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

Henly Oldemarsh. The following year somebody else died and he was Viscount Rawcliffe, and when last I saw him he was the Marquis of Barchester. Since then I have lost sight of him, but I have no doubt that when I see him he will have changed his name again.”

“Vous êtes vraiment délicieux, mon cher,” Lady Orange exclaimed, more convinced than ever that there was only one aristocracy in the whole of Europe, and that was the English. “No wonder you were puzzled.”

She would have liked to have entered on a long dissertation on a subject which interested her more than any other⁠—a dissertation which would have embraced the Domesday Book and the entire feudal system; but Naniescu and Miss Fairfax were once more discussing Rosemary Fowkes and her fiancé.

“I suppose,” the Romanian was saying, “that Lord Tarkington has given up journalism altogether now?”

“I don’t know,” Miss Fairfax replied. “Lord Tarkington never talks about himself. But Rosemary will never give up her work. She may be in love with Jasper for the moment, but she is permanently enamoured of power, of social and political power, which her clever pen will always secure for her, in a greater degree even than Tarkington’s wealth and position.”

“Power?” the general said thoughtfully. “Ah, yes. The writer of those articles in the International Review can lay just claim to political power. They did my unfortunate country a good deal of harm at that time, for they appeared as a part of that insidious propaganda which we are too proud, and alas! also too poor, to combat adequately. Over here in England people do not appear to understand how difficult it is to subdue a set of rebellious, arrogant people like the Hungarians, who don’t seem to have realised yet that they have lost the war.”

Lady Orange gave a little scream of horror.

“Pour l’amour de Dieu,” she exclaimed, “keep away from politics, mon cher général.”

“A thousand pardons, gracious friend,” he retorted meekly, “the sight of that lovely lady who did my poor country so much harm brought words to my tongue which should have remained unspoken in your presence.”

“I expect you would be interested to meet Rosemary,” said the practical Miss Fairfax, with her slightly malicious smile. “You might convert her, you know.”

“My only wish would be,” General Naniescu replied with obvious sincerity, “to make her see the truth. It would indeed be an honour to pay my devoirs to the lovely ‘Uno.’ ”

“I can arrange that for you easily enough,” rejoined Lady Orange.

She leaned over the edge of the box, and with that playful gesture which seemed habitual to her she tapped with her fan the shoulder of a man who was standing just below, talking to a friend.

“When this dance is over, George,” she said to him, “tell Rosemary Fowkes to come into my box.”

“Tell her that a distinguished Romanian desires to lay his homage at her feet,” Miss Fairfax added bluntly.

“Do you think Sir George will prevail on the divinity?” the general asked eagerly.

Just then the dance was over, the coloured musicians ceased to bawl, and there was a general movement and confusion down below through which Sir George Orange, ever obedient to his wife’s commands, could be seen vainly striving to find a beautiful needle in a tumbled and unruly haystack. He came back to the side of his wife’s box after a while.

“I can’t find her,” he said apologetically. “She has probably gone to get an ice or something. Tarkington was also looking for her.”

“Well,” said Lady Orange placidly, turning her surprised gaze on General Naniescu, “suppose you and M. de Kervoisin take us up to supper in the meanwhile. We’ll capture Rosemary later, I promise you.”

The party in the box broke up. The young people went downstairs to dance whilst the two foreigners gallantly escorted the elderly ladies up innumerable flights of stairs to a cold and cheerless upper story, where an exceedingly indigestible supper washed down with salad dressing and coloured soda-water was served to Pierrots, Marie Antoinettes, Indian squaws, and others who crowded round the tables and fought eagerly for unwashed forks and glasses of doubtful cleanliness.

The Five Arts’ Ball was indeed a huge success.

IV

“Would you like anything?” Peter Blakeney asked of his partner while he steered her clear of the crowded dancing floor.

“I am rather thirsty,” Rosemary replied, “but I could not stand that awful supper upstairs.”

“Well, look here,” he urged, “you slip into one of the empty boxes and I’ll forage for you.”

They found a box on the upper tier, the occupants of which had probably gone off to supper. Rosemary sat down and pulled the curtain forward; thus ensconced in a cosy corner of the box she drew a contented little sigh, glad to be in the dark and alone. Peter went to forage and she remained quite still, gazing⁠—unseeing⁠—on the moving crowd below. She was hot and felt rather breathless, her chestnut hair, below the velvet cap, clung against her forehead, and tiny beads of moisture appeared round the wings of her delicately modelled nose. The last dance had been intoxicating. Peter was a perfect dancer. Rosemary sighed again quite involuntarily: it was a little sigh of regret for those golden minutes that had gone by all too rapidly. Jasper, she reflected, would never make a dancer, but he would make a kind, considerate, always thoughtful husband. The kindest husband any woman could wish for.

Her eyes now sought the dancing floor more insistently. She had just become aware of Jasper’s tall figure moving aimlessly amidst the crowd. Dear, kind Jasper! He was looking for her, of course. Always when she was not near him he was looking for her, if not physically and actually, then with his thoughts, trying to find her, to understand her, to guess at an unspoken wish.

“Dear, kind Jasper,” Rosemary sighed and closed her eyes, in order to shut out that sudden glimpse she had just had