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CHAPTER XVI RICHMOND
A few minutes later she was sitting, wrapped in cozy furs, near Sir
Percy Blakeney on the box-seat of his magnificent coach, and the four
splendid bays had thundered down the quiet street.
The night was warm in spite of the gentle breeze which fanned
Marguerite's burning cheeks. Soon London houses were left behind, and
rattling over old Hammersmith Bridge, Sir Percy was driving his bays
rapidly towards Richmond.
The river wound in and out in its pretty delicate curves, looking like
a silver serpent beneath the glittering rays of the moon. Long shadows
from overhanging trees spread occasional deep palls right across the
road. The bays were rushing along at breakneck speed, held but slightly
back by Sir Percy's strong, unerring hands.
These nightly drives after balls and suppers in London were a source
of perpetual delight to Marguerite, and she appreciated her husband's
eccentricity keenly, which caused him to adopt this mode of taking
her home every night, to their beautiful home by the river, instead of
living in a stuffy London house. He loved driving his spirited horses
along the lonely, moonlit roads, and she loved to sit on the box-seat,
with the soft air of an English late summer's night fanning her face
after the hot atmosphere of a ball or supper-party. The drive was not a
long one—less than an hour, sometimes, when the bays were very fresh,
and Sir Percy gave them full rein.
To-night he seemed to have a very devil in his fingers, and the coach
seemed to fly along the road, beside the river. As usual, he did not
speak to her, but stared straight in front of him, the ribbons seeming
to lie quite loosely in his slender, white hands. Marguerite looked at
him tentatively once or twice; she could see his handsome profile, and
one lazy eye, with its straight fine brow and drooping heavy lid.
The face in the moonlight looked singularly earnest, and recalled to
Marguerite's aching heart those happy days of courtship, before he had
become the lazy nincompoop, the effete fop, whose life seemed spent in
card and supper rooms.
But now, in the moonlight, she could not catch the expression of the
lazy blue eyes; she could only see the outline of the firm chin, the
corner of the strong mouth, the well-cut massive shape of the forehead;
truly, nature had meant well by Sir Percy; his faults must all be laid
at the door of that poor, half-crazy mother, and of the distracted
heart-broken father, neither of whom had cared for the young life
which was sprouting up between them, and which, perhaps, their very
carelessness was already beginning to wreck.
Marguerite suddenly felt intense sympathy for her husband. The moral
crisis she had just gone through made her feel indulgent towards the
faults, the delinquencies, of others.
How thoroughly a human being can be buffeted and overmastered by Fate,
had been borne in upon her with appalling force. Had anyone told her a
week ago that she would stoop to spy upon her friends, that she would
betray a brave and unsuspecting man into the hands of a relentless
enemy, she would have laughed the idea to scorn.
Yet she had done these things; anon, perhaps the death of that brave man
would be at her door, just as two years ago the Marquis de St. Cyr had
perished through a thoughtless words of hers; but in that case she was
morally innocent—she had meant no serious harm—fate merely had stepped
in. But this time she had done a thing that obviously was base, had done
it deliberately, for a motive which, perhaps, high moralists would not
even appreciate.
As she felt her husband's strong arm beside her, she also felt how much
more he would dislike and despise her, if he knew of this night's work.
Thus human beings judge of one another, with but little reason, and
no charity. She despised her husband for his inanities and vulgar,
unintellectual occupations; and he, she felt, would despise her still
worse, because she had not been strong enough to do right for right's
sake, and to sacrifice her brother to the dictates of her conscience.
Buried in her thoughts, Marguerite had found this hour in the
breezy summer night all too brief; and it was with a feeling of keen
disappointment, that she suddenly realised that the bays had turned into
the massive gates of her beautiful English home.
Sir Percy Blakeney's house on the river has become a historic one:
palatial in its dimensions, it stands in the midst of exquisitely
laid-out gardens, with a picturesque terrace and frontage to the river.
Built in Tudor days, the old red brick of the walls looks eminently
picturesque in the midst of a bower of green, the beautiful lawn, with
its old sun-dial, adding the true note of harmony to its foregrounds,
and now, on this warm early autumn night, the leaves slightly turned to
russets and gold, the old garden looked singularly poetic and peaceful
in the moonlight.
With unerring precision, Sir Percy had brought the four bays to a
standstill immediately in front of the fine Elizabethan entrance hall;
in spite of the late hour, an army of grooms seemed to have emerged
from the very ground, as the coach had thundered up, and were standing
respectfully round.
Sir Percy jumped down quickly, then helped Marguerite to alight. She
lingered outside a moment, whilst he gave a few orders to one of his
men. She skirted the house, and stepped on to the lawn, looking out
dreamily into the silvery landscape. Nature seemed exquisitely at peace,
in comparison with the tumultuous emotions she had gone through: she
could faintly hear the ripple of the river and the occasional soft and
ghostlike fall of a dead leaf from a tree.
All else was quiet round her. She had heard the horses prancing as they
were being led away to their distant stables, the hurrying of servant's
feet as they had all gone within to rest: the house also was quite
still. In two separate suites of apartments, just above the magnificent
reception-rooms, lights were still burning, they were her rooms, and
his, well divided from each other by the whole width of the house, as
far apart as their own lives had become. Involuntarily she sighed—at
that moment she could really not have told why.
She was suffering from unconquerable heartache. Deeply and achingly
she was sorry for herself. Never had she felt so pitiably lonely, so
bitterly in want of comfort and of sympathy. With another sigh she
turned away from the river towards the house, vaguely wondering if,
after such a night, she could ever find rest and sleep.
Suddenly, before she reached the terrace, she heard a firm step upon the
crisp gravel, and the next moment her husband's figure emerged out of
the shadow. He too, had skirted the house, and was wandering along the
lawn, towards the river. He still wore his heavy driving coat with the
numerous lapels and collars he himself had set in fashion, but he had
thrown it well back, burying his hands as was his wont, in the deep
pockets of his satin breeches: the gorgeous white costume he had worn
at Lord Grenville's ball, with its jabot of priceless lace, looked
strangely ghostly against the dark background of the house.
He apparently did not notice her, for, after a few moments pause, he
presently turned back towards the house, and walked straight up to the
terrace.
"Sir Percy!"
He already had one foot on the lowest of the terrace steps, but at her
voice he started, and paused, then looked searchingly into the shadows
whence she had called to him.
She came forward quickly into the moonlight, and, as soon as he saw
her, he said, with that air of consummate gallantry he always wore when
speaking to her,—
"At your service, Madame!" But his foot was still on the step, and in
his whole attitude there was a remote suggestion, distinctly visible to
her, that he wished to go, and had no desire for a midnight interview.
"The air is deliciously cool," she said, "the moonlight peaceful and
poetic, and the garden inviting. Will you not stay in it awhile; the
hour is not yet late, or is my company so distasteful to you, that you
are in a hurry to rid yourself of it?"
"Nay, Madame," he rejoined placidly, "but 'tis on the other foot the
shoe happens to be, and I'll warrant you'll find the midnight air more
poetic without my company: no doubt the sooner I remove the obstruction
the better your ladyship will like it."
He turned once more to go.
"I protest you mistake me, Sir Percy," she said hurriedly, and drawing a
little closer to him; "the estrangement, which alas! has arisen between
us, was none of my making, remember."
"Begad! you must pardon me there, Madame!" he protested coldly, "my
memory was always of the shortest."
He looked her straight in the eyes, with that lazy nonchalance which
had become second nature to him. She returned his gaze for a moment,
then her eyes softened, as she came up quite close to him, to the foot
of the terrace steps.
"Of the shortest, Sir Percy! Faith! how it must have altered! Was it
three years ago or four that you saw me for one hour in Paris, on
your way to the East? When you came back two years later you had not
forgotten me."
She looked divinely pretty as she stood there in the moonlight, with the
fur-cloak sliding off her beautiful shoulders, the gold embroidery on
her dress shimmering around her, her childlike blue eyes turned up fully
at him.
He stood for a moment, rigid and still, but for the clenching of his
hand against the stone balustrade of the terrace.
"You desired my presence, Madame," he said frigidly. "I take it that it
was not with the view to indulging in tender reminiscences."
His voice certainly was cold and uncompromising: his attitude before
her, stiff and unbending. Womanly decorum would have suggested
Marguerite should return coldness for coldness, and should sweep past
him without another word, only with a curt nod of her head: but womanly
instinct suggested that she should remain—that keen instinct, which
makes a beautiful woman conscious of her powers long to bring to her
knees the one man who pays her no homage. She stretched out her hand to
him.
"Nay, Sir Percy, why not? the present is not so glorious but that I
should not wish to dwell a little in the past."
He bent his tall figure, and taking hold of the extreme tip of the
fingers which she still held out to him, he kissed them ceremoniously.
"I' faith, Madame," he said, "then you will pardon me, if my dull wits
cannot accompany you there."
Once again he attempted to go, once more her voice, sweet, childlike,
almost tender, called him back.
"Sir Percy."
"Your servant, Madame."
"Is it possible that love can die?" she said with sudden, unreasoning
vehemence. "Methought that the passion which you once felt for me would
outlast the span of human life. Is there nothing left of that
love, Percy . . . which might help you . . . to bridge over that sad
estrangement?"
His massive figure seemed, while she spoke thus to him, to stiffen still
more, the strong mouth hardened, a look of relentless obstinacy crept
into the habitually lazy blue eyes.
"With what object, I pray you, Madame?" he asked coldly.
"I do not understand you."
"Yet 'tis simple enough," he said with sudden bitterness, which seemed
literally to surge through his words, though he was making visible
efforts to suppress it, "I humbly put the question to you, for my slow
wits are unable to grasp the cause of this, your ladyship's sudden new
mood. Is it that you have the taste to renew the devilish sport which
you played so successfully last year? Do you wish to see me once more
a love-sick suppliant at your feet, so that you might again have the
pleasure of kicking me aside, like a troublesome lap-dog?"
She had succeeded in rousing him for the moment: and again she looked
straight at him, for it was thus she remembered him a year ago.
"Percy! I entreat you!" she whispered, "can we not bury the past?"
"Pardon me, Madame, but I understood you to say that your desire was to
dwell in it."
"Nay! I spoke not of THAT past, Percy!" she said, while a tone of
tenderness crept into her voice. "Rather did I speak of a time when you
loved me still! and I . . . oh! I was vain and frivolous; your wealth and
position allured me: I married you, hoping in my heart that your great
love for me would beget in me a love for you . . . but, alas! . . ."
The moon had sunk low down behind a bank of clouds. In the east a soft
grey light was beginning to chase away the heavy mantle of the night.
He could only see her graceful outline now, the small queenly head, with
its wealth of reddish golden curls, and the glittering gems forming the
small, star-shaped, red flower which she wore as a diadem in her hair.
"Twenty-four hours after our marriage, Madame, the Marquis de St. Cyr
and all his family perished on the guillotine, and the popular rumour
reached me that it was the wife of Sir Percy Blakeney who helped to send
them there."
"Nay! I myself told you the truth of that odious tale."
"Not till after it had been recounted to me by strangers, with all its
horrible details."
"And you believed them then and there," she said with great vehemence,
"without a proof or question—you believed that I, whom you vowed you
loved more than life, whom you professed you worshipped, that _I_ could
do a thing so base as these STRANGERS chose to recount. You thought I
meant to deceive you about it all—that I ought to have spoken before I
married you: yet, had you listened, I would have told you that up to the
very morning on which St. Cyr went to the guillotine, I was straining
every nerve, using every influence I possessed, to save him and his
family. But my pride sealed my lips, when your love seemed to perish,
as if under the knife of that same guillotine. Yet I would have told you
how I was duped! Aye! I, whom that same popular rumour had endowed with
the sharpest wits in France! I was tricked into doing this thing, by men
who knew how to play upon my love for an only brother, and my desire for
revenge. Was it unnatural?"
Her voice became choked with tears. She paused for a moment or two,
trying to regain some sort of composure. She looked appealingly at him,
almost as if he were her judge. He had allowed her to speak on in her
own vehement, impassioned way, offering no comment, no word of sympathy:
and now, while she paused, trying to swallow down the hot tears that
gushed to her eyes, he waited, impassive and still. The dim, grey light
of early dawn seemed to make his tall form look taller and more rigid.
The lazy, good-natured face looked strangely altered. Marguerite,
excited, as she was, could see that the eyes were no longer languid,
the mouth no longer good-humoured and inane. A curious look of intense
passion seemed to glow from beneath his drooping lids, the mouth was
tightly closed, the lips compressed, as if the will alone held that
surging passion in check.
Marguerite Blakeney was, above all, a woman, with all a woman's
fascinating foibles, all a woman's most lovable sins. She knew in a
moment that for the past few months she had been mistaken: that this
man who stood here before her, cold as a statue, when her musical voice
struck upon his ear, loved her, as he had loved her a year ago: that his
passion might have been dormant, but that it was there, as strong, as
intense, as overwhelming, as when first her lips met his in one long,
maddening kiss. Pride had kept him from her, and, woman-like, she meant
to win back that conquest which had been hers before. Suddenly it seemed
to her that the only happiness life could ever hold for her again would
be in feeling that man's kiss once more upon her lips.
