I wrote a short note to Colonel Katona saying that circumstances prevented my going to his house that day; but that I had something important to say to him, and wished him to come to me to General von Erlanger's at once.
Next, an equally brief one to Karl:
"DEAR FRIEND,
"I cannot keep my word to see you to-day. I have been compelled to come here, to General von Erlanger's house, and must remain until to-morrow. But to-morrow I shall see you. Please me by staying where you are until then. Colonel Katona is coming here, and will bring you a message from me saying where we can meet to-morrow. I am sure you will do this as you have done so much 'for her sake.'
CHRISTABEL VON DRESCHLER."
Then a letter to Gareth followed:
"I am now confident that I shall have great news for you to-morrow. I have been working hard for you all the time, and success is in sight. But we cannot gain it unless you will now do your part and help me in all my plans for to-morrow. I wish you to remain in your room to-morrow morning, and not to leave it under any pretext whatever, until I myself come to you. You will of course be very curious to know the reason for this: we women can't help that. And I will explain it all to-morrow. You have trusted me so far. Trust me in this also—for I tell you frankly that if you do not, everything even at the last moment may be ruined. Keep a brave heart, for I am very hopeful happiness is in sight for you.
"Ever your friend,"CHRISTABEL."
Lastly I drew up a concise statement of the whole facts of the case, giving as full details as were necessary to enable any one to understand it clearly, as well as my position in regard to it. This was for James Perry to take to the American Consul if any danger threatened me. I took this step, not because I doubted my friend the General, but lest he should find his wish to help me thwarted by those above him.
I had my papers ready by the time James Perry arrived. I explained first what he was to do with the paper for the Consulate, and added: "Your father will know where to take the letters for Colonel Katona and Count Karl, James, because he drove them home last night. Send him off with them the moment you get back. Give this letter to the Countess von Ostelen; and this list of clothes to your mother. You are to bring them back here to me."
"Yes, miss," he said, as he pocketed them.
"And now I am going to set you a difficult task. You have done me splendid service so far—but you are now going to play me a treacherous shabby, cowardly trick."
"I hope not," he said, noticing my smile.
"You will need all your wits; because a great deal hangs upon how you act—all my plans in fact. You took a letter from me this morning to Count Gustav. Did you see him?"
"Yes, for a moment. He took the letter, laughed and seemed rather pleased, and then gave me the message—that he would go to the house at once."
"You think he would know you again?"
"Oh, yes, I am sure of that."
"Good. Now, you are going to betray me to him. He is desperately anxious to know the whereabouts of the Countess von Ostelen, and you are going to be scoundrel enough to take advantage of my absence from home to tell him where to find her. It will be hard for your mother's son to be a scoundrel, James, I know."
"I hope so, miss, with all my heart."
"But as scoundrels can play at honesty, there's no reason why honest men shouldn't sometimes get a bit of their own back by playing at villainy. You are deeply interested in the troubles of the Countess von Ostelen; you have been shocked by my rather cruel treatment of her; you have heard her ask me again and again to let her leave the house; and your chivalry is roused because I keep her locked in her room. Realize that part of your feelings, and think it over, because that is the sly hypocrisy on the surface of your conduct."
"I am afraid I am a bigger rascal than I thought," he said.
"I am sure you will be to-morrow when you see him. Of course you have another motive—which you understand will be dragged out of you when the Count, who will be suspicious, begins to question you. You want money and a place in the household of the Duke, his father. The dollars will be the main thing. Half the sum down before you open your lips: the rest when you complete the work. That is, the Count is to give it to you when you let him into the house to fetch the lady away."
"What sum should I name?" he asked with a grin.
"I don't think a thousand dollars would be too much for such information; but this is a poor country, so we'll put it at about half that—fifteen hundred gulden. Your honour is worth more than that, James; but, as good Americans, we must gauge the conditions of the market. Take those letters now, and when you come back I will have ready for you a letter in bad German, which you will copy—telling the Count you are my servant and have something pressing on your conscience—hypocrites always have bulging consciences, James—that it concerns a lady who is a prisoner in my house, and that you will pay him a visit to-morrow at half-past eleven. He has a serious appointment here at twelve; but when you tell him that you can get him into my house just after that hour, he will prefer to keep the appointment with you instead of coming here."
"I think I can do it all easily. But what am I to do when he comes?"
