Budapest had been baking all day under a merciless sun in late July. But
at this hour the coolness of a clear moonlit evening sent everyone out
of doors. The Corso was crowded.
Rosemary Tarkington, on the terrace of the café, sat sipping delicious
coffee and lazily watching the throng. Now and then she would look
straight out before her, and her eyes would lose all sense of fatigue as
she gazed on the incomparable panorama before her: on the picturesque
old town of Buda, with, on the right, the ornate palace of the
Hapsburgs, and the cathedral of St. Matthias, and on the left, towering
above all, high upon the rock, the great, grim fortress that for over a
century had held the Turks at bay and saved Europe from the hordes of
Islam. One by one tiny lights began to wink and to blink in the houses
that rose tier upon tier on the slopes across the river, whilst down
below gaily illuminated boats flitted to and fro upon the turbulent
waters of the Danube, carrying a burden of merry-makers home from the
shady island of Ste. Marguerite close by. The whole scene before
Rosemary's eyes was one of unrivalled picturesqueness and animation. No
town in Europe presents quite so enthralling a spectacle, and one whose
charm is still further enhanced by the strains of those half-sad,
half-voluptuous Hungarian melodies which come to the ear from out the
shadows, or from the passing river boats, gentle as a caress, soothing
to nerves and senses by their sweet, melancholy rhythm, or exhilarating
when they break into their peculiarly harmonious syncopated cadences.
Rosemary had specially elected to put up at the "Hungaria" rather than
in one of the more modern, recently built hotels. For her the "Hungaria"
was full of associations, of joyous times spent there when she was still
a schoolgirl in the days before the war. She had travelled in Hungary
and Transylvania under ideal conditions with Mrs. Blakeney, Peter's
mother, seeing the best this romantic country had to offer, welcomed
always with that large-hearted hospitality peculiar to these kindly
people. But memory recalled more strenuous times, too, those in the
early days of her journalistic career, when her heart was filled with
pity for the sufferings of a proud and ill-starred country, whose
fairest lands had been flung like rags by thoughtless politicians as a
sop to those who had been her associates in the war until the hour when
self-interest prompted them to throw in their lot with the other side.
"You must be very tired, Lady Tarkington," a pleasant voice said close
to her elbow.
"Not tired," Rosemary replied, "but rather dazed. The journey over from
England is slower and much more fatiguing than it used to be."
Captain and Mrs. Payson were sitting beside her at the table. Recently
attached to the British Military Mission in Hungary, Captain Payson and
his young wife lived at the "Hungaria." It had been a great pleasure for
them to see Rosemary again, whom they had known for several years, and
after supper they had all foregathered on the terrace over their coffee.
Some few minutes before this Jasper had elected to take a turn on the
Corso, to stretch his legs and to smoke a cigar, but Rosemary felt too
lazy to move, and she liked to talk to the Paysons, who were genial and
intellectual and with whom she had a great deal in common in the way of
associations and friends.
"The place has not altered much," Rosemary went on after a while. "The
people here are always gay and cheerful--in spite of--of everything."
"Yes," little Mrs. Payson assented lightly. "Give them their music,
their delicious wines and perfect cooking, and nine out of ten
Hungarians won't care if they are ruled by King or Emperor, by foreign
tyrant or Bolshevist ruffian."
"I always think Ruth is wrong when she says that," Captain Payson put in
earnestly. "The Hungarians are sportsmen, as we are, and they are taking
their punishment like sportsmen. They are not going to let the world see
how much they suffer. In that way they are very different from the
Germans."
"They behaved with unparalleled folly," Rosemary remarked.
"Yes," the captain retorted, "and with commendable loyalty. The
Hungarians are a nation of gentlemen, just as the British. They, like
ourselves, are worshippers of tradition. They are royalists in their
hearts, almost to a man. Just think what their feelings must be whenever
they look across the river and gaze on that gorgeous palace over there,
whence their anointed King has been driven by petty foreign politicians
who scarcely knew where Hungary was situated on the map."
Before Rosemary could pursue the subject she caught sight of her husband
forging his way towards her between the crowded tables of the terrace.
"Naniescu is down below," Jasper said as soon as he had reached his
wife's side. "I told him you were up here and he said he wished to pay
his respects. He is talking to some friends for the moment, but he will
be here directly."
"Then Ruth and I had better run," Captain Payson said lightly. "He and I
are always on the verge of a quarrel when we meet."
He and his wife rose and took their leave; there was much talking and
laughing and promises to meet on the morrow. When they had gone Rosemary
said to her husband: "I would rather not have seen General Naniescu
to-night. I am very tired, and honestly I don't feel at my best."
"I am so sorry," Jasper replied at once, full of contrition. "I did my
utmost to put him off. I knew, of course, that you must be very tired.
But he leaves Budapest early to-morrow morning. He is going to Cluj----"
"Cluj?" she asked, puzzled, then laughed lightly. "Oh, ah!" she went on.
"I always forget that dear old Kolozsvár is Cluj now."
"Naniescu was anxious to see that our passports were quite in order, and
as this is important----"
"You did quite right, dear," Rosemary rejoined gently, "as you always
do. I don't suppose the general will keep us long--though he is a
terrible talker," she added with a sigh.
A moment or two later the handsome Roumanian came up to Rosemary's
table.
"Ah, dear lady," he said, and with habitual elaborate gesture he took
her hand and raised it to his lips. "What a joy it is to see that you
have fulfilled your promise and that you are here at last."
He sat down at the table but declined Jasper's offer of a liqueur or cup
of coffee.
"I am only here for a moment," he said, "overwhelmed with work and with
engagements. But I thought it would save you trouble if I just looked at
your passports and saw that they were entirely in order."
