Naniescu arrived soon after ten o'clock. Rosemary heard the hooting of
his motor when it turned in at the gate, also the general bustle,
clatter, running about that ensued. Her rooms, with the balcony
overlooking the park, were on the other side of the house, so she saw
nothing of this; but somehow after the arrival of his Excellency, the
stately château appeared to have lost something of its dignified
quietude. Loud voices resounded from end to end of the galleried hall,
footsteps that sounded almost aggressive echoed along the corridors.
Jasper had gone down some time ago for a stroll in the park, while
Rosemary dressed. She was sorry now that she had not asked him to be
sure to come back so as to support her in her interview with Naniescu.
However, this wish was only a momentary weakness. She had been
accustomed for years past to stand on her own feet, to act for herself,
and to take swift decisions without outside advice. So now, with a
careless shrug, she turned back to the important task of dressing; this
she did with deliberate care, then surveyed herself critically in the
glass, and, having satisfied herself that Rosemary Tarkington was in no
way less beautiful than Rosemary Fowkes had been, she settled herself
down in her boudoir with a book and waited.
A very few minutes later one of the men came to announce that his
Excellency General Naniescu desired to pay his respects to Lady
Tarkington.
He came in looking breezy and gallant. He kissed Rosemary's hand, sat
down on the chair she indicated to him, inquired after the state of her
health, her journey, her work, all in a mellifluous voice and in
execrable English. In fact, for the first five minutes of this momentous
visit he was just a pleasant, cheerful man of the world, exchanging
banalities with a pretty woman.
"_Et ce cher Tarkington?_" he queried. "How is he?"
"My husband will be in, in a moment or two," Rosemary replied, trying to
bring the conversation round to the all-important subject. "He will, of
course, make a point of not failing to see you." She made a slight,
insignificant pause, then she went on more seriously: "I can assure you,
M. le Général, that Lord Tarkington's interest in our dear host and
hostess is just as keen as mine."
"Of course, of course," Naniescu rejoined vaguely, with a sweep of his
well-manicured hand. "They are very foolish people, these Imreys. And
that young man! Dear lady, you have not an idea what trouble we have
with these Hungarians! They are all a little _toqué!_ What you call so
admirably in your picturesque language: they have a bee in their bonnet.
What?"
He laughed, very pleased with himself for what he apparently considered
a little joke.
"A bee in their bonnet," he reiterated, still waving his white podgy,
hands about. He set his teeth together and made a sound to represent the
buzzing of bees. "Buzz! Just like that! But bees," he added curtly, "are
apt to be tiresome. Is it not so?"
"You choose to look upon the matter lightly, M. le Général," Rosemary
rejoined, with a touch of impatience, "but to these unfortunate people
the summary arrest of their only son is anything but a light matter. On
the telephone last night----"
"Oh, the telephone!" the general broke in with an affected sigh. "A
marvellous invention! What? But it is difficult on the telephone to give
those little nuances which are the essence of conversation. It was
wonderful to hear your melodious voice on the telephone last evening. I
was not expecting to hear it, and it was delightful! Like a spirit voice
coming from a place unseen to soothe me to pleasant dreams."
He tried to capture her hand, and when she snatched it away with obvious
irritation he gave a soft, guttural laugh and gazed with a look of bold
admiration into her eyes. Rosemary felt her temper rising, and nothing
but her knowledge that this distinctly unpleasant personage had supreme
power over those she cared for kept her impatience in check.
"General Naniescu," she said, quietly determined, "you must forgive me
if I cannot enter into your playful mood just now. The only son of my
very dear friend is under arrest for an offence of which he knows
nothing, and, moreover, he was arrested under circumstances that are
entirely unjustifiable, seeing that this country is not, I presume,
under martial law."
"Not under martial law, certainly, dear lady," Naniescu was willing to
admit, and did so with a certain measure of seriousness, "but under
strict disciplinary law, framed by a suzerain state for the protection
of its own nationals in occupied territory. But let that pass. You
graciously informed me over the telephone last night that young Imrey
was arrested, and I gave orders to the captain in charge for his
immediate release. As I intended to come over here in the course of the
morning, I was willing to let the matter stand until I had investigated
it myself."
