"Have you any news for me?" was Gareth's eager question, natural enough under the circumstances, and her delicate expressive face clouded as I shook my head.
"We could scarcely expect any good news yet, dear."
"I suppose not; but I am so anxious."
"It will all come right in time, Gareth." But that very trite commonplace had no more soothing effect on her than it often has on wiser folk.
"I suppose I must be patient; but I wish I could do something for myself. I hate being patient. Why can't I go out myself and search for him? I put my hat on once this morning to start."
"I told you before the risk you would run."
"Oh, I know all that, of course," she replied, petulantly. "I've been with you nearly two days and you've done nothing. Two whole long days. And it's so dull here. It's worse than at Sillien."
"Would it have been better had those men taken you?"
She threw her arms round my neck then and burst into tears. "I know how ungrateful I am. I hate myself for it, Christabel. But I did so hope you had brought some news. And I am so disappointed."
I let her cry, knowing the relief which tears bring to such a nature as hers. She soon dried her eyes, and sat down and looked at me, her hands folded demurely on her lap—the picture of pretty meekness.
"How pretty you are, Gareth—with your lovely golden hair, your great blue eyes, and pink and white cheeks."
"Am I?" she asked artlessly, smiling. "Karl used to say that; and I used to love to hear him say it. I only cared to be pretty because he liked it. But I like to hear you say it, too. You see I'm not a bit clever, like you; and one must be either clever or pretty, mustn't one? Karl's both handsome and clever. Oh, so handsome, Christabel. You'll say so when you see him. I wish I had a likeness."
This gave me an idea. "Couldn't you draw a likeness of him, Gareth, for me? You see it might help me to recognize him."
Her face broke into a sunny smile. "I can draw a little; I couldn't do him justice, of course—no one could do that. He's too handsome. But I could give you an idea of what he's like."
We found paper and pencil. "Do the best you can and then put my name on it, and sign it Gareth von Ostelen, and put the date to it, so that I can have it for a keepsake."
"Lovely," she cried, merrily; and set to work at once.
I watched her a few moments, and when she was absorbed in the task, I went off saying I had some directions to give about house matters.
It was part of my plan that John Perry and his son, as soon as the latter returned, should go to the house "Unter den Linden." I might need them for my personal protection.
I told John Perry now, therefore, that he was to hire a woman servant to come and help his wife in waiting upon Gareth. He was then to purchase a carriage and a pair of good horses, and procure uniforms for himself and his son. He was to act as coachman and James as footman; and everything must be in readiness for him to carry out instantly any orders he received from me. I should either bring or send the orders on the next afternoon.
I explained that in all probability he would have to drive to the house "Unter den Linden," stable the horses there, and dismiss any men servants he might find about the house; and I suggested that he should go first to the house and find an excuse to learn his way about the stables.
When I returned to Gareth she had finished the drawing and had added a clever little thumb-nail sketch of herself in the corner, where she had written her name and the date. The drawing really merited the praise I bestowed upon it.
"I could do much better if I had not to hurry it," she said, self-critically.
"Do another while I am away, then," I urged, thinking it would fill out the time for her. "And now there is one other thing. Could you give me a paper or letter with his signature—I might be able to trace him through some of the public rolls."
There were no such rolls of course; but she did not know this, and thought the idea so clever that she gave me one of the two letters from him she had with her; and kissed me and wished me good luck as I drove away.
Although there was not much risk of my movements being traced, I thought it best to dismiss my carriage before I crossed the Suspension Bridge, and to finish the journey to Madame d'Artelle's in another.
As the minute approached for the trial of wits and strength with Count Gustav, my confidence increased. Every fighting instinct in my nature was roused; and the struggle was one in which I took a keen personal pleasure. His hateful treatment of the girl who had trusted him filled me with indignation and resentment; and the hope of forcing him to do justice to her was one of the sharpest spurs to my courage. He should do that or face the alternative of having his double treachery exposed.
I was a little later than I had intended in reaching the house, and I asked the servant somewhat anxiously if any one had yet been for me.
"No, miss, no one."
"I am expecting a Colonel Katona to call, Peter," I said, giving him a gold piece; "and I do not wish any one to know of his visit. I shall be with Madame probably; so when the Colonel arrives, make up a little parcel and bring it to me, and just say: 'The parcel you asked about, miss.' Put the Colonel in the little room off the music room, and tell him that I will see him as soon as possible. You understand this?"
"Yes indeed, miss," he answered with a grin as he slipped the money in his pocket.
