GARETH'S FATHER
The next day was a busy one for me, for I had to find a place in which
Gareth could remain safely hidden.
This I felt to be impracticable in my present house. I had rented it
on first coming to Pesth, and it was recorded as my address in the
register of the University. It was, of course, certain that Count
Gustav would have every possible inquiry made about me; and if he or
his agents came to the house, Gareth's presence would at once become
known.
Fortunately, I had already commenced some negotiations to take a villa
in a secluded part of the hilly district of Buda; and my first step
that morning was to go out and complete the matter, so that I could
remove that day. I wrote to Madame d'Artelle that I was called out of
Pesth, and should return to her on the following day.
I knew quite enough of Count Gustav already to be fully aware that my
discovery of his secret in regard to Gareth might prove a source of
danger to me. Discreetly used, it might be of the most vital
importance for my purposes. But he was a very formidable antagonist;
and unless I acted with the utmost wariness and caution, I knew he
would beat me.
If I had read his actions aright, he would go to any length to prevent
the secret of his marriage getting known; and until I was quite
prepared for emergencies, I must guard my knowledge of it jealously.
I was to score the first point. The next morning brought me news from
Paris--a telegram from James Perry telling me the whereabouts of M.
Constans. I should therefore have that knowledge to take with me to
Madame d'Artelle's.
With Gareth, however, I had some difficulty. The view she took of
Count Gustav was of course diametrically opposed to mine. This was
natural enough. To her he was just the loving husband who would be in
an agony of suspense until he knew of her safety. The belief that he
was suffering such suspense added to her own grief and worry; and
during the day we were removing to the villa she was very impatient of
the delay involved.
She was ill both in body and mind; and how to deal with her caused me
much thought and anxiety. To tell her what I was convinced was the
truth in regard to the Count was impossible, even had I wished to do
so. She would not have accepted me as a witness against her faith in
him. Moreover, I had no wish to break down that faith yet. What I
desired, rather, was to find means to compel him to do her justice; and
unwittingly she made that task, hard as it was, more difficult by her
attitude.
I repeated my urgent advice--that she should go to her father and tell
him everything; but she would not listen to me. On the contrary, she
declared that no earthly consideration would induce her to break the
solemn vow she had taken; and nothing I could say made the slightest
impression upon that resolve.
I could not tell her what I knew well enough was the case--that unless
she took that course she would be in danger. I was convinced that
Count Gustav would have a very sharp search made for her and that, if
he discovered her, he would contrive to get her to a place where she
would be prevented from causing him any trouble.
But her faith in him was unshakable. "I shall show myself in the
streets," she said, smiling, "and go everywhere until I meet him. He
will be desperate until he knows I am safe."
I had to frighten this intention away. "What will happen if you do is
this," I told her. "Either your father will meet you; or the men who
attacked you will see you, and in order to prevent your accusing them
will make away with you. If you will trust me to make this search for
you, I will do it; but only on condition that you promise me not to
stir from the house unless I am with you."
Scared in this way, she at length was induced to give the promise.
It was at best but an unsatisfactory compromise; and more than once I
debated with myself whether, in her interests, I should not be
justified in breaking the pledge of secrecy and going to Colonel Katona
myself.
But I put that course aside for the moment and set out for Madame
d'Artelle's house.
I had not been two minutes with her before I saw that a considerable
change had come over the position in my absence. She was so
affectionate that I knew she was deceiving me. She over-acted her new
role outrageously. She overwhelmed me with kisses and caresses, called
Heaven to witness how much she had missed me, and declared she had been
inconsolably miserable in my absence. Considering the terms on which
we had parted, I should have been a mole not to have seen that this was
false.
She was so afraid of offending me indeed, that she scarcely dared to
show a legitimate curiosity as to the cause of my absence. She had
obviously been coached by Count Gustav; and when a man coaches a woman,
he generally makes her blunder. I could see that she was quivering to
know what I had been doing, and on tenterhooks lest I had been working
against her.
I thought it judicious, therefore, to frighten her a little; and when
the due moment came I asked, significantly: "Have you the proofs yet of
M. Constan's death?"
"You are not going to talk of disagreeable things directly you get
back, are you?"
"His death would not be disagreeable to you, Henriette?"
"You cannot guess what I have endured from that man. I tell you,
Christabel, he is a man to raise the devil in a woman."
"A good many men can do that," I said, sententiously. "But if he is
dead he can raise no more devils in either man or woman. Where did he
die and when?"
"It does not matter to me now whether he is dead or living. You have
had your way. I shall not marry Count Karl."
"And your gratitude to me for this is the reason of your kisses and
caresses on my return?"
She was very easy to stab; and her eyes flashed with sudden anger. She
was too angry indeed to reply at once.
"You are a very singular girl, Christabel--very difficult to love," she
said, as if to reproach me.
"Easier to hate, perhaps; but you should not pretend to love me. We
need not make believe to love each other, Henriette. I do not love
you. I saved your life in Paris, and when I found you here you wished
me to come into your house because you thought you could more easily
prevent my saying what I knew about you. That has more to do with fear
than love--much more. And it does not seem to have occurred to you
that I too might have a selfish motive in coming."