"I shall be there to welcome him, James. You must contrive so that you do not reach the house until half-past twelve. You can be a quarter of an hour late in going to him; the interview will last quite half an hour—you will be agitated over your villainy, you know, and will have to drive your bargain; and the ride with him to the house will take another quarter of an hour or twenty minutes. Put him into the small drawing-room which looks on to the garden behind and come to me."
I sent him away then, telling him to think it all over and to ask me any questions necessary when he returned with my clothes.
I drafted a carefully mysterious letter, such as I deemed a scoundrel would write, making much of my conscience, but hinting unmistakably at a money reward; and when he came back we discussed the whole plan in considerable detail.
We were still occupied in this way when Colonel Katona's card was brought to me. I found him looking very haggard and worn with the emotions and incidents of the preceding night; but he held my hand and pressed it very warmly, and the hard eyes as he gazed at me were more like Gareth's than I would have deemed it possible for them to be.
"You have news for me, Miss von Dreschler? It is of my child?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes, it all concerns Gareth, Colonel."
"You are going to take me to her?"
"I hope so—but it will depend upon you."
"Then it is settled—there is nothing I will not do for that;" and he sighed deeply. "Tell me what you wish."
"You find me in a different mood from that of last night. Then I was thinking mainly of Gareth and a little only for myself. Now I am thinking only of myself."
"You saved me from a terrible mistake last night."
"To which you had been tempted by the man who has wronged your child. I sent Count Karl away with you that you might see how deeply you had wronged him in your suspicions."
"I saw that—afterwards; and saw, too, why you knew he was innocent. He speaks of little else but you."
"Count Karl knows the road which duty compels him to take, and he will follow it to the end. He is a changed man."
The Colonel looked at me earnestly for a moment, his expression inscrutable. Then he nodded.
"Yes, he is a changed man; thanks to your influence—only that."
"The cause is of no consequence; it is only the fact that matters."
"You are very strong—for such a child."
"I have a strong purpose, Colonel Katona. I am going to be true to that purpose now with you."
"I am afraid I know what you are going to say."
"To ask plainly whether you will do justice to my father and tell me the whole story of that cruel wrong."
"The whole story?" he asked, anxiety in both look and tone.
"The whole story—nothing less will satisfy me."
He paused in evident distress, and pressed his hand tightly on his forehead. "It cannot be. It is impossible. Count Karl urged me—he of all men—but I told him what I tell you—it is impossible."
"Then you will never see Gareth again." I made my voice as hard and cold as I could.
"I have feared this," he murmured.
"And I, Colonel Katona, have worked for it."
"I cannot, I cannot," he murmured again, love and fear doing desperate battle in his mind. "You are not so cruel."
"I can be as hard as steel in this cause. Hear what I have done. I know, of course, where she is. I know the man who has done her this wrong. I have to-day so planned matters that to-morrow he shall know where to find her. If you do not speak now to help me, I declare to you that to-morrow Gareth shall be again in his arms."
A groan escaped his lips at this, and he bowed his white head as if in an agony of shame.
"Have you no mercy?" he whispered, at length.
"I am thinking of my father and his shame and ruin. You helped to kill his honour and blight his life. You were his friend. Had you mercy then, that you would ask it now of his child?"
"They told me he was dead. I swear that. I did not know the truth until years afterwards—when he had escaped. It was then too late, too late. My God, you know not what this is that you ask me to do."
"I ask for the truth. He trusted you. He has left it on record. You betrayed that trust—for your employers. You set their favour then before your friend's honour, just as now you set it before even the honour of your child."
Every one of my biting violent words went right home. He winced under the pain of them; and when I paused and he glanced up, his face could not have been more stricken had I been his judge sentencing him to death. Nay, I think he would have faced death with far less agitation.
"From you, his child, this is terrible," he murmured. "I have been very guilty; but not as you think. I was not false to your father like that. I will tell you all so far as it touches me. I know now that it was resolved that the young Count Stephen should die; and a quarrel was purposefully caused between him and your father. I was used at first only as a tool in the work. I had reason to know that the Duke Alexinatz was so incensed against your father, that it would go hard with him if he remained in Pesth."
"I know that it was at your persuasion that he made ready to fly from the city."
"It was true what I told him—Duke Ladislas wished him to leave, as otherwise the Duke himself might have been involved in the quarrel. He sent me direct to your father. Up to that point I was true to my friend. I would have given my life for him cheerfully—then."
"And after?"
"Count Stephen did go to your father's rooms in search of him, his blood heated with wine and the lies told by others; and it was there he was shot."
"You knew of this?"
