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.