"Count Philip Imrey was released at ten o'clock yesterday evening, and
rearrested in the middle of the night; he was not even given the chance
of saying good-bye to his parents, or of providing himself with the
necessary clothing and money. I imagine, M. le Général," Rosemary went
on coldly, "that this was done by your orders, or at any rate that you
were not kept in ignorance of it."
For the fraction of a second Naniescu hesitated; then he said cynically:
"Yes; certainly I knew of it. I may even say that it was done by my
orders."
Rosemary suppressed a cry of indignation.
"Well, then?" she exclaimed hotly.
But Naniescu, not in the least taken aback, only retorted blandly:
"And how am I to interpret that enigmatic query, dear lady?"
"As a challenge to justify your actions," was Rosemary's bold reply.
Then, as he gave no immediate answer, but allowed his mellow dark eyes
to rest with a distinctly mocking glance on her face, Rosemary felt a
hot flush rise slowly to her cheeks. Just for an instant she felt at a
disadvantage. She was obviously not in a position to demand explanations
from a man who belonged to the governing classes in his own country.
With every belief in the power of the press, Rosemary had far too much
common sense not to realize that a man in Naniescu's position would not
put up with being dictated to, or cross-examined, by a stranger, however
influential he or she might be. So once again she swallowed her
resentment, determined that whatever chance she had of helping the
Imreys should not be wrecked through want of tact on her part.
Diplomacy, good temper, and, if necessary, seeming complaisance, would
be more likely to win the day than any attempt at threatening.
"Monsieur le Général," she resumed, after a while, "I know that you
will forgive me for my seeming ill-humour. I have witnessed so much
sorrow these last few hours that I suppose my nerves are rather jarred.
I know, of course, that it is not my place to criticise the measures
which your Government chooses to impose on a subject race. As a suzerain
state Roumania has a perfect right to defend what she believes to be her
own interests, and in a manner that she thinks best. Will you forgive me
the sharp words I allowed to slip just now?"
And with a return of that charm of manner which even more than beauty
held most men in thrall, Rosemary put out her hand. The gallant
Roumanian, without a trace of mockery now in his large, dark eyes, took
it in both his own; then he stooped and kissed the dainty finger-tips.
"And now," Rosemary went on resolutely, "that I have made _amende
honorable_, will you allow me to plead the Imreys' cause in all
earnestness. In the name of humanity, Monsieur le Général? The boy is
only nineteen."
The general leaned back in his chair, his well-manicured fingers gently
stroking his silky moustache, his eyes no longer attempting to conceal
the satisfaction which he felt at seeing this exquisitely beautiful
woman in the rôle of a suppliant before him. Now when she paused he
gave an indifferent shrug.
"Dear lady," he said, "my experience of this part of the world is that
boys and girls of nineteen who give up jazzing and have not started
making love, but who choose to meddle in politics, are veritable pests."
"But Philip Imrey does not meddle in politics," Rosemary protested.
"Are you quite sure of that?" he retorted.
As he said this his eyes became quite small, and piercing like two
little flaming darts; but though his sudden challenge had sent a stab of
apprehension through Rosemary's heart, her glance never faltered, and
she lied straight out, lied boldly without hesitation, without a blush.
"I am quite sure," she replied.
And the only compunction she felt over that lie was when she
realized--as she did at once--that the Roumanian did not believe her.
"Little Anna Heves did not confide in you?" he asked, with perfect
suavity.
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I said, dear lady. Anna Heves and Philip Imrey are two young
hotheads who have given us an infinity of trouble. For a long time we
could not find out how certain pernicious articles, injurious to the
good reputation of Roumania, found their way into the English and
American press. Now we know."
"Your spy system seems more efficient than your censorship," Rosemary
retorted bitterly.
"That is beside the point."
"Yes; the point is that those two are mere children."
"I dare say the judges will take that into account, and deal leniently
with them."
"With them?" Rosemary exclaimed, and suddenly a new terror gripped her
heart. "With them? You don't mean----?"
"What, dear lady?" he queried suavely.
"That Anna----?"
"Anna Heves, yes; the late Baron Heves' daughter, now a saleswoman in
the shop of Balog the grocer. I often wondered how she came to demean
herself in that way. Now I understand."
"But surely, surely," Rosemary protested, striving in vain to steady her
voice, which was quaking with this new, this terrible anxiety, "you have
not arrested Anna Heves? The child has done nothing----"
Naniescu put up his hand with a gesture of protest.