"Nothing, until the next day; and then the story was told me that the two had met and quarrelled fiercely; that my friend had been killed; that the matter must be hushed up in the interests of Duke Ladislas; that he had in reality instigated it, and that loyalty to him made it impossible to speak the truth. Your father had been secretly buried, I was assured."
"I am waiting, Colonel Katona," I said, presently.
"From that point on I was guilty. My silence then was the first act of treachery; and others soon followed. I could not bring the dead to life, I was told, but I could help the living; and in helping them could save from ruin the cause to which I was pledged. The confession by your father was found and used—and I stood by and suffered his name to be dishonoured. For that I can plead no excuse."
"And when you knew that my father had not died but had been imprisoned all those years, and had escaped—what did you do then?"
"I know. I know," he exclaimed, wretchedly. "I did nothing. They came to me——"
"Who came to you?"
"Those who had done it all; and with them Count Gustav to whom all had then been told. They appealed to my loyalty to the cause, to Duke Ladislas, and to my country—and I yielded."
"Count Karl, too?"
"No. He knows nothing of it. Nothing."
"If he had known of all this and you had found the news which you thought had come from me to be true—that the man for whose family you had sinned in this way was the same who had wronged Gareth, what then?"
There was such a glitter in his eyes as they met mine that I almost feared he had read the thought and intent behind my words.
"I would have had his life first and"—he checked himself with sudden effort.
"And what?" I asked.
"I would have killed him," he murmured, doggedly.
"The rest is your secret?" I hazarded. He made no other answer than to glance at me quickly.
"If I tell you to-morrow where to find Gareth, will you make public what you have told me to-day and denounce the men who were concerned in my father's ruin?"
At the direct question he was profoundly agitated again. "Is there no other way?"
"No. None. I am pleading for my father's honour."
"I will do it," he said, with a bitter sigh.
"On your word of honour, Colonel Katona?"
"Yes. On my word of honour. God help me."
I drew a deep breath of relief. I needed no further assurance. I had seen enough to know that what I still had to tell him—that Gustav was the man he sought—would suffice to change any lingering remnant of indecision into grim set purpose.
I told him I would send him word on the following morning where he and Count Karl were to come to me at about noon.
"You will give me your hand, Christabel?" he asked, hesitating, as we were parting.
"Yes. I trust you now to undo the past."
He held my hand a moment and seemed much affected.
"I had meant to speak to you about Count Karl. He——"
"Please!" I broke in.
"If I could help your happiness it would be some recompense for my wrong to your father."
"You cannot do that."
"You care for him?"
"Please," I said again.
"I know. He has told me what stands between you. I am glad now that you made me speak—although your words stabbed me to the heart. But I am glad now—and perhaps I can help you. It should not be all tragedy for you two. But heaven knows it is tragedy whatever happens."
I was glad to be alone. The interview had tried me. I endeavoured to analyze my feelings; and I am afraid I realized that while I was jubilant at the prospect of success, the knowledge that it brought nearer the parting from Karl made me almost wish for failure.
That was rank treachery to my purpose and my dear father's memory, I know. But then, I was only a girl; and after all, even in the strongest of us, the heart will have its way at times. Mine took it then for a desolate half-hour, until I was roused by the two chattering girls who came romping in to take me away to dress for dinner.
At dinner his Excellency was thoughtful and taciturn, and we had a rather dismal meal. He noticed my dress when we met, however.
"You have your clothes, then?" he said in his dryest manner.
"Yes, my servant came to arrange the things I needed."
"I don't wish to know," he exclaimed, promptly, with a glance which showed me that he understood I had not been idle.
But after that he scarcely spoke. The girls chattered to me, chiefly making fun of the new governess before her face in the most impudent manner; but I was too busy with my own thoughts to pay much heed.
Something had happened since the General and I had parted; and I was sure it concerned me; so I waited and watched until either he should tell me or I should find it out for myself.
He sent the girls and their governess away almost before they had finished eating, and took me at once into the little salon where we usually played chess.
"Is it a compliment to me that you have arrayed yourself so?" he asked.
In that moment I seemed to guess what was in his thoughts. "It is perhaps a coincidence," I said with a smile.
"Why a coincidence?" He was puzzled.
"Because I had not expected to see any one but yourself."
He nodded. "That instinct of yours always interests me."
I had gone to the chess board and taken two or three pieces out of the box. I put them back. "So we are not to play chess to-night. Who is it?"
