At ten o'clock Rosemary found herself once more alone in her room. Jasper had kissed her tenderly when he bade her good night. Only when she did find herself alone did Rosemary realize how much she had dreaded this good night. She knew that she had no reserve of strength left to stand one of Jasper's savage outbursts of passion; to-night of all nights she would have gone down under it like the tuberoses below her window under the lashing of the storm.
The rain beat against the window-panes, terrific crashes of thunder followed one another in close succession, and every few minutes the sky seemed rent right through with blinding flashes of lightning. The heat was nearly intolerable through this almost tropical storm. Rosemary had dismissed Rosa. She undid her hair, which clung damp against her forehead and the back of her neck, and clad only in chemise and petticoat, with bare arms and neck, and bare feet thrust into slippers, she sat down at the table with Jasper's notes before her, and read them through once more.
After that she searched through the chest of drawers for a bundle of manuscript paper, and taking up her fountain-pen she began to write. She had Jasper's notes in front of her, and she put them, as he had suggested, into her well-known, picturesque language. She enlarged upon them, amplified them, always keeping his suggestions as a background for her own statements.
For hours she sat there writing. It was the longest spell of uninterrupted work that she had ever accomplished, but she was not even conscious of fatigue. The storm raged for a while longer, but she did not hear it. Only the heat worried her, and from time to time she mopped her forehead and the back of her neck with her handkerchief.
The storm passed by, and the air became very still as slowly the dawn chased away the night. The waning moon peeped through the clouds, only to melt away in the translucent ether; one by one the birds awoke, shook their wet feathers and called to their mates. But not until she had written the last line did Rosemary rise from the table. Then she put her papers together, put a clip through them, arranged Jasper's notes separately, and locked up both sets in her dressing-case.
After that she put on a wrap and threw open the window. The clock in her room struck five. She had been writing for six hours! The task was done. There it stood ready, and Elza should decide. In this Jasper had been quite right—wasn't he always right? It was for Elza to decide. Her son's life on the one hand, her people's welfare on the other. It was for her to decide. Philip was her son, the oppressed people of Transylvania her kindred. Jasper was quite right. Let Elza decide.
And after Rosemary had saturated her lungs with the pure air of the morning, she went to bed and slept soundly, heavily, until Rosa came into her room later on with her breakfast.
And when, presently, Jasper came in, Rosemary was able to greet him with a smile which was not altogether forced. She was able to return his kiss, and after awhile to tell him what she had done.
"The articles are written," she said, "and ready for publication. I have even written a covering letter and addressed the envelope to the editor of theTimes, asking him kindly to arrange for their publication at the earliest possible date. But before I put the articles in the post, I shall give them to Elza to read. She shall decide if they are to go. You were quite right, dear," she added, and looked Jasper quite frankly, unwaveringly, in the eyes. "It is a matter for Elza to decide."
Rosemary found herself alone with Elza in the early part of the afternoon. The doctor had been over in the morning to see Maurus, and on the whole the bulletin was satisfactory: "The patient was doing well. If he was kept very quiet there would be no complications. He was no age, and on the whole had led an abstemious life. The most important thing was to keep all worry, all agitation from him, both now and in the future."
Both now and in the future! Elza dwelt on those words when she told Rosemary just what the doctor had said.
"The future!" she murmured with a weary little sigh. "Of course, the doctor does not know. Perhaps I ought to tell him what the future holds in store for poor Maurus."
The nursing sisters had arrived overnight. Rosemary had caught sight of them about the house during the course of the morning, with their white-winged caps that made them look like doves with outspread wings. Their felt shoes made not the slightest noise as they walked. They were very sweet and very restful, entirely incompetent but exceedingly kind, and full of gentle pity and kind advice to the patient, who became terribly irritable as soon as they ministered to him.
After lunch Rosemary persuaded Elza to come out with her into the garden. It was the first bright moment in the day. Neither morning nor early afternoon had kept the promise made by the dawn. Storm clouds hung, heavy and leaden, over the mountains, and dull rumblings proclaimed the return of thunder. But about three o'clock there was a break in the clouds, and a pale sun shot fitful gleams of silvery light upon park and garden. It was oppressively hot. Rosemary led Elza to the summer-house and made her sit down. Elza was fidgety. It almost seemed as if she did not want to be left alone with Rosemary. She made one excuse after another: Maurus! the chef! the stables! But Rosemary insisted.
"Listen to me, Elza, darling," she said firmly. "I want your full attention for two minutes."
Elza turned her big blue eyes upon Rosemary and murmured like an obedient child: "Yes, dear! What is it?"
Rosemary had the papers in her hand: the newspaper articles which she had written during the night. The hand that held the manuscript shook ever so slightly, but her voice was quite steady.
"I want you," she said to Elza, "to read very carefully what I have written here. They are newspaper articles which General Naniescu would like to see published in England and in America. When you have read them you will understand why. He wants this so badly that on the day these articles are published Philip and Anna will receive a full pardon, Kis-Imre will not be taken from you, and if you wish, you can all leave the country for a time until things settle down and better times come for you all."
She thrust the papers into Elza's hands and turned to go.
"I will leave you to read quite quietly," she said.
But Elza's round blue eyes were still staring at her.
"I don't understand you, dear," she murmured vaguely.
"Of course you don't, darling," Rosemary rejoined gently; "but you will when you have read what I have written. The gipsy was quite right; it is in my power to save Philip and Anna, but only to a certain extent, because it is you alone who can decide if I am to exercise that power or not. God bless you, darling!"
