Читать книгу Pimpernel and Rosemary - Emmuska Orczy - Страница 13

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Elza Imrey talked very freely with Rosemary, and often referred to her husband having taken the oath of allegiance to the King of Roumania. It was all because of Philip. "What I am working for," she said, with the light almost of a fanatic in her eyes, "and what I shall work for so long as I have breath left in my body, is to save Philip's inheritance. The Roumanians are lying in wait for us, watching for an excuse to expel us from Transylvania. Many have had to go. Nothing would induce them to be false to the oath that they had sworn to the anointed King of Hungary. So they had to go. Sometimes at twenty-four hours' notice, bag and baggage, turned out of the home their forbears had owned for hundreds of years. But I would not do that. I had to think of Philip. The Roumanian occupation is now an accomplished fact, and we are too helpless, too friendless, not to accept it. But we must be very careful. One false step and we are done. Imagine how I tremble every time Maurus lets himself go. You know how unguarded he always is in his speech."

Rosemary felt an actual physical pain in her heart when she thought of this devoted mother's brave struggle to guard her son's inheritance, and how little she guessed that Philip himself was jeopardizing his future and risking his life in a cause that she was proclaiming hopeless. Those rides to Cluj! The meeting with Anna Heves! The dispatch of those newspaper articles of his! And Government spies lurking everywhere!

But during meals all unpleasant subjects were vetoed. Rosemary would have none of them, and her wishes, as the honoured guest, were law in this hospitable house. These good people, with their mercurial temperament, had a wonderful gift of casting aside trouble and giving themselves over to the pleasures of the moment. And so at dinner in the evenings the gipsy band not yet driven forth out of the neighbouring village would discourse sweet music, the tender, sad Hungarian refrains that appeal to the stranger almost as much as they do to the native.

Rosemary, who was an exquisite dancer, longed to tread the measure of the csàrdàs, the Hungarian national dance, which begins with a dreamy, languorous slow movement, and then suddenly breaks into a wild, mad whirl, wherein the dancer's eyes glow with excitement, their cheeks burn like fire, and their breath comes and goes through quivering, parted lips. Surely the merriest, maddest, most intoxicating dance devised by a passionate people—probably for the letting off of some inward steam that must find vent in such rapturous movements from time, or it would consume them with its glow.

"I think Lady Tarkington is quite splendid," Maurus Imrey said to Jasper, in the intervals of beating time with hand and foot to the ever-quickening measure of the dance. "Hey, you confounded gipsy!" he cried, shouting to the swarthy, perspiring leader of the band. "Quicker! Quicker! Can't you hear me speak? Do you think you are playing a funeral march?"

"I think," Jasper put in, with his quiet smile, "if the musicians put on anymore speed, Rosemary for one will be crying 'Mercy!'"

But for the moment Rosemary showed no sign of crying any such thing. Her nimble feet had quickly caught the quaint, syncopated rhythm, and Philip was a magnificent teacher. Perhaps there was some truth in saying that he had inherited a strain of gipsy blood, for indeed when he danced the csàrdàs there was something barbaric about his movements. They were full of grace and perfect in rhythm, but all the time they gave the impression of wild roamings through desert lands, of a will that brooked to fetters and was a law unto itself. Rosemary gave herself wholly to the pleasure of being whirled round, turned and twisted, sometimes lifted off her feet. All intellectuality fell away from her for the time being: she was just like a young and beautiful animal in enjoyment of the senses kind Nature had given her, the sound of that intoxicating music, the feeling of unfettered movement, the scent of dying roses in huge vases, that sent their sweet indefinable fragrance through the heat-laden air.

Faster, ever faster! Little hoarse cries escaped her throat as Philip seized her with one arm round the waist, and, lifting her off her feet, twirled her round and round till the golden lights of the shaded candles swam like the trail of comets before her eyes.

Faster! Always faster! She could hardly see now out of her eyes; all that she saw was Philip's dark, curly hair waving around his forehead. The music seemed now a part of the universe, not played by one band of musicians, but the very atmosphere itself vibrating and resounding, forcing her to tread the measure and not to leave off, to go on—and on—and on—always hearing the music—always lifted off her feet and whirled round and round—

Then suddenly everything ceased all at once. The music, the movement, everything. Rosemary would have fallen, giddy, dazed, but for the fact that Jasper, quick as lightening, had caught her in his arms. Her instinct was to laugh.

"What happened?" she asked, rather wildly.

