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; but there are many tall,
beautifully built women. She 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 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 General Naniescu 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 innocent 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 général_," 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 than 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 général_," 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 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 the 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 mediæval 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 young 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 général_," Lady
Orange retorted playfully.
"Ah, but Mademoiselle Fairfax is such a wonderful encyclopædia 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."
"_Délicieux!_" 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 général._"
"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
Henry 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 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 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 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 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.