"No, there you are wrong for once. We are to play. I have spoken of your chess-playing powers to a very old friend of mine, and he is coming to see us play."
I shook my head. "Your Excellency means that the game is to be a pretext. What is his name?"
"I am not 'your Excellency' to you, Christabel. It is General von Walther—an old comrade of mine."
"I am getting interested in him already—an old comrade whose unexpected visit made you so thoughtful during dinner that you could scarcely speak a word. On my account, too. The only time you spoke was to express satisfaction that I was dressed well enough to receive him."
"You are building a palace with match boxes, Christabel. You had better set the men."
I set them and we began to play. I made two or three egregiously bad moves; and he did not notice them. The "old comrade" was evidently still absorbing his thoughts; and began to fill mine too.
"Hadn't we better have something more like a real game when he comes in? It should at least look like serious chess," I said, and was making some impromptu changes in the positions of the men when General von Walther was announced.
I shut down the smile which followed my first glance at him. It was too bad of his Excellency to try and deceive me. I had seen the "old comrade" before, however; and I was not likely to forget him. It was Duke Ladislas himself.
They both played up to the arranged parts, and of course I did my best to help them.
"Come in, old friend," said his Excellency, genially. "This is the chess prodigy. My old friend General von Walther, Miss Gilmore."
"His Excellency always flatters me, General, because on one occasion I was lucky enough to beat him."
"I am delighted to meet you, Miss von Dreschler," said the "general," so occupied in giving me a sharp look that he did not notice he had used the wrong name. "You are a great favourite of my old friend."
I made an appropriate reply, and for some minutes we chatted about chess, and the weather, and what I thought of Pesth, and so on—anything except what he must have come to speak about; whatever that was.
Then I challenged him laughingly to a game; but I suppose he was in reality no player at all, for he got out of the challenge by saying he would rather look on.
So we went on with our game again and had made some half a dozen moves, when a servant came to say that Count Somassy, the Minister of Justice, wished to speak with his Excellency. He pretended intense regret for the interruption to our game, begged us both to excuse him for a few minutes, and then the "old comrade" and I were left alone. I knew of course that this had all been arranged; and that we were now to come to the real business of the meeting.
"You are staying some time in Pesth?" he opened.
"I scarcely know. You see I am a foreigner now, and an American citizen is never long away from the States without a heart ache."
"You say 'now,'" he commented, as I had intended. I thought he would appreciate the word.
"Yes. I am Hungarian by birth—but a naturalized citizen of the United States. Here, of course, I am only a girl; but at home, in Jefferson City, Missouri, I am quite a person of importance. I inherited my uncle's fortune, and over there you know we reckon importance by dollars. You would be astonished at the consideration I receive in my travels from all our representatives, consuls, and even ambassadors."
This was not strictly accurate; but the point had to be driven home that he could not play monkey-tricks with me. He did not like this any more than I thought he would, and paused so long that I said: "Shall we not have a game, General, while his Excellency is away? It looks as if his sudden appointment might last some time."
I think he began to gather in that I was not quite fooled by the little entertainment.
"I think not, thank you. The fact is I wish to speak to you on some matters."
"Connected with America?"
"Well, not exactly. Rather of a private character."
I froze instantly and was appropriately dignified. "I don't think I quite understand. In Missouri we don't discuss our private affairs with strangers."
"This is not Missouri," he said, dropping for the moment the "old comrade" tone and using the brief curt note of authority. As an American citizen I resented the tone and rose.
"I am not a school girl, sir, having a lesson in geography." It was intentionally pert and flippant, and I made him a bow and moved toward the door.
"I am sorry. Pray forgive my manner. An old soldier, you know, drops now and again into the drill manner."
"American women do not take kindly to drilling, General."
"No, no, Miss Gilmore; you must acquit me of any intention to offend you. I wish to speak to you seriously. Pray sit down again."
I should have been intensely sorry to have ended so promising an interview, so I sat down and stared stonily at him. He was one of those vulture-faced old men, with a large hook nose, a wide mouth, and a small square chin, which when he spoke suggested irresistibly the moving lower bill of the bird. He had dark, piercing, beady eyes, rather deep set under prominent eyebrows, and a waxen white forehead, rounded like a bird's poll.
"I wish to speak to you about Count Gustav."
"Yes?"
"I am a friend of his and his family, and possess their confidence, and being also a friend of General von Erlanger's, I thought it would be desirable for me to speak with you."
"Yes?"
"As a mutual friend, if I may say so, and an old man of long experience of the world."