She put her arms round Elza and kissed her tenderly. Thank Heaven all self-pity, all selfish introspection had gone from her. Her thoughts, her love, her pity were all for Elza. But it had to be. Elza must decide.Herpeople!Herson!Shemust decide!
When Rosemary hastened across the lawn she turned once more toward the summer house. Elza was still sitting there, staring with big, blue eyes into vacancy. Every line of her attitude indicated bewilderment. She had the packet of paper in her hand and was tapping it against her knee. Poor Elza! A heavy sob rose from Rosemary's aching heart.
Rosemary did not sec Elza again that day. Just before dinner Rosa came with a short scribbled note from her. "Maurus is very restless," it said, "I don't like to leave him. Will you and dear Lord Tarkington forgive me if I don't join you at dinner?"
The evening was dreary. Jasper said very little, and Rosemary felt thoroughly out of tune with him; he had a meek air about him that irritated her. Hers was not a nature to sympathize with remorse, and Jasper's manner gave the idea that he regretted having forced her into a decision. So she gave curt answers when he spoke to her, and after dinner he retired into the smoking-room with the excuse that he had some business letters to write. She sat reading most of the evening, her nerves on edge, hearing all sorts of mysterious sounds through the apparent stillness of the house.
When Jasper came to say "good night" she felt sorry for him. He looked forlorn and miserable, and reason told Rosemary that he of all people ought not to be allowed to suffer through a situation that was none of his making. Poor Jasper! She, his wife, had dragged him, unwillingly enough, into this impasse wherein his quiet habits of a wealthy English gentleman were hopelessly perturbed and his outlook outraged at every point. So, after she had returned his last kiss and saw him going upstairs, slowly, dragging one step after another, almost like an old man, she ran after him and linked her arm in his, and gave him a tender and sympathetic smile. The look of gratitude which he gave her in return warmed her heart. Here at least was no divided duty. In a moment of pique—it was nothing less than that—she had linked her fate with Jasper Tarkington, accepted from him all the lavish gifts that wealth could buy, and which he so generously bestowed upon her. In exchange for that he only asked for her love; and if the love which he gave and demanded did not reach that sublime ideal of which Rosemary had once dreamed, at any rate it was loyal and ungrudging, and she had no right to let her caprice stand in the way of his happiness.
It was perhaps strange that these thoughts should come to her at a moment when her whole soul was torn with a terrible sorrow and a racking anxiety; perhaps they came because on this very day she had made the greatest abdication of her will that she had ever done in all her life. She had always acted for herself, judged for herself, set herself a high standard of straight living and straight thinking, and lived up to it. To-day she had left a decision which should have been hers in the hands of another. She knew that she had done right, but her pride was humiliated, and to soothe that pride she set herself a fresh standard of duty to Jasper and determined to live up to that.
But ever afterwards she turned away with a shudder from thoughts of this evening, when she probed the full depth of Jasper's passion for her, and saw before her like a row of spectres the vision, of an endless vista of years, during which every caress would mean for her an effort, and every kiss a lie.
The new standard of duty which she had set herself would be very difficult to live up to. She had never loved Jasper, only hoped that she might learn to love him one day, but on this fateful evening she realized that she might in time learn to hate him.
When at last she was alone she found herself unable to rest. Through the open window the sounds of the oncoming storm became more and more insistent. It was rolling in on the bosom of the clouds from over the mountains in the west. Already one or two vivid flashes of lightning had rent the sky, and now and then great gusts of wind swept across the valley and sent a soughing and whispering through the trees. The poplars bowed their crests, and the twisted branches of the old acacias shivered and cracked in the blast. It was insufferably hot, and there was a smell of sulphur in the air. Rosemary in a thin lace wrap could not succeed in keeping cool. She stood by the open window, longing for the storm to break in all its fury, so that she might be rid of this feeling of oppression which was so unendurable, because the storm, far or near, had gone on almost uninterruptedly for over twenty-four hours. Rosemary's thoughts now were with Elza. She pictured to herself the unfortunate woman wrestling with a decision which either way must mean the breaking of her heart. Elza, who outwardly seemed just a soft, futile, pampered doll, with thoughts fixed on her menus and her servants, was a veritable heroine, strong and tenacious, proud without vanity, loving without weakness, the type that represented everything that was finest and best in a woman. She was of the stuff that religious martyrs were made of in the past, and she would not come to a decision without a terrible struggle. If in the end her heart overruled the dictates of justice and of right, her remorse would be as devastating as her courage hitherto had been sublime.
If Elza had been a religious woman she would not have suffered nearly so cruelly. The pagan knows nothing of the comfort of prayer, of diving blindly from the rocks of care into the ocean of God's love. And Elza was only a pagan from whom the thin veneer of Christianity laid on in early life had been rubbed off long ago. She would not now be on her knees, murmuring with heaven-born resignation: "Lord, not my will, but thine be done!" she would be fighting a tough battle, wrestling with her heart, castigating her tenderest feelings, fighting alone, unaided, unconsoled.
