THE NECK-BAND
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.”
“Your great friend?”
“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.”
“Take it off? Why?”
“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.”