"Listen to the tale, Sir Percy," she said, and her voice was low, sweet,
infinitely tender. "Armand was all in all to me! We had no parents, and
brought one another up. He was my little father, and I, his tiny mother;
we loved one another so. Then one day—do you mind me, Sir Percy? the
Marquis de St. Cyr had my brother Armand thrashed—thrashed by his
lacqueys—that brother whom I loved better than all the world! And his
offence? That he, a plebeian, had dared to love the daughter of the
aristocrat; for that he was waylaid and thrashed . . . thrashed like a
dog within an inch of his life! Oh, how I suffered! his humiliation had
eaten into my very soul! When the opportunity occurred, and I was able
to take my revenge, I took it. But I only thought to bring that proud
marquis to trouble and humiliation. He plotted with Austria against his
own country. Chance gave me knowledge of this; I spoke of it, but I did
not know—how could I guess?—they trapped and duped me. When I realised
what I had done, it was too late."
"It is perhaps a little difficult, Madame," said Sir Percy, after
a moment of silence between them, "to go back over the past. I have
confessed to you that my memory is short, but the thought certainly
lingered in my mind that, at the time of the Marquis' death, I entreated
you for an explanation of those same noisome popular rumours. If that
same memory does not, even now, play me a trick, I fancy that you
refused me ALL explanation then, and demanded of my love a humiliating
allegiance it was not prepared to give."
"I wished to test your love for me, and it did not bear the test. You
used to tell me that you drew the very breath of life but for me, and
for love of me."
"And to probe that love, you demanded that I should forfeit mine
honour," he said, whilst gradually his impassiveness seemed to leave
him, his rigidity to relax; "that I should accept without murmur or
question, as a dumb and submissive slave, every action of my
mistress. My heart overflowing with love and passion, I ASKED for no
explanation—I WAITED for one, not doubting—only hoping. Had you
spoken but one word, from you I would have accepted any explanation and
believed it. But you left me without a word, beyond a bald confession of
the actual horrible facts; proudly you returned to your brother's house,
and left me alone . . . for weeks . . . not knowing, now, in whom
to believe, since the shrine, which contained my one illusion, lay
shattered to earth at my feet."
She need not complain now that he was cold and impassive; his very
voice shook with an intensity of passion, which he was making superhuman
efforts to keep in check.
"Aye! the madness of my pride!" she said sadly. "Hardly had I gone,
already I had repented. But when I returned, I found you, oh, so
altered! wearing already that mask of somnolent indifference which you
have never laid aside until . . . until now."
She was so close to him that her soft, loose hair was wafted against
his cheek; her eyes, glowing with tears, maddened him, the music in her
voice sent fire through his veins. But he would not yield to the magic
charm of this woman whom he had so deeply loved, and at whose hands
his pride had suffered so bitterly. He closed his eyes to shut out the
dainty vision of that sweet face, of that snow-white neck and graceful
figure, round which the faint rosy light of dawn was just beginning to
hover playfully.
"Nay, Madame, it is no mask," he said icily; "I swore to you . . . once,
that my life was yours. For months now it has been your plaything . . .
it has served its purpose."
But now she knew that the very coldness was a mask. The trouble, the
sorrow she had gone through last night, suddenly came back into her
mind, but no longer with bitterness, rather with a feeling that this man
who loved her, would help her bear the burden.
"Sir Percy," she said impulsively, "Heaven knows you have been at pains
to make the task, which I had set to myself, difficult to accomplish.
You spoke of my mood just now; well! we will call it that, if you will.
I wished to speak to you . . . because . . . because I was in trouble
. . . and had need . . . of your sympathy."
"It is yours to command, Madame."
"How cold you are!" she sighed. "Faith! I can scarce believe that but
a few months ago one tear in my eye had set you well-nigh crazy. Now I
come to you . . . with a half-broken heart . . . and . . . and . . ."
"I pray you, Madame," he said, whilst his voice shook almost as much as
hers, "in what way can I serve you?"
"Percy!—Armand is in deadly danger. A letter of his . . . rash,
impetuous, as were all his actions, and written to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,
has fallen into the hands of a fanatic. Armand is hopelessly compromised
. . . to-morrow, perhaps he will be arrested . . . after that the
guillotine . . . unless . . . oh! it is horrible!" . . . she said, with a
sudden wail of anguish, as all the events of the past night came rushing
back to her mind, "horrible! . . . and you do not understand . . . you
cannot . . . and I have no one to whom I can turn . . . for help . . . or
even for sympathy . . ."
Tears now refused to be held back. All her trouble, her struggles, the
awful uncertainty of Armand's fate overwhelmed her. She tottered, ready
to fall, and leaning against the tone balustrade, she buried her face in
her hands and sobbed bitterly.
At first mention of Armand St. Just's name and of the peril in which he
stood, Sir Percy's face had become a shade more pale; and the look of
determination and obstinacy appeared more marked than ever between his
eyes. However, he said nothing for the moment, but watched her, as her
delicate frame was shaken with sobs, watched her until unconsciously his
face softened, and what looked almost like tears seemed to glisten in
his eyes.
"And so," he said with bitter sarcasm, "the murderous dog of the
revolution is turning upon the very hands that fed it? . . . Begad,
Madame," he added very gently, as Marguerite continued to sob
hysterically, "will you dry your tears? . . . I never could bear to see a
pretty woman cry, and I . . ."
Instinctively, with sudden overmastering passion at the sight of her
helplessness and of her grief, he stretched out his arms, and the next,
would have seized her and held her to him, protected from every evil
with his very life, his very heart's blood. . . . But pride had the
better of it in this struggle once again; he restrained himself with a
tremendous effort of will, and said coldly, though still very gently,—
"Will you not turn to me, Madame, and tell me in what way I may have the
honour to serve you?"
She made a violent effort to control herself, and turning her
tear-stained face to him, she once more held out her hand, which he
kissed with the same punctilious gallantry; but Marguerite's fingers,
this time, lingered in his hand for a second or two longer than was
absolutely necessary, and this was because she had felt that his hand
trembled perceptibly and was burning hot, whilst his lips felt as cold
as marble.
"Can you do aught for Armand?" she said sweetly and simply. "You have so
much influence at court . . . so many friends . . ."
"Nay, Madame, should you not seek the influence of your French friend,
M. Chauvelin? His extends, if I mistake not, even as far as the
Republican Government of France."
"I cannot ask him, Percy. . . . Oh! I wish I dared to tell you . . . but
. . . but . . . he has put a price on my brother's head, which . . ."
She would have given worlds if she had felt the courage then to tell him
everything . . . all she had done that night—how she had suffered and
how her hand had been forced. But she dared not give way to that impulse
. . . not now, when she was just beginning to feel that he still loved
her, when she hoped that she could win him back. She dared not make
another confession to him. After all, he might not understand; he might
not sympathise with her struggles and temptation. His love still dormant
might sleep the sleep of death.
Perhaps he divined what was passing in her mind. His whole attitude was
one of intense longing—a veritable prayer for that confidence, which
her foolish pride withheld from him. When she remained silent he sighed,
and said with marked coldness—
"Faith, Madame, since it distresses you, we will not speak of it. . . .
As for Armand, I pray you have no fear. I pledge you my word that he
shall be safe. Now, have I your permission to go? The hour is getting
late, and . . ."
"You will at least accept my gratitude?" she said, as she drew quite
close to him, and speaking with real tenderness.
With a quick, almost involuntary effort he would have taken her then in
his arms, for her eyes were swimming in tears, which he longed to kiss
away; but she had lured him once, just like this, then cast him aside
like an ill-fitting glove. He thought this was but a mood, a caprice,
and he was too proud to lend himself to it once again.
"It is too soon, Madame!" he said quietly; "I have done nothing as yet.
The hour is late, and you must be fatigued. Your women will be waiting
for you upstairs."
He stood aside to allow her to pass. She sighed, a quick sigh of
disappointment. His pride and her beauty had been in direct conflict,
and his pride had remained the conqueror. Perhaps, after all, she had
been deceived just now; what she took to be the light of love in his
eyes might only have been the passion of pride or, who knows, of hatred
instead of love. She stood looking at him for a moment or two longer. He
was again as rigid, as impassive, as before. Pride had conquered, and he
cared naught for her. The grey light of dawn was gradually yielding
to the rosy light of the rising sun. Birds began to twitter; Nature
awakened, smiling in happy response to the warmth of this glorious
October morning. Only between these two hearts there lay a strong,
impassable barrier, built up of pride on both sides, which neither of
them cared to be the first to demolish.
He had bent his tall figure in a low ceremonious bow, as she finally,
with another bitter little sigh, began to mount the terrace steps.
The long train of her gold-embroidered gown swept the dead leaves off
the steps, making a faint harmonious sh—sh—sh as she glided up, with
one hand resting on the balustrade, the rosy light of dawn making an
aureole of gold round her hair, and causing the rubies on her head and
arms to sparkle. She reached the tall glass doors which led into the
house. Before entering, she paused once again to look at him, hoping
against hope to see his arms stretched out to her, and to hear his voice
calling her back. But he had not moved; his massive figure looked the
very personification of unbending pride, of fierce obstinacy.
Hot tears again surged to her eyes, as she would not let him see them,
she turned quickly within, and ran as fast as she could up to her own
rooms.
Had she but turned back then, and looked out once more on to the
rose-lit garden, she would have seen that which would have made her own
sufferings seem but light and easy to bear—a strong man, overwhelmed
with his own passion and his own despair. Pride had given way at last,
obstinacy was gone: the will was powerless. He was but a man madly,
blindly, passionately in love, and as soon as her light footsteps had
died away within the house, he knelt down upon the terrace steps, and in
the very madness of his love he kissed one by one the places where her
small foot had trodden, and the stone balustrade there, where her tiny
hand had rested last.
CHAPTER XVII FAREWELL
When Marguerite reached her room, she found her maid terribly anxious
about her.
"Your ladyship will be so tired," said the poor woman, whose own eyes
were half closed with sleep. "It is past five o'clock."
"Ah, yes, Louise, I daresay I shall be tired presently," said
Marguerite, kindly; "but you are very tired now, so go to bed at once.
I'll get into bed alone."
"But, my lady . . ."
"Now, don't argue, Louise, but go to bed. Give me a wrap, and leave me
alone."
Louise was only too glad to obey. She took off her mistress's gorgeous
ball-dress, and wrapped her up in a soft billowy gown.
"Does your ladyship wish for anything else?" she asked, when that was
done.
"No, nothing more. Put out the lights as you go out."
"Yes, my lady. Good-night, my lady."
"Good-night, Louise."
When the maid was gone, Marguerite drew aside the curtains and threw
open the windows. The garden and the river beyond were flooded with rosy
light. Far away to the east, the rays of the rising sun had changed the
rose into vivid gold. The lawn was deserted now, and Marguerite looked
down upon the terrace where she had stood a few moments ago trying in
vain to win back a man's love, which once had been so wholly hers.
It was strange that through all her troubles, all her anxiety for
Armand, she was mostly conscious at the present moment of a keen and
bitter heartache.
Her very limbs seemed to ache with longing for the love of a man who
had spurned her, who had resisted her tenderness, remained cold to her
appeals, and had not responded to the glow of passion, which had caused
her to feel and hope that those happy olden days in Paris were not all
dead and forgotten.
How strange it all was! She loved him still. And now that she looked
back upon the last few months of misunderstandings and of loneliness,
she realised that she had never ceased to love him; that deep down in
her heart she had always vaguely felt that his foolish inanities, his
empty laugh, his lazy nonchalance were nothing but a mask; that the real
man, strong, passionate, wilful, was there still—the man she had loved,
whose intensity had fascinated her, whose personality attracted her,
since she always felt that behind his apparently slow wits there was
a certain something, which he kept hidden from all the world, and most
especially from her.
A woman's heart is such a complex problem—the owner thereof is often
most incompetent to find the solution of this puzzle.
Did Marguerite Blakeney, "the cleverest woman in Europe," really love a
fool? Was it love that she had felt for him a year ago when she married
him? Was it love she felt for him now that she realised that he still
loved her, but that he would not become her slave, her passionate,
ardent lover once again? Nay! Marguerite herself could not have told
that. Not at this moment at any rate; perhaps her pride had sealed her
mind against a better understanding of her own heart. But this she did
know—that she meant to capture that obstinate heart back again. That
she would conquer once more . . . and then, that she would never lose him
. . . . She would keep him, keep his love, deserve it, and cherish
it; for this much was certain, that there was no longer any happiness
possible for her without that one man's love.
Thus the most contradictory thoughts and emotions rushed madly through
her mind. Absorbed in them, she had allowed time to slip by; perhaps,
tired out with long excitement, she had actually closed her eyes and
sunk into a troubled sleep, wherein quickly fleeting dreams seemed but
the continuation of her anxious thoughts—when suddenly she was roused,
from dream or meditation, by the noise of footsteps outside her door.
Nervously she jumped up and listened; the house itself was as still
as ever; the footsteps had retreated. Through her wide-open window the
brilliant rays of the morning sun were flooding her room with light. She
looked up at the clock; it was half-past six—too early for any of the
household to be already astir.
She certainly must have dropped asleep, quite unconsciously. The noise
of the footsteps, also of hushed subdued voices had awakened her—what
could they be?
Gently, on tip-toe, she crossed the room and opened the door to listen;
not a sound—that peculiar stillness of the early morning when sleep
with all mankind is at its heaviest. But the noise had made her nervous,
and when, suddenly, at her feet, on the very doorstep, she saw something
white lying there—a letter evidently—she hardly dared touch it. It
seemed so ghostlike. It certainly was not there when she came upstairs;
had Louise dropped it? or was some tantalising spook at play, showing
her fairy letters where none existed?
At last she stooped to pick it up, and, amazed, puzzled beyond measure,
she saw that the letter was addressed to herself in her husband's large,
businesslike-looking hand. What could he have to say to her, in the
middle of the night, which could not be put off until the morning?
