FROM FURY TO FURY
The danger of her situation flashed upon her. It was this man, then,
who must have struck the light she had seen. What an escape she had
had. If he found her there alone would not so apt an opportunity
overcome any hesitation in his mind? He would kill her, if only for
the impunity with which the deed might be done. Her one thought now
was to escape, but how? D’Alquen had cut her off from the valley; she
dared not venture into the wood which lay between it and the castle for
fear of encountering him. As she crouched there, fearful of the man’s
return, desperately reviewing her chances of escape, a vivid flash of
lightning, accompanied almost simultaneously by a crashing peal of
thunder, announced that the threatened storm had burst over Rozsnyo.
In panic the girl rose and fled across to the shelter of the wall, and
shrank against it, panting and terrified. The rain now poured down in
a deluge, the lightning played round her in almost incessant flashes,
and the thunder pealed deafeningly. It was a typical mountain storm
of the fiercest kind. Driven both by fear and the pelting rain from
the inadequate protection of the bare wall, Philippa looked round in
desperation, and seeing what seemed a sheltering buttress at some
little distance, made a rush for it. Even this provided but a poor
screen against the storm’s fury; a blinding flash seemed to strike the
ground but a few feet from the place, and in terror Philippa abandoned
her position and ran on, seeking a safer refuge. To her intense relief
she came to a deeply recessed doorway, and in this at last she found
complete shelter. Here she stayed, recovering from her fright, until
the violence of the downpour abated, and she could think of venturing
upon her return. A short way from where she stood a bridge spanned
the hollow, and seemed to lead to a path through the woodland beyond.
To adventure upon it was risky, yet to stay where she was would be
to court falling into Zarka’s hands, and of the two she felt she
feared D’Alquen the less. The rain had now nearly ceased, although the
darkness, save for an occasional flash, was as great as ever. After
some hesitation Philippa resolved to make a run for it and trust to
chance to find her way home again. Gathering her skirts round her she
ran to the bridge, just discernible in the night’s blackness. She was
half way across it when a great flash lighted up for a second the open
space against the dark background of the wood, and showed her two men
on its outskirts, Von Tressen and Galabin.
Philippa’s first impulse was to call to them and run forward. Her
second thought checked this, and made her crouch beneath the railing
of the bridge, then turn and retreat to the walls again. If her lover
found her there what would he think? How could she account for her
presence? Easily enough--and yet--. Coupled with the mystery of her
relations with Zarka, how could she expect that Von Tressen’s mind
would not be full of suspicion? Here she was, coming from the Count’s
very door, and her poor excuse was that she had lost her way and been
frightened. After having been surprised in that equivocal situation
with him that morning she dared not add this compromising evidence to
the doubt she felt sure must be in her lover’s mind. No; she must wait
till the path was clear. Her life’s happiness was at stake, and Fate
was cruelly her foe just then.
So she went back to the doorway, where she could stay securely
hidden in its recess without fear of betrayal from a chance flash of
lightning. Here she waited for a while, and then, just as she was
preparing to set out again, she felt with a thrill of terror that a
hand grasped her arm, and a voice said in her ear--
“So! I have caught you!”
With a terrible start Philippa turned. The small, iron-studded door
behind her had opened silently, and a woman stood there. Philippa could
just see the flash of her eyes; the nervous vicious clutch on her arm
told her that the presence was not a friendly one.
“I came here for shelter,” she began.
“Shelter!” There was a bitter laugh in the voice that echoed the word.
“Shelter?” it repeated. “Yes; you shall have shelter. Come in!”
The grip on her arm pulled her towards the door, but she resisted.
“No, thank you,” she replied, trying to release herself. “The storm is
now nearly over. I will find my way home.”
But the hands held her strongly. “Not yet,” her captor returned. “You
must come in, I have something to say to you.”
Philippa was now almost within the doorway. “What do you want?” she
demanded, with an effort to keep under her agitation.
“Come in,” replied the other, “and I will tell you. It is useless to
resist. I could kill you where you stand if I chose.”
The words were hissed out in the very boiling heat of passion.
Bewildered and frightened, yet conscious of no offence, Philippa had
suffered herself to be drawn a foot or two over the threshold. By a
quick movement the other woman contrived to close the door, which shut
noiselessly as though protected from banging. “Come with me,” she said;
“I must speak to you.”
It was pitch dark, but the grip on Philippa’s arm, which never relaxed,
guided her along what seemed to be a passage, till a sudden turn
brought them to a stop. Then her arm was released, and the other’s
voice said--
“Stay, till I strike a light.”
Next moment a match blazed and a candle was lighted. It showed to
Philippa’s look of anxious, breathless wonder a small oak-panelled room
and the form of a girl like herself, the dark, resentful face of Royda
d’Ivady.
As the candle burnt up Royda raised her head, meeting Philippa’s gaze
defiantly. So for some moments the two stood eyeing each other in
silence, but with very different expressions.
At length Royda spoke. “You know me, Philippa Harlberg?”
“I suppose,” she answered, “you are Fräulein d’Ivady.”
“You are quite right,” Royda said with a sneer, “and I think I could
make an equally good guess as to why you are here.”
The girl, it was evident, was wild with rage, which only by a great
effort she kept from bursting forth.
“Why have you brought me here?” Philippa said, with a calmness in
strange contrast to the other’s excitement. “I should like to know
that.”
“You expected some one else to open the door,” Royda said, in a voice
which passion rendered scarcely audible.
If Philippa understood the taunt she ignored it. “I did not expect the
door to open at all,” she returned quietly.
“What?” Royda burst out, no longer able to repress the passion that
shook her. “Not by your lover, Aubray Zarka?”