"Yes?" I said again, maintaining the same stony stare.
"Count Gustav has told me the facts, and as it is generally the case in these exceedingly private and painful matters a solution satisfactory to both sides can be found by a third disinterested person—where there is a mutual desire to find one, of course—he deemed it best, and I agreed with him, that I should see you and speak plainly and frankly to you."
This time when he paused I bowed merely and said nothing.
"I may take it that you do desire some arrangement? You are silent, but I presume it; because I am convinced so charming a young lady as yourself could not harbour any personal malice against the Count. That would be a monstrous thought. And further, you are so capable, so exceptionally capable and clever, that you cannot have disguised from yourself that to attempt to harm a member of the Ducal family, whatever the motive or supposed facts, would not only end in failure, but also in personal inconvenience, to use no stronger term, to the person making the attempt."
I kept my eyes fixed steadily on him; and my stare and silence began to tell on his temper. I was rather glad to see that.
Getting no reply, he made another long speech about his amiable intentions, my many excellent qualities, his extreme reluctance to see me come to harm, the impossibility of my hurting Count Gustav, and the necessity for an amicable settlement. But he made the threat a little more unmistakable this time—owing possibly to his anger at my stony reserve.
He paused, and we looked at one another in silence.
Then as if he had done with preambles he said: "And now, what is it you want? I invite you to speak frankly."
"'Frankly'?" I repeated, with a nasty little accent on the word. "May I put two questions to you?" He bowed and waved his hands. Like the rest of him they were bird-like and suggested talons. "Do you come to me from Count Gustav or from the Duke himself?"
"I speak for—both," he answered, not without hesitation.
"Then please tell me what is behind your threat of 'personal inconvenience'? What do they intend to do, if I refuse to come to an arrangement? Whatcanthey do to me?"
"They are strong enough to frustrate any attack of the kind from you or any one else."
"But whatcanthey do? You are amutualfriend, you know, General;" and I gave him one of my sweetest smiles.
"I have no hesitation in saying you might be in great personal danger, Miss Gilmore."
"I have already reminded you that I am an American citizen."
"You may take it from me that you will be prevented from taking any action of the hostile kind you contemplate."
I smiled again. "I am not in the least frightened, General. I am smiling because you come to me to speak about a mutual arrangement—when you have made up your mind that the only arrangement to be thought of is unconditional surrender on my part. And to force that, you threaten me with unspeakable penalties. We shouldn't call that any sort of arrangement at all, in the States, but merely—pardon the word—bluff."
I was gaining my first point rapidly. He was getting very angry at my opposition and the way I put it.
"I was prepared to find you a very daring young woman; but this thing shall not be allowed to go farther. You reckon on General von Erlanger's help; but he will be powerless here."
I indulged him with a third smile. "You are not quite right there. I have done something else. Knowing the Duke's power and influence might prevent his Excellency from protecting me, I wrote out an account of the matter and have arranged that—if anything unforeseen should happen to me, to-night, for instance—it shall be placed to-morrow morning in the hands of the American Consul. And even against the Ducal family, I will back my Government to keep its end up."
I paused, but he had nothing ready to answer that with; so I continued: "I think you'll agree that that foresight of mine cancels your threat, and that we can start in again on equal terms."
His talons having failed to grip me now gripped one another, and with considerable tension too. His right hand fastened like a vice on his left wrist.
"I did not threaten you, I only warned you. What is it you want?"
"In the first place, fair play—and it is not playing fairly for Duke Ladislas to come to me in the disguise of a mutual friend."
"You know me, then?"
"As well as you know me. Inadvertently, when you entered, you called me by my name—von Dreschler. You know, also, one of the objects I seek—justice for my father's name. That it be cleared from the shame and disgrace foully and treacherously put upon it in the interest of you and your family—the responsibility for a deed of blood of which he was innocent, but which you, or those promoting your interests, instigated, planned, and carried out."
"'Fore God, you speak daringly, madam."
"I speak the truth, my Lord, just as I demand to have justice done. Not demand only, but command it shall be done—for the power to command has been put into my hands by the perfidy and wickedness of your son, Count Gustav."
I looked for an outburst from him in response; but none came. He sat silent, the right talon still gripping the left as though he wished it were my throat.
"I do not know with what motive you came to me," I said after a pause; "unless it was to try and frighten me into silence. But I will deal more frankly with you than you with me. If you have come to offer me less than justice to my father's memory, we are only wasting time; and the interview, painful to both, may as well end right now."
