hisway in the direction of the hotel. Accosting the manager in the hall,he inquired whether it would be possible to obtain an interview withMadame Bernstein.
"Most certainly, sir," the man replied. "If you will follow me I willconduct you to her."
So saying, he led the way down the long wooden passage towards a roomat the further end. Into this Browne was ushered, while the mandeparted in searc
h of the lady. What occasioned the delay it isimpossible to say, but fully a quarter of an hour elapsed before madamemade her appearance. She greeted him with a great appearance ofcordiality. Taking his hands in hers, she held them while she thankedhim, in fluent French, for what she called his bravery on the precedingafternoon.
"_Mon Dieu!_" said she. "What should I have done had you not beenthere to help her? Had she been killed I should never have knownhappiness again. It was such a risk to run. She is so reckless. Shefills me with consternation whenever she goes out alone."
This was not at all what Browne had bargained for. However, under thecircumstances, it would not only have been unwise, but practicallyimpossible, for him to protest. You cannot save a young lady's lifeand expect to escape her relatives' thanks, however much you may desireto do so. After these had been offered to him, however, he managed todiscover an opportunity of inquiring after her.
"The poor child is better this morning," Madame replied, solemnlywagging her head. "But, alas! it will be several days before she canhope to put her foot to the ground. She begged me, however, to thankyou, monsieur, should you call, for your goodness to her."
Try as he would to conceal it, there could be no sort of doubt thatBrowne was pleased that she should have thought about him. He beggedMadame Bernstein to inform her that he had called to inquire, and thenbade her good-bye. He had hoped to have discovered somethingconcerning the girl's history; but as it was plain to him that Madamewas not one who would be easily induced to make disclosures, heabandoned the attempt.
He had passed down the passage, and was in the act of leaving thehotel, when a voice reached him from a room on the right which causedhim no little surprise. At the same instant the door opened, and noless a person than Maas stood before him.
"Why, my dear Browne, really this is most charming," he cried, with asomewhat exaggerated enthusiasm. "I had not the very least idea offinding you here."
"Nor I of seeing you," Browne retorted. "I understood that you weregoing for a walk up the mountain."
"I did go," the other replied, "but the mist was so thick that Ichanged my mind and came in here for a glass of Vermouth prior to goingon board. Believe me, there is nothing like Vermouth for counteractingthe evil effects of fog. Will you let me persuade you to try a glass?What they have given me is excellent."
Browne thanked him, but declined. He did not like finding the man inthe hotel; but as things were, he could not see that he had any rightto complain. He only hoped that Maas knew nothing of his reason forbeing there. Conversant, however, as he was with his friend'speculiarities, he felt certain he would say nothing about it to anyone, even supposing that he had discovered it.
Leaving the hotel together, they made their way down to the boat, andin something less than a quarter of an hour were on board the yachtonce more. The fog still continued, nor did it lift for the remainderof the day.
On the following morning they had arranged to leave Merok for Aalsund,and thence to turn south on their homeward journey. Fortunately theweather had cleared sufficiently by the time day dawned to admit oftheir departure, and accordingly at the appointed hour, dipping herensign to the village in token of farewell, the yacht swung round andheaded for the pass under the Pulpit Rock. Browne was on the bridge atthe time, and it was with a sensible feeling of regret that he badefarewell to the little village nestling at the foot of the snow-cappedmountains. Never did he remember having experienced such regret inleaving a place before. Whether he and Katherine Petrovitch would evermeet again was more than he could tell; it seemed to him extremelyunlikely, and yet---- But at this juncture he shook his head verywisely at the receding mountains, and told himself that that was aquestion which only Fate could decide.