Pimpernel and Rosemary

Pimpernel and Rosemary

by Baroness Orczy

First published in 1924

This edition published by Reading Essentials

Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany

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Pimpernel and Rosemary

by

Baroness Emmuska Orczy

CHAPTER I

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. He knew that Rosemary would be there; he had designed the dress she would be wearing, and Tarkington told him, sometime during that afternoon that he was taking his fiancée to the ball.

His fiancée! Dear old Tarkington! So kind, so unemotional! Rosemary's husband presently! Ye gods!

At the Albert Hall ball Peter wore that beautiful Hungarian national dress that had belonged to his grandfather, a wonderful dress of semi-barbaric splendour, with the priceless fifteenth-century jewellery which he had inherited from his mother-the buttons, the sword-belt, the clasp for the mantle-they had been in the Heves family ever since it was fashioned by Florentine workmen imported into Hungary by a medieval queen. Peter dressed himself with the greatest care. If a thing was worth doing at all, it was worth doing well, and Rosemary had said once that she would like to see him in the dress.

But during that hot afternoon at Lord's while he dressed, and now inside the crowded, stuffy Albert Hall, Peter did not feel as if he were really alive. He did not feel like a personage in a dream, he only felt that the world as he had seen it since luncheon time, was not a real world. Someone had invented something altogether new in opposition to the Creator, and he, Peter, being no longer alive, was permitted a private view of the novelty.

It appeared to be a very successful novelty. At any rate, the numberless puppets who raised shrill voices so that Peter might hear what they said, all declared that this ball was incontestably the most successful function of the season.

Just as in the real world, Peter thought, where every function is always incontestably the most successful function of the season.

Other shrill voices declared in Peter's hearing that this function had been more than usually well-managed. It had been splendidly advertised, and the tickets had sold like the proverbial hot cakes.

And Peter was quite sure that somewhere in the dead, forgotten world of long ago he had heard such an expression of opinion over and over again.

Anyway, in this Albert Hall of the newly invented world things were much as they had been in the old. It was crowded. At one time there was hardly room enough to move, let alone to dance. Certain contortions of the body being called dancing, now as then, and certain demoniacal sounds made on hellish instruments by gentlemen of colour being called dance music, the floor of the hall, raised to the level of the lower-tier boxes, was given over to the performance of various gyrations more or less graceful, whilst Peter looked on, strangely familiar with this new world of unrealities which had only been invented a few hours ago, when Tarkington told him of his engagement to Rosemary Fowkes.

He knew just how it would be!

In to-morrow's issue of the Morning Star or the Talk of the Town, the thousands who gyrated here or who looked on at the gyrations of others would be referred to as being also present.

He, Peter Blakeney, the famous cricketer and distinguished V.C., would be referred to as being also present, and there would be a photograph of him with a set grin on his face and his eyes staring out of his head like those of a lunatic at large, in all the illustrated weeklies. This was as it should be. It was well worth paying two guineas (supper included) for the privilege of being referred to as also present in this distinguished company of puppets that included both home and foreign royalties.

Of course there were others, the select few who would be referred to in the columns of the Morning Star or the Talk of the Town with charming familiarity as Lord Algy Fitznoodle, or Miss Baby Tomkins, or simply as Lady Poots or Lord Tim.

While I was chatting with Lady Poots, etc.

Lady Vi Dartmouth, with her beautiful hair shingled, etc. etc.

The Marchioness of Flint came with her girls, etc.

All of which Peter knew by intuition would be vastly interesting to the suburban little madams who read Talk of the Town in this world of unrealities, that the puppets named Miss Baby or Lady Vi, would not think of being absent from the Five Arts' Ball. It was the acme of smartness, of Bohemian smartness, that is to say: the smartness of Chelsea and fashionable studios, which is so much smarter than the smartness of Mayfair.

And Peter-a kind of disembodied Peter-watched the throng. Ye gods! what a motley and a medley!

Polychromatic and kaleidoscopic, iridescent and prismatic, ceaselessly on the move, mercurial, restless, ever stirring, fluttering fans, fingering clothes, adjusting coiffures, lapels, frills, hair-ornaments and feathers! And talking! Talking incessantly, with voices hard and high-pitched trying to rise above other voices that were harder and higher of pitch. Dazzling to eye and ear; exciting to nerves and sense, the atmosphere and mixture of odours: of powders, cosmetics, perfumes, heat, gas, and a score of other indefinable scents.

