Pimpernel and Rosemary, Baroness Orczy [i have read the book a hundred times .txt] 📗

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 realisation, 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 Romanians.

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 in harmony, the cello, the bass, the clarinet, and the inimitable czimbalom. “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 the 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.”

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 hills 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 naive 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. Today 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.

“Rosa!” she said, “Rosa! what is it? Tell me, little thing. What is it? Who has made you cry?”

But Rosa only went on sobbing, and murmuring between her sobs: “Oh, gracious lady! gracious lady! What a calamity! What a dreadful calamity!”

After a few seconds of this Rosemary began to lose patience. She was English and practical; Rosa’s continued sobbing and incoherent mutterings got on her nerves. She gave the girl a good-humoured shake.

“What calamity, Rosa?” she queried. “Bless the girl! I’ll smack you, Rosa, if you don’t speak.”

Now this was a language that Rosa understood far better than a string of kindly inquiries. She had been smacked by her mother, almost as soon as she was born, she had been smacked by her elder sister, by her grandmother, by her aunt and by her father while she grew up, and when she started service in the château and was silly or tiresome she had been smacked by the gracious Countess. Being smacked did not hurt, but it acted as a tonic, and braced up Rosa’s slackened nerves. The threat of it by the gracious English lady at once dried the well of her tears, she wiped her nose and eyes with her apron and murmured:

“The gracious Count Philip⁠—they have taken him away.”

At first Rosemary did not take it