Indeed, the odious deed which Peter had planned and carried through appeared to her now not only in its hideousness but in its futility. What did he hope to accomplish? Did he know her so little as to imagine that she would merely call the occurrence an adverse blow of Fate and quietly sit down under it, be content to send one wire which would be intercepted? It was futile! Futile! She was a British subject. She had a British passport. No power on earth could stop her from going to London or to the outermost ends of the earth if she had a mind. No one. Not even Jasper. Least of all Jasper!
But in the meanwhile Elza had not returned. Time went on, slowly but certainly. Eight o'clock, nine o'clock—ten o'clock. Unless Elza was home within the next half-hour Rosemary could not start for London before the next night. There was only one through train to Budapest every twenty-four hours, the midnight express! Any other slow train would be no help for getting the communication with the Orient Express.
And Rosemary could not go to London without knowing what Elza's wishes were. Elza was to decide—not she. And Elza had not come home. Soon after ten o'clock Rosemary sent Rosa round to Maurus' apartments to ask if she might see him. She hoped that he could perhaps tell her something definite about Elza's movements. Rosemary found him very much altered since last she had seen him. He looked well in health, but his whole expression, even his appearance, seemed strange. The gipsy strain was more apparent, the eyes seemed darker and more restless, the mouth redder and fuller, and the nose more hooked and narrower across the bridge. But he talked very quietly and rationally with Rosemary. He was not anxious about Elza, because he had not really expected to see her back this evening.
"She was going to Cluj first," he said, "to see Philip and Anna. Probably it took time to get permission to visit the children in prison. Then after that she was going to Ujlak. I suppose she wanted to let Charlotte know how little Anna is getting on. Poor child! Poor child!" Maurus went on slowly, wagging his head. "Isn't it pitiable? She is such a nice little girl. And my Philip—my Philip——"
He rambled on, and his speech became thick and unintelligible. The sister in charge gave Rosemary a hint that it would be better for her to go. Rosemary rose at once.
"Well, my dear Maurus," she said, "I don't want to tire you. I thought perhaps you might know something definite about Elza. But if you are not anxious about her I am sure it is all right."
"Oh, yes, yes, it is all right. You see, she went to visit the children. Then she was going to Ujlak. It is a long way for the horses——"
"You don't think she would stay in Cluj for the night?"
"I don't know. I don't know. She was going to Cluj first to see the children—then she was going to Ujlak. It is a long way for the horses—Elza will stay with Charlotte for the night. A hard woman, Charlotte. But Anna is such a nice child. And my Philip—my Philip——"
The mind was obviously wandering. Maurus, while he spoke, was staring straight out before him. Rosemary tried to explain to him that she had to go away on business for a day or two and had hoped to start this evening, but she could not go, of course, without seeing Elza first.
"Ah! you are going away, dear Lady Tarkington?" the invalid said with a quick gleam in his restless, dark eyes. "I wish I could go with you. I am so sick of this place, and now that my Philip has gone. . . . But how can you go to-night, dear Lady Tarkington?"
"I won't go before I have seen Elza."
"No, no, you must not go before Elza comes. I have only the one comfortable carriage now. They lave taken everything from me, my horses, my cattle, my carriages, and my motor-cars—I can't send you to Cluj in comfort until Elza comes back in the carriage—I have another pair of horses—but no comfortable carriage. They took everything away from me. Soon they will turn me out of this house——"
"Don't worry about that, dear, my husband has the use of a small car and a soldier-chauffeur. We can get to Cluj all right."
The sister in charge interposed again, more peremptorily this time. Rosemary took as cheerful a farewell of the invalid as she could.
"You must arrange," she said, "as soon as you are well enough, to come over to us in England for a visit. It would be such a change for you, and Jasper and I would make you and Elza very welcome."
But Maurus shook his head, and stared straight out before him. "That, dear Lady Tarkington," he said, "can never be now." And slowly the tears gathered in his eyes and trickled down his cheeks. Broken-hearted, Rosemary bade him a final good night.
There was only one more chance of getting in touch with Elza to-night, and that was to ascertain if she were staying at any of the hotels in Cluj. And this Jasper did at Rosemary's request. He telephoned to the "Pannonia" and to the "New York," the only possible places where Elza might have put up for the night. True, when the Roumanian Government took over the Imrey palace two or three rooms were allowed to remain in possession of the family if they required them, but it was not likely that Elza would elect to sleep under the same roof as General Naniescu. Both hotels replied on the telephone that the gracious Countess Imrey was not there. Ujlak, unfortunately, had not the telephone installed.
There was then nothing to be done.
But the next day was even more trying than the one before. The morning wore on and there was no news of Elza. Anxiety for her friend was added to the heavy load which Rosemary had to bear. Anxiety and this unexpected uncertainty, which was positive torture.
Jasper, on the other hand, had become both helpful and sympathetic. Already the day before he had announced his intention of accompanying Rosemary to London. At first she had protested, but he looked so contrite and so abashed that she relented, and said more graciously:
"It is more than kind of you, dear, to suggest it, but I really am quite capable of looking after myself."
"I don't doubt it," he had replied with a sigh, "but I, too, have certain privileges, chief of which is looking after your welfare—and your safety."
She laughed. "I am perfectly safe. No one is going to run away with me."
"You might have trouble on the frontier."
"Not very likely," she retorted, "with a British passport."
Jasper had made no further remark just then, and the subject was dropped. But Rosemary knew from his manner and his look that he intended to accompany her. It would be no use protesting, though she had the feeling that she would so much rather have travelled alone.
But when the morning of the next day went by without news of Elza, Jasper was ready with a fresh suggestion. "Let me go to London for you," he said. "I could see the editor of theTimesand ask him in any case to withhold publication until he heard from you. Then after that if Elza's decision went the other way, you could always wire or write again."
Rosemary hesitated for a moment or two. She could not very well put into words the thought that was in her mind. But Jasper presently did it for her.
"You do not trust me," he said quietly.
For another fraction of a second she hesitated, then with a frank gesture of camaraderie she put her hand out to him: "I think I ought to carry my own business through myself," she said, and added softly: "You understand, dear, don't you?"
She could always win any man over with her smile, and at the soft tone of her voice Jasper captured her hand and buried his face in the soft, smooth palm.
"Tell me how I can serve you," he said, "but in God's name don't go away from me."
He was once more all kindness and consideration, more like the charming companion of the early days of her brief married life. With utmost patience he discussed the whole situation with her: the possibility of getting in touch with Elza and the advisability of communicating with theTimesin any case, leaving it open for an ultimate change of tactics.