Poor, poor Elza! Rosemary, looking out into the storm, seemed to see the pretty round face distorted by grief, the big, child-like eyes gazing bewildered on the immensity of the puzzle which the Fates had set for her to solve. And while Rosemary gazed the storm became full of pictures, each lightning flash revealed a face. Elza! Philip, dark-eyed, enthusiastic, the idealist! Anna, gentle and resigned. Maurus, the man, the head of the family, the trunk of the tree weaker than its branches. And then Peter. Oh, Peter filled the night with his presence. There was Peter in flannels, a boy with bright eyes and curly head, fighting his life's battles with a cricket bat and a joke. Peter home on leave from that hell in Belgium, receiving from his king the supreme reward for an act of almost unequalled bravery, of which, in his boyish way, he would often look quite ashamed. And Peter that night in June, long ago. Peter's strong arms round her shoulders. Peter's impassioned words, vying in melody with the nightingale. Peter's kiss that opened wide the portal of Heaven; and, lastly, Peter the mysterious, the subtle, unseen influence in whose wake strode sorrow and disaster. And the rumbling of the thunder brought back to Rosemary's ears Jasper's words of warning: "I only wish I had your belief in coincidences"; and "Ever since Peter's arrival I have seen nothing but one calamity after another fall upon these wretched people here." And then that awful, awful indictment which she had been unable to refute: "Don't you know that Peter Blakeney is a paid spy of the Roumanian Government?" The thunder brought the echo of those terrible words. Louder and louder, for the storm was drawing nearer, and the echo of those awful words drowned the very sound of thunder.
All at once the storm broke in all its fury; there was a deafening crash and a flash of lightning so vivid that for the space of one second the garden stood revealed as if in broad daylight before Rosemary's gaze, clear-cut in every detail, every tree, every leaf, every flower, every ripple upon the lake, each pebble upon the garden walk; and in that one second Rosemary had seen Peter standing on the gravel walk, not fifty yards from her window, and looking up at her—gazing. She caught his eyes in that one flash. He was dressed in a dark suit, his cricketing cap was on his head. It had been an instant's flash, but she had seen him, and he was gazing up at her window. And their eyes had met in that one flash, right through the storm.
After that all was darkness, and though from time to time the night was rent by lightning flashes, Rosemary did not see Peter again. And when later on the storm subsided, and, wearied out, she went to bed and slept, she dreamt that all her suspicions of Peter had been proved to be wrong. She dreamt that she was a few years younger, that they were on the river together, in a punt, and that the nightingale was singing. She dreamt of the lapping of the water against the low-lying river bank, of the scent of meadow-sweet, and of the honey-coloured moon that painted long lines of golden light upon the reeds. She dreamt that Peter kissed her, and that she was free to give him kiss for kiss.
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 hisagent de changeat 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 afait 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."
Half an hour later! Rosemary thought that Jasper was still in his room, and she had a longing to get away from his nearness and out into the open. It was still raining and the sky was the colour of lead. She threw a cape over her shoulders and opened the door of her room. She was dreading to meet Jasper again, so she listened intently for awhile for any sound that might betray his presence. From Maurus' apartments at the opposite end of the gallery there came a buzz of voices, and from down below where the servants were laying the table in the dining-room for luncheon a clatter of crockery. Otherwise silence. And no sound from Jasper's room close by, so Rosemary ran quickly downstairs.
She had just reached the hall intending to go out into the garden when she heard a strange clatter coming apparently from the smoking-room. It sounded like a scuffle. Of course it could not be, but that was just what it sounded like. She stood still to listen. And then she heard quite distinctly a smothered cry. Something like a curse. And she thought that she recognized Jasper's harsh voice. At once she ran to the door of the smoking-room and threw it open.
Jasper was on the ground, struggling to get back to his feet. He appeared dazed, and to be moving with difficulty. His hand was tearing at his collar, as if he were choking; his clothes were disarranged, his face looked pallid and blotchy, and his eyes bloodshot. But Rosemary did not scream when she caught sight of him. Something else that she had seen had paralyzed her limbs and seemed actually to be holding her by the throat. The tall window which gave on this side of the garden was wide open, and in a flash, just as she entered the room, Rosemary had seen Peter in the act of getting over the windowsill. The next second he had disappeared over the ledge, and she heard his footsteps crunching the gravel as he ran in the direction of the main gates.
A moment or two later Jasper had recovered his voice and the use of his limbs.
"Call to the servants!" he cried in a raucous voice. "Curse that devil—he will get away."
But Rosemary could not move. She could only stand where she was in the doorway and stare at the open window. Jasper had struggled to his feet, lurched forward and tried to push past her. He tried to call out, but the words were choked in his throat. He put his hand up again and tore at his collar, then he tottered and would have fallen backwards if Rosemary had not been quick enough and strong enough to catch him and to guide him to the nearest chair, into which he sank, half fainting. One of the servants came across the hall from the dining-room. Rosemary called to him to bring some brandy.
"The gracious lord feels faint," she said. "Be quick, Sàndor, will you?"
As soon as Sàndor had brought the brandy, Rosemary sent him peremptorily away. Fortunately neither he nor any of the other servants had heard anything of the scuffle, and Rosemary, for very life, could not have said anything to them just then. She knelt down beside Jasper and made him swallow some of the brandy. Obviously he had not been hurt, only scared, and the scared look was still in his eyes when he came to himself.
"You haven't let him go?" were the first words he uttered.
"Let whom go, Jasper?" Rosemary asked quietly. She rose to her feet and offered him an arm to help him get up.
"That spying devil," Jasper replied, with a savage oath. "Peter Blakeney."
"What in the world do you mean?"
"You know quite well what I mean. You must have seen him—I told you to call the servants. Are you in collusion with him, then, that you did not do it?"
"I heard a scuffle," Rosemary rejoined coldly, "when I reached the hall. I opened the door and saw you lying on the ground. I only had enough presence of mind to send for some brandy. Perhaps you will tell me what else happened."
"What else?" he retorted, with a sneer. He had risen and gone over to the mirror to readjust his clothes. She could see his face in the glass, livid with passion, his eyes fixed upon her reflection, while he fumbled with his tie and collar. But even while she watched him she saw a change come slowly over his face. The colour came back to his cheeks, his eyes narrowed, and an indefinable expression crept into them. Perhaps he did not know that Rosemary was watching him; certain it is that she had never seen such an expression on his face before—his lips parted above the teeth, which gleamed sharp and white and gave the mouth a cruel, wolfish look. It was all over in a moment, the next he had swung round and faced her, apparently quite himself again, with just the habitual expression of high-bred weariness which he always affected.