“My lover?” Philippa dashed out. “Count Zarka is very far from being my
lover.”
“Then why are you here?” Royda hissed rather than spoke. “Why did I
see you creeping like a thief across the bridge? Yes; like a thief, a
thief, as you are!”
“I ran into the doorway for shelter from the storm,” Philippa replied,
meeting the other’s violence with dignity, yet conscious of her false
position.
“The storm?” Royda laughed mockingly. “Does that account for Rozsnyo
being your nearest place of shelter? It is a long evening stroll for a
young lady from Gorla’s farm.”
“Your suspicions,” Philippa said, repressing the indignation she felt
at Royda’s manner, which was more insulting than her words, “are
altogether wrong and most unjust. I lost my way in the forest before
the storm began. I had no thought of coming here, much less a wish to
see Count Zarka. I hate him.”
For a moment Royda looked at her without speaking. Such a look it was.
Her eyes seemed to contract and coruscate with spite and rancour.
“You hate him!” she repeated slowly. “You hate him? Is that why he
visits you every day? Why I find you here at his private door? Lucky
the flash of lightning showed you to me before he saw you. Aubray will
hardly expect you in this storm,” she continued mockingly. “He does not
suspect what danger his dear Philippa would brave for his sake. But you
are not at the end of your dangers yet, madame, let me tell you that.”
Philippa’s patience was exhausted, besides which she feared that any
moment might bring Zarka upon the scene. She comprehended the jealousy
of this angry girl, and cared little for her fury, but the other danger
made her sick with fear and impatience.
“I have listened to you long enough,” she said haughtily. “If you do
not accept my explanation, I cannot help it. I can stay no longer.”
As she moved to the door Royda sprang forward and reached it first.
Then turned to Philippa, her dark face livid with hate and passion.
“You shall go,” she said in a low voice. “I will show you the way.”
She took the light, opened the door and went out, motioning Philippa
to follow her. They traversed several softly carpeted passages, and at
length arrived at a great door. Royda turned the handle and it opened
noiselessly, disclosing, not, as Philippa expected, the open air, but
the broad flight of steps leading down into the rock. She drew back.
“That is not the way,” she said, full of suspicion and fear of a trap.
“Not the way you came in,” Royda replied sharply under her breath. “It
is a private passage out of the castle.”
The dark, grim, rock-hewn stairway was not inviting, especially when
dimly seen by the light of a solitary candle.
“I will not go down there,” Philippa said.
Royda stood eyeing her in resentful impatience.
“No,” she sneered. “You would doubtless rather take your departure by a
more open way that Aubray Zarka might catch sight of you. This is the
only outlet for you. Fool! What are you afraid of? I will go first.
Now, come!”
Philippa felt that almost any risk was preferable to that of
encountering Zarka, and at least she might trust this jealous girl to
keep her from that. So, after a moment’s hesitation, she followed Royda
warily, resolved to be on the alert for a trick.
The descent into the rock was not reassuring, but Philippa by an effort
kept up her courage, feeling herself, at any rate physically, a match
for her guide. At length the end was reached, and the great door of
the armoury pushed open. As she saw the immense room with its rows of
ghostly mailed figures Philippa started in horrible fear and stopped on
the threshold.
“Where is this? What is in there?” she demanded.
“You need not be afraid,” Royda answered, with a touch of exultant
scorn at her rival’s terror. “It is only the armoury. We are in the
heart of the rock. But there is a passage from here leading out into
the valley. I will show you.”
There was something in her manner, the indication of a set purpose,
which made Philippa doubt whether her intention was merely to get rid
of her. On a table near the door stood a set of candelabra, a portion
of those used when the great room was lighted up. Royda, from the
candle she carried, set herself to light some of these. The action
struck Philippa as suspicious. “Why are you doing that?” she asked
apprehensively.
“In case this little one should go out by accident,” was the ready
answer, given without looking at her questioner. “We should never find
our way then in this great dark place.”
The explanation was plausible enough, Philippa thought, as she glanced
round the room and the labyrinth of its contents.
“Now!” Royda said, as she set down the candle she had carried and
closed the door. Then she turned again to Philippa and, without warning
of her intention, dealt her a swift, vicious blow in the face.
“Ah!” Philippa caught her arm, but Royda, struggling like a wild
animal, freed herself and sprang back out of reach.
For a few seconds neither spoke, but they stood eyeing each other,
Royda in the momentary ebb preparatory to the next dash of her
fury, Philippa in astonished anger, not unmixed with relief at this
declaration of the other’s intention.
“What do you mean by that?” she demanded indignantly.
With the breaking of the pause, Royda’s passion blazed forth at last
without restraint.
“Mean? I mean that I hate you, vile thief and trickster. I thank you
for coming here to-night, for you shall give me satisfaction.”
“Satisfaction?” Philippa repeated, almost inclined to laugh at the
girls’ exhibition of fury. “For what?”
“For what?” Royda burst out. “For having--ah, that I should live to
say it--for having robbed me of my lover. You, who think your power so
great that you can play with hearts as you like. I know now it was you
who sent Prince Roel to his death. I have found that out, and Aubray is
fool enough to admire you. He shall not admire you long. Yes; I thank
Heaven for its lightning that betrayed you to me to-night. You shall
not have come to Rozsnyo for nothing! May be you have found your match
at last, Philippa Harlberg, if that is your name and not another of
your lies. At least we will try which is the better woman in another
way, where lying shall not serve. Look!”
She glanced round quickly, then ran to a stand and snatched from it two
light rapiers.
“See!” she cried, trembling with excitement. “They are both exactly the
same length. There is yours!”