Karl was sitting in an attitude of moody dejection; his elbow on the arm of the chair, and face resting on his hand; and he turned slowly as I opened the door. The look of gloomy indifference vanished, and he rose quickly with a glance of intense surprise.
"Chris—Miss Gilmore!" he exclaimed.
"You asked for Madame d'Artelle. I have come to say she has left the house," I said in a quite steady tone.
"But you—how do you come to be here? I don't understand."
"I thought you knew I was Madame d'Artelle's companion."
"But they told me you had gone away—to Paris."
"I did start, but I came back."
"I have been twice to-day to her house to ask for you. I was very nearly rushing off to Paris after you. I'm glad I didn't." He said this quite simply, and then his face clouded. "But if I understand all this, may I—may I take to opium again?" His eyes cleared, and he smiled as he spoke the last words.
"I hope you will never do that," I replied.
"No, I shan't—now. Do you remember what I said to you in the gardens yesterday? Yesterday—why it seems twenty years ago."
"You mean that you would hate me if I stopped you taking it?"
"Yes, that's it. Ihavehated you too, I can tell you. I couldn't help it—but I haven't taken any since. It's cost something to keep from it; but I've done it. And I shall be all right—now. I nearly gave in, though, when I heard you'd left the city."
"I knew that you had the strength to resist when I spoke to you yesterday," and I looked at him steadily. He returned the look for a moment.
"It's wonderful," he murmured. "Positively wonderful." Then in a louder tone: "I think you must have hypnotised me."
"Oh, no. I only appealed to your stronger nature—your former self. You have the strength to resist, but you let it rust."
"I wonder if you would like to know why?"
"No, thank you," I cried rather hurriedly.
My haste seemed to amuse him. "Well, I don't suppose it matters. Then you're not going to Paris?"
"Not yet—at any rate."
"Then I shall see you sometimes. I must if I'm to keep from it, you know."
"Yes, if possible and necessary."
"It is necessary, and I'll make it possible. You don't know the responsibility you've taken on yourself so lightly."
"Perhaps I have not taken it lightly, but intentionally."
"You can't behereintentionally," he said, with a start. "You can't, because—do you mean that you know what I'm supposed to have come here for?" Half incredulous, this.
"Yes, quite well."
"That they want to drive me to marry Hen—Madame d'Artelle? And that my brother will be here with a priest in half an hour or so?"
"I did not know your brother was coming," and the news gave me a twinge of uneasiness. "But my object was to prevent the marriage taking place."
"Why?" he asked, somewhat eagerly.
"Her husband is still living."
"I mean, why did you wish to prevent it?"
"I will tell you that presently."
"Tell me now."
"No."
"Yes—I insist."
"That is no use with me."
"Isn't it? We'll see. You know what I carry here;" and he slid his fingers into the pocket from which I had before seen him take the opium pills. "I shall take it if you don't tell me."
"You must do as you please. But you have none with you."
"How do you know?"
"You told Madame d'Artelle so, in the carriage."
He laughed and took out a little phial half full of them, and held it up. "She is stupid. Do you think I should regard it as more than half a victory if I didn't carry this with me? Will you drive me back to it now?"
He took out one of the pills, held it up, and gazed at it with eyes almost haggard with greedy longing.
"This is childish," I said.
"No, it's a question of your will or mine. Will you tell me or shall I take this? One or the other. You can undo your own work. I can scarcely bear the sight of it."
"I accept the challenge," I answered after a second's pause. "It is your will or mine. Rather than see you take that I will tell you——"
"I knew you would," he broke in triumphantly.
"But if I do, I declare to you on my honour that the instant I have told you, I will leave the room and the house, and never see you again."
The look of triumph melted away slowly. "I don't want victory on those terms. You've beaten me. Look here." He opened the long French window, flung the pill out into the night, and then emptied the phial. "Rather than—than what you said;" and he looked round and sighed.
"Thank you," I said.
In the pause the sound of horses' hoofs on the hard road, reached us through the open window.
"Here come Gustav and the priest, I expect."
I bit my lip. "I don't want him to see me," I said, hurriedly.
"What does it matter?"
"Everything."
He closed the window. "What will you do?"
"I will lock myself in one of the rooms upstairs and tell my servants to say Madame d'Artelle is too ill to see him."
"Your servant?"
"Don't stop to ask questions. I can explain all presently. Do as I wish—please. He thinks you are—are drugged——"
"Not drugged—drunk; but how do you know that?"
"Madame d'Artelle thought so at first." The horses were now so near that I could hear them through the closed window. "You can still pretend. Lie on the sofa there. For Heaven's sake be quick. There are but two or three minutes at most now."
