By Wit of Woman by Arthur W. Marchmont (best book reader txt) 📖

a chess player, I may call the lie gambit.

"I have been endeavouring to cheer up Madame d'Artelle, Miss Gilmore," he said lightly. "I tell her she takes the postponement—or if you like, the abandonment—of the marriage with Karl too seriously."

"Is it abandoned?" I asked.

"Did she not tell you?"

"Yes; but I could scarcely believe it, seeing how much you have counted upon the marriage. The abandonment is a tribute to your influence. But why have you given it up?"

"I given it up? I? What can it be to me?" he laughed. "It is not my marriage, Miss Gilmore. I like my brother, of course, but I am not in love with him so much as to want to marry him."

"All Pesth knows how much you love your brother," said I, drily.

"I should not come to you for testimony, I think. I am afraid it would not be favourable. I am glad you are not the majority."

"Probably I do not know you as others do, or perhaps others do not know you as I do. But why have you abandoned the project of the marriage?"

"You insist on putting the responsibility on me," he said with a touch of irritation beneath his laugh.

"I can understand that the question is awkward."

"Not in the least. You see, you raised most unexpectedly the point about the admirable and excellent gentleman who was Madame's husband; and it must perforce be postponed until the proofs of his death are forthcoming. Thus it is rather your doing than mine;" and he shrugged his shoulders.

"You have found them more difficult to manufacture than you anticipated, I presume?"

"That is a very serious charge, very lightly made, Miss Gilmore." His assumption of offence was excellent.

"I am not speaking lightly, Count Gustav. When we parted last time you said that the proofs of the death of Madame's husband should be produced. Within a few hours I heard that the marriage had been postponed; you now say it was because those proofs cannot be produced. There must be a reason for such a sudden change of front; and I have suggested it. If you prefer, we will leave it that the proofs cannot be found or fabricated in time to suit you."

He heard me out with darkening face, and then crossed to Madame d'Artelle and offered her his hand.

"I think, Madame, it will be more convenient for me to leave now. With a lady we cannot resent an insult; we can only protect ourselves from further insult by leaving."

I laughed with ostentatiously affected hilarity, and sat down.

Madame d'Artelle gave him her hand nervously, and he turned from her and bowed stiffly to me.

"I think I should not go, Count, if I were you," I said, smoothly.

"Your attitude makes it impossible for me to remain, Miss Gilmore."

"Of course you know best, but I should not go if I were you."

He was uneasy and hesitated; went toward the door and then paused and turned. "If you wish to say anything to me and can do so without insulting me, I am willing to listen to you—as a friend of Madame's;" and he waved his hand in her direction.

"I've a great deal to say and I'm going to say it to some one. Of course if you go, I must say it to some one else."

"And what am I to understand by that?"

"You haven't decided yet whether to go or stay. Now, I'll be much more candid with you than you are with me. It's just a question whether you dare go or not. Your start just now is what we Americans call putting up a bluff. But you can't bluff me. I hold the cards—every one of them a winning card, too. If you go, you lose the game straight away, for I shan't be many minutes in the house after you. You're going to lose anyhow, for that matter: but—well, as I tell you, you'd better not go."

"I'm not versed in American slang, Miss Gilmore, and it doesn't lend itself to translation into German," he sneered.

"Then I'll put it plainer. Go, if you dare, Count Gustav;" and I challenged him in look as well as words.

"I am always anxious to oblige a pretty woman, Miss Gilmore," he said, with one of his most gracious glances.

"That's very sweet of you, Count. But the question is not my looks; it's your reputation and position."

At this point Madame d'Artelle made a diversion.

"I am not feeling well, Christabel, and am going to my room to lie down," she said, rising.

"That's just what I would have suggested, Henrietta," I answered, fastening on her action. "It's just as well. I have to say some things to Count Gustav that he might not care for even you to hear."

He made a great show of opening the door for her to pass and used the moment's delay to think.

Just as she went out the footman came to the door, carrying the parcel.

"Do you want me, Peter?" she asked.

"No, Madame, Miss Gilmore. The parcel you asked for, miss." I took it and he went out and closed the door.

"I have resolved not to stay longer, Miss Gilmore. I would do much for any friend of Madame's, but I cannot with self-respect suffer your threats and insults."

I thought of a little dramatic stroke.

"One moment, Count, this parcel concerns you." I half tore the wrapper off and handed it to him.

He would not take it, waving it away contemptuously.

"You had better take it. It is from—Sillien, Count," I said, very deliberately.

His eyes blazed with sudden anger.

"I don't understand you," he cried; but he took it and tore off the covering to find a blank sheet of paper.

"This is another insult. I would have you beware."

"Not an insult—a message. To have been properly dramatic this should have been inside it—" and I held up before him the little sketch which Gareth had made for me with such laughing earnestness.

"The message which that parcel brings is—that Colonel Katona, Gareth's father, is here in the house waiting to see me. Now, do you wish to go?"

