WHAT ZARKA FOUND
Count Zarka had paid his accustomed visit to Gorla’s farm, and was far
from pleased to find Philippa absent, and no hint left behind of her
whereabouts. He chatted for a while with her father, but the talk on
either side was hardly of an exhilarating nature, both men having in
their hearts a cause for annoyance.
“Has your friend, the Lieutenant, been over here this morning?” Zarka
asked unceremoniously.
Harlberg shook his head ill-humouredly. “No. I have seen nobody, but
Philippa for a moment. This is exile, indeed.”
His guest gave a shrug. “Unhappily a necessary evil, although one which
you may hope need not last much longer. But we will try and make it
as pleasant as you will allow us. My cousin Royda d’Ivady is anxious
to come over and see your daughter. Fräulein Philippa seems to avoid
company, and we do not like to intrude.”
Perhaps it occurred to Harlberg that his guest was hardly the man to
let any diffidence on that score stand in the way of his pleasure; but
he merely replied by a few words of protest.
“I had, indeed, a message from my cousin,” Zarka said, rising to
conclude an interview which bored him. “Have you any idea which
direction Fräulein Philippa took?”
“No. She said nothing to me, except that she was going. Will you leave
your message, Count?”
No; it was hardly worth while. The Count would probably meet the
Fräulein, as he was going to ride home by the forest. So, with an
impatience he scarcely troubled to disguise, he took his leave.
But he did not meet Philippa as he expected. She and her lover avoided
the open rides on their walk homewards, for interruption was just
then the last thing they courted. Within a radius of a good mile from
the farm the Count cantered, up one path, down another, ever keeping
his sharp eyes on the alert, but all to no purpose. Not a sign of her
whom he sought was to be seen. He was, assuredly, not a man who took
baffling well, and his expression as he urged his horse in and out the
woodland tracks was not an amiable one.
Suddenly something happened which intensified his alertness. As he rode
down a somewhat wilder and more intricate path his horse jibbed and
shied slightly, showing unmistakable signs of uneasiness. Knowing that
the well-trained animal would not behave thus without good cause, Zarka
took notice of the side from which the disquieting influence proceeded,
and then, dismounting, he pushed his way through the undergrowth to
discover the reason. It lay but a few paces before him--the wild
boar which D’Alquen had wounded, and which now lay dead where he had
fallen. A very cursory glance enabled the Count to take in the fact
that the animal had been shot. He looked round for farther evidence; he
listened eagerly for voices. Nothing unusual was to be seen or heard.
To his sportsman’s eye the track of the boar was plainly indicated.
He followed it for a short distance and came upon a book lying on the
ground. He eagerly picked it up. It was a novel, and on the fly leaf
was written in pencil “Philippa Carlstein.” He shut the book with an
impatient flick, and looked round with lowering face. For a while he
stood in thought, as though imagining what had occurred there. The
fancy was not a pleasant one, to judge by the deepening frown and the
set jaw; presently he roused himself to action, thrust the book into
his pocket, went with quick, purposeful step back to where he had tied
his horse, mounted and rode off towards the grange. He trotted his
horse up to the door at a pace which spoke of haste and importance.
“Herr Harlberg!” he shouted. “Herr Harlberg!”
Harlberg hurried out with more eagerness than he was used to show about
anything. “What is the matter, Count?”
“Fräulein Philippa? Has she returned?”
“Not five minutes ago.”
“Heaven be thanked,” Zarka exclaimed with simulated relief. “I feared
an accident had befallen her. General, you ought to warn her against
solitary strolls in the forest.”
“Why, what made you think anything was wrong, Count?” Harlberg asked,
in a tone which did not indicate that he was absolutely convinced of
his visitor’s sincerity.
But Zarka knew both his man and the power of a surprise. He was not
going to discount the effect of his discovery upon Philippa by allowing
the knowledge of it to filter through her father.
“Ask Fräulein Philippa to come to us,” he said almost peremptorily,
as he swung himself out of the saddle and entered the house, “and you
shall hear.”
Harlberg called her, and she came into the room where Zarka stood
impatiently playing with his riding whip. His quick eye detected a
certain only half hidden radiance in her face, and he felt that he
could guess its cause. Harlberg turned to him invitingly for his
explanation.
“I think,” Zarka began, “I have to congratulate you, Fräulein, on a
lucky escape.”
He told himself that he was right to have taken her by surprise, for
she looked at him with a start of obvious discomposure.
“How, Count?” she asked.
“From the tusks of one of the most formidable wild boars I have come
across for many a day.”
“Ah, you know?” she said with a smile, having recovered command of
herself.
“Yes,” he returned almost viciously, “I know. Know enough to be sure
that I might easily at this moment be condoling with the General rather
than congratulating you.”
She was puzzled to know how he had found it out, and he intended that
she should be in the dark till he was master of the facts. He turned to
Harlberg.
“Fancy, General. A monstrous brute, with fangs as long as that”--he
indicated a length on his riding whip. “No unarmed man would have had
a chance against him. It was a providential escape, Fräulein, and one
which might hardly happen twice.”
“You told me nothing of this, Philippa,” Harlberg said, in a tone of
aggrieved reproach.
