Since then, nearly two years! And this was the season of 1924! Wembley!
The Rodeo! Royalties from Italy and Denmark and Roumania! The Labour
Government!
How far, how very far, seemed Transylvania and Sót and the little
mortuary chapel wherein Rosemary had gazed for the last time on the
enigmatic personality which had once been Jasper Tarkington--her
husband.
Even in death he had kept his secret--the secret of that strange dual
entity which she had never been able to reconcile one with the other,
the cruel, wolfish nature so skilfully hidden beneath the mantle of
supercivilisation.
Rosemary had not seen Peter since then. After the tragedy at Sót she
had at last succeeded, by dint of bribery, in entering into direct
communication with the British Consulate at Cluj.
Arrangements for the conveying of Lord Tarkington's body to England took
up some considerable time. She only met Elza in Budapest when she
herself was on her way home. Peter had left by then for an unknown
destination. He had conveyed Philip and Anna over the frontier. They had
soon abandoned the car, fearing pursuit, and in disguise had made their
way to the frontier over the mountains. They were young and strong, the
hardships were not serious, and the dangers reduced to a minimum once
they had reached the lonely mountain passes. It was the planning of the
escape that had been so wonderful. Peter Blakeney, disguised as a
Roumanian officer, and having with him Captain Payson and a young
Hungarian cricketer, bath dressed as Roumanian soldiers, had presented a
forged order for the surrender of the two prisoners, Philip Imrey and
Anna Heves. To the officer commanding the depôt the order appeared in
no way suspicious, and he gave up the prisoners without question. After
that the whole thing became just a delightful adventure, nothing more.
But Elza spoke of Peter with tears in her eyes. They had all of them
mistrusted him. Wasn't that strange? Did Rosemary guess? Elza wanted to
know, and Philip and Anna plied her with questions.
These were sad days for them all. But still Elza was wonderful, as
wonderful as she had ever been. Even Rosemary never actually found out
just how much of the tragedy Elza knew or guessed. Anton did not tell
her, and to their world the death of the two men who were known to have
been friends was just a terrible accident. Darkness. A broken bridge.
Fatality.
Rosemary never told, of course. She wondered if Peter knew. She waited
on in Budapest for some days hoping for news of him. But none came.
Captain Payson heard in an indirect way that Peter was still in
Transylvania, but no reliance could be placed on the truth of the
rumour. It was only when Rosemary was back in England that she heard
definite news of Peter. Elza wrote to say that he was living in
Kis-Imre. "He is administering the property for us," she went on. "Isn't
he wonderful? I am sure he will make something more of it than poor
Maurus was able to do. Of course, they dare not do anything to him
because he is a British subject, and he tells me in his last letter that
he hopes in a very few years' time, when justice has been at last meted
out to our unfortunate country, to hand over Kis-Imre to Philip in a
better state than it is now. Then my poor Philip's dream will, I hope,
come true. He and Anna have loved each other ever since they were tiny
children. When he has once more a fine home to offer her they will be
married with my blessing. And all this we shall owe to Peter Blakeney.
Can you wonder, my dear, that we all worship him? When I look at him I
seem to see my dear and beautiful sister gazing at me through his eyes,
and in his smile I see something of hers, because just like Peter, she
was always ready to laugh, always smiling at the world, always doing
great and kind things under cover of a joke. So Philip and Anna and I,
we bless Peter, and for some reason, which perhaps you can explain
better than I, when we think of him we immediately also think of you."
Since then nearly two years! Rosemary has resumed work. Her powerful
articles in _The International Review_ on the conditions obtaining in
Transylvania under alien occupation have begun at last to arouse from
its apathy public opinion in England and America. Time and her own
perseverance, aided by the lovers of justice and fair play who abound in
Anglo-Saxon communities, would after a while, she felt, do the rest.
Rosemary had seen the rampant evil with her own eyes, now she was
conscious of her power to help in remedying, or, at any rate, mitigating
it. She threw herself heart and soul into the work, not only because she
loved it and because it thrilled her, but because work alone could help
her to forget. "Try to forget" were the last words which she heard Peter
speak, there in the woods beside the turbulent mountain stream when she
had thought him a spy, a vile and venal wretch, and he had not said one
word to exculpate himself. How could he when this might have meant
rousing her suspicions of Jasper?--or perhaps it was just pride that had
caused him to hold his tongue. Pride which so often has proved love's
most persistent enemy.
Or perhaps he no longer cared, and that was why he thought it would be
so easy for her to forget.
Since then nearly two years! Rosemary walked through the park that late
afternoon in July. She had been to the Albert Hall to hear Kreisler, and
she wandered up the Broad Walk under the trees, because she did not feel
that she could stand the noise and bustle of streets at a moment when
her whole soul was still full of the exquisite music conjured up by that
great magician. It was very hot and she was rather tired, so she sat
down on a chair in the shade. Then suddenly she saw Peter. He was coming
towards her, quite naturally, as if to an assignation. He looked just
the same as he always did--like a boy, clean and straight-limbed as a
young god, his eyes shining with excitement, that quaint,
self-deprecating smile on his lips that Rosemary knew so well.
"I've been to hear old Kreisler," were the first words he said. "Wasn't
he wonderful?"
So like Peter! He dragged a chair quite close to hers and sat down. He
threw down his hat and passed his hand through his hair. He did not
attempt to shake hands or to greet her in any way. "I've been to hear
old Kreisler!" So like Peter! The very first words . . . and she hadn't
seen him for nearly two years.
After a second or two he went on: "I wouldn't speak to you in the Albert
Hall. When you went out I followed you. I knew you would wander out
here."
And Rosemary asked quite casually: "Have you been in England long?"
"Only a few hours," Peter replied with a laugh. "I crossed over by the
night boat, _via_ Havre. I always meant to sample that journey, and it
was really rather nice." After that he was silent for a moment; then
suddenly he seized her hand. She had no gloves on, and he held the soft
palm to his lips. Rosemary did not move. She was not looking at Peter;
she was just watching a huge blackbird that had landed on the elm tree
opposite and who was whistling away for dear life.
"Rosemary, when can we be married?" Peter asked abruptly.
She couldn't help smiling. It was so like Peter. "I've waited two years,
dash it all," he went on. "And during those two years I've been in hell.
Now I'm not going to wait any longer. When can we be married, Rosemary?"
Then Rosemary ceased to watch the blackbird and turned slowly to look at
Peter.
"Whenever you like, dear," she replied.
THE END