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.