But though he was so kind, so unselfish, so generous, Rosemary could not respond in the same way as she had done in the past. Her confidence in him had been wavering for some time, whenever those wild outbursts of ungovernable passion, when he claimed her body and her soul as he would a slave or a chattel, had outraged as well as mystified her, and she could not free her mind from that vision which she had of him in the mirror yesterday, with his mouth parted in a cruel, wolfish grin. The dual nature in him puzzled her. She would not admit that she feared him, because she had never in her life been afraid of any one, but she did own to a certain vague dread which would creep into her heart whenever she found herself alone with him; she had accepted his kisses at first, hoping that in time friendship and confidence would turn to warmer feeling, but she had a horror of them now, and knew that the last shred of friendship was being torn to rags by all that was violent, passionate and cruel in him. At the same time she did admit quite readily that he was very helpful and kind in the present emergency, and gladly did she accept his final offer to motor straightway to Cluj to see if he could find out something definite about Elza.
"If she was not at Cluj," he said, "I would go on to Ujlak; and, in any case, I can be back by about eight o'clock. If in the meanwhile, as I hope and think, Elza has turned up, we can make our plans in accordance with what she has decided, and either start for England at once, or leave matters as they stand."
The suggestion was so practical that Rosemary felt really grateful. She walked with him to the village where he garaged the car that Naniescu had lent him. It was a powerful little car, of a well-known French make and built for speed. The soldier-chauffeur was fortunately on the spot, and with a friendly handshake Rosemary wished her husband God-speed.
"I don't know how I shall live through this day!" she said to him at the last.
Jasper was very self-contained and practical. He satisfied himself that everything about the car was in order, then only did he get in. He took the wheel and waved Rosemary a last farewell, and very soon the car disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust.
General Naniescu was enjoying himself thoroughly. He had his friend Number Ten sitting there opposite him, and Number Ten was looking as savage as a bear. Naniescu had offered him a cigar, a glass of fine, even whiskey and soda, but Number Ten had declined everything and remained very truculent.
"You had no right," he said, with a savage oath, "to go behind my back."
But Naniescu was at his blandest. "What could I do, my dear friend?" he asked, and waved his white, downy hands to emphasise by appropriate gesture, both his perplexity and his contrition. "What would you have had me do? Decline to deal with that young Blakeney? Then those precious articles would have been lost to me for ever. Lady Tarkington would not have written them all over again."
"I told you the other day that I would get those articles for you. Ask M. de Kervoisin here if I have ever failed in anything I have undertaken. I had the manuscript in my hand when that young blackguard snatched it out of my hand. Curse him!"
Naniescu leaned back in his chair and gave a guttural, complacent laugh: "I do agree with you, my dear friend," he said. "That young Blakeney is an unmitigated blackguard. I have had to deal with some in my day, but never with such a corrupt, dirty scoundrel. Yes, dirty, that's what he is. But you know, you English, you are astonishing! Everything big with you—big fellows, big Empire, big money, big blackguards! Yes, big blackguards! Oh, là, là!"
"Yes," Number Ten assented dryly. "And the big blackguard who is also a big fellow, got big money out of you, for you have been a fool, as well as a knave, my friend. I only asked you ten thousand sterling for the manuscript."
"Are you pretending that you know what I paid Blakeney?" Naniescu asked, with his most fatuous smile. "Because, my friend, in picturesque poker parlance—I am very fond of a game of poker myself—and in poker language we call what you are doing now 'bluff.' You don't know what I paid Blakeney for the manuscript. But I don't mind telling you that I paid nothing at all. Yes, my dear friend, nothing at all."
And with the tip of his well-manicured little finger, Naniescu emphasised every syllable with a tap on the table.
"I am glad to hear it," Number Ten retorted curtly, "because that will make it easier for you to pay me the ten thousand now."
But this idea amused the General so much that he nearly rolled off his chair laughing.
"Ils sont impayables ces Anglais!" he said, when with streaming eyes and scanty breath he found words to express his sense of the ludicrous. "Why in the name of Tophet should I pay you ten thousand pounds sterling?"
"Because if you don't, those newspaper articles will never be published."
"Ah, bah!" Naniescu exclaimed, with a mocking grin, "who will prevent it?"
"I, of course."
"You, of course? How, I should like to know?"
"That's my business."
"You can't do it, my friend," Naniescu rejoined complacently. "You can't do it. I defy you to do it."
"Is that a challenge?"
Number Ten had said this very quietly. He was in the act of lighting a cigarette when he spoke, and he finished lighting it, blew out the match, and threw it into the nearest ash-tray before he glanced at Naniescu. Then he smiled, because Naniescu's face expressed arrogance first, then bewilderment, and finally indecision.
"Is it a challenge?" he reiterated sardonically. "I don't mind, you know, one way or the other. There are at least three governments—neighbours of yours, by the way—who will pay me ten thousand pounds apiece for certain services which they require, and which I can render them. But you have behaved like a knave and a fool, my friend, and it will amuse me to punish you. So listen to me! Unless you give me a cheque for the ten thousand pounds which you promised me, and which I can cash at your fusty old bank over the way this very afternoon, I guarantee you that Lady Tarkington's articles will not be published in any English newspaper."
He smoked on in silence for a little while longer, blowing rings of smoke through his pursed lips, and in the intervals laughing softly, mockingly to himself, or throwing an occasional glance of intelligence in the direction of Kervoisin, who apparently immersed in a book had taken no part in the conversation. Naniescu's bewilderment had become ludicrous, and at one moment when he took his perfumed handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his streaming forehead, the face of his spy-in-chief became distorted with that look of ferocious cruelty which was so characteristic of him.
"I haven't a great deal of time to spare," Number Ten remarked dryly, after a few minutes' silence; "if you accept my challenge I start for London to-night."
"You'll never get there in time," Naniescu rejoined, with an attempt at swagger.
Number Ten smiled. "Don't you think so?" he asked simply.
"The frontier is closed——"
"Would you rather risk it than pay me the ten thousand pounds?"
Naniescu appealed to his friend.
"De Kervoisin——" he said, almost pitiably.
But M. de Kervoisin, with a shrug, indicated that this was no concern of his.
"M. de Kervoisin," Number Ten said, still smiling, "knows my methods. During the war I had other and more dangerous frontiers to cross than this one, my friend—and I never failed."
In Naniescu's puny mind, obviously a war was waging between greed and avarice. He was seeing his beautiful day-dream vanishing into the intangible ether—whence come all dreams—and he was not prepared to take any risks. Those articles which a reliable courier was even now taking to London with all speed were the most precious things he, Naniescu, had ever possessed. They meant honour, security, money—far more money than Number Ten was demanding with such outrageous impudence. And Naniescu was afraid of Number Ten, afraid of his daring, his courage, his unscrupulous determination to carry through what he had set out to do.
Ten thousand pounds! It was a great deal, but it would come out of secret service funds, not out of Naniescu's own pocket. There was only that slight tickling of one's amour propre to subdue. The desire to get the better of Number Ten, to win this battle of wits against so crafty an opponent. But what wasamour proprewhen weighed in the balance with the realisation of Naniescu's wonderful day-dreams?
Nevertheless he made one more effort at a bargain.
"If I pay you that ten thousand," he said, with a savage oath, "what guarantee have I that the articleswillbe published?"
"None," was Number Ten's cool reply; "but if you don't pay me the ten thousand, I guarantee that they willnotbe published."
