Lord Tony's Wife: An Adventure of the Scarlet Pimpernel

by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy

  CHAPTER V

  THE NEST

  I

  There are lovely days in England sometimes in November or December, dayswhen the departing year strives to make us forget that winter is nigh,and autumn smiles, gentle and benignant, caressing with a still tenderkiss the last leaves of the scarlet oak which linger on the boughs, andtouching up with a vivid brush the evergreen verdure of bay trees, ofilex and of yew. The sky is of that pale, translucent blue whichdwellers in the South never see, with the soft transparency of anaquamarine as it fades into the misty horizon at midday. And at dusk thethrushes sing: "Kiss me quick! kiss me quick! kiss me quick" in thenaked branches of old acacias and chestnuts, and the robins don theircrimson waistcoats and dart in and out among the coppice and through thefeathery arms of larch and pine. And the sun which tips the pricklypoints of holly leaves with gold, joins in this merry make-believe thatwinter is still a very, very long way off, and that mayhap he has losthis way altogether, and is never coming to this balmy beautiful landagain.

  Just such a day was the penultimate one of November, 1793, when LadyAnthony Dewhurst sat at a desk in the wide bay window of thedrawing-room in Combwich Hall, trying to put into a letter to LadyBlakeney all that her heart would have wished to express of love andgratitude and happiness.

  Three whole days had gone by since that exciting night, when beforebreak of day in the dimly-lighted old church, in the presence of two orthree faithful friends, she had plighted her troth to Lord Anthony: evenwhilst other kind friends--including His Royal Highness--formed part ofthe little conspiracy which kept her father occupied and, if necessary,would have kept M. Martin-Roget out of the way. Since then her life hadbeen one continuous dream of perfect bliss. From the moment when afterthe second religious ceremony in the Roman Catholic church she foundherself alone in the carriage with milor, and felt his arms--so strongand yet so tender--closing round her and his lips pressed to hers in thefirst masterful kiss of complete possession, until this hour when shesaw his tall, elegant figure hurrying across the garden toward the gateand suddenly turning toward the window whence he knew that she waswatching him, every hour and every minute had been nothing but unalloyedhappiness.

  Even there where she had looked for sorrow and difficulty her path hadbeen made smooth for her. Her father, who she had feared would provehard and irreconcilable, had been tender and forgiving to such an extentthat tears almost of shame would gather in her eyes whenever she thoughtof him.

  As soon as she arrived at Combwich Hall she had written a long anddeeply affectionate letter to her father, imploring his forgiveness forthe deception and unfilial conduct which on her part must so deeply havegrieved him. She pleaded for her right to happiness in words ofimpassioned eloquence, she pleaded for her right to love and to beloved, for her right to a home, which a husband's devotion would make aparadise for her.

  This letter she had sent by special courier to her father and the verynext day she had his reply. She had opened the letter with tremblingfingers, fearful lest her father's harshness should mar the perfectserenity of her life. She was afraid of what he would say, for she knewher father well: knew his faults as well as his qualities, his pride,his obstinacy, his unswerving determination and his loyalty to theKing's cause--all of which must have been deeply outraged by hisdaughter's high-handed action. But as she began to read, astonishment,amazement at once filled her soul: she could hardly trust hercomprehension, hardly believe that what she read could indeed bereality, and not just the continuance of the happy dream wherein she wasdwelling these days.

  Her father--gently reproachful--had not one single harsh word to utter.He would not, he said, at the close of his life, after so many bitterdisappointments, stand in the way of his daughter's happiness: "Youshould have trusted me, my child," he wrote: and indeed Yvonne could notbelieve her eyes. "I had no idea that your happiness was at stake inthis marriage, or I should never have pressed the claims of my ownwishes in the matter. I have only you in the world left, now that miseryand exile are to be my portion! Is it likely that I would allow anypersonal desires to weigh against my love for you?"