"Oh, I'll get rid of them."
I took this for assent, and hurried out of the room as the carriage stopped at the door. Calling James Perry I told him what do to and ran up again to the room where I had been before.
I would not have a light but sat first on the edge of the bed, wondering what would happen, whether I should be discovered, how long Count Gustav would stay, and how Karl would do as he had said.
The house was badly built, and I could hear the murmur of voices in the room below. I slipped to the floor and lay with my ear to the ground in my anxiety to learn what went on. I could hear nothing distinctly, however. The murmurs were louder, but I could not make out the words.
Then I remembered about Colonel Katona, and crossing to the window pulled the blind aside and looked out wondering whether he was still near the house.
The moonlight was brighter, but the shadows of the trees thicker and darker; and for a long time I could distinguish nothing. The carriage remained at the door; the jingling of the harness, the occasional pawing of the impatient horses, and the checking word of the coachman told me this.
If the Colonel was still there, the presence of the carriage no doubt made him keep concealed.
Presently other sounds reached me. Some one unfastened the windows of the room below and flung them wide open. A man went out and I heard his feet grate on the gravel.
"It's no use. He's dead drunk. We may as well——"
It was Gustav's voice, and the rest of the words were lost to me, for I shrank back nervously.
Then an instinctive impulse caused me to lay my ear to the ground and listen for the window to be shut. I heard it closed; but there was no sound of the bolt being shot.
Dark as it was and alone though I was in the room, I know that I turned deathly white at the possible reason for this which flashed upon me in that moment; and when I passed my hand across my forehead the beads of perspiration stood thick upon it. I felt sick and dazed with the horror that was born of that thought; and my limbs were heavy as I dragged them back across the room to the bed and sat there, listening intently for the sounds of Count Gustav's departure, and ready to rush downstairs the instant he had gone.
There was no longer any need for me to stare vaguely out into the garden. I knew now that the watcher was there, and why he was there. I had guessed the secret of that noisily opened window, of the loudly spoken words, and the closed but unbolted casement.
The carriage went at last, after I had heard Count Gustav's voice in the hall below speaking to some one who answered in a lower and indistinct tone.
While the two were still speaking, I unlocked my door softly and crept out to the head of the stairs; and even as the front door was shut by James Perry and the carriage started, I ran down.
"Go in there at once, James, fasten the bolt of the big window, and if the blind is up, draw it down. Quick, at once," I told him, and followed him into the room.
Karl was still lying on the couch.
"Leave the window open, you," he said. "I like the air."
"I told him to shut it," I said, as I entered and James went out. "I can't stand the draught and can't bear the look of the dark."
He sat up when he heard my voice and stared at me.
"You afraid of the dark? You?"
"Have you been lying on the couch all the time?" I asked.
"Yes, Gustav fooled me about and tried to make me get up, but I wouldn't, but what has that to do with anything? You do nothing but bewilder me—and Gustav too, for that matter."
"It's time that some things were made clear," I replied. "How did you prevent them coming in search of me?"
"Very easily. I told him Madame had gone to bed, ill—ill with temper, because I was drunk, and swore I would do her some damage if she came near me. By the way, whatareyou going to do?"
"I don't know. I've succeeded already in the chief part of my purpose, and am not ready yet for the next."
"What is your purpose?"
"I am going to tell you. One thing was to prevent your marrying Madame d'Artelle."
"You said that before when you wouldn't tell me the reason. What is the reason?"
"Because I know why the marriage was being forced."
"So do I—but it doesn't interest me. Although I meant to make Madame tell me many things."
"Probably I can tell you all you wish to know."
"Why doyouthink I was to marry Madame d'Artelle?"
"To complete your ruin in the eyes of the country, to make you impossible as your father's heir in the event of the plans of the Patriots succeeding. Such amésalliance, added to the reputation for dissoluteness and incapacity which you have made for yourself recently would have completed your overthrow."
"You don't spare me," he said, slowly.
"There is no need. I am speaking of—the past."
At the emphasis on the word his face brightened with almost eager delight. "What power you have to move me!" he exclaimed. "Yes, it is as you say—the past. And why are you doing all this?"
"You remember what you said yesterday in the Stadtwalchen—that probably I had a motive? You were right. I have."
"Tell me."
"Yes. I came here to Pesth for a purpose which has become all in all to me. I looked round for the best means of accomplishing it. First I went to General von Erlanger—thinking to work through him. Then I saw and recognized the woman who was reputed to have so much influence over you—Madame d'Artelle. I knew I could get her into my power, and said to myself 'I can save Count Karl from her;' and I went to her. At her house I learnt the rest; that the plan was to force you to one side in favour of your brother. I said to myself again: 'If I save him from that scheme, he will have the power I need, and in common gratitude will be impelled to help me.' I had not seen you then."
