A DESPERATE STROKE
“They tell me I am dying. I must see you. Come. You need not fear. R.
d’I.”
These words scrawled in a note had been brought to Philippa. She had
hesitated; then, in an access of grief and consternation, determined to
go to Rozsnyo. She seemed to have no fear of Zarka now. The great joy
of her life was gone, and she could defy this man at last, careless of
consequences. So, telling her step-father that she was going to Rozsnyo
to see the Count’s cousin, who was ill, she set out along the valley.
Harlberg made no objection; the plan did not affect him, and he was, if
anything, rather pleased at any sign of greater friendliness between
Zarka and Philippa. Half an hour’s walk brought her to Rozsnyo.
As she approached the castle a man suddenly appeared in her path, and
accosting her with a bow addressed her by name, and begged her to
allow him to conduct her to Fräulein d’Ivady. He was dressed in plain
livery and had the air of a confidential body-servant, and, although
instinctively mistrusting his keen, crafty face, Philippa could not
do otherwise than follow him. He deferentially led the way across the
bridge to the private door where Philippa had been surprised, thence
into the castle and to the room which Royda used as a boudoir.
In answer to Philippa’s inquiry he told her that Fräulein d’Ivady was,
he thought, asleep; but would the honoured Fräulein wait, and he would
ascertain? If the gracious Fräulein would take some refreshment after
her walk? He indicated a tray on which were some dainty cakes and a
flask of Tokay. Without waiting for an answer he poured out a glass of
wine, and with a ceremonious bow quitted the room.
Left alone, Philippa walked to the window and looked out upon the great
valley beneath, fenced in by vine-clad hills, above which again, in
darker contrast, stretched away the magnificent pine forests, then,
still beyond, the snow-capped heights of the Carpathians. It made her
unutterably sad to think that a life was ebbing away from a world that
was so beautiful: that the young girl lying a few yards from that room
might never look on that glorious scene again, nor roam through that
fairyland. Done to death through a moment’s madness, and by her. How
bitterly she regretted the chance that had taken her to Rozsnyo that
night, and led to her attracting Royda’s attention. Just as a ray
of hope seemed to have pierced through the mist of danger which had
enveloped her, a black cloud had shut it out again, and there seemed
now nothing for her but despair. She leaned her face against the window
in an agony of grief. Then she suddenly became aware that some one had
entered the room. She turned; it was Zarka.
“I came,” Philippa said, “to inquire after Fräulein d’Ivady; if
possible, to see her. How is she?”
She asked the question apprehensively, noticing that he looked very
grave. He shook his head. His eyes, however, were at variance with his
demeanour; the sight of Philippa always brought a peculiar glitter into
them. It was there now.
“How can I tell you?”
“Count!”
“Royda is gone.”
“She is not dead?”
“By your hand.”
Philippa turned away with the bitterness of death at her heart. For
many seconds there was silence in the room. But the man’s eyes never
left her form, and the glitter was never quenched for an instant.
“Could I not have seen her?”
“It would have been useless.”
“Then--for Heaven’s sake, let me go.”
As she turned the glitter fastened on her face, which was convulsed
with tearless grief. It had seen scorn there and anger, but usually the
calmness of self-control and indifference. Never a softer emotion. And
as the glitter marked this it seemed to coruscate.
“You will make amends,” Zarka said, taking a step to intercept her.
She stopped short, as though to avoid coming in contact with him.
“How? What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean, Philippa. You know what you can do.”
“No, no!” she exclaimed in shocked repugnance. “How can you speak of
that now?”
“Now, of all times,” he returned.
“Do you think,” Philippa replied, almost with a touch of her old
disdain, “that I would so insult her dead memory? Count, have you no
sense of decency?”
A dazed feeling came over her. It was only by an effort that she
kept her mind clear. Although she spoke boldly she felt trapped and
powerless.
“Is it nothing to me to lose Royda?” Zarka exclaimed passionately.
“Girl, can you not recognize your own work? That if I forget grief and
decency it is for love of you? That I am not master of myself, have no
feeling but my mad love for you? Philippa, will you kill me as you have
killed her? I cannot live without you! If I am to be alive at sunrise
to-morrow it must be as your husband!”
“Count, this is madness.”
“You have made me mad.”
“I must go.”
“And you take the consequences?”
“Yes. If I must.”
“Come, then! But you shall see her first.”
“Oh, no.”
“You shall.”
He laid his hand on her arm, but she shook it off and drew back. He
opened the door; she went out in a confused, uncaring state of mind, he
following. The anterooms and passages of the castle were lighted dimly,
not much more than enough to enable them to see their way. No one was
about, and the place was absolutely still. In the long corridor Zarka
quickened his pace till he came a little in advance of his companion,
showing her the way. As he stopped and laid his hand on a door,
Philippa said:
“Where are you taking me? I wish to go back to the farm at once.”
“You will see Royda first?”
“No. What good would that do? Am I not punished enough for my folly?”
