Pimpernel and Rosemary - Baroness Orczy (e reader TXT) 📗

It was all very cheerless, and to Rosemary very strange. The gay little town of Kolozsvár, usually so full of animation at this late evening hour, seemed already asleep. The streets were ill-lighted; there was an air of desolation and melancholy about this place. The hotel itself had become stuffy, dirty and ill-lighted. The furniture looked dilapidated, the bed-linen was coarse and the rooms none too clean. Rosemary spent a wretched night; but she was a hardened traveller and had before now put up with worse inconveniences than these. There was always the comforting thought that it was the only night that she would spend in Cluj. The next day Count Imrey’s carriage and horses (he was not allowed to have a motorcar) would be taking her and Jasper to Kis-Imre, where a big welcome and every conceivable luxury awaited them both.

All that she was waiting for now was to see Anna Heves; little Anna, as Peter called her, the pretty, enthusiastic child to whom Rosemary had promised to give a kiss for Peter’s sake. And in the morning, just as Rosemary had finished putting up her hair and slipped into a dressing-gown preparatory to going in to breakfast with Jasper, there was a knock at the door and Anna came in. Sweet, enthusiastic Anna, who gazed at her shyly with Peter’s eyes and then smiled with Peter’s smile. She would have been pretty, too, but for the unhealthy pallor of her cheeks and the dark rings that circled her eyes⁠—Peter’s eyes!

“I am so ashamed, Miss Fowkes,” Anna murmured shyly; but at once Rosemary broke in, stretching out her arms:

“Aren’t you going to kiss me, Anna?”

With a pathetic little cry the girl ran into Rosemary’s arms, and, her head buried on her friend’s shoulder, she burst into tears. Rosemary let her cry for a moment of two; her own eyes were anything but dry, for with a quick glance she had taken in the girl’s changed appearance, also the shabby clothing, the worn boots, the unmistakable air of grinding poverty and, worse still, of insufficient food. Poor little Anna! If Peter saw her now!

After a few moments the girl raised her head and dabbed away her tears. Rosemary led her to the sofa, made her sit down beside her, and took both her thin little hands in hers.

“To begin with you must not call me Miss Fowkes, Anna,” she said. “I was always Rosemary, wasn’t I?”

Anna nodded, and a wan little smile struggled round her lips.

“And, you know, I am married now,” Rosemary went on. “Hadn’t you heard?”

Anna shook her head. She could not yet trust herself to speak.

“Of course,” Rosemary said gaily, “how stupid of me. Jasper and I were married very quietly in London, and we are not people of such importance that your Hungarian papers would chronicle the fact. My husband is Lord Tarkington, the best and kindest of men. I’ll tell him presently that you are here. He would love to see you.”

“No, no, Rosemary dear!” Anna broke in quickly, “don’t tell Lord Tarkington that I am here. I⁠—I never see strangers now. You see, I have no decent clothes, and⁠—”

“Jasper would look at your sweet little face, Anna, and never notice your clothes. And you are not going to call my husband a stranger, are you?”

Then, as Anna was silent, and with head bent appeared to be staring into nothingness, Rosemary continued lightly, even though her heart felt heavy at sight of the havoc wrought in this young thing by miseries at which she could still only guess.

“By the way, little ’un,” she said, “I don’t yet know what you are doing in Kolozsvár⁠—or Cluj⁠—tiresome name, I never can remember it! Your cousin, Peter Blakeney, told me I should find you here, and that he had written to tell you I should be at the Pannonia today; but that is all I know. Where is your mother?”

“She is still in Ujlak, of course,” the girl replied more calmly, “looking after the place as best she can. But, of course, it is very hard and very, very difficult. They have taken away so much of the land, some of the best pasture, over twelve hundred acres; mother has only about two hundred left. There is not enough for the horses’ feed. Mother had to have ten brood mares destroyed this spring. It was no use trying to keep them, and she could not bring herself to sell them. Imagine mother having her mares killed! It would have broken her heart, only she has had so much to endure lately she⁠—”

Once more the girl broke down; a lump in her throat choked the bitter words. Rosemary frowned.

“But, then, why are you not at home with your mother, Anna?” she asked.

“I earn a little money here, and Marie is at home. She is younger than I, you remember, and she was always mother’s favourite.”

“How do you earn money, Anna? At what?”

Anna hesitated for a moment. She looked up and saw Rosemary’s eyes fixed questioningly upon her, and those eyes were so full of kindness that the girl’s reticence, even her bitterness, melted under the warmth of that gaze.

“I help in the shop of Balog, the grocer,” she replied simply.

“Balog, the grocer? You?”

The cry of surprise, almost of horror, had come involuntarily to Rosemary’s lips. She thought of Mrs. Blakeney, the exquisite grande dame who, after her marriage to Peter’s father, the eminent scientist, had won her position in English society by her charm, her tact and that air of high breeding which is becoming so obsolete these days. She thought of Peter himself, who had inherited so much of his mother’s charm and all her high-souled notions of noblesse oblige, of what was due to birth and descent. Did Peter know what little Anna was suffering under this new regime brought about by a treaty of peace that was to bring the millennium to all the peoples of Europe? With a sudden impulse Rosemary put her arms once more