Then only did she look about her. First she saw Jasper's face bending over her, but he was not looking at her: he was gazing straight across the room. Rosemary's eyes followed his gaze. And all at once she gave a gasp, which she smothered instantly by clapping her hand to her mouth. The whole aspect of the room had changed. The gipsies seemed to have shrunk into a dark corner, with their instruments tucked hastily under their arms; they seemed to be trying to make themselves invisible. Two of them had crawled under the piano; only their feet, in shabby, down-at-heel shoes, protruded under the folds of rich brocade that covered the instrument.

And in the centre of the room there was a group of men, some half-dozen, in the uniform of the Roumanian army. One of them had his hand on Philip's shoulder. Philip stood in the midst of them; his dark face was still flushed with the dance, his curly hair clung to his streaming forehead. He was still panting with the movement and excitement of a moment ago, and his eyes, dark and glowing, wandered ceaselessly from one soldier's face to another.

Under the lintel of the great double doors that gave on the hall a couple of men servants stood, scared.

Rosemary's ears were buzzing and she saw everything through a veil; the room had not yet quite ceased whirling about her, but through the din in her ears and the hammering in her head she heard the ominous words: "Resistance will do you no good. You had best come quietly." They were spoken in Roumanian, which Rosemary understood.

Then there came a cry like that of a wounded beast, and Maurus Imrey jumped to his feet. With head down he charged into the soldiers just like an infuriated bull. Of course, he was seized at once, dragged back, forced down into a chair, where, with arms gripped by the soldiers, he launched forth a torrent of invective and abuse, and now and then, when he succeeded in freeing one of his arms, he hit out to right and left with his fist.

One of the soldiers, who appeared to be in command, spoke to him with cold deliberation:

"You are behaving like a fool, M. le Comte," he said. "For let me tell you that if you interfere with my men in the execution of their duty I will take you along, too."

Maurus's answer to this sound piece of advice was a fresh torrent of vituperation. He shook himself free from the hands that held him down, raised a menacing fist, and cried hoarsely:

"If you dare to touch me, you miserable—"

But suddenly stronger arms than those of the soldiers were thrown around him and forced him back into the chair. They were his wife's arms. Elza Imrey throughout all this had thought of nothing but the danger to Philip. The humiliation of this descent upon her house, the insolent attitude of the soldiers, this bringing home the fact of alien occupation and alien government, hardly affected her. Her one thought was Philip. The danger to Philip doubled and trebled by his father's ungoverned temper. And, my God, if he should strike one of the soldiers! So she held Maurus down, held her hand across his mouth; and Rosemary could hear her whispering in a thick, choked voice:

"Maurus, in God's name! Maurus, keep quiet! Maurus, for Philip's sake, hold your tongue!"

He struggled desperately, but she held him as only a mother can hold that which threatens her child. The soldier looked on with a sardonic smile. When Maurus at last was forced into silence, he shrugged his shoulders and said dryly:

"You are very wise, madame, to keep M. le Comte's temper in check for him. My orders are that if any resistance is offered to take all three of you along. I need not tell you that after that you two will be sent packing out of the country, and your son—"

A cry from Elza broke into his complacent speech. At once she became humble, cringing, all the pride of the aristocrat was submerged in the devastating anxiety of the mother. She still held Maurus down, for she dared not loosen her hold on him, but she turned a tear-stained face, pathetic-looking in its expression of appeal, toward the Roumanian.

"You must not take any notice of his lordship, captain," she said, trying in vain to speak lightly and to steady her voice. "You—you have known him for years, haven't you? You remember—he was always a little excitable—you used to amuse yourselves—you and your brother officers—by making him angry with one of the peasants, and seeing the men's terror of him? You remember," she reiterated, with the same pathetic effort at conciliation, "when we were at Tusnàd and you were in garrison at Sinaia, you used to motor over for luncheons and balls and—"

"It is not a part of a soldier's duty, madame," the young soldier broke in curtly, "to remember such incidents. If M. le Comte will cease to insult my men, we will leave him in peace. Otherwise you both come with me."

He turned sharply on his heel and spoke with one of his men. Apparently he was willing to give Maurus Imrey time to make up his mind what he would do. Rosemary still could hear Elza's voice thick and hoarse with anxiety:

"Maurus, in the name of Heaven—" The same refrain, the same reiterated prayer for submission, the one thing that would help to make Philip's lot easier. They could not do anything to Philip, of course. What had the poor lad done? Nothing. The mother racked her brain, thinking, thinking what he had done. Nothing. He had taken the oath of allegiance to the new King. Next year he would do his military service, a perfect hell; but Philip had never grumbled. And he had never joined in with those senseless political groups who met at night in out-of-the-way places about Cluj and dreamed dreams of freeing Hungary one day, Philip had never done anything so foolish. This cloud, therefore, would blow over. It was all a mistake, a misunderstanding. With silence and submission it would all blow over.