"I was obviously wrong," he said coolly, "to suggest that you were in collusion with that young devil, and for this I beg your pardon."
"Wouldn't it be best," she retorted equally coolly, "if you were to tell me what did happen?"
"Peter Blakeney sneaked in through that open window. My back was turned that way and I heard nothing, as I was intent on reading your manuscript. He attacked me from behind. I was taken unawares, but I tried to put up a fight. However, he is younger and more athletic than I am, and he knocked me down. He had already snatched your manuscript out of my hand, and he disappeared with it the way he came, through the open window, at the very moment that you entered the room."
Rosemary had listened to this without moving a muscle. She stood in the middle of the room as if she had been turned to stone, alive only by her eyes, which were fixed with such an intensity of questioning on Jasper that instinctively he turned away, as if dreading to meet her glance.
"That is all, my dear," he said, with a sudden assumption of meekness. "I was certainly to blame for allowing that precious manuscript to be taken from me. I should, I know, have guarded it with my life, and so on, and I have probably sunk very low in your estimation as a coward. But I was taken entirely unawares, and one is not usually prepared for daylight robbery in a house filled with servants. So that must be my excuse——" He paused a moment, then added dryly: "That and the fact that I warned you more than once that Peter Blakeney was working against you. Now perhaps you are convinced."
At last Rosemary recovered the use of her tongue, but her voice sounded strange to herself, toneless and distant, as if it came from beneath the earth. "You are quite sure, I suppose," she said slowly, "that it was Peter Blakeney who—who did what you say?"
"Aren't you?" he retorted with a harsh laugh. She made no reply to the taunt. Outwardly she did not even wince.
"You are quite sure that he got away with the manuscript?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "I am quite sure," he replied.
"What do you suppose he means to do with it?"
"Sell it to Naniescu, of course."
"In exchange for Philip and Anna's freedom?"
Jasper looked at his wife keenly for a moment or two, and the corners of his lips curled in a satiric smile. He took out his cigar-case, carefully selected a weed, struck a match, lit his cigar, and blew out the flame. Then only did he reply.
"Hardly that, I think, seeing that he was instrumental in getting them locked up. More probably, I should say, in exchange for a few thousand pounds."
This time the shaft struck home. Rosemary had some difficulty in smothering the cry of protest which had risen to her throat. But she recovered herself in less than a second and said coolly:
"The manuscript must be got back, of course."
Once more Jasper shrugged his shoulders.
"It might have been done at the moment; but I was helpless, and you were so concerned for my welfare that you did not raise hell to send the servants after the thief."
"I did not know then—about the manuscript."
"You know now," he retorted, "and have not called the servants yet."
"This is not the business of the servants. I look to you to get me back the manuscript."
"To me?" he rejoined with a harsh laugh. "Are you not putting too great a strain on my allegiance? You know my views. Should I not rather be wishing that damnable spy God-speed?"
"Jasper," she said earnestly, "you must get me back the manuscript."
"How is it to be done, my dear? From all accounts our friend Peter is as elusive as his ancestor, the Scarlet Pimpernel. He has ten minutes' advance of us already . . . a car probably waiting for him in the village. Are you quite sure you can't hear the whirring of a motor now?"
"You could try, at any rate." And now there was a distinct note of pleading in her voice. "General Naniescu——"
"Make yourself no illusion in that quarter, my dear," he broke in quickly. "Once Naniescu is in possession of those precious articles of yours he will send a courier flying across Europe with them. Remember that with the MSS. there was your covering letter to the editor of theTimes, asking for immediate publication. Let me see," he went on slowly, "this is Saturday. I believe we shall see the first of those wonderful articles in print in theTimeson Wednesday."
"I don't care how it's done," she replied impatiently. "If you won't help me I'll manage alone."
"What can you do, my dear?"
"Telegraph to theTimes, for one thing, and start for London this evening."
"Plucky!" he remarked dryly; "but I doubt if you'll succeed."
"Will you put obstacles in my way?"
"I? Certainly not. But Naniescu will." Then, as without attempting further argument she turned to go, he added blandly: "And Peter."
To this final taunt Rosemary made no reply. Her thoughts were in a whirl, but through the very confusion that was raging in her brain her resolution remained clear. She would wire to the editor of theTimesnot to act on any letter he might receive from her until he heard from her again, and in the meantime she would start for London immediately. Even if her wire were stopped by Naniescu's orders, she would be in London in time to stop the publication of the articles. Though she had a great deal of influence in the journalistic world, it was not likely that so important a paper as theTimeswould be ready to print her articles the moment they were received. Yes, she had plenty of time. And the whole conspiracy, whatever it was, had been clumsily engineered and would certainly prove futile.
The conspiracy! Rosemary could not think of that. Yet when she did it would mean such a terrible heartache that the whole world would become a blank. Peter blotted out of her life. That is what it would mean when she regained the power to think. It would come to her probably in the train, travelling alone across Europe, hurrying to nullify work done by Peter—shameful, despicable work that would sully the reputation of a pariah. The work of a spy, of hands tainted with ill-gotten wealth! Rosemary's gorge rose at the thought. The conspiracy would prove futile—there was plenty of time to subvert it—but it was an evil, noisome thing that had been. It had existed—and Peter had given it birth!
Peter!
