Wenzel's eyes softened. "Good lad!" he exclaimed quietly, and
Francis suddenly lost his fear of the hideous White Knight, whom he
had met personally for the first time only a few days previously.
So they started off. Later they reached the road to the Austrian
frontier, and not until then did Francis open out the throttle.
For the first hour they saw nothing of the car ahead, but when they
made inquiries, at different farmhouses on the road, they heard that
Szamuelly's car had passed about half an hour previously, so Francis
increased the speed--so much so that by the time they had covered
another thirty miles Szamuelly's car was but ten to fifteen minutes
in advance of them.
While Francis was increasing his speed, the Terrorist in the car in
front was slowing down. For the last two hours there had been no
trace of the White Knight, and gradually the spirits of the Terror
Boys, and even those of Szamuelly himself, rose higher.
Now there did not seem so much need for haste they began to linger,
to talk more boldly and exchange reminiscences. Even the
smooth-tongued one spoke a little more, for supposing the White
Knight did not catch up again there was certainly enough money hidden
in his clothes to last him for some time; and he was equally prepared
to desert the White Knight as he had been his Communist leader.
The time passed by, and steadily the distance to the Austrian border
decreased. Then suddenly Szamuelly saw, perhaps a mile back, a trail
of dust rising into the air.
"By God! Look!" The words burst from hie lips unconsciously. The
two Terrorists glanced back.
The chauffeur groaned: "The White Knight!" But his companion
unconsciously scratched the palm of his hand--more good English money
for his little store!
The Terrorist pressed down his foot, the car shot forward, and
underneath the wheels the road slid past too quickly for the eye to
follow; but Francis had seen them, and had the better car.
It was a long and thrilling chase; both cars were speeding to their
limit, but yard by yard the White Knight crept closer, till Szamuelly
was damp with a cold sweat.
A mile, half a mile, quarter of a mile, until at last the two cars
were within pistol-shot of one another, and the hour of the White
Knight's vengeance seemed very near.
Perhaps another fifteen minutes would have seen the two cars level,
and then... Fate for once was against the White Knight. With an
internal choking his car came to a gradual halt, and Francis swore.
"Petrol," he said briefly. Fortunately there were spare tins behind,
but in the meantime Szamuelly drew away.
What were the feelings of Szamuelly when he saw the pursuing car come
to a sudden stop will never be known, but it must have seemed to him
then that some kindly angel had come to his aid, and his fear dropped
from him, so that, all at once, he was in the highest of spirits. He
laughed, sang, and joked, confident that he had seen the last of the
White Knight.
The car drove on; there was an intoxicating spirit of cheerfulness
surrounding them. On ... on to Austria!
Szamuelly gave one final glance back, and saw, in the far distance, a
rising cloud of dust, approaching with incredible rapidity, but fear
no longer reigned in his heart, for, as the Communist glanced from
side to side, he recognized Lajta Ujfalu in the distance, and knew
that before many minutes passed he would be safe in Austria.
Derisively he waved his hand. "Good-bye, White Knight!" he called
out mockingly. "Good-bye, Hungary!"
On ... on. One thousand yards to safety, five hundred, four hundred
... and then--Nemesis!
As they passed a tiny copse there was a rain of bullets, and they saw
a group of hidden, uniformed men--Hungarian _gendarmerie_, already
self-organized at the first rumours of the Soviet's downfall. The
driver sighed gently and collapsed. The car jumped forward for
twenty yards--there was a tearing, rending crash--and the battered
skeleton of what just before had been a live, pulsating automobile
overturned.
Szamuelly staggered from out the wreckage. Through the bloody film
which mistily obstructed his vision he saw men running toward him,
shouting and shooting; suddenly he felt a burning, searing pain which
vibrated through his body. He wanted to fall, to give up, but an
instinct for life urged him forward. He braced up and staggered
on--the frontier was just ahead--three hundred yards and he would be
safe....
The fear of death lent him wings--the excitement of the chase blinded
the eyes of the pursuing gendarmes--and suddenly Szamuelly knew he
was across the frontier.... Safe! ... Safe! The Hungarians would
never dare to shoot now.... He lurched on and on, smiling grimly,
triumphantly.
