By Wit of Woman
by Arthur W. Marchmont · English · Gutenberg #35828 · 459,129 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: By Wit of Woman
Author: Arthur W. Marchmont
Illustrator: Simon Harmon Vedder
Release date: April 11, 2011 [eBook #35828]
Most recently updated: January 7, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35828
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BY WIT OF WOMAN ***
Produced by Al Haines
BY WIT OF WOMAN
By
ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT
_Author of "When I was Czar" "By Snare of Love" "A Dash for a Throne"
etc etc_
ILLUSTRATIONS BY S. H. VEDDER
LONDON
WARD LOCK & CO. LIMITED
1906
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I FROM BEYOND THE PALE
II A CHESS OPENING
III MY PLAN OF CAMPAIGN
IV MADAME D'ARTELLE
V A NIGHT ADVENTURE
VI GARETH
VII GARETH'S FATHER
VIII COUNT KARL
IX I COME TO TERMS WITH MADAME
X A DRAMATIC STROKE
XI PLAIN TALK
XII HIS EXCELLENCY AGAIN
XIII GETTING READY
XIV I ELOPE
XV AN EMBARRASSING DRIVE
XVI A WISP OF RIBBON
XVII IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT
XVIII THE COST OF VICTORY
XIX A TRAGI-COMEDY
XX MY ARREST
XXI HIS EXCELLENCY TO THE RESCUE
XXII COLONEL KATONA SPEAKS
XXIII A GREEK GIFT
XXIV WHAT THE DUKE MEANT
XXV ON THE THRESHOLD
XXVI FACE TO FACE
XXVII "THIS IS GARETH"
XXVIII THE COLONEL'S SECRET
XXIX A SINGULAR TRUCE
XXX THE END
ILLUSTRATIONS
"He held out his hand when Madame presented him."
"The two scoundrels pulled up at the sight of it."
"Throwing herself on her knees at the Duke's feet."
CHAPTER I
FROM BEYOND THE PALE
"To John P. Gilmore, Jefferson City, Missouri, U.S.A.
"MY DEAR BROTHER-IN-LAW,--For years you have believed me dead, and I
have made no effort to disturb that belief.
"I am dying now, alone in Paris, far from my beloved country; unjustly
degraded, dishonoured and defamed. This letter and its enclosure will
not be despatched until the grave has closed over me.
"To you I owe a debt of deep gratitude. You have taken and cared for
my darling child, Christabel; you have stood between her and the world,
and have spared her from the knowledge and burden of her father's
unmerited shame. You can yet do something more--give her your name, so
that mine with its disgrace may be forgotten; unless--it is a wild
thought that has come to me in my last hours, the offspring of my
hopeless melancholy--unless she should ever prove to have the strength,
the courage, the wit and the will to essay that which I have
endeavoured fruitlessly--the clearance of my name and honour.
"When ruin first fell upon me, I made a vow never to reveal myself to
her until I had cleared my name and hers from the stain of this
disgrace. I have kept the vow--God knows at what sorrow to myself and
against what temptation in these last lonely years--and shall keep it
now to the end.
"The issue I leave to you. If you deem it best, let her continue to
believe that I died years ago. If otherwise, give her the enclosed
paper--the story of my cruel wrong--and tell her that during the last
years of my life my thoughts were all of her, that my heart yearned for
her, and that my last conscious breath will be spent in uttering her
name and blessing her.
"Such relics of my once great fortune as I have, I am sending to you
for my Christabel.
"Adieu.
"ERNST VON DRESCHLER, COUNT MELNIK."
"To my Daughter, Christabel von Dreschler.
"MY DEAREST CHILD,--If you are ever to read these lines it will be
because your uncle believes you are fitted to take up the task of
clearing our name, from the stain of crime which the villainy of others
has put upon it. But whether you will make the effort must be decided
finally by yourself alone. For two years I have tried, with such
strength as was left to me by those who did me this foul wrong, and I
have failed. Were you a son, I should lay this task upon you as a
solemn charge; but you are only a girl, and left in your hands, it
would be all but hopeless, because of both its difficulty and probable
danger. I leave you free to decide: for the reason that if you have
not the personal capacity to make the decision, you will not have in
you the power to succeed. One thing only I enjoin upon you. If you
cannot clear my name, do not bear it.
"I have not strength to write out in full all the details of the
matter, but I give you the main outline here and send in this packet
many memoranda which I have made from time to time. These will give
you much that you need.
"At the time of your mother's death and your leaving Hungary for the
United States I was, as you may remember, a colonel in the
Austro-Hungarian army, in possession of my title and estates, and in
favour with one of the two most powerful of all the great Slav nobles,
Ladislas, Duke of Kremnitz. I continued, as I believed, to enjoy his
confidence for two years longer, up to the last, indeed. He was one of
the leaders of the Patriots--the great patriotic movement which you
will find described in the papers I send you--the other being the
Hungarian magnate, Duke Alexinatz of Waitzen. Two of my friends, whose
names you must remember, were Major Katona, my intimate associate, and
Colonel von Erlanger, whom I knew less well.
"If the Patriots were successful, the Hungarian Throne was to be filled
by Duke Alexinatz with reversion to his only son, Count Stephen; and it
is necessary for you to understand that this arrangement was expressly
made by Duke Ladislas himself.
"So matters stood when, one day, some hot words passed between young
Count Stephen and myself, and he insulted me grossly. Two days later,
Major Katona came to my house at night in great agitation. He declared
that the Count had sworn to shoot me, and that his father had espoused
his side in the quarrel and threatened to have me imprisoned; and that
Duke Ladislas, unwilling to quarrel with Duke Alexinatz, although
taking my part in the affair, desired me to absent myself from
Buda-Pesth until the storm had blown over. He pressed me to leave
instantly; and, suspecting nothing, I yielded. I had scarcely left my
house when the carriage was stopped, I was seized, gagged, and
blindfolded, and driven for many hours in this condition, and then
imprisoned. I believed that I was in the hands of the agents of Duke
Alexinatz; and continued in this belief for six years, during the whole
of which time I was kept a close prisoner.
"Then at length I escaped: my strength sapped, my mind impaired and my
spirit broken by my captivity; and learned that I had been branded as a
murderer with a price set on my head.
"On the night when I had left, the young Count Stephen had been found
shot in my house; my flight was accepted as proof of my guilt, and,
most infamous of all, a confession of having murdered him had been made
public with my signature attached to it.
"That is the mystery, as it stands to-day. The God I am soon to meet
face to face knows my heart and that I am innocent; but prove it I
cannot. May He give you the strength and means denied to me to solve
the mystery.
"With this awful shadow upon me, I could not seek you out, let my heart
ache and stab as it would with longing for a sight of your face and a
touch of your hand. I thank God I have still been man enough--feeble
as my mind is after my imprisonment--to keep away from you.
"This sad story you will never know, unless your uncle deems it for the
best.
"That God may keep you happy and bless you is the last prayer of your
unhappy father,
"ERNST VON DRESCHLER."
* * * * *
My Uncle Gilmore had been dead three months, having left me his fortune
and his name, when, in sorting his old papers to destroy them, I came
upon these letters.
They were two years old; and it was evident that while my uncle had
intentionally kept them from me, he had at the same time been unwilling
to destroy them.
My poor, poor father!
CHAPTER II
A CHESS OPENING
"If your Excellency makes that move I must mate in three moves."
His Excellency's long white fingers were fluttering indecisively above
the bishop and were about to close upon it, when I was guilty of so
presumptuous a breach of etiquette as to warn him.
He was appropriately shocked. He fidgeted, frowned at me, and then
smiled. It was one of those indulgent smiles with which a great man is
wont to favour a young woman in his employment.
"Really, I don't think so," he replied; and having been warned by one
whose counsel he could not condescend to rank very high, he did what
most men would do under the circumstances. He made the move out of
doggedness.
I smiled, taking care that he should see it.
The mate was perfectly apparent, but I was in no hurry to move. I had
much more in view just then than the mere winning of the game. The
time had arrived when I thought the Minister and I ought to come to an
understanding.
"Your Excellency does not set enough store by my advice," I said
slowly. "But there are reasons this evening. Your thoughts are not on
the game."
"Really, Miss Gilmore! I am sorry if I have appeared preoccupied." He
accompanied the apology with a graceful, deprecatory wave of his white
hand. He was very proud of the whiteness of his hands and the grace of
many of his gestures. He studied such things.
"I am not surprised," I said. "The solution of the mystery of those
lost ducal jewels must naturally be disturbing."
His involuntary start was sufficiently energetic to shake the table on
which the board was placed, and to disturb one or two of the pieces.
He looked intently at me, and during the stare I put the pieces upon
their squares with unnecessary deliberation. Then I lifted my eyes and
returned his look with one equally intent.
Some of the family jewels of the Duke Ladislas of Kremnitz had been
stolen a few days before, and the theft had completely baffled the
officials of the Government from His Excellency, General von Erlanger,
downwards. It had been kept absolutely secret, but--well, I had made
it my business to know things.
"It has been a very awkward affair," I added, when he did not speak.
"Shall we resume our game, Miss Gilmore?" The tone was stiff. He
intended me to understand that such matters were not for me to discuss.
I made the first move toward the mate and then said--
"Chess is a very tell-tale game, your Excellency. The theft occurred
seven days ago, and for six of them you have been so preoccupied that I
have won every game. To-night you have been alternately smiling and
depressed; it is an easy inference, therefore, that the solution of the
mystery is even more troublesome than the mystery itself. In point of
fact, I was sure it would be."
Instead of studying his move, he began to fidget again; and presently
looked across the board at me with another of his condescending,
patronizing smiles.
"The loss you may have heard spoken of, but you cannot know anything
more. What, pray, do you think the solution is?" It never entered his
clever head that I could possibly know anything about it.
"I think you have been an unconscionable time in discovering what was
palpably obvious from the outset."
He frowned. He liked this reply no better than I intended. Then the
frown changed to a sneer, masked with a bantering smile, but all the
same unmistakable.
"It is a serious matter for our Government to fall under your censure,
Miss Gilmore."
"I don't think it is more stupid than other Governments," I retorted
with intentional flippancy. I was not in the least awed by his eminent
position, while he himself was, and found it difficult therefore to
understand me. This was as I wished.
"Americans are very shrewd, I know, especially American ladies, who are
also beautiful. But such matters as this----" and he waved his white
hand again loftily; as though the problem would have baffled the wisdom
of the world--any wisdom, indeed, but his.
Now this was just the opening I was seeking. I had only become
governess to his two girls in order to make an opportunity for myself.
I used the opening promptly.
"Will your Excellency send for your daughter, Charlotte?"
He started as if I had stuck a pin in him. If you wish to interest a
man, you must of course mystify him.
"For what purpose?"
"That you may see there is no collusion."
"I don't understand you," he replied. I knew that as clearly as I saw
he was now interested enough to wish me to do so. I let my fingers
dawdle among the chessmen during a pause intended to whet his
curiosity, and then replied:
"I wish you to ask her to bring you a sealed envelope which I gave her
six days ago, the day after the jewels disappeared."
"It is very unusual," he murmured, wrinkling his brows and pursing his
lips.
"I am perhaps, not quite a usual person," I admitted, with a shrug.
He sat thinking, and presently I saw he would humour me. His brows
straightened out, and his pursed lips relaxed into the indulgent smile
once more.
"You are a charming woman, Miss Gilmore, if a little unusual, as you
say;" and he rang the bell.
"You have not moved, I think," I reminded him; but he sat back, not
looking at the board and not speaking until his daughter came. I
understood this to signify that I was on my trial.
"Miss Gilmore gave you a sealed envelope some days ago, Charlotte," he
said to her. "She wishes you to bring it to me. Has it really any
connexion with this case?" he asked, as soon as she had left to fetch
it.
I laughed.
"How could it, your Excellency? What could a girl in my position, here
only a few weeks, possibly know about such a thing?"
As this was the thought obviously running in his own mind, he had no
difficulty in assenting to it politely.
"Then what does this mean?" he asked, with a little fretful frown of
inquisitiveness.
"I am only proving my self-diagnosis as a somewhat unusual person.
Will you move now?"
He bent forward and scanned the pieces; but his thoughts were not
following his eyes, and with an impatient gesture he leaned back again.
I continued to study the board as though the game were all in all to me.
"You are pleased to be mysterious, Miss Gilmore;" he said, his tone a
mingling of severity, sarcasm and irritation. I was to understand that
a man of his exalted importance was not to be trifled with. "I
appreciate greatly your valuable services, but I do not like mysteries."
I raised my eyes from the board as if reluctantly.
"I am unlike your Excellency in that. They have a distinct attraction
for me. This has." I indicated the mate problem with my hand, but my
eyes contradicted the gesture. He believed the eyes, and again moved
uneasily in his chair. "It is naturally an attractive problem. I have
moved, you know."
He was a very legible man for all his diplomatic experience; and the
little struggle between his sense of dignity and piqued curiosity was
quite amusing. But I was careful not to show my amusement. Nothing
more was said until the envelope had been brought and Charlotte sent
away again.
He toyed with it, trying to appear as if it were part of some silly
childish game to which he had been induced to condescend in order to
please me.
"What shall I do with this?"
"Suppose you open it?" I said, blandly.
He shrugged his shoulders, waved his white hand, lifted his eyebrows
and smiled, obviously excusing himself to himself for his participation
in anything so puerile; and then opened it slowly.
But the moment he read the contents his manner changed completely. His
clear-cut features set, his expression grew suddenly tense with
astonishment, his lips were pressed close together to check the
exclamation of surprise that rose to them; even his colour changed
slightly, and his eyes were like two steel flints for hardness as he
looked up from the paper and across the chessmen at me.
I enjoyed my moment of triumph.
"It is your Excellency's move," I said again, lightly. "It is a most
interesting position. This knight----"
He waved the game out of consideration impatiently.
"What does this mean?" he asked, almost sternly.
"Oh, that!" I said, with a note of disappointment, which I changed to
one of somewhat simpering stupidity. "I was trying my hand at adapting
the French proverb. I think I put it '_Cherchez le Comte Karl el la
Comtesse d'Artelle_,' didn't I?"
"Miss Gilmore!" he exclaimed, very sharply.
I made a carefully calculated pause and then replied, choosing my words
with deliberation: "It is the answer to your Excellency's question as
to my opinion of the solution. If you have followed my formula, you
have of course found the jewels. The Count was the thief."
"In God's name!" he cried, glancing round as though the very furniture
must not hear such a word so applied.
"It was so obvious," I observed, with a carelessness more affected than
real.
He sat in silence for some moments as he fingered the paper, and then
striking a match burnt it with great deliberation, watching it
jealously until every stroke of my writing was consumed.
"You say Charlotte has had this nearly a week?"
"The date was on it. I am always methodical," I replied, slowly. "I
meant to prove to you that I can read things."
His eyes were even harder than before and his face very stern as he
paused before replying with well-weighed significance:
"I fear you are too clever a young woman to have further charge of my
two daughters, Miss Gilmore. I will consider and speak to you later."
"I agree with you, of course. But why later? Why not now? My object
in coming here was not to be governess to your children, but to enter
the service of the Government. This is the evidence of my capacity;
and it is all part of my purpose. I am not a good teacher, I know; but
I can do better than teach."
He listened to me attentively, his white finger-tips pressed together,
and his lips pursed; and when I finished he frowned--not in anger but
in thought. Presently a slight smile, very slight and rather grim,
drew down the corners of his mouth. And then I knew that I had
matriculated as an agent of the Government.
"Shall we finish the game, your Excellency?"
"Which?" he asked laconically, a twinkle in the hard eyes.
"It is of course for your Excellency to decide."
"You are a good player, Miss Gilmore. Where did you learn?"
"I have always been fond of problems."
"And good at guessing?"
"It is not all guessing--at chess," I replied, meaningly. "One has to
see two or three moves ahead and to anticipate your opponent's moves."
A short laugh slipped out. "Let us play this out. You may have made a
miscalculation," he said, and bent over the board.
"Not in this game, your Excellency."
"You are very confident."
"Because I am sure of winning."
He grunted another laugh and after studying the position, made a move.
"I foresaw your Excellency's move. It is my chance. Check now, of
course, and mate, next move."
"I know when I am outplayed," he said, with a glance. "I resign. And
now we will talk. You play a good game and a bold one, Miss Gilmore,
but chess is not politics."
"True. Politics require less brains, the stakes are worth winning, and
men bar women from competing."
"It is rare to find girls of your age wishing to compete."
"I am twenty-three," I interjected.
"Still, only a girl: and a girl at your age is generally looking for a
lover instead of nursing ambitions."
"I have known men of your Excellency's age busy at the same sport,"
said I. "Besides, I may have been a girl," I added, demurely; taking
care to infuse the suggestion with sufficient sentiment.
"And now?" he asked, bluntly.
"I am still a girl, I hope--but with a difference."
"You are not thinking of making a confidant of an old widower like me,
are you?"
"No, I am merely laying before you my qualifications."
"You know there is no room for heart in political intrigue? Tell me,
then, plainly, what do you wish to do?"
"To lend my woman's wit to your Excellency's Government for a fair
recompense."
"What _could_ you do?"
There was a return to his former indulgent superiority in the question
which nettled me.
"I could use opportunities as your agents cannot."
"How? By other clever guesses?"
"It was no guess. I have seen the jewels in Madame d'Artelle's
possession."
He tried not to appear surprised, but the effort was a failure.
"I have been entertaining a somewhat dangerous young woman in my house,
it seems," he said.
"It was ridiculously easy, of course."
"Perhaps you will explain it to me."
"A conjuror does not usually give away his methods, your Excellency.
But I will tell this one. Feeling confident that Count Karl had stolen
the jewels, and that his object would only be to give them to the
Countess, I had only to gain access to her house to find them. I found
a pretext therefore, and went to her, and--but you can probably guess
the rest."
"Indeed, I cannot."
It was my turn now to indulge in a smile of superiority.
"I am surprised; but I will make it plainer. I succeeded in
interesting her so that she kept me in the house some hours. I was
able to amuse her; and when I had discovered where she kept her chief
treasures, the rest was easy."
"You looked for yourself?"
"You do me less than justice. I am not so crude and inartistic in my
methods. She showed them to me herself."
"Miss Gilmore!" Disbelief of the statement cried aloud in his
exclamation.
"Why not say outright that you find that impossible of credence? Yet
it is true. I mean that I led her to speak of matters which
necessitated her going to that hiding-place, and interested her until
she forgot that I had eyes in my head, so that, in searching for
something else, she let me see the jewels themselves."
"Could you get them back?" he asked, eagerly.
I drew myself up and answered very coldly.
"I have failed to make your Excellency understand me or my motives, I
fear. I could do so, of course, if I were also--a thief!"
"I beg your pardon, Miss Gilmore," he exclaimed quickly, adding with a
touch of malice. "But you so interested me that I forgot who you were."
"It was only an experiment on my part; and so far successful that I won
the Countess' confidence and she has pressed me to go to her."
"You didn't refer her to me for your credentials, I suppose?" he said,
his eyes lighting with sly enjoyment.
"She asked for no credentials."
"Do you mean that you talked her into wanting you so badly as to take
you into her house without knowing anything about you?"
"May I remind your Excellency that I was honoured by even your
confidence in giving me my present position without any credentials."
He threw up his hands.
"You have made me forget that in the excellent discretion with which
you have since justified my confidence. I have indeed done you less
than justice."
"The Countess thinks that, together, we should make a strong
combination."
"You must not go to her, Miss Gilmore--unless at least----"
He paused, but I had no difficulty in completing his sentence.
"That is my view, also--unless at least I come to an understanding with
you beforehand. It will help that understanding if I tell you that I
am in no way dependent upon my work for my living. I am an American,
as I have told you, but not a poor one; and my motive in all this has
no sort of connexion with money. As money is reckoned here, I am
already a sufficiently rich woman."
"You continue to surprise me. Yet you spoke of--of a recompense for
your services?"
"I am a volunteer--for the present. I shall no doubt seek a return
some time; but as yet, it will be enough for me to work for your
Government; to go my own way, to use my own methods, and to rely only
upon you where I may need the machinery at your disposal. My success
shall be my own. If I succeed, the benefits will be yours; if I fail,
you will be at liberty to disavow all connexion between us."
He sat thinking over these unusual terms so long that I had to dig in
the spur.
"The Countess d'Artelle is a more dangerous woman than you seem at
present to appreciate. She is the secret agent of her Government. She
has not told me that, or I should not tell it to you; but I know it.
Should I serve your Government or hers? The choice is open to me."
He drew a deep breath.
"I have half suspected it," he murmured; then bluntly: "You must not
serve hers."