"Where is Madame d'Artelle?"
"In the salon."
"Alone?"
"No, miss; Count Gustav is with her. He has been here about a quarter of an hour."
I went straight to the salon. Madame was sitting on a lounge, her face full of trouble, and Count Gustav was pacing up and down the room speaking energetically with many forceful gestures. He stopped and frowned at the interruption; but his frown changed to a smile as he held out his hand.
He opened with what, as a chess player, I may call the lie gambit.
"I have been endeavouring to cheer up Madame d'Artelle, Miss Gilmore," he said lightly. "I tell her she takes the postponement—or if you like, the abandonment—of the marriage with Karl too seriously."
"Is it abandoned?" I asked.
"Did she not tell you?"
"Yes; but I could scarcely believe it, seeing how much you have counted upon the marriage. The abandonment is a tribute to your influence. But why have you given it up?"
"I given it up? I? What can it be to me?" he laughed. "It is not my marriage, Miss Gilmore. I like my brother, of course, but I am not in love with him so much as to want to marry him."
"All Pesth knows how much you love your brother," said I, drily.
"I should not come to you for testimony, I think. I am afraid it would not be favourable. I am glad you are not the majority."
"Probably I do not know you as others do, or perhaps others do not know you as I do. But why have you abandoned the project of the marriage?"
"You insist on putting the responsibility on me," he said with a touch of irritation beneath his laugh.
"I can understand that the question is awkward."
"Not in the least. You see, you raised most unexpectedly the point about the admirable and excellent gentleman who was Madame's husband; and it must perforce be postponed until the proofs of his death are forthcoming. Thus it is rather your doing than mine;" and he shrugged his shoulders.
"You have found them more difficult to manufacture than you anticipated, I presume?"
"That is a very serious charge, very lightly made, Miss Gilmore." His assumption of offence was excellent.
"I am not speaking lightly, Count Gustav. When we parted last time you said that the proofs of the death of Madame's husband should be produced. Within a few hours I heard that the marriage had been postponed; you now say it was because those proofs cannot be produced. There must be a reason for such a sudden change of front; and I have suggested it. If you prefer, we will leave it that the proofs cannot be found or fabricated in time to suit you."
He heard me out with darkening face, and then crossed to Madame d'Artelle and offered her his hand.
"I think, Madame, it will be more convenient for me to leave now. With a lady we cannot resent an insult; we can only protect ourselves from further insult by leaving."
I laughed with ostentatiously affected hilarity, and sat down.
Madame d'Artelle gave him her hand nervously, and he turned from her and bowed stiffly to me.
"I think I should not go, Count, if I were you," I said, smoothly.
"Your attitude makes it impossible for me to remain, Miss Gilmore."
"Of course you know best, but I should not go if I were you."
He was uneasy and hesitated; went toward the door and then paused and turned. "If you wish to say anything to me and can do so without insulting me, I am willing to listen to you—as a friend of Madame's;" and he waved his hand in her direction.
"I've a great deal to say and I'm going to say it to some one. Of course if you go, I must say it to some one else."
"And what am I to understand by that?"
"You haven't decided yet whether to go or stay. Now, I'll be much more candid with you than you are with me. It's just a question whether you dare go or not. Your start just now is what we Americans call putting up a bluff. But you can't bluff me. I hold the cards—every one of them a winning card, too. If you go, you lose the game straight away, for I shan't be many minutes in the house after you. You're going to lose anyhow, for that matter: but—well, as I tell you, you'd better not go."
"I'm not versed in American slang, Miss Gilmore, and it doesn't lend itself to translation into German," he sneered.
"Then I'll put it plainer. Go, if you dare, Count Gustav;" and I challenged him in look as well as words.
"I am always anxious to oblige a pretty woman, Miss Gilmore," he said, with one of his most gracious glances.
"That's very sweet of you, Count. But the question is not my looks; it's your reputation and position."
At this point Madame d'Artelle made a diversion.
"I am not feeling well, Christabel, and am going to my room to lie down," she said, rising.
"That's just what I would have suggested, Henrietta," I answered, fastening on her action. "It's just as well. I have to say some things to Count Gustav that he might not care for even you to hear."
He made a great show of opening the door for her to pass and used the moment's delay to think.
Just as she went out the footman came to the door, carrying the parcel.
"Do you want me, Peter?" she asked.
"No, Madame, Miss Gilmore. The parcel you asked for, miss." I took it and he went out and closed the door.
