THE nearly horizontal rays of a setting September sun, red with the promise of a brilliant resurrection on the morrow, struck full against the great elevated timber-line, where, at any rate for a space, European civilization seems to be held in check by the appalling ruggedness and grandeur—the insurmountable wildness of self-assertive nature. The parting glory falling directly on the fringe of the great coniferous belt, threw into more striking relief the blue-black intensity of the forest depths. The day had been hot—sultry for the time of year, for September days are, as it were, the Parthian cohort of Summer’s retreating array: the air was still and silent with the languor which comes of hours of steady, windless heat. Only occasionally there rose from the impenetrable blackness of the woods the lazy cry of a pigeon or the whirr of a tree-partridge, so infrequent as to be almost startling in contrast with the prevailing stillness.
The nibbling hares, dotted at picturesque intervals over one at the tufted and sparsely wooded lawns which here and there broke the continuity of the interminable woods, munched and leaped peacefully and comfortably enough. Presently by common consent, not simultaneously, but by twos and threes, and batches, they stopped their feeding, raised their heads, and pricked their ears until the whole company was at attention. A few tree-partridges, preening their grey feathers, paused and looked round inquiringly towards the black wood into which they could see but a few yards, yet perhaps further than any other living thing. The pause—of alert expectancy—lasted but a few seconds. A fox came with slinking trot out of the wood, and made across the best covered corner of the lawn towards the thickets opposite, increasing his pace as he crossed the open, his eyes redder than normal, for the sun struck full into them. Most of the hares reassured, resumed their eclectic nibbling; a few, impressed by Reynard’s gait and manner, leisurely put a less distance between themselves and the covert, plucking an occasional tempting blade on the way.
There is a subtle magnetic influence acting from animal life upon animal life. Unknown as its cause is to us—for all our researches can never take us beyond the border-line of half-knowledge, at least this side of the grave—and imperfect as our conjectures are, we see clearly enough its influence the more unmistakable in direct ratio to the sharpness of the senses of the creature upon which it acts. We feel it ourselves in the same proportion, keeping time with our individual sensitiveness; but with most of us, at any rate, distance attenuates the subtle power. So, not without the grosser signs of the sudden lifting, this time with one accord, of scores of furry heads and ears, the warning cry of pigeons behind the dark foliage, and the sudden swift rush of the lately indolent tree-partridge, would a human being have felt constrained to look expectingly towards the fringe of the wood, the natural line of which was now broken by the figure of a man.
He had stopped on emerging from the covert, and now stood, set off picturesquely against his dark background, perhaps admiring the romantic scene suddenly opened before him, perhaps uncertain as to his whereabouts. So motionless was his attitude, so striking his appearance, that he hardly seemed to lend a human interest to the fairy spot; an onlooker from the opposite side of the valley would have expected him to vanish as mysteriously as he had come. Presently, however, he moved forward and began to descend the slope. The hares, which had begun to wonder whether there was any harm in him, scampered away on all sides. The man at once halted and made a quick movement of pointing the gun he carried under his arm, but it seemed to be merely the sportsman’s instinct, for he checked the action ere he had aimed, and replacing the weapon in its former position, resumed his way across the now deserted valley.
A handsome man, of fair complexion and athletic frame, dressed in a dark-green shooting suit, whose easy swinging gait had nevertheless a suggestion of military precision and alertness. His figure, standing out against the dark background, was picturesque enough; even the modern fashion of his clothes scarcely detracted from the suggestion of romance in his appearance; his coat was thrown open, and there seemed a characteristic touch of a bygone age in the dress which harmonized so perfectly with his old-world surroundings.
Ascending the lesser elevation on the farther side of the valley he passed in again among the great firs; but now the woods grew lighter as he walked, his course after a while tending downwards. Soon he emerged again into the red sunlight, and upon a far greater extent of comparatively open country than the gap in the woods he had lately crossed. Here he came upon a third essential of perfect beauty in scenery—a rushing stream of water, dancing and sparkling between its sedgy banks as though rejoicing in the change from the barren blackness of its mountain source to the warm luxuriance at which it had now arrived. A short distance below, as its bed grew wider and smoother, the stream became less turbulent, and soon subsided into a placidity marred only by the leaping fish.
The sportsman, however, had for the moment turned the other way, walking some two hundred yards to where it was possible to cross the stream, using the boulders in its course as stepping-stones. On reaching the other side he walked down the bank, not very far before halting to light a cigar. Having done this he still lingered, curiously attracted by a movement of the water under the opposite bank, now some distance off, for the stream had suddenly widened. It was a slight regular splashing, not natural to the spot, for the movement of the water seemed objective not subjective. He could not see whence it proceeded, the cause, in foreign, being hidden by the reeds and sedge which luxuriated along the bank. To resolve his doubts he took up his gun, quietly slipped a cartridge into it, and carelessly fired at the spot. Almost simultaneously there rose the cry not of bird or beast, but of a human being, and above the tops of the rushes directly appeared the head of—a woman.