He listened attentively, but his look grew gradually solemn and gloomy; and he shrugged his shoulders as he answered: "I see. You are like the rest. Timber to hew and water to fetch—for yourself. Well? What difference could it make whether you had seen me or not?"
His manner nettled me. Why, I know not: but I replied sharply: "Did you think I was a philanthropist—with no other thought but to help you? Or that you were so weak and helpless that out of sheer pity a stranger would be drawn to help you?"
He bent his head upon his hand and sighed dejectedly. "Go on," he murmured. "If I'm disappointed, it hurts no one but myself."
"If I had seen you, I should not have attempted it. Of that I am quite sure."
"What a contemptible beast I must have seemed to you! I suppose you know how you're hurting me? Perhaps you have another motive. If I had——" and he slid his fingers into his pockets as if in search of his little phial.
"It's very brave, isn't it, to threaten me like that?" I said, curtly.
He drew his fingers out as though they had touched fire, and glanced up hurriedly at me.
"You don't know what a coward it makes of a man," he sighed. "You're making it harder for me. You're killing hope. A dangerous experiment with a patient like me. There's only a very short bridge between me and the past."
"A bridge you will never recross," I said, firmly.
He looked up and met my eyes. "Not if you'll stand between it and me, and help me a bit now and then. I'm going to play my part—but you mustn't kill my hopes, you know!"
"I shall help you all I can, because you cannot help me unless you do play it."
He frowned. "I'll play it, if it's only to help you. What is it you want?"
"A thing that may be very hard to do."
"I'll do it. I swear that. It will be an incentive to feel I can help you. It gives me a glimmer of hope again and strength, the mere thought of it. You don't know how I'd like to please you."
For a moment I was silent; and in the pause, my ears, which are very quick, caught a sound which made my heart beat rapidly. The faint crunch of a footstep on the gravel outside the window.
He heard nothing, but saw the start I gave. "Why did you start?"
"Nothing," I said, with an effort to keep my voice steady. "I will tell you what I want. Years ago a great wrong was done to a very close and dear relative of mine here in Pesth. I came here to seek justice for his name—for he was left to die in shameful exile, with the wrong unrighted."
"I looked for anything but that; but I'd do more than that for you, much more. Who and what was he?"
He had no suspicion of the truth yet; and when I paused, he misunderstood my hesitation.
"You don't doubt me?"
"No; but——" I hesitated; and then there came another sound from without. A hand pushed the window frame; and this time Karl heard it.
"What was that?" he asked, and rose from the couch.
"The wind—nothing else."
"There's no wind," he said. "I'll see."
I put myself between him and the window. "No, don't open it. I'll"—I started and stopped abruptly. I saw something lying on the sofa.
It was just a wisp of faded ribbon. But it was the favour which he had begged of me that night years ago in New York. So he carried it with him always. The colour left my face and I caught my breath.
"You are ill? What's the matter? You're not frightened?"
I stretched out a hand and took it up quickly. I was trembling now. He tried to intercept me and to reach it first.
"You must give that to me, please," he said shortly, almost sternly. "It is mine. It must have fallen out when Gustav was trying to drag me up."
"It is nothing but a wisp of ribbon," I replied, lightly.
"I'll give you anything but that," he declared, again sternly.
"No, I will have this. I have a right to it."
He grew angry and his face took a look of such determination as I had not seen on it before. "No. Not that—at any cost." His voice was hoarse, but his manner very firm.
Our eyes met. His hard and stern; mine all but smiling.
"I tell you I have a right to it," I said.
"What do you mean?"
I paused.
"That it is mine."
He knew then. His eyes opened wide and his hands clenched as he stepped back a pace, still gazing full at me; and his voice was deep as he answered—
"Then you—my God—youareChristabel?"
"Yes. I am Christabel von Dreschler—it is my father's name that has to be cleared."
He made a step toward me, stretching out his arms.
"No, not while that stain remains—if ever."
He stood, his arms still partly outstretched, and gazing at me in silence.
At that moment the pressure of a hand on the window was repeated, and the frame was shaken.
He turned to it again. "I must see what that means," he exclaimed.
"Not if you value your life, or believe that I do."
For a moment he challenged my look, but then yielded.
"As you will, of course—now; for all this is your doing;" and with a smile and a sigh he let me have my way.
I had resolved what to do, and I lost no time.