"I offer you that and no less," he answered, and he loosed his wrist to wave his hand as if with a gesture of compliance.
It was my turn to be surprised now; but I was sceptical at so ready a surrender after his threats. "That is glad news, indeed. When will the truth be made known?"
"At once. I will see that it is done. As others have done, you have misjudged me. I see that of course. I have been secretly deemed, I know, to have had some guilty connivance in the death of the young Count Stephen; and in that, have had to bear the blame for the acts of my too zealous adherents. My family profited by their rashness; and so the world held, as it will, that advantage and guilt went hand in hand."
"I seek in that awful matter only justice for my father's memory. Restore his good name, and who else loses or gains, is nothing to me."
"I pledge myself as to that. The facts shall be drawn up and made public; and further, I will interest myself to secure that the title he held, Count Melnik, shall be restored to you, together with the estate which was confiscated. Full justice shall be done."
"Thank God for that!" I exclaimed, intensely moved.
"To-morrow, my son Gustav is to come here to you, and he shall bring with him full confirmation in writing of what I have now promised you. On that I give you my word."
I leant back in my chair overcome. The knowledge of what I had gained mingled with the poignant regret that my dear father had not lived to share the joy of his vindication brought the tears to my eyes. I could not speak, so mastering was the emotion.
"I will leave you now, Miss von Dreschler," said the Duke as he rose. "When we next meet you will be the Countess Melnik—not that I think you will value such a title except for what it means—the full restitution of your dead father's honour."
He held out his hand, and I rose and gave him mine in silence.
When he had gone I sank back in my chair, elation at my success still battling with that vehement but useless regret that my father had not lived to see that night; and the battle was still being waged when his Excellency entered.
I dashed away my tears.
"I have won," I said, smiling. "I am sure I owe it chiefly to you. The Duke has given me a solemn promise that my father's name shall be cleared."
I looked for a sign of congratulation; but instead, my old friend glanced at me slowly and very shrewdly, and moved on to his chair.
"You are an excellent linguist, but probably do not know the dead languages, Christabel. There is an old tag of Virgil's for instance: 'Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes'."
"I know what that means, at any rate," I cried. "'I fear the Greeks even when bearing gifts.'"
He turned and looked at me again very thoughtfully. Then nodding his head he answered with slow emphasis; "It is possible to learn the meaning of it—even in Pesth."
"You think this is a Greek gift?"
"I think—we may still finish our game of chess, Christabel;" and he came over to the board and examined the position of the men.
"There is always this about chess," said his Excellency, when I had taken my place opposite to him; "you cannot play it unless you detach your thoughts from all other matters."
"I don't wish to detach mine," I returned.
"Then I shall certainly beat you; for I intend to detach mine, at all events for a few moves. Now study this position;" and he insisted on talking chess for some minutes, and then we played. Gradually the fascination which the game always had laid hold of me, and, concentrating my thoughts upon it, I began to play very carefully, until I caught my old friend's eyes studying my face instead of the game.
"I think you are playing earnestly now, so that we may as well stop and talk. While I light a cigar, think back to your conversation, and then tell me your impressions."
He was unusually deliberate in choosing and lighting his cigar, and leaving the chess table threw himself into an easy lounge chair and smoked for a while in silence.
"Well—what are the impressions?"
"You have disturbed them and me," I replied.
"Intentionally."
"Just as you intentionally misled me about your 'old comrade'."
"He made me do that; but I knew you would see through it; and I had no scruple."
"Buthewas surprised when I told him who he was."
"No man likes to have his incognito fail him. But your impressions."
"I think he will do what he said—and what I wish. You know what he promised?
"Oh yes, that of course."
"He did not come prepared to do it."
"No. You have made another convert, Christabel. He is charmed with you. You are a wonderful little lady."
"I did not exert many charms. I was just as hard as a stone, and then said things that made him look as if he would gladly have taken me by the throat with those talon hands of his."
"It was that daring of yours that won him round. I don't know all you said; but from what he told me, I should think he was never spoken to in such a way before by man or woman—or child; for you are really little more than a child."
"What do you think he meant to do in coming here?" I asked.
"That was what made me so thoughtful during dinner."
"You are keeping something from me."
"I?"
"Well, you mean thatheis?"
"I know him. It would be very remarkable if he were not."
"But you agree that he will do as he promised?"