“Come, then. I will obey you. We will go another way. The room where
she lies is far from here.”
He threw the door wide open. Within was a stiffly furnished anteroom
lined with bookcases, and containing simply a large round table with a
jade top, and a dozen high-backed chairs.
“This is the shortest way,” he said, crossing the room and opening
at the farther end a door masked by book-backs. “Here we are in the
picture gallery.”
Philippa passed through the second door somewhat reassured. The same
subdued light was over the great gallery, which seemed dreary and
ghostly in its vast dimensions and semi-darkness. Zarka walked on
towards the dimly-seen farthermost end, Philippa following as in a
dream.
He unlocked a door, and they passed out of the gallery first into
a smaller one fitted with sculpture and bas-reliefs, then across a
marble pillared vestibule and through one of its many doors, not into
the open air as Philippa expected, but into an apartment hung with
pictures of sacred subjects. The decoration of this room was decidedly
ecclesiastical; a Pieta occupied a prominent place, and a great
Scripture tapestry, projected on a rod, evidently covered another door.
“Philippa, you must marry me!”
The words, breaking the silence between them which had lasted for some
time, startled Philippa out of her apathy.
“Count! No, never!”
Then shrinking back and noticing her surroundings, it flashed upon her
whither he had brought her.
Zarka went to the tapestry and glanced behind it as though to see that
they were alone.
“I am sorry to seem harsh,” he said, in the resolute tone of a man who
has made up his mind to a plan and is going to put it into execution.
“But if you knew the strength of my love for you, you would understand
that I am bound to have my desire--if not by persuasion, then by
force. I am no longer master of myself in the matter. Many a happy
marriage has come of a rough wooing. Be sensible, dear, and accept the
inevitable.”
“No, no!” Philippa cried. “Zarka, you coward! You shall never marry me
against my will!”
“I hope not; but I am bound, much against my will, to bring some
pressure to bear. It is for your good. I do you no harm; where is the
dishonour in my proposal? That you shall be my wife, my queen?”
“I tell you, no! I will never marry you.”
“You shall never marry any other man. Consider the position in which
you stand. You leave Rozsnyo in custody as Royda d’Ivady’s murderess,
or you stay here as my wife.”
“Then let me go! I am innocent, Heaven knows, but I would rather die
than marry you.”
Zarka seemed to grind his teeth for very exasperation. “The girl is
bewitched,” he said, more to himself than to her. “No woman ever
spurned me like this. I cannot see you dragged away to jail,” he went
on in a louder tone, “and I will not give you up. We must be married
here and now.”
Whether it was from weakness or the apathy of despair, or some subtle
essence in the atmosphere of the place, Philippa had felt dazed, and,
with a strange inertness, incapable of exerting her will but as the
full villainy of the trap flashed upon her, indignation acting upon her
nerves cleared her brain, and gave her temporary strength.
“You dastardly ruffian!” she cried. “There was a lower depth, then. I
might have known it. You think by force to make me your wife! I would
rather go to prison a thousand times over, die a thousand deaths before
I would give myself to a man I so loathe--ah, I cannot tell you how I
loathe you! Now, you have your answer, do your worst.”
“I will kill you, Philippa,” he returned with savage intensity, “if I
cannot marry you.”
“Ah! you liar!” she cried, a new light breaking upon her. “Royda is not
dead, and you know it; it was a vile trick. You dared not show her to
me.”
Zarka laughed.
“So much the worse for you, dear. Say you are right and she is not
dead, but alive a hundred leagues away, then why are you here? You
are hopelessly compromised. Another alternative presents itself, and
a worse one. To-morrow morning you are a disgraced woman--or Countess
Zarka.”
Philippa could make no reply; her heart was over-full of indignation
and bitterness. The man was too strong for her, and in his pitiless
strength was driving her surely to her doom. She felt more and more her
own weakness pitted against him, the futility of her struggles. All
hope seemed to have vanished, and even could she beat this man, victory
would only mean prolonged misery, since the zest of life was gone.
So she thought of her one feasible escape--death, and calmly balanced
it against union with Zarka. This marriage would confirm Von Tressen’s
opinion of her; death would give it the lie. So she began to contrive
calmly how she could accomplish her end.
“The General would be delighted at the news of our secret marriage,”
Zarka said, breaking the silence which he misinterpreted. “He would
only be too glad to hear it was all over, and welcome you to-morrow
as queen of Rozsnyo. Philippa, you must take the step now. You cannot
go back. Honour is in front, shame and absolute disgrace behind. If
I have taken a mean advantage, think of the odds I have had to fight
against. Come! Be sensible. If you leave here now you can never hold
your head up again; stay, and hold it higher than any woman of your
acquaintance--as the bearer of my title. Is it so very dreadful?”
“The name of one of the greatest villains in Europe,” she said, in a
low but perfectly distinct voice.
Zarka made an exclamation of impatience, but with wonderful
self-control he gave no further sign of anger.