"I have resolved not to stay longer, Miss Gilmore. I would do much for any friend of Madame's, but I cannot with self-respect suffer your threats and insults."
I thought of a little dramatic stroke.
"One moment, Count, this parcel concerns you." I half tore the wrapper off and handed it to him.
He would not take it, waving it away contemptuously.
"You had better take it. It is from—Sillien, Count," I said, very deliberately.
His eyes blazed with sudden anger.
"I don't understand you," he cried; but he took it and tore off the covering to find a blank sheet of paper.
"This is another insult. I would have you beware."
"Not an insult—a message. To have been properly dramatic this should have been inside it—" and I held up before him the little sketch which Gareth had made for me with such laughing earnestness.
"The message which that parcel brings is—that Colonel Katona, Gareth's father, is here in the house waiting to see me. Now, do you wish to go?"
The suddenness of the stroke was for the moment irresistible.
The colour fled from his face as the laughter had died from his lips. White, tense, agitated and utterly unstrung, he stood staring at me as if he would gladly have struck me dead.
I had every reason to be contented with my victory.
That it was chiefly the stunning unexpectedness of my stroke which overwhelmed Count Gustav was proved by the promptness with which he rallied. Had I given him even a hint of my information or prepared him in any way for the thrust, I am sure he would have met it with outward equanimity.
My probe had pierced the flesh, however, before he had had a moment to guard himself; and he had flinched and winced at the unexpected pain of it. But he soon recovered self-possession.
"You have a dramatic instinct, Miss Gilmore, and considerable inventive power. You should write for the stage. The essence of melodrama is surprise."
"I could not hope always to carry my audience away so completely, Count."
He laughed. "I am afraid I have not done you justice hitherto. I have not taken you seriously enough. I think you are right in another thing—I had better not go yet. Our chat promises to be interesting. I should very much like a cigar. I wonder if Madame would object." He spoke lightly and took out his cigar case.
"It would be very appropriate," I said. "There is one character in a melodrama who always smokes."
"You mean the villain?"
"The hero rarely has time—after the first act, at any rate. He is generally being arrested, or hunted, or imprisoned, or ruined in some way—sometimes drugged."
He had struck the match and at my last word paused to look at me. He favoured me with such a stare that the match burnt his fingers, and he dropped it with a muttered oath which I affected not to hear. It was a very trifling incident; but he was so unusually careful in such matters as a rule that it offered another proof of his ill balance.
"I burnt my fingers and forgot my manners," he said lightly. "I beg your pardon, Miss Gilmore."
"You mean that you wish to have time to recover from the surprise. Pray wait as long as you please—and think. I have no wish to take any fresh advantage over you—at present."
"Oh no, thank you," he cried, airily. "We will talk. Now, we must know where we stand, you and I?"
"At the moment we are in the salon of Madame d'Artelle, who was your instrument and tool."
"That 'was' sounds interesting. Is that your number one?"
"Yes."
"Very well, then, we'll take her as finished with. I don't care much about her. She has disappointed me. She is pretty; beautiful even: but no brains. She has let you guess too much. I'd rather deal with you direct. What is number two? And how many numbers are there?"
He was so light in hand, took defeat so easily, was so apparently ready for a complete change of front, and spoke with such an admirable assumption of raillery that I had difficulty in repressing an inclination to smile.
"You admit your defeat, then?"
He spread out his hands, waving one of them toward Gareth's drawing, and shrugged his shoulders.
"I am not a fool, Miss Gilmore."
I had expected anything except this instant surrender; and it caught me unready to state my terms. I could not go into the question of my father's wrongs, because I did not know enough of the matter.
"The terms will be heavy," I said, slowly.
"One must pay a price for folly; and I shall at least have the compensation of pleasing you."
"You will make Gareth your legal wife?"
He drew two whiffs of his cigar, took it from his lips, and looked at it thoughtfully.
"I would much rather marry you," he said with sudden smiling insolence.
"Do you agree?" I asked, curtly.
"That's number two, is it? Is the list much longer?"
"You will abandon the attempt to ruin your brother?"
"That's number three—number four?"
"There is no number four at present."
"What, nothing for yourself? Then you are a most remarkable young lady. Oh, but there must be."
"You are wasting time, Count Gustav, and Colonel Katona may grow impatient," I answered.
"Give me time. I am lost in amazement at such altruism—such philanthropy. You come to Pesth to push your fortunes; chance and your clever little wits put a fortune in your grasp, and—you want nothing for yourself." He shot at me a glance of sly mockery. "Perhaps Miss von Dreschler seeks something? The other Christabel, you know."