"'I fear the Greeks even when they bring gifts,'" he quoted again. "At least, I should if I were you. His influence is great; and in a week or so I should think you will be Countess Melnik. I don't think anything you can ask him for will be refused. You will be as much honoured as your father was the reverse."
"The scent is too cold. I do not understand," I said, after a pause.
"You are not meant to—nor will it affect you. You have been threatening a good many plans, little lady. I like to see you at fault. It is a rare pleasure."
"It cannot be about Colonel Katona's daughter. If he knows of that he knows what I told Count Gustav. He will not deem me likely to desert her. Yes, I am at fault."
"You have not told me yet what passed at that house where I found you to-day."
I told him everything, except as to what had passed between Karl and myself.
"It is all grave enough," he said. "A secret is very much like dynamite—unless there is great care, the explosion may hurt the holder. I have told you often enough how great a favourite Count Gustav is; not with his father only, but with us all."
"'Us'?" I repeated.
"I am one of the Patriots. Count Karl lacks both force in himself and support outside."
"He is not understood."
His Excellency's eyes brightened. "Is that why you have not told me what you and he may have said to one another?"
I felt the colour steal up into my cheeks. "It was not necessary."
"No, Christabel, that is just the word—not necessary." He glanced at his watch. "Dear me, it is quite late. I must send you to bed."
"You have not shown me the scent," I cried, with a little shrug of irritation; as I began to pack away the chessmen.
He regarded me with the old amused twinkle in his eyes, and then with a glance at the chess-board, a thought struck him and he crossed to me. "You are fond of chess problems, by the way. I'll set you one."
He swept all the black pieces off the board except the king and one pawn, and then left the white king and five white pawns, two of the latter so placed that but one move for each was necessary for them to become queens.
"Could you win that game if you were white?" he asked.
"It is but childish; of course these pawns become queens."
"Exactly. In chess any pawn that can get far enough can be a queen—but not in life, you know. Good-night, Christabel."
I scarcely heard his good-night, but sat staring down at the little pieces where he had placed them.
"You think that any such thing was in his thoughts?"
"What I think is—that orange-blossoms have a very charming scent, Christabel, and Count Gustav is the hope of the Patriots. Again, good-night, child. You have won your victory—by your own wits mainly, although other things have been fighting for you. Go to bed and dream of it, and remember—the first obligation of a conqueror is magnanimity. No—no more to-night, child, except—God bless you and give you happiness."
I lay a long time thinking over the events of that full day, and wrestling with the problem which his Excellency's last words had set me: "The first obligation of a conqueror is magnanimity."
So that was the secret. I had won in the struggle. Not only was my father's fame to be righted, but I was to be honoured, not from any recognition of justice, but in order that I might be a fit wife for a duke's son.
Then I was to be "magnanimous," too; which meant that I was to consent to acquiesce in the family arrangement by which Karl was to be set aside in favour of Gustav; and to cease all my efforts against him.
I had beaten them in all other respects; and now they had seized upon Karl's old feelings for me, and had somehow divined mine for him; and the two were made the subject-matter of this new bribery-bargain.
The shame of it made my cheeks burn and flush in the darkness; and I winced and cowered at the humiliation as the bitter thoughts crowded thick and fast upon me. I recalled what had passed between the Duke and me, and reading it all now by the light of this later knowledge, my pride was stabbed and pierced by a hundred poisoned darts that rankled and festered with cruel pain.
He had come to view me as a possible wife for the son whom he designed to disinherit! My love for Karl was to be made a stake in the game of injustice he would play! I was to be tossed to Karl as a sort of compensation for his wrongs; and I was to be "honoured" that I might be duly rendered fit for the position! The show of reparation to my father was a mere sham and pretence to tinsel another wrong! My duty to the dead, the solemn charge laid upon me, was to be a lever to force me to consent to it! And this was my victory!
Is it to be wondered at that the ashes gritted my teeth; that in my hot indignation, I spurned the whole transaction as base and ignoble, and that I vowed rather to forego my supreme purpose than gain it at such a price. My father's honour was dear to me; but he would never have me win it for him at the price of my own.
The whole bargain was dishonourable alike to the dead and to me; and the mere proposal should harden my heart and stiffen my resolve to go through with my task in my own way.
I grew less passionate when I had settled this resolve firmly; and was able to reflect upon the probable result of the Duke's intention to my plans. They were now in danger of being badly broken up. If he kept his word and sent Count Gustav to me with what he had termed the written confirmation of his promise, it was clear that the scene I had planned to take place at my house would be prevented.
