A TRAGI-COMEDY
The following morning found me in a saner mood once more, and I lay for an hour thinking and planning.
I hold that there are narcotics for mental pain just as for physical; and if the mind is healthy and the will resolute, one can generally be found. I had to find one then.
I did not make the mistake of attempting to underrate my loss. I knew I had had to give up what I prized more than anything in life. I loved Karl with my whole heart; I knew indeed that I had never ceased to love him. The sweetest future which Fate could have offered me would have been to pass life by his side as his wife.
But the pain of knowing that this was impossible was now mingled with other emotions which tended to relieve it. There is always a pleasure in self-sacrifice, no matter how dear the thing renounced. I found a sort of subtle comfort now in the thought that I had been strong enough to do the right thing; to put away from me firmly the delights I would have given half my life to enjoy; to act from a higher motive than mere personal desire.
The sense of self-denial was thus my mental narcotic; and I sought with all my strength to dwell upon the intense gratification of the knowledge that I had been instrumental in helping Karl at the crucial crisis of his life. His country had need of him; and that he would now play his part manfully, would be in a degree my work. That was my consolation.
I could claim truthfully that no selfish motives had swayed me. The clearance of my father's good name had ceased now to be more than a solemn duty to him. The loss of Karl had rendered me indifferent to any considerations merely personal to myself.
In regard to Gareth, too, my chief desire was to see justice done her. Accident, or perhaps rather Fate, had put into my hands the weapons with which to fight the man who was menacing both her and me; and I could claim to have made no selfish use of them. The thought of her brought back with it the necessity to gather up the threads and carry my purpose to success. The end was not far off now.
I had first to anticipate what Count Gustav would do after the stroke he had meant to deal the previous night. I was convinced that he had plotted nothing less than that Colonel Katona should kill Karl under the belief that he had wronged Gareth.
I could follow the steps which had led to this. When, at Madame d'Artelle's, I had let Count Gustav see the Colonel alone, he had given a false message that I would send the information. Having thus prepared him to expect news, he had written him in my name that the man who had wronged Gareth was about to marry another woman, and had given such details of the elopement as would enable the Colonel to witness it and thus identify the man he sought.
This explained something that had puzzled me—why the pretence of the elopement had been persisted in when my apparent departure had destroyed the necessity for any such secrecy. The elopement had become a vital part of the subtle scheme to reveal Gareth's betrayer to her father.
Then to give countenance to it all, Count Gustav had sent as if from me the letter of Gareth's which the Colonel had brought with him and given to me. I read it now. It was to Count von Ostelen, of course; and in it Gareth poured out her tender heart to the husband she knew and addressed as Karl.
It was a cunningly planned scheme; and had Madame d'Artelle really come to the villa, it would almost certainly have succeeded. But the question now was—What would be Count Gustav's next move?
He would believe that Karl was dead—assassinated by the Colonel in his frenzy. That started another suggestion. If murder had been done, all in the house would have been implicated; and Count Gustav was quite capable of using the deed for a further purpose. He would have had the Colonel arrested for the murder and so prevented from causing further trouble; and he would also have got rid of Madame d'Artelle, the accomplice he had used for his brother's undoing, by charging her with complicity in the crime. His path would then have been free indeed.
He had frightened me away from the city, as he believed; and if I ever returned it would be only to find everything buried in that secrecy which those in power and high places know how to secure.
What would he do when he came to the house and found me there alone and helpless to resist him? I could not doubt for an instant. I should be arrested on some charge and shut up until I disclosed to him Gareth's whereabouts and everything I knew of the matter.
I would act on that presumption—except that I would force his hand in one direction and safeguard myself in another.
I rose and dressed myself hurriedly. I knew Madame d'Artelle's handwriting, and with great pains I imitated it as closely as I could in a brief, but to him very significant note.
"For Heaven's sake come here at once. A terrible thing has happened. I am beside myself with horror.
"HENRIETTE D'ARTELLE."
The writer's distracted state of mind would account for any discrepancies in the handwriting; and I succeeded at the third or fourth attempt in producing something like a resemblance to her signature.
This letter I sent by James Perry; and with it another to General von Erlanger.
I gave him the address, "Unter den Linden," and wrote:—
"I shall probably be in great danger here at about eleven o'clock this morning. Will you be near this house at that time so that at need the servant who brings this may find you and bring you to me. You will please know nothing except that you have been asked to come to your former governess who is in trouble.
"Your friend who trusts in you,
"CHRISTABEL VON DRESCHLER."
I told James to get an answer from his Excellency; and despatched him upon his errand at an hour which I calculated would bring Count Gustav to the house by about ten o'clock. I allowed an hour for the interview to reach the crisis to which I intended to work.
