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

He settled himself down on the sofa and tried to draw her down to him. But Rosemary was not in the mood for sentiment. Reason whispered to her that Jasper was right⁠—he was always right, worse luck!⁠—she knew that Philip Imrey had acted foolishly⁠—very, very foolishly⁠—and that, as a matter of fact, in this case the commandant (or whoever was responsible for Philip’s arrest) was entirely within his rights. She certainly, as an impartial spectator of events, brought here for the express purpose of seeing the truth and nothing but the truth, could not in conscience make capital of this incident. She had come out here determined not to act on impulse, but to judge coolly and without bias, and thus to consolidate her reputation as one of the foremost women journalists of the day. With Sir Philip Gibbs as her master, and model, she could not go back on the ideal of justice and impartiality which she had set herself. But she did want to save Philip Imrey from the consequences of his own folly. And, above all, she wanted to know what had become of Anna.

“I cannot leave them alone, Jasper,” she said slowly “I cannot. All this petty tyranny makes my blood boil.”

Jasper sighed somewhat impatiently. “I know, my dear, I know,” he reiterated vaguely.

Rosemary did not continue the discussion for the moment; Jasper was so right in everything he said, and Philip Imrey had been desperately foolish. Now she blamed herself for not having worked on Anna’s mind and dissuaded her from lending herself to her cousin’s mad schemes. She mentioned Anna’s name to her husband, but Jasper, knowing nothing of the girl’s dangerous activities in Balog’s grocery stores, could not, of course, see that Anna was in any kind of danger.

“But,” Rosemary argued, “Anna and Philip are first cousins, they see a great deal of one another⁠—”

“Do they?” Jasper ejaculated. “But even so, my dear, you surely are not going to suppose that the Romanian Government is going to lay hands on all Philip Imrey’s relations, just because he has run his silly head into a noose.”

“No! No!” Rosemary protested vaguely.

But she could not say anything more on the subject of Anna. Anna had told her everything in confidence: “I know I can trust you, Rosemary,” the child had said, and Rosemary could not betray that confidence⁠—not even by speaking of it all to Jasper⁠—not even by hinting at it. If the peril became more imminent⁠—if Anna herself was in danger⁠—then perhaps. But not now.

Rosemary tried to swallow some breakfast, just to please Jasper, for his kind, grave eyes looked quite sad, and she did not want to add to his anxiety. But her thoughts were dwelling on Elza.

“I wonder if she could bear to see me,” she said presently.

“You can always ask,” was Jasper’s wise suggestion.

Rosemary found Elza Imrey outwardly quite calm and resigned. That woman had a marvellous fund of common sense and self-control. What she suffered no one should know. Only when she read true understanding and mute sympathy in Rosemary’s eyes, she gave an answering look which contained such a depth of sorrow and anxiety that Rosemary’s heart was overwhelmed with pity. In these few hours Elza had aged twenty years. Anton had brought the news across from the lodge to the château in the early morning as soon as the Romanian soldiers had gone away. The gracious countess had received the news with extraordinary indifference, was the verdict on the incident below stairs; Rosa was crying her eyes out, all the menservants went about cursing and swearing and threatening to kill someone, but the gracious countess had not shed one tear. When she had heard Anton’s report, she asked a few questions: what suit had the gracious count put on? did he take an overcoat? what shoes did he wear? and so on; but never a tear. Then she said: “Very well, Anton, you may go!” and that was all. No! No! It was not natural. But then these great ladies!⁠ ⁠… One never knew!

No one ever did know to what height a mother’s heroism could go. Elza, with her heart nearly broken, thought only of what was best for Philip.

“Of course, he has done nothing!” she reiterated over and over again, “so they can’t do anything to him.”

Then her voice would break on a note of pathetic appeal; she would seize Rosemary’s hands and search the depths of her English friend’s eyes, with the look of a poor stricken animal begging for sympathy.

“Can they?” she asked, and Rosemary would shake her head, not trusting herself to speak. It was no use now rending the mother’s heart, adding another load of anxiety to the heavily burdened soul. Elza would know soon enough. Soon enough! And she could do nothing even if she knew now.

Maurus was shut up in his own apartments, tearing up and down like a beast in its cage, raging and swearing. That was his temperament, Elza said philosophically, with a shrug; the Armenian blood in him. (She never would admit the gipsy strain.) Fortunately the servants were all Hungarian; faithful and discreet. They knew him. When he was in one of those moods they fled from him; but not one of them would betray him. Now he was threatening to kill every Romanian that ever crossed his path. Well, fortunately there was no one to hear him⁠—only the servants, and they would hold their tongues.

“Maurus won’t understand,” Elza explained to Rosemary, “that our chance is submission. If they turn us out of here it will be the end of Philip’s inheritance. We must save that at all costs. What is the sacrifice of a little pride when it means so much for Philip’s future. Things can’t go on as they are⁠—not for long, and if only I can keep Maurus quiet, we shall have Philip back here in a week.”

Then she harked back on the old refrain. “He has done nothing. They can’t do anything to him.