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 themout, 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 Troisième."
"Mèchante," 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 Troisième," 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?"
"Wasa 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.
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. Youarean 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 hurtherto 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.
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.