"I have stated my terms, Count Gustav."
"My answer is that I accept all of them—except the last two;" and the laugh at his insolence was one of genuine enjoyment.
"Then there is no more to be said," I declared, rising.
"But indeed there is. Pray sit down again. We are going to talk this over frankly. There is always an alternative course in such affairs—that was why I was anxious to know your motive. Will you sit down?"
"No. I have said all I wish."
"Well, you gave me a surprise. I will give you one. You are Miss Christabel von Dreschler; or at all events you were, until you inherited your uncle's money and took his name with it. He was John P. Gilmore, of Jefferson City, Missouri. Now, allow me;" and he placed a chair for me with elaborate courtesy, while he regarded me with an expression of great satisfaction and triumph.
I sat down and he resumed his seat.
"By the way," he said, as if casually, "we are likely to be engaged some time, hadn't we better let Colonel Katona go?"
"I may still have to speak to him," I answered, drily.
"I don't think so, when he knows that you are Colonel von Dreschler's daughter—if I should have to tell him, that is—he will not be very friendly toward you. He will not, really. He is a very singular old man." The art with which he conveyed this threat was inimitably excellent.
"The truth when he knows it, will tell with him, no matter from whom it comes."
"Yes, but he may not have to know it. You may persuade me to marry Gareth—in reality, you see. Besides, your object in bringing him here has already been achieved; you made your coup, and it was successful. Why keep him? You can just as easily tell him all another time—if you have to; while if I agree to do now what you wish, you will only have to put him off and send him away. I really think he may go. I have very little doubt we shall come to an understanding."
I thought a moment. "Yes, he may go. I will tell him so."
"I will go with you to him. He has a great regard for my family. We will tell him you are indisposed, or anything you please. I can satisfy him more easily than you can, perhaps."
"I will go alone."
He shook his head and smiled. "Do you think that quite fair to me under the peculiar circumstances? I wish to be quite sure that what you say is discreet. I must make a point of it that we go together, really I must."
But I recalled my impersonation of the giggling miss, and was not willing that the Count should know of that.
"I will go alone to him, or he must remain," I said.
"I will go to him alone, then. You may be sure I shall not betray myself."
I let him go. I saw no risk in so simple a step, and was glad to be relieved from the interview. I read his act to be a confirmation of his words—that we were likely to come to an understanding, and in that case there would be no need for Colonel Katona ever to know that Gareth had been betrayed.
I was a little uneasy, however, when some minutes passed and the Count did not return, but he explained the delay by saying that the Colonel was a peculiar man, and had plagued him with many questions difficult to answer.
"I told him you were not well, and would find means to see him as soon as necessary. And now, to resume our conversation, Miss—von Dreschler."
He spoke as airily as if it were a game of cards which had been interrupted.
"You take that for granted; but it scarcely helps matters."
"Permit me to indulge in the rudeness of a contradiction. I think it does. It gives me the clue to your motive—an essential matter to me. You are an American, young, wealthy, very pretty, and undoubtedly clever. Why then do you masquerade as an adventuress? You may have one of two motives—and there is a very improbable third. As Miss von Dreschler, my brother paid you great attentions in New York; the matter being broken off suddenly, in obedience to the protest of one of the friends with him, who reminded Karl that what was going to happen here made it impossible for him to marry a private individual."
He was very quick to see the surprise with which I heard this, and paused to emphasize it.
"You are surprised. I always have thought that Karl's conduct was indefensible. You ought to have been told the real reason; and it was only a flight of romantic fancy for him to prefer to pose as a mean fellow, willing to win your affections and then run away. That was his deliberate decision, however. He believed you would get over the affair all the more easily if you thought him a scoundrel."
He glanced up again to judge the effect of his words as he paused to pull at his cigar; but I was on guard and gave no sign at all. It was, however, an unpleasant experience to have the other side of my chief life's story revealed by a man whom I knew to be false; and told with a purpose, in a tone of half sardonic raillery, and as a carefully calculated bid for my silence about himself. Heart dissection is a trying process under such conditions.
"You will see from this that Karl was—excuse me if I put it plainly; it is all necessary—was intensely devoted to you. He returned home profoundly unhappy and very love-sick—his is a nature which takes such things seriously—and to this hour he has never recovered. To forget you and the way he had treated you, he plunged into wild excesses which in a couple of years gravely impaired his health; heavy drinking was followed by the present passion for opium. In a word, you have seen for yourself what love has done for my brother."
