By Wit of Woman Part 35

"I will go and tell him," I said; and with that went out of the room just in time to prevent Karl entering it.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE COST OF VICTORY

I led Karl into one of the other sitting-rooms.

"I am going to make an appeal to your generosity," I said.

"What has happened? Who was outside the house? What is the meaning of all the mystery? I was thinking myself mad up there and came down to see."

"It is good that you care so much. Two days ago you would have given a shrug of your shoulders, a toss of the head, a lift of the eyebrows, and with an easy smiling 'It doesn't matter,' have left any one else to do the thinking. Don't let your cigar go out; it probably helps you."

He was holding a long black cigar such as he had smoked so furiously in the carriage.

"You have given me plenty to make me think," he answered. "But what has happened?"

"I told you--I am going to appeal to your generosity. Not to ask me to tell you everything, but just to accept my explanation."

"I was afraid it was something else."

"What?" I asked not thinking, and so falling into the trap.

"That you should keep what you have not yet returned; that little link with the past--the ribbon favour, Christabel." His eyes were very gentle as he spoke my name.

For a moment I wavered, lowering my head; then taking courage to face what must be faced by us both, I lifted my eyes and, firm in both look and voice, answered him--"It must not be a link. It is no more than a relic. There can be no connecting link with that old time for us two."

"You think that? Perhaps; but I don't;" and he shook his head. "You are very strong, Christabel; but not strong enough for that--not strong enough to change me, at least. It's the only thing in life I care about."

"It must be put aside," I declared.

"Your part is of course for you to decide; but mine is for me. You cannot take my share from me."

"I shall prevail with you. I must. You are going to take your rightful position as your father's heir. You know what is to happen here when the Patriots gain their end. You know what will be expected of you then; and you have to think, not of yourself, not of any mere personal desire, any smaller end, but of your country."

"'Mere personal desire,'" he repeated. "Is that how you read it?"

"It is what your countrymen would call it--your countrymen, who will look to you to do your duty. They must not look in vain."

He made no reply but sat smoking, his brow gathered in deep furrows of thought.

"There are two Count Karls," I continued. "The one who years ago lived a life which made men proud of him, and filled them with trust and confidence in his power and vigour. The real Karl; the man who at the call of patriotism and the counsel of a friend, was even strong enough to let himself be condemned in the eyes of the girl he cared for as cowardly, selfish, and false. That was the real Karl. The other was but an ign.o.ble man; a purposeless parody of the real and true; and he, I thank G.o.d, exists no longer. But the n.o.ble Karl has to face again to-day the same hard problem he solved so roughly and crudely years ago. With this difference however--the girl knows all now and will help him."

The trouble in his face deepened and he shook his head slowly. "No, no. I cannot."

"Yes, you must. _We_ must, Karl. We don't make our lives; we do but live them."

"I cannot," he repeated, heaving a great sigh.

"We have no choice. I have seen this throughout. If I have helped you--as I love to think I have--to tear aside the coils that were binding you fast to the wheels of ruin, I have done it in full knowledge of all this; of what must be; of what neither you nor I nor we two together, if we were true to ourselves, could possibly prevent.

You must not, you shall not be false to your duty and your country."

"No, no. It is too much to ask."

"In so far as I have helped you, I have a right to ask you. I press that right with all my power."

His face changed and with a glance of resistance, he answered, quickly:

"It may be easy since you do not care----"

"Karl!" The cry stopped him. His look changed again, and he tossed up his hands and drooped his head.

"I am ashamed," he murmured. "Heaven knows, I have not your strength."

"Don't make that mistake. This is as hard for me as it can be for you.

Harder perhaps, for to a woman her heart thoughts must be always more than to a man. Our lives are so much emptier. We need have no concealment now. When I first met you here, I thought--so little does a woman know her heart--that the old feeling was dead; that the long-nurtured resentment of the past had killed it. I was hot against you when you did not recognize me, and burned with indignation. But I did not know."

"Nor yesterday, when we spoke together?" he broke in, eagerly.

"Ah, yes, I began to know then, and to be glad. Not glad with the joy of expected happiness; but so glad that I had been wrong in the years between. But when, to-night, I found this"--and I took out the little ribbon favour--"then indeed I knew all."

He held out his hand. "Give it me."

"Better not, far better not. We must be strong; and this can only be a source of weakness. We will face together that which must be faced and destroy it."

"No," he cried, earnestly. "No. It is mine. I will keep it. Give it me."

"Of what use is it? A mere piece of tawdry faded ribbon when I have given you all my heart."

"Christabel!" His outstretched hand fell as he spoke.

I crossed to his chair and stood by him and laid my hand on his shoulder, looking down into his face. "You will be strong, Karl. I trust you to destroy it;" and I held it out to him.

Instead of taking it he seized my hand and pressed his lips upon it.

"If I lose you, I shall go back to what I was," he said, holding my hand and looking up.

I shook my head and smiled. "I have not so little faith in you as that. I, like your countrymen, appeal to the real Karl, and I know we shall not appeal in vain. You have a n.o.ble part to play in life, and you will play it n.o.bly as becomes you--and I shall watch you play it, proud to think that I have helped you to be worthy of it and of yourself."

"My G.o.d, I cannot give you up," he cried, desperately. "I cannot go back to the lonesomeness of those years. You don't know what they have been to me--desolate, empty, mournful, purposeless. If you bring them back to me after this, I--Christabel, you must not."

"Is that weakness worthy of you or of me?"

"You don't understand. It was bad enough and black enough when my only thought was that I had had your love and had wantonly killed it; that was purgatory. But now, meaning to do well, what have you done but ill? You have shown me happiness, only to shut the gates upon me and drive me out into the black misery again. If you love me, you will never do that--you could not."

I went back to my seat. "You make this very hard for me--for us both.

So much harder than it need be. You had better go now, and leave this where it is. Yet I had hoped."