At which M. de Kervoisin put down his book and indulged in a good laugh.
"Take care, my friend," he said to Number Ten, "our friend here is beginning to lose his temper, and you may find yourself under lock and key before he has done with you."
"I wonder!" Number Ten retorted dryly. "It would mean raising hell in the English press, wouldn't it? if a British subject—what?"
He did not pursue the subject. Even Naniescu himself had put such a possibility out of his reckoning.
"All that our friend could do," Number Ten went on, speaking over his shoulder to M. de Kervoisin, "would be to have me murdered, but he would find even that rather difficult. Ten thousand pounds of secret service money is considerably safer—and cheaper in the end."
Then at last Naniescu gave in. "Oh, have it your own way, curse you!" he exclaimed.
"The money now," Number Ten said coolly, raising a warning finger. "You may as well send one of your clerks over to the bank for it. I prefer that to taking your cheque."
Then he turned to Kervoisin, and picked up the book which the latter had thrown down on the table. "Ah!" he remarked, with a total change of tone, "Marcel Proust's latest. You are an epicure in literature, my friend."
He fingered the book, seemingly as indifferent to what Naniescu was doing and saying, as if the whole matter of a ten thousand pound cheque did not concern him in the least.
The general had gone across to a desk which stood in the farther corner of the room. He had written out a cheque, rung the bell, and was now giving orders to a clerk to fetch the money from the Anglo-Roumanian bank over the way.
On the whole he was not displeased with the transaction. The articles signed by Uno and published in theTimeswould redound to his credit, would bring him all that he had striven for all his life; and, after all, they would cost him nothing—nothing at all.
Number Ten and de Kervoisin were discussing Marcel Proust; he, Naniescu, was savouring his day-dreams once again; and presently when the clerk returned with a bundle of crisp English bank-notes in his hand, Naniescu handed the money over to his spy-in-chief, without a qualm, and certainly without regret.
"This being Monday," Number Ten said, after he had stowed the money away in his pocket-book, "and your courier having started last night, you will probably see the first of the articles in Thursday'sTimes.By the way," he went on casually, "what are you doing about young Imrey and the girl?"
"What do you mean by that? What should I be doing with them?"
"Well, when these articles appear——"
"I send them packing,c'est entendu.I never go back on my word," Naniescu said, with a grandiose gesture.
"It would not pay you to do that in this case, my friend. Lady Tarkington has your written promise, and she would raise hell if you played her false. But I wasn't thinking of that. I only wished to warn you to keep an eye on those two young firebrands."
"Oh," Naniescu retorted, with a shrug, "once I have them out of the country they can do what they like. They no longer hurt me. Especially after the publication of those beautiful articles."
"That is so, but you are sending Count and Countess Imrey out of the country, aren't you?"
"What makes you say that?"
"Well, you paid Blakeney for the articles with the title deeds of Kis-Imre, didn't you?"
"How did you know that?"
"I didn't," Number Ten replied dryly. "I guessed, and you gave yourself away."
"Well, and if I did—what is it to you?"
"Nothing, my friend. Nothing. I come back to my original warning. Keep a close eye on young Imrey and Anna Heves, and above all keep a close eye on Blakeney."
"That young blackguard?"
"Yes, that young blackguard! He may be playing a double game, you know. I suppose he is still in Cluj?"
"I thought of that," Naniescu broke in curtly, "so I have had Imrey and the Heves girl transferred to Sót."
"Sót? Isn't that rather near the frontier?"
"Thirty kilomètres."
"But why Sót?"
"We have commandeered a château there, which we use as a prison for political offenders. We chose it because it stands alone in an out-of-the-way part of the country, and it saves the nuisance of public manifestations and disturbances when a prisoner who happens to have been popular is condemned. We try them by a military tribunal which holds its sittings at Sót, and if an execution is imperative—well, it is done without any fuss."
"I see. Well," Number Ten went on, as he rose to take his leave, "I need not detain you any longer. Let me assure you," he concluded, with his habitual sardonic smile, "that I shall not now think of interfering with any of the measures which you have adopted to stop Lady Tarkington from running after her manuscript."
"I don't believe that you could have interfered in any case," Naniescu retorted gruffly.
"It is not too late, my friend. I would rather like to pit my wits against yours. So if you have repented of the bargain——" And Number Ten half drew his bulging pocket-book out of his pocket.
"Oh, go to the devil!" Naniescu exclaimed, half in rage and half in laughter.
"And I hope soon to meet you in his company," Number Ten replied, as he finally took his leave from the two men.
As soon as the door had closed on him, Naniescu turned and looked at his friend. But de Kervoisin had picked up his book, and gave him no encouragement to discuss the intriguing personality of Number Ten. His face, too, was quite inscrutable. Marcel Proust was engaging his full attention. For a moment it seemed as if Naniescu would fall back on his stock phrase, or else on a string of cosmopolitan oaths; he even drew his breath ready for either; then it seemed as if words failed him.
The intriguing personality was above comment.
Rosemary had never before welcomed her husband so eagerly as she did that afternoon. As soon as she heard the whirring of his motor she ran to the gates to meet him.
"What news?" she cried when he had brought the car to a standstill.
As usual, his dark eyes flashed with joy when he saw her. He jumped down and raised both her hands to his lips.
"Very vague, I am afraid," he replied. "And some of it a mere conjecture."
"Tell me."
"To begin with, young Imrey and Anna Heves have been transferred to Sót."
"Where is that?"
"Between Cluj and the frontier. It seems that there is a château there that is being used as a prison for political offenders."
"Who told you that?"
"Naniescu. I saw him for a moment. He was very busily engaged with the Minister for Home Affairs who was over from Bucharest, so he could only give me a few minutes."
"Had he seen Elza?"
"No. But she had applied for permission to see Philip and Anna, and he gave the permission. He supposed that she had gone on to Sót by train."
"Even so," Rosemary mused, "she would be back by now, or else she would have wired."
Jasper appeared to hesitate for a moment or two, and then he said: "I don't think that she has been allowed to do either."
"Why not?"
"It is mere surmise, my dear," Jasper went on quietly, "but one thing Naniescu did tell me, and that was that he had on behalf of his government definitely made over the Kis-Imre estates to Peter Blakeney."
They were walking round the house towards the veranda when he said this. Rosemary made no response; indeed, it might be thought that she had not heard, for the next question which she put to Jasper appeared irrelevant.
"Does the midnight express stop at Sót?"
"It does," Jasper replied.
"Then I can see Elza there. I am sure that is where she is. You inquired at Ujlak?"
"Yes, Elza went there first and then to Cluj."
They had reached the veranda now, and Rosemary went up the steps and then into the house.
"You still wish to come with me to-night?" she asked her husband before she went upstairs.
"Why, of course."
"You are not too tired after all this running about?"
"I?" he exclaimed with a laugh. "Tired? When it is a question of being near you!"
He tried to capture her wrist, but she evaded him and ran quickly through the hall and up the stairs. Before going into her room she called down to him:
"If we use your motor we need not start before eleven o'clock, and there is still a chance of Elza being home before then."