Never again could the world be bright and beautiful. The thing was so loathsome that it would taint with its foulness everything that Rosemary had up to this hour looked on as sweet and sacred and dear. She herself would remain noisome: a body to execrate, since it had once lain passive and willing in Peter's arms, since her lips still retained the savour of his kiss.
Rosemary went out into the village as far as the post office. She wrote out her telegram to the editor of theTimesand asked whether it could be sent out immediately. In order to stimulate the zeal of the post-mistress she emphasised her instructions with a hundred lei note. The post-mistress smiled and thanked the gracious lady for the note, and she promised that she would send the telegram off within the next few minutes. Then, as soon as Rosemary had gone out of the stuffy little office and disappeared down the village street, the woman rang up the Imrey Palace at Cluj and asked to be allowed to speak with His Excellency the General.
Rosemary's wire was repeated over the telephone to General Naniescu, who promptly gave orders that it should not be sent. When he put down the receiver he was very much puzzled. Something had apparently happened at Kis-Imre which had greatly disturbed the beautiful Uno. It seemed indeed as if she had actually written those articles which Naniescu wanted so badly that he was prepared to pay ten thousand pounds sterling of Government money for them. And having written the articles, the lady seemed first to have sent them off, then to have repented.
Well, well! It was all very puzzling. Even M. de Kervoisin, experienced diplomat though he was, could suggest no solution. He advised the obvious: to wait and see.
"We shall see our friend Number Ten soon," he said. "If I am not mistaken he has at least one key to the puzzle in his possession."
But it was not Number Ten who presented himself at the Imrey palace that afternoon. It wasce cherMonsieur Blakeney, who had come all the way from England in order to preside over a game of cricket that had not come off because of the weather. His Excellency was delighted to see him, and so was M. de Kervoisin. This charming, most unexpected but most welcome visit was due no doubt to the cricket and the bad weather. So tiresome!Mais hélas!Man proposes and the rain disposes.
His Excellency was most sympathetic. Would M. Blakeney have a cigar and a glass offine?No? Then what could His Excellency do for M. Blakeney?
"Pray command me, my dear Monsieur Blakeney. We are all so grateful to you for the kind interest you are taking in our young athletes. It will be such a happy recollection for them in after years that so distinguished an English champion as yourself has helped them with their games."
Peter let him talk on. He thought it a pity to stem this flood of eloquence, and he was looking forward to the moment when Naniescu's complacent effusions would turn to equally comic puzzlement first, and subsequently to amazement and delight.
"Shall I tell your Excellency now," he said as soon as he could get a word in edgeways, "why I have come?"
"Mais comment donc?" the general replied suavely. "I am hanging on your lips,mon cherMonsieur Blakeney."
"Well," Peter said, quite slowly and speaking in French since M. de Kervoisin did not know English, "well, it's just this. Lady Tarkington has written certain newspaper articles, which you, general, very much desire to see published. That's so, isn't it?"
But though this opening almost betrayed Naniescu into an exclamation of surprise, he had enough control over his nerves not to give himself away. Fortunately he was a great adept at expressive gestures, and his cigar also helped to keep him in countenance.
He leaned back in his chair, was silent for a moment or two blowing rings of smoke through his full, red lips.
"Articles?" he queried at last with an assumption of perfect indifference. "I don't know. What articles do you mean,cher ami?"
"Those," Peter replied with equal indifference, "for which you were prepared to pay a deuced lot of money to your spy in chief."
Naniescu waved his podgy hand that held the cigar, then he deliberately dusted away a modicum of ash that had dropped upon his trousers.
"Ah!" he said innocently. "Lady Tarkington, you say, has written such articles?"
"Yes. She has."
"Then no doubt she will honour me by allowing me to see the manuscript. She knows how deeply I am interested in her work."
"No, general," Peter broke in drily. "Lady Tarkington has no intention of allowing you to see that particular manuscript of hers."
"Ah! May I be permitted to inquire how you happen to know that?"
"I happen to know—no matter how—that Lady Tarkington only wrote the articles tentatively; that after she had written them she repented having done so, and that her next act would have been to throw the manuscript into the fire."
"Very interesting. But, forgive me, my dear Monsieur Blakeney, if I ask you in what way all this concerns you?"
"I'll tell you," Peter said coolly. "I also happen to know—no matter how—that you are prepared to pay a large sum of money for those articles, so I thought that I would forestall your spy-in-chief by driving a bargain with you over the manuscript."
"But how can you do that, my dear young friend, without the manuscript in your possession?"
"The manuscript is in my possession, Excellency," Peter said coolly.
"How did that come about, if I may ask the question?"
"You may. I stole it this morning from Lady Tarkington."
"What?"
Naniescu had given such a jump that he nearly turned himself out of his chair. The cigar fell from between his fingers, and the glass that contained the fine was upset and its contents spilt over the table. Even M. de Kervoisin had given a start; and his pale, expressionless face had flushed. Though the report of the post-mistress of Kis-Imre had given Naniescu an inkling that something unexpected had occurred, he certainly had not been prepared for this.
He looked up at Peter and frowned, trying to recover his dignity, which had been seriously jeopardized. Peter was laughing—very impolitely, thought His Excellency. But then these English have no manners.
"You'll forgive my smiling, won't you, sir?" asked Peter quite deferentially.
"Go on with your story," Naniescu retorted gruffly. "Never mind your manners."
"I can't very well mind them, sir," Peter rejoined, with utmost seriousness, "as I don't possess any. And I can't go on with my story because there is none to tell."
"You have got to tell me how you knew that Lady Tarkington had written certain newspaper articles; how you knew that I wanted them; how you came to—to steal them—the word is your own, my dear Monsieur Blakeney—and where they are at the present moment."