The picture quite brilliant; not without touches of unconscious humour: Marie Antoinette flirting with Robespierre, Russian moujik in familiar converse with a jewelled Catherine, Queen Elizabeth condescending to pre-historic man. And then Pierrots, Pierrots everywhere, of every conceivable motley and shape. Blue Pierrots and yellow Pierrots! white or black, purple with orange frills, and orange with purple frills, black skull caps and tall white peaks. Pierrots of satin, and Pierrots of gingham! Cool and active! Ye gods! how active! Bohemian smartness, it seems, demanded that its Pierrots should be bright and amusing and active.

From his point of vantage on the floor of the hall Peter scanned the semicircle of boxes where sat more puppets, hundreds of them, watching the thousands down below.

What was the good of them? Peter thought. Why has God made them? What use were they in his new world which some wanton sprite had fashioned in opposition to the Creator? They fluttered their fans, they laughed, they jabbered, and did not seem to know that they, just like Peter, had become unreal and disembodied at the precise moment when Rosemary Fowkes promised to become Jasper Tarkington's wife.

And then suddenly the puppets all faded away. The new world ceased to be, there was no hall, no dancing, no music, no more puppets, no more Pierrots. There was only Rosemary, and she came up to Peter and said quite gaily, naturally, in a voice that belonged to the old world, not the new:

Won't you ask me to dance, Peter?

After that-well, dancing permits, necessitates, holding the partner in one's arms. And Peter danced with Rosemary.

CHAPTER II

Lady Orange always had a box for the big functions at the Albert Hall. It was chic, it was right and it was convenient. It gave her an opportunity of entertaining distinguished foreigners de passage in London in a manner that was both original and expensive.

Lady Orange prided herself on her internationalism, and delighted to gather distinguished foreigners about her; members and attaches of minor embassies invariable graced her dinner parties. She often referred to her attainments as bi-lingual, and in effect she spoke French with a perfect Geneva accent. She thought it bon ton to appear bored at every social function except those which took place at her house in Belgrave Square, and now when a procession made up of bedizened unities marched in double file past her box she remarked languidly:

I think they show a singular lack of imagination. One would have thought Chelsea artists would have invented something unique, picturesque for themselves.

They only thought of comfort, perhaps. But it is they who gave the impetus to the imagination of others. Not?

The man who sat next to Lady Orange spoke with certain gestures of hands and arms that would have proclaimed him a foreigner ever apart from his appearance-the somewhat wide expanse of white waistcoat, the ultra-smart cut of his evening clothes, the diamond ring on his finger. He had large, mellow dark eyes, which he used with great effect when he spoke to women, and full lips half-concealed under a heavy black moustache. He had a soft, rich voice, and spoke English with that peculiar intonation which is neither Italian nor Slav, but has the somewhat unpleasant characteristics of both; and he had large, well-shaped, podgy hands all covered with a soft dark down that extended almost to his finger-tips.

Lady Orange, who had pale, round eyes and arched eyebrows that lent to her face a perpetual look of surprise, gazed intelligently about her.

Ah, oui! she sighed vaguely. Vous avez raison!

She would have liked to continue the conversation in French, but General Naniescu was equally determined to speak English.

As Lady Orange was going to Bucharest shortly, and desired an introduction to august personages there, she thought it best to humour the general's whim.

How well you express yourself in our barbarous tongue, M. le General! she said kindly.

Ah, madame, the general replied, with an expressive shrug, we in our country are at such disadvantage in the social life of great cities like London and Paris, that we must strive to win our way by mastering the intricacies of language, so as to enable us to converse freely with the intelligentsia of the West who honour us by their gracious acceptance.

You are a born courtier, Monsieur le General, Lady Orange rejoined with a gracious smile. Is he not, ma chere? And with the edge of her large feather fan she tapped the knees of an elderly lady who sat the other side of M. le General.

Oh, Mademoiselle Fairfax was not listening to my foolish remarks, General Naniescu said, turning the battery of his mellow eyes on the somewhat frumpish old maid.

No, Miss Fairfax admitted drily. Monsieur de Kervoisin here on my left was busy trying to convert me to the dullness of Marcel Proust. He is not succeeding.

Ah! exclaimed Naniescu suavely, you English ladies! You are so intellectual and so deliciously obstinate. So proud of your glorious literature that even the French modernists appear poor in your sight.