"You are going to trust me in this and do what I wish?" I asked Karl.
"Yes, of course. You have a right to no less. But what does it mean?"
"You heard the noise at the window?"
"Yes."
"It was not the wind. Some one was attempting to open it. I am going to find out who it is and why they are there."
"How?"
"By stratagem. I wish you to go upstairs and remain there until I call you."
"Why should I do that?" he asked, hesitating and perplexed.
"Because I ask you. You will do it?"
"I don't like it—but if you insist, I promise."
"Before you go I wish you to lie on the couch there while my servant comes here and does what I will tell him; and you will act as though you were bidding him good-night—but as if you were still drugged."
"Hadn't you better tell me everything?"
"There is no time. Will you do this? Please."
He shrugged his shoulders and lay down on the couch.
I went out and called James Perry and instructed him what to do.
He went into the room, crossed to the window and stood there a moment with his shadow showing plainly on the blind. Then he pulled up the blind, and turned as if in obedience to some order from Karl. Next he threw the large window open and stepped out on to the gravel, and stood there long enough for any one who might be watching to have a full view of the interior of the room.
"No, sir, it is not raining," he said, and came back through the window making as if to close and fasten it. He stopped in the act of doing this, and partly opened it again, as if obeying orders from Karl.
"No, it's not cold, sir, but it will be draughty," he said.
Then with a shrug of the shoulders he left it open and turned away. Taking a rug from one of the lounges he threw it over Karl, taking pains to tuck it in carefully; and then stood back as if asking for any further orders.
"Good-night, sir," he said, and crossing to the door, he switched out the light.
Immediately this was done, I ran in again, hurried Karl out of the room, laid a sofa pillow on the couch, and arranged the rug over it as James had done. Then I recrossed the room and waited, my fingers close to the electric light switch, to see if the trap was laid cleverly enough to deceive the man I was expecting. I stood in a dark corner by the door, partly concealed by a screen, where I could see the whole room and all that occurred.
My eyes soon grew accustomed to the comparative darkness. The moon was shining brilliantly, and the slanting rays through one of the windows fell right across one end of the couch on which Karl had been lying. They revealed the lower half of what appeared to be the huddled figure of the sleeper, the upper half being wrapped in deep shadow.
The house was all silent. I had heard Karl go upstairs, James Perry being with him; and had caught the latter's careful tread as he came down again to the hall where I had told him to wait, in case I should need and call him.
The night was very still. I could see right out into the moonlit garden, and as the window was partly open, could trust my ears to catch the faintest sound. But scarcely a leaf moved. The dead stillness was almost oppressive.
The suspense began to affect me soon. I have not the slightest fear of the dark; but as minute after minute passed and no result followed my careful preparations, I began to think I had failed. The net must have been set too conspicuously; and so set in vain.
To pass the time I began to count my pulse beats. One, two, three—to a hundred. Again one, two, three—to a second hundred; and a third, a fourth and a fifth. Then the counting became mechanical, and my thoughts wandered away. It became difficult to remain still.
An impulse seized me to cross the room to the window and look out, and I had to fight hard to restrain it.
Then I caught a sound in the garden. The rustling of a bush. I held my breath to listen. There was no wind stirring to account for it. Not a leaf of all those full in view moved. It was a sign therefore that the patience of some one beside myself had begun to give out.
I braced myself for what was to come, and in a second my wits were all concentrated and every nerve in my body thrilled with expectation, quickening to eager anxiety.
I had not long to wait.
There was another rustle of bushes, and a bird startled from its roosting perch, flew chirping its alarm across the lawn. The sharpness of the noise made me start.
Another pause followed; then another sound—this time a slight grating on the gravel; almost immediately a head showed at the window pane; and a man peered cautiously through the glass into the room.
I crouched closer into my hiding place as his face turned and the eyes seemed to sweep in all directions to make sure that no one else was there to see him.
Stealthily and silently his hand was stretched out, felt the heavy frame, and pushed it open sufficiently to let him enter. The window gave a faint creak in opening; and he stood as still as death lest it should have been heard.
I held my breath now in my excitement. What was he going to do? It was Colonel Katona. I could recognize him by the moonlight; and a moment later his purpose was clear.
He changed something from his left hand to his right. The glint of a moonbeam on the barrel showed me it was a revolver.
I had read the signs aright. He had been tricked into the belief that Karl was the man who had betrayed Gareth, and had come now to do what he had swore to me he would do to any man who harmed her—take his life.
He must surely have had some apparently overwhelming proof given him before he would go to this desperate extreme; and I would know what that proof was, before the night was much older. Already I had a strong suspicion.