It was just before dinner that the culminating tragedy occurred. Rosemary was in her room, when she heard loud commotion coming from the hall—harsh, peremptory voices, a word or two from Anton, and then Jasper's voice raised as if in protest. She opened her door, and to her horror saw a squad of soldiers in the hall, and between them an officer, and a man in civilian clothes who had an official-looking paper in his hand and was apparently explaining something to Jasper.
"I regret, my lord, but these are my orders," the man was saying, "and I cannot enter into any discussion with you."
Jasper tried to protest again. "But surely——" he began. The man, however, cut him short.
"If you like," he said, "I can allow you to see Count Imrey first, but this order I must deliver into his own hands."
Rosemary in the meanwhile had run downstairs.
"What is it, Jasper?" she asked quickly.
"An order of eviction," Jasper replied curtly, "against that wretched Maurus."
"Whatever does that mean?"
"That he must quit this place within twenty-four hours."
"Impossible!" she exclaimed hotly.
She turned to the officer and the civilian who had brought this monstrous order.
"The whole thing is a mistake," she said coolly; "some error in the name. Count Imrey is a loyal subject of the King. There has never been a hint of disloyalty levelled against him."
The officer in charge gave a curt laugh and shrugged his shoulders, and the civilian said with a sneer:
"They all say that, milady. They are all wonderfully loyal after they have been found out."
"But General Naniescu himself is a friend of the family. And Lord Tarkington and I can vouch——"
"Pardon, milady," the civilian broke in coldly. "This affair does not concern you or Lord Tarkington, and the order of eviction is signed on behalf of the present owner of Kis-Imre by His Excellency the Governor himself."
"On behalf——"
It was Rosemary who spoke, but the sound of her voice might have come out of a grave. She had never been so near to swooning in her life. The walls around her, the woodwork, the stairs, all took on distorted shapes, and moved, round and round and up and down, until everything was a blur through which the faces of the Roumanian officer and the civilian stared at her and grinned. "On behalf of the present owner of Kis-Imre!" But that was Peter! Peter! And the world did not totter, the earth did not quake, and engulf all these monstrous crimes, this cruelty and this shame.
Luckily none of the Roumanians appeared to have noticed this sudden weakness in her; the civilian was consulting with the officer whether he should allow milord Tarkington to break the awful news to Maurus. Neither raised any objection, and Jasper pronounced himself ready to go. Rosemary turned appealingly to him:
"You will be very patient, Jasper," she begged, "and very, very gentle?"
"Leave it to me, dear," he responded; "I'll do my best."
When he was gone, Rosemary mechanically asked the officer and his companion to come into the smoking-room and sit down. She offered cigarettes. They made her ceremonious bows, and were as polite and conventional as circumstances demanded. She tried to talk; she even asked questions; but they were diplomatically ignorant of everything except of their duty. They explained that this consisted in seeing Count Imrey personally, and giving the eviction order into his own hands.
"It will kill him," Rosemary said, with conviction, "or else send him out of his mind."
Both the men shrugged. They had seen so much of this sort of thing, one of them said, people always threatened to die or to go mad, but nothing of the sort had ever happened.
"Are you quite sure of that?" Rosemary retorted.
Somehow the episode had brought back into the forefront of her consciousness her responsibility with regard to her newspaper articles. Not that conscience had been dormant, but Peter's infamy had been such an overwhelming shock that every other emotion had slipped away into the background. But now it all came back to her. Those articles of hers if they were published would be a justification of all this—of these orders of eviction, the sort of thing that men died of, or went mad over out of grief, while officials shrugged their shoulders, having seen it all so often.
A few minutes after Jasper returned and Maurus was with him. At sight of Maurus Rosemary had risen from her chair as if drawn up by mechanical force, and she remained standing, staring at the man whom she had last seen as a fragile weakling, babbling incoherent words. Maurus had dressed himself with unusual care. It almost seemed as if he had been expecting visitors. Rosemary had never seen him with hair so sleekly brushed, or chin so smooth. The officer and the civilian had risen to greet him, and he went up to them with perfect calm, inquiring politely what they desired to say to him. Rosemary turned a questioning glance on Jasper. He, too, appeared puzzled, and followed Maurus' every movement as if he dreaded that something would happen presently, and all the man's self-possession disintegrate in a tempest of fury.
But nothing of the sort happened. Maurus took the order from the civilian, and read it through carefully. Not a muscle of his face twitched, and his hands were perfectly steady. For the moment Rosemary wondered whether this outward calm was not some form of madness.
"I can't understand it," she whispered to Jasper, while the three men were engaged together.
"I am just as puzzled as you are," Jasper replied. "I never thought that he would take it like that."
"So long as he is not just putting a terrible strain on himself—in which case the reaction will be frightful."
Maurus was now taking leave of the officials.
"I quite understand the position," he said quietly. "If I had bought a house, I, too, would wish to take possession of it as soon as possible. Perhaps," he added, with a smile, "I should not have been quite in such a hurry, but we all know that with the English time is money, eh, messieurs? And now all I need do is to thank you for your courtesy. I will comply with the order, chiefly because I have no choice."
It was almost unbelievable. Rosemary thought that her eyes and ears must be playing her a trick. The two Roumanians took their leave with their habitual elaborate politeness and Maurus himself saw them to his front door, where the squad of soldiers still stood at attention. When they had all gone, he came back into the smoking-room, and he was actually laughing when he entered.
"Did you ever see such swine?" he said lightly, and then apologised to Rosemary for his language.
"You are taking it so bravely, Maurus dear," Rosemary murmured bewildered. "But what about Elza?"
"Oh, she prepared me for it; she knew all about it yesterday, and she sent me word what to bring along in the way of clothes for her. And, of course, there will be her jewellery, and one or two little things to see to. However, I have got twenty-four hours before me, and there will be Anton and Rosa to help me."
"But, Maurus dear——"
"You are astonished, dear Lady Tarkington," Maurus broke in, with rather a sad smile, "to see me take it all so calmly. I was born in this house, and I always thought that I would die in it; but lately these walls have seen so much sorrow and so many villainies that I would just as soon turn my back on them."
"But what does Elza feel about it?"
"The same as I do. She writes quite calmly."
"When did you hear from her?"
"Early this afternoon, so you see I was prepared."
"But where is she?" Rosemary asked insistently.
"She was at Sót when she wrote to me. She had seen Philip and Anna. And she was on the point of leaving for Hódmezö. This was late last night. She is in Hungary by now—and in safety. Please God I shall be with her soon."
He still spoke quite quietly, in short, crisp sentences, with nothing of the rambling and babbling about his speech that had been so pathetic to witness yesterday. But though Rosemary ought to have felt reassured and comforted about him, she could not rid herself of a persistent feeling of dread: the same sort of feeling that invades the nerves at the manifestation of a supernatural phenomenon. There was nothing supernatural about Maurus certainly, but his attitude was so abnormal, so unlike himself, that Rosemary caught herself watching with ever-increasing anxiety for the moment when his real, violent nature would reassert itself.