"That is the decision I was sure you would make, General. We will take
it as final."
"You are a very remarkable young woman, Miss Gilmore."
"And now, a somewhat fatigued one. I will bid you good-night. I am no
longer your daughter's governess, but will remain until you have found
my successor."
"You will always be a welcome guest in my house," and he bade me
good-night with such new consideration as showed me I had impressed him
quite as deeply as I could have wished. Perhaps rather too deeply, I
thought afterwards, when I recalled his glances as we parted.
CHAPTER III
MY PLAN OF CAMPAIGN
When my talk with General von Erlanger over the chess board took place,
I had but recently decided to plunge into the maelstrom whose gloomy
undercurrent depths concealed the proofs of my father's innocence and
the dark secret of his cruel wrongs.
My motive in coming to Pesth was rather a desire to gauge for myself at
first hand the possibility of success, should I undertake the task,
than the definitely formed intention to attempt it.
I had studied all my father's papers closely, and in the light of them
had pushed such inquiries as I could. I had at first taken a small
house, and as a reason for my residence in the city had entered as a
student of the university.
I was soon familiar with the surface position of matters. Duke
Alexinatz was dead: his son's death was said to have broken his heart;
and Duke Ladislas of Kremnitz was the acknowledged head of the Slavs.
Major Katona was now Colonel Katona, and lived a life of seclusion in a
house in a suburb of the city. Colonel von Erlanger had risen to be
General, and was one of the chief Executive Ministers of the local
Hungarian Government--a very great personage indeed.
The Duke had two sons, Karl the elder, his heir, and Gustav. Karl was
a disappointment; and gossip was very free with his name as that of a
morose, dissipated libertine, whose notorious excesses had culminated
in an attachment for Madame d'Artelle, a very beautiful Frenchwoman who
had come recently to the city.
Of Gustav, the younger, no one could speak too highly. He was all that
his brother was not. As clever as he was handsome and as good as he
was clever, "Gustav of the laughing eyes," as he was called, was a
favourite with every one, men and women alike, from his father
downwards. He was such a paragon, indeed, that the very praises of him
started a prejudice in my mind against him.
I did not believe in paragons--men paragons, that is. Cynicism this,
if you like, unworthy of a girl of three and twenty; but the result of
a bitter experience which I had better relate here, as it will account
for many things, and had close bearing upon what was to follow.
As I told General von Erlanger, I am not a "usual person;" and the
cause is to be looked for, partly in my natural disposition and partly
in my upbringing.
My uncle Gilmore was a man who had made his own "pile," and had
"raised" me, as they say in the South, pretty much as he would have
"raised" a boy had I been of that sex. His wife died almost directly
after I was taken to Jefferson City; but not before my sharp young eyes
had seen that the two were on the worst of terms. His nature was that
rare combination of dogged will and kind heart; and his wife
perpetually crossed him in small matters and was a veritable shrew of
shrews. He was "taking no more risks with females," he told me often
enough, with special reference to matrimony; and at first was almost
disposed to send me back to Pesth because of my sex. That inclination
soon changed, however; and all the love that was in his big heart was
devoted to my small self.
But he treated me much more like a boy than a girl. I had my own way
in everything; nothing was too good for me. In a word, I was spoiled
to a degree which only American parents understand.
"Old Gilmore's heiress" was somebody in Jefferson City, I can assure
you; and if I gave myself ridiculous airs in consequence, the fault was
not wholly my own. I am afraid I had a very high opinion of myself. I
did what I liked, had what I wished, went where I pleased, and thought
myself a great deal prettier than I was. I was in short "riding for a
fall;" and I got it--and fell far; being badly hurt in the process.
The trouble came in New York where I went when I was eighteen; setting
out with the elated conviction that I was going to make a sort of
triumphal social progress over the bodies of many discomfited and
outclassed rivals.
But I found that in New York I was just one among many girls, most of
them richer and much prettier than I: a nobody with provincial
mannerisms among heaps of somebodies with an air and manner which I at
first despised, then envied, and soon set to work at ninety miles an
hour speed to imitate.
I had all but completed this self-education when my trouble came--a
love trouble, of course. I became conscious of a great change in
myself. Up to that point I had held a pretty cheap opinion of men in
general, and especially of those with whom I had flirted. But I
realized, all suddenly, the wrongfulness of flirting. That was, I
think the first coherent symptom. The next was the painful doubt
whether a very handsome Austrian, the Count von Ostelen, was merely
flirting with me.
I knew German thoroughly, having spoken it in my childhood; and I had
ample opportunities of speaking it now with the Count. We both made
the most of them, indeed; until I found--I was only eighteen,
remember--that the world was all brightness and sunshine; the people
all good and true; and the Count the embodiment of all that a girl's
hero should be.
I was warned against the Count, of course: one's intimate friends
always see to that; but the warnings acted as intelligent persons will
readily understand--they made me his champion, and plunged me deeper
than ever into love's wild, entrancing, ecstatic maze. To me he became
not only the personification of manly beauty and strength, but the very
type of human nobility, honour, and virtue.
To think such rubbish about any man, one must of course have the fever
very badly; and I had it so intensely that, when he paid me attentions
which made other girls tremble with anger and envy, I was so happy that
I even forgot to exult over them. I must have been very love sick for
that.
I came to laugh at it afterwards--or almost laugh--and to realize that
it was an excellent discipline for my silly child's pride: but to learn
the lesson I had to pass through the ordeal of fire and passion and hot
scalding tears that go to the hardening of a young heart.
He had been merely amusing himself at the expense of a "raw miss from
the West;" and the knowledge came to me as suddenly as the squall will
strike a yacht, all sails standing, and strew the proud white canvas a
wreck on the waves.
At a ball one night we had danced together as often as usual, and when,
as we sat out a waltz, he had asked me for a ribbon or a flower, I had
been child enough to let him see all my heart as I gave them to him.
Love was in my eyes; and was answered by words and looks from him which
set me in a very seventh heaven of ecstatic delight.
Then, the next day, crash came the dream-skies all about me.
I was riding in the Central Park and he joined me. I saw at once he
was changed; and my glad smile died away at his constrained formal
greeting. He struck the blow at once, with scarcely a word of preamble.
"I am leaving for Europe to-morrow, Miss von Dreschler," he said. "I
have enjoyed New York immensely."
The chill of dismay was too deadly to be concealed. I gripped the
pommel of the saddle with twitching, strenuous fingers.
"You have been called away suddenly?" I asked; my instinct being thus
to defend him even against himself.
He paused, as if hesitating to use the excuse I offered.
"No," he answered. "It has been arranged for weeks. These things have
to be with us, you know."
In a flash his baseness was laid bare to me; and the first sensation of
numbing pain dumbed me. I had not then acquired the art of masking my
feelings. But anger came to my relief, as I realized how he had
intentionally played with me. I knew what a silly trusting fool I had
been; and knew too that had I been a man, I would have struck him first
and killed him afterwards for his dastardly treachery. I was like a
little wild beast in my sudden fury.
He saw something of this; for his eyes changed. "I am so sorry," he
said. As if a lip apology were sufficient anaesthetic for the stabbing
pain in my heart.
"For what, Count von Ostelen?" I asked, lifting my head and looking him
squarely in the eyes. The question disconcerted him.
"I did not know----" he stammered, and stopped in confusion.
"Did not know what?" I asked; and he was again so embarrassed by the
direct challenge that he kept silent. His embarrassment helped me; and
I added: "I think your going is the best thing for all concerned,
Count, except perhaps for the unfortunate country to which you go.
_Bon voyage!_" And with that I wheeled my horse round and rode away.
It was months before the wound healed; months of sorrow,
self-discipline and rigidly suppressed suffering. I took it fighting,
as our Missouri men say. No one saw any difference in me. My moods
were as changeable, my manner as frivolous, my words as light and my
smiles as frequent as before; and I was as careful not to over-act the
frivolous part as I was to hide the truth. It was a period of as hard
labour as ever a convict endured in Sing-Sing prison.
But I won. Not a soul even suspected the canker in my heart which had
changed the point of view of all things in life for me. I came in the
end to be glad of the stern self-discipline which had made me a woman
before my girlhood had fully opened. I learnt the lesson thoroughly,
and never again would I be tempted to trust myself to any man's
untender mercies.
I grew very tired of a girl's humdrum routine life. I longed for
activity and adventure. I wanted to be doing something earnest and
real, to pit myself against men on equal terms; and for this I sought
to qualify myself both physically and mentally. I travelled through
the States alone; meeting more than once with adventures that tested my
nerve and courage.
I made a trip to Europe; and when my uncle insisted upon sending a good
placid dame to chaperone me, I found occasion to quarrel with her on
the voyage out so that I might even sample Europe by myself.
Unconsciously, I was fitting myself for the work which my father's
letters were to lay upon me; and when in Paris on that trip I had an
adventure destined to prove of vital import to that task.
The big hotel in which I was staying caught fire one night, and the
visitors, most of them women and elderly men, were half mad with panic.
I was escaping when I found crouching in one of the corridors,
fear-stricken, helpless, and hysterical, a very beautiful woman whom I
had seen at the dinner table, the laughing centre of a noisy and
admiring crowd of men. I first shook some particles of sense into her
and then got her out.
It was a perfectly easy thing to do without any risk to me; but she
said I had saved her life. Probably I had: for she might have lain
there till she was suffocated by the smoke; and she insisted upon
showering much hysterical gratitude upon me; and then wished to make me
her close friend. She was a Madame Constans; and, as I can be cautious
enough upon occasion, I had some inquiries made about her from our
Embassy. The caution was justified. She was a secret Government
agent; a police spy with a past.
I parted from her therefore amid vivid evidences of affection from her
and vehement protestations that, if ever she could return the
obligation, her life would willingly be at my disposal. I accepted her
declarations at their verbal worth and expected never to see her again.
But the Fates had arranged otherwise; and it was with genuine
astonishment that when Madame d'Artelle was pointed out to me one day
driving in the Stadwalchen of Pesth, I recognized her as Madame
Constans.
This fact set me thinking. What could she be doing in Buda Pesth? Why
was she coiling the net of intrigue round the young Count--the future
Duke? Was she still a secret Government agent promoted to an
international position? Who was behind her in it all? These and other
questions of the kind were started.
Then came the mysterious theft of the ducal jewels; and through my
instinct, or intuition, call it by what term you may, that which was a
mystery to so many became my key to the whole problem. Count Karl was
in the toils of the lovely French-woman; he was one of the very few
persons who had access to the jewels; he was admittedly a man of
dissipated habits; and it was an easy deduction that she had instigated
the robbery; more to test the extent of her power over him, perhaps,
than because she coveted the jewels. There was much more than mere
vulgar theft in it; that was but one of the coils she threw round him.
She was in the Hungarian capital because others had sent her to find
out secrets; and she was drawing the net about his feet to ruin him for
other and greater purposes.
Here then was my course ready shaped for me. I had entered the
Minister's household to win his confidence as a possible means to the
end I had in view; but the study of my father's papers had shown me
that the General might have had a hand in the grim drama, and in such
an event I might find my way blocked.
But if I took the field against Madame d'Artelle and cut the meshes of
the net of ruin being woven round Count Karl, I should have on my side
the future Duke, the man with the power in his hands, and himself quite
innocent of all connexion with my father's fate. Success might easily
lie that way.
I acted promptly. I went to Madame d'Artelle's; and the interview was
one which would have greatly interested his Excellency. I posed as the
student and governess with my own way to make in the world; and the
Frenchwoman, eager to buy my silence and wishing to separate me from
the Minister, urged me to trust to her to advance my interests, and to
live with her in the meantime.
I consented, of course; and it was then I spoke out to General von
Erlanger. Thus with one stroke I established close relations with two
sides in the intrigue.
It was with a feeling of some inward satisfaction at the progress I was
making that I went to stay in Madame d'Artelle's house; and, as I had
not yet seen the man whom I planned to deliver from her hands, I looked
forward with much curiosity and interest to meeting him. I should need
to study him very closely; for I was fully alive to the infinite
difficulties of what I had undertaken to do.
But those difficulties were to prove a hundred-fold greater than I had
even anticipated; and my embarrassment and perplexity were at first so
great, that I was all but tempted to abandon the whole scheme.
I was sitting with Madame d'Artelle one afternoon reading--I kept up
the pretence of studying--when Count Karl was announced. I rose at
once to leave the room.
"Don't go," she said. "I wish to present you to the Count."
"Just as you please," I agreed, glad of the chance, and resumed my seat.
He was shown in, and as I saw him I caught my breath, my heart gave a
great leap, and I felt a momentary chill of dismay.
Count Karl was no other than the Count von Ostelen--the man whose
treatment of me five years before in New York had all but broken my
heart and spoilt my life.
Here was a development indeed.
CHAPTER IV
MADAME D'ARTELLE
For a moment the situation oppressed me, but the next I had mastered it
and regained my self-possession. I was not recognized. Karl threw a
formal glance at me as Madame d'Artelle mentioned my name, and his eyes
came toward me again when she explained that I was an American. I was
careful to keep my face from the light and to let him see as little of
my features as possible. But I need not have taken even that trouble.
He did not give me another thought; and I sat for some minutes turning
over the pages of my book, observing him, trying to analyze my own
feelings, and speculating how this unexpected development was likely to
affect my course.
My first sensation was one which filled me with mortification. I was
angry that he had not recognized me. I told myself over and over again
that this was all for the best; that it made everything easier for me;
that I had no right to care five cents whether he knew me or not; and
that it was altogether unworthy of me. Yet my pride was touched: I
suppose it was my pride; anyway, it embittered my resentment against
him.
It was an insult which aggravated and magnified his former injury; and
I sat, outwardly calm, but fuming inwardly, as I piled epithet upon
epithet in indignant condemnation of him until my old contempt
quickened into hot and fierce hatred. I felt that, come what might, I
would not stir a finger to save him from any fate to which others were
luring him.
But I began to cool after a while. I was engaged in too serious a
conflict to allow myself to be swayed by any emotions. I could obey
only one guide--my judgment. Here was the man who of all others would
be able by and by to help me most effectively: and if I was not to fail
in my purpose I must have his help, let the cost be what it might.
It was surely the quaintest of the turns of Fate's wheel that had
brought me to Pesth to save him of all men from ruin; but I never break
my head against Fate's decrees, and I would not now. So I accepted the
position and began to watch the two closely.
Karl was changed indeed. He looked not five, but fifteen, years older
than when we had parted that morning in the Central Park. His face was
lined; his features heavy, his eyes dull and spiritless, and his air
listless and almost preoccupied. He smiled very rarely indeed, and
seemed scarcely even to listen to Madame d'Artelle as she chattered and
laughed and gestured gaily.
The reason for some of the change was soon made plain. Wine was
brought; and when her back was toward him I saw him look round swiftly
and stealthily and pour into his glass something from a small bottle
which he took from his pocket.
I perceived something else, too. Madame d'Artelle had turned her back
intentionally so as to give him the opportunity to do this; for I saw
that she watched him in a mirror, and was scrupulous not to turn to him
again until the little phial was safely back in his pocket.
So this was one of the secrets--opium. His dulness and semi-stupor
were due to the fact that the previous dose was wearing off; and she
knew it, and gave him an opportunity for the fresh dose.
I waited long enough to notice the first effects. His eyes began to
brighten, his manner changed, he commenced to talk briskly, and his
spirits rose fast. I feared that under the spur of the drug his memory
might recall me, and I deemed it prudent to leave the room.
I had purposely held my tongue lest he should recognize my voice--the
most tell-tale of all things in a woman--but now I rose and made some
trivial excuse to Madame d'Artelle.
As I spoke I noticed him start, glance quickly at me, and pass his hand
across his forehead; but before he could say anything, I was out of the
room. I had accomplished two things. I had let him familiarize
himself with the sight of me without associating me with our former
relations; and I had found out one of the secrets of Madame's influence
over him--her encouragement of his drug-taking.
But why should she encourage it? It seemed both reasonless and
unaccountable. Did she care for him? I had my reasons for believing
she did. Yet if so, why seek to weaken his mind as well as destroy his
reputation? I thought this over carefully and could see but one
answer--she must be acting in obedience to some powerful compelling
influence from outside. Who had that influence, and what was its
nature?
When I knew that Karl had gone I went down stairs and had another
surprise. I found Madame d'Artelle plunged apparently in the deepest
grief. She was a creature of almost hysterical changes of mood.
"What is the matter?" I asked, with sparse sympathy. "Don't cry.
Tears spell ruin to the complexion."
"I am the most miserable woman in the world," she wailed.
"Then you are at the bottom of a very large class. Tears don't suit
you, either. They make your eyes red and puffy. A luxury even you
cannot afford, beautiful as you are."
"You are hateful," she cried, angrily; and immediately dried her eyes
and sat up to glare at me.
I smiled. "I have stopped your crying at any rate."
"I wish to be alone."
"I think you ought to be very grateful to me. Look at yourself;" and I
held a hand mirror in front of her face.
She snatched it from me and flung it down on the sofa pillow with a
little French oath.
"Be careful. To break a mirror means a year's ill luck. A serious
misfortune for even a pretty woman."
"I don't believe you have a grain of sympathy in your whole heart. It
must be as hard as a stone."
"My dear Henriette, the heart has nothing to do with sympathy or any
other emotion. It is just the blood pump. I have not read much
physiology but...."
"_Nom de Dieu_, spare me your science," she cried, excitedly.
I laughed again without restraint. "We'll drop physiology, then. But
I know other things, and now that I have brought you out of the tear
stage, we'll talk about them if you like. I agree with you that it is
most exasperating and bitterly disappointing."
Her face was a mask of bewilderment as she turned to me swiftly. "What
do you mean?" The question came after a pause.
"It is so ridiculously easy. I mean what you were thinking about when
the passion of tears came along. What are you going to do about it?"
I had seated myself and taken up a book, and was turning over the
leaves as I put the question. She jumped up excitedly and came and
stood over me, her features almost fiercely set as she stared down.
"What do you mean? You shall say what you mean. You shall."
"Not while you stand there threatening me with a sort of wild glare in
your eyes. I don't think it's fair to be angry with me just because
you can't do what you wish."
She stretched out her hands as if she would shake me in her
exasperation. Then she laughed, a little wildly, and went back to her
seat on the couch.
"What was in my thoughts then?"
"At the foundation--the inconvenience of your religious convictions as
a member of the Roman Catholic Church."
"You are mad," she cried, with a toss of her shapely head and a ringing
laugh. But as the laugh died away her eyes filled with sobering
perplexity. "At the foundation," she said slowly, repeating my words.
"You are a poor thought-reader. What else was I thinking of?"
I paused to give due significance to my next words, and looked at her
fixedly as I spoke. "Of your marriage with M. Constans; and that in
your church, marriage is a sacrament."
"You are a devil," she exclaimed, with fresh excitement, almost with
fury indeed. "Say what you mean and don't torment me."
"The Count has been urging you to marry him of course, and----"
"You have been listening. You spy." The last vestige of her
self-control was lost as she flung the words at me.
I paused. I never act impetuously with hysterical people. With
studied deliberation I closed my book, having carefully laid a marker
between the pages, and looked round as if for anything that might
belong to me. Then I rose. Her eyes watched me with growing doubt and
anxiety.
"I shall be ready to leave the house in about an hour, Madame," I said
icily, and walked toward the door.
She let me get close to it. "What are you going to do?"
My answer was a cold smile, in which I contrived to convey a threat. I
knew how to frighten her.
She jumped up and rushed to the door and stood with her back against
it--as an angry, over-teased child will do. "You shall not go. You
mean to try and ruin me." I had known before that she was afraid of
me; but she had never shown it so openly.
"Yes, I shall do my best." I spoke so calmly and looked her so firmly
in the face that she was convinced of my earnestness.
"I didn't mean what I said," she declared.
"It is too late for that," I replied, with a sneer of obvious distrust
and disbelief. She had very little courage and was a poor fighter.
Her only weapon was her beauty; and it was useless of course against me.
Her eyes began to show a scared, hunted expression. "Don't go.
Forgive me, Christabel. I didn't mean it. I swear I didn't. You
angered me, and you know how impetuous I am."
"I am surprised you should plead thus to--a spy, Madame."
"But I tell you I didn't mean it. Christabel, dear Christabel, I know
you are not a spy. Don't make so much of an angry word. Come, let us
talk it over. Do, do"; and she put her arm in mine to lead me back to
my chair.
I let her prevail with me, but with obvious reluctance. "Why are you
so afraid of me?" I asked.
"I am not afraid of you; but I want you to stay and help me."
I sat down then as a concession and a sign that I was willing to talk
things over; and she sat near me, taking care to place her chair
between me and the door.