These thoughts flashed through my mind in the moment that the Colonel stood hesitating after the noise made by the creaking window; and the instant he moved again, I had no eyes but for him, no thought except for what he proposed to do.
His next act surprised me. He closed the window softly behind him and drew down the blind. The noise was much greater than before, but he paid less heed to it. He pulled it down quickly, shutting out the moonlight; but there was enough dim light through the blind for his purpose.
I could just make out that he held the revolver ready for use as he stepped to the couch and stretched out his hand to seize and wake the sleeper.
I chose that moment to switch on the light and step forward.
He whipped round and levelled his weapon point blank at my head.
I had no fear that he would fire, however. "Good-evening, Colonel Katona," I said, in as even and firm a tone as I could command. "That is only a dummy figure which I put there. I was expecting you."
He lowered the weapon and stared at me as though he could scarce credit his eyes.
"You!" It was all he could get out for the moment.
"Yes, of course, I. Gareth's friend, you know. You see, there is nothing but a sofa pillow here with a rug over it;" and with a show of unconcern, I pulled the rug away.
"You!" he said again, adding: "You who know my child's story. If you have tricked me in this, I will have your life as well."
"If I had tricked you, I should deserve nothing better. You have not been tricked by me, but by others. You may put that revolver away; you will not need it here."
"Why did you say you would send me the news you had promised, and then send me that letter and tell me of this house where he was to be found, and what was to be done here? You are lying to me with your smooth tongue," he burst out fiercely. "You saw me come, or guessed I was here, and you are lying to shield him—the villain who wronged Gareth and would now wrong you."
"If you believe that, kill me. I will not flinch, and you will live to find out the horrible crime you would commit. You will have murdered one who saved and befriended Gareth in the hour of pressing need. It would be a fitting climax that you who helped to drive to a shameful death your friend, Ernst von Dreschler, should now murder me, his daughter."
"Ernst's child! You, his daughter?" he murmured.
"Yes, I am Christabel von Dreschler."
So overwhelmed was he by the thoughts which my avowal caused that he could do little but stare at me helplessly; until he sank down into a chair, as though his strength failed him, and, laying the revolver on the table, leaned his head upon his hands.
I thought it discreet to pick the weapon up and put it out of his reach; and then sat down near him and waited while he recovered self-possession.
His first question was a natural one. "Where is Gareth?"
"Safe, and in my care."
"You can take me to her?"
"She is within an hour's drive; but there is a difficulty in the way. She believes in the honour of—of her husband——"
"Husband?" he burst in eagerly.
"She believes him to be. There was a ceremony of marriage; and believing in him, she would not let me bring her to you, because he had made her take an oath not to do so."
"The villain!" he exclaimed with intense passion.
"I fear that the reason is what you think."
"You know who he is?" The hard eyes were fierce and gleaming as he asked.
"I know who it is not," I answered.
"You know who it is, then?"
"You must not ask me. I cannot tell you yet."
"You shall tell me."
"If you think you can force me, try;" and I faced him, with a look to the full as resolute as his.
"Why won't you?"
"For Gareth's sake. I am thinking of what, in your present desperate mood, you cannot—her happiness."
"I am thinking of her honour."
"No. You are thinking of murder, Colonel Katona. You came here to do it, believing that you knew who had betrayed her."
"He shall pay for it with his life."
"There may be a heavier penalty to exact than that."
"Show me that, and as there is a God it shall be exacted."
"I will show it you, but at my own time and in my own way. No other."
"You are playing with me, and shielding the villain here."
"I am doing neither. The man you seek is not Count Karl."
"You are lying," he cried again vehemently. "See this;" and he drew out a crumpled letter and thrust it toward me.
But I would not look at it and got up. "If I am lying, there is no longer need for you to speak to me of this. If I am not lying, you are a coward to insult me so, even in your passion. Leave the house as you came and probe this for yourself. My servants are within call, if you do not go." I picked up his revolver and handed it to him. "Here is your weapon."
He made no attempt to touch it but looked up at me. "You are a daring girl," he muttered.
"Ernst von Dreschler's daughter does not lie, Colonel Katona," I answered, with deliberate emphasis.
"Forgive me. I spoke out of my mad misery. I will not disbelieve you again. God knows, I am not myself to-night."
"You can trust me or not, as you please. But if you trust me, it will have to be absolutely. I believe I can see a way through this trouble which will be best for Gareth—best for all. It is of Gareth I think in this. She would trust me."
"Let me go to her," he cried.
"Yes, but not yet. It would not be best. She is quite safe, and if you will but have a little patience, I will bring you together and all may be well with her."
