IT took a great deal, in a general way, to astonish Aubray Zarka, nevertheless the frame of mind in which that enterprising nobleman rode to Gorla’s farm next day was one bordering on sheer amazement. And the cause of his wonder was the mysterious wound which had thrown his cousin Royda d’Ivady into a fever. The doctor who had been summoned was a discreet man, even for a physician, and he had promised his very interesting patient to abstain from all allusion to that puncture in the right shoulder; but face to face with Zarka, ever suspiciously on the alert, his resolution was swept away like thistle-down. Poor man! The countenance of the lord of Rozsnyo was more to him than the secret of a hysterical girl; so the existence of the rapier wound was disclosed. But Doctor Horvath could not tell his patron one thing, for he did not know it himself, although he found some difficulty in persuading the Count of that—how the wound had come to be inflicted. Neither could he find this out from his patient, although, at a hint from Zarka, he tried to do so.
But Zarka found it out—at least enough to enable him to make a shrewd guess at the rest. How—probably no one but himself exactly knew—but the fact that Royda’s fever made her occasionally light-headed may furnish a clue to the means.
“You will be sorry to hear that my cousin Royda d’Ivady is seriously ill,” he remarked to Philippa when they met. She stole an apprehensive glance at him, but his face was even more smilingly inscrutable than usual.
“I am sorry to hear it,” she replied. “I hope it is nothing dangerous?”
“Yes; a severe accident on which fever has supervened. Her condition is grave, but she is in good hands.”
“An accident?” Philippa was forced to show some curiosity, but it needed all her self-command to keep the right tone and avoid a suspicion of guilty knowledge; above all, to repress the sickening fear and self-reproach which had come over her.
“Well,” Zarka answered, fixing his piercing eyes on her face, “perhaps we ought not to call it an accident. It is altogether a mysterious business, but I feel sure accident is the wrong word to use. My cousin has received a severe wound in the shoulder; she has been stabbed—the arm run through with a sword.”
“Then where is the mystery, Count?” Philippa asked, boldly meeting the feline gaze. “Surely Fräulein d’Ivady can tell you how she came by the wound?”
“I have not asked her,” he replied significantly.
“You prefer to remain mystified?” she suggested, with a half smile.
For a moment he looked like a tiger on the spring, as though her manner and his guess at the cause of Royda’s wound were provocative beyond endurance, but he checked the impulse, merely replying: “It is, perhaps, not so much a mystery after all.” Then he added suddenly, shooting out the question like a dart: “You have a cold, Fräulein?”
For a moment she did not see what he was aiming at. “A cold?”
“Your throat is wrapped up,” he explained, pointing to the unusually high band of lace round her neck.
She did not recover from her disadvantage in time to prevent a slight flush. “My throat pained me a little this morning,” she said.
“Ah! Not from cold, perhaps?” There was the gleam of an underlying meaning in his sharp eyes. “Our valley is damp at night. You are wise to keep your throat wrapped up.”
“It is nothing,” she replied, facing the fire of his scrutiny as steadily as she could.
He gave a little bow, as ending the subject.
“I came over, Fräulein,” he said, “to ask you a question.”
“What is that, Count?”
If she thought it had to do with her night’s adventure she was mistaken.
“A simple one,” he answered. “Whether you have yet seen proper to change your no into a yes?”
She shook her head.
“At least,” he continued insistently, “we are nearer to the happy word than we were yesterday?”
“No, Count, indeed.”
But he would not accept her denial. “Oh, yes, we are,” he maintained. “I gave you a week, Fräulein, and much of that has yet to pass. It will take less than a week for you to see the folly of your refusal, the wisdom of throwing in your lot with the only man who can rescue you from a terrible danger, and make you one of the most envied women in the land.”
Philippa made no response. She was sick at heart at the evidence of the man’s indomitable will, and the conviction of his utter unscrupulousness.
Returning through the forest Zarka, as much, perhaps, by design as accident, encountered Von Tressen and Galabin. He gave the young men a salutation which bore no trace of the ill-feeling in which he had last parted from Von Tressen. His expression was serious without, for him, especial malevolence, and to the Lieutenant’s surprise he reined up and spoke to them, addressing himself, however, more particularly to Galabin. After a few casual inquiries as to their sport, he said:
“I am rather in trouble at Rozsnyo, and you will, I am sure, be sorry when you hear the cause. My cousin, Fräulein d’Ivady, is seriously ill.”
They expressed their regret at the news.
“Yes,” Zarka went on; “it is most unfortunate, and the more provoking as the illness is the result of an accident, the outcome of a foolish escapade.”
“Indeed?” Galabin responded, wondering how far the man was to be believed.
Zarka proceeded. “A most unheard-of affair. It is extraordinary to what lengths our country-women’s hot blood will sometimes drive them.”
“Dare we ask for an account of what has happened?” Galabin observed, curious to know what the arch schemer was driving at.