  Happy as she was Yvonne cried--cried bitterly with remorse and shamewhen she read that letter. How could she have been so blind, sosenseless as to misjudge her father so? Her young husband found her intears, and had much ado to console her: he too read the letter and wasdeeply touched by the kind reference to himself contained therein: "Mylord Anthony is a gallant gentleman," wrote M. le duc de Kernogan, "hewill make you happy, my child, and your old father will be more thansatisfied. All that grieves me is that you did not trust me sooner. Aclandestine marriage is not worthy of a daughter of the Kernogans."

  "I did speak most earnestly to M. le duc," said Lord Tony reflectively,"when I begged him to allow me to pay my addresses to you. But then," headded cheerfully, "I am such a clumsy lout when I have to talk at anylength--and especially clumsy when I have to plead my own cause. Isuppose I put my case so badly before your father, m'dear, that hethought me three parts an idiot and would not listen to me."

  "I too begged and entreated him, dear," she said with a smile, "but hewas very determined then and vowed that I should marry M. Martin-Rogetdespite my tears and protestations. Dear father! I suppose he didn'trealise that I was in earnest."

  "He has certainly accepted the inevitable very gracefully," was my lordTony's final comment.

  II

  Then they read the letter through once more, sitting close together, hewith one arm round her shoulder, she nestling against his chest, herhair brushing against his lips and with the letter in her hands whichshe could scarcely read for the tears of joy which filled her eyes.

  "I don't feel very well to-day," the letter concluded; "the dampness andthe cold have got into my bones: moreover you two young love birds willnot desire company just yet, but to-morrow if the weather is more genialI will drive over to Combwich in the afternoon, and perhaps you willgive me supper and a bed for the night. Send me word by the courier whowill forthwith return to Bath if this will be agreeable to you both."

  Could anything be more adorable, more delightful? It was just the lastdrop that filled Yvonne's cup of happiness right up to the brim.

  III

  The next afternoon she sat at her desk in order to tell Lady Blakeneyall about it. She made out a copy of her father's letter and put that inwith her own, and begged dear Lady Blakeney to see Lady Ffoulkesforthwith and tell her all that had happened. She herself was expectingher father every minute and milor Tony had gone as far as the gate tosee if the barouche was in sight.

  Half an hour later M. de Kernogan had arrived and his daughter lay inhis arms, happy, beyond the dreams of men. He looked rather tired andwan and still complained that the cold had got into his bones: evidentlyhe was not very well and Yvonne after the excitement of the meeting feltnot a little anxious about him. As the evening wore on he became moreand more silent; he hardly would eat anything and soon after eighto'clock he announced his desire to retire to bed.

  "I am not ill," he said as he kissed his daughter and bade her a fond"Good-night," "only a little wearied ... with emotion no doubt. I shallbe better after a night's rest."

  He had been quite cordial with my lord Tony, though not effusive, whichwas only natural--he was at all times a very reserved man, and--unlikethose of his race--never demonstrative in his manner: but with hisdaughter he had been singularly tender, with a wistful affection whichalmost suggested remorse, even though it was she who, on his arrival,had knelt down before him and had begged for his blessing and hisforgiveness.

  IV

  But the following morning he appeared to be really ill: his cheekslooked sunken, almost livid, his eyes dim and hollow. Nevertheless hewould not hear of staying on another day or so.

  "No, no," he declared emphatically, "I shall be better in Bath. It ismore sheltered there, here the north winds would drive me to my bed veryquickly. I shall take a course of baths at once. They did me a greatdeal of good before, you remember, Yvonne--
in September, when I caught achill ... they soon put me right. That is all that ails me now.... I'vecaught a chill."

  He did his best to reassure his daughter, but she was far fromsatisfied: more especially as he hardly would touch the cup of chocolatewhich she had prepared for him with her own hands.

  "I shall be quite myself again in Bath," he declared, "and in a day ortwo when you can spare the time--or when milor can spare you--perhapsyou will drive over to see how the old father is getting on, eh?"

  "Indeed," she said firmly, "I shall not allow you to go to Bath alone.If you will go, I shall accompany you."

