GARETH
I was quite as anxious to avoid police interference as the men
themselves could be; but I knew the threat was more likely to drive
them off than any other.
To recover the girl, they would have bludgeoned me readily enough, if
they could have done it without being discovered; but my weapon made
that impossible. Moreover, they liked the look of the business end of
the revolver as little as many braver men.
The stick was lowered; they whispered together, and then tried to fool
me. They began to edge away from one another, so as to be able to rush
in from opposite directions.
"You stand just where you are, or I fire, right now," I called.
They stopped and swore.
"Can't a man take his own daughter home?" growled one of them.
"I am not his daughter," protested the girl.
"I know that. Don't be afraid, I shan't give you up."
"Who are you to interfere with us?" asked the other.
"I'm a man in woman's clothes," I answered, intending this tale to be
carried to their employer. "And I'll give you five seconds to clear.
You get into that carriage and drive off, the lot of you together, or
I'll bring the police about your ears. Now, one, two, if you let me
count to five, you'll eat nothing but prison fare for a year or two.
Off with you;" and emboldened by my success I made a step toward them.
It was good bluff. They shrank back; then turned tail and scurried to
the carriage, swearing copiously, and drove off in the direction of Old
Buda.
I watched the vehicle until the darkness swallowed it, and then hurried
with my companion in the opposite direction. We recrossed the bridge
and made for my house.
When we were near it I stopped, and she began to thank me volubly and
with many tears.
"Don't thank me yet. Tell me where you wish to go."
"I have nowhere to go in Pesth, sir," she answered.
I smiled at her mistake. "Let me explain. I said that about my being
a man to frighten those ruffians. I am a girl, like yourself, and have
a home close by. If you like to come to it, you will be quite safe
there."
"I trust you implicitly," she said, simply; and with that I took her to
my house.
As we entered I managed to draw out a couple of hairpins, so that when
I took off my hat, my hair came tumbling about my shoulders in
sufficient length to satisfy her of my sex. She was quick enough to
understand my reason; and with a very sweet smile she put her arm round
my waist and kissed me on the cheek.
"I did not need any proof, dear," she said. "But you are wonderful.
How I wish I were you. So brave and daring."
"You are very pretty, my dear," I answered, as I kissed her. She was;
but very pale and so fragile that I felt as if I were petting a child.
"I am so wretched," she murmured, and the tears welled up in her great
blue eyes. "If I were only strong like you!"
"You shall tell me your story presently; but first I have something to
do. Sit here a moment."
I went out and told Mrs. Perry to get us something to eat and to
prepare a bed for my friend; and I wrote a hurried line to Madame
d'Artelle that I was staying for the night with a student friend, and
sent it by Mr. Perry.
When I went back the girl was sitting in a very despondent attitude,
weeping silently; but she started up and tried to smile to me through
her tears. Then I made a discovery. She had taken off her gloves, and
on her left hand was a wedding ring.
"How can I ever thank you?" she cried.
"First by drying your tears--things might have been much worse with
you, you know; think of that; then by having some supper; I am
positively famished; and after that, if you like, you can tell me your
story, and we will see whether, by putting our heads together, we
cannot find a way to help you further."
"I am afraid----" and she broke down again.
With much persuasion I induced her to eat something and take a little
wine; and this seemed to cheer her. She dried her eyes and as we sat
side by side on a couch, she put her hand in mine and gradually nestled
into my arms like a weary wee child.
"I'll begin," I said. "My name is Christabel Gilmore. I'm an
American, and a student at the University here;" and I added some
details about the States and so on; just talking so as to give her time
to gather confidence.
"You haven't told me your name yet," I said, presently.
"I am the Countess von Ostelen. You have heard the name?" she said,
quickly, at my start of surprise.
"I was surprised, that is all. Yes. I knew the name years ago in
America. I knew the Count von Ostelen."
