He had often done that before; he loved to take hold of her face, to feel the soft velvety cheeks against his hands, and Rosemary would turn her pixie eyes to his and in one glance express all the affection, the sincere regard and fervent gratitude which she felt for him. But somehow this time it all seemed different, more intense, almost terrifying. To a sensitive woman a man's passion, if she cannot respond to it, is always terrifying; and, of course, Rosemary's nerves were stretched now almost to breaking point. Else why should she be conscious of a sense of fear?
Jasper's gaze was not so much searching her soul as striving to reveal his. Something in him seemed imprisoned, and he was asking her to set that something free. A force, a power, greater even than his love, so great that love itself became its slave. And this Rosemary could not understand. She had experienced something of the same sensation that afternoon in London when he had asked her to marry him before she left for Hungary. Then, as now, she had caught a glimpse of a whirlpool of passion which seethed beneath her husband's grave, gentle manner. Then, as now, it had seemed to her as if he were trying to exert some supernatural power outside himself, to rouse an echo of his own passion in her heart. And with that glimpse into the depths of a man's soul came the knowledge that never would it be in her power to give soul for soul or passion for passion. And yet the day would come—she felt it, knew it at this moment—when the man, wearied of sentimental doles, would demand her whole surrender—body, brain, soul, everything, soul above all—which she would not be prepared to give.
Strange that this realization, this vague feeling akin to fear, should come to her again at this moment, when both she and Jasper were only minor actors in the drama that had just drawn to its close. Like most great moments in the inner life of the soul, it only lasted for one brief flash. It left its indelible mark on Rosemary's memory, but it lasted less than one second. The very next she tried to recapture it, but it was gone. Jasper looked grave and kind, as he always did, busy now with getting her comfortably ensconced in a capacious armchair, with plenty of cushions behind her back. Elza came in with Philip, and Maurus roused himself from his apathy to hurl invectives against those damnable, impudent Roumanians.
And the gipsy musicians, reassured, crawled out of their hiding-places, and their leader, shouldering his violin, began to play a dreamy melody. One by one the others fell in harmony, the 'cello, the bass, the clarionet, and the inimitable cimbalom. "There is but one beautiful girl in all the world," was the tune that they played; its soft, languorous cadence rose and fell in the air wherein the dying roses once more sent up their voluptuous fragrance. Forgotten was the danger just past, the peril still ahead. Music, the never-failing expression of emotion in these romantic people, soothed their nerves and uttered the words which would not rise to their lips. Elza sat with Philip's hand in hers. Rosemary, with eyes fixed far away, caught herself gazing on the memory picture of a dark recess in a box in the Albert Hall, with the noise and whirl of a big social function about her, but with complete isolation there in the darkness; and through the deafening noise memory conjured up a man's voice that murmured with passionate earnestness: "It is no use, my dear, thinking that all is over."
[CHAPTER XII]
The morning was as clear as crystal, the sky of a translucent turquoise blue. Away on the right the masses of soft-toned purple kills stretched their undulating lines like waving veils, hiding the mysteries of the horizon.
Rosemary had thrown open the windows of her bedroom and stepped out upon the balcony. With arms outstretched she drank in the intoxicating air, laden with the scent of heliotrope and lilies. She had the delicious feeling of having accomplished something, of having tested her power and found it absolute. Naniescu, on the telephone, had been almost apologetic when she told him about Philip's arrest. He declared that there was some mistake, and that he himself would come over in the morning and inquire into the matter. Rosemary was young enough to feel a naïve pleasure in her work. That Philip Imrey was restored then and there to his mother's arms was her work, the outcome of her position in the journalistic and political world. And the knowledge that this was so was as intoxicating as the fragrant air on this perfect late July morning.
A moment or two later she heard the pleasant noise of the rattling coffee-cups in the room behind her. She turned in, ready to embrace the little housemaid who looked after her so cheerfully. In fact, Rosemary was in a mood to embrace the whole world. Contrary to her usual happy way, however, the little housemaid did not look up when Rosemary came in. As a rule she would run and kiss the gracious lady's hand, according to the pretty custom of her country. To-day she just rattled the coffee-cups, and Rosemary noticed that her hands were shaking and that she turned her head very obviously away.
"What is it, Rosa?" Rosemary asked in her best Hungarian, of which she had learned quite a good deal at different times. "Why don't you come and say good morning?"
The kind voice and the necessity to respond to the gracious lady's inquiry broke down the barrier of Rosa's self-control. She raised her apron to her eyes and burst into a flood of tears. The next moment Rosemary was by her side, her arms round the girl's shoulders.