Pimpernel and Rosemary · Chapter 11 (2/2)

“Yes, Excellency. No, Excellency. Yes, Excellency.” Then a long, long wait, while the captain stood with the receiver against her ear, and Elza came nearer, watching, hoping, mutely questioning; and Rosemary, with glowing eyes and an enigmatic smile, put a finger up to her lips. Finally: “I quite understand, Excellency. Quite! Absolutely!” And the captain hung up the receiver.

Then he turned to Elza, who had drawn close to Rosemary, quite close; he clicked his heels together and touched his képi with his right hand.

“By order of his Excellency General Naniescu,” he said, “Count Philip Imrey is free to remain under this roof. He will give his word of honour that he will not attempt to leave the castle until after the arrival of his Excellency in the course of the morning.”

And thus the incident was closed. Philip gave the required parole, and with more clicking of heels and salutes the young captain marched out of the house, followed by his men. Then only did Elza break down, when she put her arms round Philip’s shoulders and sobbed her heart out against his breast. He appeared more dazed than relieved, and kept his eyes fixed on Rosemary, whilst with his long, thin hand he stroked and patted his mother’s hair. Rosemary gave him an encouraging glance. “It was for Anna’s sake,” her glance said mutely. “In any case, Anna will be safe.”

And the incident being closed, she went back to the drawing-room. Jasper held out a hand to her, and when she placed her hand in his he raised it to his lips. She took it as a sign of his approval, and bending down, she gave him her forehead to kiss. He just took her face between his two palms and gazed long and intently into her eyes.

He had often done that before; he loved to take hold of her face, to feel the soft velvety cheeks against his hands, and Rosemary would turn her pixie eyes to his and in one glance express all the affection, the sincere regard and fervent gratitude which she felt for him. But somehow this time it all seemed different, more intense, almost terrifying. To a sensitive woman a man’s passion, if she cannot respond to it, is always terrifying; and of course, Rosemary’s nerves were stretched now almost to breaking point. Else why should she be conscious of a sense of fear?

Jasper’s gaze was not so much searching her soul as striving to reveal his. Something in him seemed imprisoned, and he was asking her to set that something free. A force, a power, greater even than his love, so great that love itself became its slave. And this Rosemary could not understand. She had experienced something of the same sensation that afternoon in London when he had asked her to marry him before she left for Hungary. Then, as now, she had caught a glimpse of a whirlpool of passion which seethed beneath her husband’s grave, gentle manner. Then, as now, it had seemed to her as if he were trying to exert some supernatural power outside himself, to rouse an echo of his own passion in her heart. And with that glimpse into the depths of a man’s soul came the knowledge that never would it be in her power to give soul for soul or passion for passion. And yet the day would come⁠—she felt it, knew it at this moment⁠—when the man, wearied of sentimental doles, would demand her whole surrender⁠—body, brain, soul, everything, soul above all⁠—which she would not be prepared to give.

Strange that this realisation, this vague feeling akin to fear, should come to her again at this moment, when both she and Jasper were only minor actors in the drama that had just drawn to its close. Like most great moments in the inner life of the soul, it only lasted for one brief flash. It left its indelible mark on Rosemary’s memory, but it lasted less than one second. The very next she tried to recapture it, but it was gone. Jasper looked grave and kind, as he always did, busy now with getting her comfortably ensconced in a capacious armchair, with plenty of cushions behind her back. Elza came in with Philip, and Maurus roused himself from his apathy to hurl invectives against those damnable, impudent Romanians.

And the gipsy musicians, reassured, crawled out of their hiding-places, and their leader, shouldering his violin, began to play a dreamy melody. One by one the others fell in in harmony, the cello, the bass, the clarinet, and the inimitable czimbalom. “There is but one beautiful girl in all the world” was the tune that they played; its soft, languorous cadence rose and fell in the air wherein the dying roses once more sent up their voluptuous fragrance. Forgotten was the danger just past, the peril still ahead. Music, the never-failing expression of emotion in these romantic people, soothed their nerves and uttered the words which would not rise to their lips. Elza sat with Philip’s hand in hers. Rosemary, with eyes fixed far away, caught herself gazing on the memory picture of a dark recess in a box in the Albert Hall, with the noise and whirl of a big social function about her, but with the complete isolation there in the darkness; and through the deafening noise memory conjured up a man’s voice that murmured with passionate earnestness: “It is no use, my dear, thinking that all is over.”