A STRANGE PRESERVER
Next morning Philippa, taking a book with her, set off for a quiet
stroll in the forest. The unaccustomed monotony of her life at the old
Grange, shut up with her step-father, whose temper, always inclined to
peevishness, the boredom of the situation did not improve, was irksome
to her. But beyond and above this negative evil was the positive one
of Zarka’s constant visits and veiled persecution. Against the idea
that he had any hold over her she fought strenuously; she would not
allow it, even to herself, yet she had an uneasy consciousness that
the Count’s language was apt to take the form of a scarcely disguised
threat. And here, in the vast lonely forest, under the dominating
seigniory of Rozsnyo, it seemed difficult to fight against the strong
hand backed by the resolute will. Civilization here hardly counted;
might was still right as in feudal days, and the only chance of safety
seemed to lie in temporizing and not driving the enemy to extreme
measures. The oppressive vastness, the weird silence and gloom of the
forest lay on her nerves; Zarka seemed to be the evil genius of that
great region of mountain woodland, and nature here to be his ally.
Anyhow that morning, she told herself, she would be free from him,
and with that object she avoided the open tracks along which he was
wont to ride, and kept well within the thickness of the wood where
never even a bridle-path was to be found. The Count’s favourite roan
would hardly thread its way amid that tangle of brushwood and maze of
trees. When Philippa felt she had wandered far enough, she chose an
inviting bank with a tree to lean against and sat down to read. She
had turned but a few pages when she looked up with a start. There was
a stealthy rustling in the undergrowth near. After a few moments of
alarmed expectancy Philippa sprang to her feet with a look of terror.
Two fierce eyes were glaring at her from behind the fringe of brushwood
some ten yards away. She kept sufficient presence of mind, however,
to be able to tell that, for good or ill, they were not human eyes. A
snarling grunt confirmed this; the intruder was a wild boar. Philippa
instinctively gathered up her dress and turned to run; at the movement
the animal with a louder growl broke through into the open space. She
caught one glimpse of his ugly tusks, his bristling hair and ears, his
savage little eyes, and in utter terror rushed in a panic away through
the trees. Escape from the brute seemed out of the question; she felt
it was coming on in hot pursuit, could hear it brushing through the
leaves, and its peculiar savage cry, ever nearer, made her sick with
fear. It was close on her; she darted to one side, and, facing the
animal, hopelessly tried to dodge it among the trees. Furious at being
thus baffled, the boar made deadly charges, running round the trees
with head lowered, and hunting the girl viciously from one to another.
She was becoming exhausted with the unequal strife; it was a wonder
she had avoided the fatal tusks so long, every fresh rush she felt
must end the business. She cried out despairingly, sending up shriek
upon shriek. Faint with the terror of death, now so imminent, she had
actually ceased to try and avoid the brute, when suddenly a man’s voice
cried out with startling clearness--
“Get away from him! Quick! I am going to shoot!”
With a supreme effort Philippa made a vigorous spring, by which she put
a yard or so between her and the boar just as his tusks had come within
striking distance. A shot rang out, the brute rolled over, not killed
outright, but at least disabled from further attack.
With a gasping cry of relief and thankfulness Philippa sank down half
fainting, as the man who had fired the shot ran quickly forward. It was
Abele d’Alquen.
His first act was to satisfy himself that the boar’s power for harm was
at an end. Perhaps he forebore giving the animal its _coup-de-grâce_
out of consideration for the girl’s presence. Taking out a flask, he
dropped on one knee beside her.
“A narrow escape, Fräulein. Drink this; it will revive you.”
“Thank you,” she said, declining the flask with a slight motion of the
hand. “I shall be all right again directly. But it gave me a terrible
fright.”
D’Alquen laughed. “Small wonder. You were not far from death, Fräulein,
and hardly a pleasant one. Ah!” he looked round at the writhing animal.