The _gendarmes_ clustered together on the borderline, cursing, and
watched their prey escape. There were no Austrian _Volkswehr_ to be
seen, but, scarcely recovered from the heavy yoke of the Soviet, they
feared to advance or to fire, and thus provoke international
complications.
Such was the position when, with a sobbing grind, Francis brought his
car to a stop. The White Knight jumped out, but there was no need
for words. Szamuelly had all but escaped ... two minutes more and he
would be beyond all hope of revenge.
With a rapid gesture Wenzel seized a rifle from out the hands of one
of the _gendarmes_, and, putting it to his shoulder, sighted the
staggering Communist. The figure was small and moving
erratically.... Wenzel's hands shook unsteadily. With an effort of
will he steadied them, and suddenly Szamuelly was clearly before his
eyes, dead between the forked sight.
The rifle flashed--for one vibrant, palpitating second nothing
happened. Then Szamuelly just dropped--never to move again....
"Too good a death," grumbled the awakened people of Hungary when they
heard the news.
* * * * * *
That night Bela Kun, Weiss, Schwarz, Vago, Pogany, and Landler,
together with all their families, stole quietly into one of the
Budapest stations where a train was ready for them, steam up,
impatiently awaiting the guard's command. The rats were
fleeing--escaping with the connivance of the new Peidl Government,
but, still more paradoxically, protected from their own people by an
escort supplied by the Italian military mission stationed in Budapest.
Only one was missing from the party--Szamuelly! The clock ticked on,
the time passed rapidly. In the end they could wait no longer. The
guard signalled, the train steamed out, _en route_ to Austria; and so
passed out of the pages of history Bela Kun and his colleagues. Once
again justice was denied the people of Hungary, for with the help of
the Allies the train reached and crossed the Austrian frontier, and
the Communists were safe--safe to live thereafter a life of ease,
when they ought to have hanged, while those they left behind,
betrayed by their leaders to the last, later suffered the extreme
penalty. Even to this day it is said that somewhere in Russia Bela
Kun still lives.
_CHAPTER XXI_
Peace at last! With the occupation of Budapest by the Rumanians a
sane Government was formed, inspired by a proclamation of the
Archduke Joseph, and if the city were still systematically robbed by
the Rumanian occupiers of what little was left to it, at any rate the
thefts, under the name of reparations, were more legal, and less
bitter.
To the gasping, starved citizens of Budapest the change was well
worth it. At least they could walk the streets openly by day or
night without fear of sudden death, of molestation and imprisonment
which meant worse than death; they could, at any rate, obtain what
food there was, without producing red or blue tickets.
For the first time in months there was peace and happiness in the
hearts of the Hungarian people. Their chins uplifted, their eyes
sparkling, they walked the streets of the cities, the highways and
the byways of the country. Once again they had come into their own.
In less than a week the Château Juhusz was empty of all those who had
been living there: empty of them all save one. No longer did the
decaying walls echo with the sound of voices, no longer were its
derelict rooms embellished with flowers, decorated with pieces of
carved wood and crude charcoal drawings.
No more did the Count and Countess Bakocz hold court in their pitiful
apology for a _salon_, nor did Imre Kiss, leaning still more heavily
on his walking-stick, pass from room to room, his head bowed with
thought, longing only once more to work upon his beloved manuscript,
to write "Finis" to his tale of the glories of the Kings of Hungary.
If the drooping _château_ sighed for the absence of the elder victims
of the Red Terror, how much more did it miss the youthful Francis,
with his tales of the White Knight's daring, with his unconcealed
pride in his first adventures under the Enemy of the Commune's
leadership, the infectious laughter of Elizabeth Kiss, and best of
all the flowering romance of Cecile and Arnold, their 'chance'
meetings in darkened corners, their timid whispers, their hidden
blushes.
Once again was the aged _château_ desolate, the sport of the wind
which mockingly howled round its crumbling gables, and of the rain
which dripped through its dissolving mortar, percolating into the
interior, revivifying the moss; once again the weeds grew bolder in
the grounds, already beginning to sprout where the amateur gardeners
had stamped them out, and, as they grew, so for the second time the
spirit of the _château_ decayed, after having been revived for a
brief period by the occupation by the pursued and outlawed nobility.