"None of which facts, I am thinking, concern your Excellency," Peter retorted coolly, "except the last. The manuscript of Lady Tarkington's newspaper articles is in my pocket at the present moment, together with her letter to the editor of theTimes, asking for these articles to be published at an early opportunity. So, you see, sir, that I am bringing you a perfectly sound proposition."
"I'll have to read those articles first."
"Of course," Peter agreed, and took the sheets of manuscript out of his pocket. "At your leisure."
Naniescu thrust out his podgy hand for them; his large, expressive eyes had lit up with a gleam of excitement. Peter gave him the manuscript, and as he did so he remarked casually, "They are no use to your Excellency without the covering letter."
Which remark seemed to tickle M. de Kervoisin's fancy, for he gave a funny, dry cackle which might pass for a laugh. Naniescu, however, appeared not to have noticed the taunt. His white, downy hands shook slightly as he unfolded the manuscript. He leaned back in his chair and began to read, the excitement of his nerves was chiefly apparent by his stertorous breathing and his almost savage chewing of the stump of his cigar.
M. de Kervoisin remained silent. He offered Peter a cigarette, and while the Englishman struck a match, lit the cigarette and smoked it with obvious relish, the Frenchman watched him through his half-closed lids with an expression of puzzlement upon his keen, wrinkled face. No sound disturbed the silence that had fallen over the actors of the little comedy, only the ticking of an old-fashioned dock and now and then the crisp crackling of paper as Naniescu turned over the sheets of the manuscript. From time to time he nodded his head and murmured complacently, "C'est bien! C'est même très, très bien!" And once he looked across at his friend and asked: "Would you like to read this, Kervoisin?" But the Frenchman only shrugged and replied with a slightly sarcastic smile: "Oh! my dear friend, if you are satisfied——"
Peter said nothing. He waited quite patiently, seemingly completely indifferent, and smoked one cigarette after another.
When Naniescu had finished reading, he carefully folded the manuscript, laid it on the table beside him and put his hand upon it.
"What do you want for this?" he asked.
And Peter replied coolly: "The title deeds of the Kis-Imre property."
Naniescu stared at Peter for a moment or two, then he threw back his head and laughed until the tears trickled down his cheeks.
"You are astonishing, my friend," he said. "The property is worthy fifty thousand sterling."
"I have paid an option on it of five thousand," Peter retorted, "and the rest wouldn't come out of your Excellency's pocket, I take it."
"Not out of my pocket, of course," Naniescu was willing to admit, "but out of that of my Government. We are going to sell Kis-Imre for the benefit of the State."
"And won't your Excellency be purchasing these newspaper articles for the benefit of the State?"
"These articles are not worth it," Naniescu retorted gruffly.
"Very well, let's say no more about it. I'm sorry I troubled your Excellency."
Peter rose as if to go and put out his hand toward the sheets of manuscript.
"Don't be a fool," Naniescu broke in. "I'll give you a good price for the thing, but a property worth fifty thousand sterling—hang it all—it's a bit stiff."
Peter smiled. "How tersely you put the matter, general," he said. "I dare say it is a bit stiff, but I am not prepared to bargain—only to sell. And if you are not satisfied——"
"Easy, easy, my impetuous young friend. Did I say that I was not satisfied—or that I refuse to consider the matter? But there are considerations."
"What considerations?"
"To begin with, how do I know that the English newspaper would accept these articles as the genuine work of Lady Tarkington?"
"I told you that I had Lady Tarkington's own covering letter to the editor of theTimes, asking him to publish the articles as soon as possible."
"Let me see it," Naniescu retorted.
"With pleasure."
Peter took the letter out of his pocket, but before handing it over to Naniescu he said dryly: "May I in the meanwhile refresh my memory of the articles?"
The eyes of the two men met across the table. Naniescu's flashed with resentment, but Peter's face wore a disarming smile. He looked for all the world like a schoolboy bartering marbles for stamps. But the situation appeared to tickle Kervoisin's fancy. He gave a dry chuckle and said:
"You are quite right,mon ami.They are astonishing, these English."
The exchange was effected without Naniescu losing his sense of resentment or Peter his pleasant smile, and Peter held on to Rosemary's manuscript while the general read the letter through.
While he read, the look of resentment vanished from his face and a complacent smile rose to his full, sensuous lips.
"Il n'y pas à dire," he murmured; "c'est très, très bien."
When he had finished reading he looked up at Peter.
"Now then, Monsieur Blakeney," he said curtly, "your last price?"
"I have told you, sir—the title-deeds of Kis-Imre."
"You are joking."
"I was never more serious in my life."
"But, hang it all, man, if I make the property over to you, how are we to get rid of the Imreys?"
Peter shrugged his shoulders, and, still smiling, said coolly: "That, Excellency, is your affair, not mine."
"But the Countess Imrey is your aunt."
"What has that got to do with the whole thing, Excellency?"
"What has it got to do with it? What has it——?" Naniescu was gasping with astonishment. He was something of a rascal himself, but never in all his life had he come across such callousness or such impudence. He turned to Kervoisin as much as to say: "Have you ever seen such an unmitigated young blackguard?" But the Frenchman's face was inscrutable; his keen, pale eyes rested with obvious puzzlement on Peter.
"Then you want me," Naniescu asked, as soon as he had recovered his breath, "you want me to turn the Imreys out of their home?"
"It won't be the first time, Excellency, that you have done that sort of thing, will it?" Peter retorted, with his most engaging smile.
