By Wit of Woman - Arthur W. Marchmont (e textbook reader .TXT) 📗

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.

CHAPTER XIII GETTING READY

I don't like having to own that General von Erlanger went a little too far in saying that nothing could frighten me. The terms in which he had spoken of the Patriotic movement and his reference to its compassionless sacrifice of victims disturbed me profoundly.

I passed a sleepless, tumbling, anxious night; and if it be fear to conjure up all kinds of possible horrors, to shrink at the thought that even my life might be in danger, and to lie wincing and cringing and shuddering at the prospect of cruelty and torture, then certainly I was horribly frightened.

I was a prey to bitter unavailing regret that I had so lightly and thoughtlessly set out on a path which had led me to such a pass and brought me face to face with such powerful, terrifying, and implacable adversaries.

The temptation to run away from it all seized upon me with such force that I sought in all directions for reasons which would justify cowardice and clothe it with the robe of prudence. But my fears were confronted by the conviction that I had gone too far to be able to retreat without deserting Gareth; and at that my alarm took the shape of hot but impotent indignation at my lack of foresight.

Then my sense of honour and my fear had a struggle over that sweet, innocent, trustful, child, in which all that was mean and ignoble and cowardly in my disposition fought to persuade me to desert her; and before the night was half over had all but conquered.

I was tired of playing a man's part; and in those hours of weakness, the sense of responsibility was so cruelly heavy and the desire to be only a girl and just rush away from it all so strong, that once I actually jumped from my bed and began to dress myself with feverish eagerness to leave the house and fly from the city.

But I had not even the courage of my cowardice. The recollection of that sneer of Count Gustav's—that while my name still bore the stain I was not even the equal of such a woman as Madame d'Artelle stayed me. I tore off my clothes again and crept back into bed, to lie shivering at the consciousness that if I was afraid to go through with my purpose, I was even more afraid to run away from it.

I grew calmer after a while. I put aside as mere hysterical nonsense the idea that my life could be in danger. They had not even taken my father's life. If they found me in their way, they might devise some excuse for imprisoning me. That was probably the worst that could happen. It had been in General von Erlanger's mind; and he had promised to secure my liberty. I knew I could trust myself to him.

By reflections of this kind I wrestled with my weakness and at length overcame it; and in the end fell asleep, no longer a coward, but fully resolved to carry my purpose through and fight all I knew to win.

In the morning I began at once to carry out my plan. I sent a servant to ask Madame d'Artelle if she could spare Ernestine to come and help me.

Instead of Ernestine, Madame herself came—as I had anticipated, indeed. She found me in all the middle of packing; my frocks and things spread all over the room, and my trunks open.

"What does this mean, Christabel?" she asked.

"You can see for yourself. I have had enough of plots and schemes to last my life time. I jumped up in the night and half-dressed to run away. I was so scared."

"You are going away?" Relief and pleasure were in her tone.

I laughed unpleasantly. "You need not be glad."

"I am not glad," she replied, untruthfully.

"I am putting the work into stronger hands. That's all."

"You said you could protect me."

"I have done that. Count Gustav promised as much to me yesterday. You are free to leave Pesth at once if you like. You need not marry his brother unless you wish. And after to-day, not even if you wish. Is Ernestine coming to help me?"

"I wish you would speak plainly. You always frighten me with your vague speeches. You seem to mean so much."

"I do mean very much—far more than I shall tell you. You have been no friend to me—why should I explain? Take your own course; and see what comes of it. Is Ernestine coming, I say?"

"Yes, of course she can come; but I am so frightened."

"That will do you no harm," I rapped out, bluntly. "I wash my hands of everything."

"What am I to do?" she cried, waving her hands helplessly.

"I arranged yesterday with Count Gustav that the scheme for this romantic elopement should be carried out. You can play your part for all I care. The chief thing you can do for me is to send Ernestine here."

"But I——"

"Will you send her here?" and I stamped my foot angrily, and so drove her out of the room in the condition of nervous doubt and anxiety I desired.

With the maid's help my trunks were soon packed, and the work was nearly finished when Madame d'Artelle came back.

"Count Gustav is here," she said.

"Very well. You can close that box, Ernestine, and try to pack this toque in the top of the black one. You got everything I said for the voyage in the cabin trunk."

"He insists on seeing you, Christabel."

"I'll come down when I've finished." I spoke irritably. Irritation is the natural result of a couple of hours' packing.

Everything was ready when I went downstairs.

"I hear you are going away, Miss——"

"Gilmore," I broke in, giving him a look.

"I congratulate you on your—prudence." He too, like Madame d'Artelle, was obviously both relieved and pleased at the news.

"You need not smile at it. I am not doing it to please you, Count Gustav."

"I wish to ask you a question if Madame d'Artelle——" and he paused and looked at her.

"I don't see the need of all this mystery," she answered, tossing her head as she left the room.

"Please be quick," I said, snappishly. "I am both in a hurry and a bad temper—a trying combination even for a woman of my disposition."

"You have not slept well, perhaps."

"No. I had to think. What is your question?"

"About Gareth?"

"I shall not answer it," I said shortly, and frowned as though the subject were particularly unwelcome and disturbing.

"I think I can understand;" he answered believing he could read my mood. "And about Karl and Madame?"

"I have not forgotten your sneer. I will not disgrace him." I spoke with as much bitterness and concentrated anger as I could simulate, and was pleased by the covert smile my words produced, although I appeared to be goaded to anger by it.

"I will tell you one thing. She shall not either. By to-morrow some one will be here from Paris who will see to that."

"That may be too late."

"No. You dare not do anything to-day. You dare not," I exclaimed, passionately.

"You have told that to Madame?"

"No. She is nothing to me."

"You are very bitter."

"Again, no. You have only made me indifferent;" and as if I could bear no more, I hurried out of the room.