“Then tell me if there is anything in the world I can do to make you happier. You have not looked happy lately. I have been tortured with remorse, for I feel somehow that it has been my fault.”
“You are sweet and kind, Jasper, as always. But you must be a little patient. I have gone through a great deal these last few days.”
“I know, I know, little one. Don’t let us talk any more about it.”
He was wonderfully kind—kinder and gentler than he had been since the first days of their married life. It almost seemed as if he had set himself the task of making her forget all that he had involuntarily revealed to her of his violent, unbridled temperament, and of that lawless passion that lay at the root of his love for her.
He talked of the future, of their return to England, the home that he would make for her, which would be a fitting casket for the priceless jewel which he possessed. Rosemary, who felt inexpressibly lonely, was once more conscious of that feeling of gratitude towards him which she had once hoped might be transmuted, in days to come, into something more ardent than friendship.
She had suffered so terribly in her love for the one man who, with all his faults, had come very near to her ideals, that she felt a desperate longing to cherish and to cling to the husband whom she had chosen half out of pique, the man on whom she had inflicted so much cruelty by becoming his wife.
XLIII
Rosemary was the first to remember that time was slipping by. She looked at her watch. It was past ten o’clock—over an hour since Peter had asked her to try to forget. She rose briskly to her feet, and arm in arm, like two good comrades, she and Jasper made their way together towards the château. When they came in sight of the great gates—a couple of hundred yards still ahead of them—Rosemary was the first to spy a motorcar standing there, and some half-dozen persons in the act of getting into the car. There were two sentries at the gates, and seemingly a few people on the other side.
“It looks like a man and a woman and three soldiers in uniform getting into that car,” Rosemary remarked casually. And immediately, for no apparent reason, Jasper started to walk along more rapidly; a few seconds later he almost broke into a run. At that moment the car started off, and was soon lost to sight in a cloud of dust. Rosemary thought that she heard Jasper utter a savage oath.
“Is anything wrong?” she asked. But he did not answer, only hurried along so quickly that she was not able to keep up with him. He had passed through the gates when she reached them, and when she tried to follow she was stopped by the sentry. She called to Jasper, who apparently did not hear; pointing to him, she explained to the man on duty that she was that gentleman’s wife, and if he was allowed to go in, why not she? They were as mute as if she had spoken in an unknown tongue, but they would not allow her to pass. In the meanwhile Jasper had disappeared inside the château. Rosemary had seen him go in by the main entrance, challenged by the sentry on guard at the door, but after a second or two allowed to pass freely in.
Fortunately she was provided with money, and her experience of this part of the world was that most things could be accomplished with the aid of baksheesh. A young officer was crossing the courtyard; he looked in the direction of the gates, saw an excessively pretty woman standing there, and, true to his race and upbringing, came at once to see if he could enter into conversation with her. Very politely he explained to her that no one was allowed to enter the château, or to visit any of the prisoners, without a special permit from the commanding officer.
Rosemary told him that she desired to speak with the commanding officer. This also, it seems, was impossible. But a hint from Rosemary as to reward if the matter could be managed simplified matters a great deal.
The young officer conducted her across the courtyard and into the château. It had been a fine place once, not unlike Kis-Imre in architecture, but its occupation by the military had stripped it of every charm. There were not carpets on the floors, and only very rough furniture in the way of chairs and tables in what had obviously been at one time a cosy lounge hall. The officer led the way through a couple of equally bare rooms en enfilade, and came to a halt outside a door which bore roughly chalked upon the finely carved and decorated panels the legend: “Major Buriecha. Private. No admittance.” He offered one of the rough chairs rather shamefacedly to Rosemary, and said: “Major Buriecha will be coming through here presently. Will you wait, gracious lady? You will be sure to see him. I am afraid,” the young man added, with a pleasant smile, “that it is the best I can do.”
“Couldn’t you announce me?” Rosemary asked. “I am Lady Tarkington. I am sure Major Buriecha would not refuse to see me.”
The officer’s smile became self-deprecating. “It is more that I should dare to do, milady,” he said. “The major is engaged in conversation with an important government official. I would even ask you kindly, when you see him, not to tell him that I brought you as far as here.”
“I couldn’t do that, even if I wished, as I don’t know your name.”
“Lieutenant Uriesu, at your service, milady.”
“I suppose,” Rosemary went on, after a moment’s hesitation, “you couldn’t tell me what has become of my husband, Lord Tarkington. He went through the gates and
