By Wit of Woman, Arthur W. Marchmont [best books to read in your 20s .TXT] 📗

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 Troisième."

"Mèchante," 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 Troisième," 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