"If that is so, it is time that we understood one another. Perhaps I
had better begin. You cannot marry Count Karl."
"I love him, Christabel."
"And Monsieur Constans--your husband?"
"Don't, don't. He deserted me. He is a villain, a false scoundrel.
Don't speak of him in the same breath with--with the man I love."
"He is your husband, Madame." She moaned and waved her arms
despairingly.
"I am the most wretched woman on earth. I love him so."
"And therefore encourage him to take opium. I do not understand that
kind of love. Had you not better tell me the truth?"
"I shall save him. You don't understand. My God, you don't understand
at all. The only way I can save him is to do what he asks."
"Who is it that is forcing your hand?"
She winced at the question, as if it were a lancet thrust. "You
frighten me, Christabel, and mystify me."
"No, no. It is only that you are trying to mystify me, and are
frightened lest I should guess your secret. Let us be fair to one
another. I have an object here which you cannot guess and I shall not
tell you. You have an object which I can see plainly. You have been
brought here to involve Count Karl in a way which threatens him with
ruin, and you have fallen in love with him--or think you have. You are
now anxious to please your employer and also secure the man you love
from the ruin which threatens him. He has asked you to marry him; and
a crisis has arisen which you have neither the nerve to face nor the
wit to solve."
"_Nom de Dieu_, how you read things!" she exclaimed under her breath,
her eyes dilated with wonder and fear.
"But for my presence you would marry him; and trust to Fate to avoid
the discovery being made that M. Constans is still alive. To yourself
you would justify this by the pretence that if you were once the
Count's wife you could check instead of encourage his opium habit and
so save him. Who then is it with the power to drive you into this
reckless crime?"
She was too astounded to reply at once, but sat staring at me open
mouthed. Suddenly she changed, and her look grew fierce and tense.
"Who are you, and what is your motive in forcing yourself upon me here?"
"I depend on my wits to make a way for me in the world, Madame; and I
take care to keep them in good condition. But I am not forcing myself
upon you. I am ready to go at this moment--if you prefer that--and if
you think it safer to have me against you."
"_Mon Dieu_, I believe I am really afraid of you."
"Of me, no. Of the knowledge I have, yes. And you will do well to
give that fear due weight. You have been already induced to make one
very foolish move. To receive stolen jewels is a crime, even when the
thief is----"
"How dare you say that!"
"You forget. The day I came first to you you had occasion to go to the
secret drawer in the old bureau in your boudoir, and I saw them there.
You are a very poor player, Madame, in such a game as this."
The colour left her cheeks, and hate as well as fear was in her eyes as
she stared helplessly at me.
"It is all your imagination," she said, weakly.
I smiled.
"It can remain that--if you wish. It is for you to decide."
"What do you mean?"
"You had better trust me. You can begin by telling me what and whose
is this evil influence behind you?"
A servant interrupted us at that moment.
"His Excellency Count Gustav is asking for you, Madame."
She gave a quick start, and flashed a look at me.
"I will go to him," she answered.
I had another intuition then. I smiled and rose.
"So that is the answer to my question. You may wish to consult him,
Madame. I will see you afterwards; and will use the interval to have
my trunks packed in readiness to leave the house should he deem it
best."
"I am right. You are a devil," she cried, with another burst of
impetuous, uncontrollable temper.
I turned as I reached the door.
"Should he decide that I stay, Madame, and wish to see me, I shall be
quite prepared."
I went out then without waiting for any reply.
CHAPTER V
A NIGHT ADVENTURE
I felt completely satisfied with the result of my conversation with
Madame d'Artelle. I had had some qualms about the manner in which I
had entered her house; feeling, it must be confessed, something like a
spy. But our relations would now be changed. It would be at most an
alliance of hostility. I should only remain because she would deem it
more dangerous for me to leave; she would trust me no further than she
dared; and as I had openly acknowledged that I had an object of my own
in view, I need no longer have any scruples about staying.
I had made excellent use of my opportunities, moreover; and if my last
shaft had really hit the bull's-eye--that the influence behind her was
that of Karl's brother--the discovery would be of the utmost value.
Could it be Count Gustav? Instead of packing my trunks I sat trying to
answer that question and the others which flowed from it. I had always
heard him spoken of not only as a man of high capacity and integrity
but as a staunch friend to his brother Karl. Yet he was a man; and he
might be as false as any other. I would take no man's good faith for
granted.
There was the crucial fact, too, that Karl's ruin meant Gustav's
advantage. Every one expressed regret that Karl and not Gustav was to
be the future Duke; and if others felt this, was Gustav himself likely
to hold a different opinion? From such an opinion it was no doubt a
far cry to form a deliberate plot to secure the dukedom; but Gustav was
no more than a man; and men had done such things before.
I hoped they would send for me, that I might judge for myself. I could
understand how my interference with such a scheme, if he had formed it,
would rouse his resentment; and the difficulty it would present. To
send me out of the house would in his view be tantamount to giving away
the whole scheme at once to General von Erlanger; and I settled it with
myself therefore that, if he was really at the back of the plot, he
would be as eager to see me as I was to see him.
An hour passed and I was beginning to think I was wrong, when Madame's
French maid came to my room, saying that her mistress would very much
like to speak to me.
"Where is she, Ernestine?"
"In the salon, mademoiselle."
"Alone?"
"M. le Comte Gustav is with her."
"I will go to her," I said; and as she closed the door I laughed. I
was not wrong, it seemed, but very much right; and I went down to meet
them with the confidence borne of the feeling that I knew their object
while they were in ignorance of mine.
People did the Count no less than justice in describing him as a
handsome man. He had one of the handsomest faces I had ever looked
upon; eyes of the frankest blue, a most engaging air, and a smile that
was almost irresistibly winning.
He held out his hand when Madame presented him, and spoke in that
ingratiating tone which is sometimes termed caressing.
[Illustration: "He held out his hand when Madame presented him."]
"I have desired so much to know Madame d'Artelle's new friend, Miss
Gilmore. I trust you will count me also among your friends."
"You are very kind, Count. You know we Americans have a weakness for
titles. You flatter me." I was intensely American for the moment, and
almost put a touch of the Western twang in my accent.
"You are really American, then?"
"You bet. From Missouri, Jefferson City: as fine a town in as fine a
State as anywhere in the world. Not that I run down these old-world
places in Europe. Have you been in the States?"
"To my regret, no."
"Ah, then you haven't seen what a city should be. Fine broad straight
streets, plenty of air space, and handsome buildings."
"I know that American women are handsome," he replied, with a look
intended to put the compliment on me. But I was not taking any.
"I guess we reckon looks by the dollar measure, Count. You should see
our girls at home."
"You must regret living away from your country."
"Every man must whittle his own stick, you know, and every woman too.
Which means, I have to make my own way."
"You are more than capable, I am sure."
"I can try to plough my own furrow, sure."
"You have come to Pesth for that purpose?"
"Yes--out of the crowd."
"What furrow do you think of ploughing here?"
"Well, just at present I'm in Madame's hands, you see. And I think
we're getting to understand one another, some. Though whether we're
going to continue to pull in the same team much longer seems
considerably doubtful."
"I am very anxious to help you, Christabel, dear," put in Madame
d'Artelle; and I knew from that "dear," pretty much what was coming.
"It would give me much pleasure to place what influence I have at your
disposal, Miss Gilmore."
"I must say I find everybody's real kind," I answered, demurely.
"There is General von Erlanger saying very much the same thing."
"You speak German with an excellent idiom," said the Count, with a
pretty sharp look. "One is tempted to think you have been in Europe
often before."
I laughed. "I was putting a little American into the accent, Count, as
a matter of fact. I have a knack for languages. I know Magyar just as
well. And French, and Italian, and a bit of Russian. I'm a student of
comparative folk lore, you know; and I'm getting up Turkish and Servian
and Greek."
"But surely you have been much in Europe?"
"I was in Paris three years ago;" and at that Madame d'Artelle looked
away.
"So Madame told me," he said, suggestively. "It was there you met, of
course. It was there you made your mistake about her, I think."
"What mistake was that?"
"That Madame's husband was still alive."
So he was a scoundrel after all, and this was to be the line of tactics.
"Oh, that is to be taken as a mistake, is it?" I said this just as
though I were ready to fall in with the suggestion.
"Not taken as a mistake, Miss Gilmore. It is a mistake. We have the
proofs of his death."
"'We'?" I rapped back so sharply that he winced.
"Madame has confided in me," he replied.
"Well, from all accounts she has not lost much; and must be glad to be
free to marry again."
His eyes smiled. "You are very quick, Miss Gilmore."
"I am not so quick as Madame," I retorted; "because she has got these
proofs within the last hour. It is nothing to me, of course; but I
don't think we are getting on so quickly to an understanding as we
might."
"You know that I am my brother's friend as well as Madame's in this?"
"What does that mean?"
"In regard to the marriage on which my brother's heart is so deeply
set. You are willing to help it also?"
"How can it concern me? What for instance would happen to me if I were
not?" I paused and then added, significantly: "And what also if I
were?"
"I think we shall arrive at a satisfactory understanding," he answered,
with obvious relief. "Those who help my family--a very powerful and
influential one, I may remind you--are sure to secure a great measure
of our favour."
"I desire nothing more than that," said I, with the earnestness of
truth--although the favour which I needed was not perhaps in his
thoughts.
"Madame would of course like to know a good deal about all who
co-operate with her," he declared, very smoothly and suggestively.
"What do you wish to know about me; and what do you wish me to do?"
"Americans are very direct," he replied, bowing. "She would leave you
to tell us what you please, of course, and afford such means as you
think best for her to make inquiries."
"Every one in Jefferson City knew my uncle, John P. Gilmore, knows that
he educated me, and that what little money he left came to me. My
father was a failure in life, and my mother died when I was a little
child. I'm afraid I haven't made much history so far. And that's
about all there is to it. What matters to me is not the past but the
present and, perhaps, the future."
"You have no friends in Pesth?"
"None, unless you count General von Erlanger; I was his children's
governess and used to play chess with him."
"And your motive in coming here?" There was a glint in his eyes I did
not understand.
"I thought I had told you. I am a student in the University."
"That is all?"
I laughed. "Oh no, indeed it isn't. I am just looking around to shake
hands with any opportunity that chances to come my way. I am a
soldieress of fortune. That's why I came to Madame d'Artelle. Not to
study folk lore."
"In Paris you were not a student?"
"Oh, you mean I was better off then? My uncle Gilmore was alive; and
we all thought he was rich."
"Pardon my inquisitiveness yet further. You know New York well?" This
was the scent, then.
"I know Fifth Avenue, have walked about Broadway, and once stood in a
whirl of amazement on Brooklyn Bridge. But I haven't a friend in the
whole city."
"Were you there five years ago?"
I affected to search my memory. "That would be in ninety-five. I was
eighteen. I have been about so much in the States that my flying
visits to New York are difficult to fix. Was that the year I went to
California? If so, I did not go East as well, and yet I fancy I did.
No, that was to Chicago and down home through St. Louis."
"I mean for a considerable stay in New York?"
"Oh, I shouldn't forget that. That was three years ago before I
started for Paris," I said, laughing lightly. "I had the time of my
life then."
"Did you ever meet a Miss Christabel von Dreschler?"
Where was he leading me now? What did he know? I shook my head
meditatively. "I have met hundreds of girls but I don't remember her
among them."
"She must resemble you closely, Miss Gilmore, just as she has the same
Christian name. My brother knew her and declares that you remind him
of her."
I laughed lightly and naturally. "I should scarcely have believed he
had eyes or thoughts for any woman except Madame d'Artelle."
"Pardon me if I put a very plain question. You have acknowledged to be
seeking your fortune here. You are doing so in your own name? You are
not Miss von Dreschler?"
I took umbrage at once and showed it. I rose and answered with all the
offended dignity I could assume. "When I have cause to hide myself
under an alias, Count, it will be time to insult me with the suggestion
that I am ashamed of my own name of Gilmore."
He was profuse in his apologies. "Please do not think I intended the
slightest insult. Nothing was farther from my thoughts. I was merely
speaking out of my hope that that might be the case. I am exceedingly
sorry. Pray resume your seat."
I had scored that game, so I consented to be pacified and sat down
again. I was curious to see what card he would play next.
He pulled at his fair moustache in some perplexity.
"You expressed a desire just now to have the advantage of my family's
influence, Miss Gilmore."
"Am I to remain with Madame, then?" I asked, blandly.
"Of course you are, dear," she answered for herself.
"You are willing to help her and my brother in this important matter?"
said the Count.
"How can I help? I am only a stranger. And I should not call it
helping any one to connive at a marriage when one of the parties is
already married. I would not do that."
The handsome face darkened; and in his impatience of a check he made a
bad slip.
"Our influence is powerful to help our friends, Miss Gilmore, and not
less powerful to harm our antagonists."
I laughed, disagreeably. "I see. A bribe if I agree, a threat if I do
not. And how do you think you could harm an insignificant person like
me? I am not in the least afraid of you, Count."
"I did not mean to threaten," he said, rather sullenly, as he saw his
mistake. "You can do us neither harm nor good for that matter. You
are labouring under a mistake as to Madame d'Artelle's husband--her
late husband; and by speaking of the matter might cause some temporary
inconvenience and slander. We do not wish you to do so. That is all.
"I have not yet been shown that it is a mistake."
"The proofs shall be given to you." He spoke quite angrily. "In the
meantime if you speak of the matter, you will offend and alienate us
all."
"It seems a very lame conclusion for all this preamble," I answered,
lightly, as I got up. "Produce the proofs and I of course have no more
to say. But until they are produced I give no pledge to hold my
tongue;" and without troubling myself to wait for a reply, I left the
room.
I had obtained the information I needed as to the power behind Madame
d'Artelle, and I had something to do. They intended to produce proofs
of M. Constan's death, and I resolved to get the proof that he was
still living.
Leaving a message for Madame that I had to go to the university for an
evening lecture, I drove to the house which I had taken on coming to
Pesth.
In passing through Paris I had seen the friend who had formerly given
me the information about Madame, and I now telegraphed to him that I
must know the whereabouts of M. Constans at once, and that no expense
was to be spared in getting the information.
I had brought three servants with me from home, John Perry and his wife
and their son, James. The last was a sharp, clever young fellow, and
he was now in Paris where I had sent him to get information about
Madame d'Artelle. I wired to him also, telling him what further
information I needed; and I instructed him to help in the matter and
wire me the instant M. Constans had been traced.
That done I set out to return to Madame's. I was not nervous at being
out alone at such a time, night prowling having long been a habit with
me. I was perfectly able to take care of myself, too; for at home I
had been accustomed to carry a revolver, and was an excellent shot. If
any one interfered with me, it was not I who was likely to come worse
off.
I think it is just nonsense that girls must always be "seen home" in
the dark. It is a good excuse for flirtation, possibly; but an
extremely undignified admission of inferiority. A humiliation I have
never countenanced and never will.
The night was fine and clear, and a bright moon was nearly at the full;
so I turned out of my way a little to a very favourite spot of
mine--the great Suspension Bridge which constitutes the hyphen between
Buda and Pesth. My house was close to the bridge in that part of Pesth
known as the "Inner Town;" and I strolled across to a point on the Buda
side from which a glorious view can be had of the stately Danube.
I stood there in the deep shadow of the high Suspension Arches, gazing
at the dotted lights along the quays, across the flat country on the
Pesth side, up the river toward the witching Margaret Island, and away
to the old hilly Buda on my left, with the Blocksberg and its citadel
keeping its frowning watch and ward over all.
There is not much poetry in my nature; but the most prosaic and
commonplace soul must feel a quickening of thought and sentiment at the
appeal of that majestic waterway and its romance-filled setting.
I did that night; and stood there, thinking dreamily, until I was
roused abruptly by the sound of laughter. I recognized the voice of
Count Gustav; and glancing round saw him on the other side of the
bridge with a companion. He stooped a second and pointed down the
river; and as they walked on, I heard her laugh sweetly in response.
I was considering what to do, when I caught the sound of footsteps, and
shrank into the shadow of the deep buttress as two men came slouching
past me stealthily; and I heard enough to tell me they were following
Count Gustav. I let them pass and then followed in my turn.
The Count and his companion left the bridge, turned to the right, and
presently entered the old garden of Buda--a deserted spot enough at
such an hour. Presently, as the two reached an open place, I saw the
Count hesitate, glance about him, stand a moment, and take off his hat.
Then they continued their walk.
I was struck by the action. It looked as though it might have been a
signal; for the next moment the two men quickened their pace and closed
up to the pair. A momentary scuffle followed; the girl gave a
half-smothered cry for help; and then the Count came running past me,
making for the bridge at the top of his speed. He had left his
companion in the hands of the two men.
Convinced now that mischief was on foot, I resolved to see the matter
through. I hid myself as the men came hurrying back with the girl,
half-leading, half-carrying her; and I noticed that her face was
closely muffled.
Near the entrance to the place they halted, and drew back under the
shadow of the trees. They stood there some moments, when one of them
went out into the road and stood listening. I heard in the distance
the sound of wheels, and guessed it was a carriage for which the two
were waiting.
Clearly, if I was to make an attempt to save the girl, I must act at
once; and to save her and learn her story, I was now determined.
I took a deep breath, as one will when about to plunge into a cold
stream, and keeping my hand on my revolver I darted across to where the
girl and her one captor stood. It was a point in my favour that the
two men were just then separated.
He did not hear my footsteps until I was close to him, and gave a great
start of surprise when I spoke.
"Let my friend go at once," I said, in a loud, firm tone.
The man's start was the girl's opportunity. Snatching her arm out of
his grasp, she rushed to me, tearing at the wrapper which covered her
face.
The man swore and called his companion, who ran swiftly back. A couple
of words were exchanged hurriedly between them, and then they came at
me, one of them brandishing a heavy stick and threatening me.
The girl uttered a sharp cry of fear.
I whipped out my revolver, and the two scoundrels pulled up at the
sight of it.
[Illustration: "The two scoundrels pulled up at the sight of it."]
"If you make me fire I shall not only shoot you," I called, "but bring
the police up, and you'll have to explain this to them."
And as we stood thus, the carriage drove up.
CHAPTER VI
GARETH
I was quite as anxious to avoid police interference as the men
themselves could be; but I knew the threat was more likely to drive
them off than any other.
To recover the girl, they would have bludgeoned me readily enough, if
they could have done it without being discovered; but my weapon made
that impossible. Moreover, they liked the look of the business end of
the revolver as little as many braver men.
The stick was lowered; they whispered together, and then tried to fool
me. They began to edge away from one another, so as to be able to rush
in from opposite directions.
"You stand just where you are, or I fire, right now," I called.
They stopped and swore.
"Can't a man take his own daughter home?" growled one of them.
"I am not his daughter," protested the girl.
"I know that. Don't be afraid, I shan't give you up."
"Who are you to interfere with us?" asked the other.
"I'm a man in woman's clothes," I answered, intending this tale to be
carried to their employer. "And I'll give you five seconds to clear.
You get into that carriage and drive off, the lot of you together, or
I'll bring the police about your ears. Now, one, two, if you let me
count to five, you'll eat nothing but prison fare for a year or two.
Off with you;" and emboldened by my success I made a step toward them.
It was good bluff. They shrank back; then turned tail and scurried to
the carriage, swearing copiously, and drove off in the direction of Old
Buda.
I watched the vehicle until the darkness swallowed it, and then hurried
with my companion in the opposite direction. We recrossed the bridge
and made for my house.
When we were near it I stopped, and she began to thank me volubly and
with many tears.
"Don't thank me yet. Tell me where you wish to go."
"I have nowhere to go in Pesth, sir," she answered.
I smiled at her mistake. "Let me explain. I said that about my being
a man to frighten those ruffians. I am a girl, like yourself, and have
a home close by. If you like to come to it, you will be quite safe
there."
"I trust you implicitly," she said, simply; and with that I took her to
my house.
As we entered I managed to draw out a couple of hairpins, so that when
I took off my hat, my hair came tumbling about my shoulders in
sufficient length to satisfy her of my sex. She was quick enough to
understand my reason; and with a very sweet smile she put her arm round
my waist and kissed me on the cheek.
"I did not need any proof, dear," she said. "But you are wonderful.
How I wish I were you. So brave and daring."
"You are very pretty, my dear," I answered, as I kissed her. She was;
but very pale and so fragile that I felt as if I were petting a child.
"I am so wretched," she murmured, and the tears welled up in her great
blue eyes. "If I were only strong like you!"
"You shall tell me your story presently; but first I have something to
do. Sit here a moment."
I went out and told Mrs. Perry to get us something to eat and to
prepare a bed for my friend; and I wrote a hurried line to Madame
d'Artelle that I was staying for the night with a student friend, and
sent it by Mr. Perry.
