When Rosemary woke the next morning she felt quite convinced that the
vision which she had had in the night, of Peter standing on the gravel
walk and looking up at her window, was only a creation of her own fancy.
Rosa had opened the curtains and the volets, and Rosemary saw a dull,
grey sky before her. The storm had certainly abated, but it was still
raining. Rosemary thought of the cricket match, which would probably
have to be postponed owing to the weather, and of the disappointment
this would mean to many, especially to Peter, who had set his heart upon
it.
During breakfast Jasper told her that he had received a note from his
_agent de change_ at Cluj, and that the latter said in his letter that
the cricket match which should have been begun yesterday had to be
postponed owing to the weather.
"Steinberg goes on to say," Jasper continued, "that he had heard that
the cricket pitch--the playground he calls it--was like a swamp. The
storm seems to have been very severe the other side of the frontier. It
went on for twenty-four hours without a break, and was still raging at
the time of writing. Unless the weather improves very much, Steinberg
says that the match will have to be abandoned altogether, as Payson and
several of his team have to be back in Budapest in time for work on
Monday morning, which means leaving Hódmezö on the Sunday."
Then, as Rosemary made no comment on the news, only stared rather
dejectedly out of the window, Jasper went on after a while:
"I am afraid it will mean a disappointment all round, as the weather can
hardly be said to have improved, can it?"
Rosemary said: "No, it cannot," after which the subject was dropped.
Somehow the idea of the postponed cricket match worried her, and there
was one insistent thought which would force itself into the forefront of
her mind to the exclusion of all others, and that was the thought that
the postponed cricket match would have left Peter free yesterday to come
over to Kis-Imre, and that therefore it might have been himself in the
flesh who was standing during the storm in the garden last night.
Why he should have chosen to stand in the garden in the rain rather than
come into his aunt's house was a problem which Rosemary felt herself too
wearied and disheartened to tackle.
When she went downstairs soon after ten o'clock she met Elza in the
hall, dressed ready to go out. She looked more tired, more aged, more
ill than the day before; obviously she had spent another sleepless
night. But she kissed Rosemary very tenderly. "Come into the
smoking-room, darling," she said. "I want to say something to you."
Rosemary followed her into the smoking-room and at once asked after
Maurus.
"He has had no sleep," Elza said, "and at times his brain wanders. But
physically he seems no worse--rather stronger, I think, than yesterday,
and he enjoyed his breakfast. If we could only keep him quiet!"
She opened her handbag and took out the papers which Rosemary gave her
yesterday.
"I read your articles through very carefully, dear," she said, "but I
did not have to pray for guidance. I knew at once that none of us, not
Maurus or I, or Anna's people, would accept the children's safety at
such a price. The children themselves would refuse."
With a perfectly steady hand she held the papers out to Rosemary. "Take
them, darling," she said. "Thank you for letting me decide. That is the
one thing which we none of us would have forgiven, if you had published
these articles without consulting us."
Rosemary took the papers, and with them Elza's hands, which she raised
to her lips. She could not speak for the moment, she could only kiss
those soft, white hands, which, with sublime heroism, were sacrificing
an idolised son for an abstract idea of humanity and justice.
"Elza," she murmured at last, "have you thought of everything--of
Maurus--of Anna's mother?"
"Anna," Elza replied softly, "has linked her fate with Philip's. Her
mother is a hard woman, but she would not be a traitor to her own
people. As for poor Maurus, the last of his tottering reason would go if
I were to speak of this with him. But, sane or insane, he would not buy
his son's life at this price. We are suffering enough, God knows, but
how could we live in future, knowing that other fathers, other mothers,
would have to go through this same misery because of our cowardice.
These devils here would continue their work unchecked--perhaps not for
long--but they would continue--no one would stop them--no one could
criticise them after this. And mothers would suffer as I am suffering
now--and fathers--and wives--our friends, perhaps. No, no," she said,
with a shake of the head, "it can't be, my dear, it can't be."
She pushed Rosemary's hand away from her, the hand that still held the
fateful papers. She thrust it aside, with eyes closed so as not to see
that thing which meant Philip's life.
"I am going to see Charlotte Heves," she said, after a while. "I think I
ought to tell her. And after that I shall see Philip and Anna. Those
devils can't prevent my seeing my own son. I shall see Philip. I know
what he will say. And you can destroy those papers, Rosemary, darling.
Burn them. It was right to tell me, and now you know."
There was a knock at the door. Anton came in to say that the carriage
was at the door. Elza was going to drive over to Ujlak first to see
Anna's mother, and then to Cluj to see Philip and Anna.
"I shall not be home till late," she said as she gave Rosemary a
good-bye kiss, "but everything is in order for you and dear Lord
Tarkington. Maurus will be all right. He likes one of the sisters--the
old one--and the doctor is coming before noon. So Maurus will be all
right."
She fussed with her cloak and her veil; her pretty little hands shook
ever so slightly, but her eyes were dry and they rested with great
tenderness on Rosemary.
"It was quite right to tell me," were the last words she said. "Tell
dear Lord Tarkington that I did not hesitate. Not for a moment."
She was gone, and Rosemary found herself alone with those fearful papers
in her hand. Destroy them? Yes! That is what she would do. She had known
all along that Elza would be a true heroine; she would not sacrifice her
people even as propitiation for her son. Strangely enough, Elza's point
of view was in direct opposition to Jasper's. Her own splendid ideals
had been her guide, and though she was not by any means an intellectual
woman, she was clever enough to appreciate the immense lever for evil
which Rosemary's articles would have put into the hands of the enemies
of her people.
