Elza Imrey talked very freely with Rosemary, and often referred to her
husband having taken the oath of allegiance to the King of Roumania. It
was all because of Philip. "What I am working for," she said, with the
light almost of a fanatic in her eyes, "and what I shall work for so
long as I have breath left in my body, is to save Philip's inheritance.
The Roumanians are lying in wait for us, watching for an excuse to expel
us from Transylvania. Many have had to go. Nothing would induce them to
be false to the oath that they had sworn to the anointed King of
Hungary. So they had to go. Sometimes at twenty-four hours' notice, bag
and baggage, turned out of the home their forebears had owned for
hundreds of years. But I would not do that. I had to think of Philip.
The Roumanian occupation is now an accomplished fact, and we are too
helpless, too friendless, not to accept it. But we must be very careful.
One false step and we are done. Imagine how I tremble every time Maurus
lets himself go. You know how unguarded he always is in his speech."
Rosemary felt an actual physical pain in her heart when she thought of
this devoted mother's brave struggle to guard her son's inheritance, and
how little she guessed that Philip himself was jeopardizing his future
and risking his life in a cause that she was proclaiming hopeless. Those
rides to Cluj! The meeting with Anna Heves! The dispatch of those
newspaper articles of his! And Government spies lurking everywhere!
But during meals all unpleasant subjects were vetoed. Rosemary would
have none of them, and her wishes, as the honoured guest, were law in
this hospitable house. These good people, with their mercurial
temperament, had a wonderful gift of casting aside trouble and giving
themselves over to the pleasures of the moment. And so at dinner in the
evenings the gipsy band not yet driven forth out of the neighbouring
village would discourse sweet music, the tender, sad Hungarian refrains
that appeal to the stranger almost as much as they do to the native.
Rosemary, who was an exquisite dancer, longed to tread the measure of
the csàrdàs, the Hungarian national dance, which begins with a dreamy,
languorous slow movement, and then suddenly breaks into a wild, mad
whirl, wherein the dancers' eyes glow with excitement, their cheeks burn
like fire, and their breath comes and goes through quivering, parted
lips. Surely the merriest, maddest, most intoxicating dance devised by a
passionate people--probably for the letting off of some inward steam
that must find vent in such rapturous movements from time to time, or it
would consume them with its glow.
"I think Lady Tarkington is quite splendid," Maurus Imrey said to
Jasper, in the intervals of beating time with hand and foot to the
ever-quickening measure of the dance. "Hey, you confounded gipsy!" he
cried, shouting to the swarthy, perspiring leader of the band. "Quicker!
Quicker! Can't you hear me speak? Do you think you are playing a funeral
march?"
"I think," Jasper put in, with his quiet smile, "if the musicians put on
any more speed, Rosemary for one will be crying 'Mercy!'"
But for the moment Rosemary showed no sign of crying any such thing. Her
nimble feet had quickly caught the quaint, syncopated rhythm, and Philip
was a magnificent teacher. Perhaps there was some truth in the saying
that he had inherited a strain of gipsy blood, for indeed when he danced
the _csàrdàs_ there was something barbaric about his movements. They
were full of grace and perfect in rhythm, but all the time they gave the
impression of wild roamings through desert lands, of a will that brooked
no fetters and was a law unto itself. Rosemary gave herself wholly to
the pleasure of being whirled round, turned and twisted, sometimes
lifted off her feet. All intellectuality fell away from her for the time
being: she was just like a young and beautiful animal in enjoyment of
the senses kind Nature had given her, the sound of that intoxicating
music, the feeling of unfettered movement, the scent of dying roses in
huge vases, that sent their sweet indefinable fragrance through the
heat-laden air.
Faster, ever faster! Little hoarse cries escaped her throat as Philip
seized her with one arm round the waist, and, lifting her off her feet,
twirled her round and round till the golden lights of the shaded candles
swam like the trail of comets before her eyes.
Faster! Always faster. She could hardly see now out of her eyes; all
that she saw was Philip's dark, curly hair waving around his forehead.
The music seemed now a part of the universe, not played by one band of
musicians, but the very atmosphere itself vibrating and resounding,
forcing her to tread the measure and not to leave off, to go on--and
on--and on--always hearing the music--always lifted off her feet and
whirled round and round--
Then suddenly everything ceased all at once. The music, the movement,
everything. Rosemary would have fallen, giddy, dazed, but for the fact
that Jasper, quick as lightning, had caught her in his arms. Her
instinct was to laugh.
"What happened?" she asked, rather wildly.