"Dear lady," he said, with quiet irony and in a tone one would use to an
obstinate child, "let me assure you once and for all that the
accusations against Philip Imrey and his cousin do not rest upon
assumptions, but upon facts. Anna Heves was arrested, and she will be
brought to trial because she was found--actually found, mind
you--smuggling newspaper articles, defamatory to the Government of this
country, for insertion in foreign journals. English sense of justice is
reputed to be very keen; your own must tell you that it is hardly fair
to bring the battery of your charms as a weapon to break down my sense
of duty. I lay, as always, my homage at your feet, but I should be a
traitor if, whilst gazing into your adorable eyes, I were to forget what
I owe to my country."
Gradually he dropped the irony out of his tone, and his voice became
once more mellifluous and tender while he leaned forward, almost
touching Rosemary's knees with his, and striving to hold her glance with
the challenge of his own. Rosemary shrank back. Suddenly something of
the truth had dawned upon her. Not all of it just yet. It was only
presently--in a few more days--that she was destined to realise the
extent to which this man-half Oriental in his capacity for lying--had
hoodwinked and cajoled her. It was his mien, the thinly veiled insult
that lurked behind his suave speech and expressive eyes, that suddenly
tore the veil from before her own. And yet reason fought for a moment
against this wave of aversion. The man was right, unquestionably right.
Philip and Anna had been very foolish. And, what's more, they were
technically guilty of treason: there was no getting away from that; and
Rosemary could not shut her eyes to the fact that the very lives of
those she cared for were in the hands of this soft-toned liar. At one
moment she longed passionately for Jasper, the next she would dread his
coming, for she knew well enough that he, with his straight
matter-of-fact mode of thinking, would inevitably give Naniescu his due,
insist that the general was within his rights, and advise his wife to
keep clear of these imbroglios, which were so contrary to the lenient,
sportsmanlike English attitude toward a beaten enemy.
On the whole she felt glad that Jasper was not here. He would hate to
see her plead. Yet plead she must. There was nothing else to do. She
must plead with fervour, plead with all the strength that she possessed,
all the eloquence that she could command.
"In the name of humanity!" That was her chief plea; and with anxious
eyes she searched the man's face for the first trace of pity.
"Anna and Philip are so young," she urged. "Mere children."
But Naniescu smiled, that fat, complacent smile of his which she had
quickly learned to loathe.
"You would not like me," she said at one moment, "to send an account of
it to all the English and American papers. Two children, one under
eighteen, the other not yet twenty, arrested in their beds at dead of
night, brought to trial for having smuggled a few newspaper articles
through the post. If you do not deal leniently with them----"
"Who said we would not deal leniently with them?" Naniescu broke in
blandly. "Surely not I. I am not their judge."
"General Naniescu," she retorted, "I have been in Transylvania long
enough to know that your powers here as military governor are supreme.
Leniency in this case," she urged insistently, "could only redound to
your credit, and to the credit of the country whom you serve."
"But frankly, dear lady, I don't see what I can do. The case has passed
out of my hands----"
"Send these children home with a caution, Monsieur le Général,"
Rosemary went on pleading. "That is what we would do in England in a
like case."
"To hatch more treason," he retorted, with a shrug. "Give us more
trouble--more buzzing of bees and pestilential backbiting----"
"No!" she protested hotly. "Not for that, but to be immensely grateful
to you for your generosity, and show their gratitude by striving to work
for the good of their country, hand in hand with yours."
"Ah, what noble sentiments, dear lady!" General Naniescu said with a
sigh and clapped his white, fat hands together. "I wish I could believe
that some of them will sink into those young hotheads."
"They will, general, they will," Rosemary asserted eagerly. "If you will
send those two children back to their parents, I will not leave
Transylvania until you yourself are satisfied that I have brought them
to a reasonable frame of mind."
"A hard task, dear lady," Naniescu said, with a smile.
"I would undertake a harder one than that," Rosemary rejoined, with an
answering smile, "to show my appreciation of your generosity."
"Words, dear lady," he said softly. "Words!"
"Try me!" she challenged.