"You have helped him downwards," I put in.
"He needed no help from me, but——" he waved his cigar expressively and jerked his shoulders. "And that brings us to chapter the second. For our purposes here, a dipsomaniac with a love craze and the opium habit is no use. You are Colonel von Dreschler's daughter, and may know something of the Patriotic Hungarian cause——" he paused to give me a chance to speak.
"The movement in favour of independence, you mean?"
"I thought you would know it;" and he nodded as if it were of the most trifling consequence. "Well, then, you will know that Karl became impossible. Yet he is the elder son and my father's heir; and some of us Hungarians are almost fanatics on the subject of succession. Everything was in danger; and as he has always refused to be set aside in my favour, there was nothing to do except to make him legally impossible. Another surprise for you now"—he spoke as indulgently as if he had been throwing me a candy. "The marriage with you became desirable; so Fate turns her wheel, you see; and I sent to New York to search for you, and we took infinite trouble in the vain endeavour to trace you. It was very unfortunate;" and he spread out his hands again.
I made no comment, but just kept my eyes on him, waiting for him to continue.
"Pardon me if I am personal again. You would have suited our purpose admirably. I suspected you were the daughter of Colonel von Dreschler; and as your father's reputation was—was what it was and is—Karl's marriage with you would have been absolutely fatal to his chances here."
"My father's reputation was the result of vile treachery," I cried indignantly. And I saw my blunder instantly in the start of satisfaction he gave, but instantly repressed. He smoked a couple of moments in silence.
"We will deal with that presently—but I thank you for that admission, although I am surprised you did not see the trap I laid to obtain it. Your natural indignation, no doubt. Well, as we could not find you, we had to obtain an understudy—Madame d'Artelle." His tone was contemptuous here. "And I think, now, you understand chapter two. You must admit I have been frank; and my frankness is a tribute to your perspicacity."
"You have no comments," he said, still lightly and airily, when I did not speak. "Very well, then, we'll go to chapter three. That concerns the future—and your part in it. What do you mean to do, or, in other words, why did you come here? You are an interesting problem. You may have come to try and clear your father's name; or to punish in some way the man who treated you so badly: clever and pretty women have done that before, you know. Or—and this I referred to as the really improbable motive—you may still wish to marry my brother. But whatever your motive and object, I pledge you my honour—the honour of the son of the Duke Ladislas and future King of Hungary—that I will help you to the utmost of my power. But you must also help me; and for your first object you must be content to wait a year or two, until my father's death."
"And Gareth?" I asked, after a pause.
A frown darkened his face and his eyes clouded. He rose and took a couple of turns across the room.
"Would to God I could undo that business!" he cried, either with deep feeling or an excellent simulation of it. "You can't understand what this is to me! I am not a man capable of deep love, but I care for Gareth beyond all women. It was a midsummer madness; and if I could repair the injury to her, I would. But the prospect of the throne is between us—and shall I give that up and wreck the whole of this great national movement for her? I would do anything else on God's earth for her—but that I cannot. It is impossible."
"And her father?"
"I know what you mean. He would plunge a knife in my heart or send a bullet crashing into my brain, if he knew. He is desperate enough for anything. But he must not know. You must never tell him."
"You have the hardihood to do the wrong but lack the courage to face the consequences," I exclaimed, bitterly.
"I was not thinking of that. I am not afraid of mere death, I hope," he cried contemptuously. "I am thinking of the millions of Czechs, men, women and children, whose hopes of liberty are centred in my life. Beside that, all else is as nothing."
"It is a pity you did not think of this before."
"A man is a man and will act as a man at times. I have done a wrong I cannot undo; and it only remains to limit its mischief."
"A convenient code."
"Where is Gareth?" he broke off.
"Not where you intended those miscreants of yours to place her."
"Oh, so that was you also, was it?" he said, understanding. "You are making yourself very dangerous. Do you persist in threatening me?"
"What if I do?"
He paused as if to give emphasis to his reply.
"Those who oppose a national movement, Miss von Dreschler, must not be surprised if they are crushed under its wheels. As the daughter of your father, your mere presence here might be a danger to you."
"You threaten me?"
"I warn you—and that is the same thing. But a way is open to you. Marry Karl and take him away."
"You are a coward!" I cried, the burning red of anger flushing my face as I remembered his former taunt that such a marriage would degrade his brother sufficiently for his purpose.