Zarka hesitated with a grin and a shrug. “As I am in the somewhat delicate position of being the indirect, even if not the direct, cause of the affair, I fear I must not speak very plainly. I don’t pretend to be more modest than the average, but there is a code among men of honour which forbids boasting. But what do you think, gentlemen, of a duel, a serious duel, with rapiers at night between two ladies?”
Galabin glanced apprehensively from the sinister smiling face to that of his friend, and began to regret his curiosity. Von Tressen’s look was set, and he made no sign of joining in the talk.
“Between ladies? Absurd!” Galabin laughed.
“Absurd enough in one way,” Zarka returned, “yet very serious in another. I wish Fräulein d’Ivady’s wound were as absurd as its cause.”
It was Galabin’s intention to make an attempt to dismiss the subject, but before he could do so Von Tressen spoke.
“You say, Count, that Fräulein d’Ivady has fought a duel with another lady.”
Zarka smiled. “So it appears.”
“And you really believe it?”
“Unhappily the evidence is too strong to do otherwise.”
“Is the name of her opponent a secret?”
Galabin interposed. “My dear Osbert, what does it matter?”
But the Lieutenant made a gesture to silence him. His face was stern, and the eyes which met the Count’s had an angry gleam. “It does matter,” he insisted. “There are not so many ladies in the neighbourhood capable of fighting a duel that the withholding of the name should hurt no particular reputation. Count Zarka has boasted that a duel was fought on his account——”
“No, no!” Zarka protested, hardly disguising his evil satisfaction at the way his rival was walking into the trap.
“You suggested it, Count,” Von Tressen returned, with a touch of contempt. “It seems to me you have said either too much or too little.”
Zarka gave a shrug. “Too much, if you will. So I will add no more. You say there are few ladies in the forest, then it should not be difficult for the Herr Lieutenant to guess the name of my cousin’s opponent.”
“It would be affectation to ignore your insinuation,” Von Tressen replied with spirit. “But if it points to Fräulein Harlberg, I can only tell you, Count, I take the liberty of disbelieving your story.”
Zarka gave an unpleasant laugh. “I know of no one else who could have been my poor cousin’s adversary. Nevertheless, not having been present at the encounter, I am as much in the dark as yourself, Herr Lieutenant.”
“Then let me tell you, Herr Graf,” Von Tressen returned hotly, “that you have no right on mere conjecture to cast aspersions on a lady’s reputation.”
“The fighting of a duel,” Zarka objected with insolent coolness, “is, between women, ridiculous enough, but hardly a matter of dishonour.”
“It is,” Von Tressen retorted, “when it is fought for the reason your modesty allows you to suggest.”
Zarka smiled indulgently. “You are a young man, Herr Lieutenant, and your natural chivalry makes you incredulous. But if you lived a thousand years in the world you would still have much to learn of women’s ways.”
“Possibly,” Von Tressen returned; “but in this instance I am concerned only with one woman. And I say you have no right without proof to associate Fräulein Harlberg with this escapade.”
Zarka’s face began to darken. “The Fräulein has a zealous champion,” he sneered. “Perhaps, if it were worth while, I might challenge our Lieutenant’s right to that office.”
“You may,” Von Tressen cried; “and I——”
Zarka waved his arm. “For the moment we talk of proof,” he interrupted haughtily. “For that I must refer you to the lady herself.”
Galabin interposed. “This is waste of time. Von Tressen, is it worth while——?”
Zarka stopped him. “One moment, gentlemen. My suggestion is not quite so useless as you imagine. The Lieutenant has asked for proof. I will tell him where to get it. If I am wrong then I will accept the consequences.”
“Where am I to find this proof?” Von Tressen demanded.
Zarka was very calm now. “Where I told you,” he answered. “From Fräulein Harlberg herself.”
“I shall not insult her by suggesting such a thing,” Von Tressen returned indignantly.
“You need not,” Zarka rejoined with a smile. “You have but to pay a visit to the farm and notice whether the Fräulein’s throat is bound up. I fancy she did not come through the encounter quite unscathed. That should be proof enough for a reasonable man. If I am wrong in my assertion I shall be happy to give you any satisfaction you may demand. For the present there is no more to be said. Good-day, gentlemen. Auf Wiedersehen.”
He gave a touch to the bridle, wheeled, and rode off, the very incarnation of triumphant, Satanic politeness.
For the few seconds which elapsed before Zarka was out of sight neither of the two men spoke. Then as Galabin glanced at his friend, the Lieutenant turned away with a gesture of despair.
“You don’t believe what that fellow says?” Galabin observed sympathetically. “What is this but a new move in his game. He sees he cannot coerce or frighten you, that you mean to stand up to him, and so is attacking you from behind. I thought there was some object in his rather unnatural civility, considering, that is, the terms on which you stand with him. No, no; you must not believe it.”
But his friend was unconvinced.
“Believe it?” he cried miserably. “I would give my right hand not to believe it. But I fear it may be all too true.”
“My dear friend,” Galabin remonstrated; “which is more likely to deceive you, this man Zarka, whose ways we know are crooked, or the girl, whom you have every reason to trust?”
