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

sunbathed veranda. And as Rosemary felt the sun, the clear, luscious air, the scent of flowers and of distant pines, envelop her as in a warm mantle, there came wafted to her ears the soft strains of that exquisite Hungarian love-song: “There Is but One Beautiful Girl in All the World.” The piano now seemed to sing under Peter’s delicate touch and Rosemary paused and stood quite, quite still, letting the music sink into her, yielding to its voluptuous cadence, and allowing her thoughts, her desires, her longings, to soar upwards to that infinity to which music alone can convey the soul on its magic wings. XX

Rosemary had wandered beyond the confines of the park, and roamed about in the woods, having lost all sense of time. When presently she came back to the reality of things she looked at her watch and saw that it was close on twelve o’clock. Luncheon at the château was at half-past. It meant stepping out briskly so as to be in time.

As soon as she reached the flower-garden, it struck her as strange that the château suddenly appeared to be so quiet. No sound reached her as she came near to the veranda steps, either of shrill, excited voices, or of laughter or song.

She found the family assembled on the veranda⁠—Maurus, Elza, Philip and Anna. Only Peter was not there. A first glance at them all revealed to Rosemary what had occurred. Elza had told them what the gipsy had said. Maurus sat in his chair like a man in a trance, his dark face flushed, his hair towzled, his large, dark eyes staring out before him, with a look in them that was not entirely sane.

Philip, on the other hand, was pacing up and down the veranda floor, whilst Anna stood quite still, leaning against a column, looking for all the world like a little martyr tied to the stake, her small, thin hands clasped together, a faint flush on her cheeks. These two children looked excited rather than horror-filled. Anna’s face suggested that of an idealist⁠—not altogether resigned, but nevertheless eager to suffer for the cause. But Philip looked like a fighter, seeking for a chance to hit back, a combatant not yet brought to his knees.

Elza’s round, blue eyes just wandered from one to the other of these faces all dear to her.

They were dry eyes, anxious eyes, but there was nothing in them today of that tragic despair which had been so heartbreaking to behold the evening before.

Rosemary’s first thought had been: “They know. Elza has told them!” The second was “Elza has a plan. Peter said it was a mad one. A plan for Philip and Anna’s escape.” She wondered if they would tell her.

“I hope I am not late for lunch,” she said, rather breathlessly, as she had been walking very fast. Then she added casually: “Where is Peter?”

“He is busy packing,” Elza replied.

“Packing?” Rosemary exclaimed, puzzled. “He is not going away already?”

“Yes,” Elza said, “tonight.”

“But he did not say anything yesterday,” Rosemary insisted, “about going away again so soon. Or even this morning.”

“I don’t think he knew yesterday,” Elza rejoined. “It seems he had a telephone message half an hour ago. He says he must go.”

Anna now appeared to wake out of her trance. Rosemary was standing close to her just then; she took Rosemary’s hand gently in hers and said:

“You see, darling, it is like this: one of Peter’s cricketers has telephoned to him to say that they have such a lot of trouble about their rooms at Hódmezö. Romanians are not exactly popular in Hungary,” she went on with a wan little smile, “and I suppose that hotel-keepers don’t care to put them up. So Peter had to promise to go and put things right for his cricketers.”

“He will come back, of course, after the cricket match,” Elza concluded placidly. “But it is a great nuisance for him, packing and unpacking all the time.”

Rosemary made no further remark. Everything seemed terribly puzzling. That Elza had told the children, had told Maurus, all she knew, was beyond question. That Peter also knew everything, and that he knew and disapproved of some plan which Elza had made, Rosemary supposed, for the escape of Philip and Anna was, to her mind, equally certain. But even if Peter disapproved, how could he go away at this critical time, and leave Elza to plan and contrive alone, hampered by a half-crazy husband, and surrounded by spies? However, no one apparently meant to say anything more just then, and it was quite a relief when the luncheon-bell sounded and the little party on the veranda broke up and everyone trooped downstairs for luncheon.

Peter was already in the dining-room, waiting for the others. Elza in her kind, gentle way asked him about his packing, and whether she could help him to get ready. But Peter declared that he wanted nothing, only the carriage this evening to take him to Cluj.

He grumbled terribly at having to go away. He hated the idea of missing the ball and all the friends who were coming; but when Elza or Maurus tried to persuade him to stay, he was very firm. “I’ve got to go, Aunt Elza. You don’t know what complications might occur if those Romanians got to Hódmezö and were not properly treated. Good God!” he added, with mock horror, “it might land you all in another war! And all through my fault!”

Rosemary had never seen Peter so gay or conversational. He appeared entirely unconscious of the undercurrent of tragedy that flowed through Elza’s pathetic attempts at conversation, and Maurus’s equally tragic silences. He talked incessantly, chiefly about the cricket match and chiefly to Philip, who made desperate efforts to appear interested. Rosemary did her best, too, but she was anxious and puzzled, and frankly she did not believe in the story of the telephone message.

She tried now and then to catch Elza’s eye, but in this