"Cold facts not hot words will alone serve here," he replied. "What do you mean to do?"
"You can let your brother marry Madame d'Artelle. He is nothing to me."
He bent a sharp, piercing look upon me. "You mean that?"
"If I had influence with him it would be used to thwart your schemes. Keep him away from me, therefore, lest I tell him who I am and pit that influence against yours."
He paused and his brows knitted in thought. "What you mean is that you are willing to use Madame d'Artelle to revenge your own wrongs upon him. Then the third motive, the improbable one for your presence here, is the real one."
"If he will marry her, let him," I cried indignantly.
"You mean they are to carry out to-morrow's plan?"
"Yes."
"You amaze me. But then one never can understand a woman. And as for the rest?"
"I must think. It is a tangle. I shall probably tell Colonel Katona."
"It will be his death warrant. A hint that my life is in peril from him and a hundred knives will be out of their sheaths in my defence. And those who would defend me against him would be ugly enemies of Colonel von Dreschler's daughter. You do not understand us Magyars. You are raising a storm whose violence may overwhelm you."
"I will say no more now. But you shall do Gareth justice."
"Do you set that before the clearing of your father's name? That is the problem for you, and it is so searching that I can be sure you will not act in a hurry. But in any case, I do not fear you, Miss von Dreschler, nor anything you can do. I shall see you to-morrow, and by then you will have decided whether my brother is to marry Madame d'Artelle."
"I have decided. That is what I wish," I answered, firmly.
In his perplexity he stared hard at me and then bowed. As he was leaving the room he turned.
"I don't understand you; but I shall be sorry if you make yourself my enemy and drive me to any extremes. I respect you; and repeat, I shall be sorry."
I made no answer; leaving him to think I had spoken my last word as to Karl.
If the truth must be confessed I had surprised myself quite as much as Count Gustav in declaring my wish that Karl should marry Madame d'Artelle. I had spoken in response to the feeling of hot resentment he had roused by his bitter taunt that a marriage with me would prove an effectual disgrace for Karl.
And what stung me was the obvious truth of it all.
My father was the proscribed murderer of the man who, had he lived, would have been the future occupant of the new throne; and for Karl to marry such a man's daughter must mean absolute death to his chance of succeeding to that throne.
The gall and wormwood of that thought were intolerable. Madame d'Artelle, ex-police spy as she was, bigamist as she would be, and with a past that would not bear investigation, was a suitable and eligible match compared with me! And the torture I suffered as this conclusion forced itself home, is not easy to describe.
One thing was clearly borne in upon me. I would not marry either Karl or any other man until that slur was off my name. I would not rest until that was done. The wish to clear up the mystery which I had at first felt mainly for my dead father's sake, now quickened into a passionate resolve on my own account. For my own sake I must and would get to the bottom of the mystery; and the risk of neither my fortune nor my safety should be allowed to come between me and it.
I had called it a tangle; and what a tangle it was! Whichever way I moved there were difficulties that seemed insuperable. In one direction Gareth's pretty, smiling, trustful face blocked my path. Unless I broke my pledge to her, I could not open my lips to her father. And if I did not tell him, I might get no farther forward to my end. If he held the key to the mystery, it was only too probable that, as Count Gustav had implied, he could not speak without accusing himself. It was therefore useless to deal with him until I had found the means of compelling him to say what he knew.
Count Gustav himself knew of my father's innocence, and had pledged his honour to help me to clear it; but even if I trusted him, which I did not, the price was connivance in his schemes—in Gareth's fate and Karl's undoing. That door was therefore shut in my face.
There remained Duke Ladislas, General von Erlanger and Karl himself. The Duke was hopeless, so far as I was concerned. The General most unlikely to help me. As for Karl, I doubted whether he knew anything, or even if he did know, whether he possessed a spark of the energy necessary to help.
Could I infuse that energy into him?
As the question leaped into my mind, I began to think earnestly of the means to do this. If Count Gustav was right in what he had said in his jeering, flaunting way about Karl's feelings for me, I might indeed have much power over him. Up to this point I had been stumbling at random and in the dark in regard to Karl. I had had an indefinite plan to secure his influence by saving him from the ruin which others threatened. But now a much clearer path opened.
And then I saw how my impulse of anger could be used for my purpose—the impulse which had led me to agree that the plan for the marriage with Madame d'Artelle should go forward.
My original plan had been to let the elopement take place and then go to the house, "Unter den Linden," and by exposing Madame d'Artelle, frighten her away and at the same time establish my influence with Karl.
