Pimpernel and Rosemary by Baroness Orczy (ebook reader 7 inch TXT) 📕

the window with eyes that failed to take in the beauties of successive landscapes, her mind gradually became at peace with her heart. Her youth, her buoyancy of spirits, reasserted themselves, made her envisage life in all its brightest aspects, as it presented itself before her with cornucopia filled to the brim with all that made it worth the living. Work and a noble mate! What more could heart of woman desire? And Rosemary closed her eyes, and in a quickly fleeting dream sighed for the one thing that would have made her life a paradise, and⁠—still dreaming⁠—she felt hot tears of regret trickle slowly down her cheeks.

She woke to feel Jasper’s arms around her and his lips kissing away her tears.

VIII

Budapest had been baking all day under a merciless sun in late July. But at this hour the coolness of a clear moonlit evening sent everyone out of doors. The Corso was crowded.

Rosemary Tarkington, on the terrace of the café, sat sipping delicious coffee and lazily watching the throng. Now and then she would look straight out before her, and her eyes would lose all sense of fatigue as she gazed on the incomparable panorama before her: the ornate palace of the Hapsburgs, and the cathedral of St. Matthias, and on the left, towering above all, high upon the rock, the great grim fortress that for over a century had held the Turks at bay and saved Europe from the hordes of Islam. One by one tiny lights began to wink and to blink in the houses that rose tier upon tier on the slopes across the river, whilst down below gaily illuminated boats flitted to and fro upon the turbulent waters of the Danube, carrying a burden of merrymakers home from the shady island of Ste. Marguerite close by. The whole scene before Rosemary’s eyes was one of unrivalled picturesqueness and animation. No town in Europe presents quite so enthralling a spectacle, and one whose charm is still further enhanced by the strains of those half-sad, half-voluptuous Hungarian melodies which come to the ear from out the shadows, or from the passing river boats, gentle as a caress, soothing to nerves and senses by their sweet melancholy rhythm, or exhilarating when they break into their peculiarly harmonious syncopated cadences.

Rosemary had specially elected to put up at the Hungaria rather than in one of the more modern, recently built hotels. For her the Hungaria was full of associations, of joyous times spent there when she was still a schoolgirl in the days before the war. She had travelled in Hungary and Transylvania under ideal conditions with Mrs. Blakeney, Peter’s mother, seeing the best this romantic country had to offer, welcomed always with that large-hearted hospitality peculiar to these kindly people. But memory recalled more strenuous times, too, those in the early days of her journalistic career, when her heart was filled with pity for the sufferings of a proud and ill-starred country, whose fairest lands had been flung like rags by thoughtless politicians as a sop to those who had been her associates in the war until the hour when self-interest prompted them to throw in their lot with the other side.

“You must be very tired, Lady Tarkington,” a pleasant voice said close to her elbow.

“Not tired,” Rosemary replied, “but rather dazed. The journey over from England is slower and much more fatiguing than it used to be.”

Captain and Mrs. Payson were sitting beside her at the table. Recently attached to the British Military Mission in Hungary, Captain Payson and his young wife lived at the Hungaria. It had been a great pleasure for them to see Rosemary again, whom they had known for several years, and after supper they had all foregathered on the terrace over their coffee. Some few minutes before this Jasper had elected to take a turn on the Corso, to stretch his legs and to smoke a cigar, but Rosemary felt too lazy to move, and she like to talk to the Paysons, who were genial and intellectual, and with whom she had a great deal in common in the way of associations and friends.

“The place has not altered much,” Rosemary went on after a while. “The people here are always gay and cheerful⁠—in spite of⁠—of everything.”

“Yes,” little Mrs. Payson assented lightly. “Give them their music, their delicious wines and perfect cooking, and nine out of ten Hungarians won’t care if they are ruled by King or Emperor, by foreign tyrant or Bolshevist ruffian.”

“I always think Ruth is wrong when she says that,” Captain Payson put in earnestly. “The Hungarians are sportsmen, as we are, and they are taking their punishment like sportsmen. They are not going to let the world see how much they suffer. In that way they are very different from the Germans.”

“They behaved with unparalleled folly,” Rosemary remarked.

“Yes,” the captain retorted, “and with commendable loyalty. The Hungarians are a nation of gentlemen, just as the British. They, like ourselves, are worshippers of tradition. They are royalists in their hearts, almost to a man. Just thing what their feelings must be whenever they look across the river and gaze on that gorgeous palace over there, whence their anointed King has been driven by petty foreign politicians who scarcely knew where Hungary was situated on the map.”

Before Rosemary could pursue the subject she caught sight of her husband forging his way towards her between the crowded tables of the terrace.

“Naniescu is down below,” Jasper said as soon as he had reached his wife’s side. “I told him you were up here, and he said he wished to pay his respects. He is talking to some friends for the moment, but he will be here directly.”

“Then Ruth and I had better run,” Captain Payson said lightly. “He and I are always on the verge of a quarrel when we meet.”

He and his wife rose and took their leave; there was much talking and laughing and promises to meet on the morrow.