"You talk to me of patience when every vein in my body runs with fire."
"I talk to you of Gareth's happiness, and how possibly to spare her—the only way and that but a possible one," I answered, as I put the letter he had offered me in my pocket.
He pressed his hand to his head. "My God, I cannot be patient," he cried, vehemently.
"You could show patience in the slow ruin of your friend, Colonel Katona. Must I remind you of that? I am here to avenge that wrong, and seek tardy justice for his name and mine. You can help me to avenge the wrong and do justice to him, dead though he is. For the sake of my dead father no less than for that of your child patience is needed. I will have my way and no other."
"What do you mean that I can avenge your wrong?"
"You hold the secret that can do all."
"What secret?" And for all his wildness about Gareth and for all his mad rage, my words had touched a secret thought which drove the colour from his tawny face and brought a fear of me into his eyes—fear it was, unmistakably.
"It is enough that I know it," I answered, so curtly and with such concentration that he dropped his eyes as though I might read some secret in them.
I would have given all I was worth to have known what was in his mind at that instant.
In the pause that followed, I heard some one descending the stairs. I knew it must be Karl; and then a daring thought suggested itself.
"You must go, now; I will come to you."
He looked up at me searchingly and keenly, and rose slowly.
"I will go," he said. "I shall see you to-morrow. For God's sake."
"I will come to you. You trust me?"
"I am getting afraid of you—but I trust you."
"I will put that trust to the test now. Count Karl will go with you to your house until to-morrow."
His eyes blazed for a moment. "Do you mean——"
"If he had done you this wrong, should I propose it?"
"I don't understand you. I can't."
"It must be as I say. You will not even speak Gareth's name to him. Remember—not her name even—until I see you to-morrow. Your word of honour on that."
"Yes. I give you my word. But all must be made clear to-morrow. I cannot wait."
"I will go and tell him," I said; and with that went out of the room just in time to prevent Karl entering it.
I led Karl into one of the other sitting-rooms.
"I am going to make an appeal to your generosity," I said.
"What has happened? Who was outside the house? What is the meaning of all the mystery? I was thinking myself mad up there and came down to see."
"It is good that you care so much. Two days ago you would have given a shrug of your shoulders, a toss of the head, a lift of the eyebrows, and with an easy smiling 'It doesn't matter,' have left any one else to do the thinking. Don't let your cigar go out; it probably helps you." He was holding a long black cigar such as he had smoked so furiously in the carriage.
"You have given me plenty to make me think," he answered. "But what has happened?"
"I told you—I am going to appeal to your generosity. Not to ask me to tell you everything, but just to accept my explanation."
"I was afraid it was something else."
"What?" I asked not thinking, and so falling into the trap.
"That you should keep what you have not yet returned; that little link with the past—the ribbon favour, Christabel." His eyes were very gentle as he spoke my name.
For a moment I wavered, lowering my head; then taking courage to face what must be faced by us both, I lifted my eyes and, firm in both look and voice, answered him—"It must not be a link. It is no more than a relic. There can be no connecting link with that old time for us two."
"You think that? Perhaps; but I don't;" and he shook his head. "You are very strong, Christabel; but not strong enough for that—not strong enough to change me, at least. It's the only thing in life I care about."
"It must be put aside," I declared.
"Your part is of course for you to decide; but mine is for me. You cannot take my share from me."
"I shall prevail with you. I must. You are going to take your rightful position as your father's heir. You know what is to happen here when the Patriots gain their end. You know what will be expected of you then; and you have to think, not of yourself, not of any mere personal desire, any smaller end, but of your country."
"'Mere personal desire,'" he repeated. "Is that how you read it?"
"It is what your countrymen would call it—your countrymen, who will look to you to do your duty. They must not look in vain."
He made no reply but sat smoking, his brow gathered in deep furrows of thought.
"There are two Count Karls," I continued. "The one who years ago lived a life which made men proud of him, and filled them with trust and confidence in his power and vigour. The real Karl; the man who at the call of patriotism and the counsel of a friend, was even strong enough to let himself be condemned in the eyes of the girl he cared for as cowardly, selfish, and false. That was the real Karl. The other was but an ignoble man; a purposeless parody of the real and true; and he, I thank God, exists no longer. But the noble Karl has to face again to-day the same hard problem he solved so roughly and crudely years ago. With this difference however—the girl knows all now and will help him."
The trouble in his face deepened and he shook his head slowly. "No, no. I cannot."
"Yes, you must.Wemust, Karl. We don't make our lives; we do but live them."
"I cannot," he repeated, heaving a great sigh.
