Chapter XXI

Peace at last! With the occupation of Budapest by the Rumanians a sane Government was formed, inspired by a proclamation of the Archduke Joseph, and if the city were still systematically robbed by the Rumanian occupiers of what little was left to it, at any rate the thefts, under the name of reparations, were more legal, and less bitter.

To the gasping, starved citizens of Budapest the change was well worth it. At least they could walk the streets openly by day or night without fear of sudden death, of molestation and imprisonment which meant worse than death; they could, at any rate, obtain what food there was, without producing red or blue tickets.

For the first time in months there was peace and happiness in the hearts of the Hungarian people. Their chins uplifted, their eyes sparkling, they walked the streets of the cities, the highways and the byways of the country. Once again they had come into their own.

In less than a week the Château Juhusz was empty of all those who had been living there: empty of them all save one. No longer did the decaying walls echo with the sound of voices, no longer were its derelict rooms embellished with flowers, decorated with pieces of carved wood and crude charcoal drawings.

No more did the Count and Countess Bakocz hold court in their pitiful apology for a salon, nor did Imre Kiss, leaning still more heavily on his walking-stick, pass from room to room, his head bowed with thought, longing only once more to work upon his beloved manuscript, to write "Finis" to his tale of the glories of the Kings of Hungary.

If the drooping château sighed for the absence of the elder victims of the Red Terror, how much more did it miss the youthful Francis, with his tales of the White Knight's daring, with his unconcealed pride in his first adventures under the Enemy of the Commune's leadership, the infectious laughter of Elizabeth Kiss, and best of all the flowering romance of Cecile and Arnold, their 'chance' meetings in darkened corners, their timid whispers, their hidden blushes.

Once again was the aged château desolate, the sport of the wind which mockingly howled round its crumbling gables, and of the rain which dripped through its dissolving mortar, percolating into the interior, revivifying the moss; once again the weeds grew bolder in the grounds, already beginning to sprout where the amateur gardeners had stamped them out, and, as they grew, so for the second time the spirit of the château decayed, after having been revived for a brief period by the occupation by the pursued and outlawed nobility.

Dank and dismal, the château drooped, cheerless and uninviting—a home for nothing except for rats and mice, which once again invaded its unfortified barriers, burrowing through its rotting wood, and for the owls which snuggled back into their usurped corners.

Yet there was one who lived there still, one whose heart was as cold as the draughts, whose spirits were as mournful as the dismal moaning of the wind.

His work was finished. The task of the White Knight was ended, and here, where the woman he now cherished had lived, he attempted to forget, to wash from his mind all thoughts of his two Hungarian loves.

He was successful in weaning his thoughts from Zita, for Time, the master-healer, had washed his wound of the hurt: she was a lingering memory, a sweet fragrance of yesterday.

It was his recollection of Elizabeth which tortured him. She seemed so real, so near, and yet so far away. She was of the immediate present, as real as Zita was just a fairy phantom from some delicious dream.

When Geoffrey knew Hungary to be free at last from the tentacles of the Red octopus he realized that his work was ended. No more need to rescue unhappy victims of the Terror, no longer the necessity to counteract the evil purposes of the Communists, to hurry refugees across the border, to assist the Whites in preparing their great coup d'état.

What more could the world want of him now? Bitterly he answered his own query. Nothing! The world had no use for a vile, scarred, atrocious specimen of humanity such as he. It forgets so easily, and once the world ceased to remember the honour, the glory, of the scars of war, he would remain only a being of disgust, a revolting spectacle, an object of pity.

Pity! That would be worse than anything. Pity! Perhaps it would be: "Poor Geoffrey—but, you know..." The fatal "but." There would be no invitations for him—he might frighten the other guests! Not that he cared a damn; but supposing he married? ... And, like all mental arguments, his thoughts finished where they began—with Elizabeth.

Because of his attempted suicide—for he did not blink his eyes to the fact that it was attempted suicide deliberately to invite the Reds to murder him—he must bear a cross during the rest of his life. That was his punishment—his face his cross. Or was it rather his hopeless love for Elizabeth?

Those were days of bitterness! His brain no longer busy with schemes and plans for the succour of others, his time no longer fully taken up, his thoughts turned to himself and his future, and in desperation he fled to the empty château to work out his own salvation, to forget!

To forget! It was not long before he realized that of all the places in which to do this he had chosen the worst. What chance was there of forgetting when every corner reminded him of Elizabeth—perhaps she had sat there—or there—or there? She—she had slept in that room, he remembered—and that room became his shrine.

In the woods were the flowers she had loved so much—their sweet, dewy smell was reminiscent of her, as was the purity of the white flowers, for they were her soul, the richness of the red flowers, for they were her cheeks, the softness of the pansies, for they were her eyes.