  "Nay!" he protested, "that is foolishness, my child. The barouche willtake me back quite comfortably. It is less than two hours' drive and Ishall be quite safe and comfortable."

  "You will be quite safe and comfortable in my company," she retortedwith a tender, anxious glance at his pale face and the nervous tremor ofhis hands. "I have consulted with my dear husband and he has given hisconsent that I should accompany you."

  "But you can't leave milor like that, my child," he protested once more."He will be lonely and miserable without you."

  "Yes. I think he will," she said wistfully. "But he will be all thehappier when you are well again, and I can return to Combwichsatisfied."

  Whereupon M. le duc yielded. He kissed and thanked his daughter andseemed even relieved at the prospect of her company. The barouche wasordered for eleven o'clock, and a quarter of an hour before that timeLord Tony had his young wife in his arms, bidding her a sad farewell.

  "I hate your going from me, sweetheart," he said as he kissed her eyes,her hair, her lips. "I cannot bear you out of my sight even for an hour... let alone a couple of days."

  "Yet I must go, dear heart," she retorted, looking up with that sweet,grave smile of hers into his eager young face. "I could not let himtravel alone ... could I?"

  "No, no," he assented somewhat dubiously, "but remember, dear heart,that you are infinitely precious and that I shall scarce live for sheeranxiety until I have you here, safe, once more in my arms."

  "I'll send you a courier this evening," she rejoined, as she extricatedherself gently from his embrace, "and if I can come back to-morrow...."

  "I'll ride over to Bath in any case in the morning so that I may escortyou back if you really can come."

  "I will come if I am reassured about father. Oh, my dear lord," sheadded with a wistful little sigh, "I knew yesterday morning that I wastoo happy, and that something would happen to mar the perfect felicityof these last few days."

  "You are not seriously anxious about M. le duc's health, dear heart?"

  "No, not seriously anxious. Farewell, milor. It is _au revoir_ ... a fewhours and we'll resume our dream."

  V

  There was nothing in all that to arouse my lord Tony's suspicions. Allday he was miserable and forlorn because Yvonne was not there--but hewas not suspicious.

  Fate had a blow in store for him, from which he was destined neverwholly to recover, but she gave him no warning, no premonition. He spentthe day in making up arrears of correspondence, for he had a largeprivate fortune to administer--trust funds on behalf of brothers andsisters who were minors--and he always did it conscientiously and to thebest of his ability. The last few days he had lived in a dream and therewas an accumulation of business to go through. In the evening heexpected the promised courier, who did not arrive: but his was not thesort of disposition that would fret and fume because of a contretempswhich might be attributable to the weather--it had rained heavily sinceafternoon--or to sundry trifling causes which he at Combwich, ten or adozen miles from Bath, could not estimate. He had no suspicions eventhen. How could he have? How could he guess? Nevertheless when heultimately went to bed, it was with the firm resolve that he would inany case go over to Bath in the morning and remain there until Yvonnewas able to come back with him.

  Combwich without her was anyhow unendurable.

  VI

  He started for Bath at nine o'clock in the morning. It was still raininghard. It had rained all night and the roads were very muddy. He startedout without a groom. A little after half-past ten, he drew rein outsidehis house in Chandos Buildings, and having changed his clothes hestarted to walk to Laura Place. The rain had momentarily left off, and apale wintry sun peeped out through rolling banks of grey clouds. He wentround by way of Saw Close and the Upper Borough Walls, as he wanted toavoid the fashionable throng that crowded the neighbourhood of the PumpRoom and the Baths. His intention was to seek out the Blakeneys at theirresidence in the Circus after he had seen Yvonne and obtained news of M.le duc.

  He had no suspicions. Why should he have?

  The Abbey clock struck a quarter-past eleven when finally he knocked atthe house in Laura Place. Long afterwards he remembered how just at thatmoment a dense grey mist descended into the valley. He had not noticedit before, now he saw that it had enveloped this part of the city sothat he could not even see clearly across the Place.