The suddenness of the stroke was for the moment irresistible.

The colour fled from his face as the laughter had died from his lips. White, tense, agitated and utterly unstrung, he stood staring at me as if he would gladly have struck me dead.

I had every reason to be contented with my victory.

CHAPTER XI PLAIN TALK

That it was chiefly the stunning unexpectedness of my stroke which overwhelmed Count Gustav was proved by the promptness with which he rallied. Had I given him even a hint of my information or prepared him in any way for the thrust, I am sure he would have met it with outward equanimity.

My probe had pierced the flesh, however, before he had had a moment to guard himself; and he had flinched and winced at the unexpected pain of it. But he soon recovered self-possession.

"You have a dramatic instinct, Miss Gilmore, and considerable inventive power. You should write for the stage. The essence of melodrama is surprise."

"I could not hope always to carry my audience away so completely, Count."

He laughed. "I am afraid I have not done you justice hitherto. I have not taken you seriously enough. I think you are right in another thing—I had better not go yet. Our chat promises to be interesting. I should very much like a cigar. I wonder if Madame would object." He spoke lightly and took out his cigar case.

"It would be very appropriate," I said. "There is one character in a melodrama who always smokes."

"You mean the villain?"

"The hero rarely has time—after the first act, at any rate. He is generally being arrested, or hunted, or imprisoned, or ruined in some way—sometimes drugged."

He had struck the match and at my last word paused to look at me. He favoured me with such a stare that the match burnt his fingers, and he dropped it with a muttered oath which I affected not to hear. It was a very trifling incident; but he was so unusually careful in such matters as a rule that it offered another proof of his ill balance.

"I burnt my fingers and forgot my manners," he said lightly. "I beg your pardon, Miss Gilmore."

"You mean that you wish to have time to recover from the surprise. Pray wait as long as you please—and think. I have no wish to take any fresh advantage over you—at present."

"Oh no, thank you," he cried, airily. "We will talk. Now, we must know where we stand, you and I?"

"At the moment we are in the salon of Madame d'Artelle, who was your instrument and tool."

"That 'was' sounds interesting. Is that your number one?"

"Yes."

"Very well, then, we'll take her as finished with. I don't care much about her. She has disappointed me. She is pretty; beautiful even: but no brains. She has let you guess too much. I'd rather deal with you direct. What is number two? And how many numbers are there?"

He was so light in hand, took defeat so easily, was so apparently ready for a complete change of front, and spoke with such an admirable assumption of raillery that I had difficulty in repressing an inclination to smile.

"You admit your defeat, then?"

He spread out his hands, waving one of them toward Gareth's drawing, and shrugged his shoulders.

"I am not a fool, Miss Gilmore."

I had expected anything except this instant surrender; and it caught me unready to state my terms. I could not go into the question of my father's wrongs, because I did not know enough of the matter.

"The terms will be heavy," I said, slowly.

"One must pay a price for folly; and I shall at least have the compensation of pleasing you."

"You will make Gareth your legal wife?"

He drew two whiffs of his cigar, took it from his lips, and looked at it thoughtfully.

"I would much rather marry you," he said with sudden smiling insolence.

"Do you agree?" I asked, curtly.

"That's number two, is it? Is the list much longer?"

"You will abandon the attempt to ruin your brother?"

"That's number three—number four?"

"There is no number four at present."

"What, nothing for yourself? Then you are a most remarkable young lady. Oh, but there must be."

"You are wasting time, Count Gustav, and Colonel Katona may grow impatient," I answered.

"Give me time. I am lost in amazement at such altruism—such philanthropy. You come to Pesth to push your fortunes; chance and your clever little wits put a fortune in your grasp, and—you want nothing for yourself." He shot at me a glance of sly mockery. "Perhaps Miss von Dreschler seeks something? The other Christabel, you know."

"I have stated my terms, Count Gustav."

"My answer is that I accept all of them—except the last two;" and the laugh at his insolence was one of genuine enjoyment.

"Then there is no more to be said," I declared, rising.

"But indeed there is. Pray sit down again. We are going to talk this over frankly. There is always an alternative course in such affairs—that was why I was anxious to know your motive. Will you sit down?"

"No. I have said all I wish."

"Well, you gave me a surprise. I will give you one. You are Miss Christabel von Dreschler; or at all events you were, until you inherited your uncle's money and took his name with it. He was John P. Gilmore, of Jefferson City, Missouri. Now, allow me;" and he placed a chair for me with elaborate courtesy, while he regarded me with an expression of great satisfaction and triumph.

I sat down and he resumed his seat.

"By the way," he said, as if casually, "we are likely to be engaged some time, hadn't we better let Colonel Katona go?"

"I may still have to speak to him," I answered, drily.

"I don't think so, when he knows that you are Colonel von Dreschler's daughter—if I should have to tell him, that is—he will not be very friendly toward you. He will not, really. He is a very singular old man." The art with which he conveyed this