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.
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.
"He held out his hand when Madame presented him.""He held out his hand when Madame presented him."
"He held out his hand when Madame presented him.""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.
"The two scoundrels pulled up at the sight of it.""The two scoundrels pulled up at the sight of it."
"The two scoundrels pulled up at the sight of it.""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.
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.