In a moment the quiet imperturbability of the man vanished. Startled and shocked, he shouted vehement apologies; then set off running back to the place where the stream was fordable. Here in his hurry, he made a false step on the uneven surface of the stones and only just saved himself from falling into the water. He scrambled up and across and, running down the bank, soon pushed his way through the reeds and reached the lady whom he had unwittingly fired at.
That she was young and good-looking accounted, perhaps, for his precipitate haste; when he came face to face with her he told himself that his rush and scramble were fully justified.
A tall distinguished-looking girl stood before him; the handsomest specimen of female humanity he had seen for many a long day, glancing at him with an expression of half annoyance, half curiosity, but with the perfect self-possession that only a high-bred woman is capable of. There was no self-consciousness, no aiming at effect. She seemed to trouble herself very little about the man by whose act she might at that moment be lying dead where she now stood; vouchsafing him little more than a casual glance, and receiving his profuse apologies with no reciprocal excitement.
“But I have hit you, mad fool that I was! That is blood on your dress?”
There was a dark stain on the girl’s brown travelling skirt.
“Yes; some shot hit my hand,” she replied coolly, bringing forward her left hand bound with her handkerchief the delicate texture of which was absorbing blood like blotting paper.
“Oh! What can I say! Do let me——”
“And ruined my gown,” she went on in the same calm voice, contrasting curiously with his excited tone. “Or perhaps it was my fault. I should have held my hand out of harm’s way.”
He pulled out a folded handkerchief.
“Let me offer you this. Can you staunch the bleeding till I fetch a doctor?”
She reached for the handkerchief without looking at her companion.
“Thank you. I will take that. But you need not bother about a doctor.”
“But surely you will allow me——”
She interrupted him with the same equable voice.
“If you will direct me to the nearest road to Gorla’s Farm, I won’t trouble you any more.”
His look of concern was gradually changing to one of puzzled surprise. He could not make her out, nor tell whether she was seriously offended with him or not, so little emotion, or even expression, did she evince. His self-reproaches and vehement apologies seemed to go for nothing. The girl made even less of them than she did of her wounded hand, and she regarded that coolly enough. But a man does not, even unwittingly, inflict bodily harm on another, still less on a woman, without feeling genuine regret for it, and this man could not at once check his expressions of sorrow, cavalierly as they were received.
“You are not to blame,” the girl said at last with decision. “It was a pure accident; it was my own fault. I had no business to play hide and seek in a shooting ground. I ought to have known better and may be thankful the affair is no worse. And if it had been——. Now, as it is getting late I must be making my way homewards.”
He looked surprised. “Do you live in these wilds?”
She laughed. “You did not think there was any habitation, perhaps.”
“Except Rozsnyo.”
He thought her face changed curiously. At any rate the smile died out of it. “I am not bound there,” she replied. “We are living for the time at an old farm, the Meierhof Gorla. My father has come for sport.”
“That, too, is my reason for being here,” he said. “But I am a gipsy—for the time. I have a travelling cart and a tent, pitched over yonder”—he pointed across the valley—“my name is Osbert Von Tressen, and I have the honour to hold the rank of lieutenant in the second regiment of cavalry.”
“My father’s name,” she told him in return, “is Harlberg. We live, when we care for civilization, in town. But I love forest life.”
“You have enough of it here,” he returned drily. “I thought perhaps you had come from the Schloss Rozsnyo. You know Count Zarka?”
She hesitated for a moment, and then said, “Yes, we know him. Do you?”
“No; only by—reputation.”
She gave a quick glance at him as though to detect a significance in the last word. If she seemed tempted to ask him what that reputation was, she refrained.
“I hope,” he asked sympathetically, “your hand is not very painful?”
“It hurts very little. I had no idea shot was so painless.”
They had come to the crossing-place over the stream; Von Tressen, going first and stepping backwards, handed her safely across.
“Take care,” he warned her midway. “I slipped on that stone myself just now.”
“You did not fall in?”
“I saved myself at the expense of a wet foot.”
She looked at him in a little amused commiseration. “How uncomfortable you must be! Do not let me keep you. I had rather lost my bearings, but if you can tell me the point to make for I can easily find my way home.”
He laughed. “I should have felt infinitely more uncomfortable if I left you now. I had really forgotten my damp boot. I hope my company is not offensive to you as, after all my folly, I fear it ought to be.”
“Oh, no,” she answered. “I am not vindictive enough to send you away.”
“Then you have forgiven me?”
“For what? I brought the accident on myself. I was tired and hot and thought it would be pleasant to lie down among the cool rushes and paddle my hand in the water, forgetting I ran the risk of being taken for a water-fowl or water-rat. There is nothing to forgive.”
“I shall never forgive myself.”
“You may easily,” she returned.
They walked on in silence for a time over the thick, springy, plush-like turf. The girl seemed preoccupied, and her companion had too much tact to force her to talk. Presently she asked, “Have you had good sport to-day?”
