Pimpernel and Rosemary · Chapter 17 (1/2)

XVII

And it was that spectre which from that hour haunted Rosemary; it would not allow her to rest at night; it dogged her steps by day. When she walked in the park and the soft summer breeze stirred the branches of Lombardy poplars or the stately plumes of maize, ghostly voices would seem to be whispering all around her: “Life and liberty for Philip and Anna! Life and liberty for those two children who love and trust you, who know nothing of the fate that hangs over them!” And when she was in the house at meals or in the family circle, with Elza radiating happiness and even Maurus unbending, with Philip almost feverishly gay and Anna thoughtful, the eyes of all these kind, dear people whom she loved seemed full of reproach to the one woman who could save them⁠—if she would.

Then Rosemary, unable to pretend any longer, would run up to her room; and she⁠—one of the most sane, most levelheaded women in this neurotic age⁠—would throw herself on her knees and pray to be taken out of it all. Oh! to be out of it⁠—underground⁠—anywhere! Just to be out of it, not to see those smiles, that happiness, that contentment which she knew must presently end in a devastating catastrophe. To be out of it when the time came⁠—in a few weeks⁠—days⁠—hours!

Hour followed hour, dull and leaden-footed. And they were all so happy at Kis-Imre! Suspecting nothing, knowing nothing, whilst Rosemary felt her self-control slipping away from her day by day. At times she felt as if she could not endure the situation any longer, as if she must tell one of them. Tell Elza or Maurus, or the children! Surely they should know! There comes a time when a doctor, knowing that his patient cannot recover, is bound in all humanity to tell him. Then surely it was Rosemary’s duty to say to them all: “You don’t know! You have not guessed! But you are doomed. Doomed! Philip and Anna to death! You Elza and Maurus to worse than death⁠—limitless sorrow. Now you are just living on a volcano. In another few days⁠—twenty, nineteen, eighteen⁠—the flames will break through, the earth will totter under your feet, and everything you care for in the world will be engulfed. You will perish. Yes, you! All of you! And then you will know about me! How I might have saved you and did not. And you will hate me as no woman has ever been hated before. And I shall go forth into the vast wilderness which is called the world. And I, too, shall perish of sorrow and endless regret!”

She had not again seen those mysterious eyes which that evening, while little Anna was talking, had peered at her from behind the laurel bushes; and she was far too sensible to dwell on what might only, after all, have been the creation of overwrought nerves.

The time was drawing near for Jasper’s return. “Fifteen days” he had said; and she knew that, bar accidents, he would keep his word. But she had no news of him, and after the first week she ceased to expect any. She would not own, even to herself, that she had already ceased to build hopes in that direction. Jasper had promised to wire as soon as he heard anything definite, so in this case no news was bad news. Dear, kind Jasper! he knew how miserably anxious she was! He would not keep good news from her⁠—not one hour.

It was on the tenth day that Peter arrived at the castle. He had announced his coming twenty-four hours previously, and in a moment there was excitement from attic to cellar in the house. Everybody seemed to be arranging something, planning something. Tennis excursions, dancing! Peter was such a good dancer! They would have the gipsies over from Bonczhida. That was the finest band in the whole of Transylvania; and they would ask the Keletys over from Hajdu and the Fejérs from Henger, and perhaps Aunt Charlotte could be persuaded to come and bring Marie. There was some talk of private theatricals, of tableaux, a tennis tournament, perhaps a cricket match, English fashion. Peter was so clever at all that sort of thing! Rosemary was consulted about the cricket match and the tournament, for these were to be done on English lines! But the dancing and the acting and the picnics, these were to be truly and entirely Hungarian⁠—prewar Hungarian, the gayest, merriest things darling Rosemary had ever seen.

How much she had looked forward to Peter’s coming, Rosemary did not know until after she had seen him. What hopes she had built on his mere presence, on his nearness, she did not own to herself until afterwards. He had not been in the house many hours before she realised that he had changed. Not changed for the worse, of course not⁠—but changed.

He seemed younger, more boyish⁠—more English in many ways. At one time the Hungarian strain had been very conspicuous in Peter⁠—his tempestuous lovemaking, his alternating moods of fatalism and rebellion had always reminded Rosemary of those barbaric chieftains⁠—his forbears about whom she loved to read⁠—who had been up and fought the Turks, while the rest of Europe only trembled at thought of their approach.

