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

little face, with the big eyes that were so like Peter’s. When she was saying goodbye to one of the young officers, who had been her dancing-partner, she said with a pout:

“I think it was horrid of you to telephone to Peter Blakeney yesterday and take him away from us. I don’t believe you would have had any difficulty with the hotel people about your rooms. And, anyway, you might have let Peter have another day’s enjoyment.”

The young man appeared genuinely bewildered.

“Will the gracious lady deign to explain?” he asked.

“Oh, there is nothing to explain,” Anna said, with a light laugh. “We were all of us very angry with you for sending that telephone message which took Peter Blakeney away from us.”

“But pardon me, dear lady,” the officer rejoined, “we didn’t send any telephone message to Monsieur Blakeney. As a matter of fact, we fully expected to find him here.”

“But about your rooms⁠—?” Anna insisted.

“Our rooms at Hódmezö have been arranged for ages ago. Everything there is in perfect order and⁠—”

“Anna, dear,” Rosemary broke in quickly, “Peter didn’t say who sent him the telephone message. He only said that he had one. It may have come from Hódmezö⁠—from one of the hotel people⁠—he didn’t say⁠—”

What had prompted Rosemary to interpose at this moment she did not know. It was just an instinct: the blind instinct to protect, to shield Peter from something ugly and vague, that she had not yet had time to see clearly, and Anna then went on lightly:

“Oh, of course he didn’t say. Anyway, when you see Peter, tell him he was very silly to go away, and that he missed a great deal by not being here tonight. You can tell him that Marie never danced so well in all her life, and the gipsies from Bonczhida simply surpassed themselves.”

Whereupon the young officer clicked his heels and promised that he would deliver the message.

“But we shan’t see Monsieur Blakeney,” he said, “until the evening. You know the match is not until Thursday. Monsieur Blakeney arranged to meet us in Hódmezö on Wednesday evening, and this is only Tuesday.

“It will be Wednesday morning before we start,” one of his friends broke in lightly, “if you don’t hurry, you old chatterbox.”

After that, more “goodbyes” and waving of hands as the motorcars rounded the courtyard and finally swung out of the gates. Rosemary looked round to catch sight of Elza. She was quite placid, and on her dear, round face there was a set smile. Evidently she was unconscious of the fact that something stupendous had happened, something that had hit Rosemary like a blow from a sledgehammer. No, no! Elza had not noticed. Elza’s mind was no longer here. It was way out upon the dusty road, watching a motorcar travelling at full speed over the frontier away from this land of bondage, to Hungary to freedom. Elza had noticed nothing. Anna and Philip were still laughing and chattering, Maurus muttering curses. No one had noticed anything. Only for Rosemary had the world⁠—her own beautiful world of truth and loyalty⁠—come to an end. Peter had lied. Peter was playing a double game. It was no use arguing, no use hoping. The only thing to do was to go on groping in this mystery that deepened and deepened, until it became tangible, material like a thick, dark fog through which glided ghouls and demons who whispered and laughed. And they whispered and laughed because Peter had lied and because she, Rosemary, saw all her hopes, her faith, her ideals lying shattered in a tangled heap at her feet. Peter had lied. He had acted a lie. He told her that he had promised to go to Hódmezö to see about rooms for the cricket team. Well, that was not true. Rosemary had interposed, made some excuse for Peter. She wouldn’t have those Romanians think that Peter was a liar. They would have smiled, suggested some amorous intrigue which Monsieur Blakeney wished to keep dark. At the thought Rosemary’s gorge rose, and she put in a lame defence for Peter. But all the time she knew that he had lied. If Peter did not go to Hódmezö yesterday, where was he now? Why all this secrecy? These lies?

Why? Oh, God, why?

Rosemary had found a quiet corner in the hall where she could sit and think for a moment. Yet thinking was the one thing she could not do. Always, at every turn she was confronted with that hideous query: Why had Peter lied? After a while she had to give up trying to think. Fate’s spindle was whirring, the scissors clinking. She, Rosemary, a mere atom in the hands of Fate, must continue to play her part.

A quarter of an hour must have gone by while she sat⁠—trying to think⁠—in the dark. Perhaps more. Anyway, when she returned to the ballroom she found the company much diminished in numbers. All the Romanian officers had gone, also one large party who lived just the other side of Cluj. Only a few remained whose châteaux were too far away for a midnight start, seeing that motors were forbidden to the conquered race. They were going to spend the night at Kis-Imre, and probably make a start in the morning. The young people had already resumed dancing; the gipsies were playing the latest foxtrot. The mammas and papas were placidly admiring their respective progeny.

All this Rosemary took in at a glance.

Then she looked round for Elza. But neither Elza nor Maurus was there. And Philip and Anna had also gone.

XXIV

A few minutes later Elza came back. To Rosemary, who had been watching for her by the door, she just whispered as she entered:

“It is all right. They have gone.”

She still was wonderful. Quite calm and with that set smile on her face. Only her round, blue eyes had an unusual glitter, and the pretty silvered hair clung matted against the smooth white brow. Rosemary watched the scene,