He made no immediate reply, and suddenly his eyes again narrowed as they
had done before, and their piercing glance rested upon Rosemary until
she felt that through those heavy lids something inimical and poisonous
had touched her. She felt a little shiver running down her spine, an
unaccountable sense of apprehension caused her to glance rapidly toward
the door, where she hoped to perceive Jasper's comforting presence. She
was not afraid, of course, nor did she regret her enthusiasm, or her
advocacy of the children's cause; but she had the sudden, vague feeling
that she had come to the brink of an abyss and that she was staring down
into unknown depths, into which unseen forces were urging her to leap.
Slowly Naniescu's eyes reopened and the mellow expression crept back
into them; he gave a sigh of satisfaction, and settled himself down once
more comfortably on the cushions of the chair.
"I am happy indeed, dear lady," he began, "that you yourself should have
made an offer, which I hardly dared to place before you."
"An offer? What do you mean?"
"Surely that was your intention, was it not, to do something in return
for the heavy sacrifice you are asking of me?"
"Sacrifice?" Rosemary queried, frowning. "What sacrifice?"
"Sacrifice of my convictions. Duty calls to me very insistently in the
matter of those young traitors whom you, dear lady, are pleased to refer
to as children. I know that I should be doing wrong in giving them the
chance of doing more mischief. I know it," he reiterated emphatically,
"with as much certainty as I do the fact that they will not give up
trying to do mischief. But----"
He paused and fell to studying with obvious satisfaction Rosemary's
beautiful, eager eyes fixed intently upon him.
"But what, Monsieur le Général?" she asked.
"But I am prepared to make the sacrifice of my convictions at your
bidding, if you, on the other hand, will do the same at mine."
Rosemary's frown deepened. "I don't think I quite understand," she said.
"No," he retorted; "but you will--soon. Let me explain. You, dear lady,
have come to Transylvania wrapped in prejudice as in sheet-armour
against my unfortunate country. Oh, yes, you have," he went on blandly,
checking with an elegant gesture the cry of protest that had risen to
Rosemary's lips. "I am even prepared to admit that nothing that you have
seen in these first few days has tended to pierce that armour of
prejudice. Well, well!" and the general sighed again in that affected
way of his. "You have one of your wonderful sayings in England that
exactly meets this case: 'East is East,' you say, 'and West is West.'
This is the East really, and you Occidentals will never think as we do.
But I am wandering from my point, and you, dear lady, are getting
impatient. Having admitted everything that you would wish me to admit, I
now will come forward with my little proposition--what?"
"If you please," Rosemary replied coldly.
"The children, as you are pleased to call them," Naniescu went on with
slow deliberation, shedding his affected manner as a useless garment no
longer required to conceal his thoughts, "the children have done us an
infinity of mischief, in the eyes of the British and American public, by
the publication of articles defamatory to our Government; for this they
have deserved punishment. Now, I propose to remit that punishment if you
will undo the mischief that they have done."
"I?" Rosemary exclaimed, puzzled. "How?"
"By publishing newspaper articles that will refute those calumnies once
and for all," the general said blandly. Then, as Rosemary recoiled at
the suggestion as if she had been struck in the face, he went on
cynically: "You are such a brilliant journalist, dear lady, endowed with
a vivid imagination. It will be easy for you to do this for the sake of
those two young traitors in whom you take such a kindly interest. You
may, in your articles, begin by stating the truth, if you like, and say
that my Government invited you to come over to Transylvania in order to
investigate the alleged acts of tyranny that are supposed to be
perpetrated against the minority nationals. Then you will proceed to
state that after impartial and exhaustive inquiry you have come to the
conclusion that practically all the charges brought against us are
unfounded, that with the exception of a few inevitable hardships
consequent on foreign occupation, the minority nationals in Transylvania
are enjoying the utmost freedom and security under the just laws of an
enlightened country. You will----"
But here the flow of the worthy general's eloquence received a sudden
check in the shape of a rippling outburst of laughter from Rosemary. He
frowned, not understanding her mood, his knowledge of women being
superficial, his thoughts flew to hysteria. He had known a woman
once----
As a matter of fact there was something hysterical about Rosemary's
laughter. She checked it as soon as she regained control over herself.
It was as well that she could laugh, that her sense of humour, never
absent in an Englishwoman of intellect, had at once shown her the folly
of giving way to the indignation which had been her first impulse.