In the meanwhile, I told the elder Perry to drive to my own house and ascertain that all was well with Gareth.
Then I went into the room in which Colonel Katona had been and pulled down the blinds, closed the shutters and drew the curtains so that it should be as dark as possible; and coming out locked the door behind me and put the key in my pocket.
Having thus set matters in train I sat down and made an excellent breakfast, anticipating considerable enjoyment from the little comedy I had designed.
I was going to fool Count Gustav and then anger and mystify him. He was, I knew, a dangerous person to play tricks with; but I had no cause to be afraid of him. I was quite prepared to be arrested, and I wished to lull his suspicions and foster his over-confidence.
Thinking things over, another point occurred to me. If the two Perrys remained in the house, they would be arrested with me. Therefore, when the father returned with the good news that all was well with Gareth, I sent him home at once and told him not to come back.
James Perry arrived just before ten o'clock. He brought me a very satisfactory assurance that the General would do just as I asked; and said that the Count Gustav had told him he would come to the house immediately.
"Now, James, things are going to happen here this morning," I said, explaining an idea which had occurred to me. "I shall probably be arrested, and you will share that arrest if you are in the house. You are a very shrewd, quick-witted fellow, and you must manage not to be seen, but to remain near enough to the front of the house to hear a window broken. I may not be able to show myself at the window and signal to you; but I am sure to be able to manage to throw something through the window; and the moment you hear the crash of the glass, you are to fetch General von Erlanger to me, and then hurry off to my house."
I calculated that it would be a very simple matter for me to pretend to fly into a passion at the moment of any crisis, and to so work myself up that it would seem a natural enough thing for me to hurl something solid at Gustav and, missing him, to break the window. I looked round for a suitable missile, and selected a very solid glass ink bottle.
Count Gustav kept his word and arrived a few minutes after I had sent James Perry away. I had left the front door partly open, so that he might not have to ask for Madame d'Artelle; and he walked right in, tried the door of the room I had locked, and then entered that where I was waiting for him.
His surprise at seeing me was complete. Had I been a ghost, he could not have stared at me in greater amazement.
"Good-morning, Count Gustav, I am glad you have come."
"Where is Madame d'Artelle?" he asked, very sharply.
"It is scant courtesy not to return my greeting. You are probably so surprised as to forget your manners. You had better find her for yourself," and affecting irritation, I turned away and picked up a book.
"Good-morning, Miss—what name shall I use now?" he replied with a sneer.
"You may use either Gilmore or von Dreschler as you please. Names are of small account after what has happened here."
"Where is Madame d'Artelle?"
"She has done that which might be expected of her in a crisis like this—run away. She is probably across the frontier now."
"But I have just had a letter from her begging me to come here at once; written evidently in great agitation."
"There are enough hours in a night to allow of many short letters being written. She was intensely agitated when she fled!"
"You seem to be cool enough."
"My nerves are of a different order from hers. Besides, I have nothing to fear in all this."
"How is it that you are here at all?"
"I am not Madame d'Artelle, and therefore not accountable for my actions or movements to you."
"You left Pesth yesterday—when did you return?"
"If you consult a time table you can see at what hours the trains reach the city, and can judge for yourself which I was likely to be in."
"You can answer me or not, as you please," he said angrily; "but you will have to account for your presence here."
"Why?" and I looked at him meaningly. He passed the question off with a shrug of the shoulders.
"That is your first mistake, Count Gustav. You must keep your temper better than that, or it will betray you."
He affected to laugh; but there was no laughter in his eyes.
"Well, if Madame was only fooling me with her letter I suppose I may as well go again," he said lightly.
"You know that you have no thought of going. Why are you afraid to put the questions which are so close to your lips?"
I was getting my thrusts well home each time, and was goading him to anger, as well as starting his fears of me.
"Why was that letter written?"
"Because of what has happened here."
"What has happened?"
"Yes, that is one of the questions. I can tell you." I paused and added slowly: "The man you sent here came to do the work you planned."
He bit his lip hard, and his hands gripped the back of the chair behind which he stood. "You delight in mysteries, I know," he sneered.
"Your sneer does not hide the effect of my news, Count Gustav. You know there is no mystery in that for you—and there is none for me. Put your second question."
"What do you mean? I don't understand you."
"That is not true. You want to ask me where your brother is."
"I'll ask that or any other if you wish," he replied, attempting a jaunty, indifferent air. "Where is he?"
"God have more mercy on you than you had on him. You have already seen the answer to your question in the drawn blinds of the room where you last saw him alive."
Strive as he would he could not but shrink under my words and tone. His fingers strained on the chair back, his breath laboured, his colour fled, and his eyes—those hardy, laughing, dare-devil eyes—fell before my gaze. He had to pause and moisten his lips before he could reply.