She tore open the envelope and read:—
"A most unforeseen circumstance forces me to leave for the North
immediately, so I beg your ladyship's pardon if I do not avail myself of
the honour of bidding you good-bye. My business may keep me employed for
about a week, so I shall not have the privilege of being present at
your ladyship's water-party on Wednesday. I remain your ladyship's most
humble and most obedient servant, PERCY BLAKENEY."
Marguerite must suddenly have been imbued with her husband's slowness
of intellect, for she had perforce to read the few simple lines over and
over again, before she could fully grasp their meaning.
She stood on the landing, turning over and over in her hand this curt
and mysterious epistle, her mind a blank, her nerves strained with
agitation and a presentiment she could not very well have explained.
Sir Percy owned considerable property in the North, certainly, and he
had often before gone there alone and stayed away a week at a time; but
it seemed so very strange that circumstances should have arisen between
five and six o'clock in the morning that compelled him to start in this
extreme hurry.
Vainly she tried to shake off an unaccustomed feeling of nervousness:
she was trembling from head to foot. A wild, unconquerable desire
seized her to see her husband again, at once, if only he had not already
started.
Forgetting the fact that she was only very lightly clad in a morning
wrap, and that her hair lay loosely about her shoulders, she flew down
the stairs, right through the hall towards the front door.
It was as usual barred and bolted, for the indoor servants were not yet
up; but her keen ears had detected the sound of voices and the pawing of
a horse's hoof against the flag-stones.
With nervous, trembling fingers Marguerite undid the bolts one by one,
bruising her hands, hurting her nails, for the locks were heavy and
stiff. But she did not care; her whole frame shook with anxiety at the
very thought that she might be too late; that he might have gone without
her seeing him and bidding him "God-speed!"
At last, she had turned the key and thrown open the door. Her ears had
not deceived her. A groom was standing close by holding a couple of
horses; one of these was Sultan, Sir Percy's favourite and swiftest
horse, saddled ready for a journey.
The next moment Sir Percy himself appeared round the further corner
of the house and came quickly towards the horses. He had changed his
gorgeous ball costume, but was as usual irreproachably and richly
apparelled in a suit of fine cloth, with lace jabot and ruffles, high
top-boots, and riding breeches.
Marguerite went forward a few steps. He looked up and saw her. A slight
frown appeared between his eyes.
"You are going?" she said quickly and feverishly. "Whither?"
"As I have had the honour of informing your ladyship, urgent, most
unexpected business calls me to the North this morning," he said, in his
usual cold, drawly manner.
"But . . . your guests to-morrow . . ."
"I have prayed your ladyship to offer my humble excuses to His Royal
Highness. You are such a perfect hostess, I do not think I shall be
missed."
"But surely you might have waited for your journey . . . until after
our water-party . . ." she said, still speaking quickly and nervously.
"Surely this business is not so urgent . . . and you said nothing about
it—just now."
"My business, as I had the honour to tell you, Madame, is as unexpected
as it is urgent. . . . May I therefore crave your permission to go.
. . . Can I do aught for you in town? . . . on my way back?"
"No . . . no . . . thanks . . . nothing . . . But you will be back soon?"
"Very soon."
"Before the end of the week?"
"I cannot say."
He was evidently trying to get away, whilst she was straining every
nerve to keep him back for a moment or two.
"Percy," she said, "will you not tell me why you go to-day? Surely I, as
your wife, have the right to know. You have NOT been called away to the
North. I know it. There were no letters, no couriers from there before
we left for the opera last night, and nothing was waiting for you when
we returned from the ball. . . . You are NOT going to the North, I feel
convinced. . . . There is some mystery . . . and . . ."
"Nay, there is no mystery, Madame," he replied, with a slight tone of
impatience. "My business has to do with Armand . . . there! Now, have I
your leave to depart?"
"With Armand? . . . But you will run no danger?"
"Danger? I? . . . Nay, Madame, your solicitude does me honour. As you
say, I have some influence; my intention is to exert it before it be too
late."
"Will you allow me to thank you at least?"
"Nay, Madame," he said coldly, "there is no need for that. My life is at
your service, and I am already more than repaid."
"And mine will be at yours, Sir Percy, if you will but accept it, in
exchange for what you do for Armand," she said, as, impulsively, she
stretched out both her hands to him. "There! I will not detain you
. . . my thoughts go with you . . . Farewell! . . ."
How lovely she looked in this morning sunlight, with her ardent hair
streaming around her shoulders. He bowed very low and kissed her hand;
she felt the burning kiss and her heart thrilled with joy and hope.
"You will come back?" she said tenderly.
"Very soon!" he replied, looking longingly into her blue eyes.
"And . . . you will remember? . . ." she asked as her eyes, in response
to his look, gave him an infinity of promise.
"I will always remember, Madame, that you have honoured me by commanding
my services."
The words were cold and formal, but they did not chill her this time.
Her woman's heart had read his, beneath the impassive mask his pride
still forced him to wear.
He bowed to her again, then begged her leave to depart. She stood on one
side whilst he jumped on to Sultan's back, then, as he galloped out of
the gates, she waved him a final "Adieu."
A bend in the road soon hid him from view; his confidential groom had
some difficulty in keeping pace with him, for Sultan flew along in
response to his master's excited mood. Marguerite, with a sigh that was
almost a happy one, turned and went within. She went back to her room,
for suddenly, like a tired child, she felt quite sleepy.
Her heart seemed all at once to be in complete peace, and, though it
still ached with undefined longing, a vague and delicious hope soothed
it as with a balm.
She felt no longer anxious about Armand. The man who had just ridden
away, bent on helping her brother, inspired her with complete confidence
in his strength and in his power. She marvelled at herself for having
ever looked upon him as an inane fool; of course, THAT was a mask worn
to hide the bitter wound she had dealt to his faith and to his love. His
passion would have overmastered him, and he would not let her see how
much he still cared and how deeply he suffered.
But now all would be well: she would crush her own pride, humble it
before him, tell him everything, trust him in everything; and those
happy days would come back, when they used to wander off together in the
forests of Fontainebleau, when they spoke little—for he was always a
silent man—but when she felt that against that strong heart she would
always find rest and happiness.
The more she thought of the events of the past night, the less fear had
she of Chauvelin and his schemes. He had failed to discover the identity
of the Scarlet Pimpernel, of that she felt sure. Both Lord Fancourt
and Chauvelin himself had assured her that no one had been in
the dining-room at one o'clock except the Frenchman himself and
Percy—Yes!—Percy! she might have asked him, had she thought of it!
Anyway, she had no fears that the unknown and brave hero would fall in
Chauvelin's trap; his death at any rate would not be at her door.
Armand certainly was still in danger, but Percy had pledged his word
that Armand would be safe, and somehow, as Marguerite had seen him
riding away, the possibility that he could fail in whatever he undertook
never even remotely crossed her mind. When Armand was safely over in
England she would not allow him to go back to France.
She felt almost happy now, and, drawing the curtains closely together
again to shut out the piercing sun, she went to bed at last, laid
her head upon the pillow, and, like a wearied child, soon fell into a
peaceful and dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER XVIII THE MYSTERIOUS DEVICE
The day was well advanced when Marguerite woke, refreshed by her long
sleep. Louise had brought her some fresh milk and a dish of fruit, and
she partook of this frugal breakfast with hearty appetite.
Thoughts crowded thick and fast in her mind as she munched her grapes;
most of them went galloping away after the tall, erect figure of her
husband, whom she had watched riding out of sight more than five hours
ago.
In answer to her eager inquiries, Louise brought back the news that the
groom had come home with Sultan, having left Sir Percy in London. The
groom thought that his master was about to get on board his schooner,
which was lying off just below London Bridge. Sir Percy had ridden thus
far, had then met Briggs, the skipper of the DAY DREAM, and had sent the
groom back to Richmond with Sultan and the empty saddle.
This news puzzled Marguerite more than ever. Where could Sir Percy be
going just now in the DAY DREAM? On Armand's behalf, he had said. Well!
Sir Percy had influential friends everywhere. Perhaps he was going to
Greenwich, or . . . but Marguerite ceased to conjecture; all would be
explained anon: he said that he would come back, and that he would
remember. A long, idle day lay before Marguerite. She was expecting a
visit of her old school-fellow, little Suzanne de Tournay. With all
the merry mischief at her command, she had tendered her request for
Suzanne's company to the Comtesse in the Presence of the Prince of Wales
last night. His Royal Highness had loudly applauded the notion, and
declared that he would give himself the pleasure of calling on the two
ladies in the course of the afternoon. The Comtesse had not dared to
refuse, and then and there was entrapped into a promise to send little
Suzanne to spend a long and happy day at Richmond with her friend.
Marguerite expected her eagerly; she longed for a chat about old
school-days with the child; she felt that she would prefer Suzanne's
company to that of anyone else, and together they would roam through the
fine old garden and rich deer park, or stroll along the river.
But Suzanne had not come yet, and Marguerite being dressed, prepared to
go downstairs. She looked quite a girl this morning in her simple muslin
frock, with a broad blue sash round her slim waist, and the dainty
cross-over fichu into which, at her ***, she had fastened a few late
crimson roses.
She crossed the landing outside her own suite of apartments, and stood
still for a moment at the head of the fine oak staircase, which led to
the lower floor. On her left were her husband's apartments, a suite of
rooms which she practically never entered.
They consisted of bedroom, dressing and reception room, and at the
extreme end of the landing, of a small study, which, when Sir Percy did
not use it, was always kept locked. His own special and confidential
valet, Frank, had charge of this room. No one was ever allowed to go
inside. My lady had never cared to do so, and the other servants, had,
of course, not dared to break this hard-and-fast rule.
Marguerite had often, with that good-natured contempt which she had
recently adopted towards her husband, chaffed him about this secrecy
which surrounded his private study. Laughingly she had always declared
that he strictly excluded all prying eyes from his sanctum for fear they
should detect how very little "study" went on within its four walls: a
comfortable arm-chair for Sir Percy's sweet slumbers was, no doubt, its
most conspicuous piece of furniture.
Marguerite thought of all this on this bright October morning as she
glanced along the corridor. Frank was evidently busy with his master's
rooms, for most of the doors stood open, that of the study amongst the
others.
A sudden burning, childish curiosity seized her to have a peep at Sir
Percy's sanctum. This restriction, of course, did not apply to her, and
Frank would, of course, not dare to oppose her. Still, she hoped that
the valet would be busy in one of the other rooms, that she might have
that one quick peep in secret, and unmolested.
Gently, on tip-toe, she crossed the landing and, like Blue Beard's wife,
trembling half with excitement and wonder, she paused a moment on the
threshold, strangely perturbed and irresolute.
The door was ajar, and she could not see anything within. She pushed it
open tentatively: there was no sound: Frank was evidently not there, and
she walked boldly in.
At once she was struck by the severe simplicity of everything around
her: the dark and heavy hangings, the massive oak furniture, the one or
two maps on the wall, in no way recalled to her mind the lazy man about
town, the lover of race-courses, the dandified leader of fashion, that
was the outward representation of Sir Percy Blakeney.
There was no sign here, at any rate, of hurried departure. Everything
was in its place, not a scrap of paper littered the floor, not a
cupboard or drawer was left open. The curtains were drawn aside, and
through the open window the fresh morning air was streaming in.
Facing the window, and well into the centre of the room, stood a
ponderous business-like desk, which looked as if it had seen much
service. On the wall to the left of the desk, reaching almost from floor
to ceiling, was a large full-length portrait of a woman, magnificently
framed, exquisitely painted, and signed with the name of Boucher. It was
Percy's mother.
Marguerite knew very little about her, except that she had died abroad,
ailing in body as well as in mind, while Percy was still a lad. She must
have been a very beautiful woman once, when Boucher painted her, and as
Marguerite looked at the portrait, she could not but be struck by the
extraordinary resemblance which must have existed between mother and
son. There was the same low, square forehead, crowned with thick, fair
hair, smooth and heavy; the same deep-set, somewhat lazy blue eyes
beneath firmly marked, straight brows; and in those eyes there was the
same intensity behind that apparent laziness, the same latent passion
which used to light up Percy's face in the olden days before his
marriage, and which Marguerite had again noted, last night at dawn, when
she had come quite close to him, and had allowed a note of tenderness to
creep into her voice.
Marguerite studied the portrait, for it interested her: after that she
turned and looked again at the ponderous desk. It was covered with a
mass of papers, all neatly tied and docketed, which looked like accounts
and receipts arrayed with perfect method. It had never before struck
Marguerite—nor had she, alas! found it worth while to inquire—as to
how Sir Percy, whom all the world had credited with a total lack of
brains, administered the vast fortune which his father had left him.
Since she had entered this neat, orderly room, she had been taken
so much by surprise, that this obvious proof of her husband's strong
business capacities did not cause her more than a passing thought of
wonder. But it also strengthened her in the now certain knowledge that,
with his worldly inanities, his foppish ways, and foolish talk, he was
not only wearing a mask, but was playing a deliberate and studied part.
Marguerite wondered again. Why should he take all this trouble? Why
should he—who was obviously a serious, earnest man—wish to appear
before his fellow-men as an empty-headed nincompoop?
He may have wished to hide his love for a wife who held him in contempt
. . . but surely such an object could have been gained at less sacrifice,
and with far less trouble than constant incessant acting of an unnatural
part.
She looked round her quite aimlessly now: she was horribly puzzled, and
a nameless dread, before all this strange, unaccountable mystery, had
begun to seize upon her. She felt cold and uncomfortable suddenly in
this severe and dark room. There were no pictures on the wall, save the
fine Boucher portrait, only a couple of maps, both of parts of France,
one of the North coast and the other of the environs of Paris. What did
Sir Percy want with those, she wondered.