The insects chirruped of her, the whispering of the wind through the forest trees sang of her, the tiny brooklet running near by babbled of her. Worst of all the moon, the broad, round face of the moon, as it majestically rose into the clear heavens, winked derisively at him, or frowned at him, shedding its silver beams through the interlaced boughs of the trees.

So the days passed, the heart of Geoffrey growing more sullen and more cold, until the spirit of the White Knight wilted beneath the triple load of misery, self-torture, and hopeless love.

The time arrived when he could not bear to look upon his own reflection, so he ceased to shave and grew a long, silky beard and a moustache.

He fed on what stores the refugees had left behind, and slept on the rough bed which Arnold had used when he was at the château, living the life of a hermit, trying to forget ... trying to forget ... and failing!

* * * * * *

The moon was rising, just skirting the trees, when one night Geoffrey became conscious of voices.

He was going to swear, but even as the words trembled on his lips he started, for he recognized the voices. Arnold and Elizabeth! What were they doing near the old château? He was in one of the front rooms, but like a wraith, and with as little noise, despite his great size, he slipped out into the surrounding forest, suspecting that they might enter the château.

The voices came nearer; they were chattering idly of current events in Budapest, but half-way across the clearing Elizabeth raised her hand and restrained Arnold.

"Please, monsieur," she said, and the sound of her voice stole through the quiet air to where Geoffrey was hidden. "Please, monsieur, I would like to stop here."

Arnold obediently halted. Then suddenly Elizabeth saw the old fountain, and, crossing to it, stood there, watching it in the light of the moon.

"Poor Mercury," she said wistfully; "he seems so solitary—alone in this big forest with no one near. He must have been a merry little chap in the old days, before he became overgrown with moss. I am going to sit down. Won't you rest beside me, Monsieur Arnold, so that I may talk to you?"

She seated herself on the edge of the large empty basin, and gazed around. From his place of concealment Geoffrey watched, and the beauty of the scene tortured him so that he closed his eyes. The silver rays of the moon bathed the clearing and the château in a pure white light which softened the decay, till one could almost picture it as it must have appeared in those far-off days when it had been the centre of life and love, of activity and of idleness: the playground of courtiers and ladies-in-waiting, with their colours and their swords, with their lace petticoats and their fans.

Never had Elizabeth looked so beautiful; it seemed to Geoffrey that never before had a background so admirably become her. If it were he who sat beside her, if it were only he! He caught his breath in a little gasp.

"How you must have wondered at me, Monsieur Arnold!" Elizabeth was saying to him as he sat beside her. "Did you think me mad, asking you to escort me here one night?"

"Indeed no," Arnold replied in his deep voice. "On the contrary, mademoiselle, I myself was more than pleased to come. This château has wonderful memories for me—memories of one night, just like this, not so long ago, when ... when Cecile..." He stopped awkwardly.

"Why, of course. I had forgotten," and it seemed to Geoffrey as if there was a sigh in her voice. "You are very happy, monsieur?"

"Happy!" There was a wealth of gladness in that one word which spoke for itself. "Mademoiselle, a short while ago, in the middle of the Terror, I would have said that this world was a Hell for some other and better world. Now it seems to me that it must be Heaven itself."

"Heaven!" she repeated in a whisper. "Heaven! Well, it might be, if..." She turned to Arnold suddenly. "What of the White Knight? Where is he?"

"Heaven only knows, mademoiselle," Arnold groaned. "Some time after the Rumanians took control he disappeared without a word. Since then I have hunted high and low for him without success."

"Are you not—afraid?" There was a catch in her voice.

"Afraid!" repeated Arnold, puzzled about her meaning. Then he realized what she meant. "No, mademoiselle, not of that. Only four people know who the White Knight was—Apor, Francis, you, and I. Besides, the Reds are being imprisoned in their hundreds. Many will hang. The rest are too busy hiding to worry about revenge."

"Then why has he fled from us all?" she demanded.

"Because—because of his scars," he answered slowly. "Poor Geoffrey. You see, he was so handsome before—before they came. And now! Somehow I cannot blame him; I feel everything he suffers. They make him horrible, mademoiselle, horrible—almost too hideous for a man to look at unmoved, and still less a—a woman!"

There was an unconscious undercurrent in his voice as he spoke the last few words, and she turned to him.

"Why do you say that? Why should he be more hideous to a woman?"

Arnold was embarrassed. "I—I do not know, but you see, mademoiselle, it always seems to men that women should be brought into contact only with the—the pretty things of this world. We try to keep the ugly things to ourselves."

"I know—and yet some women say men are selfish." She paused, but only for a few seconds. "Monsieur, supposing I brought you here for two reasons? One for the sake of—of memories, and the other to talk to you, alone and privately!