"If you mean that any harm has come to him," he said, speaking at first with difficulty and hesitation, but gathering firmness as he proceeded; "there will be a heavy reckoning for some one. Who is in the house beside you?" He did not dare to look up yet.
"You coward!" I cried, with all the contempt I felt.
This stung him to fury. "If you have had a hand in this and seek to shield yourself by abusing me, it will not help you. I tell you that."
"Seek to shield myself! I should not stoop to seek so paltry a shield as you could be, whether you were white with fear or flushed with selfish purpose. I do not need a shield. I know the truth, Count Gustav. I know all your part in it, from your motive to the final consummation of your treacherous plan. And what I know to-day, all Austria, all the world, shall know to-morrow."
That was enough. He looked up then, his eyes full of hate of me. I saw his purpose take life and shape in his thoughts. If with safety to himself, he could have struck me down as I stood facing him, he would have done it; but he had what he believed a safer plan in his mind. To have me imprisoned and the secret buried with me.
His new purpose gave him clearer directness of thought at once, and he began to work toward it cunningly. "I can understand and let pass your wild sayings at such a moment, Miss Gilmore. Such a thing as this has, of course, unstrung you..."
"Oh, it is to be a madhouse, is it," I broke in, interpreting for him his secret thought. "I had expected only a prison. You cannot do it, Count Gustav. I am prepared."
But my jeer did not move him. The force of his first surprise was spent, and he was now close set upon the use he intended to make of my presence. He knew the peril which my threat held for him.
"It is singular under the circumstances that you regard yourself in danger of imprisonment, Miss Gilmore; I hope not significant. If you would like to offer any explanation, it is of course open to you to do so."
"I think it probable that there will be an explanation before you leave, Count Gustav; but what in particular should I explain now?"
"We shall require one of—what you say has happened here. Who is in the house?"
"Myself and the servants."
"The manservant was sent away and his place taken by another. By whose orders?"
"Mine."
"I shall need to see him."
"Like Madame d'Artelle, he has gone."
"He was here last night?"
"Certainly."
He shrugged his shoulders. The answer suited him admirably. "He was in your employ," he said, drily.
"I have nothing to conceal," I replied, putting as much doggedness into my manner as a guilty person might have used at the first glimpse of the net closing round him.
"It is a very grave case."
"I can see that—but I know who did what was done as well as who instigated it."
"You were a witness of it, you mean?"
"Of course I mean nothing of the kind. I did not see the blow struck; but I was not asleep at the time; and the instant the alarm was given I was on the spot, and I can identify all concerned."
"Who do you say struck the blow?"
"I did not say. But you know perfectly well the man you sent here to strike it. And so do I."
"You actually charge me with being concerned in having my own brother assassinated?" he cried with well assumed indignation. "It is infamous!"
"Infamous, of course—but true."
"I mean such a charge, madam," he declared, sternly. "I will speak no further with you. You will of course remain here until the agents of the police arrive."
"I have no wish to leave. I tell you I am innocent."
"You at least are found here alone; you admit having fled from the city yesterday and returned surreptitiously; you brought your own man here and sent my brother's away; you have a motive strong enough to account for all in your resentment of my brother's treatment of you; and you seek to put the foulness upon me with an elaborate story that you know the man who did this to have been brought here by me."
"It has a very ugly look, I admit—but there is a flaw in it, none the less."
"That is for others to investigate, madam. I will go to the room. It is locked. Where is the key?"
I took it from my pocket and handed it to him.
"Another significant fact," he said, as we went out of the room and crossed the hall. "I will go in alone."
"No, I have a right to be present."
"It is most unseemly; as unseemly as your smile. My poor Karl." He spoke as if he were genuinely dismayed at the blow, sighed deeply, paused to brace himself for the task, and then entered.
The room was gloomy enough to make it impossible to see anything clearly; but I had arranged the sofa pillow on the couch and covered it with the rug.
He was really affected; although not in the way he intended me to believe. He crossed slowly to the couch and stood by it, as if lacking courage to turn back the rug.
I went to the window and drawing the curtain let the blind up and the sunlight in.
He was now very pale, and his hands twitched restlessly.
"You do not dare to look on the brother whose murder you planned," I said, with cold distinctness.
"How dare you say that, at such a time, madam," he cried fiercely; and taking the rug he turned it back gently.
I laughed.
The laugh so enraged him that he tore off the rug and swore a deep, heavy oath.
"What does this mean?"
"That I think we may pull up the rest of the blinds and open the windows and let the fresh air in;" and with another laugh I did as I said.
I turned to find him overcome by the sudden reaction from the strain and the new problem I had set. He was sitting on the couch with his face buried in his hands.