“I had not seen you, father,” she replied. “My dress was torn and I
had to change it. Of course I was going to tell you.”
Zarka laid his hat and whip on the table. “Pray let us hear the full
account of it now,” he said.
Philippa told the story shortly, and had the satisfaction of seeing
that the Count’s conjectures as to her preserver were upset when she
described him as a stranger. Indeed, D’Alquen’s identity seemed to
concern him more than her safety, or the danger she had courted.
“But the man who shot the brute?” he asked, as the story came to an end
and Harlberg had rounded it off with a reproving comment. “A stranger,
you say? You had never seen him before?”
“Never,” she answered. “Nor, but for the fact that he saved my life,
should I wish to see him again.”
Zarka was all curiosity. “Why not?”
“His manner was disagreeable.”
“My dear child,” Harlberg objected, “under the circumstances you can
hardly criticise his manner.”
“I do not,” she replied; “only, when it was all over, he frightened me
almost as much as the boar had done.”
“Ah! Will you describe the fellow to me,” Zarka said, “that I may know
him if we meet, as is probable?”
Philippa did so, relating also the way in which D’Alquen had
questioned her. The Count was darkly suspicious.
“Anything to do, think you, with the Prince Roel affair?” Harlberg
asked, impressed by the other’s gravity.
“Hardly,” Zarka replied with a tolerant smile. He was not playing
the game with this dull, uninteresting old soldier, but with his
step-daughter. Presently the opportunity came for which he had waited.
Harlberg left them together.
“You have passed through a great danger to-day, Fräulein,” Zarka said,
changing his manner to one of intensely sympathetic interest. “I blame
myself that it is I who am indirectly responsible for it. I wish you
would give me the right to protect you from all these risks in future.”
“I am not likely,” she replied coldly, ignoring his tone of caress, “to
put myself in the way of such danger again.”
“From wild animals, no; let us hope not. But from men hardly less
dangerous. You cannot feel safe there.”
“I hope,” she rejoined, “my life will not be passed in a place like
this, where protection seems so necessary.”
He leaned forward. “Why should it not?” he asked earnestly. “Why should
it not, much of it, be passed here, as mistress of Rozsnyo?”
She rose, not trusting herself to look at him. “No, no,” she answered.
“That cannot be.”
“It may be, easily,” he persisted, following her. “You have only to
say the little word, Yes. You will say it, Philippa? You must know how
devotedly I love you. Dearest, you will be my wife?”
She shook her head. “I cannot be.”
“Ah!” he cried impatiently, “you do not know what you say. You will be
my wife, be queen of this great forest, and of all that is mine.”
He took her hand but she drew it away. “No,” she said. “It is good of
you, Count; I appreciate the honour you offer me. But I cannot accept
it.”
“Cannot be my wife?” he exclaimed, with the evil gleam in his eyes
which opposition to his will ever brought there. “You do not think what
you refuse.”
“A great honour; yes.”
“A man who loves you truly with heart and soul.”
“But whom I cannot love.”
“Cannot?” The draught he was swallowing was not a pleasant one, and his
face showed it. “Not for your father’s sake, if not for your own?”
“My father,” she replied, “will hardly wish me to marry a man I cannot
love.”
He knew, even better than she, that her step-father was the last man in
the world to trouble about that side of the question, providing other
considerations were favourable; but he could not say so.
“Your father, I know,” he returned positively, “would be glad to see
you Countess Zarka.”
“I am sorry,” she replied simply, leaving the unsatisfactory topic of
Harlberg’s views, “but it cannot be.”
“And why not?” he demanded, hardly keeping down his chagrin. “There can
be but one reason. Your love is, or you fancy it is, given to another
man. Tell me if it is so,” he added sharply, as she kept silence.
“It is useless to discuss that,” she answered, meeting his persistency
with a touch of dignity. “You must be content with the knowledge that
what you wish cannot come to pass.”
“Content!” he echoed. “Content is scarcely the doctrine to preach to
me. You might know that, Philippa, and my character better than to
suggest it. I do not take your refusal, for it is not logical; it is--I
know, though you may not--it is against your best interests. No,”
he continued, with the set tone of a determined will, “I am not the
man to be content to let another snatch the prize I covet. You will
reconsider your answer, Philippa? Yes?”
She shook her head. “No, Count.”
He laughed. “Then let your lover look to himself. He will need great
resources and the Devil’s luck into the bargain who enters the lists
with Aubray Zarka.”
She looked at him, half fascinated by the power of his remarkable
personality. But she did not falter when he held out his hand.
“I do not despair, Philippa,” he said with mock deference.
“I should be sorry to think you did,” she returned, meeting his eyes
boldly.
“Ah!” he rejoined, understanding the words as she meant them. “We shall
see.” Against her will he kept her hand in his. “It is a pity,” he
added suddenly, “that, instead of your uncivil preserver, the gallant
Lieutenant Von Tressen did not come along and shoot the boar. That shot
would have paid for the other. Is the finger healed?”
He bent down as though to examine her hand, and suddenly, before she
could prevent him, pressed it to his lips. Then he laughed again.
“Don’t be offended, mein Fräulein; I shall kiss your lips before this
day week,” he said.