But Philip all along had never said a word. The first inkling that he had of this sudden danger that threatened him was the grip of a heavy hand upon his shoulder. Breathless with the dance, he had not made a movement or uttered a word of protest. His great, dark gipsy eyes wandered defiantly from the captain's face to those of the men, but he asked no questions. He knew well enough what had happened.

Two days ago he had ridden over to Cluj with certain newspaper articles in his pocket. He had given them to Anna. Together the cousins had spent one of those happy days which seemed to compensate them for all the risks they ran. Well, he had been suspected, spied upon and followed. The strain of fatalism which ran through his veins with the gipsy blood of his forbear bade him to accept the inevitable. Slowly his dark face became composed, his lips ceased to twitch, and the roaming glance of his dark eyes became fixed. Rosemary, looking up, saw the glance fixed upon her. In it she read the word: "Anna!" Philip was pleading to her mutely, desperately, for Anna. And this intuition which came to her when she met Philip's glance gave her the power to shake off the torpor that had invaded her limbs when the dance ceased so suddenly and she had fallen backwards into Jasper's arms.

Like Philip himself, she saw what had happened. The spies, the ride to Cluj, the articles given to Anna. And now the arrest of Philip and the deadly peril that threatened the girl.

"Can we do anything?" she whispered hurriedly to Jasper, and with quick, nervy movements she patted her hair into place and readjusted her tumbled gown.

Jasper shook his head. "We should do no good by interfering," he said gravely.

But Rosemary was in no mood to listen. She remembered Naniescu and his promises, the powers he had given her, the request that she should speak the truth. She felt that she was a force to be conciliated, and here was the moment to test her own power.

Without another word she ran out of the room and then through the great hall to the outer vestibule, where stood the telephone. While she took down the receiver and hurriedly gave the number of the Imrey palace at Cluj, she prayed in her heart that a few minutes' respite would be granted her before the soldiers marched Philip away.

"Hallo! Hallo! His Excellency General Naniescu! Lady Tarkington wishes to speak with his Excellency at once!! Say it is urgent—most urgent. Yes, Lady Tarkington, the English lady at Kis-Imre. No, no, never mind the name, please. Just say the English lady from Kis-Imre."

Another moment or two of agonizing suspense, then Naniescu's mellow voice. Thank God! He was at home, and she was through to him.

"General Naniescu? Lady Tarkington speaking! Thank you, I am well—very well, yes, my first article goes early next week. Yes, quite happy so far. General Naniescu, Philip Imrey has been summarily arrested...I don't know...There's a captain in charge. No, he did not say...Yes, I am sure it is a mistake, but the mistake may prove fatal unless—Yes, yes! You will? Really? To-morrow morning? You are kind. I hardly liked to ask you. Of course, I shall be here. Will you speak to the captain yourself now? I thank you with all my heart. Will you hold the line? I'll send the captain to you. I don't know how to thank you. No, nothing else to-night; but I am looking forward to thanking you myself to-morrow morning. About ten o'clock. Yes! Thank you a thousand times. Good night!"

She had hardly finished speaking when she heard the tramping of feet coming from the drawing-room and then across the hall, and glancing round, she saw the soldiers filing out two by two, with their captain beside them and Philip in their midst. There was no other sound except this tramping of feet. No protests, no shrieks. Philip in the midst of the soldiers, and behind them Elza creeping along, silent, watchful, her great eyes fixed upon what she could see of her son—the dark, curly hair and sometimes the top of his shoulder.

Rosemary waited until the captain was quite close to her. He saluted and was about to pass, when, like a triumphant goddess, she turned and faced him.

"His Excellency the Governor, on the telephone." she said curtly, and held the receiver out to the young soldier. "He desires to speak with you."

The Roumanian, obviously very much taken aback, looked at her for a moment or two, frowning before he took the receiver from her. The group of soldiers had halted, waiting for further orders. Behind them Elza hovered, her white face and golden hair alone visible in the gloom.

After that instant's hesitation the captain put the receiver to his ear.

"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 realization, 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 arm-chair, 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 Roumanians.

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."