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

of the country. The attempt was unsuccessful, as you know. Philip and Anna were captured. They are in Sót now. But the two sons of János⁠—I forget their names⁠—got over the frontier safely. They joined the cricketers at Hódmezö, and are safely back at the mill now.”

“Thank God,” Rosemary exclaimed fervently, “they did not suffer for their devotion.”

“No, I am glad of that,” Maurus concluded, with obvious indifference. “But the authorities don’t trouble about the peasants. It is the landed aristocracy and the professional classes who have to suffer, if they belong to the conquered race.”

It was past ten o’clock before the small party broke up. During the latter part of the time it had been Rosemary’s turn to become silent. Maurus started the subject of politics, and Jasper carried on a desultory argument with him on that inexhaustible question. In almost weird contrast to his previous calmness, Maurus’ violent temper broke out once or twice during the course of the discussion, and it needed all Jasper’s tact and Rosemary’s soothing influence to steer clear of all that tended to aggravate him. It was the real man peeping through the armour of all the previous unnatural self-control, the gipsy blood reasserting itself⁠—self-willed, obstinate, impatient of control, bitter against humiliation. Rosemary almost welcomed the change when it came. It was more like the Maurus she knew⁠—a man eccentric and violent, walking close to but not overstepping the borderland that separates the sane from the insane. It was only when Philip, or Elza, or Kis-Imre were mentioned that he seemed to step over that borderland, encased in an armour of impish indifference.

The soldier-chauffeur brought the car round at eleven o’clock. Rosemary took affectionate leave of Maurus.

“We meet very soon,” she said. “In Hungary.”

“Yes,” he replied. “In Hungary. I shall be so thankful to be there.”

He also shook hands very cordially with Jasper.

“I am afraid this has not been a very agreeable stay for you,” he said.

“Better luck next time,” Jasper responded, as he settled himself down in the car beside his wife.

The car swung out of the gates. Rosemary, looking back, had a last vision of Maurus standing under the electric lamp in the porch, his hand waving a last farewell.

XXXIX

Rosemary must have fallen asleep in the corner of the carriage, for she woke with a start. The train had come to a halt, as it had done at two or three stations since Cluj was left behind. So it was not the sudden jerk, or the sound of the exhaust from the engine, that had caused Rosemary suddenly to sit up straight, wide awake and with that vague feeling of apprehension which comes on waking when sleep has been unconsciousness rather than rest. Jasper sat in the other corner with his eyes closed, but Rosemary did not think that he was asleep. They had a sleeping compartment, but hadn’t had the beds made up; it was perhaps less restful for the night journey, but distinctly cleaner. The carriage was in semidarkness, only a feeble ray of blue light filtered through the shade that tempered the gaslight up above.

Rosemary pulled up the blind. They were at a small station dimly lighted by one oil-lamp above the exit door. A clump of acacia trees in full leaf effectually hid the name of the station from view. A couple of soldiers stood at the door through which a number of peasants, men with bundles and women with baskets, one or two Jews in long gabardines and a prosperous-looking farmer in town clothes and top-boots were filing out. Someone blew a tin-trumpet, a couple more soldiers stalked up the line in the direction of the engine. There was a good deal of shouting.

Rosemary drew the blind down again, and tried to settle herself comfortably in her corner once more. But sleep would not come. She looked at her watch. It was past two. This seemed an unconscionably long halt, even for a train in this part of the world. Rosemary peeped again behind the blind. The station appeared quite deserted now except for the two soldiers on guard at the door. Everything seemed very still⁠—of that peculiar stillness which always seems so deep when a train comes to a halt during the night away from a busy station, and all the more deep by contrast with the previous ceaseless rumbling of the wheels. From the direction of the engine there came the sound of two men talking. Otherwise nothing.

Rosemary reckoned that they should be over the frontier soon, but, of course, if they were going to have these interminable halts⁠—

Half an hour went by. Even the distant hum of conversation had ceased, and the silence was absolute. Feeling unaccountably agitated rather than nervous, Rosemary called to Jasper. At once he opened his eyes.

“What is it, my dear?” he asked vaguely. “Where are we?” And he added, with a shake of his long, lean body: “These carriages are deuced uncomfortable.”

“We are at a small station, Jasper,” Rosemary said. “And we’ve been here over half an hour. Have you been asleep?”

“I remember this confounded train pulling up. I must have dropped off to sleep after that. I wonder where we are.”

“We can’t be very far from the frontier. I thought at first they would turn us out for the customs, or passports or something. But nothing has happened, and we don’t seem to be getting on. I do hope there has not been a breakdown on the line.”

“My dear!” Jasper exclaimed, rather impatiently, “why in the world should you think that there is a breakdown on the line? There’s a signal against us, I suppose. That’s all.”

But Rosemary was not satisfied. “Do you mind,” she said, “seeing if you can get hold of anybody. I can’t help feeling nervous and⁠—”

At once Jasper was on his feet, courteous, attentive as always. “Of course I’ll go and see, my darling,” he said. “But it’s not like you to be nervous.”

He drew back the