“We have talked long enough,” he said, crossing the room. “We shall
never understand one another till we are man and wife.”
As he spoke he pushed away the tapestry which ran noiselessly on its
rod, disclosing a pair of Gothic doors of polished oak. At a push these
swung silently back revealing the private chapel of the castle, lighted
up as for service. Behind the altar rails stood a man in robes, and
with book in hand.
The sudden flood of light and the startling sight of these
preparations dazzled Philippa, who felt sick and dazed, lying back half
exhausted in the great carved chair where she had fallen in her misery.
Zarka made a step towards her and held out his hand.
“Come!” he said gently.
But she shrank away from him with an exclamation of repugnance. He
lifted his finger to the priest, who left his place and came towards
them. The two men exchanged significant glances, then the priest
approached the miserable girl and laid his hand lightly on her shoulder.
“Come, my dear,” he said blandly. “Everything is in order.”
But she clung to the arm of the great chair.
“Are you, a minister of God, going to abet this man in committing an
awful villainy?” she cried, looking up at the unctuous, placid face,
in strong contrast to her own features, working with the tumult of her
feelings.
“You are mistaken,” he replied soothingly. “I am here to ally you in
the sacred bond of wedlock with Count Zarka. Surely that----”
“Will be a monstrous crime,” she broke in. “It is you who are mistaken,
deceived by this vilely dishonourable man, who has lured me here and
now proposes to marry me against my will.”
“I cannot believe it,” the priest responded, while Zarka stood
impassive a little way off with folded arms. “How can so illustrious
an alliance be a crime? You are labouring under some delusion--perhaps
imagining that, by this private ceremony, he means to act
dishonourably. Let me give you my sacred word as a priest that this is
not so. You will be his acknowledged wife, a title to which no other
woman has the slightest pretension.”
“Oh, I know, I know,” moaned Philippa, hopelessly struggling. “But
when I tell you that from the very depths of my soul I hate this man,
to whom you think to wed me, that I would rather you stabbed me to
the heart this instant than gave me his hated name, and him the right
to----. Oh, sir, by the God you serve, save me from him, from misery
worse than death, and refuse to utter one word of that office which
must be now most awful blasphemy!”
She had sunk on her knees to him, and was clutching his gown in her
agony. But her appeal had no effect on him--at least none that was
apparent. Probably he judged her as a man of the world, and easily
silenced his scruples by the reflection that, although she in her
inexperience might not think so, he was doing her a rare good turn.
Whatever his private opinion of his patron may have been, he could
hardly conceive a girl could be in her right senses to refuse his
alliance. As well might he refuse the preferment which Zarka had taken
care to dangle before his eyes. And then he had his own ideas of women.
“My dear young lady,” he said, taking her arm to lift her, “you will
thank me one day for this night’s work. Come! In a few minutes you will
hold one of the most enviable positions in Europe, in the world.”
As she did not rise Zarka came quickly forward and took her other arm.
Between them they raised her, and half led, half dragged her into the
chapel, and along the broad space up to the altar rails.
“Let me die!” she moaned, struggling against a great faintness. Then,
though she felt that both her arms were held, the priest appeared in
front of her before the altar he was desecrating. Turning her head she
saw by her side the cunning-faced servant who had ushered her into the
castle. He was to be the witness of this diabolical sacrilege.
As the priest began to read the marriage office the words, sounding in
Philippa’s ears, gave warning of the imminence of her hateful doom. In
a few seconds she would be irrevocably tied to Zarka. Crying out in
her desperation, she made one last convulsive struggle to escape--to
death, if she could only lay her hands on the means. By a supreme
effort she freed herself from her captors and made a wild rush towards
the sacristy, hoping in her despair to find a weapon to turn against
them or herself. But the servant, lithe and alert, was after her like a
greyhound. Closely followed by his master, he caught her as she reached
the door; they stopped her, and began to force her back to the altar.
She struggled desperately and screamed, but it was of no avail; Zarka
was a man of immense strength, and having gone so far, he was bound to
carry his project through by undisguised force since persuasion was
futile. Philippa was helpless in his arms, and as they reached the
altar rails again she hung still in his hold, but leaning away from
him, utterly exhausted.
The priest, with no more concern on his face than if he were marrying a
couple of peasants at Easter, lifted his book at a nod from Zarka and
resumed the recital of the office. Philippa heard him pronounce Zarka’s
name, and then her own.
“No, no!” she almost shrieked, desperately protesting.
“Philippa!”
If she did not hear her name shouted the three men did. The priest
suddenly stopped in his unctuous monotone, and his expression was not
so bland as usual as he glanced inquiringly at the bridegroom. Before
Zarka had recovered his surprise sufficiently to take action the cry
was repeated, this time close at hand. “Philippa!” and in another
instant as the servant sprang to the sacristy door, it was flung open
and, thrusting the man aside, Von Tressen rushed into the chapel
followed by Galabin.