Dank and dismal, the _château_ drooped, cheerless and uninviting--a
home for nothing except for rats and mice, which once again invaded
its unfortified barriers, burrowing through its rotting wood, and for
the owls which snuggled back into their usurped corners.
Yet there was one who lived there still, one whose heart was as cold
as the draughts, whose spirits were as mournful as the dismal moaning
of the wind.
His work was finished. The task of the White Knight was ended, and
here, where the woman he now cherished had lived, he attempted to
forget, to wash from his mind all thoughts of his two Hungarian loves.
He was successful in weaning his thoughts from Zita, for Time, the
master-healer, had washed his wound of the hurt: she was a lingering
memory, a sweet fragrance of yesterday.
It was his recollection of Elizabeth which tortured him. She seemed
so real, so near, and yet so far away. She was of the immediate
present, as real as Zita was just a fairy phantom from some delicious
dream.
When Geoffrey knew Hungary to be free at last from the tentacles of
the Red octopus he realized that his work was ended. No more need to
rescue unhappy victims of the Terror, no longer the necessity to
counteract the evil purposes of the Communists, to hurry refugees
across the border, to assist the Whites in preparing their great
_coup d'état_.
What more could the world want of him now? Bitterly he answered his
own query. Nothing! The world had no use for a vile, scarred,
atrocious specimen of humanity such as he. It forgets so easily, and
once the world ceased to remember the honour, the glory, of the scars
of war, he would remain only a being of disgust, a revolting
spectacle, an object of pity.
Pity! That would be worse than anything. Pity! Perhaps it would
be: "Poor Geoffrey--but, you know..." The fatal "but." There would
be no invitations for him--he might frighten the other guests! Not
that he cared a damn; but supposing he married? ... And, like all
mental arguments, his thoughts finished where they began--with
Elizabeth.
Because of his attempted suicide--for he did not blink his eyes to
the fact that it was attempted suicide deliberately to invite the
Reds to murder him--he must bear a cross during the rest of his life.
That was his punishment--his face his cross. Or was it rather his
hopeless love for Elizabeth?
Those were days of bitterness! His brain no longer busy with schemes
and plans for the succour of others, his time no longer fully taken
up, his thoughts turned to himself and his future, and in desperation
he fled to the empty _château_ to work out his own salvation, to
forget!
To forget! It was not long before he realized that of all the places
in which to do this he had chosen the worst. What chance was there
of forgetting when every corner reminded him of Elizabeth--perhaps
she had sat there--or there--or there? She--she had slept in that
room, he remembered--and that room became his shrine.
In the woods were the flowers she had loved so much--their sweet,
dewy smell was reminiscent of her, as was the purity of the white
flowers, for they were her soul, the richness of the red flowers, for
they were her cheeks, the softness of the pansies, for they were her
eyes.
The insects chirruped of her, the whispering of the wind through the
forest trees sang of her, the tiny brooklet running near by babbled
of her. Worst of all the moon, the broad, round face of the moon, as
it majestically rose into the clear heavens, winked derisively at
him, or frowned at him, shedding its silver beams through the
interlaced boughs of the trees.
So the days passed, the heart of Geoffrey growing more sullen and
more cold, until the spirit of the White Knight wilted beneath the
triple load of misery, self-torture, and hopeless love.
The time arrived when he could not bear to look upon his own
reflection, so he ceased to shave and grew a long, silky beard and a
moustache.
He fed on what stores the refugees had left behind, and slept on the
rough bed which Arnold had used when he was at the _château_, living
the life of a hermit, trying to forget ... trying to forget ... and
failing!
* * * * * *
The moon was rising, just skirting the trees, when one night Geoffrey
became conscious of voices.
He was going to swear, but even as the words trembled on his lips he
started, for he recognized the voices. Arnold and Elizabeth! What
were they doing near the old _château_? He was in one of the front
rooms, but like a wraith, and with as little noise, despite his great
size, he slipped out into the surrounding forest, suspecting that
they might enter the _château_.
The voices came nearer; they were chattering idly of current events
in Budapest, but half-way across the clearing Elizabeth raised her
hand and restrained Arnold.
"Please, monsieur," she said, and the sound of her voice stole
through the quiet air to where Geoffrey was hidden. "Please,
monsieur, I would like to stop here."