Her head began to ache, she turned away from this strange Blue Beard's
chamber, which she had entered, and which she did not understand. She
did not wish Frank to find her here, and with a fast look round, she
once more turned to the door. As she did so, her foot knocked against a
small object, which had apparently been lying close to the desk, on the
carpet, and which now went rolling, right across the room.
She stooped to pick it up. It was a solid gold ring, with a flat shield,
on which was engraved a small device.
Marguerite turned it over in her fingers, and then studied the engraving
on the shield. It represented a small star-shaped flower, of a shape she
had seen so distinctly twice before: once at the opera, and once at Lord
Grenville's ball.
CHAPTER XIX THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
At what particular moment the strange doubt first crept into
Marguerite's mind, she could not herself have said. With the ring
tightly clutched in her hand, she had run out of the room, down the
stairs, and out into the garden, where, in complete seclusion, alone
with the flowers, and the river and the birds, she could look again at
the ring, and study that device more closely.
Stupidly, senselessly, now, sitting beneath the shade of an overhanging
sycamore, she was looking at the plain gold shield, with the star-shaped
little flower engraved upon it.
Bah! It was ridiculous! she was dreaming! her nerves were overwrought,
and she saw signs and mysteries in the most trivial coincidences. Had
not everybody about town recently made a point of affecting the device
of that mysterious and heroic Scarlet Pimpernel?
Did she herself wear it embroidered on her gowns? set in gems and enamel
in her hair? What was there strange in the fact that Sir Percy should
have chosen to use the device as a seal-ring? He might easily have
done that . . . yes . . . quite easily . . . and . . . besides . . . what
connection could there be between her exquisite dandy of a husband,
with his fine clothes and refined, lazy ways, and the daring plotter who
rescued French victims from beneath the very eyes of the leaders of a
bloodthirsty revolution?
Her thoughts were in a whirl—her mind a blank . . . She did not see
anything that was going on around her, and was quite startled when a
fresh young voice called to her across the garden.
"CHERIE!—CHERIE! where are you?" and little Suzanne, fresh as a
rosebud, with eyes dancing with glee, and brown curls fluttering in the
soft morning breeze, came running across the lawn.
"They told me you were in the garden," she went on prattling merrily,
and throwing herself with a pretty, girlish impulse into Marguerite's
arms, "so I ran out to give you a surprise. You did not expect me quite
so soon, did you, my darling little Margot CHERIE?"
Marguerite, who had hastily concealed the ring in the folds of her
kerchief, tried to respond gaily and unconcernedly to the young girl's
impulsiveness.
"Indeed, sweet one," she said with a smile, "it is delightful to have
you all to myself, and for a nice whole long day. . . . You won't be
bored?"
"Oh! bored! Margot, how CAN you say such a wicked thing. Why! when we
were in the dear old convent together, we were always happy when we were
allowed to be alone together."
"And to talk secrets."
The two young girls had linked their arms in one another's and began
wandering round the garden.
"Oh! how lovely your home is, Margot, darling," said little Suzanne,
enthusiastically, "and how happy you must be!"
"Aye, indeed! I ought to be happy—oughtn't I, sweet one?" said
Marguerite, with a wistful little sigh.
"How sadly you say it, CHERIE. . . . Ah, well, I suppose now that you
are a married woman you won't care to talk secrets with me any longer.
Oh! what lots and lots of secrets we used to have at school! Do you
remember?—some we did not even confide to Sister Theresa of the Holy
Angels—though she was such a dear."
"And now you have one all-important secret, eh, little one?" said
Marguerite, merrily, "which you are forthwith going to confide in me.
Nay, you need not blush, CHERIE." she added, as she saw Suzanne's pretty
little face crimson with blushes. "Faith, there's naught to be ashamed
of! He is a noble and true man, and one to be proud of as a lover, and
. . . as a husband."
"Indeed, CHERIE, I am not ashamed," rejoined Suzanne, softly; "and it
makes me very, very proud to hear you speak so well of him. I think
maman will consent," she added thoughtfully, "and I shall be—oh! so
happy—but, of course, nothing is to be thought of until
papa is safe. . . ."
Marguerite started. Suzanne's father! the Comte de Tournay!—one
of those whose life would be jeopardised if Chauvelin succeeded in
establishing the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
She had understood all along from the Comtesse, and also from one or two
of the members of the league, that their mysterious leader had pledged
his honour to bring the fugitive Comte de Tournay safely out of France.
Whilst little Suzanne—unconscious of all—save her own all-important
little secret, went prattling on, Marguerite's thoughts went back to the
events of the past night.
Armand's peril, Chauvelin's threat, his cruel "Either—or—" which she
had accepted.
And then her own work in the matter, which should have culminated at one
o'clock in Lord Grenville's dining-room, when the relentless agent
of the French Government would finally learn who was this mysterious
Scarlet Pimpernel, who so openly defied an army of spies and placed
himself so boldly, and for mere sport, on the side of the enemies of
France.
Since then she had heard nothing from Chauvelin. She had concluded that
he had failed, and yet, she had not felt anxious about Armand, because
her husband had promised her that Armand would be safe.
But now, suddenly, as Suzanne prattled merrily along, an awful horror
came upon her for what she had done. Chauvelin had told her nothing, it
was true; but she remembered how sarcastic and evil he looked when she
took final leave of him after the ball. Had he discovered something
then? Had he already laid his plans for catching the daring plotter,
red-handed, in France, and sending him to the guillotine without
compunction or delay?
Marguerite turned sick with horror, and her hand convulsively clutched
the ring in her dress.
"You are not listening, CHERIE," said Suzanne, reproachfully, as she
paused in her long, highly interesting narrative.
"Yes, yes, darling—indeed I am," said Marguerite with an effort,
forcing herself to smile. "I love to hear you talking . . . and your
happiness makes me so very glad. . . . Have no fear, we will manage to
propitiate maman. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes is a noble English gentleman; he
has money and position, the Comtesse will not refuse her consent. . . .
But . . . now, little one . . . tell me . . . what is the latest news
about your father?"
"Oh!" said Suzanne with mad glee, "the best we could possibly hear. My
Lord Hastings came to see maman early this morning. He said that all is
now well with dear papa, and we may safely expect him here in England in
less than four days."
"Yes," said Marguerite, whose glowing eyes were fastened on Suzanne's
lips, as she continued merrily:
"Oh, we have no fear now! You don't know, CHERIE, that that great and
noble Scarlet Pimpernel himself has gone to save papa. He has gone,
CHERIE . . . actually gone . . ." added Suzanne excitedly, "he was in
London this morning; he will be in Calais, perhaps, to-morrow . . . where
he will meet papa . . . and then . . . and then . . ."
The blow had fallen. She had expected it all along, though she had tried
for the last half-hour to delude herself and to cheat her fears. He had
gone to Calais, had been in London this morning . . . he . . . the
Scarlet Pimpernel . . . Percy Blakeney . . . her husband . . . whom she had
betrayed last night to Chauvelin.
Percy . . . Percy . . . her husband . . . the Scarlet Pimpernel . . . Oh!
how could she have been so blind? She understood it all now—all at once
. . . that part he played—the mask he wore . . . in order to throw dust
in everybody's eyes.
And all for the sheer sport and devilry of course!—saving men, women
and children from death, as other men destroy and kill animals for the
excitement, the love of the thing. The idle, rich man wanted some aim
in life—he, and the few young bucks he enrolled under his banner, had
amused themselves for months in risking their lives for the sake of an
innocent few.
Perhaps he had meant to tell her when they were first married; and then
the story of the Marquis de St. Cyr had come to his ears, and he had
suddenly turned from her, thinking, no doubt, that she might someday
betray him and his comrades, who had sworn to follow him; and so he had
tricked her, as he tricked all others, whilst hundreds now owed their
lives to him, and many families owed him both life and happiness.
The mask of an inane fop had been a good one, and the part consummately
well played. No wonder that Chauvelin's spies had failed to detect, in
the apparently brainless nincompoop, the man whose reckless daring and
resourceful ingenuity had baffled the keenest French spies, both in
France and in England. Even last night when Chauvelin went to Lord
Grenville's dining-room to seek that daring Scarlet Pimpernel, he only
saw that inane Sir Percy Blakeney fast asleep in a corner of the sofa.
Had his astute mind guessed the secret, then? Here lay the whole awful,
horrible, amazing puzzle. In betraying a nameless stranger to his fate
in order to save her brother, had Marguerite Blakeney sent her husband
to his death?
No! no! no! a thousand times no! Surely Fate could not deal a blow like
that: Nature itself would rise in revolt: her hand, when it held that
tiny scrap of paper last night, would have surely have been struck numb
ere it committed a deed so appalling and so terrible.
"But what is it, CHERIE?" said little Suzanne, now genuinely alarmed,
for Marguerite's colour had become dull and ashen. "Are you ill,
Marguerite? What is it?"
"Nothing, nothing, child," she murmured, as in a dream. "Wait a moment
. . . let me think . . . think! . . . You said . . . the Scarlet
Pimpernel had gone today . . . ?"
"Marguerite, CHERIE, what is it? You frighten me. . . ."
"It is nothing, child, I tell you . . . nothing . . . I must be alone
a minute—and—dear one . . . I may have to curtail our time together
to-day. . . . I may have to go away—you'll understand?"
"I understand that something has happened, CHERIE, and that you want
to be alone. I won't be a hindrance to you. Don't think of me. My maid,
Lucile, has not yet gone . . . we will go back together . . . don't think
of me."
She threw her arms impulsively round Marguerite. Child as she was, she
felt the poignancy of her friend's grief, and with the infinite tact of
her girlish tenderness, she did not try to pry into it, but was ready to
efface herself.
She kissed Marguerite again and again, then walked sadly back across
the lawn. Marguerite did not move, she remained there, thinking . . .
wondering what was to be done.
Just as little Suzanne was about to mount the terrace steps, a groom
came running round the house towards his mistress. He carried a sealed
letter in his hand. Suzanne instinctively turned back; her heart told
her that here perhaps was further ill news for her friend, and she felt
that poor Margot was not in a fit state to bear any more.
The groom stood respectfully beside his mistress, then he handed her the
sealed letter.
"What is that?" asked Marguerite.
"Just come by runner, my lady."
Marguerite took the letter mechanically, and turned it over in her
trembling fingers.
"Who sent it?" she said.
"The runner said, my lady," replied the groom, "that his orders were
to deliver this, and that your ladyship would understand from whom it
came."
Marguerite tore open the envelope. Already her instinct told her what it
contained, and her eyes only glanced at it mechanically.
It was a letter by Armand St. Just to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes—the letter
which Chauvelin's spies had stolen at "The Fisherman's Rest," and which
Chauvelin had held as a rod over her to enforce her obedience.
Now he had kept his word—he had sent her back St. Just's compromising
letter . . . for he was on the track of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
Marguerite's senses reeled, her very soul seemed to be leaving her body;
she tottered, and would have fallen but for Suzanne's arm round her
waist. With superhuman effort she regained control over herself—there
was yet much to be done.
"Bring that runner here to me," she said to the servant, with much calm.
"He has not gone?"
"No, my lady."
The groom went, and Marguerite turned to Suzanne.
"And you, child, run within. Tell Lucile to get ready. I fear that I
must send you home, child. And—stay, tell one of the maids to prepare a
travelling dress and cloak for me."
Suzanne made no reply. She kissed Marguerite tenderly and obeyed without
a word; the child was overawed by the terrible, nameless misery in her
friend's face.
A minute later the groom returned, followed by the runner who had
brought the letter.
"Who gave you this packet?" asked Marguerite.
"A gentleman, my lady," replied the man, "at 'The Rose and Thistle' inn
opposite Charing Cross. He said you would understand."
"At 'The Rose and Thistle'? What was he doing?"
"He was waiting for the coach, your ladyship, which he had ordered."
"The coach?"
"Yes, my lady. A special coach he had ordered. I understood from his man
that he was posting straight to Dover."
"That's enough. You may go." Then she turned to the groom: "My coach and
the four swiftest horses in the stables, to be ready at once."
The groom and runner both went quickly off to obey. Marguerite remained
standing for a moment on the lawn quite alone. Her graceful figure
was as rigid as a statue, her eyes were fixed, her hands were tightly
clasped across her breast; her lips moved as they murmured with pathetic
heart-breaking persistence,—
"What's to be done? What's to be done? Where to find him?—Oh, God!
grant me light."
But this was not the moment for remorse and despair. She had
done—unwittingly—an awful and terrible thing—the very worst crime, in
her eyes, that woman ever committed—she saw it in all its horror. Her
very blindness in not having guessed her husband's secret seemed now
to her another deadly sin. She ought to have known! she ought to have
known!
How could she imagine that a man who could love with so much intensity
as Percy Blakeney had loved her from the first—how could such a man
be the brainless idiot he chose to appear? She, at least, ought to have
known that he was wearing a mask, and having found that out, she should
have torn it from his face, whenever they were alone together.
Her love for him had been paltry and weak, easily crushed by her own
pride; and she, too, had worn a mask in assuming a contempt for him,
whilst, as a matter of fact, she completely misunderstood him.
But there was no time now to go over the past. By her own blindness she
had sinned; now she must repay, not by empty remorse, but by prompt and
useful action.
Percy had started for Calais, utterly unconscious of the fact that
his most relentless enemy was on his heels. He had set sail early that
morning from London Bridge. Provided he had a favourable wind, he would
no doubt be in France within twenty-four hours; no doubt he had reckoned
on the wind and chosen this route.