"We have no choice. I have seen this throughout. If I have helped you—as I love to think I have—to tear aside the coils that were binding you fast to the wheels of ruin, I have done it in full knowledge of all this; of what must be; of what neither you nor I nor we two together, if we were true to ourselves, could possibly prevent. You must not, you shall not be false to your duty and your country."
"No, no. It is too much to ask."
"In so far as I have helped you, I have a right to ask you. I press that right with all my power."
His face changed and with a glance of resistance, he answered, quickly:
"It may be easy since you do not care——"
"Karl!" The cry stopped him. His look changed again, and he tossed up his hands and drooped his head.
"I am ashamed," he murmured. "Heaven knows, I have not your strength."
"Don't make that mistake. This is as hard for me as it can be for you. Harder perhaps, for to a woman her heart thoughts must be always more than to a man. Our lives are so much emptier. We need have no concealment now. When I first met you here, I thought—so little does a woman know her heart—that the old feeling was dead; that the long-nurtured resentment of the past had killed it. I was hot against you when you did not recognize me, and burned with indignation. But I did not know."
"Nor yesterday, when we spoke together?" he broke in, eagerly.
"Ah, yes, I began to know then, and to be glad. Not glad with the joy of expected happiness; but so glad that I had been wrong in the years between. But when, to-night, I found this"—and I took out the little ribbon favour—"then indeed I knew all."
He held out his hand. "Give it me."
"Better not, far better not. We must be strong; and this can only be a source of weakness. We will face together that which must be faced and destroy it."
"No," he cried, earnestly. "No. It is mine. I will keep it. Give it me."
"Of what use is it? A mere piece of tawdry faded ribbon when I have given you all my heart."
"Christabel!" His outstretched hand fell as he spoke.
I crossed to his chair and stood by him and laid my hand on his shoulder, looking down into his face. "You will be strong, Karl. I trust you to destroy it;" and I held it out to him.
Instead of taking it he seized my hand and pressed his lips upon it. "If I lose you, I shall go back to what I was," he said, holding my hand and looking up.
I shook my head and smiled. "I have not so little faith in you as that. I, like your countrymen, appeal to the real Karl, and I know we shall not appeal in vain. You have a noble part to play in life, and you will play it nobly as becomes you—and I shall watch you play it, proud to think that I have helped you to be worthy of it and of yourself."
"My God, I cannot give you up," he cried, desperately. "I cannot go back to the lonesomeness of those years. You don't know what they have been to me—desolate, empty, mournful, purposeless. If you bring them back to me after this, I—Christabel, you must not."
"Is that weakness worthy of you or of me?"
"You don't understand. It was bad enough and black enough when my only thought was that I had had your love and had wantonly killed it; that was purgatory. But now, meaning to do well, what have you done but ill? You have shown me happiness, only to shut the gates upon me and drive me out into the black misery again. If you love me, you will never do that—you could not."
I went back to my seat. "You make this very hard for me—for us both. So much harder than it need be. You had better go now, and leave this where it is. Yet I had hoped."
"Hoped what?"
"That I could help you to be strong enough to do the only right thing. And you kill my hope by thinking only of yourself. I would have had you act from the higher motive; but if you will not, the fault is not mine. You force me to say what must be said. Decide as you will, it can make no difference. I can never be to you what you wish: and what, were things other than they are, I would wish with my whole heart. But I could have been your friend—and that you make impossible."
"Christabel!"
"I mean it. I could never be the friend of a man who would set a woman above his duty and his honour, even though that woman were myself. I thought so much better of you."
"You are hard and unjust to me," he cried.
"No no. I am hard to myself, but only just to you. But let it be as you will."
He rose and began to pace the room.
"You had better go. I have failed with you; and failing, must lose all I had wished to win—my own purpose and all. I shall not see you again. You have made it impossible. I shall leave Pesth to-morrow—with all my efforts failed."
"No," he burst out almost violently, stopping close and facing me. "If you go, you know how it will be with me."
I looked at him firmly, and after a pause said in a deliberate tone: "If you cannot rise to the higher life, what matters to your country if you fall to the lower. And as with your country, so with me."
The words cut him till he winced as in pain, and dropped again into a seat.
"Can you say that—to me?"
My heart was wrung at the sight of his anguish, but I would not let him see it. "You had better go—please," I said; for the silence became intolerable.
He paid no heed to my words, but sat on and on in this attitude of dejected despair; and when after the long silence he looked up his face was grey with the struggle, so that I dared not look into his eyes for fear my resolve would be broken and I should yield. For firm as my words had been, my heart was all aching and pleading to do what he wished.