There, you see, ma chere, Lady Orange put in with her habitual vagueness, always the courtier.

How can one help being a courtier, dear lady, when for hours one is thrown in a veritable whirlpool of beauty, brilliance and wit? Look at this dazzling throng before us, the general went on, with a fine sweep of his arm. The eyes are nearly blinded with its magnificence. Is it not so, my dear Kervoisin?

This last remark he made in French, for M. de Kervoisin spoke not a word of English. He was a small, spare man, with thin grey beard neatly trimmed into a point, and thin grey hair carefully arranged so as to conceal the beginnings of baldness. Around his deep-set grey eyes there was a network of wrinkles; they were shrewd, piercing eyes, with little, if any, softness in them. M. de Kervoisin, whose name proclaimed him a native of Brittany, was financial adviser to a multiplicity of small, newly created states, all of whom were under the tutelage of France. His manner was quiet and self-effacing when social or political questions were on the tapis, and he only appeared to warm up when literature or the arts were being discussed. He fancied himself as a Maecenas rather than a financier. Marcel Proust was his hobby for the moment, because above all things he prided himself on modernity, and on his desire to keep abreast of every literary and artistic movement that had risen in the one country that he deemed of intellectual importance, namely his own.

For the moment he felt vaguely irritated because Miss Fairfax-a seemingly unpretentious and socially unimportant elderly female-refused to admit that there was not a single modern English prose writer that could compare with Proust. To the general's direct challenge he only replied drily.

Very brilliant indeed, my good Naniescu; but you know, I have seen so much in my day that sights like these have no longer the power to stir me.

I am sorry for you, Miss Fairfax retorted with old-maidish bluntness. I have been about the world a good deal myself, but I find it always a pleasure to look at pretty people. Look at Rosemary Fowkes now, she went on, addressing no one in particular, did you ever in all your life see anything so beautiful?

She made lively little gestures of greeting, and pointed to a couple on the dancing-floor below. Lady Orange turned her perpetually surprised gaze in that direction and General Naniescu uttered an exaggerated cry of admiration. Even M. de Kervoisin appeared interested.

Who is the lady? he asked.

She is Rosemary Fowkes, Miss Fairfax said, one of the most distinguished-

Ah! I entreat you, mademoiselle, tell us no more, the general exclaimed with mock protest; a lovely woman needs no other label but her own loveliness. She is distinguished amongst all because she is beautiful. What else should a woman be when she is the finest work the Creator ever produced-an enchantress?

Well. Miss Fairfax rejoined drily, I would scold you, general, for those lyrical effusions if they were intended for anybody else. Pretty women are usually silly, because from childhood upwards they have been taught to use their intellect solely for purposes of self-contemplation and self-admiration. But Rosemary Fowkes is an exception. She is not only beautiful, but brilliantly clever. Surely you remember those articles in the International Review on the subject of 'The Evils of Bureaucracy in the Near East'? They were signed 'Uno,' and many doubted at the time that the writer was a woman, and a young one at that.

Uno? General Naniescu exclaimed, and threw a significant glance at M. de Kervoisin, who in his turn uttered an astonished Ah! and leaned over the edge of the box in order to take a closer view of the lady under discussion.

CHAPTER III

Indeed no lyrical effusion would seem exaggerated if dedicated to Rosemary Fowkes. She was one of those women on whom Nature seemed to have showered every one of her most precious gifts. There are few words that could adequately express the peculiar character of her beauty. She was tall, and her figure was superb; had hair the colour of horse-chestnuts when first they fall out of their prickly green cases, and her skin was as delicately transparent as egg-shell china; but Rosemary's charm did not lie in the colour of her hair or the quality of her skin. It lay in something more undefinable. Perhaps it was in her eyes. Surely, surely it was in her eyes. People were wont to say they were haunting, like the eyes of a pixie or of a fairy. They were not blue, nor were they green or grey, but they were all three at times, according as Rosemary was pleased or amused or thoughtful; and when she was pleased or amused she would screw up those pixie eyes of hers, and three adorable little lines that were not wrinkles would form on each side of her nose, like those on the nose of a lion cub.

Her chestnut-coloured hair lay in luscious waves over her forehead and round her perfectly shaped little head, and when she smiled her small white teeth would gleam through her full, parted lips.