Chauvelin, on the other hand, would post to Dover, charter a vessel
there, and undoubtedly reach Calais much about the same time. Once in
Calais, Percy would meet all those who were eagerly waiting for the
noble and brave Scarlet Pimpernel, who had come to rescue them from
horrible and unmerited death. With Chauvelin's eyes now fixed upon his
every movement, Percy would thus not only be endangering his own life,
but that of Suzanne's father, the old Comte de Tournay, and of those
other fugitives who were waiting for him and trusting in him. There was
also Armand, who had gone to meet de Tournay, secure in the knowledge
that the Scarlet Pimpernel was watching over his safety.
All these lives and that of her husband, lay in Marguerite's hands;
these she must save, if human pluck and ingenuity were equal to the
task.
Unfortunately, she could not do all this quite alone. Once in Calais she
would not know where to find her husband, whilst Chauvelin, in stealing
the papers at Dover, had obtained the whole itinerary. Above every
thing, she wished to warn Percy.
She knew enough about him by now to understand that he would never
abandon those who trusted in him, that he would not turn his back from
danger, and leave the Comte de Tournay to fall into the bloodthirsty
hands that knew of no mercy. But if he were warned, he might form new
plans, be more wary, more prudent. Unconsciously, he might fall into a
cunning trap, but—once warned—he might yet succeed.
And if he failed—if indeed Fate, and Chauvelin, with all the resources
at his command, proved too strong for the daring plotter after all—then
at least she would be there by his side, to comfort, love and cherish,
to cheat death perhaps at the last by making it seem sweet, if they died
both together, locked in each other's arms, with the supreme happiness
of knowing that passion had responded to passion, and that all
misunderstandings were at an end.
Her whole body stiffened as with a great and firm resolution. This she
meant to do, if God gave her wits and strength. Her eyes lost their
fixed look; they glowed with inward fire at the thought of meeting him
again so soon, in the very midst of most deadly perils; they sparkled
with the joy of sharing these dangers with him—of helping him
perhaps—of being with him at the last—if she failed.
The childlike sweet face had become hard and set, the curved mouth was
closed tightly over her clenched teeth. She meant to do or die, with
him and for his sake. A frown, which spoke of an iron will and unbending
resolution, appeared between the two straight brows; already her plans
were formed. She would go and find Sir Andrew Ffoulkes first; he was
Percy's best friend, and Marguerite remembered, with a thrill, with what
blind enthusiasm the young man always spoke of his mysterious leader.
He would help her where she needed help; her coach was ready. A change
of raiment, and a farewell to little Suzanne, and she could be on her
way.
Without haste, but without hesitation, she walked quietly into the
house.
CHAPTER XX THE FRIEND
Less than half an hour later, Marguerite, buried in thoughts, sat inside
her coach, which was bearing her swiftly to London.
She had taken an affectionate farewell of little Suzanne, and seen the
child safely started with her maid, and in her own coach, back to town.
She had sent one courier with a respectful letter of excuse to His Royal
Highness, begging for a postponement of the august visit on account of
pressing and urgent business, and another on ahead to bespeak a fresh
relay of horses at Faversham.
Then she had changed her muslin frock for a dark traveling costume and
mantle, had provided herself with money—which her husband's lavishness
always placed fully at her disposal—and had started on her way.
She did not attempt to delude herself with any vain and futile hopes;
the safety of her brother Armand was to have been conditional on the
imminent capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel. As Chauvelin had sent her
back Armand's compromising letter, there was no doubt that he was quite
satisfied in his own mind that Percy Blakeney was the man whose death he
had sworn to bring about.
No! there was no room for any fond delusions! Percy, the husband whom
she loved with all the ardour which her admiration for his bravery
had kindled, was in immediate, deadly peril, through her hand. She had
betrayed him to his enemy—unwittingly 'tis true—but she HAD betrayed
him, and if Chauvelin succeeded in trapping him, who so far was unaware
of his danger, then his death would be at her door. His death! when with
her very heart's blood, she would have defended him and given willingly
her life for his.
She had ordered her coach to drive her to the "Crown" inn; once there,
she told her coachman to give the horses food and rest. Then she ordered
a chair, and had herself carried to the house in Pall Mall where Sir
Andrew Ffoulkes lived.
Among all Percy's friends who were enrolled under his daring banner,
she felt that she would prefer to confide in Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. He had
always been her friend, and now his love for little Suzanne had brought
him closer to her still. Had he been away from home, gone on the mad
errand with Percy, perhaps, then she would have called on Lord Hastings
or Lord Tony—for she wanted the help of one of these young men, or she
would indeed be powerless to save her husband.
Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, however, was at home, and his servant introduced
her ladyship immediately. She went upstairs to the young man's
comfortable bachelor's chambers, and was shown into a small, though
luxuriously furnished, dining-room. A moment or two later Sir Andrew
himself appeared.
He had evidently been much startled when he heard who his lady visitor
was, for he looked anxiously—even suspiciously—at Marguerite, whilst
performing the elaborate bows before her, which the rigid etiquette of
the time demanded.
Marguerite had laid aside every vestige of nervousness; she was
perfectly calm, and having returned the young man's elaborate salute,
she began very calmly,—
"Sir Andrew, I have no desire to waste valuable time in much talk. You
must take certain things I am going to tell you for granted. These will
be of no importance. What is important is that your leader and comrade,
the Scarlet Pimpernel . . . my husband . . . Percy Blakeney . . . is in
deadly peril."
Had she the remotest doubt of the correctness of her deductions, she
would have had them confirmed now, for Sir Andrew, completely taken by
surprise, had grown very pale, and was quite incapable of making the
slightest attempt at clever parrying.
"No matter how I know this, Sir Andrew," she continued quietly,
"thank God that I do, and that perhaps it is not too late to save him.
Unfortunately, I cannot do this quite alone, and therefore have come to
you for help."
"Lady Blakeney," said the young man, trying to recover himself,
"I . . ."
"Will you hear me first?" she interrupted. "This is how the matter
stands. When the agent of the French Government stole your papers that
night in Dover, he found amongst them certain plans, which you or your
leader meant to carry out for the rescue of the Comte de Tournay and
others. The Scarlet Pimpernel—Percy, my husband—has gone on this
errand himself to-day. Chauvelin knows that the Scarlet Pimpernel
and Percy Blakeney are one and the same person. He will follow him to
Calais, and there will lay hands on him. You know as well as I do the
fate that awaits him at the hands of the Revolutionary Government of
France. No interference from England—from King George himself—would
save him. Robespierre and his gang would see to it that the interference
came too late. But not only that, the much-trusted leader will also have
been unconsciously the means of revealing the hiding-place of the Comte
de Tournay and of all those who, even now, are placing their hopes in
him."
She had spoken quietly, dispassionately, and with firm, unbending
resolution. Her purpose was to make that young man trust and help her,
for she could do nothing without him.
"I do not understand," he repeated, trying to gain time, to think what
was best to be done.
"Aye! but I think you do, Sir Andrew. You must know that I am speaking
the truth. Look these facts straight in the face. Percy has sailed for
Calais, I presume for some lonely part of the coast, and Chauvelin is on
his track. HE has posted for Dover, and will cross the Channel probably
to-night. What do you think will happen?"
The young man was silent.
"Percy will arrive at his destination: unconscious of being followed he
will seek out de Tournay and the others—among these is Armand St. Just
my brother—he will seek them out, one after another, probably, not
knowing that the sharpest eyes in the world are watching his every
movement. When he has thus unconsciously betrayed those who blindly
trust in him, when nothing can be gained from him, and he is ready to
come back to England, with those whom he has gone so bravely to save,
the doors of the trap will close upon him, and he will be sent to end
his noble life upon the guillotine."
Still Sir Andrew was silent.
"You do not trust me," she said passionately. "Oh God! cannot you see
that I am in deadly earnest? Man, man," she added, while, with her tiny
hands she seized the young man suddenly by the shoulders, forcing him
to look straight at her, "tell me, do I look like that vilest thing on
earth—a woman who would betray her own husband?"
"God forbid, Lady Blakeney," said the young man at last, "that I should
attribute such evil motives to you, but . . ."
"But what? . . . tell me. . . . Quick, man! . . . the very seconds are
precious!"
"Will you tell me," he asked resolutely, and looking searchingly into
her blue eyes, "whose hand helped to guide M. Chauvelin to the knowledge
which you say he possesses?"
"Mine," she said quietly, "I own it—I will not lie to you, for I wish
you to trust me absolutely. But I had no idea—how COULD I have?—of the
identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel . . . and my brother's safety was to be
my prize if I succeeded."
"In helping Chauvelin to track the Scarlet Pimpernel?"
She nodded.
"It is no use telling you how he forced my hand. Armand is more than a
brother to me, and . . . and . . . how COULD I guess? . . . But we waste
time, Sir Andrew . . . every second is precious . . . in the name of God!
. . . my husband is in peril . . . your friend!—your comrade!—Help me to
save him."
Sir Andrew felt his position to be a very awkward one. The oath he had
taken before his leader and comrade was one of obedience and secrecy;
and yet the beautiful woman, who was asking him to trust her, was
undoubtedly in earnest; his friend and leader was equally undoubtedly in
imminent danger and . . .
"Lady Blakeney," he said at last, "God knows you have perplexed me, so
that I do not know which way my duty lies. Tell me what you wish me to
do. There are nineteen of us ready to lay down our lives for the Scarlet
Pimpernel if he is in danger."
"There is no need for lives just now, my friend," she said drily; "my
wits and four swift horses will serve the necessary purpose. But I must
know where to find him. See," she added, while her eyes filled with
tears, "I have humbled myself before you, I have owned my fault to you;
shall I also confess my weakness?—My husband and I have been estranged,
because he did not trust me, and because I was too blind to understand.
You must confess that the bandage which he put over my eyes was a very
thick one. Is it small wonder that I did not see through it? But last
night, after I led him unwittingly into such deadly peril, it suddenly
fell from my eyes. If you will not help me, Sir Andrew, I would still
strive to save my husband. I would still exert every faculty I possess
for his sake; but I might be powerless, for I might arrive too late,
and nothing would be left for you but lifelong remorse, and . . . and
. . . for me, a broken heart."
"But, Lady Blakeney," said the young man, touched by the gentle
earnestness of this exquisitely beautiful woman, "do you know that what
you propose doing is man's work?—you cannot possibly journey to Calais
alone. You would be running the greatest possible risks to yourself, and
your chances of finding your husband now—were I to direct you ever so
carefully—are infinitely remote.
"Oh, I hope there are risks!" she murmured softly, "I hope there are
dangers, too!—I have so much to atone for. But I fear you are mistaken.
Chauvelin's eyes are fixed upon you all, he will scarce notice me.
Quick, Sir Andrew!—the coach is ready, and there is not a moment to be
lost. . . . I MUST get to him! I MUST!" she repeated with almost savage
energy, "to warn him that that man is on his track. . . . Can't you
see—can't you see, that I MUST get to him . . . even . . . even if it be
too late to save him . . . at least . . . to be by his side . . . at the
least."
"Faith, Madame, you must command me. Gladly would I or any of my
comrades lay down our lives for your husband. If you WILL go
yourself. . . ."
"Nay, friend, do you not see that I would go mad if I let you go without
me?" She stretched out her hand to him. "You WILL trust me?"
"I await your orders," he said simply.
"Listen, then. My coach is ready to take me to Dover. Do you follow
me, as swiftly as horses will take you. We meet at nightfall at 'The
Fisherman's Rest.' Chauvelin would avoid it, as he is known there, and I
think it would be the safest. I will gladly accept your escort to Calais
. . . as you say, I might miss Sir Percy were you to direct me ever so
carefully. We'll charter a schooner at Dover and cross over during the
night. Disguised, if you will agree to it, as my lacquey, you will, I
think, escape detection."
"I am entirely at your service, Madame," rejoined the young man
earnestly. "I trust to God that you will sight the DAY DREAM before
we reach Calais. With Chauvelin at his heels, every step the Scarlet
Pimpernel takes on French soil is fraught with danger."
"God grant it, Sir Andrew. But now, farewell. We meet to-night at
Dover! It will be a race between Chauvelin and me across the Channel
to-night—and the prize—the life of the Scarlet Pimpernel."
He kissed her hand, and then escorted her to her chair. A quarter of an
hour later she was back at the "Crown" inn, where her coach and horses
were ready and waiting for her. The next moment they thundered along
the London streets, and then straight on to the Dover road at maddening
speed.
She had no time for despair now. She was up and doing and had no leisure
to think. With Sir Andrew Ffoulkes as her companion and ally, hope had
once again revived in her heart.
God would be merciful. He would not allow so appalling a crime to be
committed, as the death of a brave man, through the hand of a woman who
loved him, and worshipped him, and who would gladly have died for his
sake.
Marguerite's thoughts flew back to him, the mysterious hero, whom she
had always unconsciously loved, when his identity was still unknown to
her. Laughingly, in the olden days, she used to call him the shadowy
king of her heart, and now she had suddenly found that this enigmatic
personality whom she had worshipped, and the man who loved her so
passionately, were one and the same: what wonder that one or two happier
visions began to force their way before her mind. She vaguely wondered
what she would say to him when first they would stand face to face.
She had had so many anxieties, so much excitement during the past few
hours, that she allowed herself the luxury of nursing these few more
hopeful, brighter thoughts. Gradually the rumble of the coach wheels,
with its incessant monotony, acted soothingly on her nerves: her
eyes, aching with fatigue and many shed and unshed tears, closed
involuntarily, and she fell into a troubled sleep.