"You need not turn your eyes from me, Christabel," he said, a little unsteady in tone. "You have beaten me. It shall be as you say; although I would rather die than go back to the desert. Pray God the victory will cost you less than it costs me to yield."
I think he could read in my eyes what the cost was likely to be to me: I am sure my heart was speaking through them in the moment while my tongue could find no words.
"I knew you would be true to yourself," I said at length.
"No, anything but that. No credit to me. I only yield because to resist means your abandonment of what you hold so dear. That must not be in any case."
"Whatever the reason, your decision is right. Your country——"
"No, that has nothing to do with it. Less than nothing, indeed. You and I must at least see the truth clearly. I have no sympathy with the Patriot movement. I have never had. That has always been the cause of dispute with my family. I hold it all to be a huge mistake and folly. I am doing this for you—and you only. Now, more than ever, I shall hate the cause; for it has helped to rob me of—you."
I had no answer to that—indeed, what answer could I have made except to pour out some of the feelings that filled my heart, and thus have made things harder for us both.
He sat a moment, as if waiting for me to speak, then sighed wearily and rose. "I had better go now, as you said. I suppose now you will let me see you again."
"Of course. To-morrow. Meanwhile, until I do see you, I wish you to go somewhere and not show yourself."
"All places are alike to me—again," he replied, with dreary indifference.
"I wish you to go and stay with Colonel Katona, and stay in his house until I send to you."
"Colonel Katona! Is he here? Why?"
"His daughter is my friend. It was he who came to the window to-night, seeking news of her."
"Has he a daughter? I didn't know. But why look for her here of all places in the world?"
"I will tell you the story another time. It is mixed up now with mine. But I do not wish you to speak of her to her father."
"She is nothing to me; I can promise that easily enough."
I touched the bell, and told James Perry to have the carriage brought at once to the door.
"When shall I see you? To-morrow, really? You know the danger."
"That danger is past," I said, firmly.
"You have more confidence in me than I have."
"After to-night I shall never falter in that confidence."
"I thank you for that, Christabel, I shall try;" and he smiled. As he withdrew his eyes they fell upon the wisp of ribbon lying on the table. He picked it up, gazed at it, then raised it to his lips and laid it again on the table. "You still wish this to be destroyed?" he asked, keeping his gaze averted.
Simple as were the words and the act, I could not find an answer on the instant. "It is best so," I murmured at length.
"Very well," and he turned away. "You are always right. Of course, it's only—folly and—and weakness."
We heard the carriage drive to the door then. He started and held out his hand; then as if with a sudden thought, he said; "I had forgotten about you. I am so self-wrapped, you see. What are you going to do?"
"I shall stay here to-night."
"Is it safe, do you think?"
"I have my servants here."
"Besides, you are so fearless yourself. Good-night. It is all so strange. I feel as if I should never see you again. And I suppose in a way that's true. As things are to be in the future, it won't be you, in one sense. You said there were two Karls—and now there are to be two Christabels. That sounds like a bad joke, but it feels much more like a sorry tragedy;" and he sighed heavily.
He went out then to the carriage, and I to fetch Colonel Katona to join him.
When they had driven off I went back into the room and sat down feeling dreary and anguish-sick. I was tired out, I told myself; but no bodily weariness could account for the ache in my heart. I had succeeded in all far beyond my expectations; had won my victory with Karl; I was almost within sight of the goal which had seemed impossible of attainment only a few days before. I had every reason to rejoice and be glad; and yet I laid my head on my arms on the table feeling more desolate, sorrow-laden, and solitary than ever in all my life before.
My servant roused me.
"What is it, James?"
"Is there anything I can do for you, miss? I knocked five times before you heard me. Can I get you something?"
"No, thank you, James. I am only tired and am going to bed. Stay up until your father comes back with the carriage. Then go to bed yourself, but let him sit up for the rest of the night. I shall sleep more soundly if I know some one is watching. You must be up early, as I shall need you."
I yawned as if I were very sleepy—one has to keep one's end up, even before one's servants—and bade him good-night. I was turning from the room when my eye chanced on the ribbon favour which Karl had left lying there.
Fortunately James had left the room; for the sight of it struck all thought of pretence out of my mind. I was very silly; but it seemed in an instant to rouse a vivid living consciousness of all that I had voluntarily given up, and yet might have retained by a mere word.
I was only a girl then indeed; and the tears came rushing to my eyes and set the little ribbon dancing and quivering and trembling in my sight.
I dashed them away and, thrusting the little mocking token into my bosom, I ran out of the room as hurriedly as though I were rushing to escape from the sad thoughts of that other Christabel of whom Karl had spoken.