“A big bag of small game which my man has taken to the tent. I have been obliged to shoot alone, as a brother officer who was to have joined me cannot get leave just yet.”
They were passing now through a little wood, their talk languishing strangely; it was, in fact, awkward and disjointed, the girl was distraite, and a strange spell seemed to be on the man.
As they emerged from the wood a glorious landscape lay before them. A great valley, broken up into a thousand tints of light and shade by the setting sun which played among rock and thicket, here and there catching a bend of the glinting stream which wound its way through it. Beyond rose a purple backing of millions of pines, and above and beyond them again the snow-capped mountains in all their stern grandeur.
The girl stopped for a moment. “How lovely!” She spoke without the least suspicion of gush; it was a genuine expression of delight, perhaps curbed by the presence of her companion.
“Yes,” he agreed, “the valley looks beautiful to-day, but, to my thinking, it looks grandest under a stormy sky.”
She was looking towards a spot where, high up on the pine-clad hill a great splash of crimson fire sparkled and glinted, glowing with a brilliancy which tinged the woods around it with its own blood-red colour.
“The Schloss Rozsnyo stands well,” he observed.
“Like a fairy palace,” she commented.
“Yes, it is,” he replied. “Quite a show place, built half upon, half inside the rock, I am told. Most romantic, but singularly out of the way in these regions. It seems sheer waste. But then the Count, no doubt, is a man of peculiar ideas.”
His last remark was half a question, but the girl did not answer it. He was not exactly sorry to notice that her interest in Rozsnyo and its owner did not seem to be altogether of an agreeable nature.
They turned and walked on. She was busy with her thoughts now, he could see; and he forebore to interrupt them. As they turned into one of the broad glades that intersected the forest, he said:
“This is an afternoon of surprises after my week’s solitude. Who comes here?”
The girl’s look followed his. A few hundred yards away, coming towards them at a leisurely trot, was a horseman.
As they and the rider drew nearer, an idea struck Von Tressen.
“I wonder if by any chance this is the man we have been speaking of—Count Zarka?”
He was quite within recognizable distance now. But it seemed from her absence of curiosity—for she kept her eyes from the advancing figure—that Fräulein Harlberg had known him at once.
“Yes it is,” she answered curtly.
Von Tressen, in the glance which he could not resist, saw her face set with a peculiar look of suppressed feeling, almost of defiance. Next moment the Count was reining up in front of them. The two men raised their hats, but Zarka’s eyes were upon the girl. They had probably already taken in her companion during the approach.
“Fräulein Harlberg,” he said with a certain suavity of manner, “I just did myself the honour to call at the farm and found your father a little concerned at your long absence. Knowing the danger of losing one’s way in the forest I offered to go in search of you.”
“It was very good of you, Count,” the girl replied almost indifferently. “But I was hardly in danger of being quite lost.”
The Count now turned his attention to Von Tressen, looking at him with a peculiar wolfish smile, which was at the same time no smile at all, but just the mask of one. “I see, Fräulein, you have already found an efficient escort. You have been shooting in the forest, mein Herr?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Unfortunately?” The Count took up the word quickly, with a snap, as it were, and glanced with a smile of protest at the girl.
“Most unfortunately,” the Lieutenant repeated. “I have unhappily hit the Fräulein.”
Again Zarka echoed his words, drawing back his lips into an expression of incredulity.
“It is nothing,” the girl said a little impatiently.
But it had occurred to Von Tressen that it would be just as well to mention the accident. Zarka looked to him the man inevitably to find it out; besides which it seemed due to the girl that their chance acquaintanceship should be accounted for.
“The Fräulein is good enough to make light of it,” he said. “But it is desirable that a doctor should see her hand without delay. Therefore, perhaps, the Herr Graf will pardon me if I suggest that we move on.”
The Herr Graf did not look exactly in a pardoning mood, although the suave smile was still on his face. He wheeled his horse. “I will do myself the pleasure of bearing you company to the Meierhof,” he said in a tone which had in it less of a suggestion than a determination. “Perhaps then I may be allowed to ride into Kulhausen for a doctor. It will be quickest.”
They had moved on together, the Count walking his horse abreast of them and in his insinuating way trying to draw out a circumstantial account of the accident. At a turn in the forest road Von Tressen said, “It is properly I, the culprit, who should go for the doctor. I cannot allow you, Count, to take the trouble. I have a horse at my camp and——”
As he spoke he felt a pressure on his arm. The girl had given him a warning touch. Zarka signified by an indifferent bow that he accepted Von Tressen’s suggestion. But his face grew a shade darker as Fräulein Harlberg said:
“There is really no hurry. We can easily send from the farm. My father will naturally think it right, Herr Lieutenant, that you should come and make his acquaintance.”
The Count gave a tolerant smile, which probably served to mask some darker expression, and the three went on together a short half-mile to the house, Zarka chatting volubly and Von Tressen wondering why the girl had so manifestly objected to his leaving them.