I saw a better plan, however, into which all the preparations I had made would fit admirably. There was risk in it and danger to my own reputation; but I could take care of that. I was too desperate to be scared by any fear of consequences. What I thought to do now was to play Madame's part in the business, and to take her place in the carriage with Karl. I guessed that Gustav would see to it that he was stupefied with either drink or drugs, when the crisis came; and in a dark carriage, closely veiled, I could trust myself to maintain the deception successfully.
I knew that Gustav was to bring his brother to the carriage; and in this way I could delude him as to my own movements. That was as essential to my plans as it was that I should have free and full opportunities of exerting my influence upon Karl.
I had to think also of my personal safety. I did not under-rate the risk which I was now to run on that account. In pitting myself against Count Gustav I was fighting the whole influence which his father wielded. The Duke had not scrupled to sacrifice my father; and was not likely to be less drastic in dealing with me if I stood in his way. And one word from Count Gustav would be enough to bring the whole force of his anger upon me.
I was deliberating what steps to take when a note was brought to me from General von Erlanger, asking me in somewhat urgent terms to go and see him.
I was glad of the chance. I might find out from him how far the Duke would have power to threaten my safety should Count Gustav obtain his help.
But I found his Excellency very far removed from an inclination to discuss serious matters seriously. I saw at once that he had dressed himself with more than usual care; he was wearing a number of the orders he had received in the course of a successful diplomatic and political career; and he welcomed me with genial smiles and quite unnecessary warmth. He held my hand so long indeed, as he greeted me, that his two daughters noticed it. I saw them nudge each other and snigger, and I had to give quite a tug to get it away.
He insisted upon my staying to dinner, all unprepared though I was; and when I pleaded that I had no dinner costume, he declared that I was never anything but charming; and that he would take no excuse.
The girls carried me away to put my hair tidy, and then gave me their confidences about their father and the new governess. She was a "beast," it seemed, according to Charlotte; and the General wished me to return.
"Father misses his chess with you," she said, with the ingenuous directness of her age: "that is why he wants you back. We think he's going to make you his secretary as well. He talks an awful lot about wanting help."
"He took over an hour dressing himself when he knew you were coming," chimed in the younger, Sophia; "and he made Charlotte go and tell him if his hair was parted straight."
"He's always talking about how well you play chess, and how clever you are."
"And he never puts those orders on unless somebody awfully particular is coming!" They rattled on in this way at considerable length; and during dinner watched the General's conduct to me very closely, nodding and smiling significantly at me, and winking at each other.
I had remained a week in the house after my coming to an understanding with him, and before I went to Madame d'Artelle's and during that time we had had more than one confidential talk.
When an old man yields to the influence of a very young woman, it is often a considerable surrender. It had been so in his Excellency's case; and I was quite conscious that I could do a great deal with him. Vivien could with Merlin; and a Minister of ripe and long experience can make a very interesting Merlin.
In those talks of ours he had sometimes forgotten the difference of forty years in our ages, and more than once had paid me compliments which might have been almost embarrassing had I been minded to take them at all literally.
The girls' chatter had therefore prepared me in a measure for what might be to follow when they had been sent away and we two were once again face to face over the chess board.
"I have missed my chess very much, Miss Gilmore. I can't tell you how much."
"You should teach Charlotte to play."
"She would never learn. She is just a child, no more."
"You are not playing well yourself, to-night."
He laughed. "That's what I like about you. You blurt the truth out with delightful frankness. I don't want to play to-night."
"Is that why you say you've missed your chess so much?"
"I've missed your white hands moving among the men, more than the game itself." He spoke very quickly, and fumbling nervously among the men upset two of them.
I made a move then that was not chess. I'm not sure that it was quite fair to him indeed. Pretending haste in picking the pieces up, I touched his hand and glanced at him. Our eyes met; and withdrawing my hand quickly, I upset some more men, with a suggestion of agitation.
"I beg your pardon," I stammered. "I'm afraid I don't remember how they stood. I—I think I'm a little confused."
"Why should you be?" he asked, with a glance.
"I don't know. It's very silly. I don't understand myself. I—I believe I'm nervous."
"I can't imagine you nervous—er—Christabel." It was very daring of him; but he tried to say it as if it was his rule to use my name.
I cast my eyes down and sighed. "I think I'll go now," I said after a pause; "if you don't mind."
"But Idomind, very much. Don't bother about the game. I don't care where the men were."
