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

I told you. You remember that day, when you did not even know that he was in Transylvania, he was in Cluj in touch with Naniescu. I warned you then as much as I dared. I could not say much because⁠—because⁠—” He paused, perhaps because he had felt Rosemary’s eyes fixed upon him with a curious, challenging look. A second or two later he went on coldly: “And the denunciation of Anna and Philip? How did it come about? Who knew of their folly except you and Peter Blakeney? And what about last night? I warned you not to confide in Peter, not to speak with him of the whole thing while I was away. Are you quite sure, quite, quite sure that Peter knew nothing of the plan? Are you quite sure that he⁠—”

“Jasper! Stop!” Rosemary cried; and with a great effort she pushed Jasper away from her and rose to her feet. She wanted above all to get away from him. She would not listen. She would not hear, because⁠—because every word that Jasper spoke was a dart that hit straight at her heart, and every dart was marked with the word “Truth.” All that Jasper said she had heard whispered about her by unseen demons who had tortured her for days with these horrible suspicions. She had rejected them, fought against them with all her might; but no sooner had she silenced one tempter than another took his place and whispered, whispered awful words that, strung together, became a fearful, an irrefutable indictment against Peter. But this, she would not admit; not now, not before anyone, not even before Jasper.

“I won’t believe it,” she said firmly. “I have known Peter all my life, and what you suggest is monstrous. There have been strange coincidences, I admit, but⁠—”

“Strange,” Jasper broke in with a sneer. “You are right there, little one. It is a strange coincidence, shall we say, that has made Peter Blakeney the new owner of this house.”

“Whatever to do you mean?”

“That Peter Blakeney has bought an option on the château and property of Kis-Imre from the Romanian Government.”

Rosemary frowned in bewilderment.

“Jasper,” she said, “will you please tell me clearly what you do mean?”

“I have told you, dear heart, as clearly as I could. But perhaps you have not realised that if Philip and Anna are brought before a military tribunal and convicted of treason against the State, these estates, together with the château, will be confiscated. It will then be sold for the benefit of the State and the owners will be expelled from the country.”

Rosemary felt herself shuddering. “No,” she said slowly; “I had not realised that.”

“I am afraid that it is so. And in the meanwhile, some who are in the know have already cast covetous eyes on this admirable château and beautiful park and garden, and our friend Naniescu has hit on the happy idea of selling the option of them to the highest bidder. And it seems that Peter Blakeney was the lucky man. He has paid a few hundred thousand leis for a first option on Kis-Imre and its dependencies, should it come in the market after the conviction and presumably the death of his cousins for treason against the State.”

“Who told you all that?” Rosemary queried coldly.

“Our friend Naniescu.”

“And you believed it?”

“I could not help believing; Naniescu showed me the contract for the option. It was signed ‘Peter Blakeney.’ ”

“If Peter has done that,” Rosemary went on slowly, “it is because he wants to secure the place ultimately for Elza.”

Jasper smiled tenderly. “You are a loyal friend, sweetheart,” he said.

“The accusation is so monstrous,” Rosemary retorted, “it defeats its own ends.”

“I wish I could think so,” he rejoined with a sigh. “Unfortunately, ever since Peter’s arrival in Cluj I have seen nothing but one calamity after another fall upon these wretched people here. I only wish I had your belief in coincidences. I only wish I could explain satisfactorily to myself how those two children, how Elza, Maurus, all of us, have come to this terrible pass, at the end of which there is nothing but chaos. But there,” he went on with his usual gentleness and patience, “I won’t worry you any longer. I have said my say. I have put my case before you. Perhaps I look at it too much from a selfish point of view. I am heartbroken to see you so wretched, and feel like hitting out right and left to set you free from this awful impasse. So now, sweetheart, try and forgive me, and think over it all from my point of view a little. The people here are nothing to me, you are everything. All the world and more. Even Heaven would be nothing to me without you, and this place is a hell when you are not here.”

Rosemary was standing close by the open window. The sky was grey. Great banks of cloud rose and tumbled about the mountain tops. The pine trees on the hillside appeared like ghostly sentinels standing at attention in the mist. The heat was oppressive. From far away came the dull rumble of distant thunder. The tuberoses beneath the window sent a heady, intoxicating scent through the storm-laden air. Rosemary felt terribly wearied, and for the first time in her life discouraged. She had striven for right, smothered every sentiment for the sake of abstract justice, and in the end right was proclaimed to be wrong, at best a fantasy born of her own vanity. Was Jasper right, after all? He had rather a way of being always right. Anyway, he was English and practical; sentiment had no part in his organisation. Even his love, deep as it was, was not sentiment. Rosemary had found this out before now. It was not sentiment⁠—it was elemental passion. But his views of life were built neither on sentiment nor passion. He looked at things straight, as Englishmen of a certain type do, who despise sentiment and whose unanswerable argument