CHAPTER XXI SUSPENSE
It was late into the night when she at last reached "The Fisherman's
Rest." She had done the whole journey in less than eight hours, thanks
to innumerable changes of horses at the various coaching stations,
for which she always paid lavishly, thus obtaining the very best and
swiftest that could be had.
Her coachman, too, had been indefatigable; the promise of special and
rich reward had no doubt helped to keep him up, and he had literally
burned the ground beneath his mistress' coach wheels.
The arrival of Lady Blakeney in the middle of the night caused a
considerable flutter at "The Fisherman's Rest." Sally jumped hastily out
of bed, and Mr. Jellyband was at great pains how to make his important
guest comfortable.
Both of these good folk were far too well drilled in the manners
appertaining to innkeepers, to exhibit the slightest surprise at Lady
Blakeney's arrival, alone, at this extraordinary hour. No doubt they
thought all the more, but Marguerite was far too absorbed in the
importance—the deadly earnestness—of her journey, to stop and ponder
over trifles of that sort.
The coffee-room—the scene lately of the dastardly outrage on two
English gentlemen—was quite deserted. Mr. Jellyband hastily relit the
lamp, rekindled a cheerful bit of fire in the great hearth, and then
wheeled a comfortable chair by it, into which Marguerite gratefully
sank.
"Will your ladyship stay the night?" asked pretty Miss Sally, who was
already busy laying a snow-white cloth on the table, preparatory to
providing a simple supper for her ladyship.
"No! not the whole night," replied Marguerite. "At any rate, I shall not
want any room but this, if I can have it to myself for an hour or two."
"It is at your ladyship's service," said honest Jellyband, whose
rubicund face was set in its tightest folds, lest it should betray
before "the quality" that boundless astonishment which the very worthy
fellow had begun to feel.
"I shall be crossing over at the first turn of the tide," said
Marguerite, "and in the first schooner I can get. But my coachman and
men will stay the night, and probably several days longer, so I hope you
will make them comfortable."
"Yes, my lady; I'll look after them. Shall Sally bring your ladyship
some supper?"
"Yes, please. Put something cold on the table, and as soon as Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes comes, show him in here."
"Yes, my lady."
Honest Jellyband's face now expressed distress in spite of himself. He
had great regard for Sir Percy Blakeney, and did not like to see his
lady running away with young Sir Andrew. Of course, it was no business
of his, and Mr. Jellyband was no gossip. Still, in his heart,
he recollected that her ladyship was after all only one of them
"furriners"; what wonder that she was immoral like the rest of them?
"Don't sit up, honest Jellyband," continued Marguerite kindly, "nor you
either, Mistress Sally. Sir Andrew may be late."
Jellyband was only too willing that Sally should go to bed. He was
beginning not to like these goings-on at all. Still, Lady Blakeney would
pay handsomely for the accommodation, and it certainly was no business
of his.
Sally arranged a simple supper of cold meat, wine, and fruit on the
table, then with a respectful curtsey, she retired, wondering in her
little mind why her ladyship looked so serious, when she was about to
elope with her gallant.
Then commenced a period of weary waiting for Marguerite. She knew that
Sir Andrew—who would have to provide himself with clothes befitting a
lacquey—could not possibly reach Dover for at least a couple of hours.
He was a splendid horseman of course, and would make light in such an
emergency of the seventy odd miles between London and Dover. He would,
too, literally burn the ground beneath his horse's hoofs, but he might
not always get very good remounts, and in any case, he could not have
started from London until at least an hour after she did.
She had seen nothing of Chauvelin on the road. Her coachman, whom she
questioned, had not seen anyone answering the description his mistress
gave him of the wizened figure of the little Frenchman.
Evidently, therefore, he had been ahead of her all the time. She had not
dared to question the people at the various inns, where they had stopped
to change horses. She feared that Chauvelin had spies all along the
route, who might overhear her questions, then outdistance her and warn
her enemy of her approach.
Now she wondered at what inn he might be stopping, or whether he had had
the good luck of chartering a vessel already, and was now himself on
the way to France. That thought gripped her at the heart as with an iron
vice. If indeed she should not be too late already!
The loneliness of the room overwhelmed her; everything within was so
horribly still; the ticking of the grandfather's clock—dreadfully slow
and measured—was the only sound which broke this awful loneliness.
Marguerite had need of all her energy, all her steadfastness of purpose,
to keep up her courage through this weary midnight waiting.
Everyone else in the house but herself must have been asleep. She had
heard Sally go upstairs. Mr. Jellyband had gone to see to her coachman
and men, and then had returned and taken up a position under the porch
outside, just where Marguerite had first met Chauvelin about a week
ago. He evidently meant to wait up for Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, but was
soon overcome by sweet slumbers, for presently—in addition to the slow
ticking of the clock—Marguerite could hear the monotonous and dulcet
tones of the worthy fellow's breathing.
For some time now, she had realised that the beautiful warm October's
day, so happily begun, had turned into a rough and cold night. She had
felt very chilly, and was glad of the cheerful blaze in the hearth: but
gradually, as time wore on, the weather became more rough, and the sound
of the great breakers against the Admiralty Pier, though some distance
from the inn, came to her as the noise of muffled thunder.
The wind was becoming boisterous, rattling the leaded windows and the
massive doors of the old-fashioned house: it shook the trees outside and
roared down the vast chimney. Marguerite wondered if the wind would be
favourable for her journey. She had no fear of the storm, and would have
braved worse risks sooner than delay the crossing by an hour.
A sudden commotion outside roused her from her meditations. Evidently
it was Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, just arrived in mad haste, for she heard
his horse's hoofs thundering on the flag-stones outside, then Mr.
Jellyband's sleepy, yet cheerful tones bidding him welcome.
For a moment, then, the awkwardness of her position struck Marguerite;
alone at this hour, in a place where she was well known, and having made
an assignation with a young cavalier equally well known, and who arrived
in disguise! What food for gossip to those mischievously inclined.
The idea struck Marguerite chiefly from its humorous side: there was
such quaint contrast between the seriousness of her errand, and the
construction which would naturally be put on her actions by honest Mr.
Jellyband, that, for the first time since many hours, a little smile
began playing round the corners of her childlike mouth, and when,
presently, Sir Andrew, almost unrecognisable in his lacquey-like garb,
entered the coffee-room, she was able to greet him with quite a merry
laugh.
"Faith! Monsieur, my lacquey," she said, "I am satisfied with your
appearance!"
Mr. Jellyband had followed Sir Andrew, looking strangely perplexed. The
young gallant's disguise had confirmed his worst suspicions. Without a
smile upon his jovial face, he drew the cork from the bottle of wine,
set the chairs ready, and prepared to wait.
"Thanks, honest friend," said Marguerite, who was still smiling at the
thought of what the worthy fellow must be thinking at that very moment,
"we shall require nothing more; and here's for all the trouble you have
been put to on our account."
She handed two or three gold pieces to Jellyband, who took them
respectfully, and with becoming gratitude.
"Stay, Lady Blakeney," interposed Sir Andrew, as Jellyband was about
to retire, "I am afraid we shall require something more of my friend
Jelly's hospitality. I am sorry to say we cannot cross over to-night."
"Not cross over to-night?" she repeated in amazement. "But we must, Sir
Andrew, we must! There can be no question of cannot, and whatever it may
cost, we must get a vessel to-night."
But the young man shook his head sadly.
"I am afraid it is not a question of cost, Lady Blakeney. There is a
nasty storm blowing from France, the wind is dead against us, we cannot
possibly sail until it has changed."
Marguerite became deadly pale. She had not foreseen this. Nature herself
was playing her a horrible, cruel trick. Percy was in danger, and she
could not go to him, because the wind happened to blow from the coast of
France.
"But we must go!—we must!" she repeated with strange, persistent
energy, "you know, we must go!—can't you find a way?"
"I have been down to the shore already," he said, "and had a talk to one
or two skippers. It is quite impossible to set sail to-night, so
every sailor assured me. No one," he added, looking significantly at
Marguerite, "NO ONE could possibly put out of Dover to-night."
Marguerite at once understood what he meant. NO ONE included Chauvelin
as well as herself. She nodded pleasantly to Jellyband.
"Well, then, I must resign myself," she said to him. "Have you a room
for me?"
"Oh, yes, your ladyship. A nice, bright, airy room. I'll see to it at
once. . . . And there is another one for Sir Andrew—both quite ready."
"That's brave now, mine honest Jelly," said Sir Andrew, gaily, and
clapping his worth host vigorously on the back. "You unlock both those
rooms, and leave our candles here on the dresser. I vow you are dead
with sleep, and her ladyship must have some supper before she retires.
There, have no fear, friend of the rueful countenance, her ladyship's
visit, though at this unusual hour, is a great honour to thy house, and
Sir Percy Blakeney will reward thee doubly, if thou seest well to her
privacy and comfort."
Sir Andrew had no doubt guessed the many conflicting doubts and fears
which raged in honest Jellyband's head; and, as he was a gallant
gentleman, he tried by this brave hint to allay some of the worthy
innkeeper's suspicions. He had the satisfaction of seeing that he
had partially succeeded. Jellyband's rubicund countenance brightened
somewhat, at the mention of Sir Percy's name.
"I'll go and see to it at once, sir," he said with alacrity, and with
less frigidity in his manner. "Has her ladyship everything she wants for
supper?"
"Everything, thanks, honest friend, and as I am famished and dead with
fatigue, I pray you see to the rooms."
"Now tell me," she said eagerly, as soon as Jellyband had gone from the
room, "tell me all your news."
"There is nothing else much to tell you, Lady Blakeney," replied the
young man. "The storm makes it quite impossible for any vessel to put
out of Dover this tide. But, what seems to you at first a terrible
calamity is really a blessing in disguise. If we cannot cross over to
France to-night, Chauvelin is in the same quandary.
"He may have left before the storm broke out."
"God grant he may," said Sir Andrew, merrily, "for very likely then
he'll have been driven out of his course! Who knows? He may now even be
lying at the bottom of the sea, for there is a furious storm raging, and
it will fare ill with all small craft which happen to be out. But I fear
me we cannot build our hopes upon the shipwreck of that cunning devil,
and of all his murderous plans. The sailors I spoke to, all assured me
that no schooner had put out of Dover for several hours: on the other
hand, I ascertained that a stranger had arrived by coach this afternoon,
and had, like myself, made some inquiries about crossing over to France.
"Then Chauvelin is still in Dover?"
"Undoubtedly. Shall I go waylay him and run my sword through him? That
were indeed the quickest way out of the difficulty."
"Nay! Sir Andrew, do not jest! Alas! I have often since last night
caught myself wishing for that fiend's death. But what you suggest is
impossible! The laws of this country do not permit of ***! It is only
in our beautiful France that wholesale slaughter is done lawfully, in
the name of Liberty and of brotherly love."
Sir Andrew had persuaded her to sit down to the table, to partake of
some supper and to drink a little wine. This enforced rest of at least
twelve hours, until the next tide, was sure to be terribly difficult to
bear in the state of intense excitement in which she was. Obedient in
these small matters like a child, Marguerite tried to eat and drink.
Sir Andrew, with that profound sympathy born in all those who are in
love, made her almost happy by talking to her about her husband. He
recounted to her some of the daring escapes the brave Scarlet Pimpernel
had contrived for the poor French fugitives, whom a relentless and
bloody revolution was driving out of their country. He made her eyes
glow with enthusiasm by telling her of his bravery, his ingenuity, his
resourcefulness, when it meant snatching the lives of men, women, and
even children from beneath the very edge of that murderous, ever-ready
guillotine.
He even made her smile quite merrily by telling her of the Scarlet
Pimpernel's quaint and many disguises, through which he had baffled the
strictest watch set against him at the barricades of Paris. This last
time, the escape of the Comtesse de Tournay and her children had been a
veritable masterpiece—Blakeney disguised as a hideous old market-woman,
in filthy cap and straggling grey locks, was a sight fit to make the
gods laugh.
Marguerite laughed heartily as Sir Andrew tried to describe Blakeney's
appearance, whose gravest difficulty always consisted in his great
height, which in France made disguise doubly difficult.
Thus an hour wore on. There were many more to spend in enforced
inactivity in Dover. Marguerite rose from the table with an impatient
sigh. She looked forward with dread to the night in the bed upstairs,
with terribly anxious thoughts to keep her company, and the howling of
the storm to help chase sleep away.
She wondered where Percy was now. The DAY DREAM was a strong, well-built
sea-going yacht. Sir Andrew had expressed the opinion that no doubt
she had got in the lee of the wind before the storm broke out, or else
perhaps had not ventured into the open at all, but was lying quietly at
Gravesend.
Briggs was an expert skipper, and Sir Percy handled a schooner as well
as any master mariner. There was no danger for them from the storm.
It was long past midnight when at last Marguerite retired to rest. As
she had feared, sleep sedulously avoided her eyes. Her thoughts were of
the blackest during these long, weary hours, whilst that incessant storm
raged which was keeping her away from Percy. The sound of the distant
breakers made her heart ache with melancholy. She was in the mood when
the sea has a saddening effect upon the nerves. It is only when we are
very happy, that we can bear to gaze merrily upon the vast and limitless
expanse of water, rolling on and on with such persistent, irritating
monotony, to the accompaniment of our thoughts, whether grave or gay.
When they are gay, the waves echo their gaiety; but when they are sad,
then every breaker, as it rolls, seems to bring additional sadness, and
to speak to us of hopelessness and of the pettiness of all our joys.
CHAPTER XXII CALAIS
The weariest nights, the longest days, sooner or later must perforce
come to an end.