"Listen! That awful, terrible day when I betrayed the White Knight he called me 'Delilah.' Why, why did he say that to me? Has he ever explained to you?"

"No, mademoiselle," Arnold answered sadly. "He would not let me speak to him on the subject of his capture."

"Why not?" she demanded, but he was silent. "Yet I believe I can answer myself. Was it because he thought I had deliberately betrayed him?"

"I—I do not know."

"But you suspect...? Again you are silent, monsieur, and your silence is your answer. Holy Mary! Why cannot he realize the truth? I—I to betray the White Knight! Sooner would I have cut off my own tongue than willingly betray the man who saved my father from death, and me from far worse. Oh, Mother in Heaven, why can he not realize the truth?"

Arnold did not speak. He felt as if he were being permitted to look upon a woman's soul—that it would have been sacrilege for him to speak.

There was a sob in her voice, and she struggled with her emotion, but presently conquering it she continued: "Is that the only reason the White Knight has disappeared, Monsieur Arnold? Is the mere fact of a woman betraying him sufficient to drive him away for ever, or is there another reason? Tell me. I command you, monsieur, if you value a woman's happiness, answer me the truth."

"The truth ... mademoiselle, he worships the ground you walk on, but ... but ... because of his scars..."

"And what of my betrayal of him?"

"He would ... he has, I am sure ... forgiven you that."

"Monsieur, for those words I could almost love you. And I believe you. God be praised! But now, listen carefully, monsieur, I have a message for you to give the White Knight if ever you shall meet him. Tell him that his love for me is no deeper than my love for him, that—that—oh! what can I say save that I love him so?" And suddenly she buried her face in her hands, her body shaking with the sobs she could no longer repress.

At that moment there came, from the forest, a crackling of disturbed undergrowth, and a tall, white-faced man staggered toward them, to sink on the turf at her feet, clasping her hands, kissing them, again and again, till his burning lips were bruised.

With scarcely a sound Arnold disappeared, and they were left alone in the clearing, alone with the moon.

"My love, my love," he muttered again and again. "And yet ... it is impossible. I am dreaming, just dreaming. Soon I shall wake up, to find myself alone, with the rats and the mice—alone!"

"Hush, dear one!" she placed her hands to his lips. "Hush!"

For a while neither spoke, till in the end Geoffrey broke the silence, and his voice was changed.

"It must be impossible. How can you care for me? My scars..."

"Do you think a woman loves a man only for his face?" she asked.

"Not ordinarily, perhaps. But my face is ghastly—evil. For the moment you have forgotten it. Your love is blinding you. When your eyes are opened you will see—you must see—my features in their true colours, and you will shudder.... Oh, God! Believe me, Elizabeth, I know it to be the truth."

"It is not the truth!" she murmured passionately. "Have I not thought till my brain has ached with weariness? Have you forgotten that I am a daughter of Hungary, descended from a long line of fierce warriors? Each scar on your face is a scar of honour, every wound only one more reason why I should cherish you even more. I am not a dressed-up doll of the West, who must be surrounded by pretty things lest she droop. Unless you wish to wreck two people's happiness you must—must believe me, dear!"

"If only I might!" he murmured.

"Then test me," she challenged defiantly; "test me!"

"Ay, I will, dear," he agreed. "I will light a match, hold it to my face, and then look into your eyes. I shall assuredly read the truth there."

So his hand fumbled for a box of matches in his pocket, but when he found it his fingers trembled. What would the light reveal? Slowly he took out a match, but even then he hesitated. If they could only live for ever thus—in the dim light of the moon!

"Geoffrey!" she commanded gently.

"I am a coward. I am afraid." Then suddenly he struck it, and held the spluttering flame close to his face, so that its light might also reflect upon hers, and thus he could read her eyes.

So they sat, face to face, till the flame died away. In her eyes he had seen, not shuddering, unwilling horror, but tender love and, above all, overwhelming surprise.

Surprise!

"What is it?" he asked roughly.

"Geoffrey! Geoffrey!" She could hardly speak in her excitement, she was almost incoherent. "Oh, God! Oh, Mother in Heaven!"

So after all she had failed! His life was shattered. He rose to his feet, and would have moved away, but she clung to him desperately, forcing his arms around her.

"Geoffrey, you don't understand! Almost you are handsome. Your scars—your scars—I cannot see them, only one, just across your eye. That could not hurt me."

"You cannot see my ... my scars! Oh, God! You are deceiving yourself, Elizabeth ... your love is blinding you."

"No, no, I swear it! Don't you understand, Geoffrey? Your beard, your moustache——"

His hand wandered to his chin, his fingers felt the silky hairs, curling, concealing. Then suddenly he realized that he too was receiving his reward.

A wave of happiness flooded his body. Life once again opened out before him.

He drew her closer ... they were alone together ... just Elizabeth and he ... and the moon!