But now Peter was much more like the conventional young English athlete: not very loquacious, very placid, ashamed of showing emotion or excitement, standing about for the most part with his hands in his trousers pockets contemplating the toes of his boots, and smoking innumerable cigarettes. He had not seemed like this at first. He arrived in the late afternoon, and Rosemary was downstairs in the paved courtyard when the carriage drove in through the gates, with its four spanking greys shining with lather, for the day had been very hot and the roads were dusty. Peter was on the box, having dislodged the coachman, who sat beside him, the groom being relegated to the cushioned seat of the victoria.

There was such a halloing and a shouting, everyone screaming a welcome, grooms rushing to hold the horses, the greys pawing and champing and snorting, that Rosemary hardly saw Peter when he threw the reins to the coachman, jumped down from the box, and was lost in a forest of welcoming arms that hid him completely from view.

It was only after dinner, when the whole company went out into the garden to get a breath of air, that Rosemary found herself for a few moments alone with him. It had been desperately hot indoors, and the noise of all these dear people all talking and laughing at the same time had been overpowering. Fortunately everyone thought it would be lovely in the garden, and still laughing and chattering they trooped out like a brood of chickens let out of a coop. Rosemary had wandered on ahead of the others, and presently she turned down the path that ran along the perennial border, now a riot of colour and a tangle of late lilies, crimson pentstemons and evening primroses.

Rosemary did not hear Peter coming. No one ever dressed for dinner at Kis-Imre, and Peter had his tennis shoes on, and the rubber soles made not the slightest sound upon the smooth gravel path. She had stopped to look at a clump of tiger lilies, when suddenly a wonderful sense of well-being seemed to descend upon her soul. It was as if she had stepped out of a boat that had been tossed about a stormy sea, and had all of a sudden set her foot upon firm ground. The first words he said were so like the foolish, lighthearted Peter she knew.

“You wonderful pixie!” he said, “I can’t believe that it is really you!”

She did not immediately turn to look at him, but went on studying the markings on the lilies; then she said, as indifferently as she could:

“Why didn’t you let me know sooner, Peter, that you were coming to Transylvania? In fact,” she went on coolly, “you never did let me know at all. I first heard through others that you were here.”

“Who told you?” he asked.

“I think Jasper did first,” she replied. “He had heard the news from General Naniescu.”

Then only did she turn and look at him. She had to look up, because, though she herself was very tall, one always had to look up at Peter, who was a young giant. At this moment she certainly did not think that he was changed. He looked just the same, with his very boyish face and laughing grey eyes, and his fair hair that so often looked as if it had been Marcel-waved. He was looking down at her when she turned to him, and suddenly he said:

“You don’t look happy, Rosemary!”

Of course she laughed and told him not to make silly remarks. How could she help being happy here with these dear, kind people? Never, never in all her life had she met with such kindness and hospitality. Peter shrugged his shoulders. He thrust his hands in the pockets of his flannel trousers and looked down at the toes of his shoes.

“Very well,” he said lightly, “if you won’t tell me, you won’t. And that’s that. But let me tell you this: though I dare say I am a bit of a fool, I am not quite such an ass as not to see the difference in you. You’ve gotten thinner. When I first arrived and shook hands with you, your hand felt hot, and your eyes⁠—”

He broke off abruptly, and then with sudden irrelevance: “Where’s Jasper?”

“Gone to⁠—,” she began, and suddenly came to a halt. When she promised Jasper not to breathe a word of Philip’s and Anna’s affairs to Peter, she had not realised how difficult this would be. Would she be breaking her promise if she now told Peter that Jasper was in Bucharest? He would ask questions, more questions which Rosemary’s promise bound her not to answer.

“He has been called away on business,” she said curtly.

Her hesitation had only lasted a second or two; she hoped that Peter had not noticed it. Anyway, when he asked: “To Budapest?” she replied, without hesitation this time: “Yes, to Budapest.” And she added quite gaily: “He’ll be back at the end of the week. You can’t think, Peter, how I miss him when he is away! Perhaps that is why I am looking thin, and why my hands are hot.”

“Perhaps,” Peter assented laconically.

Then somehow the conversation flagged, and all the happy feeling that Rosemary had experienced when Peter first stood near her slipped away from her. She suddenly felt cold, although the evening was so hot that a little while ago she had scarcely been able to breathe. At some little distance behind her Philip’s voice sounded cheerful and homely, and Maurus Imrey’s throaty laugh and Elza’s happy little giggle rang through the sweet-scented evening air. Poor Rosemary shivered.

“Shall we walk on,” she asked, “or wait for the others?”

“Let’s walk on,” Peter replied; then added in a clumsy, boyish fashion: “Rather!”

