Anton saw it all, and it was he who broke the news to Rosemary.
He had been sitting up in the small slip of a room on the ground floor
which had been assigned to him, waiting for his master and wondering why
the gracious count should be so long upstairs at this hour with the
English lord and lady, when he saw the gracious count and the English
milord come along the first floor balcony, he heard them go downstairs,
and saw them go out of the house.
Anton was rather anxious about his master because the gracious count had
been very, very queer the last twenty-four hours. Sometimes he would be
very hilarious; he would laugh and sing and shout "Hurrah for Peter!
Bravo!" and so on; at others he would be terribly depressed and sit and
cry like a child, or else tear about the place in a passion of fury. He
had had a slight fit after the gracious English lord and lady had gone,
and the sisters thought that probably the control he had put on himself
when the Roumanian soldiers brought the expulsion order had been too
much for his nerves.
So when Anton saw the gracious count go out with the English lord at
this extraordinary hour he could not help but follow him. Though there
was no moon the sky was clear and the darkness of the night was just
beginning to yield to the first touch of dawn. The two gentlemen walked
quite fast, but Anton was able to keep them in sight. When they came to
the little wooden bridge that spans the stream the English lord was a
few steps ahead of the gracious count. Suddenly, in mid-stream, the
count sprang upon milord from behind, and in a moment had him by the
throat. The English lord, taken entirely by surprise, fought desperately
nevertheless. Anton had uttered a great shout, and ran to the rescue as
fast as ever he could. Through the gloom he could just see the English
milord forced down, with his back nearly doubled over the slender
parapet of the bridge, and the gracious count bending over him and
holding him by the throat. Anton's shout echoed from mountain to
mountain, but all around there was the silence of the night, broken only
by the howling of a dog outside a cottage door.
Then suddenly, before Anton set his foot upon the bridge, the
catastrophe occurred. The parapet suddenly crashed and gave way under
the weight of the two men, and they were hurled into the stream below.
One awful cry rent the stillness of the night. Anton, half crazy with
horror, waded into the stream, the waters of which at a point near a
huge boulder were stained with a streak of crimson. The English milord
in falling had broken his head against the stone. The gracious count had
probably fallen at first on the top of him, and then rolled over on his
back, thus breaking his fall. Anton dragged them both single-handed out
of the stream, first his master, then the English lord. The latter was
dead, but the gracious count was still breathing and moaning softly.
Anton laid him down upon the grass, and made a pillow for him with his
own coat, which he had taken off. Then he ran to the priest's house,
which was quite close, and rang the bell until he made someone hear. The
priest had been quite kind. He roused his servant, and together--the
priest and Anton and the servant--carried the gracious count into the
presbytery. But the English milord, who was quite dead, they laid upon
the bier in the tiny mortuary chapel which was by the entrance of the
churchyard.
The priest had already sent for the village doctor, who had done what he
could for the gracious count, but, of course, he was ignorant, and,
anyhow, Anton was of the opinion that there was nothing that any man
could do. But he had been to the station and roused the station-master
and asked him to telephone to Dr. Zacharias at Cluj. Anton was just
going to run back and see if the answer had come through. In the
meanwhile he had come over to the hotel to see if he could speak with
the gracious lady.
Rosemary had not yet thought of going to bed. For two hours after Jasper
went out with Maurus she had sat, unthinking, by the open window. Time
for her had ceased to be. She had heard the howling of a dog. At one
moment she had heard a shout, and then a weird and prolonged cry. But
these sounds conveyed no meaning to her brain. Her thinking powers were
atrophied.
Then the bare-footed, buxom, very sleepy little maid came to tell her
that Anton, the valet of the gracious count at Kis-Imre, desired to
speak with her at once. She was fully dressed; she sent for Anton and he
told her what he had seen.
Hastily seizing hat and wrap, she went with Anton out of the house and
through the village to the priest's house. The soft, colourless light of
dawn lay over the mountain and valley. On ahead the turbulent waters of
the stream tossed and played around the projecting boulders, murmuring
of the tragedy which had culminated within their bosom. Nearing the
priest's house Rosemary could see the narrow bridge, with its broken
parapet----
The priest met her at the gate. The gracious count, he said, had not
regained consciousness. He still lived, the doctor said, but life only
hung by a thread. Rosemary sat down by Maurus' bedside and watched that
life slowly ebbing away. In the late afternoon Dr. Zacharias came over
from Cluj. He only confirmed what the village doctor had said. The spine
was broken. It was only a question of hours. He could do nothing, but at
Rosemary's earnest request--or perhaps on the promise of a heavy fee--he
agreed to come again in the morning.
Less than an hour after he left the dying man rallied a little. He
opened his eyes, and seeing Rosemary, his face was illumined by a great
joy. She bent over him and kissed his forehead. Two tears rolled slowly
down his wan cheeks. He murmured something, and she bent her ear till it
was quite close to his lips.
"He was a monster," he murmured. "I heard everything. I had to punish
him for the evil he did to my wife and the children. And I have made you
free."
At sunset Maurus Count Imrey passed away into the Unknown.
Then only did Rosemary leave his bedside. Accompanied by the priest, she
went to the little mortuary chapel to take a last look at the man who
had done her such an infinity of wrong. Now that his stormy life was
ended, and his hard features were set in lines of peace, Rosemary felt
once more that aching sense of pity for him which so often before had
prompted her to forgive. She was able to commend his turbulent soul to
God without the slightest thought of hatred or revenge. He had said once
that she would never understand; but the infinite pity in her heart was
born of an infinite understanding. The man who had atoned for his sins
by this tragic death was not wholly responsible for his actions. He was
the victim of his temperament: more sinned against, perhaps, than
sinning. Who knows? If some other woman had captured his fancy she might
have made him happy, found what was strong and fine in him, and all that
was cruel would perhaps have been submerged beneath a great wave of
love.