"He is my husband," she said, very simply. "My Christian name is
Gareth. You will call me by that, of course." With a sweet little
nervous gesture she slipped her arm away and began to finger her
wedding ring.
"I had seen that, my dear."
"Your eyes see everything, Christabel;" and her arm came about me again
and her head rested on my shoulder.
I sat silent for a few moments in perplexity. If she were Karl's wife,
how came his brother to have been----what a fool I was! Of course the
thing was plain. Gustav was the husband, and he had used his brother's
name. My heart was stirred, and my intense pity for her found vent in
a sigh.
"Why that sigh, Christabel?" Her sweet eyes fastened upon my face
nervously, and I kissed her.
"The sigh was for you, child, not for myself. Had you not better tell
me everything? Have you your husband's likeness?"
"I had it here in a locket," she said, wistfully, as she drew a chain
from her bosom. "But to-day he said the locket was not good enough for
me. I wish I had kept it now. You would have said he was the
handsomest man you had ever seen. Oh, how selfish I am," she broke
off, with a quick cry of distress and sat up.
"What is the matter?"
"I never thought of it. He was with me when those men attacked us.
Oh, if he should have been hurt!"
"You can make your mind easy about that," I said, a little drily. "I
saw the attack and that he escaped."
"He is so brave. He would have risked his life for me."
"I saw him--get away, dear," I replied. I nearly said run away; but
could not yet undeceive her.
"If anything had happened to him, it would have killed me. I would
rather have died than that." Then with a change of manner she asked:
"Did you see his face, Christabel?"
"Yes, in the moonlight, but he passed me quickly."
"But you saw he was handsome?"
"One of the handsomest men I have ever seen," I assented, to please her.
"Yes, yes. That is just it, and as good as he is handsome."
"I could not see that, of course," I answered; and then was silent. I
was growing very anxious as I saw the problem widening and deepening.
Poor trustful little soul! How should I ever break the truth to her
and not break her heart at the same time?
There was a long pause, which she broke. "Oh, how I hope he has really
escaped, as you say."
"How came you to be where I saw you?" I asked. This reminded her, as I
intended, that she had told me nothing yet.
"I said I was selfish, Christabel, didn't I? I had quite forgotten I
had told you nothing. I will tell you: but you must first give me a
promise not to repeat it. Our marriage is only a secret so far, you
know."
"On my honour, I will do nothing to harm you. Why is your marriage a
secret?"
"My husband is afraid of his father's anger. You see, Karl--"
"Karl?" I exclaimed, involuntarily.
"That is my husband's name," she replied, with a touch of rebuke and
pride. He had taken his brother's Christian name, it seemed.
"Of course," I agreed.
"My husband is a Count, but as yet only a poor one, dependent upon the
good will of his father who wishes him to marry some one else. So we
dare not let it be known yet that we are married."
"But your own friends know?" I said.
She seemed to resent this in some way as a reflection upon her husband.
"I have no friends in Pesth except my dear father. He is alive and I
know he loves me; but I don't know why, I have never lived at home for
more than a week or so at a time. I did wish to tell him; but Karl
would not let me--I mean, we decided it was better not until the truth
could be told to all." Then she showed me her innocent heart again.
"It is when I think of my father that I am so wretched. He will
believe I have deserted him so cruelly;" and her eyes were full of
tears again.
"Who is your father, dear?"
"Colonel Katona. My dear, dear father!" and her grief so overcame her
that my fresh start of surprise passed unnoticed. He had been that
friend of my father's who was believed to hold the secret of the great
wrong in his keeping. And it was his daughter whom I had thus saved.
Her tears passed soon, like a summer storm. She was a creature of
strangely variable moods.
"I know, of course, that Karl was right. My father is a stern, gloomy
and sometimes hard man. He would have forced us to announce the
marriage; and then Karl would have been ruined."
"But did not your father know that he wished to marry you?"