The Count could not be in both places at once; but would he come to me, if James Perry played his part well? I had to risk everything on my judgment of his action. Long and anxiously I weighed that problem; and at length decided he would not come to me, if once he was persuaded that he could get hold of Gareth in despite of me.
He knew that she was the key to everything for me. If he could whisk her away from my care, my power over him was gone. I might accuse him to Colonel Katona as the man who had wronged her; but if she was bestowed safely in his charge, he could laugh at the accusation, and could challenge me safely to produce any proofs of it.
Moreover, I had so planned that he would feel safe in testing the truth of the story which James Perry would tell him; and would see that if he found it false, he could still come to the meeting, scarcely an hour behind his time. For such a delay, a hundred excuses could be pleaded; and he was not the man to be at fault for some plausible one.
He would test it, I felt confident. He had everything to gain by doing so, and nothing to lose. At least so he would reason. Success would mean all in all; failure no more than the need to invent an excuse.
I determined to go on, therefore; and fell asleep at last in complete assurance that on the morrow matters would go as I had planned before the Duke had seen me.
In the morning General von Erlanger greeted me with even more than his usual kindliness.
"You have not slept well, Christabel," he said. I suppose my face showed this.
"I had to think."
"What are you going to do? You know all that I meant in what I said at parting last night?"
"I am going to wait for the meeting at noon."
"And then?"
"If no one comes I shall go away."
"There is of course something behind that. But Count Gustav will come. His father will see to that."
"Are you against me, too, in this development?"
"I should never be against you. But I wish you to be on our side."
"If I can no longer tell you all that is in my thoughts, do not blame me. Let us wait for the meeting. I am afraid, if I were to speak, some of my chagrin might show itself."
He made a gesture of disappointment. "I have lived too long in the world, Christabel, to look for either schemes or counsels of perfection. Life must always be a compromise. I will not counsel you now; I will only hope."
"That is at least left to us all—even to me in this."
He gave me a sharp look, threw up his head slightly, and said: "Remember, Count Gustav is necessary to the country."
"It is an unfortunate country, then," I retorted, rather tartly; and we said no more.
Soon after breakfast James Perry came. He told me that he had written the letter; and I gave him his final lessons, and said that his father, who was waiting close at hand—was to take a letter which I had written to Colonel Katona, and then to be at the door with the carriage for me at twelve o'clock to the instant.
In the letter to Colonel Katona I merely gave him my address, and said I would be there within half an hour of midday to meet him and Count Karl.
When I had arranged those details, I had nothing to do except wait for the time of the meeting with such patience as I could command.
I did not know that two hours could possibly contain so many weary dragging minutes as those. I resorted to every device I could think of to use up the time. I walked up and down the room counting my steps. I tried to read; only to fling the book away from me. I repeated a quantity of poetry, from Shakespeare to Walt Whitman. I got the chess board out and tried problems; only at last to give it all up and just think and think and think.
At eleven o'clock I went to my bedroom and put on my hat in readiness, although I was not to leave until an hour later. Then to find something for my hands to do, I unpacked my trunk and tumbled all my clothes in a heap; and began refolding and repacking them with deliberate care.
I was in the midst of this most uninteresting task when a servant brought a message that General von Erlanger would like to see me.
I bundled everything back into the trunk anyhow and anywhere, locked it and went down. It was half-past eleven by the great hall clock as I crossed to the library. James Perry was just about making his entrance as traitor.
His Excellency was fingering a letter as I went in.
"I am anxious to have a last talk with you before Count Gustav comes, Christabel. There are some things I wish you to see quite plainly."
"We have only half an hour," said I.
"No, we may have longer. I have a line from the Count to say that an unexpected but very pressing engagement may prevent his being quite punctual; and he begs me to explain this to you."
"Oh, General, what perfectly glorious marguerites!" I exclaimed, enthusiastically, turning to point to the flowers in the garden, lest he should see my face and read there the effect of his words. Count Gustav's engagement was with James Perry; and my heart beat fast as I saw victory ahead.
His Excellency crossed and stood by me. "Yes, they are beautiful. I pride myself on my marguerites, you know. But—isn't it a little singular they should appeal to you so strongly at this particular moment?"
"I love marguerites," I replied, with a smile. I was master of my features again then.
"So do I. To me they stand for simplicity, truth, trust and candour, especially between friends—such as, say, you and myself, Christabel."
We exchanged looks; mine smiling; his grave, very gentle, and a little reproachful.