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

knew now that she was false to the oath which she swore before the altar, to love and cherish him. He knew that her love for Peter was not dead, and that she turned away from him because she longed for Peter’s nearness, for Peter’s love and Peter’s kisses. And Rosemary knew that with this knowledge Jasper would make of her life a hell. The love that he bore her was too absolutely physical to allow of indulgence or understanding. He would make her suffer in exact proportion as he suffered himself, and that love would make him more bitter towards her than a torturer in the Middle Ages toward his victim.

When had she given herself away? She did not know. Not today, surely. Today had only been a confirmation, not a revelation. He had known all along, and hated Peter from the hour when first he knew. He hated Peter who had once been his friend, and he would make Rosemary suffer until she could truthfully echo his words: “It is so much easier to die than to live.”

XXXIII

Half an hour later!

Rosemary thought that Jasper was still in his room, and she had a longing to get away from his nearness and out into the open. It was still raining and the sky was the colour of lead. She threw a cape over her shoulders and opened the door of her room. She was dreading to meet Jasper again, so she listened intently for awhile for any sound that might betray his presence. From Maurus’ apartments at the opposite end of the gallery there came a buzz of voices, and from down below where the servants were laying the table in the dining-room for luncheon a clatter of crockery. Otherwise silence. And no sound from Jasper’s room close by, so Rosemary ran quickly downstairs.

She had just reached the hall intending to go out into the garden when she heard a strange clatter coming apparently from the smoking-room. It sounded like a scuffle. Of course it could not be, but that was just what it sounded like. She stood still to listen. And then she heard quite distinctly a smothered cry. Something like a curse. And she thought that she recognised Jasper’s harsh voice. At once she ran to the door of the smoking-room and threw it open.

Jasper was on the ground, struggling to get back to his feet. He appeared dazed, and to be moving with difficulty. His hand was tearing at his collar, as if he were choking; his clothes were disarranged, his face looked pallid and blotchy, and his eyes bloodshot. But Rosemary did not scream when she caught sight of him. Something else that she had seen had paralysed her limbs and seemed actually to be holding her by the throat. The tall window which gave on this side of the garden was wide open, and in a flash, just as she entered the room, Rosemary had seen Peter in the act of getting over the windowsill. The next second he had disappeared over the ledge, and she heard his footsteps crunching on the gravel as he ran in the direction of the main gates.

A moment or two later Jasper had recovered his voice and the use of his limbs.

“Call to the servants!” he cried in a raucous voice. “Curse that devil⁠—he will get away.”

But Rosemary could not move. She could only stand where she was in the doorway and stare at the open window. Jasper had struggled to his feet, lurched forward and tried to push past her. He tried to call out, but the words were choked in his throat. He put his hand up again and tore at his collar, then he tottered and would have fallen backwards if Rosemary had not been quick enough and strong enough to catch him and to guide him to the nearest chair, into which he sank, half fainting. One of the servants came across the hall from the dining-room. Rosemary called to him to bring some brandy.

“The gracious lord feels faint,” she said. “Be quick, Sàndor, will you?”

As soon as Sàndor had brought the brandy, Rosemary sent him peremptorily away. Fortunately neither he nor any of the other servants had heard anything of the scuffle, and Rosemary, for very life, could not have said anything to them just then. She knelt down beside Jasper and made him swallow some of the brandy. Obviously he had not been hurt, only scared, and the scared look was still in his eyes when he came to himself.

“You haven’t let him go?” were the first words he uttered.

“Let whom go, Jasper?” Rosemary asked quietly. She rose to her feet and offered him an arm to help him get up.

“That spying devil,” Jasper replied, with a savage oath. “Peter Blakeney.”

“What in the world do you mean?”

“You know quite well what I mean. You must have seen him⁠—I told you to call the servants. Are you in collusion with him, then, that you did not do it?”

“I heard a scuffle,” Rosemary rejoined coldly, “when I reached the hall. I opened the door and saw you lying on the ground. I only had enough presence of mind to send for some brandy. Perhaps you will tell me what else happened.”

“What else?” he retorted, with a sneer. He had risen and gone over to the mirror to readjust his clothes. She could see his face in the glass, livid with passion, his eyes fixed upon her reflection, while he fumbled with his tie and collar. But even while she watched him she saw a change come slowly over his face. The colour came back to his cheeks, his eyes narrowed, and an indefinable expression crept into them. Perhaps he did not know that Rosemary was watching; certain it is that she had never seen such an expression on his face before⁠—the lips parted above the teeth, which gleamed sharp and white and gave the mouth a cruel, wolfish