Arnold obediently halted. Then suddenly Elizabeth saw the old
fountain, and, crossing to it, stood there, watching it in the light
of the moon.
"Poor Mercury," she said wistfully; "he seems so solitary--alone in
this big forest with no one near. He must have been a merry little
chap in the old days, before he became overgrown with moss. I am
going to sit down. Won't you rest beside me, Monsieur Arnold, so
that I may talk to you?"
She seated herself on the edge of the large empty basin, and gazed
around. From his place of concealment Geoffrey watched, and the
beauty of the scene tortured him so that he closed his eyes. The
silver rays of the moon bathed the clearing and the _château_ in a
pure white light which softened the decay, till one could almost
picture it as it must have appeared in those far-off days when it had
been the centre of life and love, of activity and of idleness: the
playground of courtiers and ladies-in-waiting, with their colours and
their swords, with their lace petticoats and their fans.
Never had Elizabeth looked so beautiful; it seemed to Geoffrey that
never before had a background so admirably become her. If it were he
who sat beside her, if it were only he! He caught his breath in a
little gasp.
"How you must have wondered at me, Monsieur Arnold!" Elizabeth was
saying to him as he sat beside her. "Did you think me mad, asking
you to escort me here one night?"
"Indeed no," Arnold replied in his deep voice. "On the contrary,
mademoiselle, I myself was more than pleased to come. This _château_
has wonderful memories for me--memories of one night, just like this,
not so long ago, when ... when Cecile..." He stopped awkwardly.
"Why, of course. I had forgotten," and it seemed to Geoffrey as if
there was a sigh in her voice. "You are very happy, monsieur?"
"Happy!" There was a wealth of gladness in that one word which spoke
for itself. "Mademoiselle, a short while ago, in the middle of the
Terror, I would have said that this world was a Hell for some other
and better world. Now it seems to me that it must be Heaven itself."
"Heaven!" she repeated in a whisper. "Heaven! Well, it might be,
if..." She turned to Arnold suddenly. "What of the White Knight?
Where is he?"
"Heaven only knows, mademoiselle," Arnold groaned. "Some time after
the Rumanians took control he disappeared without a word. Since then
I have hunted high and low for him without success."
"Are you not--afraid?" There was a catch in her voice.
"Afraid!" repeated Arnold, puzzled about her meaning. Then he
realized what she meant. "No, mademoiselle, not of that. Only four
people know who the White Knight was--Apor, Francis, you, and I.
Besides, the Reds are being imprisoned in their hundreds. Many will
hang. The rest are too busy hiding to worry about revenge."
"Then why has he fled from us all?" she demanded.
"Because--because of his scars," he answered slowly. "Poor Geoffrey.
You see, he was so handsome before--before they came. And now!
Somehow I cannot blame him; I feel everything he suffers. They make
him horrible, mademoiselle, horrible--almost too hideous for a man to
look at unmoved, and still less a--a woman!"
There was an unconscious undercurrent in his voice as he spoke the
last few words, and she turned to him.
"Why do you say that? Why should he be more hideous to a woman?"
Arnold was embarrassed. "I--I do not know, but you see,
mademoiselle, it always seems to men that women should be brought
into contact only with the--the pretty things of this world. We try
to keep the ugly things to ourselves."
"I know--and yet some women say men are selfish." She paused, but
only for a few seconds. "Monsieur, supposing I brought you here for
two reasons? One for the sake of--of memories, and the other to talk
to you, alone and privately!
"Listen! That awful, terrible day when I betrayed the White Knight
he called me 'Delilah.' Why, why did he say that to me? Has he ever
explained to you?"
"No, mademoiselle," Arnold answered sadly. "He would not let me
speak to him on the subject of his capture."
"Why not?" she demanded, but he was silent. "Yet I believe I can
answer myself. Was it because he thought I had deliberately betrayed
him?"
"I--I do not know."
"But you suspect...? Again you are silent, monsieur, and your
silence is your answer. Holy Mary! Why cannot he realize the truth?
I--I to betray the White Knight! Sooner would I have cut off my own
tongue than willingly betray the man who saved my father from death,
and me from far worse. Oh, Mother in Heaven, why can he not realize
the truth?"