“I do not know; I cannot understand it,” Von Tressen replied desperately. “It is all so mysterious; our seeing her in the forest with the man she professes to hate: it tallies with D’Alquen’s account of her; then the woman we saw in the valley last night, going towards the farm—ah, I wish I could have caught her and known the truth!—and now this story of the duel. Horaz, I hate myself for the thought, but I must put this terrible uncertainty beyond a doubt at once. I am going to Gorla’s Farm to put it to the proof.”
Philippa, ever now on the watch, saw him coming down to the valley, and went eagerly to meet him.
“I am so glad you have come,” she said, with a suspicion of reproach.
“I should have come before this,” he replied, “only I thought——”
“You thought?”
“That perhaps you were too much engaged to care to see me.”
She knew from his tone what she had already guessed from the manner of his greeting, that he was jealous and suspicious. That unlucky meeting in the forest had worked its effects.
“Osbert!” she returned reproachfully. “Indeed, I have wanted to see you very much.”
In the first excitement of their meeting he had had no thought of the proof which Zarka had bidden him look for. Now the delight called up by her words was checked as he noticed the high band round her throat. A chilling wave of despair seemed to flow over him, and he replied almost coldly; “You wished to see me? I hardly guessed that.”
If she ignored his coldness it was because she knew it to be natural. “I wanted to warn you.”
“To warn me?” he asked half suspiciously.
“To put you on your guard against Count Zarka.”
“Not my friend, Osbert.”
“Yet you seem to be on remarkably confidential terms with him.”
“Perhaps,” she replied. “But for all that we are not friends; far from it. One day I will explain it all to you, but not now.”
“Why not now?” he returned.
“Osbert, can you not trust me?” she protested.
Her tone and the look which accompanied the words would have surely convinced him had not the tell-tale bandage continued to accuse her. He hated himself for the words his suspicion made him speak, shrank from the dilemma he must force upon her: yet the horrible uncertainty could not go on. He must get at the truth, whatever the cost might be.
“You look pale, Philippa,” he said, trying to steady his voice. “Are you not well? Why is your throat wrapped up?”
“I have a little cold,” she answered.
“The band round your neck is not becoming,” he continued, hating himself for the falsehood. “Is your throat very bad?”
“No; not very,” she replied steadily.
“I wish,” he said, “you would take all that lace off for a moment.”
“That I may see you without it. See the difference it makes. Come, dear, let me unwind it.”
She shrank back. “No, no. Please do not touch it.”
“Philippa, only for a moment,” he persisted, hiding the bitterness that rose in his heart. “Do take it off. I do not like you in it. Let me see you for a moment without it.”
His insistence must have betrayed his suspicion. She met him boldly.
“I cannot take the band off,” she said. “I have had a slight accident. I have hurt my throat.”
“You said it was a cold.”
“I must keep the cold from it.”
“The wound?”
“Yes.”
There was silence between them for a while. Then Von Tressen said abruptly: “Philippa, I hate mysteries. Will you not clear up the one which stands between us?”
“There is none,” she protested.
“There is,” he returned.
“None that need trouble you.”
“But it does,” he insisted. “Will you let our betrothal be known?”
“Not yet, Osbert.”
“At least let Count Zarka know it.”
She laughed. “Who else is there here? Count Zarka is all the world.”
“I will tell him,” Von Tressen said.
A look of fear crossed her face. “No, please, Osbert, not yet.”
“Why not?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“And yet there is no mystery. How did you hurt your throat, Philippa?”
She felt her happiness was slipping away from her, yet somehow she could not grasp and stay it.
“By a piece of stupidity too absurd to mention,” she answered. “You need not look suspicious, sir; the Count had no hand in it.”
“He was not the cause?” he asked searchingly.
“No, I tell you.”
“Philippa,” he said suddenly, “for Heaven’s sake tell me what this man is to you. It is not fair to let me imagine things. You must—ah! What is the matter?”
In his vehemence he had grasped her arm in the very place where Royda’s rapier had pierced it, and she had given a cry of pain.
“Nothing,” she replied, quickly recovering herself. “You hurt me.”
“Surely not?” Then in a fresh access of suspicion he asked: “You have wounded your arm, too?”
“No—yes, it is tender,” she answered in distress.
He looked at her sadly, despairingly, yet with the gentleness of a noble-minded man who would spare her pain in the parting which now seemed inevitable.
“If I stay longer I shall hurt you more, it seems,” he said. “We had better say good-bye.”
“For how long?” The question was forced from her, almost piteously.
“Till I am worthy of your confidence as well as your love,” he answered coldly. “Till I know how far Count Zarka’s presumption is justified.”
“Osbert!” she cried. In another minute he might have learned the truth, but Harlberg came in and cut short the word that was on her lips. She felt faint with her weakness, bewildered by the cruelty of her fate.
Her step-father asked her to fetch a book from her room. As she went the great strain she had undergone and the pain of her wound brought on a slight faintness. When she had recovered sufficiently to return to the room, Von Tressen was not there.
“I pressed him to stay,” Harlberg said, “but he would go, and asked me to say good-bye for him.”