Then only did she look about her. First she saw Jasper's face bending
over her, but he was not looking at her: he was gazing straight across
the room. Rosemary's eyes followed his gaze. And all at once she gave a
gasp, which she smothered instantly by clapping her hand to her mouth.
The whole aspect of the room had changed. The gipsies seemed to have
shrunk into a dark corner, with their instruments tucked hastily under
their arms; they seemed to be trying to make themselves invisible. Two
of them had crawled under the piano; only their feet, in shabby,
down-at-heel shoes, protruded under the folds of rich brocade that
covered the instrument.
And in the centre of the room there was a group of men, some half-dozen,
in the uniform of the Roumanian army. One of them had his hand on
Philip's shoulder. Philip stood in the midst of them; his dark face was
still flushed with the dance, his curly hair clung to his streaming
forehead. He was still panting with the movement and excitement of a
moment ago, and his eyes, dark and glowing, wandered ceaselessly from
one soldier's face to another.
Under the lintel of the great double doors that gave on the hall a
couple of men servants stood, scared.
Rosemary's ears were buzzing and she saw everything through a veil; the
room had not yet quite ceased whirling about her, but through the din in
her ears and the hammering in her head she heard the ominous words:
"Resistance will do you no good. You had best come quietly." They were
spoken in Roumanian, which Rosemary understood.
Then there came a cry like that of a wounded beast, and Maurus Imrey
jumped to his feet. With head down he charged into the soldiers just
like an infuriated bull. Of course, he was seized at once, dragged back,
forced down into a chair, where, with arms gripped by the soldiers, he
launched forth a torrent of invective and abuse, and now and then, when
he succeeded in freeing one of his arms, he hit out to right and left
with his fist.
One of the soldiers, who appeared to be in command, spoke to him with
cold deliberation:
"You are behaving like a fool, M. le Comte," he said. "For let me tell
you that if you interfere with my men in the execution of their duty I
will take you along, too."
Maurus's answer to this sound piece of advice was a fresh torrent of
vituperation. He shook himself free from the hands that held him down,
raised a menacing fist, and cried hoarsely:
"If you dare to touch me, you miserable----"
But suddenly stronger arms than those of the soldiers were thrown around
him and forced him back into the chair. They were his wife's arms. Elza
Imrey throughout all this had thought of nothing but the danger to
Philip. The humiliation of this descent upon her house, the insolent
attitude of the soldiers, this bringing home the fact of alien
occupation and alien government, hardly affected her. Her one thought
was Philip. The danger to Philip doubled and trebled by his father's
ungoverned temper. And, my God, if he should strike one of the soldiers!
So she held Maurus down, held her hand across his mouth; and Rosemary
could hear her whispering in a thick, choked voice:
"Maurus, in God's name! Maurus, keep quiet! Maurus, for Philip's sake,
hold your tongue!"
He struggled desperately, but she held him as only a mother can hold
that which threatens her child. The soldier looked on with a sardonic
smile. When Maurus at last was forced into silence, he shrugged his
shoulders and said drily:
"You are very wise, madame, to keep M. le Comte's temper in check for
him. My orders are that if any resistance is offered to take all three
of you along. I need not tell you that after that you two will be sent
packing out of the country, and your son----"
A cry from Elza broke into his complacent speech. At once she became
humble, cringing, all the pride of the aristocrat was submerged in the
devastating anxiety of the mother. She still held Maurus down, for she
dared not loosen her hold on him, but she turned a tear-stained face,
pathetic-looking in its expression of appeal, toward the Roumanian.
"You must not take any notice of his lordship, captain," she said,
trying in vain to speak lightly and to steady her voice. "You--you have
known him for years, haven't you? You remember--he was always a little
excitable--you used to amuse yourselves--you and your brother
officers--by making him angry with one of the peasants, and seeing the
men's terror of him? You remember," she reiterated, with the same
pathetic effort at conciliation, "when we were at Tusnàd and you were
in garrison at Sinaia, you used to motor over for luncheons and balls
and----"
"It is not a part of a soldier's duty, madame," the young soldier broke
in curtly, "to remember such incidents. If M. le Comte will cease to
insult my men, we will leave him in peace. Otherwise you both come with
me."
He turned sharply on his heel and spoke with one of his men. Apparently
he was willing to give Maurus Imrey time to make up his mind what he
would do. Rosemary still could hear Elza's voice thick and hoarse with
anxiety.
"Maurus, in the name of Heaven----" The same refrain, the same
reiterated prayer for submission, the one thing that would help to make
Philip's lot easier. They could not do anything to Philip, of course.