When I went back the girl was sitting in a very despondent attitude,
weeping silently; but she started up and tried to smile to me through
her tears. Then I made a discovery. She had taken off her gloves, and
on her left hand was a wedding ring.
"How can I ever thank you?" she cried.
"First by drying your tears--things might have been much worse with
you, you know; think of that; then by having some supper; I am
positively famished; and after that, if you like, you can tell me your
story, and we will see whether, by putting our heads together, we
cannot find a way to help you further."
"I am afraid----" and she broke down again.
With much persuasion I induced her to eat something and take a little
wine; and this seemed to cheer her. She dried her eyes and as we sat
side by side on a couch, she put her hand in mine and gradually nestled
into my arms like a weary wee child.
"I'll begin," I said. "My name is Christabel Gilmore. I'm an
American, and a student at the University here;" and I added some
details about the States and so on; just talking so as to give her time
to gather confidence.
"You haven't told me your name yet," I said, presently.
"I am the Countess von Ostelen. You have heard the name?" she said,
quickly, at my start of surprise.
"I was surprised, that is all. Yes. I knew the name years ago in
America. I knew the Count von Ostelen."
"He is my husband," she said, very simply. "My Christian name is
Gareth. You will call me by that, of course." With a sweet little
nervous gesture she slipped her arm away and began to finger her
wedding ring.
"I had seen that, my dear."
"Your eyes see everything, Christabel;" and her arm came about me again
and her head rested on my shoulder.
I sat silent for a few moments in perplexity. If she were Karl's wife,
how came his brother to have been----what a fool I was! Of course the
thing was plain. Gustav was the husband, and he had used his brother's
name. My heart was stirred, and my intense pity for her found vent in
a sigh.
"Why that sigh, Christabel?" Her sweet eyes fastened upon my face
nervously, and I kissed her.
"The sigh was for you, child, not for myself. Had you not better tell
me everything? Have you your husband's likeness?"
"I had it here in a locket," she said, wistfully, as she drew a chain
from her bosom. "But to-day he said the locket was not good enough for
me. I wish I had kept it now. You would have said he was the
handsomest man you had ever seen. Oh, how selfish I am," she broke
off, with a quick cry of distress and sat up.
"What is the matter?"
"I never thought of it. He was with me when those men attacked us.
Oh, if he should have been hurt!"
"You can make your mind easy about that," I said, a little drily. "I
saw the attack and that he escaped."
"He is so brave. He would have risked his life for me."
"I saw him--get away, dear," I replied. I nearly said run away; but
could not yet undeceive her.
"If anything had happened to him, it would have killed me. I would
rather have died than that." Then with a change of manner she asked:
"Did you see his face, Christabel?"
"Yes, in the moonlight, but he passed me quickly."
"But you saw he was handsome?"
"One of the handsomest men I have ever seen," I assented, to please her.
"Yes, yes. That is just it, and as good as he is handsome."
"I could not see that, of course," I answered; and then was silent. I
was growing very anxious as I saw the problem widening and deepening.
Poor trustful little soul! How should I ever break the truth to her
and not break her heart at the same time?
There was a long pause, which she broke. "Oh, how I hope he has really
escaped, as you say."
"How came you to be where I saw you?" I asked. This reminded her, as I
intended, that she had told me nothing yet.
"I said I was selfish, Christabel, didn't I? I had quite forgotten I
had told you nothing. I will tell you: but you must first give me a
promise not to repeat it. Our marriage is only a secret so far, you
know."
"On my honour, I will do nothing to harm you. Why is your marriage a
secret?"
"My husband is afraid of his father's anger. You see, Karl--"
"Karl?" I exclaimed, involuntarily.
"That is my husband's name," she replied, with a touch of rebuke and
pride. He had taken his brother's Christian name, it seemed.
"Of course," I agreed.
"My husband is a Count, but as yet only a poor one, dependent upon the
good will of his father who wishes him to marry some one else. So we
dare not let it be known yet that we are married."
"But your own friends know?" I said.
She seemed to resent this in some way as a reflection upon her husband.
"I have no friends in Pesth except my dear father. He is alive and I
know he loves me; but I don't know why, I have never lived at home for
more than a week or so at a time. I did wish to tell him; but Karl
would not let me--I mean, we decided it was better not until the truth
could be told to all." Then she showed me her innocent heart again.
"It is when I think of my father that I am so wretched. He will
believe I have deserted him so cruelly;" and her eyes were full of
tears again.
"Who is your father, dear?"
"Colonel Katona. My dear, dear father!" and her grief so overcame her
that my fresh start of surprise passed unnoticed. He had been that
friend of my father's who was believed to hold the secret of the great
wrong in his keeping. And it was his daughter whom I had thus saved.
Her tears passed soon, like a summer storm. She was a creature of
strangely variable moods.
"I know, of course, that Karl was right. My father is a stern, gloomy
and sometimes hard man. He would have forced us to announce the
marriage; and then Karl would have been ruined."
"But did not your father know that he wished to marry you?"
"Oh, no," she cried, smiling now. "That was the lovely part of it. He
never saw Karl. I meant it to be a surprise. I was at Tyrnau, staying
with friends, when we met, and it was all settled in a few weeks. You
see Karl loved me and I loved him, and--that was all."
"You were married at Tyrnau?"
She shook her head gaily. "No. It was such fun. We ran away
together, and were married by a friend of Karl's in his house at
Sillien, in the mountains. A heaven of a place. My home is there.
Oh, the loveliest of homes, Christabel. You will say so when you see
it."
"I may never see it, my dear."
"Oh, but of course you will. You will come and stay with me. You will
be my dear friend always; and Karl's too, when he knows how you saved
me to-night. And it will never be lonely there any more."
"How came you to be in Pesth to-night then?" I asked, smothering the
sigh which her last words impelled.
"I suppose I did wrong to come. A wife should obey her husband, of
course, but I couldn't help it. You see, lately his father has kept
Karl so much here that I have scarcely seen him; and something is going
to happen; I shan't be alone then; and--you understand, I wanted to let
my father know I was married before my child was born. I wrote this to
Karl, and--it was naughty and wicked of me, I know--but when he would
not consent, I came to Pesth to-day and surprised him."
"Yes, I think I understand," said I. It was easy to read now, indeed.
Her visit meant discovery for him, and he had improvised the means of
getting rid of her which I had prevented. "He was very angry, I
suppose?"
"At first, yes. He tried to make me go back to Sillien; but I could
not. I could not, could I, Christabel? And when he saw I was in
earnest--I can be firm when I will"--and she made a great effort to
look resolute and determined--"and said I would go to my father
to-morrow, he gave in and kissed me, and agreed to take me to his
father and admit everything. We were on our way there when we were
attacked. I knew his love for me would conquer in the end. How
delighted he will be when he knows that after all I am safe."
"You will see him to-morrow and tell him. You know where to find him
in the city here?"
Her face clouded. "That is a strange thing. He was so afraid of his
father's anger that he dared not let me write to his home. He gave me
an address in the Altgasse, but it is only a place where letters are
received. But I shall find him, of course, easily."
"Would you take my advice, if I gave it?"
"In that, oh yes, of course. I know you are clever."
"It is to go straight to your father, Colonel Katona, and tell him all."
"Oh, no, no, no, I dare not now," she cried, shrinking timidly. "Karl
made me take an oath to-day on the holy crucifix that, whatever
happened, I would never tell my father without his permission."
"Why?"
"Because no one but Karl must break the news of our marriage to his
father. No, no. I dare not. I dare not. I cannot break my oath. I
should be false to the Holy Church." And at the mere thought of it she
began to tremble.
It was clever; a stroke of almost diabolical cleverness; knowing the
simple, trusting child, to close her lips by such an oath.
"You will not betray us?" she cried, taking alarm at my silence and
serious expression. "You are my friend?"
"Yes, I am your friend, my dear, and will always be, if you want one."
She was a very tender little thing, and as I kissed her she threw her
arms round my neck and clung to me. "And now, I'll give you some other
advice--to go to bed; and after a night's rest, I daresay we shall see
our way."
After I had seen her into bed and shown her that her room opened into
mine, I went downstairs to think over all she had told me, all the
tangle of trouble ahead for her, and its possible effects upon my
course.
It was quite late when at length I went to bed; and I was lying unable
to sleep in my perplexed anxiety when I heard her call out as if in
fear. I started up and then she came running into my room.
"Are you awake, Christabel?"
"What is it, dear?"
"I have had a dream and am frightened. Let me come to you."
And just like a child she crept into my bed and into my arms.
"I dreamt that Karl was dead and that my father had killed him," she
moaned. "And he was going to kill me and my child when I screamed out
and woke."
Was it an omen? The thought stayed with me long after I had calmed her
fright and soothed her to sleep.
God help the helpless, trustful, clinging child! It might well be an
omen, indeed. My heart was heavy for her and her trouble.
CHAPTER VII
GARETH'S FATHER
The next day was a busy one for me, for I had to find a place in which
Gareth could remain safely hidden.
This I felt to be impracticable in my present house. I had rented it
on first coming to Pesth, and it was recorded as my address in the
register of the University. It was, of course, certain that Count
Gustav would have every possible inquiry made about me; and if he or
his agents came to the house, Gareth's presence would at once become
known.
Fortunately, I had already commenced some negotiations to take a villa
in a secluded part of the hilly district of Buda; and my first step
that morning was to go out and complete the matter, so that I could
remove that day. I wrote to Madame d'Artelle that I was called out of
Pesth, and should return to her on the following day.
I knew quite enough of Count Gustav already to be fully aware that my
discovery of his secret in regard to Gareth might prove a source of
danger to me. Discreetly used, it might be of the most vital
importance for my purposes. But he was a very formidable antagonist;
and unless I acted with the utmost wariness and caution, I knew he
would beat me.
If I had read his actions aright, he would go to any length to prevent
the secret of his marriage getting known; and until I was quite
prepared for emergencies, I must guard my knowledge of it jealously.
I was to score the first point. The next morning brought me news from
Paris--a telegram from James Perry telling me the whereabouts of M.
Constans. I should therefore have that knowledge to take with me to
Madame d'Artelle's.
With Gareth, however, I had some difficulty. The view she took of
Count Gustav was of course diametrically opposed to mine. This was
natural enough. To her he was just the loving husband who would be in
an agony of suspense until he knew of her safety. The belief that he
was suffering such suspense added to her own grief and worry; and
during the day we were removing to the villa she was very impatient of
the delay involved.
She was ill both in body and mind; and how to deal with her caused me
much thought and anxiety. To tell her what I was convinced was the
truth in regard to the Count was impossible, even had I wished to do
so. She would not have accepted me as a witness against her faith in
him. Moreover, I had no wish to break down that faith yet. What I
desired, rather, was to find means to compel him to do her justice; and
unwittingly she made that task, hard as it was, more difficult by her
attitude.
I repeated my urgent advice--that she should go to her father and tell
him everything; but she would not listen to me. On the contrary, she
declared that no earthly consideration would induce her to break the
solemn vow she had taken; and nothing I could say made the slightest
impression upon that resolve.
I could not tell her what I knew well enough was the case--that unless
she took that course she would be in danger. I was convinced that
Count Gustav would have a very sharp search made for her and that, if
he discovered her, he would contrive to get her to a place where she
would be prevented from causing him any trouble.
But her faith in him was unshakable. "I shall show myself in the
streets," she said, smiling, "and go everywhere until I meet him. He
will be desperate until he knows I am safe."
I had to frighten this intention away. "What will happen if you do is
this," I told her. "Either your father will meet you; or the men who
attacked you will see you, and in order to prevent your accusing them
will make away with you. If you will trust me to make this search for
you, I will do it; but only on condition that you promise me not to
stir from the house unless I am with you."
Scared in this way, she at length was induced to give the promise.
It was at best but an unsatisfactory compromise; and more than once I
debated with myself whether, in her interests, I should not be
justified in breaking the pledge of secrecy and going to Colonel Katona
myself.
But I put that course aside for the moment and set out for Madame
d'Artelle's house.
I had not been two minutes with her before I saw that a considerable
change had come over the position in my absence. She was so
affectionate that I knew she was deceiving me. She over-acted her new
role outrageously. She overwhelmed me with kisses and caresses, called
Heaven to witness how much she had missed me, and declared she had been
inconsolably miserable in my absence. Considering the terms on which
we had parted, I should have been a mole not to have seen that this was
false.
She was so afraid of offending me indeed, that she scarcely dared to
show a legitimate curiosity as to the cause of my absence. She had
obviously been coached by Count Gustav; and when a man coaches a woman,
he generally makes her blunder. I could see that she was quivering to
know what I had been doing, and on tenterhooks lest I had been working
against her.
I thought it judicious, therefore, to frighten her a little; and when
the due moment came I asked, significantly: "Have you the proofs yet of
M. Constan's death?"
"You are not going to talk of disagreeable things directly you get
back, are you?"
"His death would not be disagreeable to you, Henriette?"
"You cannot guess what I have endured from that man. I tell you,
Christabel, he is a man to raise the devil in a woman."
"A good many men can do that," I said, sententiously. "But if he is
dead he can raise no more devils in either man or woman. Where did he
die and when?"
"It does not matter to me now whether he is dead or living. You have
had your way. I shall not marry Count Karl."
"And your gratitude to me for this is the reason of your kisses and
caresses on my return?"
She was very easy to stab; and her eyes flashed with sudden anger. She
was too angry indeed to reply at once.
"You are a very singular girl, Christabel--very difficult to love," she
said, as if to reproach me.
"Easier to hate, perhaps; but you should not pretend to love me. We
need not make believe to love each other, Henriette. I do not love
you. I saved your life in Paris, and when I found you here you wished
me to come into your house because you thought you could more easily
prevent my saying what I knew about you. That has more to do with fear
than love--much more. And it does not seem to have occurred to you
that I too might have a selfish motive in coming."
"What was it?" She rapped the question out very sharply.
"For one thing I thought it would be interesting to know what the
information was which your employers in France wished you to obtain."
"Then you are a spy, after all?" she cried, angrily.
"No. A spy, in the sense you mean, is a person paid by employers to
obtain information--as the police used to pay Madame Constans in Paris.
I have no employers. I am seeking my own way, and acting for myself.
You will see the difference. Now will you tell me what you were sent
here to do?"
"You are right in one thing, Christabel--you are easier to hate than to
love."
"That does not answer my question."
"I am no spy."
"Henriette! I have been in communication with Paris since I saw you,
and a special messenger is now on his way here to me with full tidings.
Let us be frank with one another. You promised to advance my fortunes:
Count Gustav has made the same promise--why then should you try to
deceive me? It is not playing the game fairly."
"I have not tried to deceive you."
"Henriette!" I cried again, this time with a laugh. "What! when you
have changed your plans entirely within the last few hours?"
She could not suppress a start at this, and tried to cover it with a
laughing suggestion of its absurdity. "You are ridiculous--always
finding mysteries," she said.
"Finding them _out_, you mean," I retorted, slowly and significantly.
"Will you leave me to do this now, or will you tell me frankly?"
"There is no new plan."
"You will find it not only useless but unsafe to attempt to deceive me.
I know already much of the new plan and within a few hours shall know
all." She had been already so impressed by the discoveries I had made
that she was quite prepared to believe this bluff; and she was so
nervous and agitated that she would not trust herself to speak.
I paused some moments and then said with impressive deliberation:
"Henriette, our relative positions here are changing fast. I came here
that you might help me to push my fortunes. I know so much and am so
much better and stronger a player than you, that either I shall leave
you altogether to carry my knowledge to those who need it badly, or I
shall stay to protect you and your fortunes from the man who is
threatening both. Think of that while I go upstairs to my room; and
think closely, for your future--ruin or success--is the stake at issue;
and one false step may cost you everything."
"You mean to threaten me?" she cried, half nervously, half in bravado.
"It is more an offer of help than a threat; but you can regard it as
you please;" and I went out of the room.
I ran up hastily to my room full of a new idea which had just occurred
to me; but fortunately not so preoccupied as to keep my eyes shut. As
I passed Madame d'Artelle's room the door was not quite closed, and
through the narrow slit I caught a glimpse of Ernestine. She was
vigorously dusting some object that was out of my line of sight.
I am accustomed to study trifles; they often act as finger posts at the
forked roads of difficulty and point the proper way. Ernestine was a
very particular lady's maid indeed, and never dreamt of dusting out
rooms. Why then was she so busy?
I paused and managed to get a peep at the object of her unusual
industry. It was a travelling trunk; large enough to hold a big
suggestion for me. I pushed the door open.
"Good-morning, Ernestine. I've come back, you see," I said, smiling.
"Ah, good-morning, Mademoiselle Gilmore. I am glad to see you."
Ernestine was very friendly to me. I had bought her goodwill.
"Madame and I have been talking over our arrangements," I said,
lightly. "It is all rather sudden. Do you think you will have time to
alter that black silk bodice for me before we start?"
"I'm afraid not, mademoiselle. You see every thing has to be packed."
"Of course it has. If I had thought of it, I would have left it out
for you before I went, the day before yesterday."
"If I had known I would have asked you for it, mademoiselle. But I had
not a hint until this morning."
"Come up and see if we cannot contrive something. A bertha of old lace
might do for the time."
I did not wish Madame to catch me in her room, so Ernestine and I went
on to mine. We talked dress for a couple of minutes and, as I wished
her not to speak of the conversation, I said that as the alteration
could not be made, I might as well give her the dress. It was nearly
new, and delighted her.
"I suppose you'll be ready in time? You are such a clever packer. But
the time is short."
She repudiated the suggestion of being behind. "I have all to-day and
part of to-morrow. I could pack for you as well," she cried, with a
sweep of her hand round the room.
"Never mind about that. I may not go yet."
"Oh no, of course not;" and she laughed archly. "They will not want
Mademoiselle la Troisieme."
"_Mechante_," I cried, dismissing her with a laugh, as though I fully
understood the joke. And in truth she had given me a clue which was
very cheap at the price of a silk dress.
Instinct had warned me of the change in the position, and now I began
to understand what the new plan was. Madame had made her avowal about
not marrying Karl much too clumsily; and the dusting of that travelling
trunk, coupled with Ernestine's sly reference to "Mademoiselle la
Troisieme," was too clear to be misunderstood. They meant to hoodwink
me by an apparent abandonment of the marriage; and then make it
clandestinely.
I laughed to myself as I left the house to hurry up my own plan.
Having made sure that I was not being followed, I hailed a carriage and
drove to the neighbourhood where Colonel Katona lived.
I finished the distance on foot, and scanned the house closely as I
walked up the drive. It was a square, fair-sized house of two floors,
and very secluded. Most of the blinds were down, and all the windows
were heavily barred and most of them very dirty. It might well have
been the badly-kept home of a recluse who lived in constant fear of
burglars. Yet Colonel Katona was reputed a very brave man. Barred
windows are as useful however, for keeping those who are inside from
getting out, as for preventing those who are out from getting in; and I
remembered Gareth's statement that she had scarcely ever lived at home.
Why?
When I rang, a grizzled man, with the bearing of an old soldier, came
to the door and, in answer to my question for Colonel Katona, told me
bluntly I could not see him.
"I am a friend of his daughter and I must see the Colonel," I insisted.
He shut me outside and said he would ask his master.
Why all these precautions, I thought, as I waited; and they
strengthened my resolve not to go away without seeing him. But my use
of Gareth's name proved a passport; and presently the old soldier
returned and admitted me.
He left me in a room which I am sure had never known a woman's hand for
years; and the Colonel came to me.
He had as stern and hard a face as I had ever looked at; and it was
difficult to believe that the little shrinking timorsome child who had
nestled herself to sleep in my arms the night before could be his
daughter. The colouring pigment of the eyes was identical; but the
expression of Gareth's suggested the liquid softness of a summer sky,
while those which looked down at me were as hard as the lapis lazuli of
the Alps.
"Accept my excuses for your reception, Miss Gilmore. I am a recluse
and do not receive visitors as a rule; but you mentioned my daughter's
name. What do you want of me?"
I assumed the manner of a gauche, stupid school-girl, and began to
simper with empty inanity.
"I should never have taken you for Gareth's father," I said. "I think
you frighten me. I--I--What a lovely old house you have, and how
beautifully gloomy. I love gloomy houses. I--I----"
He frowned at my silliness; and I pretended to be silenced by the frown.
"What do you know of my--of Gareth?"
"Please don't look at me like that," I cried, getting up as if in
dismay and glancing about me. "I didn't mean to disturb you,
sir--Colonel, I mean. I--I think I had better go. But Gareth loved
you so, and loved me, and--oh----" and I stuttered and stammered in
frightened confusion.
