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

once gave way under her, and she fell up against the sofa, with arms outspread upon the cushions. With head thrown back, she gazed unseeing up at the ceiling, and this time it was a real hysterical outburst that caused her to laugh and to laugh, until laughter broke into a sob, and burying her face in her hands she burst into a flood of tears. XIV

Rosemary, being very human and very young, felt all the better after she had had a good cry. Better mentally, that is to say. Physically she was tired, hot, overstrained; her eyes ached, her limbs ached, her head ached, but mentally she felt better.

Presently she struggled back to her feet, dabbed her eyes with cold water, put powder on her nose and a comb through her hair. She did not want to look a sight when presently Jasper came back from his walk and she told him all that had happened.

By the way, where was Jasper?

Rosemary was just aching to review the whole situation with him. No need now for secrecy with regard to Philip and little Anna’s foolish conspiracy. Soon the whole world would know of it, friend and foe alike. And Jasper would be able to help, of course, or at any rate to advise. He had done so much for the Romanian Government in the past, there was just a chance they might do something at his request⁠—out of gratitude.

Gratitude? Rosemary smiled ironically to herself at thought of connecting so gentle an emotion with men like Naniescu. Still, Jasper might think of something, of some way out of the situation, which Rosemary still persisted in thinking unreal. It was, of course, the climax of a plan formed as far back as the Five Arts’ Ball at the Albert Hall, when Naniescu first proposed to her that she should come to Transylvania. To get her here, then to close on Philip and Anna a trap which had no doubt long ago been set, and finally to use them as a lever in order to force her, Rosemary, to write those articles which would sooth the vanity of Romanian bureaucrats and throw dust in the eyes of the sentimental public.

As if in response to Rosemary’s wish for his presence, Jasper presently walked in, courteous, chivalrous, full of apologies for having left her to face Naniescu alone.

“I must have been dreaming,” he said contritely, “while I wandered out of the park, for, all of a sudden, I found myself away upon the mountainside, thinking of you. Your dear face peeped at me through the trees, and then I realised that I was leaving you in the lurch, and that you might be wanting me⁠—and I not there! Can you, I wonder, forgive me?”

He sat down beside her on the sofa and took her hand, and one by one he kissed each rosy fingertip.

“Wherever I am, little one,” he said softly, “I always see you. Your presence beside me this morning was so real that I was never wholly conscious that you were not actually there. Will you forgive me?” he asked again.

Rosemary turned to him with a smile. There was no one in the world quite so kind as Jasper; his kind, grave eyes were fixed on her with such a look of adoration that instinctively Rosemary nestled closer to him like a trusting child, and on an impulse she told him everything: the arrest of Philip Imrey and of little Anna, and Naniescu, and his mind appeared to wander, as if he were thinking of something else, and Rosemary harkened in vain for a word of indignation from him when she told him about Naniescu’s abominable “either-or.” Yet she studied his face very closely, those fine aristocratic features with their somewhat affected wearied expression, and the dark eyes set closely together like those of an eagle or a hawk. He said nothing. He only looked as if he were thinking hard. Pondering over something that puzzled and worried him. Rosemary wondered what it was. And later on, when she pressed him with questions, he seemed to drag himself back to the present situation with a great effort of nerve and will, and even then he did not appear to have a firm grasp of it. He put irrelevant counter-questions, and once or twice answered at random. His chief concern seemed to be that she, Rosemary, knowing the foolish game Philip and Anna were playing, had not succeeded in putting a stop to it.

“The girl appeared sensible enough,” he said almost irritably. “I believe she would have listened to you. That sort of thing is just romantic nonsense. It never does any good, and more often than not it brings trouble on the innocent rather than on the guilty. The same thing applies to the Germans, the Austrians and to the Hungarians. They have been beaten and they have got to take their punishment. All these political intrigues are just folly!”

Of course Jasper was right. Of course he was sensible, and just and clear-thinking. But while Rosemary paid ungrudging tribute to his judgement, she felt more and more chilled by his total lack not only of sympathy but even of attention, as if the matter of Philip and Anna’s life and liberty hardly interested him. Now Rosemary hardly liked to ask him for advice, for fear he might tell her to assent to Naniescu’s wish⁠—and to write those articles against which her sense of right and wrong, of truth and professional honour rebelled.

She could almost hear Jasper saying:

“You can get quite near the truth in your articles and satisfy Naniescu and you will save those two hotheads from the consequences of their own indiscretion. Believe me you would be doing far more good that way to this miserable country than Philip ever did with his ill-considered articles.”

Perhaps Jasper had actually said all this. Rosemary could not be sure. For the last few minutes her mind had been absent from