Marguerite had spent over fifteen hours in such acute mental torture as
well-nigh drove her crazy. After a sleepless night, she rose early, wild
with excitement, dying to start on her journey, terrified lest further
obstacles lay in her way. She rose before anyone else in the house
was astir, so frightened was she, lest she should miss the one golden
opportunity of making a start.
When she came downstairs, she found Sir Andrew Ffoulkes sitting in the
coffee-room. He had been out half an hour earlier, and had gone to the
Admiralty Pier, only to find that neither the French packet nor any
privately chartered vessel could put out of Dover yet. The storm was
then at its fullest, and the tide was on the turn. If the wind did not
abate or change, they would perforce have to wait another ten or twelve
hours until the next tide, before a start could be made. And the storm
had not abated, the wind had not changed, and the tide was rapidly
drawing out.
Marguerite felt the sickness of despair when she heard this melancholy
news. Only the most firm resolution kept her from totally breaking down,
and thus adding to the young man's anxiety, which evidently had become
very keen.
Though he tried to hide it, Marguerite could see that Sir Andrew
was just as anxious as she was to reach his comrade and friend. This
enforced inactivity was terrible to them both.
How they spent that wearisome day at Dover, Marguerite could never
afterwards say. She was in terror of showing herself, lest Chauvelin's
spies happened to be about, so she had a private sitting-room, and
she and Sir Andrew sat there hour after hour, trying to take, at long
intervals, some perfunctory meals, which little Sally would bring them,
with nothing to do but to think, to conjecture, and only occasionally to
hope.
The storm had abated just too late; the tide was by then too far out to
allow a vessel to put off to sea. The wind had changed, and was settling
down to a comfortable north-westerly breeze—a veritable godsend for a
speedy passage across to France.
And there those two waited, wondering if the hour would ever come when
they could finally make a start. There had been one happy interval in
this long weary day, and that was when Sir Andrew went down once again
to the pier, and presently came back to tell Marguerite that he had
chartered a quick schooner, whose skipper was ready to put to sea the
moment the tide was favourable.
From that moment the hours seemed less wearisome; there was less
hopelessness in the waiting; and at last, at five o'clock in the
afternoon, Marguerite, closely veiled and followed by Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes, who, in the guise of her lacquey, was carrying a number of
impedimenta, found her way down to the pier.
Once on board, the keen, fresh sea-air revived her, the breeze was just
strong enough to nicely swell the sails of the FOAM CREST, as she cut
her way merrily towards the open.
The sunset was glorious after the storm, and Marguerite, as she watched
the white cliffs of Dover gradually disappearing from view, felt more at
peace and once more almost hopeful.
Sir Andrew was full of kind attentions, and she felt how lucky she had
been to have him by her side in this, her great trouble.
Gradually the grey coast of France began to emerge from the
fast-gathering evening mists. One or two lights could be seen
flickering, and the spires of several churches to rise out of the
surrounding haze.
Half an hour later Marguerite had landed upon French shore. She was
back in that country where at this very moment men slaughtered their
fellow-creatures by the hundreds, and sent innocent women and children
in thousands to the block.
The very aspect of the country and its people, even in this remote
sea-coast town, spoke of that seething revolution, three hundred miles
away, in beautiful Paris, now rendered hideous by the constant flow of
the blood of her noblest sons, by the wailing of the widows, and the
cries of fatherless children.
The men all wore red caps—in various stages of cleanliness—but all
with the tricolor cockade pinned on the left-side. Marguerite noticed
with a shudder that, instead of the laughing, merry countenance habitual
to her own countrymen, their faces now invariably wore a look of sly
distrust.
Every man nowadays was a spy upon his fellows: the most innocent
word uttered in jest might at any time be brought up as a proof of
aristocratic tendencies, or of treachery against the people. Even the
women went about with a curious look of fear and of hate lurking in
their brown eyes; and all watched Marguerite as she stepped on shore,
followed by Sir Andrew, and murmured as she passed along: "SACRES
ARISTOS!" or else "SACRES ANGLAIS!"
Otherwise their presence excited no further comment. Calais, even in
those days, was in constant business communication with England, and
English merchants were often seen on this coast. It was well known that
in view of the heavy duties in England, a vast deal of French wines
and brandies were smuggled across. This pleased the French BOURGEOIS
immensely; he liked to see the English Government and the English king,
both of whom he hated, cheated out of their revenues; and an English
smuggler was always a welcome guest at the tumble-down taverns of Calais
and Boulogne.
So, perhaps, as Sir Andrew gradually directed Marguerite through the
tortuous streets of Calais, many of the population, who turned with an
oath to look at the strangers clad in English fashion, thought that
they were bent on purchasing dutiable articles for their own fog-ridden
country, and gave them no more than a passing thought.
Marguerite, however, wondered how her husband's tall, massive figure
could have passed through Calais unobserved: she marvelled what disguise
he assumed to do his noble work, without exciting too much attention.
Without exchanging more than a few words, Sir Andrew was leading her
right across the town, to the other side from that where they had
landed, and the way towards Cap Gris Nez. The streets were narrow,
tortuous, and mostly evil-smelling, with a mixture of stale fish and
damp cellar odours. There had been heavy rain here during the storm
last night, and sometimes Marguerite sank ankle-deep in the mud, for the
roads were not lighted save by the occasional glimmer from a lamp inside
a house.
But she did not heed any of these petty discomforts: "We may meet
Blakeney at the 'Chat Gris,'" Sir Andrew had said, when they landed, and
she was walking as if on a carpet of rose-leaves, for she was going to
meet him almost at once.
At last they reached their destination. Sir Andrew evidently knew the
road, for he had walked unerringly in the dark, and had not asked his
way from anyone. It was too dark then for Marguerite to notice the
outside aspect of this house. The "Chat Gris," as Sir Andrew had called
it, was evidently a small wayside inn on the outskirts of Calais, and on
the way to Gris Nez. It lay some little distance from the coast, for the
sound of the sea seemed to come from afar.
Sir Andrew knocked at the door with the *** of his cane, and from
within Marguerite heard a sort of grunt and the muttering of a number of
oaths. Sir Andrew knocked again, this time more peremptorily: more
oaths were heard, and then shuffling steps seemed to draw near the door.
Presently this was thrown open, and Marguerite found herself on the
threshold of the most dilapidated, most squalid room she had ever seen
in all her life.
The paper, such as it was, was hanging from the walls in strips; there
did not seem to be a single piece of furniture in the room that could,
by the wildest stretch of imagination, be called "whole." Most of the
chairs had broken backs, others had no seats to them, one corner of the
table was propped up with a bundle of faggots, there where the fourth
leg had been broken.
In one corner of the room there was a huge hearth, over which hung a
stock-pot, with a not altogether unpalatable odour of hot soup emanating
therefrom. On one side of the room, high up in the wall, there was a
species of loft, before which hung a tattered blue-and-white checked
curtain. A rickety set of steps led up to this loft.
On the great bare walls, with their colourless paper, all stained
with varied filth, there were chalked up at intervals in great bold
characters, the words: "Liberte—Egalite—Fraternite."
The whole of this sordid abode was dimly lighted by an evil-smelling
oil-lamp, which hung from the rickety rafters of the ceiling. It all
looked so horribly squalid, so dirty and uninviting, that Marguerite
hardly dared to cross the threshold.
Sir Andrew, however, had stepped unhesitatingly forward.
"English travellers, citoyen!" he said boldly, and speaking in French.
The individual who had come to the door in response to Sir Andrew's
knock, and who, presumably, was the owner of this squalid abode, was an
elderly, heavily built peasant, dressed in a dirty blue blouse, heavy
sabots, from which wisps of straw protruded all round, shabby blue
trousers, and the inevitable red cap with the tricolour cockade, that
proclaimed his momentary political views. He carried a short wooden
pipe, from which the odour of rank tobacco emanated. He looked with some
suspicion and a great deal of contempt at the two travellers, muttering
"SACRRRES ANGLAIS!" and spat upon the ground to further show his
independence of spirit, but, nevertheless, he stood aside to let them
enter, no doubt well aware that these same SACCRES ANGLAIS always had
well-filled purses.
"Oh, lud!" said Marguerite, as she advanced into the room, holding her
handkerchief to her dainty nose, "what a dreadful hole! Are you sure
this is the place?"
"Aye! 'tis the place, sure enough," replied the young man as, with his
lace-edged, fashionable handkerchief, he dusted a chair for Marguerite
to sit on; "but I vow I never saw a more villainous hole."
"Faith!" she said, looking round with some curiosity and a great deal of
horror at the dilapidated walls, the broken chairs, the rickety table,
"it certainly does not look inviting."
The landlord of the "Chat Gris"—by name, Brogard—had taken no further
notice of his guests; he concluded that presently they would order
supper, and in the meanwhile it was not for a free citizen to show
deference, or even courtesy, to anyone, however smartly they might be
dressed.
By the hearth sat a huddled-up figure clad, seemingly, mostly in rags:
that figure was apparently a woman, although even that would have been
hard to distinguish, except for the cap, which had once been white,
and for what looked like the semblance of a petticoat. She was sitting
mumbling to herself, and from time to time stirring the brew in her
stock-pot.
"Hey, my friend!" said Sir Andrew at last, "we should like some supper.
. . . The citoyenne there," he added, "is concocting some delicious
soup, I'll warrant, and my mistress has not tasted food for several
hours."
It took Brogard some few minutes to consider the question. A free
citizen does not respond too readily to the wishes of those who happen
to require something of him.
"SACRRRES ARISTOS!" he murmured, and once more spat upon the ground.
Then he went very slowly up to a dresser which stood in a corner of
the room; from this he took an old pewter soup-tureen and slowly,
and without a word, he handed it to his better-half, who, in the same
silence, began filling the tureen with the soup out of her stock-pot.
Marguerite had watched all these preparations with absolute horror; were
it not for the earnestness of her purpose, she would incontinently have
fled from this abode of dirt and evil smells.
"Faith! our host and hostess are not cheerful people," said Sir Andrew,
seeing the look of horror on Marguerite's face. "I would I could offer
you a more hearty and more appetising meal . . . but I think you will
find the soup eatable and the wine good; these people wallow in dirt,
but live well as a rule."
"Nay! I pray you, Sir Andrew," she said gently, "be not anxious about
me. My mind is scarce inclined to dwell on thoughts of supper."
Brogard was slowly pursuing his gruesome preparations; he had placed
a couple of spoons, also two glasses on the table, both of which Sir
Andrew took the precaution of wiping carefully.
Brogard had also produced a bottle of wine and some bread, and
Marguerite made an effort to draw her chair to the table and to make
some pretence at eating. Sir Andrew, as befitting his ROLE of lacquey,
stood behind her chair.
"Nay, Madame, I pray you," he said, seeing that Marguerite seemed quite
unable to eat, "I beg of you to try and swallow some food—remember you
have need of all your strength."
The soup certainly was not bad; it smelt and tasted good. Marguerite
might have enjoyed it, but for the horrible surroundings. She broke the
bread, however, and drank some of the wine.
"Nay, Sir Andrew," she said, "I do not like to see you standing. You
have need of food just as much as I have. This creature will only think
that I am an eccentric Englishwoman eloping with her lacquey, if you'll
sit down and partake of this semblance of supper beside me."
Indeed, Brogard having placed what was strictly necessary upon the
table, seemed not to trouble himself any further about his guests. The
Mere Brogard had quietly shuffled out of the room, and the man stood
and lounged about, smoking his evil-smelling pipe, sometimes under
Marguerite's very nose, as any free-born citizen who was anybody's equal
should do.
"Confound the brute!" said Sir Andrew, with native British wrath,
as Brogard leant up against the table, smoking and looking down
superciliously at these two SACRRRES ANGLAIS.
"In Heaven's name, man," admonished Marguerite, hurriedly, seeing that
Sir Andrew, with British-born instinct, was ominously clenching his
fist, "remember that you are in France, and that in this year of grace
this is the temper of the people."
"I'd like to scrag the brute!" muttered Sir Andrew, savagely.
He had taken Marguerite's advice and sat next to her at table, and they
were both making noble efforts to deceive one another, by pretending to
eat and drink.
"I pray you," said Marguerite, "keep the creature in a good temper, so
that he may answer the questions we must put to him."
"I'll do my best, but, begad! I'd sooner scrag him than question him.
Hey! my friend," he said pleasantly in French, and tapping Brogard
lightly on the shoulder, "do you see many of our quality along these
parts? Many English travellers, I mean?"
Brogard looked round at him, over his near shoulder, puffed away at his
pipe for a moment or two as he was in no hurry, then muttered,—
"Heu!—sometimes!"
"Ah!" said Sir Andrew, carelessly, "English travellers always know
where they can get good wine, eh! my friend?—Now, tell me, my lady was
desiring to know if by any chance you happen to have seen a great friend
of hers, an English gentleman, who often comes to Calais on business; he
is tall, and recently was on his way to Paris—my lady hoped to have met
him in Calais."
Marguerite tried not to look at Brogard, lest she should betray before
him the burning anxiety with which she waited for his reply. But a
free-born French citizen is never in any hurry to answer questions:
Brogard took his time, then he said very slowly,—
"Tall Englishman?—To-day!—Yes."
"Yes, to-day," muttered Brogard, sullenly. Then he quietly took Sir
Andrew's hat from a chair close by, put it on his own head, tugged at
his dirty blouse, and generally tried to express in pantomime that
the individual in question wore very fine clothes. "SACRRE ARISTO!" he
muttered, "that tall Englishman!"
Marguerite could scarce repress a scream.
"It's Sir Percy right enough," she murmured, "and not even in disguise!"
