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

gasp: “The gracious count Philip and the Baroness Anna will be in Hungary by now, won’t they, gracious lady?”

Rosemary nodded. “We hope so,” she murmured.

She waited in the hall for a little while, hoping that Elza would presently be coming downstairs; but a quarter of an hour later Anton came running down and made straight for the telephone.

“What is it, Anton?” Rosemary asked.

“The gracious count,” the man replied hurriedly. “He is ill. I am telephoning to Cluj for the doctor.”

“What is it, do you know?”

“No, gracious lady, the countess did not say, but I think it is the heart. The gracious count has fainted, and⁠—”

After that Anton was busy with the telephone, and Rosemary wandered aimlessly into the drawing-room and out upon the veranda.

Maurus ill! Yet another calamity striking that unfortunate woman! Indeed, there was no room for self-pity in this house. Every feeling of love, of sympathy and of pity must be concentrated on Elza. She stood alone, just as Rosemary stood alone. Two women, each with their burden. Elza with a load of boundless sorrow and anxiety, and Rosemary with a terrible responsibility to face. Elza was helpless; she could only watch and pray. But Rosemary had the choice between waiting and acting. Sentiment on the one side; Philip, Anna, Elza and Maurus, people she knew and loved; and duty on the other, duty to others, to countless of unknown innocents, to mothers, to father, to wives. “What are they to me?” cried sentiment. “The few for the many,” was the command of duty. Heart and brain in direct conflict and no one to advise, no one to help, save God, and He was silent! The affairs of men are so futile in face of the Infinite.

Later on in the day the doctor came over in his motor from Cluj, and after his visit Elza escorted him down into the hall. This was the first glimpse that Rosemary had of her since the morning, and the sight of her was a terrible shock; Elza was aged, her hair had lost its lustre, her eyes their colour, her cheeks were the colour of lead, and even her magnificent figure had shrunk. Elza looked an old woman, wide-eyed and scared as if Fate was a tangible being standing perpetually before her with flail upraised, striking, striking incessantly, until the poor, weak shoulders bent under the blows, and the last vestige of youth fled, chased away by pain.

As soon as the doctor had gone Elza came back to Rosemary.

“Poor Maurus,” she said. “Have you heard?”

“What is the matter?” Rosemary asked.

Elza hesitated a moment, then she said:

“As a matter of fact, it was a fit. He had had them before, and you know he was always peculiar. And now the shock! The doctor says we shall have to be very careful with him. He must be watched and kept very quiet.”

“Had you told him?”

“Yes; it is that which brought on the fit. The doctor asked me if he had been more than usually agitated the last day or two.”

“But he is in no danger?” Rosemary insisted.

“The doctor says not. But then he does not know. If⁠—if the worst happens with⁠—Philip, I don’t think that Maurus will live it through.”

Elza had allowed Rosemary to lead her into the drawing-room. She sank down against the cushions and Rosemary knelt beside her, with her arms round the poor woman’s shoulders.

“Darling,” she murmured, “is there anything I can do?”

“No, dear, nothing. What can you do? We are only atoms. So helpless! We can only suffer. I suppose that God wants some of us to suffer, and others to be happy. It seems strange and unjust, but we can’t help it. We must just get through with it.” Elza spoke jerkily, in a dry, cracked voice, without the slightest ring or modulation in its dull monotony.

“Am I in the way, Elza darling?” Rosemary went on, trying with loving eyes to probe the secret thoughts that lay hidden behind that set, expressionless face. Elza turned large, round eyes upon her, and for an instant a gleam of tenderness shot through them.

“You are not in the way, darling,” she said. “I don’t know what I should have done this morning if you had not been there to brace me up. But it is miserable and dull for you here. Fancy you coming all the way from England into this house of misery.”

“If you sent me away now,” Rosemary said, “I should break my heart with longing to be near you. But⁠—I didn’t know whether you would not rather be alone⁠—”

“Alone? I should indeed be alone if you went away. Now that the children are not here⁠ ⁠… and Maurus must be kept very quiet⁠—I should be very lonely if you went.”

Rosemary gave her hand a little squeeze.

“But Jasper will be coming soon,” she said. “I am sure you won’t want him.”

“Lord Tarkington is so kind,” Elza replied gently, “and he would be company for you. The doctor is sending me a couple of nursing sisters from Cluj, but you know what Maurus is. He gets so impatient if I am not there. So we shall not see much of one another. But it would be a comfort to me to know that you are in the house.”

“You are an angel, Elza, and I am glad that you are not sending me away. If you did I should not go very far. Probably to Cluj. I could not exist far away from you whilst I had a glimmer of hope. In my heart, darling,” Rosemary went on earnestly, “I am still convinced that God will not permit this monstrous injustice. Something will happen. You will see. You will see.”

“It would have to be a miracle, my dear,” Elza said dully.

“God has accomplished greater miracles before this,” Rosemary retorted firmly.

Elza smiled. She, poor dear, obviously did not believe in miracles.

After a moment or two she said:

“By the way, I quite forgot to tell you⁠—so stupid of me⁠—this morning, while you were resting