“It was a pretty shot; I was glad to have the chance of making it.”
“How can I thank you?” Philippa said gratefully, sitting up now and
passing her handkerchief over her face.
“There is no need to thank me,” he returned with what seemed a strange
brusqueness. “All the same, you may as well thank fate that decreed I
should be passing this way in the nick of time.”
“You have saved my life,” she said warmly, setting down his deprecation
to a natural modesty.
“Let us hope,” he replied, in the same almost ungracious tone, “that it
has not been preserved for a worse misfortune.”
The sentiment was obvious and unanswerable, but hardly gallant. His
manner seemed to check rudely the flow of her gratitude. Still she made
yet another effort to thank him.
“Anyhow,” she said, “I hope you will believe that I am very, very
grateful to you.”
“I can believe it,” he returned curtly, with an almost formal bow.
Philippa had risen to her feet now, and for a few moments they stood
together in an awkward silence. Then D’Alquen spoke, in his quick,
fierce way.
“You are Fräulein Harlberg, living at the old farm in the valley?”
“Yes,” she answered, with a touch of surprise.
“Your father, Herr Harlberg, comes here for sport, does he not?” She
nodded an affirmative. “Has he shot much?”
“Not much,” she answered, in rising wonder. “My father’s health has not
been very good.”
D’Alquen smiled, and the incredulity in his smile left, on the score of
politeness, something to be desired.
“You are great friends of Count Zarka of Rozsnyo?”
A strange, not yet accountable apprehension was beginning to steal over
her. But she answered the man’s catechism unfalteringly, feeling that
he had perhaps a right, since she owed him her life, to put questions
which nothing but his manner suggested were prompted by more than
simple, if insistent, curiosity.
“We know Count Zarka.”
“Yes.” His tone indicated that he was sure of it. “You know Count
Zarka,” he repeated. Then his manner changed abruptly, and for the
better. With an apologetic smile he said, “I ought to ask pardon for
all these rude questions. I have only one more, mein Fräulein.”
She glanced at him as he stood before her, almost with a suggestion of
barring her way. The smile was still on his lips, but the reassurance
caused by his last speech died away as she noticed that his eyes were
not in accord with it. Their expression was stern and malignant.
“And what is the last question?” she asked, smiling to cloak her
uneasiness.
D’Alquen drew a deep breath, as a man will before taking a plunge or
dealing a blow.
“You know--you knew Prince Roel of Rapsberg?”
His eyes were fixed on her face with a glittering eagerness. Somehow,
by a strange prescience, she had felt that the question would refer
to the vanished prince. So, fortunately, she was hardly taken by
surprise, and could answer steadily--
“I have met Prince Roel in town and have danced with him.”
“You know he has mysteriously disappeared?”
“Mein Herr,” she returned, with a touch of bantering reproof, “you said
there was only one more question to conclude your catechism.”
“You cannot answer this?” he demanded sharply and fiercely.
His manner gave her a thrill of fear, but she fought against betraying
it. “Answer it, mein Herr? There is not much to answer. I have heard
the report like the rest of the world.”
He gave a toss of the head. “Yes, yes. Before you left the city?”
“Yet another question? Certainly. One hears nothing here?”
“Not from Count Zarka?” His questions flashed out like the quick
thrusts of a rapier.
“Will the examination be much longer?” Philippa asked with a little
grimace of impatience. “For I must be going homewards; my father will
be anxious.”
“Herr Harlberg--that is your father’s name?” he asked with dart-like
suddenness. Philippa nodded assent. “Herr Harlberg may be glad that he
sees you at all.”
“That is true.”
“Shall I tell you,” he continued, in the same sharp, masterful tone,
“why I have detained you to ask these questions?”
Had she dared she would have declined to hear the reason, but she was
in the power of this strange questioner, and knew it would not serve to
ignore the curiosity which, indeed, she felt.
“You at least owe it to me to tell that,” she replied with a smile.