A moment or two later the dinner-bell rang, and Maurus was full of apologies.
"My stupid affairs have prevented your getting on with your packing, dear Lady Tarkington. Can you forgive me?"
Rosemary could only assure him that all her packing was done. "And, anyway," she added, "as Jasper has a car we need not start before eleven o'clock."
"Ah, then," Maurus said, and offered her his arm to lead her into the dining-room, "we need not hurry over dinner; and I shall have the pleasure of two or three more hours of your company."
Jasper all the while had been strangely silent. Rosemary could see that he was just as much puzzled as she was, and that he was studying Maurus very keenly while the latter was talking. During dinner and while the servants were about, the conversation drifted to indifferent subjects. This was the first time that Maurus had had a meal in the dining-room since he was taken ill four days ago, and he was like a child enjoying his food, and delighted with everything. It was only when coffee had been brought in and the servants had gone away that he reverted to the important subject of his departure.
"My chief cause of regret, dear Lady Tarkington," he said, "is that I cannot welcome you here when you return from your journey. But perhaps we could meet at Budapest, not? Elza speaks about that in her letter to me. She is very anxious to see you."
"I shall break my journey at Hódmezö," Rosemary said, "and probably wait there twenty-four hours till you come."
She had it in her mind that she could wire from there to theTimesoffice, and in any case she had to see Elza.
"There are two good hotels in Hódmezö," Maurus rejoined. "Elza is staying at the Bristol. A very grand name for a simple provincial hotel, but it is very comfortable, I believe. Peter Blakeney's cricket people stayed there last week, you know."
He even could mention Peter's name calmly; and a quaint old English saying came to Rosemary's mind, one that she was fond of repeating in past days whenever her professional activities brought her in contact with extraordinary people. "Nought so queer as folk!" She almost said it aloud; for never in all her life had she witnessed anything so strange as this metamorphosis of a violent-tempered, morbid epileptic into a calm, sensible man of the world, who takes things as he finds them, and Fate's heaviest blows without wearing his heart on his sleeve.
"I shall not forget the Bristol at Hódmezö," she said, after a little while, "and I will certainly remain with Elza until you come. Perhaps I can help her to endure the suspense."
"Perhaps."
"How did her letter get to you? Through the post?"
"No; she tent a peasant over from Sót, a lad who lives in Kis-Imre, and was returning home. You know him, dear Lady Tarkington—him and his brother—the two sons of Jànos the miller."
"Those two brave lads who——"
Rosemary paused abruptly. The last thing she wanted to do was to bring back to Maurus' memory that fateful night of the children's abortive escape; but Maurus himself broke in quietly:
"Yes, the two fellows who helped us all they could that night when Philip and Anna tried to get out of the country. The attempt was unsuccessful, as you know. Philip and Anna were captured. They are in Sót now. But the two sons of Jànos—I forget their names—got over the frontier safely. They joined the cricketers at Hódmezö, and are safely back at the mill now."
"Thank God," Rosemary exclaimed fervently, "they did not suffer for their devotion."
"No, I am glad of that," Maurus concluded, with obvious indifference. "But the authorities don't trouble about the peasants. It is the landed aristocracy and the professional classes who have to suffer, if they belong to the conquered race."
It was past ten o'clock before the small party broke up. During the latter part of the time it had been Rosemary's turn to become silent. Maurus started the subject of politics, and Jasper carried on a desultory argument with him on that inexhaustible question. In almost weird contrast to his previous calmness, Maurus' violent temper broke out once or twice during the course of the discussion, and it needed all Jasper's tact and Rosemary's soothing influence to steer clear of all that tended to aggravate him. It was the real man peeping through the armour of all the previous unnatural self-control, the gipsy blood reasserting itself—self-willed, obstinate, impatient of control, bitter against humiliation. Rosemary almost welcomed the change when it came. It was more like the Maurus she knew—a man eccentric and violent, walking close to, but not overstepping the borderland that separates the sane from the insane. It was only when Philip, or Elza, or Kis-Imre were mentioned that he seemed to step over that borderland, encased in an armour of impish indifference.
The soldier-chauffeur brought the car round at eleven o'clock. Rosemary took affectionate leave of Maurus.
"We meet very soon," she said. "In Hungary."
"Yes," he replied. "In Hungary. I shall be so thankful to be there."
He also shook hands very cordially with Jasper.
"I am afraid this has not been a very agreeable stay for you," he said.
"Better luck next time," Jasper responded, as he settled himself down in the car beside his wife.
The car swung out of the gates. Rosemary, looking back, had a last vision of Maurus, standing under the electric lamp in the porch, his hand waving a last farewell.
Rosemary must have fallen asleep in the corner of the carriage, for she woke with a start. The train had come to a halt, as it had done at two or three stations since Cluj was left behind. So it was not the sudden jerk or the sound of the exhaust from the engine, that had caused Rosemary suddenly to sit up straight, wide-awake and with that vague feeling of apprehension which comes on waking when sleep has been unconsciousness rather than rest. Jasper sat in the other corner with eyes closed, but Rosemary did not think that he was asleep. They had a sleeping compartment, but hadn't had the beds made up; it was perhaps less restful for the night journey, but distinctly cleaner. The carriage was in semi-darkness, only a feeble ray of blue light filtered through the shade that tempered the gas-light up above.
Rosemary pulled up the blind. They were at a small station dimly lighted by one oil-lamp above the exit door. A clump of acacia trees in full leaf effectually hid the name of the station from view. A couple of soldiers stood at the door through which a number of peasants, men with bundles and women with baskets, one or two Jews in long gabardines and a prosperous looking farmer in town clothes and top-boots were filing out. Some one blew a tin-trumpet, a couple more soldiers stalked up the line in the direction of the engine. There was a good deal of shouting.
Rosemary drew the blind down again, and tried to settle herself comfortably in her corner once more. But sleep would not come. She looked at her watch. It was past two. This seemed an unconscionably long halt, even for a train in this part of the world. Rosemary peeped again behind the blind. The station appeared quite deserted now except for the two soldiers on guard at the door. Everything seemed very still—of that peculiar stillness which always seems so deep when a train comes to a halt during the night away from a busy station, and all the more deep by contrast with the previous ceaseless rumbling of the wheels. From the direction of the engine there came the sound of two men talking. Otherwise nothing.
Rosemary reckoned that they should be over the frontier soon, but, of course, if they were going to have these interminable halts——
Half an hour went by. Even the distant hum of conversation had ceased, and the silence was absolute. Feeling unaccountably agitated rather than nervous, Rosemary called to Jasper. At once he opened his eyes.
"What is it, my dear?" he asked vaguely. "Where are we?" And he added, with a shake of his long, lean body: "These carriages are deuced uncomfortable."
"We are at a small station, Jasper," Rosemary said. "And we've been here over half an hour. Have you been asleep?"
"I remember this confounded train pulling up. I must have dropped off to sleep after that. I wonder where we are."
