The girl started wringing her hands, and her voice became loud and shrill with the sobs that would no longer be suppressed.
"Be quiet, Rosa, be quiet!" Rosemary said once or twice quite mechanically. She had taken it all in at last: the trick, the awful treachery, the cruelty of it all. She stood there beside the sobbing girl, with hands tightly clenched and a deep frown between her brows. She wanted to think. To think. something would have to be done, and done quickly. But what? Naniescu? What role did he play in this mean trickery? Rosemary was a woman who thought straight and acted straight: so consistently straight, in fact, that she never could visualize treachery in others. In the wide, wide would that attitude of mind is called the attitude of a fool. Yet Rosemary Tarkington was anything but a fool. Perhaps she was lacking in the intuition of eviclass="underline" certain it is that at this moment she would not allow herself to think that Naniescu was a party to the abominable deed. The young officer, perhaps, or the local commandant who might have a grudge against the Imreys. But Naniescu? No!
She sent the girl away; Rosa's round, pink face with the round, blue eyes and round-tipped nose was getting on her nerves. The girl was comical in her grief, and when Rosemary looked at her she felt an uncontrollable desire to laugh. And this would have horrified Rosa. So she sent Rosa away.
A moment or two later Jasper came in, ready for breakfast. Once glance at this face and Rosemary knew that he, too, had heard the news.
"What do you think of it?" Rosemary asked after she had given him a morning kiss.
"My darling," Jasper replied in his cool, British manner, "I only think that you are making a grave mistake in throwing yourself headlong into the politics of these out-of-the-way countries. . . ."
"It is not a question of politics, Jasper," Rosemary broke in, protesting.
"I know, my dear, I know. Your warm heart prompts you to interfere there where prudence would dictate the wiser course of closing one's eyes. You would not be the adorable woman that you are if you acted differently. But, believe me, my darling, it is not wise. You will only run your lovely head against a stone wall, and in the end do no good. You must let these people fight out their quarrels in their own way. They are not our kind; we don't understand them. My firm conviction is that you will only do harm by interference. Mind you, I haven't a doubt that young Imrey has done something stupid. They are a hot-headed lot, these Hungarians, especially the young ones, and, of course, they don't like the present regime. The government in power has a perfect right to protect itself against conspiracy and rebellion, even though we outsiders may think that those conspiracies are futile, and the measures of repression unduly harsh. Leave them alone, my dear," Jasper concluded more lightly, with a shrug, "and have a cup of hot coffee."
He settled himself down on the sofa and tried to draw her down to him. But Rosemary was not in the mood for sentiment. Reason whispered to her that Jasper was right-he was always right, worse luck!-she knew that Philip Imrey had acted foolishly-very, very foolishly-and that, as a matter of fact, in this case the commandant (or whoever was responsible for Philip's arrest) was entirely within his rights. She certainly, as an impartial spectator of events, brought here for the express purpose of seeing the truth and nothing but the truth, could not in conscience make capital of this incident. She had come out here determined not to act on impulse, but to judge coolly and without bias, and thus to consolidate her reputation as one of the foremost women journalists of the day. With Sir Philip Gibbs as her master, and model, she could not go back on the ideal of justice and impartiality which she had set herself. But she did want to save Philip Imrey from the consequences of his own folly. And, above all, she wanted to know what had become of Anna.
"I cannot leave them alone, Jasper," she said slowly "I cannot. All this petty tyranny makes my blood boil."
Jasper sighed somewhat impatiently. "I know, my dear, I know," he reiterated vaguely.
Rosemary did not continue the discussion for the moment; Jasper was so right in everything he said, and Philip Imrey had been desperately foolish. Now she blamed herself for not having worked on Anna's mind and dissuaded her from lending herself to her cousin's mad schemes. She mentioned Anna's name to her husband, but Jasper, knowing nothing of the girl's dangerous activities in Balog's grocery stores, could not, of course, see that Anna was in any kind of danger.
"But," Rosemary argued, "Anna and Philip are first cousins, they see a great deal of one another—"
"Do they?" Jasper ejaculated. "But even so, my dear, you surely are not going to suppose that the Roumanian Government is going to lay hands on all Philip Imrey's relations, just because he has run his silly head into a noose."
"No! No!?" Rosemary protested vaguely.
But she could not say anything more on the subject of Anna. Anna had told her everything in confidence: "I know I can trust you, Rosemary," the child had said, and Rosemary could not betray that confidence-not even by speaking of it all to Jasper-not even by hinting at it. If the peril became more imminent-if Anna herself was in danger-then perhaps. But not now.
Rosemary tried to swallow some breakfast, just to please Jasper, for his kind, grave eyes looked quite sad, and she did not want to add to his anxiety. But her thoughts were dwelling on Elza.
"I wonder if she could bear to see me," she said presently.
"You can always ask," was Jasper's wise suggestion.
Rosemary found Elza Imrey outwardly quite calm and resigned. That woman had a marvellous fund of common sense and self-control. What she suffered no one should know. Only when she read true understanding and mute sympathy in Rosemary's eyes, she gave an answering look which contained such a depth of sorrow and anxiety that Rosemary's heart was overwhelmed with pity. In these few hours Elza had aged twenty years. Anton had brought the news across from the lodge to the chateau in the early morning as soon as the Roumanian soldiers had gone away. The gracious countess had received the news with extraordinary indifference, was the verdict on the incident below stairs; Rosa was crying her eyes out, all the men-servants went about cursing and swearing and threatening to kill someone, but the gracious countess had not shed one tear. When she had heard Anton's report, she asked a few questions: what suit had the gracious count put on? did he take an overcoat? what shoes did he wear? and so on; but never a tear. Then she said: "Very well, Anton, you may go!" and that was all. No! No! It was not natural. But then these great ladies! . . . One never knew!
No one ever did know to what height a mother's heroism could go. Elza, with her heart nearly broken, thought only of what was best for Philip.
"Of course, he has done nothing!" she reiterated over and over again, "so they can't do anything to him."
Then her voice would break on a note of pathetic appeal; she would seize Rosemary's hands and search the depths of her English friend's eyes, with the look of a poor stricken animal begging for sympathy.