If she has a really stern man to deal with, a girl's strongest weapon
is generally her weakness. His look softened a little at the mention
of Gareth's love for us both, as I hoped it would.
"Don't let me frighten you, please. I am a gruff old soldier and a
stern man of many sorrows; but a friend of Gareth's is a friend of
mine--still;" and he held out his hand to me.
The sorrow in that one syllable, "still," went right to my heart.
"I am very silly and--weak, I know," I said, as I put my hand timidly
into his and met his eyes with a feeble smile.
I could have sighed rather than smiled; for at that moment everything
seemed eloquent to me of pathos. The dingy, unswept room, the dust
accumulating everywhere, his unkempt hair and beard, his shabby
clothes, the dirt on the hand which closed firmly on mine--everywhere
in everything the evidences of neglect; the silent tribute to a sorrow
too absorbing to let him heed aught else.
"What can I do for you?" he asked much more gently, after a pause.
"Oh please," I cried, nervously. "Let me try and collect my poor
scattered wits. I ought not to have come, I am afraid."
"Don't say that. I am glad you have come. What could I be but glad to
see one who was a friend of Gareth's?"
"_Was_ a friend. Is a friend, I hope, Colonel, and always will be.
She always wanted me to come and see her home--but she was hardly ever
here, was she? So she couldn't ask me."
Sharp, quick, keen suspicion flashed out of his eyes, but I was
giggling so fatuously that it died away.
"Part of my sorrow and part of my punishment," he murmured.
I misunderstood him purposely. "Yes, she always looked on it as a kind
of punishment. You see, she loved you so--and then of course we girls,
you know what girls are, we used to tease her about it."
He winced and passed his hand across his fretted brows as if in pain.
"You don't know how it hurts me to hear that," he said, simply. "God
help me. When did you see her last?"
I knew the anguish at the back of the eager look which came with the
question. But I laughed as if I knew nothing. "Oh, ages ago now.
Months and months--six months quite."
"Where? My God, where?"
The question leaped from him with such fierceness, that I jumped up
again as if in alarm. "Oh, Colonel Katona, how you frighten me!"
"No, no, I don't wish to frighten you. But this is everything to me.
Twelve months ago she disappeared from Tyrnau, Miss Gilmore, lured away
as I believe by some scoundrel; and I have never seen or heard of her
from that time. You have seen her since, you say--and you must tell me
everything."
It was easy to heap fuel on fire that burned like this; and I did it
carefully. I affected to be overcome and, clapping hands before my
face, threw myself back into my chair.
"You must tell me, Miss Gilmore. You must," he said, sternly.
"No, no, I cannot. I cannot. I forgot. I--I dare not."
"Do you know the scoundrel who has done this?"
"Don't ask me. Don't ask me. I dare not say a word."
"You must," he cried, literally with terrifying earnestness.
"No, no. I dare not. I see it all now. Oh, poor Gareth. Poor, dear
Gareth."
"You must tell me. You shall. I am her father, and as God is in
heaven, I will have his life if he have wronged her."
I did not answer but sat on with my face still covered, thinking. I
had stirred a veritable whirlwind of wrath in his heart and had to
contrive to calm it now so as to use it afterwards for my own ends.
CHAPTER VIII
COUNT KARL
Colonel Katona's impatience mounted fast; and when he again insisted in
an even more violent tone that I should tell him all I knew, I had to
fall back upon a woman's second line of defence. I became hysterical.
I gurgled and sobbed, choked and gasped, laughed and wept in regulation
style; and then, to his infinite confusion and undoing, I fainted. At
least I fell back in my chair seemingly unconscious, and should have
fallen on the floor, I believe in thoroughness, had he not caught me in
his rough, powerful arms and laid me on a sofa.
I can recall to this day the fusty, mouldy smell of that couch as I lay
there, while he made such clumsy, crude efforts as suggested themselves
to him as the proper remedies to apply. He chafed and slapped my
hands, without thinking to take off my gloves; he called for cold water
which the soldier servant brought in, and bathed my face; lastly he
told the man to bring some brandy, and in trying to force it between my
teeth, which I clenched firmly, he spilt it and swore at his own
clumsiness.
Then, fearing he would try again and send me out reeking like a saloon
bar, I opened my eyes, rolled them about wildly, began to sob again,
sat up, rambled incoherently and asked in the most approved fashion
where I was.
I took a sufficiently long time to come round, and was almost ashamed
of my deceit when I saw how really anxious and self-reproachful he was.
But I had forged an effective weapon; and had only to show the
slightest disposition to "go off" again, to make him abjectly
apologetic.
I always maintain that a woman has many more weapons than a man. He
can at best cheat or bribe; while a woman can do all three, and in
addition can wheedle and weep and, at need, even faint.
It was a long time before I consented to talk coherently; and during
the incoherent interval I managed to introduce my father's name.
"I am getting better. Oh, how silly you must think me," I murmured.
"It was my fault. I was too violent," he said. "I am not used to
young ladies."
"Oh dear, oh dear, I am so ashamed. But she told me you were a very
violent man. I wish I hadn't come."
"Who told you? Gareth?"
"No, no. In America. Miss von Dreschler. Oh, what have I said?" I
cried, as he started in amazement. "Oh, don't look so cross. I didn't
know you'd be so angry;" and I began to gasp, spasmodically.
"I am not angry," he said, quickly. "What name did you say?"
"That horrible girl with the red hair. I don't suppose you've ever
seen her, in America. She said you were a villain and had been her
father's friend; Colonel von Dreschler, he was. She said you'd kill
me. But I'm sure you're kind and good, or dear Gareth would never be
your daughter. She said horrible things of you. That you'd ruined her
father and imprisoned him; and much more. But of course she would say
anything. She was jealous of my friendship with Gareth, and red
haired. And I don't know what I'm saying, but she was really a wicked
girl. And, oh dear, if it's true, I wish I hadn't come. Give me some
water please, or I know I shall go off again."
I gabbled all this out in a jerky, breathless way, pausing only to
punctuate it with inane giggles and glances of alarm; and at the end
made as if I were going to faint.
Had I been in reality the giggling idiot I pretended, I might well have
fainted at the expression which crossed his stern, sombre face. At the
mention of my father and his imprisonment, he caught his breath and
started back so violently that he stumbled against a chair behind him
and upset it; and only with the greatest effort could he restrain
himself from interrupting me.
He was trembling with anger as he handed me the water I asked for; and
when he had put down the glass, he placed a chair and sat close to me.
"Do you mean that Colonel von Dreschler's daughter knows Gareth?"
"Oh, yes, of course."
"Mother of Heaven, I see it now," he murmured into his tangled beard.
"It is he who has taken her away. What do you know of this?"
"Oh, Colonel Katona, what on earth could he want to do that for?
Besides, how could he?" I cried, with an empty simper.
"You don't understand, Miss Gilmore. Can you tell me where to find
this girl--Miss von Dreschler."
"Oh yes. In Jefferson City, Missouri. I come from there. It's a long
way off, of course; but it's just the loveliest town and well worth a
visit;" and I was babbling on when he put up his hand and stopped me.
"Peace, please. And do you know Colonel von Dreschler?"
"Lor', how could I? He's been dead ever so long. Two years and more,
that horrid little red-haired thing said. But of course she may have
been fibbing."
He stared down at me as if to read the thoughts in my brain; his look
full charged with renewed suspicion. But I was giggling and trying to
put my hat straight; and with a sigh he tossed up his hand and rose.
"I can't understand you," he said. "Can you tell me anything about
Gareth, when you saw her last?"
"Not much, I'm afraid. I have such a silly memory. It must be quite
six months ago--yes, because, I had this hat new; and I've had it quite
six months."
"Where was it?" he asked, growing keener again.
"Karlsbad; no, Marienbad; no, Tyrnau; no, Vienna; I can't remember
where it was, but I have it down in my diary. I could let you know."
"Did she--she speak of me?"
"Oh yes. She said she was happy and would have been quite happy if
only she could have let you know where she was."
"Why couldn't she?"
"I suppose he wouldn't let her; but I'm sure----"
"What he? For heaven's sake, try to speak plainly, Miss Gilmore. Do
you mean she was with any one?"
"I don't know. I only know what we thought. Oh, don't look like that
or I can't say any more."
His eyes flashed fire again. "Tell me, please," he murmured
restraining himself.
"We thought she had run away with him." I said that seriously enough.
He paused, nerving himself for the next question. It came in a low,
tense, husky voice. "Do you mean she was--married?"
I hung my head and was silent.
"'Fore God, if any one, man or woman dares to hint shame of my
child----" he burst out, and stopped abruptly.
It was time to be serious again, I felt, as I answered, "I love Gareth
dearly, and would say no shame of her. If I can help you to find her
and learn the truth, will you have my help?"
"Help me, and all I have in the world shall be yours. And if any one
has wronged her, may I burn in hell if I do not make his life the
penalty." The vehement, concentrated earnestness of the oath filled me
with genuine awe.
A tense pause followed, and then, recovering myself, I began to display
anew my symptoms of hysterics. This time I was not going to get well
enough to be able to speak of the matter farther; and I declared I must
go away.
I was going to play a dangerous card; and when he asked me when he
should see me again, I told him that if he would come that afternoon to
me--I gave him Madame d'Artelle's address--I would tell him all I could.
I went away well satisfied with the result of my visit; and then
planned my next step. It was to be a bold one; but the crisis called
for daring; and if I was to win, I must force the moves from my side.
I walked back, glad of the exercise and the fresh air, and as I was
passing through the Stadtwalchen, busily occupied with my thoughts, I
met Count Karl. He was riding with an attendant and his look chanced
to be in my direction. He stared as if trying to recollect me, then he
bowed. I responded, but he passed on; and I concluded he had not
placed my features in his muddled memory. But a minute later I heard a
horse cantering after me; and he pulled up, dismounted, and held out
his hand.
"You are Madame d'Artelle's friend, Miss Gilmore?"
"Yes," I said, scarce knowing whether to be glad or sorry he had come
after me.
"May I walk a few steps with you?"
"Certainly, if you wish."
"Take the horses home," he said as he gave the reins to the servant.
"I have been wishing to speak to you alone, Miss Gilmore. Shall we
walk here?" and we turned into a side path at the end of which some
nursemaids and children were gathered about the fountains.
He did not speak again for some moments, but kept staring at me with a
directness which, considering all things, I found embarrassing.
"Would you mind sitting down here?" he asked, as we reached a seat
nearly hidden by the shrubbery.
"Not in the least," I agreed; and down we sat.
"You will think this very singular of me," he declared after a pause.
"One person could not very well be plural," I said inanely; and he
frowned at the irrelevant flippancy. "I am a student you know, and
therefore appreciate grammatical accuracy."
"I wish to ask you some questions, if I may."
"They appear to be very difficult to frame. You may ask what you
please."
"I wish you would smile," he said, so unexpectedly that I did smile.
"It is perfectly marvellous," he exclaimed with a start.
I knew what that meant. In the old days he had talked a lot of
nonsense about my smile.
"If I smile it is not at the waste of your life and its opportunities,
Count Karl," I ventured.
"Opportunities!" he repeated with a laugh. "I have seized this one at
any rate. I have been thinking about you ever since I saw you two days
ago at Madame d'Artelle's."
"Why?" I asked pointedly.
"That is a challenge. I'll take it up. Because your name is
Christabel. Is it really Christabel?"
"My name seems to cause considerable umbrage," I said, with a touch of
offence. "Two days ago your brother not only doubted the Christabel,
but wished to give me a fresh surname as well, von Decker or Discher,
or Dreschler, or something."
He frowned again. "Gustav is a good fellow, but he should hold his
tongue. You're so like her, you see, and yet so unlike, that----" he
finished the sentence with a cut of his riding whip on his gaiters.
"I am quite content to be myself, thank you," I declared with a touch
of coldness.
"Your voice, too. It's perfectly marvellous."
"May I ask what all this means?" I put the question very stiffly.
"Chiefly that I'm an idiot, I think. But I don't care. I'm long past
caring. Life's only rot, is it?"
"Not for those who use it properly. It might be a glorious thing for a
man in your position and with your future."
"Ah, you're young, you see, Miss Gilmore," he exclaimed, with the
self-satisfaction of a cynic. "I suppose I thought so once, but
there's nothing in it."
"There's opium," I rapped out so sharply that he gave a start and
glanced at me. Then he smiled, heavily.
"Oh, you've found that out, eh; or somebody has told you? Yes, I can't
live without it now, and I don't want to try. What does it matter?"
and he jerked his shoulders with a don't-care gesture.
"I should be ashamed to say that."
"I suppose you would. I suppose you would. I should have been, at one
time, when I first began; but not now. Besides, it suits everybody all
right. You see, you don't understand."
"I have no intention of trying it."
"No, don't. It's only hell a bit before one's time. But I didn't stop
you to talk about this. I don't quite know why I did stop you now;"
and he ran his hand across his forehead as if striving to remember.
A painful gesture, almost pathetic and intensely suggestive.
"I suppose it was just a wish to speak to you, that's all," he said at
length, wearily. "Oh, I know. You reminded me so much of--of another
Christabel of the name you mentioned, Christabel von Dreschler, that I
wondered if you could be any relation. You _are_ an American, are you
not?"
"Yes. But that is not an American name."
"But she was American. I knew her in New York years ago. Lord, what
long years ago. You are not a relation of hers?"
"I have no relative of that name, Count Karl."
"I wish you had been one."
"Why?"
"That's just what I've been asking myself these two days. It wouldn't
have been any good, would it? And yet--" he sighed--"yet I think I
should have been drawn to speak pretty freely to you."
"About what?"
He turned at the pointed question and looked quizzically at me. "I
wonder. You're so like her, you see."
"Were you in love with her, then?"
He started resentfully at the thrust. Coming from me it must have
sounded very much like impertinence.
"Miss Gilmore, I----" then he smiled in his feeble, nothing-matters
manner. "Of course that's a question I can't answer, and you oughtn't
to ask. But life's much too stupid for one to take offence when it
isn't meant. And I don't suppose you meant any, did you?"
"No, on the contrary. I should very much like to be your friend," I
said, very earnestly.
"Would you? I daresay you would. Lots of people would like to be the
friend of the Duke Ladislas' eldest son. If they only knew! What
humbug it all is."
"I am not a humbug," I protested.
"I daresay you have a motive in that clever little brain of yours. No
clever people do anything without one, and they both agree you're
clever and sharp. I wonder what it is. Tell me."
"'They both?'" I repeated, catching at his words.
His face clouded with passing doubt and then cleared as he understood.
"I'm getting stupid again; but you don't get stupid. You know what
Henriette and Gustav are in my life. You've spotted it, of course. It
saves a heap of trouble to have some one to think for you. You mayn't
believe it--you like to think for yourself; but it does, a regular heap
of bother. And after all, the chief thing in life is to dodge trouble,
isn't it?"
"No." I said it with so much energy that he laughed.
"That's only your point of view. You're American, you see. But I'm
right. I hate taking trouble. Of course I know things. They think I
don't, but I do. And I don't care."
"What things do you know?"
He stopped hitting his boots with his whip and looked round at me,
paused, and then shook his head slowly. "You don't understand, and it
wouldn't do you any good if you did."
But I did understand and drove the spur in. "I don't understand one
thing--why the elder son should think his chief object in life is to
make way for the younger brother."
He leant back on the seat and laughed. "They're right. You have a
cute little head and no mistake. That's just it. I'm not surprised
Gustav warned me against you. But he needn't. I shouldn't let you
worry me into things. I'm glad I spoke to you, though. You've got old
fox Erlanger round that little finger of yours, too, haven't you?"
"I was governess to General von Erlanger's daughter."
"And played chess with the old boy. I know;" and he laughed again.
"And he sent you to look after Henriette, eh?"
"No. I knew Madame d'Artelle in Paris, years ago; and I went to her
thinking her influence would help me."
"Did you? I'm not asking. But if you did, you can't be so clever as
they think. She hasn't any influence with any one but me--and I don't
count. I never shall either."
"Whose fault is that but your own?"
"I don't want to. I don't care. If I did care, of course----" The
momentary gleam of energy died out in another weary look and wave of
the hand. He waited and then asked. "But won't you tell me that
motive of yours, for wanting to be my friend, you know?"
"I did not say I had one."
"I hoped you might want me to do something for you."
"Why?"
"Because you might do something for me in return."
"I'll promise to do that in any case."
"Ah, they all say that. The world's full of unselfish people willing
to do things for a Duke's son," he said, lazily.
"What is it you wish me to do?"
"You have friends in America, of course?"
"Yes."
"Do you think they could find that other girl--the one you're like,
Christabel von Dreschler?"
"Yes, I've no doubt they could."
"Well, I'd like to hear of her again."
"Would you like her to know what your life is and what you have become?"
That made him wince.
"By God, that hurts!" he muttered, and he leant back, put his hand to
his eyes, and sat hunched up in silence. Presently he sighed. "You're
right. I'm only a fool, am I?"
"If she cared for you, it might have hurt _her_ to know," I said.
"Don't, please. You make me think; and I don't want to think."
"If she loved you then, she would scarcely love you now."
"Don't, I say, don't," he cried, with sudden vehemence. "You are so
like her that to hear this from you is almost as if----I beg your
pardon. But for a moment I believe I was almost fool enough to feel
something. No, no; don't write or do any other silly thing of the
sort. It doesn't matter;" and he tossed up his hands helplessly.
We sat for a few moments without speaking, and presently he began to
fumble in his pocket. He glanced at me rather shamefacedly, and then
with an air of bravado took out a phial of morphia pills.
"Since you know, it doesn't matter," he said, half-apologetically.
"It does matter very much," I declared, earnestly.
He held the little bottle making ready to open it, and met my eyes.
"Why?"
"Would you take it if she were here?"
"I don't know;" and he heaved a deep sigh.
"Think that she is here, and then you daren't take it."
He laughed. "Daren't I?" and he partly unscrewed the cap.
I put my hand on his arm. "For her sake," I said.
"It means hours of hell to me if I don't."
"It means a life of hell if you do."
"I must."
"For her sake," I pleaded again, and held out my hand for the phial.
"You would torture me?"
"Yes, for your good."
The struggle in him was acute and searching. "It's no good; I can't,"
he murmured, his gaze on the phial.
I summoned all the will power at my command and forced him to meet my
eyes. "For her sake; as if she were here; give it me," I said.
"I shall hate you if you make me."
"For her sake," I repeated. We looked each into the other's eyes,
until I had conquered.
"I suppose I must," he murmured with a sigh; and let the little bottle
fall into my hand. I threw it down and ground it and the pellets to
powder with my heel. He watched me with a curious smile. "How savage
you are. As if you thought that could finish it."
"No. It is only the beginning--but a good beginning."
He got up. "We'd better go now, before I begin to hate you."
"You will think of this and of her when the next temptation comes."
"Oh, it will come right enough; and I shan't resist it. I can't.
Good-bye. I like you yet. I--I wish I'd known you before."
And with that and a sigh and a smile, he lifted his hat and left me.
CHAPTER IX
I COME TO TERMS WITH MADAME
My interview with Karl led to a very disquieting discovery. I sat for
some time thinking about it--and my thoughts increased rather than
diminished my uneasiness.
To use a very expressive vulgarism one often hears at home, I began to
fear that I "had run up against a snag." In other words, I had
misunderstood the real nature of my feelings for Karl; and that
miscalculation might cost me dear.
It was true that when I had seen him at Madame d'Artelle's I had hated
him cordially; but the reason was clear to me now. It was not my pride
that he had hurt in not recognizing me. It was my anger that he had
stirred--that he should have forgotten me so completely. It looked so
much like the due corollary of his old conduct that I had taken fire.
And now I found he had not forgotten me at all; and knew that I had won
my little victory over him because he remembered me so well.
It was a surprise and a shock; but nothing like the shock it gave me to
find how elated and delighted I felt at the fact. For a time I could
scarcely hold that delight in check. It took the bit in its teeth and
ran away with my sober common sense. My thoughts very nearly made a
fool of me again; and I am afraid that I positively revelled in the new
knowledge just as any ordinary girl might.
But, as I had told General von Erlanger, I was not a "usual person;"
and I succeeded in pulling up my runaway thoughts in the middle of
their wild gallop.
I was no longer in love with Karl. I had settled that years before. I
was intensely embittered by his conduct; he had behaved abominably to
me; had flirted and cheated and fooled me; and I had always felt that I
never could and never would forgive him. His present condition was a
fitting and proper punishment, and he deserved every minute of it.
My interest in him now was purely selfish and personal. I had only one
thing to consider in regard to him--how I could make use of him to
secure justice to my father's reputation, and punishment for the doers
of that great wrong.