"We can't be very far from the frontier. I thought at first they would turn us out for the customs, or passports or something. But nothing has happened, and we don't seem to be getting on. I do hope there has not been a breakdown on the line."
"My dear!" Jasper exclaimed, rather impatiently, "why in the world should you think that there is a breakdown on the line? There's a signal against us, I suppose. That's all."
But Rosemary was not satisfied. "Do you mind," she said, "seeing if you can get hold of anybody. I can't help feeling nervous and——"
At once Jasper was on his feet, courteous, attentive as always. "Of course I'll go and see, my darling," he said. "But it's not like you to be nervous."
He drew back the shade so as to get a little light into the carriage, straightened his clothes, then went out into the corridor. Everything was so still that Rosemary could hear his footsteps treading the well-worn strip of carpet, then the opening of the carriage door, which sent a welcome draught of air through the stuffy compartment. Rosemary pulled up the blind, and leaned out of the window. It was pitch-dark, though the sky was starry. The small oil-lamp still flickered over the exit door, and the two soldiers were still there. Rosemary saw Jasper's vague silhouette in the gloom. He stood for a moment looking up and down the line; then he walked away in the direction of the engine. A few minutes went by, and presently Rosemary saw Jasper coming back, accompanied by the guard.
"What is it, Jasper?" she called. "Where are we, and what has happened?"
The two men had come to a halt immediately beneath her window. The guard doffed his cap at sight of her, and scratched his head in obvious perplexity.
"We are at Sót, my darling, but I have bad news for you, I am afraid," Jasper said. "There has been a very serious landslide lower down the line. I suppose it is due to the heavy storms. Anyway, the line is blocked for a distance of nearly half a kilomètre, and of course there will be considerable delay. I don't understand all the man says, but it seems to have been a terrible catastrophe."
But out of all this only two words had penetrated Rosemary's brain—"considerable delay." What did that mean? She asked the guard, but he only shook his head. He didn't know. He didn't know anything except that there had been a landslide, and that no train could get through till the line was clear. He supposed that a gang would come down in the morning, but he couldn't say. Rosemary wanted to know whether there would be any other way of continuing the journey, and picking up a train the other side of the frontier. The guard again shook his head. He really couldn't say; he was a stranger to these parts, but perhaps in the morning——He suggested respectfully that the gracious lady should allow him to make up a couple of beds in two of the sleeping compartments. There was no one else on the train, so——-
"No one else on the train?" Rosemary broke in curtly. "What does he mean, Jasper? There must be other passengers on the train. Where have they gone to?"
Jasper put the question to the guard.
"The last of the passengers got out at this station, gracious lady. When it was known that the line was blocked this side of the frontier, no one took a ticket further than Sót."
"How do you mean? When was it known that the line was blocked?"
"Before we left Cluj, gracious lady, and so——"
"But they sold us tickets to Budapest, and said nothing about a breakdown," Rosemary exclaimed. And then she turned to her husband: "Jasper, tell me, is this man a fool or a liar, or am I half-witted? You took our tickets to Budapest. Did the man at the ticket-office say anything to you about a block on the line?"
"No," Jasper replied, "he did not."
"But our luggage?"
"We have no registered luggage—only what we have with us in the carriage."
"Of course, how stupid of me! But when the man clipped your ticket?"
"He didn't say anything."
Rosemary, impatient, her nerves on edge, turned again to the guard. "You saw the gracious gentleman's tickets," she said, "when we got into the train. Why didn't you warn us?"
"I thought perhaps the gracious lady and gentleman would only go as far as Sot and sleep there. I thought everyone knew about the landslide, and that every passenger had been warned."
"Can we get a car here that will take us to Hódmezö?"
"Not at this hour, gracious lady."
"Or a vehicle of any sort?"
The guard shook his head. Rosemary could have screamed with impatience until Jasper's quiet voice broke in: "I think, my dear, that by far the best thing to do will be to let the man make up a couple of beds for us, and to try and possess ourselves in patience until the morning. There is nothing to be done—really, darling, nothing. And, after all, it may only mean a delay of eight to ten hours."
Then, as Rosemary remained silent, making no further objection, he slipped some money into the guard's hand, and told him to get the beds ready. After that he re-entered the carriage, and rather diffidently sat down beside his wife.
"I feel terribly guilty, dear one," he said humbly, "but you know I don't speak Roumanian very well, and when these sort of people jabber away, I don't always understand what they say. And I was rather anxious about you at Cluj. You seemed so agitated, so unlike yourself."
"Can you wonder? Twenty-four hours' delay may mean that Naniescu's courier will get to London and make arrangements before I have time to wire. I must see Elza first, and in the meanwhile——"
"My darling," Jasper put in, with a quick, wearied sigh, "it is not like you to be so illogical. Do you really suppose that events move at such a rate in a newspaper office? There is bound to be delay—and there's ample time for your telegram to reach theTimesbefore the editor has even thought of inserting your articles. Even if we are held up here for twenty-four hours, you can see Elza and send your wire from Hódmezö before Peter Blakeney, or whoever Naniescu's courier happens to be, can possibly have made any arrangements with theTimes."
"Of course, dear, of course," Rosemary said, more calmly. "I am stupid to-night. This whole business has got on my nerves, I suppose. I don't seem to know what I am doing."
On the narrow made-up bed, with the coarse linen and the heavy blanket, and the smell of sulphur and dust about her, Rosemary found it quite impossible to get any rest. At first there had been a good deal of clumsy shunting, the engine probably had been detached, the tin-trumpet sounded at intervals, and there was a good deal of shouting; but all these noises ceased presently, and the night seemed peculiarly still. Still, but not restful. Rosemary could not sleep. Fortunately the communicating doors between her compartment and the one which Jasper occupied were closed, so she felt free to fidget, to get up or to lie down as the mood seized her, to turn on the light to read or to meditate, without fear of disturbing him.
She could not help feeling desperately nervous. Jasper, of course, was quite right: there was plenty of time in which to see Elza, and then to send a telegram to London if necessary, so there was nothing in a few hours' delay to worry about. Nevertheless she, who had always prided herself on independence and level-headedness, felt a strange kind of foreboding—something vague and indefinite that nevertheless was terrifying. She tried to compose herself and could not. She forced herself into quietude, deliberately kept her eyes closed and her body still. It was torture, but she did it because she wanted to feel that she still controlled her nerves, and that she was not giving way to this stupid sense of fear.
And there was no denying it; the fear that beset her was on account of her coming interview with Elza. Maurus' attitude had been very strange, even abnormal, and it was consequent on a letter from Elza. And Rosemary, though she had not owned it to herself before, felt a growing conviction that Elza's lofty patriotism had given way at last to mother-love. Confronted with Philip and Anna, who no doubt had youth's passionate desire to live, with Anna's mother who was all for conciliating the tyrants, and with Maurus whose reason was threatening to give way, Elza had laid down her arms, had capitulated and decided that her son's life must be saved at any cost. Perhaps she knew that Rosemary's articles had fallen into Naniescu's hands, perhaps she and Peter had actually been in collusion over the theft, perhaps—perhaps——There was no end to conjecture, and no limit to Rosemary's dread of what the next four-and-twenty hours would bring.
