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