"Oh, no," she cried, smiling now. "That was the lovely part of it. He
never saw Karl. I meant it to be a surprise. I was at Tyrnau, staying
with friends, when we met, and it was all settled in a few weeks. You
see Karl loved me and I loved him, and--that was all."
"You were married at Tyrnau?"
She shook her head gaily. "No. It was such fun. We ran away
together, and were married by a friend of Karl's in his house at
Sillien, in the mountains. A heaven of a place. My home is there.
Oh, the loveliest of homes, Christabel. You will say so when you see
it."
"I may never see it, my dear."
"Oh, but of course you will. You will come and stay with me. You will
be my dear friend always; and Karl's too, when he knows how you saved
me to-night. And it will never be lonely there any more."
"How came you to be in Pesth to-night then?" I asked, smothering the
sigh which her last words impelled.
"I suppose I did wrong to come. A wife should obey her husband, of
course, but I couldn't help it. You see, lately his father has kept
Karl so much here that I have scarcely seen him; and something is going
to happen; I shan't be alone then; and--you understand, I wanted to let
my father know I was married before my child was born. I wrote this to
Karl, and--it was naughty and wicked of me, I know--but when he would
not consent, I came to Pesth to-day and surprised him."
"Yes, I think I understand," said I. It was easy to read now, indeed.
Her visit meant discovery for him, and he had improvised the means of
getting rid of her which I had prevented. "He was very angry, I
suppose?"
"At first, yes. He tried to make me go back to Sillien; but I could
not. I could not, could I, Christabel? And when he saw I was in
earnest--I can be firm when I will"--and she made a great effort to
look resolute and determined--"and said I would go to my father
to-morrow, he gave in and kissed me, and agreed to take me to his
father and admit everything. We were on our way there when we were
attacked. I knew his love for me would conquer in the end. How
delighted he will be when he knows that after all I am safe."
"You will see him to-morrow and tell him. You know where to find him
in the city here?"
Her face clouded. "That is a strange thing. He was so afraid of his
father's anger that he dared not let me write to his home. He gave me
an address in the Altgasse, but it is only a place where letters are
received. But I shall find him, of course, easily."
"Would you take my advice, if I gave it?"
"In that, oh yes, of course. I know you are clever."
"It is to go straight to your father, Colonel Katona, and tell him all."
"Oh, no, no, no, I dare not now," she cried, shrinking timidly. "Karl
made me take an oath to-day on the holy crucifix that, whatever
happened, I would never tell my father without his permission."
"Why?"
"Because no one but Karl must break the news of our marriage to his
father. No, no. I dare not. I dare not. I cannot break my oath. I
should be false to the Holy Church." And at the mere thought of it she
began to tremble.
It was clever; a stroke of almost diabolical cleverness; knowing the
simple, trusting child, to close her lips by such an oath.
"You will not betray us?" she cried, taking alarm at my silence and
serious expression. "You are my friend?"
"Yes, I am your friend, my dear, and will always be, if you want one."
She was a very tender little thing, and as I kissed her she threw her
arms round my neck and clung to me. "And now, I'll give you some other
advice--to go to bed; and after a night's rest, I daresay we shall see
our way."
After I had seen her into bed and shown her that her room opened into
mine, I went downstairs to think over all she had told me, all the
tangle of trouble ahead for her, and its possible effects upon my
course.
It was quite late when at length I went to bed; and I was lying unable
to sleep in my perplexed anxiety when I heard her call out as if in
fear. I started up and then she came running into my room.
"Are you awake, Christabel?"
"What is it, dear?"
"I have had a dream and am frightened. Let me come to you."
And just like a child she crept into my bed and into my arms.
"I dreamt that Karl was dead and that my father had killed him," she
moaned. "And he was going to kill me and my child when I screamed out
and woke."
Was it an omen? The thought stayed with me long after I had calmed her
fright and soothed her to sleep.
God help the helpless, trustful, clinging child! It might well be an
omen, indeed. My heart was heavy for her and her trouble.