Eschewing the fantastic pierrot costumes of the hour, rosemary Fowkes was dressed in a magnificent Venetian gown of the fifteenth century, the rich crimson folds of which set off her stately figure as well as the radiant colouring of her skin and hair. She wore a peculiarly shaped velvet cap, the wings of which fastened under her chin, thus accentuating the perfect oval of the face and the exquisite contour of forehead and cheeks.

A woman so beautiful has no right to be clever, General Naniescu remarked with an affected sigh. It is not fair to the rest of her sex.

Miss Fowkes is certainly very gifted, Lady Orange remarked drily, her enthusiasm apparently being less keen on the subject of Rosemary than that of Miss Fairfax.

And who is the happy man, M. de Kervoisin put in in his dry, ironic tone, with whom the enchantress is dancing?

Peter Blakeney, Miss Fairfax replied curtly.

Qui ça, Peter Blakeney?

Peter Blakeney, Peter Blakeney! He does not know who is Peter Blakeney! Lady Orange exclaimed, and for this supreme moment she departed from her habitual vagueness of attitude, whilst her glance became more markedly astonished than before.

Two or three young people who sat at the back of the box tittered audibly, and gazed at the foreigner as if he were indeed an extraordinary specimen lately presented to the Zoo.

Remember, dear lady, General Naniescu put in, wholly unperturbed by the sensation which his friend's query had provoked, that M. de Kervoisin and I are but strangers in your wonderful country, and that no doubt it is our want of knowledge of your language that causes us to seem ignorant of some of your greatest names in literature or the Arts.

It is not a case of literature or the Arts, mon cher general, Lady Orange condescended to explain. Peter Blakeney is the finest cover-point England ever had.

Ah! political sociology? M. de Kervoisin queried blandly.

Political what?

The Secret Points, no doubt you mean, dear lady? the general went on, politely puzzled. Advanced Communism, what? M. Blakeney is then a disciple of Lenin?

I don't know what you are talking about, Lady Orange sighed. Peter Blakeney is the finest cricketer Eton and Oxford have ever produced.

Cricket! exclaimed the general, while M. de Kervoisin uttered a significant Ah!

There was a moment of quite uncomfortable silence. Naniescu was thoughtfully stroking his luxurious moustache, and a gentle, indulgent smile hovered round the thin lips of M. de Kervoisin.

It is interesting, Naniescu said suavely after a moment or two, to see two such world-famous people given over to the pleasure of the dance.

They are excellent dancers, both of them, Lady Orange assented placidly, even though she had a vague sense of uneasiness that the two foreigners were laughing surreptitiously at something or at her.

And we may suppose, the general continued, that a fine young man like Mr. Blakeney has some other mission in life than the playing of cricket.

He hasn't time for anything else, came in indignant protest from a young lady with shingled hair. He plays for England, in Australia, South Africa, all over the world. Isn't that good enough?

More that enough, dear lady, assented Naniescu with a bland smile. Indeed, it were foolish to expect the greatest-what did you call him?-secret point to waste his time on other trifling matters. Cover-point, mon general, Lady Orange suggested indulgently, whilst the young people at the back broke into uproarious mirth. Cover-point, not secret.

Peter Blakeney rowed two years in the 'Varsity eights, one of the young people interposed, hot in the defence of a popular hero. Then he added with characteristic English shamefacedness when subjects of that sort are mentioned, And he got a V.C. in the war.

He is a jolly fine chap, and ever so good-looking, rejoined the pretty girl with the shingled hair. She shot a provocative glance in the direction of the two ignorant dagoes who had never even heard of Peter Blakeney, and then she added, He couldn't help being jolly and fine and all that, as he is the great-grandson--

No, kid, not the great-grandson, broke in one of her friends.

Yes, the great-grandson, the young girl insisted.

There was a short and heated argument, while General Naniescu and M. de Kervoisin looked courteously puzzled. Then Miss Fairfax was appealed to.

Miss Fairfax, isn't Peter Blakeney the great-grandson of the 'Scarlet Pimpernel'?

And Miss Fairfax, who knew everything, settled the point.

Peter, she said, is the great-grandson of Jack Blakeney, who was known as the Little Pimpernel, and was the Scarlet Pimpernel's eldest son. In face and in figure he is the image of that wonderful portrait by Romney of Sir Percy Blakeney.

