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

But Elza put her podgy finger under Rosemary’s chin, and forced her to look up.

“Don’t lie to me, darling,” she pleaded softly; “tell me the truth.”

“I have told you the truth, Elza,” Rosemary protested through her tears.

“Then I must believe you, if you say so. And yet it is all very mysterious. Why should Naniescu wait? Why should he play with those poor children, like a cat does with a mouse? You know, Rosemary darling, what they gipsy said in the end?”

Rosemary shook her head.

“He said that the stranger within the gates had the power to save my son from death. Have you that power, Rosemary?”

“No! No!” Rosemary protested wildly. “If it were in my power, don’t you think that I would do anything in the world to save Philip and Anna?”

Elza nodded.

“Yes, dear,” she said gently. “Of course I do think it; but when the gipsy said that, I could not help feeling hopeful, for he was right in everything else he said⁠—”

Then suddenly she took Rosemary’s face between her two hands, and she gazed into her eyes with a look of almost fierce intensity in her own, as if she would wrest a secret from the depths of the younger woman’s soul.

“Swear to me, Rosemary,” she said, and her gentle voice sounded raucous and harsh, “swear to me that there is nothing in the world that you can do to save Philip!”

And Rosemary, returning her gaze, replied steadily:

“I swear to you that it is not in my power to save Philip and Anna. If it were, I would do it.”

Even then Elza did not cry. She just sat there quite, quite still, her big, round eyes quite dry, her mouth without a quiver, but sitting there so still, so still with her beautiful golden hair all round her face, the soft streaks of grey all about her temples, her fine features rigid, her podgy white hands resting on her knees; she looked such a tragic figure of despair that Rosemary could hardly suppress the cry of anguish that rose insistently to her throat.

“And so we can do nothing,” Elza said, with a note of quiet finality in her voice.

“Don’t say that, dear,” Rosemary protested. “Jasper, as a matter of fact, has gone to Bucharest to try and see the King personally. The Romanian Government owes some gratitude to my husband, as you know. I am quite sure that he will bring strong pressure to bear upon the authorities, and get a full pardon for Philip and Anna on the score of their youth.”

But Elza slowly shook her head.

“You don’t believe yourself, darling,” she said, “in what you say. The children have committed the unpardonable crime of being born Hungarians, and of resenting foreign tyranny in their native land. The King himself would be kind, I am sure, but Bucharest is a long way off, and the bureaucrats over here do not know the meaning of the word ‘mercy.’ ”

“But we know the meaning of the word ‘hope,’ Elza dear,” Rosemary said steadily, and struggled to her feet. “We are not going to give up hope. You talk about your gipsies having the gift of prophecy. Well, it is my turn to prophesy now. Philip and Anna are in God’s hands, and you and I are going to pray so hard and so ceaselessly that God will help us, I am sure. I know,” she added firmly.

Elza gave a short, quick sigh.

“Oh, yes,” she said, “you are lucky, you English! Your religion means a great deal to you. But we, over here, are so different. We go to convent schools when we are too young to understand. Then we are all fire and enthusiasm, but we do not understand. After that we marry and live in those remote villages where the poor curé is only an illiterate peasant with whom we have nothing in common, whose habits are often such that we could not possibly make our confession to him. And so we soon forget what we learned in our childhood, and we come to trusting in ourselves rather than in God.”

She rose and, with the same motherly gentleness which she always showed to Rosemary, she folded the girl in her loving arms.

“Good night, my dear,” she said placidly. “I ought not to have kept you up so late. Good night, dear. Pray to your God for us all. The God of the English is more merciful, I think, than ours.”

“Elza,” Rosemary insisted, “promise me that you will not give up hope. Jasper comes back tomorrow. He may bring the best of news. Promise me that in any case you will not give up hope.”

The ghost of a smile appeared on Elza’s face.

“I will promise,” she said, “not altogether to give up faith.”

Rosemary kissed her tenderly. After that she escorted her as far as her room, and at the door she kissed her once more, and then she said, with solemn earnestness:

“Elza darling, will you believe me if I say that if I could give my life for those two children I would do it? If it were in my power to save them, I would. But it is not in my power to save them, to do anything, but to leave them in God’s hands.”

Elza returned her kiss with gentleness and affection.

“Dear, kind Rosemary,” she murmured; “go to bed, dear, you must be so tired.”

Then she quietly slipped into her room and closed the door. And Rosemary was left to face the night alone.

What puzzled Rosemary was the gipsy.

What was the mystery of that vagabond found lurking in the park at nightfall with a revolver in his belt? What connection had he with the eyes that had watched Rosemary the night that she was talking with little Anna? And how had he come in possession of the inner history of Philip’s and Anna’s temporary release?

There was a mystery here. Somewhere. A disquieting, a terrifying mystery, not altogether to be accounted for by the