Frankly she could not see herself as an outraged tragedy queen
thundering forth an emphatic "Never!" to the Roumanian's impudent
proposals; and when Naniescu marvelled at the strange moods of women and
vainly tried to guess what there was in the present situation to make
this pretty woman laugh, he little knew that Rosemary was laughing at an
imaginary picture of herself, with head thrown back and flaming eyes,
and gestures that rivalled those of the general himself in their elegant
and expressive sweep.
"You must forgive me, Monsieur le Général," she said presently, "but
your proposition is so funny!"
"Funny, dear lady?" he protested. "Frankly I do not see----"
"No," she broke in, "you would not."
"Will you be so gracious as to explain?"
"No," Rosemary went on lightly, "I don't think I will. You would not
understand--even then."
"Then," he said coolly, "there is nothing left for me to do but to take
my leave, and to deplore that you should have wasted so much of your
valuable time in conversation with a clod."
He rose, and bowing low, he put out his hand in order to take hers, but
Rosemary did not move.
"You cannot go, Monsieur le Général," she said firmly, "without giving
me a definite answer."
"I have given you a definite answer, dear lady. It is my misfortune that
you choose to treat it as ludicrous."
"But surely you were not serious when you suggested----"
"When I suggested that the mischief wrought by two traitors should be
remedied by one who takes an interest in them? What could be more
serious?"
"You seriously think," she insisted, "that I would lend myself to such
traffic? that I would put my name to statements which I could not
verify, or to others that I should actually believe to be false? _Ah
çà_, Monsieur le Général, where did you get your conception of
English women of letters, or of English journalists?"
Naniescu put his finger-tips to his breast, then spread out his hands
with a broad gesture of protest.
"I was wrong," he said suavely, "utterly wrong. I admit it. Forgive me,
and permit me to take my leave----"
"Monsieur le Général-------"
"At your service, dear lady."
"Young Imrey," she pleaded, "and Anna Heves!" He shrugged his shoulders.
"I am truly sorry for them," he said unctuously; "but surely you do not
think seriously that I would lend myself to any traffic where the safety
of my country is concerned. _Ah çà_, dear lady," he went on, not only
mocking the very words she had used, but even the inflexion of her
voice, "where did you get your conception of a Roumanian officer or of a
Roumanian gentleman?"
"It is you who proposed an infamous traffic," she retorted, "not I."
"Pardon me," he protested. "All that I suggested was that the mischief
done should be remedied in the simplest way before those who had wrought
it could hope for pardon. The mischief was done through the public
Press; it can only be made good through the public Press, and only
through the medium of one as influential as yourself. My suggestion has
not met with your approval. Let us say no more about it."
Before she could prevent it he had taken her hand and raised it to his
lips. She snatched it away as if her finger-tips had come in contact
with something noxious; the indignation which she had tried so hard to
keep under control flamed for an instant out of her eyes; and Naniescu,
seeing it, gave a soft, guttural laugh.
"I had a suspicion," he said cynically, "that the situation was not
entirely ludicrous. And now," he went on, "have I your permission to
take my leave?"
He bowed once more, hand on breast, heels clicking, and was on the point
of turning to go when an impulsive cry from Rosemary brought him to a
halt.
"That is not your last word, General Naniescu?"
"Indeed," he replied with utmost gallantry, "but the last word rests
with you, dear lady. I am ever at your service. Only," he continued very
slowly and very deliberately, "let me assure you once and for all that
young Imrey and Anna Heves will appear before the military courts on a
charge of treason unless a series of articles written in the spirit I
have had the honour to outline before you, and bearing your
distinguished name, appear in--shall we say the _Times?_--within the
next month. But, just to show you how greatly I value your regard, I
will be as lenient as my duty permits. I will even allow those two young
traitors to return, temporarily, to their homes. Philip Imrey and Anna
Heves will be brought here in the course of a day or two. They will be
free, within certain limitations, to move about among their friends. I
need not add, dear lady, that you, on the other hand, are absolutely
free, without any limitations, to come and go as you choose. On the day
that the last of your brilliant articles will have appeared in the
_Times_ Imrey and his cousin will receive a free pardon from the
Government which they have outraged."
He paused a moment, then raised one hairy, manicured finger and added
with theatrical emphasis:
"But not before."