Only now did she realise what it had meant to her to place the final decision into Elza's hands. With it she had given her professional honour, her very conscience into another woman's keeping. She had probably only done it because she was so sure of Elza, of Elza's patriotism and her sense of justice and honour. Poor Elza! Who could blame her for being weak, for being a mother rather than a patriot? She should never have been placed before such a cruel alternative. Self-reproach, the stirrings of conscience helped to aggravate Rosemary's racking anxiety. She got up in the early dawn, made what sketchy toilet the limited accommodation allowed, and went out into the open. The little station appeared quite deserted; only the two soldiers were still there on duty at the exit door. Rosemary marvelled if they were the same two who had been there during the night. They looked perfectly stolid, unwashed and slouchy in their faded, coarse-looking uniforms and dusty boots and képis.
Rosemary looked up and down the line. The train, consisting of half a dozen coaches, looked derelict without its engine, and there was no guard in sight. She had no eyes for the beautiful scenery around—the narrow valley bordered by densely wooded heights; the mountain-side covered with oak and beech that were just beginning to clothe themselves in gold at the approach of autumn; the turbulent little mountain-stream; the small station nestling amidst gnarled acacia trees; and on the right the quaint Transylvania village with the hemp-thatched roofs and bunches of golden maize drying in the sun, with its primitive stuccoed church and white-washed presbytery. Rosemary saw nothing of this; her eyes searched the landscape for the château—now a prison for political offenders—where Philip and Anna were detained—those children whose safety would be paid for perhaps by countless miseries, by worse tyranny and more cruel oppression. But there was no large building in sight, and presently Rosemary caught sight of Jasper, some way up the line, walking toward her in company with a man in verynégligétoilet, who probably was the station-master.
At sight of Rosemary, Jasper hastened to meet her, while the man kept at a respectful distance.
"What news?" Rosemary cried eagerly.
Jasper appeared dejected. "Not very good I am afraid," he said. "The station-master here tells me that he has been advised that the line will take the whole of the day to clear—probably more."
"Very well, then," Rosemary said resolutely, "we must get a car."
"Impossible, my dear; you can't get across if the road is blocked."
"All the roads in Transylvania are not blocked, I imagine," Rosemary retorted drily. Then she called to the station-master: "I want," she said, "to get to Hódmezö to-day. Can I get a car anywhere in Sót?"
"But the roads are impassable, gracious lady," the man exclaimed; "the landslide——"
"Never mind about the landslide. There are other roads in Transylvania besides this one. I can go by a roundabout way, but I can get there somehow if I have a car. Or," she added impatiently, seeing that the man was looking very dubious, "a conveyance of any sort, I don't care what it is."
"Alas! gracious lady, that is just the trouble. The soldiers were here yesterday, and they commandeered all the horses and bullocks in Sót for military purposes. It is so hard," the man went on, muttering half to himself; "no sooner does a man scrape together a little money and buy an old horse, than the soldiers come down and take it away from him."
The man was full of apologies and explanations, but somehow Rosemary had the impression that he lied. He rambled on for a while in the same strain; Rosemary did not hear him. Her brain was at work trying to find a way to combat this net of intrigue that was hemming her in. She was quite sure that the man was lying—that Naniescu had ordered these ignorant yokels to tell the lies that suited him. She, Rosemary, Lady Tarkington, a British subject, could not be held up at the frontier, of course, but there could be a landslide, a block on the line, no conveyance available, horses commandeered by the military, two, three, perhaps four days' delay while Naniescu's courier was speeding to London with Rosemary's manuscript and her letter to the editor of theTimesasking for early publication.
She turned with some impatience to Jasper.
"What shall I do?"
Gravely he shook his head.
"Accept the inevitable," he replied gently. "I understand that there is quite a clean little hotel in the place, and twenty-four hours' delay is not very serious, is it?"
"It would not be," she admitted, "if it were not prolonged."
"It can't be prolonged indefinitely."
"No," she retorted, "for I can always walk to the frontier."
"Over mountain passes?" he queried, with a smile.
But she only gave a scornful shrug. "Accept the inevitable?" How little he knew her. The more she saw difficulties ahead, the more she felt ready for a fight. Time was still in her favour. Hódmezö was not far with its telegraph service, and Naniescu's power did not extend beyond the frontier.
Always supposing that Elza did wish her to wire.
Rosemary thought things over for a moment or two; then she said to Jasper: "Very well! I'll possess myself in patience for twenty-four hours. Will you see about rooms at the hotel? And I suppose this man will see about our luggage being taken across?"
"Of course I'll see to everything, dear," Jasper said meekly. "But you would like some breakfast, wouldn't you?"
"No," Rosemary replied; "I am going for a walk. I should be such poor company at breakfast."
Meekly and obediently Jasper went off to see after the luggage, and Rosemary wandered away as far as the village. Her first thought was to ascertain definitely whether indeed there was no chance of hiring some sort of conveyance to take her as far as Hódmezö. The first man she spoke to was the keeper of the inevitable grocery store. He had heard a rumour that there was a block on the railway line somewhere near the frontier, and this annoyed him very much because he was expecting a consignment of maize from Hungary, and he supposed that he would not now get it for two or three days. He had no horse. Hadn't had one since the beginning of the war, when his nag was commandeered. Now even an old crock was so dear it did not pay to buy.
Rosemary asked him if he knew of anyone in the village from whom she could hire a horse and cart to take her as far as the frontier, but the man shook his head. The Jew at the hotel had two horses, and the priest had one, but the military were down from the barracks yesterday and took those away. There were manœuvres in progress somewhere, it seems. The soldiers said they would bring the horses back in two or three days, but it was very hard and inconvenient for everybody when that sort of thing was done.
Rosemary asked, what about oxen? But draft-oxen and some buffaloes belonging to the mayor had also been commandeered. It was very hard. Did not the gracious lady think so?
Finally the storekeeper made a suggestion that with the help of a little baksheesh the gracious lady might succeed in getting the officer at the château to let her have what she wanted. The château was only a couple of kilomètres from the village. It lay close to the road; the gracious lady couldn't fail to spy the great iron gates. It had belonged at one time to Count Fekete, but the family had been gone some time, and the château was now a cavalry barrack, and some prisoners of war were still kept there.
The storekeeper offered his son as an escort to the gracious lady, so that she should not miss her way. But Rosemary declined the offer; she purchased a few stale biscuits from the man, intending to ask for a glass of milk from some cottage on the way; then she set out at a brisk pace down the road. It ran along the mountain-side, and some fifty feet below the turbulent little stream tossed and tumbled over stones and boulders, its incessant murmuring making a soothing accompaniment to Rosemary's thoughts. At the last cottage in the village, where Rosemary had obtained a glass of fresh milk from a comely peasant woman, the latter had directed her to a mountain path which ran below the road, parallel with it, and close to the edge of the stream. Here it was perfectly lovely; the moist, sweet air, the occasional call of birds, the beech and oak and dense undergrowth, the carpet of moss, the occasional clearing where the grass was of a luscious green, and the mauve campanula grew to a stately height. At times the path rose sharply, twenty feet or more above the stream; at others it ran level with the water's edge; and at one place the stream widened into a little bay, where the water was as clear as a fairy pool and of a translucent blue.