Moreover, even if he did care, or thought he still cared for one whom
he had so wronged, and if I were an ordinary girl and magnanimous
enough to forgive him, and if, further, I could save him permanently
from the opium fiend, we could never be more than mere friends. There
was an insuperable barrier between us.
I knew this from the papers which my father had left behind him. I had
better explain it here; for I thought it all carefully over as I sat
that morning in the Stadtwalchen.
There was the great Patriotic movement in the way, of which Karl's
father, Duke Ladislas, was the head and front. The aim was nothing
less than the splitting of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Hungary was to
be made an independent kingdom, and Duke Ladislas was to have the
throne.
The time to strike the great blow had been decided years before. It
was to be at the death of the old Emperor. The movement had the widest
ramifications; and the whole of the internal policy of Hungary was
being directed to that paramount object.
In one of his papers, my father had suggested that the secret of his
ruin was part and parcel of this scheme. While Duke Alexinatz and his
son, Count Stephen, lived, the right to the Hungarian throne would be
theirs; and thus, Duke Ladislas, a man of great ambition and the soul
of the movement, had every reason to welcome Count Stephen's death; and
that death had occurred at a moment when the Austrian Emperor lay so
ill that his death was hourly expected.
My father's intellect, impaired as it was by his solitary confinement,
could not coherently piece the facts together. Synthetical reasoning
was beyond him for one thing; and for another he could not bring
himself to believe that the man whom beyond all others in the world he
admired and trusted, Duke Ladislas, could be guilty of such baseness
and crime as the facts suggested. Appalled, therefore, by the
conclusions which were being forced upon him, he had abandoned the work
in fear and horror.
I had no such predispositions or prejudices; but as yet I had no
proofs. I could only set to work from the other end, and attempt to
discover the agents who had done the deed, and work up through them to
the man whose originating impulse might have been the real first cause.
But the solid fact remained that Count Stephen's death cleared the way
to the new throne for Duke Ladislas and his sons; and therefore, if I
were to succeed in killing Karl's opium habit, and even induce him to
play the great part in life open to him, he would be the heir to the
throne, when gained, and I impossible except as a friend.
Two days before, nay two hours before, I should have asked and desired
no more than that; but after this talk with Karl--and at that moment I
stamped my foot in impotent anger, and wrenching my thoughts away from
that part of the subject, got up and walked hurriedly away in the
direction of Madame d'Artelle's house.
I arrived as she was sitting down to lunch, and she gave me a very
frigid reception. I saw that she had passed a very uncomfortable
morning. She had been weeping, and having found in her tears no
solution of the problem I had set her, was sullen and depressed.
"You have been out, Christabel?"
"Yes, completing my plans."
"What a knack you have developed of making spiteful speeches! I had no
idea you could be so nasty."
"What is there spiteful in having plans to complete?"
"I suppose they are aimed at me!"
"My dear Henriette, must I not be careful to have some place to go and
live in? Be reasonable."
"You always seem to have some undercurrent in what you say. It's
positively hateful. What do you mean by that?"
"Some of us Americans have a trick of answering one question with
another. I think I'll do that now. What do you think I'd better do
when you are gone?"
"I don't understand that either," she said very crossly.
"I mean to-morrow."
"I am not going anywhere to-morrow." She could lie glibly.
"That may be nearer the truth than you think; but you have planned to
go away to-morrow--with Count Karl."
"Preposterous."
"So I think--but true, all the same. You are very foolish to attempt
to hoodwink me, Henriette. You are thinking of trying to deny what I
say. I can see that--but pray don't waste your breath. I told you
this morning that in an hour or two I should know everything. I do
now."
"Have you seen Count Karl?"
"Do you think I should tell you how I find out things? So long as I do
find them out, nothing else matters. But I will tell you something.
You will not go, Henriette. I shall not allow it."
"Allow?" she echoed, shrilly.
"I generally use the words I mean. I said 'allow'--and I mean no other
word. I shall not allow it."
She let her ill temper have the reins for a minute, and broke out into
a storm of invective, using more than one little oath to point her
phrases. I waited patiently until her breath and words failed her.
"I am glad you have broken out like that. There's more relief in it
than tears. Now I will tell you what I mean to do--and to do to-day.
I have had inquiries made in Paris for M. Constans, and a wire from me
will bring him here in search of you. You know what that means;" I
added, very deliberately, as I saw her colour change. I guessed there
was ground for the bluff that I knew much more than my words expressed.
"I don't believe you," she managed to stammer out--her voice quite
changed with fear.
"Your opinion does not touch me. In your heart you know I never lie,
Madame--and for once you may trust your heart. If you force me, that
telegram will go to-day. Nor is that all. I will go to Duke Ladislas
and tell him the story of the lost jewels, and who instigated the theft
and received the stolen property."
"They have been given back; besides, will he prosecute his own son?"
"The theft shall be published in every paper, and with it the story of
how Count Karl has been ruined by opium drugging. By whom, Madame--by
the secret agent of the French Government, the ex-spy of the Paris
police--Madame Constans? You can judge how Austrian people will read
that story."
She had no longer any fight left in her. I spoke without a note of
passion in my voice; and every word told. She sat staring at me, white
and helpless and beaten.
"More than that and worse than that----"
"I can bear no more," she cried, covering her face with trembling
fingers.
I don't know what more she thought I was going to threaten to do. I
knew of nothing more; so it was fortunate she stopped me. She was in
truth so frightened that if I had threatened to have her hanged, I
think she would have believed in my power to do it.
"Why do you seek to ruin me? What have I done to make you my enemy?"
she asked at length.
"I do not seek to ruin you, and I will be your friend and not your
enemy, if you trust instead of deceiving me. I will save you from
Count Gustav's threats."
"How can you?"
"What matters to you how, so long as I do it?"
"He knows all that you know."
"What, that you are here to betray the leaders of the Hungarian
national movement to your French employers and their Russian allies?"
"_Nom de Dieu_, but how I am afraid of you?" she cried.
"If I tell him that how will it fare with you?"
"No no, you must not. I will do all you wish. I will. I will. I
swear it on my soul."
"Tell me then the details of the elopement to-morrow. I know enough to
test the truth of what you say; and if you lie, I shall do all I have
said--and more."
"I will not lie, Christabel. I am going to trust you. It is arranged
for to-morrow night. I leave the house here at nine o'clock in a
carriage. At the end of the Radialstrasse Count Karl will join me. We
drive first to a villa in Buda, behind the Blocksberg--a villa called
'Unter den Linden.' We are to be married there; and on the following
day we cross the frontier into Germany and go to Breslau."
She said it as if she had been repeating a lesson, and finished with a
deep-drawn sigh.
"Is he coming to-day?"
"No."
"To-morrow?"
"No."
"Ah. That is to convince me that all is broken off?"
"Yes." She was as readily obedient as a child.
"Count Gustav is coming to-day?"
"Yes. This afternoon at four o'clock. To settle everything."
"Good. You will see him and be careful to act as though everything
were as it was left when you saw him yesterday."
"I dare not."
"You must. Everything may turn upon that. You must."
"But if he suspects?"
"You must prevent that. I shall see him afterwards. If you let him
suspect or if you play me false, I shall know; and the consequences
will not be pleasant for you. You will tell Count Gustav not to see
you to-morrow, because you are afraid I shall guess something; and that
if he has to communicate with you, he must write. It is the only way
in which I can save you from him."
"And what am I to do afterwards?"
"I will tell you to-morrow. Be assured of this. I and those whose
power is behind me will see not only that no harm comes to you, but
that you are well paid."
"I am giving up everything."
"It is no time to bargain. What you are giving up in reality is the
risk of a gaol and the certainty of exposure and ruin--and worse."
"Mother of Heaven, have mercy on me!" she cried.
I did not stop to hear her lamentations. It was two o'clock already.
I had still many things to fix, and I must be back in the house soon
after Count Gustav reached it. The fur was to fly in my interview with
him; and I must have all my claws sharp.
I did not make the mistake of underestimating his strength as an
adversary. I should have to use very different means with him from
those which had sufficed to frighten Madame d'Artelle; and I must have
the proofs ready to produce. I was going to change his present
half-contemptuous suspicion into open antagonism; and that he could and
would be a very dangerous enemy, I did not allow myself to doubt.
My first step was to find the house in Buda of which Madame d'Artelle
had spoken. It was a bright pleasant house in a pretty, carefully kept
garden; not more than a mile from the villa I myself had just rented.
But to my surprise it was occupied: a girl was playing with a couple of
dogs on the lawn. My first thought was that Madame had misled me; my
second, to try and ascertain this for myself.
I entered the garden and walked toward the house, and the dogs came
scampering across barking. The girl turned and followed them.
"Your garden is beautiful," I said, with a smile. "If the house is as
much beyond the description of it as the garden, it will suit me
admirably."
"You came to take the house?" she asked.
"Yes, I have a letter here--let me see, oh, this is my list--ah,
yes--'Unter den Linden.' Is not that the name?" and taking a slip of
paper from my pocket I pretended to consult it.
"Yes, this is 'Unter den Linden'--those are the trees;" and she pointed
to the limes which gave the name. "But I am afraid you are too late.
I think it is let."
I was overcome with disappointment; but perhaps she would ask her
mother. We went into the house and she left me in the dining-room.
Presently the mother came; a tired looking creature who had once been
pretty, like the girl, but was now frayed and worn. She was very
sorry, but the house was let. I was just too late. It had only been
let the previous day. Did I want it for long?
"Not more than twelve months certain," I told her.
She threw up her hands. "Just my ill-luck," she cried, dismally. "I
have let it for two months, and we go out this evening. But perhaps I
could get out of it."
"That is not worth while. I should not want it for a month yet, and
perhaps could wait for two. Could I see over the house?"
In this way I was taken into every nook and corner of it; and enabled
to fix every room and passage and door in my memory. And then I
inspected the garden and outside places.
"Do you leave your servants?" I asked, at the end of a number of
questions.
"We keep but one. My daughter and I live alone, and do most of the
work when we are at home. And the servant goes away with us."
"An excellent arrangement. I have my own servants. I wonder now if we
could induce your tenant to let me have the place in a month. Who is
he?"
"It is taken for Count von Ostelen--but I do not know him. The agents
have done everything. I could ask them."
"Do so, and let me know;" and I jotted down at random a name and
address to which she could write, and left.
I had done well so far; and I drove rapidly to my own house in good
spirits over my success.
There was only one point which puzzled me. Why had that name, Count
von Ostelen, been used? Was it merely as the name in which Count Karl
usually travelled incognito? Just as he had used it in New York? Or
had his brother some other motive?
It was only a trifle, of course; but then, as I have said, I am
accustomed to take some trifles seriously.
If I could have seen a little farther ahead, I should have taken this
one even more seriously than usual; and should not have dismissed it
from my thoughts as I did when I reached my house and was kissing
Gareth in response to the glad smile with which she greeted me.
My next step concerned her.
CHAPTER X
A DRAMATIC STROKE
"Have you any news for me?" was Gareth's eager question, natural enough
under the circumstances, and her delicate expressive face clouded as I
shook my head.
"We could scarcely expect any good news yet, dear."
"I suppose not; but I am so anxious."
"It will all come right in time, Gareth." But that very trite
commonplace had no more soothing effect on her than it often has on
wiser folk.
"I suppose I must be patient; but I wish I could do something for
myself. I hate being patient. Why can't I go out myself and search
for him? I put my hat on once this morning to start."
"I told you before the risk you would run."
"Oh, I know all that, of course," she replied, petulantly. "I've been
with you nearly two days and you've done nothing. Two whole long days.
And it's so dull here. It's worse than at Sillien."
"Would it have been better had those men taken you?"
She threw her arms round my neck then and burst into tears. "I know
how ungrateful I am. I hate myself for it, Christabel. But I did so
hope you had brought some news. And I am so disappointed."
I let her cry, knowing the relief which tears bring to such a nature as
hers. She soon dried her eyes, and sat down and looked at me, her
hands folded demurely on her lap--the picture of pretty meekness.
"How pretty you are, Gareth--with your lovely golden hair, your great
blue eyes, and pink and white cheeks."
"Am I?" she asked artlessly, smiling. "Karl used to say that; and I
used to love to hear him say it. I only cared to be pretty because he
liked it. But I like to hear you say it, too. You see I'm not a bit
clever, like you; and one must be either clever or pretty, mustn't one?
Karl's both handsome and clever. Oh, so handsome, Christabel. You'll
say so when you see him. I wish I had a likeness."
This gave me an idea. "Couldn't you draw a likeness of him, Gareth,
for me? You see it might help me to recognize him."
Her face broke into a sunny smile. "I can draw a little; I couldn't do
him justice, of course--no one could do that. He's too handsome. But
I could give you an idea of what he's like."
We found paper and pencil. "Do the best you can and then put my name
on it, and sign it Gareth von Ostelen, and put the date to it, so that
I can have it for a keepsake."
"Lovely," she cried, merrily; and set to work at once.
I watched her a few moments, and when she was absorbed in the task, I
went off saying I had some directions to give about house matters.
It was part of my plan that John Perry and his son, as soon as the
latter returned, should go to the house "Unter den Linden." I might
need them for my personal protection.
I told John Perry now, therefore, that he was to hire a woman servant
to come and help his wife in waiting upon Gareth. He was then to
purchase a carriage and a pair of good horses, and procure uniforms for
himself and his son. He was to act as coachman and James as footman;
and everything must be in readiness for him to carry out instantly any
orders he received from me. I should either bring or send the orders
on the next afternoon.
I explained that in all probability he would have to drive to the house
"Unter den Linden," stable the horses there, and dismiss any men
servants he might find about the house; and I suggested that he should
go first to the house and find an excuse to learn his way about the
stables.
When I returned to Gareth she had finished the drawing and had added a
clever little thumb-nail sketch of herself in the corner, where she had
written her name and the date. The drawing really merited the praise I
bestowed upon it.
"I could do much better if I had not to hurry it," she said,
self-critically.
"Do another while I am away, then," I urged, thinking it would fill out
the time for her. "And now there is one other thing. Could you give
me a paper or letter with his signature--I might be able to trace him
through some of the public rolls."
There were no such rolls of course; but she did not know this, and
thought the idea so clever that she gave me one of the two letters from
him she had with her; and kissed me and wished me good luck as I drove
away.
Although there was not much risk of my movements being traced, I
thought it best to dismiss my carriage before I crossed the Suspension
Bridge, and to finish the journey to Madame d'Artelle's in another.
As the minute approached for the trial of wits and strength with Count
Gustav, my confidence increased. Every fighting instinct in my nature
was roused; and the struggle was one in which I took a keen personal
pleasure. His hateful treatment of the girl who had trusted him filled
me with indignation and resentment; and the hope of forcing him to do
justice to her was one of the sharpest spurs to my courage. He should
do that or face the alternative of having his double treachery exposed.
I was a little later than I had intended in reaching the house, and I
asked the servant somewhat anxiously if any one had yet been for me.
"No, miss, no one."
"I am expecting a Colonel Katona to call, Peter," I said, giving him a
gold piece; "and I do not wish any one to know of his visit. I shall
be with Madame probably; so when the Colonel arrives, make up a little
parcel and bring it to me, and just say: 'The parcel you asked about,
miss.' Put the Colonel in the little room off the music room, and tell
him that I will see him as soon as possible. You understand this?"
"Yes indeed, miss," he answered with a grin as he slipped the money in
his pocket.
"Where is Madame d'Artelle?"
"In the salon."
"Alone?"
"No, miss; Count Gustav is with her. He has been here about a quarter
of an hour."
I went straight to the salon. Madame was sitting on a lounge, her face
full of trouble, and Count Gustav was pacing up and down the room
speaking energetically with many forceful gestures. He stopped and
frowned at the interruption; but his frown changed to a smile as he
held out his hand.
He opened with what, as a chess player, I may call the lie gambit.
"I have been endeavouring to cheer up Madame d'Artelle, Miss Gilmore,"
he said lightly. "I tell her she takes the postponement--or if you
like, the abandonment--of the marriage with Karl too seriously."
"Is it abandoned?" I asked.
"Did she not tell you?"
"Yes; but I could scarcely believe it, seeing how much you have counted
upon the marriage. The abandonment is a tribute to your influence.
But why have you given it up?"
"I given it up? I? What can it be to me?" he laughed. "It is not my
marriage, Miss Gilmore. I like my brother, of course, but I am not in
love with him so much as to want to marry him."
"All Pesth knows how much you love your brother," said I, drily.
"I should not come to you for testimony, I think. I am afraid it would
not be favourable. I am glad you are not the majority."
"Probably I do not know you as others do, or perhaps others do not know
you as I do. But why have you abandoned the project of the marriage?"
"You insist on putting the responsibility on me," he said with a touch
of irritation beneath his laugh.
"I can understand that the question is awkward."
"Not in the least. You see, you raised most unexpectedly the point
about the admirable and excellent gentleman who was Madame's husband;
and it must perforce be postponed until the proofs of his death are
forthcoming. Thus it is rather your doing than mine;" and he shrugged
his shoulders.
"You have found them more difficult to manufacture than you
anticipated, I presume?"
"That is a very serious charge, very lightly made, Miss Gilmore." His
assumption of offence was excellent.
"I am not speaking lightly, Count Gustav. When we parted last time you
said that the proofs of the death of Madame's husband should be
produced. Within a few hours I heard that the marriage had been
postponed; you now say it was because those proofs cannot be produced.
There must be a reason for such a sudden change of front; and I have
suggested it. If you prefer, we will leave it that the proofs cannot
be found or fabricated in time to suit you."
He heard me out with darkening face, and then crossed to Madame
d'Artelle and offered her his hand.
"I think, Madame, it will be more convenient for me to leave now. With
a lady we cannot resent an insult; we can only protect ourselves from
further insult by leaving."
I laughed with ostentatiously affected hilarity, and sat down.
Madame d'Artelle gave him her hand nervously, and he turned from her
and bowed stiffly to me.
"I think I should not go, Count, if I were you," I said, smoothly.
"Your attitude makes it impossible for me to remain, Miss Gilmore."
"Of course you know best, but I should not go if I were you."
He was uneasy and hesitated; went toward the door and then paused and
turned. "If you wish to say anything to me and can do so without
insulting me, I am willing to listen to you--as a friend of Madame's;"
and he waved his hand in her direction.
"I've a great deal to say and I'm going to say it to some one. Of
course if you go, I must say it to some one else."
"And what am I to understand by that?"
"You haven't decided yet whether to go or stay. Now, I'll be much more
candid with you than you are with me. It's just a question whether you
dare go or not. Your start just now is what we Americans call putting
up a bluff. But you can't bluff me. I hold the cards--every one of
them a winning card, too. If you go, you lose the game straight away,
for I shan't be many minutes in the house after you. You're going to
lose anyhow, for that matter: but--well, as I tell you, you'd better
not go."
"I'm not versed in American slang, Miss Gilmore, and it doesn't lend
itself to translation into German," he sneered.
"Then I'll put it plainer. Go, if you dare, Count Gustav;" and I
challenged him in look as well as words.
"I am always anxious to oblige a pretty woman, Miss Gilmore," he said,
with one of his most gracious glances.
"That's very sweet of you, Count. But the question is not my looks;
it's your reputation and position."
At this point Madame d'Artelle made a diversion.
"I am not feeling well, Christabel, and am going to my room to lie
down," she said, rising.
"That's just what I would have suggested, Henrietta," I answered,
fastening on her action. "It's just as well. I have to say some
things to Count Gustav that he might not care for even you to hear."
He made a great show of opening the door for her to pass and used the
moment's delay to think.
Just as she went out the footman came to the door, carrying the parcel.
"Do you want me, Peter?" she asked.
"No, Madame, Miss Gilmore. The parcel you asked for, miss." I took it
and he went out and closed the door.
"I have resolved not to stay longer, Miss Gilmore. I would do much for
any friend of Madame's, but I cannot with self-respect suffer your
threats and insults."
I thought of a little dramatic stroke.
"One moment, Count, this parcel concerns you." I half tore the wrapper
off and handed it to him.
He would not take it, waving it away contemptuously.
"You had better take it. It is from--Sillien, Count," I said, very
deliberately.
His eyes blazed with sudden anger.
"I don't understand you," he cried; but he took it and tore off the
covering to find a blank sheet of paper.
"This is another insult. I would have you beware."
"Not an insult--a message. To have been properly dramatic this should
have been inside it--" and I held up before him the little sketch which
Gareth had made for me with such laughing earnestness.
"The message which that parcel brings is--that Colonel Katona, Gareth's
father, is here in the house waiting to see me. Now, do you wish to
go?"
