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

consulted about the cricket match and the tournament, for these were to be done on English lines! But the dancing and the acting and the picnics, these were to be truly and entirely Hungarian⁠—prewar Hungarian, the gayest, merriest things darling Rosemary had ever seen.

How much she had looked forward to Peter’s coming, Rosemary did not know until after she had seen him. What hopes she had built on his mere presence, on his nearness, she did not own to herself until afterwards. He had not been in the house many hours before she realised that he had changed. Not changed for the worse, of course not⁠—but changed.

He seemed younger, more boyish⁠—more English in many ways. At one time the Hungarian strain had been very conspicuous in Peter⁠—his tempestuous lovemaking, his alternating moods of fatalism and rebellion had always reminded Rosemary of those barbaric chieftains⁠—his forbears about whom she loved to read⁠—who had been up and fought the Turks, while the rest of Europe only trembled at thought of their approach.

But now Peter was much more like the conventional young English athlete: not very loquacious, very placid, ashamed of showing emotion or excitement, standing about for the most part with his hands in his trousers pockets contemplating the toes of his boots, and smoking innumerable cigarettes. He had not seemed like this at first. He arrived in the late afternoon, and Rosemary was downstairs in the paved courtyard when the carriage drove in through the gates, with its four spanking greys shining with lather, for the day had been very hot and the roads were dusty. Peter was on the box, having dislodged the coachman, who sat beside him, the groom being relegated to the cushioned seat of the victoria.

There was such a halloing and a shouting, everyone screaming a welcome, grooms rushing to hold the horses, the greys pawing and champing and snorting, that Rosemary hardly saw Peter when he threw the reins to the coachman, jumped down from the box, and was lost in a forest of welcoming arms that hid him completely from view.

It was only after dinner, when the whole company went out into the garden to get a breath of air, that Rosemary found herself for a few moments alone with him. It had been desperately hot indoors, and the noise of all these dear people all talking and laughing at the same time had been overpowering. Fortunately everyone thought it would be lovely in the garden, and still laughing and chattering they trooped out like a brood of chickens let out of a coop. Rosemary had wandered on ahead of the others, and presently she turned down the path that ran along the perennial border, now a riot of colour and a tangle of late lilies, crimson pentstemons and evening primroses.

Rosemary did not hear Peter coming. No one ever dressed for dinner at Kis-Imre, and Peter had his tennis shoes on, and the rubber soles made not the slightest sound upon the smooth gravel path. She had stopped to look at a clump of tiger lilies, when suddenly a wonderful sense of well-being seemed to descend upon her soul. It was as if she had stepped out of a boat that had been tossed about a stormy sea, and had all of a sudden set her foot upon firm ground. The first words he said were so like the foolish, lighthearted Peter she knew.

“You wonderful pixie!” he said, “I can’t believe that it is really you!”

She did not immediately turn to look at him, but went on studying the markings on the lilies; then she said, as indifferently as she could:

“Why didn’t you let me know sooner, Peter, that you were coming to Transylvania? In fact,” she went on coolly, “you never did let me know at all. I first heard through others that you were here.”

“Who told you?” he asked.

“I think Jasper did first,” she replied. “He had heard the news from General Naniescu.”

Then only did she turn and look at him. She had to look up, because, though she herself was very tall, one always had to look up at Peter, who was a young giant. At this moment she certainly did not think that he was changed. He looked just the same, with his very boyish face and laughing grey eyes, and his fair hair that so often looked as if it had been Marcel-waved. He was looking down at her when she turned to him, and suddenly he said:

“You don’t look happy, Rosemary!”

Of course she laughed and told him not to make silly remarks. How could she help being happy here with these dear, kind people? Never, never in all her life had she met with such kindness and hospitality. Peter shrugged his shoulders. He thrust his hands in the pockets of his flannel trousers and looked down at the toes of his shoes.

“Very well,” he said lightly, “if you won’t tell me, you won’t. And that’s that. But let me tell you this: though I dare say I am a bit of a fool, I am not quite such an ass as not to see the difference in you. You’ve gotten thinner. When I first arrived and shook hands with you, your hand felt hot, and your eyes⁠—”

He broke off abruptly, and then with sudden irrelevance: “Where’s Jasper?”

“Gone to⁠—,” she began, and suddenly came to a halt. When she promised Jasper not to breathe a word of Philip’s and Anna’s affairs to Peter, she had not realised how difficult this would be. Would she be breaking her promise if she now told Peter that Jasper was in Bucharest? He would ask questions, more questions which Rosemary’s promise bound her not to answer.

“He has been called away on business,” she said curtly.

Her hesitation had only lasted a second or two; she hoped that Peter had not noticed it. Anyway, when he asked: “To Budapest?” she replied, without hesitation this time: “Yes, to Budapest.” And she added quite gaily: “He’ll be back