What had the poor lad done? Nothing. The mother racked her brain,
thinking, thinking what he had done. Nothing. He had taken the oath of
allegiance to the new King. Next year he would do his military service,
a perfect hell; but Philip had never grumbled. And he had never joined
in with those senseless political groups who met at night in
out-of-the-way places about Cluj and dreamed dreams of freeing Hungary
one day. Philip had never done anything so foolish. This cloud,
therefore, would blow over. It was all a mistake, a misunderstanding.
With silence and submission it would all blow over.
But Philip all along had never said a word. The first inkling that he
had of this sudden danger that threatened him was the grip of a heavy
hand upon his shoulder. Breathless with the dance, he had not made a
movement or uttered a word of protest. His great, dark gipsy eyes
wandered defiantly from the captain's face to those of the men, but he
asked no questions. He knew well enough what had happened.
Two days ago he had ridden over to Cluj with certain newspaper articles
in his pocket. He had given them to Anna. Together the cousins had spent
one of those happy days which seemed to compensate them for all the
risks they ran. Well, he had been suspected, spied upon and followed.
The strain of fatalism which ran through his veins with the gipsy blood
of his forebear bade him accept the inevitable. Slowly his dark face
became composed, his lips ceased to twitch, and the roaming glance of
his dark eyes became fixed. Rosemary, looking up, saw the glance fixed
upon her. In it she read the one word: "Anna!" Philip was pleading to
her mutely, desperately, for Anna. And this intuition which came to her
when she met Philip's glance gave her the power to shake oh the torpor
that had invaded her limbs when the dance ceased so suddenly and she had
fallen backwards into Jasper's arms.
Like Philip himself, she saw what had happened. The spies, the ride to
Cluj, the articles given to Anna. And now the arrest of Philip and the
deadly peril that threatened the girl.
"Can we do anything?" she whispered hurriedly to Jasper, and with quick,
nervy movements she patted her hair into place and readjusted her
tumbled gown.
Jasper shook his head. "We should do no good by interfering," he said
gravely.
But Rosemary was in no mood to listen. She remembered Naniescu and his
promises, the powers he had given her, the request that she should speak
the truth. She felt that she was a force to be conciliated, and here was
the moment to test her own power.
Without another word she ran out of the room and then through the great
hall to the outer vestibule, where stood the telephone. While she took
down the receiver and hurriedly gave the number of the Imrey palace at
Cluj, she prayed in her heart that a few minutes' respite would be
granted her before the soldiers marched Philip away.
"Hallo! Hallo! His Excellency General Naniescu! Lady Tarkington wishes
to speak with his Excellency at once! Say it is urgent--most urgent.
Yes, Lady Tarkington, the English lady at Kis-Imre. No, no, never mind
the name, please. Just say the English lady from Kis-Imre."
Another moment or two of agonising suspense, then Naniescu's mellow
voice. Thank God! He was at home, and she was through to him.
"General Naniescu? Lady Tarkington speaking! Thank you, I am well--very
well. Yes, my first article goes early next week. Yes, quite happy so
far. General Naniescu, Philip Imrey has been summarily arrested. . . . I
don't know. . . . There's a captain in charge. No, he did not say. . . .
Yes, I am sure it is a mistake, but the mistake may prove fatal
unless----Yes, yes! You will? Really? To-morrow morning? You are kind.
I hardly liked to ask you. Of course, I shall be here. Will you speak to
the captain yourself now? I thank you with all my heart. Will you hold
the line? I'll send the captain to you. I don't know how to thank you.
No, nothing else to-night; but I am looking forward to thanking you
myself to-morrow morning. About ten o'clock. Yes! Thank you a thousand
times. Good night!"
She had hardly finished speaking when she heard the tramping of feet
coming from the drawing-room and then across the hall, and glancing
round, she saw the soldiers filing out two by two, with their captain
beside them and Philip in their midst. There was no other sound except
this tramping of feet. No protests, no shrieks. Philip in the midst of
the soldiers, and behind them Elza creeping along, silent, watchful, her
great eyes fixed upon what she could see of her son--the dark, curly
hair and sometimes the top of his shoulder.
Rosemary waited until the captain was quite close to her. He saluted and
was about to pass, when, like a triumphant goddess, she turned and faced
him.
"His Excellency the Governor, on the telephone," she said curtly, and
held the receiver out to the young soldier. "He desires to speak with
you."
The Roumanian, obviously very much taken aback, looked at her for a
moment or two, frowning before he took the receiver from her. The group
of soldiers had halted, waiting for further orders. Behind them Elza
hovered, her white face and golden hair alone visible in the gloom.