"That is more than kind," Rosemary rejoined, whilst Jasper went
immediately to fetch the passports. For a moment or two Rosemary
remained silent and absorbed. An indefinable something had caused her to
shrink when she felt General Naniescu's full lips upon her
hand--something hostile and portentous. The next moment this feeling had
gone, and she was ready to chide herself for it. Naniescu was earnest,
persuasive, elaborately polite in manner and florid of speech just as he
had been in London, when first he put his proposal before her, and
certainly there was not a hint of anything sinister about him.
"I am looking forward to my visit to Transylvania," Rosemary said quite
gaily.
"You will find every official there ready to welcome you, dear lady,"
Naniescu assured her. "You need only express a wish, to find it met in
every possible way. And if you should do me the honour of requiring my
personal services, needless to say that I should fly immediately to obey
your commands."
Rosemary shrugged her pretty shoulders.
"I do not anticipate any such call upon your valuable time," she said
coolly.
"Ah, one never knows. You, dear lady, are going amongst a strange
people," he added with a sigh. "People whose supposed grievances have
made bitter."
"I have old friends in Transylvania, and will feel as safe with them as
I should in my flat in London."
"You will stay the whole time with the Imreys?" the general asked.
"Who told you I was going to stay with them?" she retorted quickly.
"You yourself, dear lady," he replied, unperturbed, "or did I merely
make a shrewd guess? Anyway, on that unforgettable evening at the Albert
Hall, when first I had the honour of an introduction to you, I saw you
dancing with Mr. Blakeney. The Countess Imrey is his mother's
sister--you told me that you had friends in Transylvania--the inference
surely was obvious. I trust I have not offended you," Naniescu went on
in his most mellifluous tone, "by the suggestion."
"No, no," Rosemary replied, already vexed with herself for having
unwittingly provoked the Roumanian into one of those elaborate speeches
which irritated her and gave her a vague feeling that malicious irony
lurked behind so much blandness. "Mrs. Blakeney was a dear friend of
mine; she and I travelled a great deal together, and I stayed more than
once with the Imreys, not only at Kis-Imre, but in their beautiful house
at Kolozsvár."
"Ah, then," the general rejoined, "if you know the house at Cluj, you
would--in the scarce probable likelihood of your wishing to command my
services--know where to find me?"
"What do you mean?"
"I am living in the Imreys' house now."
"But--how can that be?" Rosemary retorted, somewhat puzzled, for she
knew that in this part of Europe the idea of letting their house to
strangers would never occur to proud, wealthy people like the Imreys, as
it does so readily to those of their caste in England. But when General
Naniescu, with an indifferent shrug, replied dryly: "Oh, the house was
a great deal too big for the occupation of a small family. On public
grounds we cannot allow the many to suffer for the whims of a few,"
Rosemary frowned, no longed puzzled. She felt rather than saw that the
Roumanian's dark, mellow eyes rested on her for an instant with a look
of quiet mockery. But it was a mere flash. The next moment he was as
suave as before, and said with that perfect deference which he had
always affected when speaking to her about her work:
"That question, dear lady, will be one which I earnestly hope you will
approach with an open mind, and on which your brilliant intellect will,
I trust, shed the light of truth."
Jasper's return with the passports brought on a fresh train of thought.
Naniescu pronounced them to be in perfect order. He added a special note
and signature to the visa which had been obtained from the Roumanian
Consul in London. Rosemary was feeling very tired and longed to go to
bed, but Naniescu stayed on, talking desultorily to Jasper about
politics and social conditions, all matters which Rosemary did not feel
sufficiently alert to discuss. Her thoughts wandered away and she
scarcely heard what the two men were saying; she was, in fact, just
meditating on a polite form of abrupt leave-taking when something that
Naniescu said arrested her attention.
"My Government," the Roumanian was saying, obviously in reply to a
remark from Jasper, "is quite alive to the evil wrought by those
pernicious articles which appear from time to time in English and
American newspapers. . . ."
"Then why doesn't your censor stop them?" Jasper queried bluntly.
"He would, my dear Lord Tarkington," Naniescu rejoined blandly, "he
would. But those devils are so astute. How they manage to smuggle their
articles through the post I for one cannot for the life of me make out."
"Ah," Rosemary put in with a smile, as quietly ironical as Naniescu's
had been a while ago, "you still carry on a strict censorship, then? You
do not believe in liberty of speech or of the press."
"We do, dear lady, indeed we do. But unfortunately the English and
American press are so easily captured by sentimentality. Put a case
before them of supposed wrong, however preposterous and palpably false,
and they will revel in it, print it with capital head-lines, and so
capture the imagination of their sentimental, unthinking readers that
these will no longer listen to the voice of reason or of truth. We are
too proud--or perhaps not clever enough--to combat such barefaced
propaganda; a strict censorship may be a crude weapon, but it is the
only one at our command. What would you? A man who is attacked defends
himself as best he can."
"But in this case your weapon is failing you?" Jasper queried in his
quiet, incisive way. "Whoever sends those articles to England and
America is apparently too clever for you."
"For the moment--yes," Naniescu admitted. "But," he went on more lightly
and at last rose to take his leave, "I fear my irresponsible prattle is
keeping Lady Tarkington away from the rest she so much needs. Dear lady,
pray accept my humble homage, and my earnest wish that your stay in our
poor country will afford you all the delight that you anticipate."
He raised Rosemary's hand to his lips with the same show of gallantry
that marked his every action in her presence. Just before he finally
released it he looked up with deep earnestness into her eyes.
"Let me once more assure you, dear lady, that as far as you are
concerned every word you write will be transmitted in its entirety and
with all possible speed to its destination. All that you need do is to
send your articles and letters in a sealed packet under cover to me. I
give you my word of honour that you will be satisfied."