Strangely enough, Naniescu was losing his temper. He wanted those articles and wanted them badly, and if this preposterous deal went through he could have them without putting his hand in his pocket. But this young blackguard exasperated him. Perhaps professional pride was wounded at meeting a man more corrupt, more venal than himself. To further his own ends Naniescu would have plundered and bullied to an unlimited extent, but he would not have robbed and bullied his own kith and kin; whereas this handsome young athlete with the engaging smile did not seem to have the slightest scruple or the least pricking of conscience. It would be a triumph to get the better of him in some sort of way. Unfortunately the scamp had not yet given up the manuscript, and Naniescu only had the letter, whilst de Kervoisin was in one of his abstracted fits when he wouldn't open his mouth to give friendly advice.
The general, sitting back in his chair, and blowing smoke rings through his pursed lips, had a swift but exceedingly pleasant day-dream. Those articles were just what he wanted. They were so beautifully written! So convincingly! What a stir they would make! They were a complete vindication of his administration here in Transylvania. The country prosperous. The people contented. Only a small minority grumbling, without the slightest justification. Oh, those articles! Published in the EnglishTimesand signed by the illustrious "Uno"! Naniescu, closing his eyes to enjoy this wonderful day-dream, saw himself summoned to Bucharest, there to receive the personal thanks of his King and a substantial reward from his Government, whilst all he need do now to obtain these glorious results was to hand over to this young rascal a property that belonged to that fool Maurus Imrey.
It was a lovely day-dream. A stroke of the pen would make it reality. No wonder that General Naniescu swore loudly when the crackling of paper woke him from this short trance. The young rascal was quite unconcernedly stowing that precious manuscript away in his pocket.
"Halt!" Naniescu exclaimed, on the impulse of the moment. "I accept——" Then he added guardedly: "On principle, I mean."
"And in fact?" Peter queried, without making the slightest movement towards taking the manuscript out of his pocket again.
"Yes, yes!" Naniescu replied impatiently. "But, curse you for a jackanapes, these things take time——"
"They need not," Peter rejoined curtly. "All you need do is to give me an official receipt for forty-five thousand sterling, the balance of the purchase-money for the Kis-Imre property. The British Consul and your lawyer will do the rest."
"And when do you want possession?"
"At once."
Naniescu made a final appeal to his friend: "What do you say, Kervoisin?"
But the Frenchman's face remained inscrutable. He was watching the smoke that curled upwards from the tip of his cigarette, and only from time to time did he throw a quick, indefinable glance at the tall, athletic figure of the man who was driving such a contemptible bargain. When Naniescu appealed directly to him, he only shrugged his shoulders to indicate his complete detachment from the whole affair. Peter, on the other hand, showed not the slightest sign of impatience. He even went to the length of buttoning up his coat.
"Would you like to think it over?" he said coolly. "I can leave my offer open for another few hours."
"No! damn you!" Naniescu exclaimed, and jumped to his feet. "Wait for me here. I'll have the receipt ready in five minutes."
After which, from sheer force of habit, he swore in several other languages before he finally strode out of the room.
Peter met de Kervoisin's shrewd eyes fixed searchingly upon him. He gave a quaint, good-humoured laugh.
"Are you trying to make up your mind, sir," he asked, "just what kind of a blackguard I am?"
M. de Kervoisin's thin lips curled in a wry smile. "I am not sure," he said, "that you are a blackguard. But I confess that I do not understand you."
"Which is very flattering, sir. But isn't it natural that a man should covet a beautiful property and seize the cheapest means to become possessed of it? That sort of thing has been largely done by the conquering nations since the war. Then why not by individuals?"
"Why not, as you say? But I was not thinking of that side of the question, chiefly because I do not believe that you stole Lady Tarkington's manuscript in order to drive a bargain with our friend here over the Kis-Imre property. I may be wrong, but you don't look to me the sort of man who would do this dirty trick for mere gain. I am giving you the credit of desiring above all to save your kinsfolk, young and old, from certain highly unpleasant eventualities."
"You are very generous, sir, in your estimate of me.
"The question is," Kervoisin mused, "whether after all this they will be grateful to you for what you have done, or will they hate you, do you think, for what the publication of those articles will mean to their people? Lady Tarkington must at one time have intended to publish those articles, since she took the trouble to write them. Something turned her from the purpose: either her own conviction, or the desire of the Imreys themselves."
"I suppose so," Peter said, with a shrug of complete indifference.
"Whereupon you, my dear friend, stepped in like an unwanteddeus ex machinâ, and settled the business to your own satisfaction, if not to theirs."
"I never was good at Latin," Peter said, with his most engaging smile, "but we'll leave it at that if you like."
De Kervoisin was silent for a moment or two, his attention being seemingly riveted on the rings of smoke that rose from his cigarette.
"I wonder," he murmured after a while.
"Don't trouble, sir. I am not worth it."
"Ah! but youth always is a perpetual wonder to me. It is such a long time since I was young myself. And I was wondering which of the two levers youth pulled in order to make you act as you did."
"Two levers?"
"Love or hate."
Then, as Peter was silent in his turn, M. de Kervoisin went on: "You know, we in France always look for the woman in every case. Now here we have not far to seek. And yet love would seem to me to have gained nothing by this adventure, whilst hate, on the other hand——"
He paused abruptly, his keen eyes narrowed, and his lips curled in a sardonic smile.
"Ah!" he said. "I think I understand, after all."
"That's more than I do, sir," Peter retorted ingenuously.
M. de Kervoisin would no doubt have pursued the subject, which seemed greatly to interest him, had not Naniescu just then made a noisy re-entry into the room. He had a large, official-looking document in his hand, which he threw down on the table.
"Have a look at this, my dear Monsieur Blakeney," he said curtly. "I think that you will find it in order."