Rosemary had listened to his long speech without moving a muscle. She
stood straight as a sapling, looking unflinchingly at the man, striving
to shame him, yet knowing that in this she would not succeed. There was
no room for shame or compunction in that bundle of conceit and
depravity.
Fear, too, appeared to be one of the tortuous motives which had
suggested this ignominious "either-or." How far the Roumanian Government
was a party to the mishandling of Transylvania, Rosemary had not yet had
the opportunity of ascertaining.
She strongly suspected Naniescu of having overstretched his powers, and
of dreading an exposure at Bucharest more, perhaps, than in London or
New York. Now, when he had finished speaking, and while his mellow eyes
still rested with gentle mockery upon her, she could not keep back the
final taunt which she hoped would sting him as much as his had stung
her.
"What proof have I," she queried slowly, "that if I fulfil my share of
the bargain you will not in the end repudiate yours?"
He smiled, quite undisturbed.
"You mistrust me. It is only natural," he said unctuously. "But what can
I do?"
"Write me a letter," she replied coldly, "embodying your terms for the
release of Philip Imrey and Anna Heves, and your promise to keep to the
bargain if I accept those terms."
"Will that satisfy you?" he asked.
"It would hold you to your word, at any rate. For if it did not----"
He gave his soft, throaty laugh, and a glimmer of satisfaction shot
through his eyes.
"You Englishwomen are truly marvellous," he observed. "So business-like.
Everything in black and white--what?"
"Preferably," she rejoined drily.
"Well, then, you shall have the letter, dear lady," he concluded
blandly. "And I promise you that I shall so tie myself down to my share
of this interesting transaction that you will not hesitate any longer to
fulfil yours."
And the next moment, even while Rosemary turned towards the window in
order to look for one brief moment, at any rate, on something clean and
pure, Naniescu had gone, softly closing the door behind him and leaving
in his wake a faint odour of Havana cigar and eau de Cologne, and an
atmosphere of intrigue which Rosemary felt to be stifling. She threw
open the window and inhaled the clean air right down into her lungs. Her
thoughts were still in a whirl. The situation was so impossible that her
brain at present rejected it. It could not be. Things like this did not
occur. It was not modern. Not twentieth century. Not post-war. Civilised
men and women did not have interviews such as she had just had with this
smooth-tongued Roumanian. There was something mediæval about this
"either-or," this impasse to which in very truth there was no issue.
Rosemary now started pacing up and down the room. She was alone and
could indulge in this time-tried method of soothing jangled nerves. With
both forefingers she tapped her temples, as if to stimulate the work of
a jaded brain. Issue? There must be an issue to this impasse. She was a
British subject, the wife of an English peer. She could not be bullied
into doing things against which her sense of honour rebelled. She could
not be made to lend her name to falsehoods, knowing them to be
falsehoods. Of course not. Of course not. She could not be compelled to
write a single line she would not wish to see published.
She could not be compelled. That was a fact. An undisputable, hard,
solid fact. What then? Well, then there were Philip and Anna, who would
be brought before the military courts on a charge of treason. And the
military courts would condemn them--to what? To death? No! No! No! Not
to death! Philip and little Anna: children whom she knew and loved!
Condemned to death! Shot! like Edith Cavell, or Captain Fryatt! Shot!
But that was in war time! Now the world was at peace! The Treaty of
Versailles was the millennium that would bring peace on earth, goodwill
toward men! Peace! This was peace! Foolish, thoughtless children could
not in peace time be shot as traitors!
Tap-tap went Rosemary's fingers against her temples. Peace, ye gods!
Philip and Anna had rendered themselves liable to human justice, and
human justice in this half-forgotten corner of God's earth knew but one
law--revenge! Philip and Anna would be condemned--and shot, unless she,
Rosemary Tarkington, gained a free pardon for them at the price of
truth, honour and the welfare, perhaps, of thousands of innocents.
And as gradually this awful alternative penetrated into the innermost
recesses of her brain, the girl looked wildly about her like an animal
suddenly fallen into a trap. Her knees all at once gave way under her,
and she fell up against the sofa, with arms outspread upon the cushions.
With head thrown back, she gazed unseeing up at the ceiling, and this
time it was a real hysterical outburst that caused her to laugh and to
laugh, until laughter broke into a sob, and burying her face in her
hands she burst into a flood of tears.