I smiled. "Possibly; but I think I was going to win. I began to see mate ahead."
"I wishIcould," he declared.
"General!" I cried in protest; to let him see that I understood. I had given him the opening intentionally, but had scarcely expected he would take such immediate advantage of it.
We both laughed; he with a suggestion of triumph.
"If I am not to go, we had better set the men and start a new game," I said, and began to arrange the pieces for the game.
"I don't wish to play. I wish to talk," he declared, and then very abruptly he got up and began to walk about the room, until he stopped suddenly close to me. I knew what was coming then.
"Do you know why I wished you to come here to-day?"
"Yes, I think so—but don't ask it." I was very serious and met his eyes frankly.
"How quick you are, and how daring. Any other woman would have been afraid to say that—afraid of being thought conceited. Why shouldn't I ask it?"
"I don't want to lose one out of the only friends I have in Pesth, perhaps the only one, General. And—other reasons."
He looked down at me and sighed. "Just now——" he began, when I interrupted him.
"I did it intentionally, thinking this thing should be settled at once, better at once—and for always, General."
"I have found out since you went what I never suspected before. I am a very lonely old man, for all my wealth and my position."
"We can still play chess—if not to-night; still on other nights. To-night, I too want to talk to you."
He made no answer, but moved away and walked about the room again in silence; throwing himself at length into a lounge chair and staring in front of him blankly and disconsolately.
After a time he roused himself and gave a deep, long sigh.
"Very well. We must leave it there, I suppose."
"No, we can't leave it there, General. I told you I wanted to talk to you." I left my chair and taking one close to his side, I laid my hand on his. "I need a friend so sorely. Won't you be that friend?"
His fingers closed on my hand, and he held it in a firm clasp.
"With all my heart, yes," he answered. "What is the matter?"
His ready assent moved me so that for the moment I could not reply.
"If I tell you all my little story, you will hold it in confidence?"
He looked up and smiled. "I would do much more than that for you, Christabel," he answered, simply, using my name now without any hesitation, and in a quite different tone from that before. "You may trust me implicitly, child, on my honour."
"I am going to surprise you. The name I bear is not my father's. I took it when my uncle, John P. Gilmore, died and left me his fortune. He made me a wealthy woman. My father was of Pesth, Colonel von Dreschler. I have come here to seek justice for his name and mine. I see how this affects you. If you cannot help me, I will say no more."
He released my hand to press his own to his eyes; and when he withdrew it he gazed at me very earnestly.
"You are his child!Gott in Himmel, his child."
"I did not hide my name because I was ashamed of it," I said.
"You have no need, Christabel. It was a damnable thing that was done. He was my friend, and I will help you all I can."
Then without reserve I told him everything I had learnt and all that I had done. He let me tell the story without interruption, and put his questions at the end.
"I cannot tell you you are not in danger from Count Gustav and his father. Your very name is a source of danger; and were you another woman I should counsel you with all insistence to give this up and go away. But you will not do that. I know you too well. I must think how to protect you. You have set me a very difficult task; but it shall not be impossible. Yet I dare not let my hand be seen in it. I will think it all over until I find a way. Meanwhile, trust me as your father would have done; and let me hear something of you every day. I shall know no ease of mind if I do not hear, every day. A note or message, saying all is well with you, will be enough. And if you find yourself in any trouble, let me know of it—I shall guess it, indeed, if I do not hear any day from you. And I will pledge myself to get you out—even if I have to appeal to Vienna on your behalf."
"I need no more than the knowledge that your help is behind me. But you think the danger is really serious?"
"If you threaten Count Gustav, you threaten the whole Patriotic cause; and if I could tell you the things that have been done to build up that great national movement even you might be daunted and turned from your purpose."
"Not while I live," I cried, resolutely.
"You are your father's child. He was as staunch and brave and fearless as any man that ever drew breath, but he was broken, and was but one of many victims. A policy of this stern kind has no bowels of compassion for man, woman, or child. Pray God you may never have to look in vain for that compassion."
"You almost frighten me," I said. His earnestness was so intense.
"No, nothing can do that, I am sure. If I could indeed frighten you out of this purpose of yours, I would; but instead, I will help you. I have many means, of course; and will exhaust them all. Go now, and let me think for you."
As we rose he stumbled against the table on which stood the chess board. He turned to me with a smile.
"I am afraid it will be some time before we play again. But the day will come, Christabel. It shall, or I am no player at this other game."
And with this note of confidence we parted.