The suddenness of the stroke was for the moment irresistible.
The colour fled from his face as the laughter had died from his lips.
White, tense, agitated and utterly unstrung, he stood staring at me as
if he would gladly have struck me dead.
I had every reason to be contented with my victory.
CHAPTER XI
PLAIN TALK
That it was chiefly the stunning unexpectedness of my stroke which
overwhelmed Count Gustav was proved by the promptness with which he
rallied. Had I given him even a hint of my information or prepared him
in any way for the thrust, I am sure he would have met it with outward
equanimity.
My probe had pierced the flesh, however, before he had had a moment to
guard himself; and he had flinched and winced at the unexpected pain of
it. But he soon recovered self-possession.
"You have a dramatic instinct, Miss Gilmore, and considerable inventive
power. You should write for the stage. The essence of melodrama is
surprise."
"I could not hope always to carry my audience away so completely,
Count."
He laughed. "I am afraid I have not done you justice hitherto. I have
not taken you seriously enough. I think you are right in another
thing--I had better not go yet. Our chat promises to be interesting.
I should very much like a cigar. I wonder if Madame would object." He
spoke lightly and took out his cigar case.
"It would be very appropriate," I said. "There is one character in a
melodrama who always smokes."
"You mean the villain?"
"The hero rarely has time--after the first act, at any rate. He is
generally being arrested, or hunted, or imprisoned, or ruined in some
way--sometimes drugged."
He had struck the match and at my last word paused to look at me. He
favoured me with such a stare that the match burnt his fingers, and he
dropped it with a muttered oath which I affected not to hear. It was a
very trifling incident; but he was so unusually careful in such matters
as a rule that it offered another proof of his ill balance.
"I burnt my fingers and forgot my manners," he said lightly. "I beg
your pardon, Miss Gilmore."
"You mean that you wish to have time to recover from the surprise.
Pray wait as long as you please--and think. I have no wish to take any
fresh advantage over you--at present."
"Oh no, thank you," he cried, airily. "We will talk. Now, we must
know where we stand, you and I?"
"At the moment we are in the salon of Madame d'Artelle, who was your
instrument and tool."
"That 'was' sounds interesting. Is that your number one?"
"Yes."
"Very well, then, we'll take her as finished with. I don't care much
about her. She has disappointed me. She is pretty; beautiful even:
but no brains. She has let you guess too much. I'd rather deal with
you direct. What is number two? And how many numbers are there?"
He was so light in hand, took defeat so easily, was so apparently ready
for a complete change of front, and spoke with such an admirable
assumption of raillery that I had difficulty in repressing an
inclination to smile.
"You admit your defeat, then?"
He spread out his hands, waving one of them toward Gareth's drawing,
and shrugged his shoulders.
"I am not a fool, Miss Gilmore."
I had expected anything except this instant surrender; and it caught me
unready to state my terms. I could not go into the question of my
father's wrongs, because I did not know enough of the matter.
"The terms will be heavy," I said, slowly.
"One must pay a price for folly; and I shall at least have the
compensation of pleasing you."
"You will make Gareth your legal wife?"
He drew two whiffs of his cigar, took it from his lips, and looked at
it thoughtfully.
"I would much rather marry you," he said with sudden smiling insolence.
"Do you agree?" I asked, curtly.
"That's number two, is it? Is the list much longer?"
"You will abandon the attempt to ruin your brother?"
"That's number three--number four?"
"There is no number four at present."
"What, nothing for yourself? Then you are a most remarkable young
lady. Oh, but there must be."
"You are wasting time, Count Gustav, and Colonel Katona may grow
impatient," I answered.
"Give me time. I am lost in amazement at such altruism--such
philanthropy. You come to Pesth to push your fortunes; chance and your
clever little wits put a fortune in your grasp, and--you want nothing
for yourself." He shot at me a glance of sly mockery. "Perhaps Miss
von Dreschler seeks something? The other Christabel, you know."
"I have stated my terms, Count Gustav."
"My answer is that I accept all of them--except the last two;" and the
laugh at his insolence was one of genuine enjoyment.
"Then there is no more to be said," I declared, rising.
"But indeed there is. Pray sit down again. We are going to talk this
over frankly. There is always an alternative course in such
affairs--that was why I was anxious to know your motive. Will you sit
down?"
"No. I have said all I wish."
"Well, you gave me a surprise. I will give you one. You are Miss
Christabel von Dreschler; or at all events you were, until you
inherited your uncle's money and took his name with it. He was John P.
Gilmore, of Jefferson City, Missouri. Now, allow me;" and he placed a
chair for me with elaborate courtesy, while he regarded me with an
expression of great satisfaction and triumph.
I sat down and he resumed his seat.
"By the way," he said, as if casually, "we are likely to be engaged
some time, hadn't we better let Colonel Katona go?"
"I may still have to speak to him," I answered, drily.
"I don't think so, when he knows that you are Colonel von Dreschler's
daughter--if I should have to tell him, that is--he will not be very
friendly toward you. He will not, really. He is a very singular old
man." The art with which he conveyed this threat was inimitably
excellent.
"The truth when he knows it, will tell with him, no matter from whom it
comes."
"Yes, but he may not have to know it. You may persuade me to marry
Gareth--in reality, you see. Besides, your object in bringing him here
has already been achieved; you made your coup, and it was successful.
Why keep him? You can just as easily tell him all another time--if you
have to; while if I agree to do now what you wish, you will only have
to put him off and send him away. I really think he may go. I have
very little doubt we shall come to an understanding."
I thought a moment. "Yes, he may go. I will tell him so."
"I will go with you to him. He has a great regard for my family. We
will tell him you are indisposed, or anything you please. I can
satisfy him more easily than you can, perhaps."
"I will go alone."
He shook his head and smiled. "Do you think that quite fair to me
under the peculiar circumstances? I wish to be quite sure that what
you say is discreet. I must make a point of it that we go together,
really I must."
But I recalled my impersonation of the giggling miss, and was not
willing that the Count should know of that.
"I will go alone to him, or he must remain," I said.
"I will go to him alone, then. You may be sure I shall not betray
myself."
I let him go. I saw no risk in so simple a step, and was glad to be
relieved from the interview. I read his act to be a confirmation of
his words--that we were likely to come to an understanding, and in that
case there would be no need for Colonel Katona ever to know that Gareth
had been betrayed.
I was a little uneasy, however, when some minutes passed and the Count
did not return, but he explained the delay by saying that the Colonel
was a peculiar man, and had plagued him with many questions difficult
to answer.
"I told him you were not well, and would find means to see him as soon
as necessary. And now, to resume our conversation, Miss--von
Dreschler."
He spoke as airily as if it were a game of cards which had been
interrupted.
"You take that for granted; but it scarcely helps matters."
"Permit me to indulge in the rudeness of a contradiction. I think it
does. It gives me the clue to your motive--an essential matter to me.
You are an American, young, wealthy, very pretty, and undoubtedly
clever. Why then do you masquerade as an adventuress? You may have
one of two motives--and there is a very improbable third. As Miss von
Dreschler, my brother paid you great attentions in New York; the matter
being broken off suddenly, in obedience to the protest of one of the
friends with him, who reminded Karl that what was going to happen here
made it impossible for him to marry a private individual."
He was very quick to see the surprise with which I heard this, and
paused to emphasize it.
"You are surprised. I always have thought that Karl's conduct was
indefensible. You ought to have been told the real reason; and it was
only a flight of romantic fancy for him to prefer to pose as a mean
fellow, willing to win your affections and then run away. That was his
deliberate decision, however. He believed you would get over the
affair all the more easily if you thought him a scoundrel."
He glanced up again to judge the effect of his words as he paused to
pull at his cigar; but I was on guard and gave no sign at all. It was,
however, an unpleasant experience to have the other side of my chief
life's story revealed by a man whom I knew to be false; and told with a
purpose, in a tone of half sardonic raillery, and as a carefully
calculated bid for my silence about himself. Heart dissection is a
trying process under such conditions.
"You will see from this that Karl was--excuse me if I put it plainly;
it is all necessary--was intensely devoted to you. He returned home
profoundly unhappy and very love-sick--his is a nature which takes such
things seriously--and to this hour he has never recovered. To forget
you and the way he had treated you, he plunged into wild excesses which
in a couple of years gravely impaired his health; heavy drinking was
followed by the present passion for opium. In a word, you have seen
for yourself what love has done for my brother."
"You have helped him downwards," I put in.
"He needed no help from me, but----" he waved his cigar expressively
and jerked his shoulders. "And that brings us to chapter the second.
For our purposes here, a dipsomaniac with a love craze and the opium
habit is no use. You are Colonel von Dreschler's daughter, and may
know something of the Patriotic Hungarian cause----" he paused to give
me a chance to speak.
"The movement in favour of independence, you mean?"
"I thought you would know it;" and he nodded as if it were of the most
trifling consequence. "Well, then, you will know that Karl became
impossible. Yet he is the elder son and my father's heir; and some of
us Hungarians are almost fanatics on the subject of succession.
Everything was in danger; and as he has always refused to be set aside
in my favour, there was nothing to do except to make him legally
impossible. Another surprise for you now"--he spoke as indulgently as
if he had been throwing me a candy. "The marriage with you became
desirable; so Fate turns her wheel, you see; and I sent to New York to
search for you, and we took infinite trouble in the vain endeavour to
trace you. It was very unfortunate;" and he spread out his hands again.
I made no comment, but just kept my eyes on him, waiting for him to
continue.
"Pardon me if I am personal again. You would have suited our purpose
admirably. I suspected you were the daughter of Colonel von Dreschler;
and as your father's reputation was--was what it was and is--Karl's
marriage with you would have been absolutely fatal to his chances here."
"My father's reputation was the result of vile treachery," I cried
indignantly. And I saw my blunder instantly in the start of
satisfaction he gave, but instantly repressed. He smoked a couple of
moments in silence.
"We will deal with that presently--but I thank you for that admission,
although I am surprised you did not see the trap I laid to obtain it.
Your natural indignation, no doubt. Well, as we could not find you, we
had to obtain an understudy--Madame d'Artelle." His tone was
contemptuous here. "And I think, now, you understand chapter two. You
must admit I have been frank; and my frankness is a tribute to your
perspicacity."
"You have no comments," he said, still lightly and airily, when I did
not speak. "Very well, then, we'll go to chapter three. That concerns
the future--and your part in it. What do you mean to do, or, in other
words, why did you come here? You are an interesting problem. You may
have come to try and clear your father's name; or to punish in some way
the man who treated you so badly: clever and pretty women have done
that before, you know. Or--and this I referred to as the really
improbable motive--you may still wish to marry my brother. But
whatever your motive and object, I pledge you my honour--the honour of
the son of the Duke Ladislas and future King of Hungary--that I will
help you to the utmost of my power. But you must also help me; and for
your first object you must be content to wait a year or two, until my
father's death."
"And Gareth?" I asked, after a pause.
A frown darkened his face and his eyes clouded. He rose and took a
couple of turns across the room.
"Would to God I could undo that business!" he cried, either with deep
feeling or an excellent simulation of it. "You can't understand what
this is to me! I am not a man capable of deep love, but I care for
Gareth beyond all women. It was a midsummer madness; and if I could
repair the injury to her, I would. But the prospect of the throne is
between us--and shall I give that up and wreck the whole of this great
national movement for her? I would do anything else on God's earth for
her--but that I cannot. It is impossible."
"And her father?"
"I know what you mean. He would plunge a knife in my heart or send a
bullet crashing into my brain, if he knew. He is desperate enough for
anything. But he must not know. You must never tell him."
"You have the hardihood to do the wrong but lack the courage to face
the consequences," I exclaimed, bitterly.
"I was not thinking of that. I am not afraid of mere death, I hope,"
he cried contemptuously. "I am thinking of the millions of Czechs,
men, women and children, whose hopes of liberty are centred in my life.
Beside that, all else is as nothing."
"It is a pity you did not think of this before."
"A man is a man and will act as a man at times. I have done a wrong I
cannot undo; and it only remains to limit its mischief."
"A convenient code."
"Where is Gareth?" he broke off.
"Not where you intended those miscreants of yours to place her."
"Oh, so that was you also, was it?" he said, understanding. "You are
making yourself very dangerous. Do you persist in threatening me?"
"What if I do?"
He paused as if to give emphasis to his reply.
"Those who oppose a national movement, Miss von Dreschler, must not be
surprised if they are crushed under its wheels. As the daughter of
your father, your mere presence here might be a danger to you."
"You threaten me?"
"I warn you--and that is the same thing. But a way is open to you.
Marry Karl and take him away."
"You are a coward!" I cried, the burning red of anger flushing my face
as I remembered his former taunt that such a marriage would degrade his
brother sufficiently for his purpose.
"Cold facts not hot words will alone serve here," he replied. "What do
you mean to do?"
"You can let your brother marry Madame d'Artelle. He is nothing to me."
He bent a sharp, piercing look upon me. "You mean that?"
"If I had influence with him it would be used to thwart your schemes.
Keep him away from me, therefore, lest I tell him who I am and pit that
influence against yours."
He paused and his brows knitted in thought. "What you mean is that you
are willing to use Madame d'Artelle to revenge your own wrongs upon
him. Then the third motive, the improbable one for your presence here,
is the real one."
"If he will marry her, let him," I cried indignantly.
"You mean they are to carry out to-morrow's plan?"
"Yes."
"You amaze me. But then one never can understand a woman. And as for
the rest?"
"I must think. It is a tangle. I shall probably tell Colonel Katona."
"It will be his death warrant. A hint that my life is in peril from
him and a hundred knives will be out of their sheaths in my defence.
And those who would defend me against him would be ugly enemies of
Colonel von Dreschler's daughter. You do not understand us Magyars.
You are raising a storm whose violence may overwhelm you."
"I will say no more now. But you shall do Gareth justice."
"Do you set that before the clearing of your father's name? That is
the problem for you, and it is so searching that I can be sure you will
not act in a hurry. But in any case, I do not fear you, Miss von
Dreschler, nor anything you can do. I shall see you to-morrow, and by
then you will have decided whether my brother is to marry Madame
d'Artelle."
"I have decided. That is what I wish," I answered, firmly.
In his perplexity he stared hard at me and then bowed. As he was
leaving the room he turned.
"I don't understand you; but I shall be sorry if you make yourself my
enemy and drive me to any extremes. I respect you; and repeat, I shall
be sorry."
I made no answer; leaving him to think I had spoken my last word as to
Karl.
CHAPTER XII
HIS EXCELLENCY AGAIN
If the truth must be confessed I had surprised myself quite as much as
Count Gustav in declaring my wish that Karl should marry Madame
d'Artelle. I had spoken in response to the feeling of hot resentment
he had roused by his bitter taunt that a marriage with me would prove
an effectual disgrace for Karl.
And what stung me was the obvious truth of it all.
My father was the proscribed murderer of the man who, had he lived,
would have been the future occupant of the new throne; and for Karl to
marry such a man's daughter must mean absolute death to his chance of
succeeding to that throne.
The gall and wormwood of that thought were intolerable. Madame
d'Artelle, ex-police spy as she was, bigamist as she would be, and with
a past that would not bear investigation, was a suitable and eligible
match compared with me! And the torture I suffered as this conclusion
forced itself home, is not easy to describe.
One thing was clearly borne in upon me. I would not marry either Karl
or any other man until that slur was off my name. I would not rest
until that was done. The wish to clear up the mystery which I had at
first felt mainly for my dead father's sake, now quickened into a
passionate resolve on my own account. For my own sake I must and would
get to the bottom of the mystery; and the risk of neither my fortune
nor my safety should be allowed to come between me and it.
I had called it a tangle; and what a tangle it was! Whichever way I
moved there were difficulties that seemed insuperable. In one
direction Gareth's pretty, smiling, trustful face blocked my path.
Unless I broke my pledge to her, I could not open my lips to her
father. And if I did not tell him, I might get no farther forward to
my end. If he held the key to the mystery, it was only too probable
that, as Count Gustav had implied, he could not speak without accusing
himself. It was therefore useless to deal with him until I had found
the means of compelling him to say what he knew.
Count Gustav himself knew of my father's innocence, and had pledged his
honour to help me to clear it; but even if I trusted him, which I did
not, the price was connivance in his schemes--in Gareth's fate and
Karl's undoing. That door was therefore shut in my face.
There remained Duke Ladislas, General von Erlanger and Karl himself.
The Duke was hopeless, so far as I was concerned. The General most
unlikely to help me. As for Karl, I doubted whether he knew anything,
or even if he did know, whether he possessed a spark of the energy
necessary to help.
Could I infuse that energy into him?
As the question leaped into my mind, I began to think earnestly of the
means to do this. If Count Gustav was right in what he had said in his
jeering, flaunting way about Karl's feelings for me, I might indeed
have much power over him. Up to this point I had been stumbling at
random and in the dark in regard to Karl. I had had an indefinite plan
to secure his influence by saving him from the ruin which others
threatened. But now a much clearer path opened.
And then I saw how my impulse of anger could be used for my
purpose--the impulse which had led me to agree that the plan for the
marriage with Madame d'Artelle should go forward.
My original plan had been to let the elopement take place and then go
to the house, "Unter den Linden," and by exposing Madame d'Artelle,
frighten her away and at the same time establish my influence with Karl.
I saw a better plan, however, into which all the preparations I had
made would fit admirably. There was risk in it and danger to my own
reputation; but I could take care of that. I was too desperate to be
scared by any fear of consequences. What I thought to do now was to
play Madame's part in the business, and to take her place in the
carriage with Karl. I guessed that Gustav would see to it that he was
stupefied with either drink or drugs, when the crisis came; and in a
dark carriage, closely veiled, I could trust myself to maintain the
deception successfully.
I knew that Gustav was to bring his brother to the carriage; and in
this way I could delude him as to my own movements. That was as
essential to my plans as it was that I should have free and full
opportunities of exerting my influence upon Karl.
I had to think also of my personal safety. I did not under-rate the
risk which I was now to run on that account. In pitting myself against
Count Gustav I was fighting the whole influence which his father
wielded. The Duke had not scrupled to sacrifice my father; and was not
likely to be less drastic in dealing with me if I stood in his way.
And one word from Count Gustav would be enough to bring the whole force
of his anger upon me.
I was deliberating what steps to take when a note was brought to me
from General von Erlanger, asking me in somewhat urgent terms to go and
see him.
I was glad of the chance. I might find out from him how far the Duke
would have power to threaten my safety should Count Gustav obtain his
help.
But I found his Excellency very far removed from an inclination to
discuss serious matters seriously. I saw at once that he had dressed
himself with more than usual care; he was wearing a number of the
orders he had received in the course of a successful diplomatic and
political career; and he welcomed me with genial smiles and quite
unnecessary warmth. He held my hand so long indeed, as he greeted me,
that his two daughters noticed it. I saw them nudge each other and
snigger, and I had to give quite a tug to get it away.
He insisted upon my staying to dinner, all unprepared though I was; and
when I pleaded that I had no dinner costume, he declared that I was
never anything but charming; and that he would take no excuse.
The girls carried me away to put my hair tidy, and then gave me their
confidences about their father and the new governess. She was a
"beast," it seemed, according to Charlotte; and the General wished me
to return.
"Father misses his chess with you," she said, with the ingenuous
directness of her age: "that is why he wants you back. We think he's
going to make you his secretary as well. He talks an awful lot about
wanting help."
"He took over an hour dressing himself when he knew you were coming,"
chimed in the younger, Sophia; "and he made Charlotte go and tell him
if his hair was parted straight."
"He's always talking about how well you play chess, and how clever you
are."
"And he never puts those orders on unless somebody awfully particular
is coming!" They rattled on in this way at considerable length; and
during dinner watched the General's conduct to me very closely, nodding
and smiling significantly at me, and winking at each other.
I had remained a week in the house after my coming to an understanding
with him, and before I went to Madame d'Artelle's and during that time
we had had more than one confidential talk.
When an old man yields to the influence of a very young woman, it is
often a considerable surrender. It had been so in his Excellency's
case; and I was quite conscious that I could do a great deal with him.
Vivien could with Merlin; and a Minister of ripe and long experience
can make a very interesting Merlin.
In those talks of ours he had sometimes forgotten the difference of
forty years in our ages, and more than once had paid me compliments
which might have been almost embarrassing had I been minded to take
them at all literally.
The girls' chatter had therefore prepared me in a measure for what
might be to follow when they had been sent away and we two were once
again face to face over the chess board.
"I have missed my chess very much, Miss Gilmore. I can't tell you how
much."
"You should teach Charlotte to play."
"She would never learn. She is just a child, no more."
"You are not playing well yourself, to-night."