After that instant's hesitation the captain put the receiver to his ear.
"Yes, Excellency. No, Excellency. Yes, Excellency." Then a long, long
wait, while the captain stood with the receiver against his ear, and
Elza came nearer, watching, hoping, mutely questioning; and Rosemary,
with glowing eyes and an enigmatic smile, put a finger up to her lips.
Finally: "I quite understand, Excellency. Quite! Absolutely!" And the
captain hung up the receiver.
Then he turned to Elza, who had drawn close to Rosemary, quite close; he
clicked his heels together and touched his képi with his right hand.
"By order of his Excellency General Naniescu," he said, "Count Philip
Imrey is free to remain under this roof. He will give his word of honour
that he will not attempt to leave the castle until after the arrival of
his Excellency in the course of the morning."
And thus the incident was closed. Philip gave the required parole, and
with more clicking of heels and salutes the young captain marched out of
the house, followed by his men. Then only did Elza break down, when she
put her arms round Philip's shoulders and sobbed her heart out against
his breast. He appeared more dazed than relieved, and kept his eyes
fixed on Rosemary, whilst with his long, thin hand he stroked and patted
his mother's hair. Rosemary gave him an encouraging glance. "It was for
Anna's sake," her glance said mutely. "In any case, Anna will be safe."
And the incident being closed, she went back to the drawing-room. Jasper
held out a hand to her, and when she placed her hand in his he raised it
to his lips. She took it as a sign of his approval, and bending down,
she gave him her forehead to kiss. He just took her face between his two
palms and gazed long and intently into her eyes.
He had often done that before; he loved to take hold of her face, to
feel the soft velvety cheeks against his hands, and Rosemary would turn
her pixie eyes to his and in one glance express all the affection, the
sincere regard and fervent gratitude which she felt for him. But somehow
this time it all seemed different, more intense, almost terrifying. To a
sensitive woman a man's passion, if she cannot respond to it, is always
terrifying; and, of course, Rosemary's nerves were stretched now almost
to breaking point. Else why should she be conscious of a sense of fear?
Jasper's gaze was not so much searching her soul as striving to reveal
his. Something in him seemed imprisoned, and he was asking her to set
that something free. A force, a power, greater even than his love, so
great that love itself became its slave. And this Rosemary could not
understand. She had experienced something of the same sensation that
afternoon in London when he had asked her to marry him before she left
for Hungary. Then, as now, she had caught a glimpse of a whirlpool of
passion which seethed beneath her husband's grave, gentle manner. Then,
as now, it had seemed to her as if he were trying to exert some
supernatural power outside himself, to rouse an echo of his own passion
in her heart. And with that glimpse into the depths of a man's soul came
the knowledge that never would it be in her power to give soul for soul
or passion for passion. And yet the day would come--she felt it, knew it
at this moment--when the man, wearied of sentimental doles, would demand
her whole surrender--body, brain, soul, everything, soul above
all--which she would not be prepared to give.
Strange that this realization, this vague feeling akin to fear, should
come to her again at this moment, when both she and Jasper were only
minor actors in the drama that had just drawn to its close. Like most
great moments in the inner life of the soul, it only lasted for one
brief flash. It left its indelible mark on Rosemary's memory, but it
lasted less than one second. The very next she tried to recapture it,
but it was gone. Jasper looked grave and kind, as he always did, busy
now with getting her comfortably ensconced in a capacious armchair,
with plenty of cushions behind her back. Elza came in with Philip, and
Maurus roused himself from his apathy to hurl invectives against those
damnable, impudent Roumanians.
And the gipsy musicians, reassured, crawled out of their hiding-places,
and their leader, shouldering his violin, began to play a dreamy melody.
One by one the others fell in harmony, the 'cello, the bass, the
clarionet, and the inimitable cimbalom. "There is but one beautiful
girl in all the world," was the tune that they played; its soft,
languorous cadence rose and fell in the air wherein the dying roses once
more sent up their voluptuous fragrance. Forgotten was the danger just
past, the peril still ahead. Music, the never-failing expression of
emotion in these romantic people, soothed their nerves and uttered the
words which would not rise to their lips. Elza sat with Philip's hand in
hers. Rosemary, with eyes fixed far away, caught herself gazing on the
memory picture of a dark recess in a box in the Albert Hall, with the
noise and whirl of a big social function about her, but with complete
isolation there in the darkness; and through the deafening noise memory
conjured up a man's voice that murmured with passionate earnestness: "It
is no use, my dear, thinking that all is over."