Pimpernel and Rosemary

This was in July 1916.

The woman sat alone in the room downstairs, stitching, stitching, by the flickering light of a small oil-lamp that stood on a rickety deal table close beside her. By the side of the lamp there were some half-dozen khaki tunics, and the woman took up these tunics one by one, looked them over and patted them and turned them about and about: then she took up the scissors and undid a portion of the lining. After which she stitched that portion of the lining up again, but not before she had inserted something⁠—something that was small and white and crisp and that she took out from a fold in the bosom of her dress⁠—between the lining and the cloth.

And this she did to each of the half dozen tunics in turn.

The room was small and bare, the paper hung down from the walls in strips, but it happened to have a ceiling that had only partially fallen in during the last bombardment, and so it might be termed a luxurious room, seeing that there were very few ceilings left in Guillaumet now. There was no roof to the house, and not a pane of glass anywhere, but as it was very hot this July, this was really an advantage. Quite a pleasant draught stirred the tattered curtain that masked the broken window and fanned the woman’s dark, unruly hair about her damp forehead.

To Peter Blakeney, Rosemary Fowkes’ engagement to his friend Tarkington seemed not only incredible but impossible. The end of the world! Death! Annihilation! Hell! Anything!

But it could not be true.

He was playing at Lord’s that day; Tarkington told him the news at the luncheon interval, and Peter had thought for the moment that for once in his life Tarkington must be drunk. But Tarkington looked just as he always did⁠—grave, impassive, and wonderfully kind. Indeed, he seemed specially kind just then. Perhaps he knew. Perhaps Rosemary had told him. Women were so queer. Perhaps she did tell Tarkington that he, Peter, had once been fool enough to⁠—

Anyway, Tarkington was sober, and very grave and kind, and he told Peter in his quiet, unemotional way that he considered himself the happiest man on God’s earth. Of course he was, if Rosemary⁠—But it was impossible. Impossible! Impossible!!

That afternoon Peter hit many boundaries, and at the end of play was 148 not out.

In the evening he went to the Five Arts’ Ball at the Albert Hall.

“Oh, I know! I know!” he went on, quite slowly, and then suddenly released her hand. “Presently you will be Jasper’s wife, the wife of my best friend. And if I happen to hold your hand just one instant longer than convention permits I shall be called disloyal, a cad⁠—any ugly word that takes your fancy or the moment. So I must become less than a friend⁠—less than a distant cousin⁠—I must not hold your hand⁠—the others may⁠—I may not. They may come near you, look into your eyes⁠—see you smile⁠—my God! Rosemary, am I never to look into those glorious eyes of yours again?”

For a moment it seemed as if she was going to give him a direct answer, a soft flush rose to her cheeks, and there was a quick intake of her breath as if words would tumble out that she was determined to suppress. The struggle only lasted for a second. The next she had thrown back her head and burst into a peal of laughter.

“Why, Peter,” she exclaimed, and turned great, serious eyes upon him, “I never knew before that you read Browning.”

Her laugh had half sobered him. But evidently he had not grasped her meaning, for he frowned and murmured puzzled: “Browning?”

“Why, yes,” she said gaily. “I forgot exactly how it goes, but it is something like this: ‘I will hold your hand, just as long as all may, Or so very little longer.’ ”

“Count Philip Imrey was released at ten o’clock yesterday evening, and rearrested in the middle of the night; he was not even given the chance of saying goodbye to his parents, or of providing himself with the necessary clothing and money. I imagine, M. le Général,” Rosemary went on coldly, “that this was done by your orders, or at any rate that you were not kept in ignorance of it.”

For the fraction of a second Naniescu hesitated; then he said cynically:

“Yes; certainly I knew of it. I may even say that it was done by my orders.”

Rosemary suppressed a cry of indignation.

“Well, then?” she exclaimed hotly.

But Naniescu, not in the least taken aback, only retorted blandly:

“And how am I to interpret that enigmatic query, dear lady?”

“As a challenge to justify your actions,” was Rosemary’s bold reply.

Then, as he gave no immediate answer but allowed his mellow dark eyes to rest with a distinctly mocking glance on her face, Rosemary felt at a disadvantage. She was obviously not in a position to demand explanations from a man who belonged to the governing classes in his own country. With every belief in the power of the press, Rosemary had far too much common sense not to realise that a man in Naniescu’s position would not put up with being dictated to, or cross-examined, by a stranger, however influential he or she might be. So once again she swallowed her resentment, determined that whatever chance she had of helping the Imreys should not be wrecked through want of tact on her part.

Then suddenly he gave a bound, and in an instant had leaped the border and disappeared in the shrubbery beyond. Rosemary, taken completely by surprise, had come to a halt. From the shrubbery there came a loud cry of terror, then a swearword from Peter, and finally a string of ejaculations, all in Hungarian, and of distressful appeals for mercy in the name of all the saints in the calendar. The next moment Peter’s white flannels glimmered through the foliage, and a second or two later he reappeared lower down, coming up the path and half dragging, half pushing in front of him a huddled-up mass, scantily clothed in ragged shirt and trousers, and crowned with a broad-brimmed hat, from beneath which came a succession of dismal howls.

“What is it?” Rosemary cried.

“That’s what I want to know,” was Peter’s reply. “I caught sight of this blighter sneaking in the shrubbery, and got him by the ear, which he does not seem to like, eh, my friend?”

He gave the ear which he held between his fingers another tweak, and in response drew a howl from his victim, fit to wake the seven sleepers.

“Mercy, gracious lord! Mercy on a poor man! I was not doing anything wrong; I swear by holy Joseph I was not doing anything wrong!”

The creature, whoever he was, succeeded in wriggling himself free of Peter’s unpleasant hold. At once he turned to flee, but Peter caught him by the shoulder, and proceeded this time to administer something more severe in the way of punishment.