Arnold did not speak. He felt as if he were being permitted to look
upon a woman's soul--that it would have been sacrilege for him to
speak.
There was a sob in her voice, and she struggled with her emotion, but
presently conquering it she continued: "Is that the only reason the
White Knight has disappeared, Monsieur Arnold? Is the mere fact of a
woman betraying him sufficient to drive him away for ever, or is
there another reason? Tell me. I command you, monsieur, if you
value a woman's happiness, answer me the truth."
"The truth ... mademoiselle, he worships the ground you walk on, but
... but ... because of his scars..."
"And what of my betrayal of him?"
"He would ... he has, I am sure ... forgiven you that."
"Monsieur, for those words I could almost love you. And I believe
you. God be praised! But now, listen carefully, monsieur, I have a
message for you to give the White Knight if ever you shall meet him.
Tell him that his love for me is no deeper than my love for him,
that--that--oh! what can I say save that I love him so?" And
suddenly she buried her face in her hands, her body shaking with the
sobs she could no longer repress.
At that moment there came, from the forest, a crackling of disturbed
undergrowth, and a tall, white-faced man staggered toward them, to
sink on the turf at her feet, clasping her hands, kissing them, again
and again, till his burning lips were bruised.
With scarcely a sound Arnold disappeared, and they were left alone in
the clearing, alone with the moon.
"My love, my love," he muttered again and again. "And yet ... it is
impossible. I am dreaming, just dreaming. Soon I shall wake up, to
find myself alone, with the rats and the mice--alone!"
"Hush, dear one!" she placed her hands to his lips. "Hush!"
For a while neither spoke, till in the end Geoffrey broke the
silence, and his voice was changed.
"It must be impossible. How can you care for me? My scars..."
"Do you think a woman loves a man only for his face?" she asked.
"Not ordinarily, perhaps. But my face is ghastly--evil. For the
moment you have forgotten it. Your love is blinding you. When your
eyes are opened you will see--you must see--my features in their true
colours, and you will shudder.... Oh, God! Believe me, Elizabeth, I
know it to be the truth."
"It is not the truth!" she murmured passionately. "Have I not
thought till my brain has ached with weariness? Have you forgotten
that I am a daughter of Hungary, descended from a long line of fierce
warriors? Each scar on your face is a scar of honour, every wound
only one more reason why I should cherish you even more. I am not a
dressed-up doll of the West, who must be surrounded by pretty things
lest she droop. Unless you wish to wreck two people's happiness you
must--must believe me, dear!"
"If only I might!" he murmured.
"Then test me," she challenged defiantly; "test me!"
"Ay, I will, dear," he agreed. "I will light a match, hold it to my
face, and then look into your eyes. I shall assuredly read the truth
there."
So his hand fumbled for a box of matches in his pocket, but when he
found it his fingers trembled. What would the light reveal? Slowly
he took out a match, but even then he hesitated. If they could only
live for ever thus--in the dim light of the moon!
"Geoffrey!" she commanded gently.
"I am a coward. I am afraid." Then suddenly he struck it, and held
the spluttering flame close to his face, so that its light might also
reflect upon hers, and thus he could read her eyes.
So they sat, face to face, till the flame died away. In her eyes he
had seen, not shuddering, unwilling horror, but tender love and,
above all, overwhelming surprise.
Surprise!
"What is it?" he asked roughly.
"Geoffrey! Geoffrey!" She could hardly speak in her excitement, she
was almost incoherent. "Oh, God! Oh, Mother in Heaven!"
So after all she had failed! His life was shattered. He rose to his
feet, and would have moved away, but she clung to him desperately,
forcing his arms around her.
"Geoffrey, you don't understand! Almost you are handsome. Your
scars--your scars--I cannot see them, only one, just across your eye.
That could not hurt me."
"You cannot see my ... my scars! Oh, God! You are deceiving
yourself, Elizabeth ... your love is blinding you."
"No, no, I swear it! Don't you understand, Geoffrey? Your beard,
your moustache----"
His hand wandered to his chin, his fingers felt the silky hairs,
curling, concealing. Then suddenly he realized that he too was
receiving his reward.
A wave of happiness flooded his body. Life once again opened out
before him.
He drew her closer ... they were alone together ... just Elizabeth
and he ... and the moon!