Peter took up the paper and examined it at great length. It was a receipt for the sum of forty-five thousand pounds sterling, in full satisfaction for the sale of the estate of Kis-Imre here described as the property of the Crown of Roumania. It was signed with Naniescu's elaborate flourish, countersigned and stamped; it stated further that the sale would be duly inscribed in the Bureau des Hypothèques in accordance with the law, and theacte de venteand title-deeds handed over within one month to M. Peter Blakeney or his duly appointed representative.
It was all in order. Peter folded the receipt, but before putting it away he said to Naniescu:
"The whole thing, of course, is conditional on a free pardon being granted to Philip Imrey and Anna Heves, with permission to leave the country immediately. That was the original bargain between yourself and Lady Tarkington."
"They can dear out of the country the day the last of these articles is published in theTimes," Naniescu rejoined gruffly. "I'll arrange for that fool Maurus Imrey and his wife to clear out at the same time. The sooner I am rid of the whole brood of them, the better I shall like it."
"I am sure you will," Peter said blandly. "Then perhaps you won't mind letting me have passports for them. You can post-date them, of course. I shouldn't then have to intrude on you again."
"You are very kind. The passports post-dated, say, a week from to-day will be in the bureau at your disposal whenever you like to call for them. You understand that I should revoke them if at least one of these articles has not appeared within the week."
"I quite understand," Peter concluded. Everything now being in order, he slipped the receipt into his pocket-book, then, without further words, he handed Rosemary's manuscript over to Naniescu.
"You have the covering letter," he said simply.
Naniescu nodded, and he took the papers with a sigh of satisfaction, which he did not even attempt to disguise. His ill-temper had vanished. The day-dream was coming true: the journey to Bucharest, the thanks of his King, the reward from a grateful Government! Naniescu felt at peace with all the world. He would even have hugged Peter to his breast.
"We part the best of friends," he said suavely, "my dear Monsieur Blakeney."
"Oh! the very best," Peter assented.
"And when you come to take possession of Kis-Imre you will command my services, I hope."
"I shall not fail to do so."
"I will see to it that you can do it at the earliest possible moment. By the way," Naniescu went on with some hesitation, "the furniture—and other contents of the château—they are not included in the sale, of course."
"Of course not."
"You won't mind the Imreys having those? It might create an unpleasant impression—if we were to——er——"
"It might," Peter assented.
"I was sure you would agree with me about that," Naniescu rejoined unctuously. "Then what would you like us to do in the matter?"
"Leave everything as it is until you hear from me again. The British Consul will look after things for me."
"Ah!" Naniescu concluded with perfect affability, "then I don't think I need detain you any longer, my dear young friend. May I express the wish that you will spend long and happy years in this beautiful country."
"Thank you."
Peter did not shake hands with either of the two men, but he caught Kervoisin's glance and gave him a pleasant nod. To Naniescu he said just before leaving:
"I suppose you have realised that Lady Tarkington will probably wish to start for England immediately."
"Yes, my dear young friend," Naniescu replied blandly. "I have realised that, and I have taken measures accordingly. But how kind of you to remind me!"
And when Peter finally went out of the room the general, breathless, perspiring, nerve-racked, threw himself into a chair and exclaimed:
"Il n'y a pas à dire!They are astonishing, these English!"
He poured himself out a glass of fine and drank it down at one gulp.
"Did you ever see such an unmitigated young blackguard?" he exclaimed.
But de Kervoisin had remained thoughtful. His shrewd, pale eyes were fixed upon the door through which Peter had just disappeared. Naniescu had taken his handkerchief and was mopping his streaming forehead and his neck round the edge of his collar.
"I feel quite sick," he murmured. "Ah, these English!mon ami.You do not know them as I do. I firmly believe that they would sell their fathers, their mothers, their sisters, or their wives if they saw money in the transaction."
Kervoisin made no comment on this tirade; after a while he asked abruptly: "What are you doing to prevent the lovely Uno from putting a spoke in your wheel?"
Naniescu gave a complacent laugh.
"Doing?" he retorted. "Why, I've already done everything, my friend. My courier starts to-night for London with Lady Tarkington's letter and manuscript. He will be in London on Monday evening. On Tuesday he will call on the editor of theTimes.Ostensibly he is Lady Tarkington's messenger. When he has delivered the letter he will ask for a reply. That reply he will telegraph to me. Then we shall know where we are."
He drank another glass offine, then he went on:
"I have no doubt that the fair Uno has already got her boxes packed and is ready to start for England by the express to-night, but——"
Naniescu paused. He stretched out his legs, examined the toes of his boots and the smoke of his cigar; his face wore an expression of fatuous self-satisfaction. "I think," he said, "that you will be surprised at what I have done in the time. And so will the fair Uno," he added with an expressive twinkle in his fine, dark eyes.
"What about friend Number Ten?" Kervoisin remarked dryly.
"Well," Naniescu retorted with his affected smile, "I imagine that friend Number Ten will be the most surprised of the lot."
At Kis-Imre the day dragged on leaden-footed. Luncheon, then a long afternoon, then dinner. Time wore on and Elza had not returned.
Rosemary was ready, dressed for the journey; her suit-case was packed. She was only taking a very little luggage with her as she had every intention of returning as soon as her errand in London was accomplished. She would not for the world have left Elza alone too long with her troubles. She made herself no illusions with regard to the telegram which she had sent from the village. It would, she was sure, be intercepted, and Naniescu would not allow it to go. Rosemary's intention was to send another directly she was the other side of the frontier. This would prevent the articles being published hurriedly, and, of course, she would be in London thirty-six hours later.