He laughed. "That's what I like about you. You blurt the truth out
with delightful frankness. I don't want to play to-night."
"Is that why you say you've missed your chess so much?"
"I've missed your white hands moving among the men, more than the game
itself." He spoke very quickly, and fumbling nervously among the men
upset two of them.
I made a move then that was not chess. I'm not sure that it was quite
fair to him indeed. Pretending haste in picking the pieces up, I
touched his hand and glanced at him. Our eyes met; and withdrawing my
hand quickly, I upset some more men, with a suggestion of agitation.
"I beg your pardon," I stammered. "I'm afraid I don't remember how
they stood. I--I think I'm a little confused."
"Why should you be?" he asked, with a glance.
"I don't know. It's very silly. I don't understand myself. I--I
believe I'm nervous."
"I can't imagine you nervous--er--Christabel." It was very daring of
him; but he tried to say it as if it was his rule to use my name.
I cast my eyes down and sighed. "I think I'll go now," I said after a
pause; "if you don't mind."
"But I _do_ mind, very much. Don't bother about the game. I don't
care where the men were."
I smiled. "Possibly; but I think I was going to win. I began to see
mate ahead."
"I wish _I_ could," he declared.
"General!" I cried in protest; to let him see that I understood. I had
given him the opening intentionally, but had scarcely expected he would
take such immediate advantage of it.
We both laughed; he with a suggestion of triumph.
"If I am not to go, we had better set the men and start a new game," I
said, and began to arrange the pieces for the game.
"I don't wish to play. I wish to talk," he declared, and then very
abruptly he got up and began to walk about the room, until he stopped
suddenly close to me. I knew what was coming then.
"Do you know why I wished you to come here to-day?"
"Yes, I think so--but don't ask it." I was very serious and met his
eyes frankly.
"How quick you are, and how daring. Any other woman would have been
afraid to say that--afraid of being thought conceited. Why shouldn't I
ask it?"
"I don't want to lose one out of the only friends I have in Pesth,
perhaps the only one, General. And--other reasons."
He looked down at me and sighed. "Just now----" he began, when I
interrupted him.
"I did it intentionally, thinking this thing should be settled at once,
better at once--and for always, General."
"I have found out since you went what I never suspected before. I am a
very lonely old man, for all my wealth and my position."
"We can still play chess--if not to-night; still on other nights.
To-night, I too want to talk to you."
He made no answer, but moved away and walked about the room again in
silence; throwing himself at length into a lounge chair and staring in
front of him blankly and disconsolately.
After a time he roused himself and gave a deep, long sigh.
"Very well. We must leave it there, I suppose."
"No, we can't leave it there, General. I told you I wanted to talk to
you." I left my chair and taking one close to his side, I laid my hand
on his. "I need a friend so sorely. Won't you be that friend?"
His fingers closed on my hand, and he held it in a firm clasp.
"With all my heart, yes," he answered. "What is the matter?"
His ready assent moved me so that for the moment I could not reply.
"If I tell you all my little story, you will hold it in confidence?"
He looked up and smiled. "I would do much more than that for you,
Christabel," he answered, simply, using my name now without any
hesitation, and in a quite different tone from that before. "You may
trust me implicitly, child, on my honour."
"I am going to surprise you. The name I bear is not my father's. I
took it when my uncle, John P. Gilmore, died and left me his fortune.
He made me a wealthy woman. My father was of Pesth, Colonel von
Dreschler. I have come here to seek justice for his name and mine. I
see how this affects you. If you cannot help me, I will say no more."
He released my hand to press his own to his eyes; and when he withdrew
it he gazed at me very earnestly.
"You are his child! _Gott in Himmel_, his child."
"I did not hide my name because I was ashamed of it," I said.
"You have no need, Christabel. It was a damnable thing that was done.
He was my friend, and I will help you all I can."
Then without reserve I told him everything I had learnt and all that I
had done. He let me tell the story without interruption, and put his
questions at the end.
"I cannot tell you you are not in danger from Count Gustav and his
father. Your very name is a source of danger; and were you another
woman I should counsel you with all insistence to give this up and go
away. But you will not do that. I know you too well. I must think
how to protect you. You have set me a very difficult task; but it
shall not be impossible. Yet I dare not let my hand be seen in it. I
will think it all over until I find a way. Meanwhile, trust me as your
father would have done; and let me hear something of you every day. I
shall know no ease of mind if I do not hear, every day. A note or
message, saying all is well with you, will be enough. And if you find
yourself in any trouble, let me know of it--I shall guess it, indeed,
if I do not hear any day from you. And I will pledge myself to get you
out--even if I have to appeal to Vienna on your behalf."
"I need no more than the knowledge that your help is behind me. But
you think the danger is really serious?"
"If you threaten Count Gustav, you threaten the whole Patriotic cause;
and if I could tell you the things that have been done to build up that
great national movement even you might be daunted and turned from your
purpose."
"Not while I live," I cried, resolutely.
"You are your father's child. He was as staunch and brave and fearless
as any man that ever drew breath, but he was broken, and was but one of
many victims. A policy of this stern kind has no bowels of compassion
for man, woman, or child. Pray God you may never have to look in vain
for that compassion."
"You almost frighten me," I said. His earnestness was so intense.
"No, nothing can do that, I am sure. If I could indeed frighten you
out of this purpose of yours, I would; but instead, I will help you. I
have many means, of course; and will exhaust them all. Go now, and let
me think for you."
As we rose he stumbled against the table on which stood the chess
board. He turned to me with a smile.
"I am afraid it will be some time before we play again. But the day
will come, Christabel. It shall, or I am no player at this other game."
And with this note of confidence we parted.
CHAPTER XIII
GETTING READY
I don't like having to own that General von Erlanger went a little too
far in saying that nothing could frighten me. The terms in which he
had spoken of the Patriotic movement and his reference to its
compassionless sacrifice of victims disturbed me profoundly.
I passed a sleepless, tumbling, anxious night; and if it be fear to
conjure up all kinds of possible horrors, to shrink at the thought that
even my life might be in danger, and to lie wincing and cringing and
shuddering at the prospect of cruelty and torture, then certainly I was
horribly frightened.
I was a prey to bitter unavailing regret that I had so lightly and
thoughtlessly set out on a path which had led me to such a pass and
brought me face to face with such powerful, terrifying, and implacable
adversaries.
The temptation to run away from it all seized upon me with such force
that I sought in all directions for reasons which would justify
cowardice and clothe it with the robe of prudence. But my fears were
confronted by the conviction that I had gone too far to be able to
retreat without deserting Gareth; and at that my alarm took the shape
of hot but impotent indignation at my lack of foresight.
Then my sense of honour and my fear had a struggle over that sweet,
innocent, trustful, child, in which all that was mean and ignoble and
cowardly in my disposition fought to persuade me to desert her; and
before the night was half over had all but conquered.
I was tired of playing a man's part; and in those hours of weakness,
the sense of responsibility was so cruelly heavy and the desire to be
only a girl and just rush away from it all so strong, that once I
actually jumped from my bed and began to dress myself with feverish
eagerness to leave the house and fly from the city.
But I had not even the courage of my cowardice. The recollection of
that sneer of Count Gustav's--that while my name still bore the stain I
was not even the equal of such a woman as Madame d'Artelle stayed me.
I tore off my clothes again and crept back into bed, to lie shivering
at the consciousness that if I was afraid to go through with my
purpose, I was even more afraid to run away from it.
I grew calmer after a while. I put aside as mere hysterical nonsense
the idea that my life could be in danger. They had not even taken my
father's life. If they found me in their way, they might devise some
excuse for imprisoning me. That was probably the worst that could
happen. It had been in General von Erlanger's mind; and he had
promised to secure my liberty. I knew I could trust myself to him.
By reflections of this kind I wrestled with my weakness and at length
overcame it; and in the end fell asleep, no longer a coward, but fully
resolved to carry my purpose through and fight all I knew to win.
In the morning I began at once to carry out my plan. I sent a servant
to ask Madame d'Artelle if she could spare Ernestine to come and help
me.
Instead of Ernestine, Madame herself came--as I had anticipated,
indeed. She found me in all the middle of packing; my frocks and
things spread all over the room, and my trunks open.
"What does this mean, Christabel?" she asked.
"You can see for yourself. I have had enough of plots and schemes to
last my life time. I jumped up in the night and half-dressed to run
away. I was so scared."
"You are going away?" Relief and pleasure were in her tone.
I laughed unpleasantly. "You need not be glad."
"I am not glad," she replied, untruthfully.
"I am putting the work into stronger hands. That's all."
"You said you could protect me."
"I have done that. Count Gustav promised as much to me yesterday. You
are free to leave Pesth at once if you like. You need not marry his
brother unless you wish. And after to-day, not even if you wish. Is
Ernestine coming to help me?"
"I wish you would speak plainly. You always frighten me with your
vague speeches. You seem to mean so much."
"I do mean very much--far more than I shall tell you. You have been no
friend to me--why should I explain? Take your own course; and see what
comes of it. Is Ernestine coming, I say?"
"Yes, of course she can come; but I am so frightened."
"That will do you no harm," I rapped out, bluntly. "I wash my hands of
everything."
"What am I to do?" she cried, waving her hands helplessly.
"I arranged yesterday with Count Gustav that the scheme for this
romantic elopement should be carried out. You can play your part for
all I care. The chief thing you can do for me is to send Ernestine
here."
"But I----"
"Will you send her here?" and I stamped my foot angrily, and so drove
her out of the room in the condition of nervous doubt and anxiety I
desired.
With the maid's help my trunks were soon packed, and the work was
nearly finished when Madame d'Artelle came back.
"Count Gustav is here," she said.
"Very well. You can close that box, Ernestine, and try to pack this
toque in the top of the black one. You got everything I said for the
voyage in the cabin trunk."
"He insists on seeing you, Christabel."
"I'll come down when I've finished." I spoke irritably. Irritation is
the natural result of a couple of hours' packing.
Everything was ready when I went downstairs.
"I hear you are going away, Miss----"
"Gilmore," I broke in, giving him a look.
"I congratulate you on your--prudence." He too, like Madame d'Artelle,
was obviously both relieved and pleased at the news.
"You need not smile at it. I am not doing it to please you, Count
Gustav."
"I wish to ask you a question if Madame d'Artelle----" and he paused
and looked at her.
"I don't see the need of all this mystery," she answered, tossing her
head as she left the room.
"Please be quick," I said, snappishly. "I am both in a hurry and a bad
temper--a trying combination even for a woman of my disposition."
"You have not slept well, perhaps."
"No. I had to think. What is your question?"
"About Gareth?"
"I shall not answer it," I said shortly, and frowned as though the
subject were particularly unwelcome and disturbing.
"I think I can understand;" he answered believing he could read my
mood. "And about Karl and Madame?"
"I have not forgotten your sneer. I will not disgrace him." I spoke
with as much bitterness and concentrated anger as I could simulate, and
was pleased by the covert smile my words produced, although I appeared
to be goaded to anger by it.
"I will tell you one thing. She shall not either. By to-morrow some
one will be here from Paris who will see to that."
"That may be too late."
"No. You dare not do anything to-day. You dare not," I exclaimed,
passionately.
"You have told that to Madame?"
"No. She is nothing to me."
"You are very bitter."
"Again, no. You have only made me indifferent;" and as if I could bear
no more, I hurried out of the room. I knew as well as if he had told
me that the effect of my words would be to drive him to use the time of
grace I had left him.
I did not wait to see Madame d'Artelle, but had my trunks placed in a
fly and, taking Ernestine with me, drove to the depot. She took my
ticket for Paris, saw to the labelling of my luggage, settled me in my
compartment, and waited me with until the train started. I wished the
proof of my departure to be quite clear.
But on the Hungarian railways the trains do not run long distances
without stopping; and at the first station I got out and returned to
Pesth. I was back in my house with Gareth before one o'clock, and had
already seen James Perry, who had returned, and arranged one of my next
moves.
A wire was sent to Paris to a friend of his requesting that a telegram
be despatched as from M. Constans, saying that he would be in Pesth
that evening at nine o'clock, and would come straight to Madame
d'Artelle's house.
That telegram was the weapon with which I intended to frighten Madame
away from Pesth in order that I might take her place.
I had one more preparation to make. I wrote out orders dismissing the
men servants at the house, "Unter den Linden," and signed them "Karl
von Ostelen," taking great care over the signatures. These I gave to
Perry together with money for any wages they might claim, and
instructed him to drive with his son to the house after dusk.
I told him I should arrive there later in the evening in a carriage;
and that if the men in charge of it attempted to stable the horses
there, he was to say that the Count's orders were that they should not
remain. After that he and his son were to be in the house: to say
nothing about me to any women servants, and to act just as I directed.
Poor little Gareth was more impatient than ever at the lack of news;
but I pacified her by saying I expected to have some on the following
day; and to escape her somewhat fretful questionings, I pleaded a bad
headache and went to my room and lay down.
I needed rest after my broken night, and succeeded in getting to sleep
for two hours. I awoke greatly refreshed; and although I was excited
at the prospect of the evening's work, I felt very fit and ready to
face any emergencies. I was quite able now to laugh at my cowardice of
the previous night.
"What news is it you expect, Christabel?" was the question with which
Gareth greeted me when I went down to her. "I have been thinking of it
ever since you told me."
"To find Count von Ostelen, of course."
"How are you going to find him? Do tell me."
"I was governess to the daughters of General von Erlanger, his
Excellency the Minister, you know, Gareth. I saw him last night: I was
at his house; and I know he can find the Count if any one can. That
reminds me. I was to write to him."
I had forgotten his Excellency's injunction to send him a daily
message. I took a visiting card and scribbled on the back "Quite well"
over my initials, and was giving it to James Perry to take when an
extra precaution occurred to me.
"You will see the General yourself with this," I told him; "but you
will not let his servants know from whom you come. I can't tell you
everything; but something has occurred which makes it necessary for me
to send a message every day to General von Erlanger. If I forget it,
you must remind me; for you are always to carry it; and always to see
the General yourself. Tell him to-day that I have arranged it so. And
listen carefully to this--if anything should happen to me and you think
I am in any great difficulty, or trouble, or danger--don't look scared:
nothing may come of it all--but if I am, then you are to go at once to
General von Erlanger and tell him all you know."
He was an excellent servant; but well trained as he was, he could not
suppress his curiosity and surprise.
"We have always been faithful, miss; mayn't I ask whether----"
"No, not yet. If there is need, I shall tell you--because I trust you
as fully as I trust your father and mother, and I have a very high
opinion of your courage and ability. At present, you have only to
remember what I have told you to do."
Gareth was very inquisitive about my movements when, as the dusk fell,
I began to prepare for the work in hand. She plied me with prattling
questions; why I was at such pains over my dressing; why I took a large
cloak on a night comparatively warm; what the thick muffling veil was
for; and she gave a little cry of terror when her sharp eyes caught
sight of the revolver which I tried to slip into my pocket unnoticed.
"You are such a strange girl, Christabel," she said.
"Every one tells me that; but I generally get there."
"'Get there?' What is that?"
"An Americanism, dear, for gaining your own end."
"Are all American girls like you?" she laughed.
"Luckily for them, perhaps, no. I'm from the Middle West and we have
more freedom there than in the Old World."
"Do you all go about in thick cloaks with heavy veils and carrying
arms?"
"Gareth, no," I laughed. "We only do these things in fancy dress
balls."
"Are you going to one to-night? Oh, I didn't know."
"It's only a masquerade to-night--and this is to be the cloak over my
costume."
"Oh, Christabel dear, why didn't you tell me? But you've a walking
dress underneath."
"I am going to start for the masquerade from the other house."
"Will there be dancing? Oh, I wish I could go."
"No, no dancing; but I guess the band will play."
"I love music," she cried, not understanding slang; and I didn't
explain it.
"I wish you weren't going, Christabel," she said, kissing me when I was
ready to start.
"It will be a long evening and I may wish that too before it's over," I
replied, with a feeling that that might well be so.
"You will be here with the news at the earliest possible moment
to-morrow, won't you, dear? I am so weary of waiting."
"I hope I shall be successful and have good news to bring you."
"I am sure you will. I have such faith in you, Christabel."
She kissed me and with my cloak on my arm and those words ringing in my
ears, I set out upon the risky business before me.
CHAPTER XIV
I ELOPE
It was only to be expected that as I approached Madame d'Artelle's
house I should be nervously uneasy lest the main foundation of my new
plan should have collapsed.
I had built everything on the assumption that Count Gustav would induce
his brother to carry out the original scheme of marrying Madame
d'Artelle by stealth. I had threatened to bring her husband to Pesth
on the following day; and since he knew as well as she seemed to, that
M. Constans' arrival would put an absolute end to Madame's usefulness
as a tool, I calculated that he would lose no effort to make use of her
forthwith.
It was obvious, however, that my absence put an end to the reason for
secrecy; and it was therefore quite on the cards that Karl might have
been brought to Madame d'Artelle's house and some kind of ceremony have
been already performed there. I should look a good many sorts of a
fool if I walked into the house to find them already married.
Peter opened the door and gave a great start of surprise at seeing me.
"Madame is in?" I asked, in as casual a tone as I could assume.
"Yes, miss. She is in, but she is going out. We thought you had left,
miss."
"It's all right, Peter. I'll go up to Madame. She is probably in her
room, dressing."
"Yes, miss; with Ernestine; but----"
"Don't trouble. You need not tell any one I have come back;" and I
gave him a golden reason for silence. "Hide the fact of my presence
and do what I wish, and there will be several more of these to follow."
"I am always anxious to please you, miss."
"I wish to see Madame quite alone; can you make an excuse to call
Ernestine downstairs?"
He was a shrewd fellow enough in his way. We went upstairs and I
waited in an adjoining room while he called Ernestine out and the two
went down together.
As soon as they had gone I opened Madame's door and entered.
"Come, Ernestine, I want you. What do you mean by going away like
that?" she said crossly, not seeing me.
"Perhaps I can help you, Henriette. Ernestine is busy downstairs;" and
I locked the door behind me.
"Christabel! You?"
"I have had to come back to keep my word and save you. You are in
great danger. M. Constans must have picked up the scent of the
inquiries I made recently. I have this telegram;" and I put into her
hands the telegram which I had received from Paris.
I thought she was going to faint. The man must have had some great
hold over her; for she was certainly overwhelmed with deadly fear. She
stared with horror-struck eyes at the paper as though it reeked with
the threat of instant death. Then she turned to glare at me, with not
a vestige of colour on her face.
"_Nom de Dieu_, he will kill me. He will kill me;" she said, in a low,
strained, husky whisper, as she fell into a chair, and began to gasp
and choke hysterically.
"I know nothing about that," I said, callously; "but if you make a fool
of yourself in that way, you will have no time left to get out of his
reach. If you want to die, you had better faint now. However, I've
done with you;" and I turned toward the door.
"Don't go, Christabel, for the love of heaven don't leave me. I can't
think for myself. Oh, don't leave me," she cried. "What shall I do?"
"As he's your husband I should think you ought to stay and meet him.
This was sent off from the railway station, you see, and I find his
train reaches here just before nine. He'll just be in time for the
ceremony to-night."
"Oh, don't, don't, don't," she wailed. "Don't mock me like that.
Don't be so hard. Help me. Do, do! I tell you, he'll kill me. I
know he will. He tried to once before. You don't want to see me
murdered. You can't. Oh Christabel, dear Christabel, say what I had
better do."
"If you'll be sensible, I'll help you. You can get away without the
least difficulty. Luckily your trunks are all packed, and as the mail
for Breslau and Berlin leaves at half-past eight, you can be away
before his train arrives. But you must be quick. You have only half
an hour, and had better get your luggage away at once with Ernestine."
"How clever you are," she cried; and forthwith began to finish her
dressing with feverish haste, her one thought now to fly.
I called up Ernestine, who started on seeing me as though I were a
ghost. I explained that urgent reasons had caused her mistress to
change her plans; and before Madame d'Artelle had finished dressing,
the baggage was on its way to the station.
"What will you do about things here, Henriette?"
"I don't know. I don't care. In face of this I can do nothing."
"Count Karl will be disappointed and his brother angry."
"My life is in danger, would you have me think of anything else?
Mother of Heaven, do you think I will be murdered to please a hundred
counts?"
"Some one must see to things."
"Let me only get away and I care for nothing else." This was precisely
the mood I desired her to be in. She was literally fear-possessed, and
flight had become the one all-absorbing passionate desire.
I said no more until we were in the fly hurrying to the station. I
meant to see the last of her.
"What of to-night's business--Count Karl?"
"I care nothing. The carriage will come for me and can go away again.
I value my life. Holy Virgin, how slow the cab goes. We shall miss
the
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