It was a week later and Jasper and Rosemary had been spending that time
at Kis-Imre. No one who has not travelled in that part of the world can
form a conception of the large-hearted hospitality that welcomes the
stranger in a Hungarian château.
And Rosemary at once took the Imreys to her heart. She had known them
before, of course, in the days before the war, when they dispensed that
same wonderful hospitality, light-heartedly, gaily, as a matter of
course. A lavish table, horses to ride, dancing, music, luxury, it was
all there, not just for the asking, but poured forth like water by
ungrudging hands. They had plenty and they gave in plenty. One loved
them as one loved children and puppies and youth and dance-music,
because their gaiety thrilled the heart and painted the picture of life
in radiant colours.
But most of that had become a thing of the past. So much of it had gone,
been irretrievably lost in the cataclysm of war and alien occupation.
The will to give was still there, the love of the stranger, the
boundless hospitality, but giving now meant a sacrifice somewhere,
giving up something to give to others. All the sweeter, all the more
lovable for being tinged with sadness. To Rosemary, Elza Imrey now was a
woman; before that she had been just like a child, naively proud of her
home, her table, her horses, without a hint of ostentation in her
display of the rich gifts the good God had showered upon her. Now Elza's
large, prominent blue eyes had become a little dim with constant
weeping, and her mouth, when at rest, drooped slightly at the Corners.
Elza was still a very handsome woman, with her hair of a ruddy gold like
the cornfields of her native land, but all around the temples there was
now a sprinkling of silver, a sprinkling that softened the face, as
powder does when applied lightly to the hair.
Though in outward appearance she was very unlike her sister, yet she
constantly reminded Rosemary of Mrs. Blakeney; it was a question of
movements, a gesture here and there, and also the tone of the voice.
Elza, too, like her sister, had a magnificent figure, and the perfect
hands, arms and wrists peculiar to her race. She had suffered, of
course: badly during the war, terribly since the peace. At all times a
_maîtresse femme_, it was she who had carried on the administration of
her husband's estates, she who used to interview bailiffs, lawyers,
tenants. She had always been looked up to by the local officials and by
the surrounding peasantry as the head of the house. Maurus Imrey had
always been neurasthenic, and the privations of the war, and the
humiliations consequent on the alien occupation of his country, had
exasperated his nervous system and further embittered his quarrelsome
disposition. In the happy days before the war his contribution to the
management of his estates consisted in grumbling daily at his chef and
swearing unremittingly at those of his servants who came to him for
orders in anything pertaining to the house. Malicious tongues were wont
to say that Maurus Imrey had gipsy blood in his veins; more likely it
was an Armenian strain. Certain it is that his face and hands were
swarthy, his nose hooked and his eyes very dark and piercing;
characteristics which he had transmitted in a softened degree to his son
Philip. But he was a man of culture for all that. He had read a great
deal and thought over what he had read. Jasper Tarkington found him at
the outset an interesting, if not very genial, companion.
Then there was Philip, worshipped by his mother, adored by his father,
handsome, a splendid dancer, an accomplished musician. Philip was very
attractive; if there was gipsy blood in his veins it had given him
nothing but physical beauty and the highly developed musical talent of
that race. He had dark, curly hair, and large mellow eyes, fringed with
long lashes that would have been a gift of the gods to a girl. Jasper at
first sight pronounced him effeminate, but Rosemary--knowing what she
did about him--would not allow this for a moment. How could a boy be
called effeminate who staked his life time and again, every time he rode
into Cluj with those newspaper articles of his in his pocket?
But this, of course, Jasper did not know.