Hurrah for me! exclaimed the one who had been right whilst the pretty girl with the shingled hair threw a glance at the handsome Roumanian which conveyed an eloquent So there!

General Naniescu shrugged amiably.

Ah! he said, now I understand. When one gets the youth of England on the subject of its Scarlet Pimpernel, one can only smile and hold one's tongue.

I think, Miss Fairfax concluded, that Peter is the best-looking and the best-dressed man in the hall to-night.

You stab me to the heart, dear lady, the general protested with mock chagrin, though I am willing to admit that the descendant of your national hero has much of his mother's good looks.

Did you know Mrs. Blakeney, then?

Only by sight and before her marriage. She was a Hungarian lady of title, Baroness Heves, General Naniescu replied, with a shrug that had in it a vague suggestion of contempt. I guessed that our young cricket player was her son from the way he wears the Hungarian national dress.

I was wondering what that dress was, Lady Orange remarked vaguely, thankful that the conversation had drifted back to a more equable atmosphere. It is very picturesque and very becoming.

And quite medieval and Asiatic, do you not think so, dear lady? The Hungarian aristocrats used to go to their Court dressed in that barbaric fashion in the years before the war.

And very handsome they must have looked, judging by Peter Blakeney's appearance to-night.

I knew the mother, too, Miss Fairfax remarked gently; she was a dear.

She is dead, then? M. de Kervoisin asked.

Oh, yes, some years ago, my dear friend, the general replied. It was a tragic story, I remember, but I have forgotten its details.

No one ever knew it over here, was Miss Fairfax's somewhat terse comment, which seemed to suggest that further discussion on the subject would be unwelcome.

General Naniescu, nevertheless, went on with an indifferent shrug and that same slightly contemptuous tone in his voice. Hungarian women are most of them ill-balanced. But by your leave, gracious ladies, we will not trouble our heads any longer with that man, distinguished though his cricket-playing career may have been. To me he is chiefly interesting because he dances in perfect harmony with Venus Aphrodite.

Whose Vulcan, I imagine, he would gladly be, M. de Kervoisin remarked with a smile.

A desire shared probably by many, or is the one and only Vulcan already found?

Yes, in the person of Lord Tarkington, Miss Fairfax replied.

Qui ça Lord Tarkington? the general queried again.

You are determined to know everything, mon cher general, Lady Orange retorted playfully.

Ah, but Mademoiselle Fairfax is such a wonderful encyclopedia of social science, and since my attention has been purposefully drawn to Aphrodite, my curiosity with regard to Vulcan must be satisfied. Mademoiselle, I beg you to tell me all about him.

Well, Julia Fairfax resumed good-humouredly, all I can tell you is that Jasper Tarkington is one of the few rich peers left in England; and this is all the more remarkable as his uncle, the late Lord Tarkington, was one of the poorest. Nobody seems to know where Jasper got his money. I believe that he practically owns one of the most prosperous seaside towns on the South Coast. I forget which. Anyway, he is in a position to give Rosemary just what she wants and everything that she craves for, except perhaps--

Miss Fairfax paused and shrugged her thin shoulders. Taunted by General Naniescu, she refused to complete the sentence she had so tantalizingly left half spoken.

Lord Tarkington is a great friend of your country, General Naniescu, she said abruptly. Surely you must know him?

Tarkington? the general mused. Tarkington? I ought to remember, but--

He was correspondent for the Daily Post at the time that your troops marched into Hungary in 1919.

Surely you are mistaken, dear lady. Tarkington? I am sure I should remember the name. My poor misjudged country has so few friends in England I should not be likely to forget.

Lord Tarkington only came into the title on the death of his uncle a year ago, Lady Orange condescended to explain.

And he was called something else before that, the general sighed affectedly. Ah, your English titles! Another difficulty we poor foreigners encounter when we come to your wonderful country. I knew once an English gentleman who used to come to Roumania to shoot with a friend of mine. He came four times in four years and every time he had a different name.

Delicieux! Lady Orange murmured, feeling that in this statement the Roumanian general was paying an unconscious tribute to the English aristocracy. Do tell me who it was, mon cher general .

I cannot exactly tell you who he was, kind lady. When first I knew the gentleman he was Mr. Oldemarsh. Then somebody died and he became Lord 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 etes vraiment delicieux, 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 Roumanian 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 realized 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 general.

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 Roumanian 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