Destroy them? Yes! That was the only thing to be done now. Let the
chapter of doubts be finally ended. What Rosemary had thought right Elza
had endorsed. Everything else was sophistry and specious argument. So
let temptation itself be swept away. The touch of these papers had
become as noisome as a plague spot. With them in her hand Rosemary went
up to her room. Jasper was there, waiting for her and smoking a
cigarette. His eyes lit up with a curious flash when she came in.
"You have seen Elza?" he asked.
"How did you know?"
"It was not a very difficult guess," he said. Then he went on: "She
thinks as you do?"
"Absolutely!" Rosemary replied.
He gave a quick, impatient sigh. "I am sorry," he said. "What will you
do now?"
"Destroy these papers, of course. I have no further use for them."
Jasper appeared thoughtful for a moment or two, then he said: "I think
Elza ought to have put the matter before Anna's mother before she
finally decided."
"She is going to do that now," Rosemary said.
"Has she driven over to Ujlak, then?"
"Yes. And after that she is going to try to see Philip. I was thinking,"
Rosemary went on, "that you or I might telephone to General Naniescu and
use what influence we possess to induce him to let Elza see the two
children."
"By all means," Jasper assented. Then he added: "I think it will come
best from you."
He was watching Rosemary closely. She was kneeling beside the huge
porcelain stove, which is such a feature in country houses in this part
of the world, and was trying to undo the catch of the door. She still
had the manuscript in her hand.
"What are you trying to do, little one?" he asked.
"To open the door of the stove," she replied. "Then, if you will give me
a match . . ."
"Such a hurry?" he queried with a smile.
"Evil in any form is best destroyed as quickly as possible."
"That is true on principle. But in this case . . ."
"Well?"
"Do you think it would be quite fair to Anna's mother?"
"What do you mean?"
"She has not been consulted, you said."
"No; but Elza is sure----"
"Can anybody be sure?" he broke in quickly. "You know what these people
are. A woman like Elza--a splendid woman, I grant you--is very
impulsive. She is a heroine, as you say; but doesn't she measure weaker
characters by her own standard? She has no right to do that in this
case. Charlotte Heves has as much at stake as Elza Imrey. Maurus, I dare
say, is not in a fit state to give his opinion; but Anna's mother
certainly is; and, honestly, I don't think that it would be fair to
confront her with a _fait accompli._"
Rosemary made no reply for a moment or two, then she deliberately closed
the catch of the iron door and rose slowly from her knees.
"Perhaps you are right," she said.
Jasper put out his hand, and as she tried to evade him he clutched at
her dress and drew her close to him.
"Don't punish me, little one," he pleaded gently, and tried to look into
her eyes, which, however, she kept resolutely downcast. "Don't punish me
for not seeing entirely eye to eye with you in this. You would not have
me abdicate my freedom of thought, even though I would lie down in the
dust, for your dear feet to walk over me."
Rosemary shook her head, but she still kept her head obstinately averted
from him.
"May I read what you have written?" he asked.
She gave him the manuscript without a word. He only glanced at the
envelope and then slipped the whole packet in the inner pocket of his
coat.
"I may be able to make a suggestion or two," he went on with a kindly
smile, "something that you will call by the ugly name of compromise.
But, darling, I cannot help it. I still think that you look at the whole
thing from too lofty an elevation. Come down to earth, little one, and
look at it from a more practical point of view."
He had succeeded in capturing both her hands, and with a sudden,
compelling gesture he forced her down on her knees. She gave a little
cry because he had hurt her wrists; but the next moment he had his arms
round her shoulders and his face buried between her throat and chin.
Rosemary managed to push him away from her.
"Not now, Jasper," she murmured, "please!"
He gave a curious, hoarse laugh.
"Not now?" he retorted. "Any time, sweetheart, is kissing time! And if
you only knew how I ache with wanting your kiss!" He held her by the
shoulders and gazed on her with such a living flame in his deep-set,
dark eyes, that it seemed to consume the veils that hid her soul and to
leave it stripped before his gaze and shamed in its nakedness.
"If you loved me ever so little," he murmured between his teeth. He
kissed her on the lips once, twice, till hers were seared and bruised,
then he released her so suddenly that she lost her balance and almost
measured her length on the floor while he rose abruptly to his feet. He
looked down at her for a moment or two, but made no attempt to help her
to get up; seeing her struggles he laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
"I wonder, sometimes," he said in a hard, dry voice, "why one goes on
living. How much easier it would be just to lie down and die. Look at
the fuss there is because a boy and a girl will be lucky enough to go
out of this world before they have learned to hate it. They don't know
how much easier it is to die than to live. And how much better! For me
how much better! But the best of all would be to see you dead, my dear,
for then you could not go on hurting me, as you do--as you would do even
if I were in my grave----"
And with that he strode out of the room and banged the door to behind
him.
Rosemary struggled to her feet. She felt bruised and hurt, mentally as
well as physically. Never had Jasper been so repellent to her as he was
just now. The fear that one day she might come to hate him had become a
hideous reality. The awful thing was that he had read her secret
thoughts, her soul had been revealed to him in all its nakedness and its
shame. He knew now that she was false to the oath which she swore before
the altar, to love and cherish him. He knew that her love for Peter was
not dead, and that she turned away from him because she longed for
Peter's nearness, for Peter's love and Peter's kisses. And Rosemary knew
that with this knowledge Jasper would make of her life a hell. The love
that he bore her was too absolutely physical to allow of indulgence or
understanding. He would make her suffer in exact proportion as he
suffered himself, and that love would make him more bitter towards her
than a torturer in the Middle Ages toward his victim.
When had she given herself away? She did not know. Not to-day, surely.
To-day had only been a confirmation, not a revelation. He had known all
along, and hated Peter from the hour when first he knew. He hated Peter
who had once been his friend, and he would make Rosemary suffer until
she could truthfully echo his words: "It is so much easier to die than
to live."