She smiled, in the midst of all her anxiety and through her gathering
tears, at the thought of "the ruling passion strong in death"; of Percy
running into the wildest, maddest dangers, with the latest-cut coat upon
his back, and the laces of his jabot unruffled.
"Oh! the foolhardiness of it!" she sighed. "Quick, Sir Andrew! ask the
man when he went."
"Ah yes, my friend," said Sir Andrew, addressing Brogard, with the same
assumption of carelessness, "my lord always wears beautiful clothes;
the tall Englishman you saw, was certainly my lady's friend. And he has
gone, you say?"
"He went . . . yes . . . but he's coming back . . . here—he ordered supper
. . ."
Sir Andrew put his hand with a quick gesture of warning upon
Marguerite's arm; it came none too sooe, for the next moment her wild,
mad joy would have betrayed her. He was safe and well, was coming back
here presently, she would see him in a few moments perhaps. . . . Oh!
the wildness of her joy seemed almost more than she could bear.
"Here!" she said to Brogard, who seemed suddenly to have been
transformed in her eyes into some heaven-born messenger of bliss.
"Here!—did you say the English gentleman was coming back here?"
The heaven-born messenger of bliss spat upon the floor, to express his
contempt for all and sundry ARISTOS, who chose to haunt the "Chat Gris."
"Heu!" he muttered, "he ordered supper—he will come back . . . SACRRE
ANGLAIS!" he added, by way of protest against all this fuss for a mere
Englishman.
"But where is he now?—Do you know?" she asked eagerly, placing her
dainty white hand upon the dirty sleeve of his blue blouse.
"He went to get a horse and cart," said Brogard, laconically, as with a
surly gesture, he shook off from his arm that pretty hand which princes
had been proud to kiss.
"At what time did he go?"
But Brogard had evidently had enough of these questionings. He did
not think that it was fitting for a citizen—who was the equal of
anybody—to be thus catechised by these SACRRES ARISTOS, even though
they were rich English ones. It was distinctly more fitting to his
newborn dignity to be as rude as possible; it was a sure sign of
servility to meekly reply to civil questions.
"I don't know," he said surlily. "I have said enough, VOYONS, LES
ARISTOS! . . . He came to-day. He ordered supper. He went out.—He'll
come back. VOILA!"
And with this parting assertion of his rights as a citizen and a free
man, to be as rude as he well pleased, Brogard shuffled out of the room,
banging the door after him.
CHAPTER XXIII HOPE
"Faith, Madame!" said Sir Andrew, seeing that Marguerite seemed desirous
to call her surly host back again, "I think we'd better leave him alone.
We shall not get anything more out of him, and we might arouse his
suspicions. One never knows what spies may be lurking around these
God-forsaken places."
"What care I?" she replied lightly, "now I know that my husband is safe,
and that I shall see him almost directly!"
"Hush!" he said in genuine alarm, for she had talked quite loudly, in
the fulness of her glee, "the very walls have ears in France, these
days."
He rose quickly from the table, and walked round the bare, squalid
room, listening attentively at the door, through which Brogard has just
disappeared, and whence only muttered oaths and shuffling footsteps
could be heard. He also ran up the rickety steps that led to the attic,
to assure himself that there were no spies of Chauvelin's about the
place.
"Are we alone, Monsieur, my lacquey?" said Marguerite, gaily, as the
young man once more sat down beside her. "May we talk?"
"As cautiously as possible!" he entreated.
"Faith, man! but you wear a glum face! As for me, I could dance with
joy! Surely there is no longer any cause for fear. Our boat is on the
beach, the FOAM CREST not two miles out at sea, and my husband will be
here, under this very roof, within the next half hour perhaps. Sure!
there is naught to hinder us. Chauvelin and his gang have not yet
arrived."
"Nay, madam! that I fear we do not know."
"What do you mean?"
"He was at Dover at the same time that we were."
"Held up by the same storm, which kept us from starting."
"Exactly. But—I did not speak of it before, for I feared to alarm
you—I saw him on the beach not five minutes before we embarked.
At least, I swore to myself at the time that it was himself; he was
disguised as a CURE, so that Satan, his own guardian, would scarce have
known him. But I heard him then, bargaining for a vessel to take him
swiftly to Calais; and he must have set sail less than an hour after we
did."
Marguerite's face had quickly lost its look of joy. The terrible danger
in which Percy stood, now that he was actually on French soil, became
suddenly and horribly clear to her. Chauvelin was close upon his heels;
here in Calais, the astute diplomatist was all-powerful; a word from him
and Percy could be tracked and arrested and . . .
Every drop of blood seemed to freeze in her veins; not even during the
moments of her wildest anguish in England had she so completely realised
the imminence of the peril in which her husband stood. Chauvelin had
sworn to bring the Scarlet Pimpernel to the guillotine, and now the
daring plotter, whose anonymity hitherto had been his safeguard, stood
revealed through her own hand, to his most bitter, most relentless
enemy.
Chauvelin—when he waylaid Lord Tony and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes in the
coffee-room of "The Fisherman's Rest"—had obtained possession of all
the plans of this latest expedition. Armand St. Just, the Comte de
Tournay and other fugitive royalists were to have met the Scarlet
Pimpernel—or rather, as it had been originally arranged, two of his
emissaries—on this day, the 2nd of October, at a place evidently known
to the league, and vaguely alluded to as the "Pere Blanchard's hut."
Armand, whose connection with the Scarlet Pimpernel and disavowal of
the brutal policy of the Reign of Terror was still unknown to his
countryman, had left England a little more than a week ago, carrying
with him the necessary instructions, which would enable him to meet the
other fugitives and to convey them to this place of safety.
This much Marguerite had fully understood from the first, and Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes had confirmed her surmises. She knew, too, that when Sir Percy
realized that his own plans and his directions to his lieutenants had
been stolen by Chauvelin, it was too late to communicate with Armand, or
to send fresh instructions to the fugitives.
They would, of necessity, be at the appointed time and place, not
knowing how grave was the danger which now awaited their brave rescuer.
Blakeney, who as usual had planned and organized the whole expedition,
would not allow any of his younger comrades to run the risk of almost
certain capture. Hence his hurried note to them at Lord Grenville's
ball—"Start myself to-morrow—alone."
And now with his identity known to his most bitter enemy, his every step
would be dogged, the moment he set foot in France. He would be tracked
by Chauvelin's emissaries, followed until he reached that mysterious hut
where the fugitives were waiting for him, and there the trap would be
closed on him and on them.
There was but one hour—the hour's start which Marguerite and Sir Andrew
had of their enemy—in which to warn Percy of the imminence of his
danger, and to persuade him to give up the foolhardy expedition, which
could only end in his own death.
But there WAS that one hour.
"Chauvelin knows of this inn, from the papers he stole," said Sir
Andrew, earnestly, "and on landing will make straight for it."
"He has not landed yet," she said, "we have an hour's start on him, and
Percy will be here directly. We shall be mid-Channel ere Chauvelin has
realised that we have slipped through his fingers."
She spoke excitedly and eagerly, wishing to infuse into her young friend
some of that buoyant hope which still clung to her heart. But he shook
his head sadly.
"Silent again, Sir Andrew?" she said with some impatience. "Why do you
shake your head and look so glum?"
"Faith, Madame," he replied, "'tis only because in making your
rose-coloured plans, you are forgetting the most important factor."
"What in the world do you mean?—I am forgetting nothing. . . . What
factor do you mean?" she added with more impatience.
"It stands six foot odd high," replied Sir Andrew, quietly, "and hath
name Percy Blakeney."
"I don't understand," she murmured.
"Do you think that Blakeney would leave Calais without having
accomplished what he set out to do?"
"You mean . . . ?"
"There's the old Comte de Tournay . . ."
"The Comte . . . ?" she murmured.
"And St. Just . . . and others . . ."
"My brother!" she said with a heart-broken sob of anguish. "Heaven help
me, but I fear I had forgotten."
"Fugitives as they are, these men at this moment await with perfect
confidence and unshaken faith the arrival of the Scarlet Pimpernel, who
has pledged his honour to take them safely across the Channel."
Indeed, she had forgotten! With the sublime selfishness of a woman who
loves with her whole heart, she had in the last twenty-four hours had
no thought save for him. His precious, noble life, his danger—he, the
loved one, the brave hero, he alone dwelt in her mind.
"My brother!" she murmured, as one by one the heavy tears gathered
in her eyes, as memory came back to her of Armand, the companion and
darling of her childhood, the man for whom she had committed the deadly
sin, which had so hopelessly imperilled her brave husband's life.
"Sir Percy Blakeney would not be the trusted, honoured leader of a score
of English gentlemen," said Sir Andrew, proudly, "if he abandoned
those who placed their trust in him. As for breaking his word, the very
thought is preposterous!"
There was silence for a moment or two. Marguerite had buried her face
in her hands, and was letting the tears slowly trickle through her
trembling fingers. The young man said nothing; his heart ached for this
beautiful woman in her awful grief. All along he had felt the terrible
IMPASSE in which her own rash act had plunged them all. He knew his
friend and leader so well, with his reckless daring, his mad bravery,
his worship of his own word of honour. Sir Andrew knew that Blakeney
would brave any danger, run the wildest risks sooner than break it, and
with Chauvelin at his very heels, would make a final attempt, however
desperate, to rescue those who trusted in him.
"Faith, Sir Andrew," said Marguerite at last, making brave efforts
to dry her tears, "you are right, and I would not now shame myself by
trying to dissuade him from doing his duty. As you say, I should plead
in vain. God grant him strength and ability," she added fervently and
resolutely, "to outwit his pursuers. He will not refuse to take you with
him, perhaps, when he starts on his noble work; between you, you will
have cunning as well as valour! God guard you both! In the meanwhile I
think we should lose no time. I still believe that his safety depends
upon his knowing that Chauvelin is on his track."
"Undoubtedly. He has wonderful resources at his command. As soon as he
is aware of his danger he will exercise more caution: his ingenuity is a
veritable miracle."
"Then, what say you to a voyage of reconnaissance in the village whilst
I wait here against his coming!—You might come across Percy's track
and thus save valuable time. If you find him, tell him to beware!—his
bitterest enemy is on his heels!"
"But this is such a villainous hole for you to wait in."
"Nay, that I do not mind!—But you might ask our surly host if he could
let me wait in another room, where I could be safer from the prying eyes
of any chance traveller. Offer him some ready money, so that he should
not fail to give me word the moment the tall Englishman returns."
She spoke quite calmly, even cheerfully now, thinking out her plans,
ready for the worst if need be; she would show no more weakness, she
would prove herself worthy of him, who was about to give his life for
the sake of his fellow-men.
Sir Andrew obeyed her without further comment. Instinctively he felt
that hers now was the stronger mind; he was willing to give himself over
to her guidance, to become the hand, whilst she was the directing hand.
He went to the door of the inner room, through which Brogard and his
wife had disappeared before, and knocked; as usual, he was answered by a
salvo of muttered oaths.
"Hey! friend Brogard!" said the man peremptorily, "my lady friend would
wish to rest here awhile. Could you give her the use of another room?
She would wish to be alone."
He took some money out of his pocket, and allowed it to jingle
significantly in his hand. Brogard had opened the door, and listened,
with his usual surly apathy, to the young man's request. At the sight of
the gold, however, his lazy attitude relaxed slightly; he took his pipe
from his mouth and shuffled into the room.
He then pointed over his shoulder at the attic up in the wall.
"She can wait up there!" he said with a grunt. "It's comfortable, and I
have no other room."
"Nothing could be better," said Marguerite in English; she at once
realised the advantages such a position hidden from view would give her.
"Give him the money, Sir Andrew; I shall be quite happy up there, and
can see everything without being seen."
She nodded to Brogard, who condescended to go up to the attic, and to
shake up the straw that lay on the floor.
"May I entreat you, madam, to do nothing rash," said Sir Andrew, as
Marguerite prepared in her turn to ascend the rickety flight of steps.
"Remember this place is infested with spies. Do not, I beg of you,
reveal yourself to Sir Percy, unless you are absolutely certain that you
are alone with him."
Even as he spoke, he felt how unnecessary was this caution: Marguerite
was as calm, as clear-headed as any man. There was no fear of her doing
anything that was rash.
"Nay," she said with a slight attempt at cheerfulness, "that I can
faithfully promise you. I would not jeopardise my husband's life, nor
yet his plans, by speaking to him before strangers. Have no fear, I will
watch my opportunity, and serve him in the manner I think he needs it
most."
Brogard had come down the steps again, and Marguerite was ready to go up
to her safe retreat.
"I dare not kiss your hand, madam," said Sir Andrew, as she began to
mount the steps, "since I am your lacquey, but I pray you be of good
cheer. If I do not come across Blakeney in half an hour, I shall return,
expecting to find him here."
"Yes, that will be best. We can afford to wait for half an hour.
Chauvelin cannot possibly be here before that. God grant that either you
or I may have seen Percy by then. Good luck to you, friend! Have no fear
for me."
Lightly she mounted the rickety wooden steps that led to the attic.
Brogard was taking no further heed of her. She could make herself
comfortable there or not as she chose. Sir Andrew watched her until she
had reached the curtains across, and the young man noted that she was
singularly well placed there, for seeing and hearing, whilst remaining
unobserved.
He had paid Brogard well; the surly old innkeeper would have no object
in betraying her. Then Sir Andrew prepared to go. At the door he turned
once again and looked up at the loft. Through the ragged curtains
Marguerite's sweet face was peeping down at him, and the young man
rejoiced to see that it looked serene, and even gently smiling. With a
final nod of farewell to her, he walked out into the night.
End of Chapter XXIII �