"What was it?" She rapped the question out very sharply.
"For one thing I thought it would be interesting to know what the
information was which your employers in France wished you to obtain."
"Then you are a spy, after all?" she cried, angrily.
"No. A spy, in the sense you mean, is a person paid by employers to
obtain information--as the police used to pay Madame Constans in Paris.
I have no employers. I am seeking my own way, and acting for myself.
You will see the difference. Now will you tell me what you were sent
here to do?"
"You are right in one thing, Christabel--you are easier to hate than to
love."
"That does not answer my question."
"I am no spy."
"Henriette! I have been in communication with Paris since I saw you,
and a special messenger is now on his way here to me with full tidings.
Let us be frank with one another. You promised to advance my fortunes:
Count Gustav has made the same promise--why then should you try to
deceive me? It is not playing the game fairly."
"I have not tried to deceive you."
"Henriette!" I cried again, this time with a laugh. "What! when you
have changed your plans entirely within the last few hours?"
She could not suppress a start at this, and tried to cover it with a
laughing suggestion of its absurdity. "You are ridiculous--always
finding mysteries," she said.
"Finding them _out_, you mean," I retorted, slowly and significantly.
"Will you leave me to do this now, or will you tell me frankly?"
"There is no new plan."
"You will find it not only useless but unsafe to attempt to deceive me.
I know already much of the new plan and within a few hours shall know
all." She had been already so impressed by the discoveries I had made
that she was quite prepared to believe this bluff; and she was so
nervous and agitated that she would not trust herself to speak.
I paused some moments and then said with impressive deliberation:
"Henriette, our relative positions here are changing fast. I came here
that you might help me to push my fortunes. I know so much and am so
much better and stronger a player than you, that either I shall leave
you altogether to carry my knowledge to those who need it badly, or I
shall stay to protect you and your fortunes from the man who is
threatening both. Think of that while I go upstairs to my room; and
think closely, for your future--ruin or success--is the stake at issue;
and one false step may cost you everything."
"You mean to threaten me?" she cried, half nervously, half in bravado.
"It is more an offer of help than a threat; but you can regard it as
you please;" and I went out of the room.
I ran up hastily to my room full of a new idea which had just occurred
to me; but fortunately not so preoccupied as to keep my eyes shut. As
I passed Madame d'Artelle's room the door was not quite closed, and
through the narrow slit I caught a glimpse of Ernestine. She was
vigorously dusting some object that was out of my line of sight.
I am accustomed to study trifles; they often act as finger posts at the
forked roads of difficulty and point the proper way. Ernestine was a
very particular lady's maid indeed, and never dreamt of dusting out
rooms. Why then was she so busy?
I paused and managed to get a peep at the object of her unusual
industry. It was a travelling trunk; large enough to hold a big
suggestion for me. I pushed the door open.
"Good-morning, Ernestine. I've come back, you see," I said, smiling.
"Ah, good-morning, Mademoiselle Gilmore. I am glad to see you."
Ernestine was very friendly to me. I had bought her goodwill.
"Madame and I have been talking over our arrangements," I said,
lightly. "It is all rather sudden. Do you think you will have time to
alter that black silk bodice for me before we start?"
"I'm afraid not, mademoiselle. You see every thing has to be packed."
"Of course it has. If I had thought of it, I would have left it out
for you before I went, the day before yesterday."
"If I had known I would have asked you for it, mademoiselle. But I had
not a hint until this morning."
"Come up and see if we cannot contrive something. A bertha of old lace
might do for the time."
I did not wish Madame to catch me in her room, so Ernestine and I went
on to mine. We talked dress for a couple of minutes and, as I wished
her not to speak of the conversation, I said that as the alteration
could not be made, I might as well give her the dress. It was nearly
new, and delighted her.
"I suppose you'll be ready in time? You are such a clever packer. But
the time is short."
She repudiated the suggestion of being behind. "I have all to-day and
part of to-morrow. I could pack for you as well," she cried, with a
sweep of her hand round the room.
"Never mind about that. I may not go yet."
"Oh no, of course not;" and she laughed archly. "They will not want
Mademoiselle la Troisieme."
"_Mechante_," I cried, dismissing her with a laugh, as though I fully
understood the joke. And in truth she had given me a clue which was
very cheap at the price of a silk dress.
Instinct had warned me of the change in the position, and now I began
to understand what the new plan was. Madame had made her avowal about
not marrying Karl much too clumsily; and the dusting of that travelling
trunk, coupled with Ernestine's sly reference to "Mademoiselle la
Troisieme," was too clear to be misunderstood. They meant to hoodwink
me by an apparent abandonment of the marriage; and then make it
clandestinely.
I laughed to myself as I left the house to hurry up my own plan.
Having made sure that I was not being followed, I hailed a carriage and
drove to the neighbourhood where Colonel Katona lived.
I finished the distance on foot, and scanned the house closely as I
walked up the drive. It was a square, fair-sized house of two floors,
and very secluded. Most of the blinds were down, and all the windows
were heavily barred and most of them very dirty. It might well have
been the badly-kept home of a recluse who lived in constant fear of
burglars. Yet Colonel Katona was reputed a very brave man. Barred
windows are as useful however, for keeping those who are inside from
getting out, as for preventing those who are out from getting in; and I
remembered Gareth's statement that she had scarcely ever lived at home.