Rosemary lingered for a little while beside the pool, thinking how delicious it would be to bathe in it. When she went on again she came to a sharp bend in the path, and as soon as she had rounded this she saw some twenty yards farther on a man dressed in the uniform of a Roumanian officer, sitting upon a tree stump close by the water's edge. The man sat with his elbows resting on his knees, and his head was buried in his hands. He looked like a man in trouble. Rosemary walked on, a dry twig crackled under her tread, and the man suddenly looked up.
It was Peter.
The moment he caught sight of Rosemary he jumped up, and then made a movement as if he meant to run away. But Rosemary, with sudden impulse, called to him at once.
"Don't go, Peter."
It seemed as if the magic of her voice rooted him to the spot. He stood quite still, but with his back to her; and then he took off his képi with one hand, and passed the other once or twice across his forehead.
Rosemary felt strangely disturbed and puzzled. Why was Peter here? How did he come to be here? And in this uniform?
"Aren't you going to speak to me, Peter?" she asked, because Peter being here seemed so amazing that for the moment she thought that she was seeing a vision; "or even look at me?" she added.
"I did not suppose you particularly wished me to speak to you," he said, without turning round to face her.
"Why should you say that?" she asked simply.
"Because I imagine that you look upon me as such an unmitigated blackguard that the very sight of me must be hateful to you."
She said nothing for a moment or two. Perhaps she was still wondering if he was real, and if so, how he came to be here—just to-day and at this hour. Then she went deliberately up to him, put her hand on his arm, and forced him to look at her.
"It is true, then?" she asked, and her eyes, those pixie eyes of hers, luminous and searching, were fastened on his as if seeking to penetrate to the very soul within him. But a look of dull and dogged obstinacy was all that she got in response.
"It is all true, Peter?" she insisted, trying with all her might to steady her voice, so that he should not hear the catch in her throat.
He shrugged his shoulders, indifferent and still obstinate.
"I don't know what you mean," he retorted, almost roughly.
"I mean," she said slowly, "that these last few days have not just been a hideous nightmare, as I still hoped until—until two minutes ago. That things have really happened—that you—that you——"
She paused, physically unable to continue. It was all too vile, too hideous to put into words. Peter gave a harsh laugh.
"Oh, don't spare me," he said, with a flippant laugh. "You mean that you did not believe until two minutes ago that I was really a spy in the pay of the Roumanian government, and that you did not believe that I had intrigued to have Philip and Anna arrested, stolen your articles for theTimes, and bought Kis-Imre over Aunt Elza's head, and turned her and Maurus out of their home. Well, you believe it now, don't you? So that's that. And as I am on my way to meet a friend, you'll excuse me, won't you, if I run away? Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"Yes," she said. "You can look me straight in the eyes and tell me what has brought you down to—to this. Is it money?"
Peter shrugged. "The want of it, I suppose," he replied.
"I have no right to ask, I know. Only—only—we were friends once, Peter," she went on, with a note of pleading in her tone. "You used to tell me all your plans—your ambitions. You used to say that you did not want to—to bind me to a promise until you had made a name for yourself. If you had told me that you were short of money, and that you were actually thinking of taking up this—this sort of work, I could have helped you. I know I could have helped you. I know I should have found the right words to dissuade you. Oh, Peter!" she went on almost wildly, unable to hold her tears longer in check, or to control the tremor in her voice, "it is all so horrible! Can't you see? Can't you see? We were such friends! You used to tell me everything. You were taking up your father's work. Some of your scientific experiments were already attracting attention. And you were a sportsman, too! And your V.C. And now this—this. Oh, it is too horrible—too horrible!"
Her words were carrying her away. The murmur of the water grew louder and louder in her ears, and in the trees the soughing of the wind among the leaves grew almost deafening. She felt herself swaying, and for a few seconds she closed her eyes. But when she put out her hand she felt it resting on Peter's arm. There was the feel of the rough cloth of his tunic. So she opened her eyes and raised them slowly until they met his. Her glance had wandered on the ugly uniform, the livery of this unspeakable shame. Her eyes expressed the contempt which she felt, the loathing which was almost physical. But Peter's glance now was not only dogged, but defiant. In it she read the determination to follow the path of life which he had chosen for himself, and a challenge to her power to drag him away from it. This was no longer the Peter of Kis-Imre, the irresponsible young English athlete, whose thoughts would never soar above the interest in a cricket-match. It was more the Peter of olden times—the tempestuous lover, the wayward creature of caprice, the temperamental enthusiast capable of heroic deeds, and always chafing under the restraint imposed by twentieth century conventions; the Peter whose soul had once been equally great in virtue as it was now steeped in crime, the gallant soldier, the worthy descendant of the Scarlet Pimpernel. It was the Peter of olden times, but his love for her was dead. Dead. If one spark of it had remained alive, if something of her image had remained in his heart, he could never have given himself over to this vile, vile thing. But while she had been battling bravely to banish from her mind all memories of their early love, he had torn her out of his heart, and turned to this ignominious calling to help him to forget.
Rosemary felt giddy and ill; even the sweet woodland air seemed to have turned to poisonous fumes of intrigue and venality. She pushed Peter's arm that supported her roughly away, but she was still swaying; her hat fell from her head, and her glorious hair lay in a tumbled mass of ruddy gold around her face.
"Better sit down on this old stump," Peter remarked drily. "You'll have to lean on me till you get to it."
But Rosemary did not really know what happened just then. She had such a gnawing pain in her heart. She certainly tottered forward a step or two until she reached the tree-stump, and she sank down on it, helped thereto no doubt by Peter's arm. The next thing of which she was conscious was a flood of tears that would not be checked. It welled up to her eyes, and eased that heavy pain in her heart. Great sobs shook her bowed shoulders, and she buried her face in her hands, for she was ashamed of her tears. Ashamed that she cared so much.
And the next thing that struck her consciousness was that Peter sunk down on his knees before her, that he raised her skirt to his lips, and that he murmured: "Good-bye, sweetheart. My Rosemary for remembrance. God bless and keep you. Try and forget." Then he jumped to his feet and was gone. Gone! She called him back with a cry of despair. "Peter!" But he was nowhere to be seen. He must have scrambled up the incline that led to the road. She certainly heard high above her the crackling of dry twigs, but nothing more. Peter had passed out of her life, more completely, more effectually, indeed, than on the day when she became Jasper Tarkington's wife. Peter—her Peter, the friend of her girlhood, the master from whom she had learned her first lesson of love, was dead. The thing that remained was a vague speck, a creation of this venal post-war world. It was as well that he should go out of her life.