By Wit of Woman Part 14

"I can't understand you," he said. "Can you tell me anything about Gareth, when you saw her last?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. I have such a silly memory. It must be quite six months ago--yes, because, I had this hat new; and I've had it quite six months."

"Where was it?" he asked, growing keener again.

"Karlsbad; no, Marienbad; no, Tyrnau; no, Vienna; I can't remember where it was, but I have it down in my diary. I could let you know."

"Did she--she speak of me?"

"Oh yes. She said she was happy and would have been quite happy if only she could have let you know where she was."

"Why couldn't she?"

"I suppose he wouldn't let her; but I'm sure----"

"What he? For heaven's sake, try to speak plainly, Miss Gilmore. Do you mean she was with any one?"

"I don't know. I only know what we thought. Oh, don't look like that or I can't say any more."

His eyes flashed fire again. "Tell me, please," he murmured restraining himself.

"We thought she had run away with him." I said that seriously enough.

He paused, nerving himself for the next question. It came in a low, tense, husky voice. "Do you mean she was--married?"

I hung my head and was silent.

"'Fore G.o.d, if any one, man or woman dares to hint shame of my child----" he burst out, and stopped abruptly.

It was time to be serious again, I felt, as I answered, "I love Gareth dearly, and would say no shame of her. If I can help you to find her and learn the truth, will you have my help?"

"Help me, and all I have in the world shall be yours. And if any one has wronged her, may I burn in h.e.l.l if I do not make his life the penalty." The vehement, concentrated earnestness of the oath filled me with genuine awe.

A tense pause followed, and then, recovering myself, I began to display anew my symptoms of hysterics. This time I was not going to get well enough to be able to speak of the matter farther; and I declared I must go away.

I was going to play a dangerous card; and when he asked me when he should see me again, I told him that if he would come that afternoon to me--I gave him Madame d'Artelle's address--I would tell him all I could.

I went away well satisfied with the result of my visit; and then planned my next step. It was to be a bold one; but the crisis called for daring; and if I was to win, I must force the moves from my side.

I walked back, glad of the exercise and the fresh air, and as I was pa.s.sing through the Stadtwalchen, busily occupied with my thoughts, I met Count Karl. He was riding with an attendant and his look chanced to be in my direction. He stared as if trying to recollect me, then he bowed. I responded, but he pa.s.sed on; and I concluded he had not placed my features in his muddled memory. But a minute later I heard a horse cantering after me; and he pulled up, dismounted, and held out his hand.

"You are Madame d'Artelle's friend, Miss Gilmore?"

"Yes," I said, scarce knowing whether to be glad or sorry he had come after me.

"May I walk a few steps with you?"

"Certainly, if you wish."

"Take the horses home," he said as he gave the reins to the servant.

"I have been wis.h.i.+ng to speak to you alone, Miss Gilmore. Shall we walk here?" and we turned into a side path at the end of which some nursemaids and children were gathered about the fountains.

He did not speak again for some moments, but kept staring at me with a directness which, considering all things, I found embarra.s.sing.

"Would you mind sitting down here?" he asked, as we reached a seat nearly hidden by the shrubbery.

"Not in the least," I agreed; and down we sat.

"You will think this very singular of me," he declared after a pause.

"One person could not very well be plural," I said inanely; and he frowned at the irrelevant flippancy. "I am a student you know, and therefore appreciate grammatical accuracy."

"I wish to ask you some questions, if I may."

"They appear to be very difficult to frame. You may ask what you please."

"I wish you would smile," he said, so unexpectedly that I did smile.

"It is perfectly marvellous," he exclaimed with a start.

I knew what that meant. In the old days he had talked a lot of nonsense about my smile.

"If I smile it is not at the waste of your life and its opportunities, Count Karl," I ventured.

"Opportunities!" he repeated with a laugh. "I have seized this one at any rate. I have been thinking about you ever since I saw you two days ago at Madame d'Artelle's."

"Why?" I asked pointedly.

"That is a challenge. I'll take it up. Because your name is Christabel. Is it really Christabel?"

"My name seems to cause considerable umbrage," I said, with a touch of offence. "Two days ago your brother not only doubted the Christabel, but wished to give me a fresh surname as well, von Decker or Discher, or Dreschler, or something."

He frowned again. "Gustav is a good fellow, but he should hold his tongue. You're so like her, you see, and yet so unlike, that----" he finished the sentence with a cut of his riding whip on his gaiters.

"I am quite content to be myself, thank you," I declared with a touch of coldness.

"Your voice, too. It's perfectly marvellous."

"May I ask what all this means?" I put the question very stiffly.

"Chiefly that I'm an idiot, I think. But I don't care. I'm long past caring. Life's only rot, is it?"

"Not for those who use it properly. It might be a glorious thing for a man in your position and with your future."

"Ah, you're young, you see, Miss Gilmore," he exclaimed, with the self-satisfaction of a cynic. "I suppose I thought so once, but there's nothing in it."

"There's opium," I rapped out so sharply that he gave a start and glanced at me. Then he smiled, heavily.

"Oh, you've found that out, eh; or somebody has told you? Yes, I can't live without it now, and I don't want to try. What does it matter?"