They walked on side by side. Rosemary, at a loss what to say next, had thrown out an inquiry about the cricket match. This set Peter talking. All at once he threw off his abrupt, constrained air, and prattled away nineteen to the dozen. The cricket match was going to be a huge success. Didn’t Rosemary think it was a grand idea? Talk about the League of Nations, or whatever the thing was called! In Peter’s opinion, there was nothing like a jolly good cricket or football match to bring people together. Make them understand one another, was Peter’s motto. Of course, all these dagoes over here had got to learn to be proper sports. No sulking if they got beaten. Peter would see to that. Anyhow, the old General What’s-his-name had been a brick. He had helped Peter no end to get the Romanian team together, and had given them all free passes to Hódmezö, where the match would take place. Hódmezö was in Hungary, and old What’s-his-name⁠—meaning Naniescu⁠—said he would rather the Romanian team went to Hungary than that the Hungarian team came over here. Well, Peter didn’t mind which. It was going to be a topping affair. He was going to captain the Romanian team, and Payson was captaining the Hungarians. Did Rosemary know Payson? Jolly chap with a ripping wife⁠—done splendid work in the Air Force during the war. He had something to do with the Military Commission on disarmaments. He was at Budapest now, and Jasper would probably see him while he was there. Payson was coming over to Hódmezö by aeroplane. Wouldn’t that create a sensation. There was a splendid landing ground quite close to Hódmezö fortunately. Payson’s wife was coming with him. She was so keen on flying. Ripping couple, they were! Didn’t Rosemary think so? Oh! and Peter had had telegrams of good wishes from no end of people, and a jolly letter from dear old Plum Warner. Did Rosemary know Plum Warner? There was a cricketer if you like! No one like him, in Peter’s opinion. The science of the man! Well, the dagoes should learn that cricket is the finest game in the world! Didn’t Rosemary agree with him?

Rosemary gave monosyllabic replies whenever Peter gave her the chance of putting in a word. She could not help smiling at his enthusiasm, of course. It was so young, so English, so thoroughly, thoroughly fine! But somehow she could not recapture that lovely feeling of security, that sheer joy in having Peter near her, and she kept asking herself whether it was really Peter who had changed⁠—who had become younger, or she who had grown old. In this youthful athlete with his self-assurance and his slang, she vainly sought the wayward, sometimes moody, always captivating Peter, whose tempestuous lovemaking had once swept her off her feet.

At one moment she tried to lead the conversation into a more serious channel: “How do you think Anna is looking?” she asked abruptly.

“A bit peaky.” Peter replied lightly, “poor little mole! When you go back to England,” he went on more gravely, “you ought to take her with you. It would do her all the good in the world. Take her out of herself, I mean.”

“She wouldn’t come,” Rosemary replied earnestly.

“Don’t you think so?”

“Why, Peter,” she retorted, feeling exasperated with him for this air of indifference even where Anna was concerned, “you know Anna would not come. For one thing,” Rosemary added impulsively, “I don’t suppose she would be allowed to.”

“You mean her mother wouldn’t let her?”

“No,” she replied laconically. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Well, then?” he retorted. Then, as Rosemary, shocked, angry, remained silent, holding her lips tightly pressed together, almost as if she were afraid that words would slip out against her will, Peter shrugged his broad shoulders and rejoined flippantly:

“Oh, I suppose you mean old What’s-his-name⁠—Naniescu⁠—and all that rubbish. I don’t think he would worry much. He has been a brick, letting Anna and Philip out like that. I expect he would just as soon see them both out of the country as not. Jolly good thing it would be for both of them! They would learn some sense, the monkeys!”

He paused and looked round at Rosemary. Then, as she seemed to persist in her silence, he insisted:

“Don’t you agree with me?”

“Perhaps,” she replied, with a weary sigh.

“Anyway, you’ll think it over, won’t you?” Peter went on. “I am sure you could fix it up with old Naniescu. He admires you tremendously, you know.”

It was all wrong, all wrong. Peter used to be so fond of little Anna. “Give her a kiss for me,” were almost the last words he had spoken to Rosemary on the day of her wedding. His own affairs evidently pushed every other consideration into the remotest corner of his brain; and cricket matches were apparently of more importance than the danger which threatened Anna and Philip. Nor had Rosemary any longer the desire to break her promise to Jasper. She no longer wished to speak to Peter about Anna and Philip, or about the horrible alternative which Naniescu had put before her. Peter⁠—this Peter⁠—would not understand. Jasper had not understood either⁠—but he had misunderstood in a different way. Rosemary realised how right he had been to extract that promise from her. Was not Jasper always right? And was it intuition that had prompted him, after all, rather than an attack of jealousy of which Rosemary, in her heart, had been so ready to accuse him?