Why?
When I rang, a grizzled man, with the bearing of an old soldier, came
to the door and, in answer to my question for Colonel Katona, told me
bluntly I could not see him.
"I am a friend of his daughter and I must see the Colonel," I insisted.
He shut me outside and said he would ask his master.
Why all these precautions, I thought, as I waited; and they
strengthened my resolve not to go away without seeing him. But my use
of Gareth's name proved a passport; and presently the old soldier
returned and admitted me.
He left me in a room which I am sure had never known a woman's hand for
years; and the Colonel came to me.
He had as stern and hard a face as I had ever looked at; and it was
difficult to believe that the little shrinking timorsome child who had
nestled herself to sleep in my arms the night before could be his
daughter. The colouring pigment of the eyes was identical; but the
expression of Gareth's suggested the liquid softness of a summer sky,
while those which looked down at me were as hard as the lapis lazuli of
the Alps.
"Accept my excuses for your reception, Miss Gilmore. I am a recluse
and do not receive visitors as a rule; but you mentioned my daughter's
name. What do you want of me?"
I assumed the manner of a gauche, stupid school-girl, and began to
simper with empty inanity.
"I should never have taken you for Gareth's father," I said. "I think
you frighten me. I--I--What a lovely old house you have, and how
beautifully gloomy. I love gloomy houses. I--I----"
He frowned at my silliness; and I pretended to be silenced by the frown.
"What do you know of my--of Gareth?"
"Please don't look at me like that," I cried, getting up as if in
dismay and glancing about me. "I didn't mean to disturb you,
sir--Colonel, I mean. I--I think I had better go. But Gareth loved
you so, and loved me, and--oh----" and I stuttered and stammered in
frightened confusion.
If she has a really stern man to deal with, a girl's strongest weapon
is generally her weakness. His look softened a little at the mention
of Gareth's love for us both, as I hoped it would.
"Don't let me frighten you, please. I am a gruff old soldier and a
stern man of many sorrows; but a friend of Gareth's is a friend of
mine--still;" and he held out his hand to me.
The sorrow in that one syllable, "still," went right to my heart.
"I am very silly and--weak, I know," I said, as I put my hand timidly
into his and met his eyes with a feeble smile.
I could have sighed rather than smiled; for at that moment everything
seemed eloquent to me of pathos. The dingy, unswept room, the dust
accumulating everywhere, his unkempt hair and beard, his shabby
clothes, the dirt on the hand which closed firmly on mine--everywhere
in everything the evidences of neglect; the silent tribute to a sorrow
too absorbing to let him heed aught else.
"What can I do for you?" he asked much more gently, after a pause.
"Oh please," I cried, nervously. "Let me try and collect my poor
scattered wits. I ought not to have come, I am afraid."
"Don't say that. I am glad you have come. What could I be but glad to
see one who was a friend of Gareth's?"
"_Was_ a friend. Is a friend, I hope, Colonel, and always will be.
She always wanted me to come and see her home--but she was hardly ever
here, was she? So she couldn't ask me."
Sharp, quick, keen suspicion flashed out of his eyes, but I was
giggling so fatuously that it died away.
"Part of my sorrow and part of my punishment," he murmured.
I misunderstood him purposely. "Yes, she always looked on it as a kind
of punishment. You see, she loved you so--and then of course we girls,
you know what girls are, we used to tease her about it."
He winced and passed his hand across his fretted brows as if in pain.
"You don't know how it hurts me to hear that," he said, simply. "God
help me. When did you see her last?"
I knew the anguish at the back of the eager look which came with the
question. But I laughed as if I knew nothing. "Oh, ages ago now.
Months and months--six months quite."
"Where? My God, where?"
The question leaped from him with such fierceness, that I jumped up
again as if in alarm. "Oh, Colonel Katona, how you frighten me!"
"No, no, I don't wish to frighten you. But this is everything to me.
Twelve months ago she disappeared from Tyrnau, Miss Gilmore, lured away
as I believe by some scoundrel; and I have never seen or heard of her
from that time. You have seen her since, you say--and you must tell me
everything."
It was easy to heap fuel on fire that burned like this; and I did it
carefully. I affected to be overcome and, clapping hands before my
face, threw myself back into my chair.
"You must tell me, Miss Gilmore. You must," he said, sternly.
"No, no, I cannot. I cannot. I forgot. I--I dare not."
"Do you know the scoundrel who has done this?"
"Don't ask me. Don't ask me. I dare not say a word."
"You must," he cried, literally with terrifying earnestness.
"No, no. I dare not. I see it all now. Oh, poor Gareth. Poor, dear
Gareth."
"You must tell me. You shall. I am her father, and as God is in
heaven, I will have his life if he have wronged her."
I did not answer but sat on with my face still covered, thinking. I
had stirred a veritable whirlwind of wrath in his heart and had to
contrive to calm it now so as to use it afterwards for my own ends.