  A woman came to open the door. Lord Tony then thought this strangeconsidering how particular M. le duc always was about everythingpertaining to the management of his household: "The house of a poorexile," he was wont to say, "but nevertheless that of a gentleman."

  "Can I go straight up?" he asked the woman, who he thought was standingostentatiously in the hall as if to bar his way. "I desire to see M. leduc."

  "Ye can walk upstairs, zir," said the woman, speaking with a broadSomersetshire accent, "but I doubt me if ye'll see 'is Grace the Duke.'Es been gone these two days."

  Tony had paid no heed to her at first; he had walked across the narrowhall to the oak staircase, and was half-way up the first flight when herlast words struck upon his ear ... quite without meaning for the moment... but nevertheless he paused, one foot on one tread, and the other twotreads below ... and he turned round to look at the woman, a swift frownacross his smooth forehead.

  "Gone these two days," he repeated mechanically; "what do you mean?"

  "Well! 'Is Grace left the day afore yesterday--Thursday it was.... 'Isman went yesterday afternoon with luggage and sich ... 'e went by coach'e did.... Leave off," she cried suddenly; "what are ye doin'? Ye're'urtin' me."

  For Lord Tony had rushed down the stairs again and was across the hall,gripping the unoffending woman by the wrist and glaring into herexpressionless face until she screamed with fright.

  "I beg your pardon," he said humbly as he released her wrist: all theinstincts of the courteous gentleman arrayed against his loss ofcontrol. "I ... I forgot myself for the moment," he stammered; "wouldyou mind telling me again ... what ... what you said just now?"

  The woman was prepared to put on the airs of outraged dignity, she evenglanced up at the malapert with scorn expressed in her small beady eyes.But at sight of his face her anger and her fears both fell away fromher. Lord Tony was white to the lips, his cheeks were the colour ofdead ashes, his mouth trembled, his eyes alone glowed with ill-repressedanxiety.

  "'Is Grace," she said with slow emphasis, for of a truth she thoughtthat the young gentleman was either sick or daft, "'Is Grace leftthis 'ouse the day afore yesterday in a hired barouche. 'Isman--Frederick--went yesterday afternoon with the liggage. 'E caught theBristol coach at two o'clock. I was 'Is Grace's 'ousekeeper and I am tolook after the 'ouse and the zervants until I 'ear from 'Is Grace again.Them's my orders. I know no more than I'm tellin' ye."

  "But His Grace returned here yesterday forenoon," argued Lord Tonycalmly, mechanically, as one who would wish to convince an obstinatechild. "And my lady ... Mademoiselle Yvonne, you know ... was with him."

  "Noa! Noa!" said the woman placidly. "'Is Grace 'asn't been near this'ouse come Thursday afternoon, and 'is man left yesterday wi' th'liggage. Why!" she added confidentially, "'e ain't gone far. It was allzettled that zuddint I didn't know nothing about it myzelf till I zeedMr. Frederick start off wi' th' liggage. Not much liggage neither itwasn't. Sure but 'Is Grace'll be 'ome zoon. 'E can't 'ave gone far. Notwi' that bit o' liggage. Zure
."

  "But my lady ... Mademoiselle Yvonne...."

  "Lor, zir, didn't ye know? Why 'twas all over th' town o' Tuesday as 'owMademozell 'ad eloped with my lord Anthony Dew'urst, and...."

  "Yes! yes! But you have seen my lady since?"

  "Not clapped eyes on 'er, zir, since she went to the ball come Mondayevenin'. An' a picture she looked in 'er white gown...."

  "And ... did His Grace leave no message ... for ... for anyone?... noletter?"

  "Ah, yes, now you come to mention it, zir. Mr. Frederick 'e give me aletter yesterday. ''Is Grace,' sez 'e, 'left this yere letter on 'isdesk. I just found it,' sez 'e. 'If my lord Anthony Dew'urst calls,' sez'e, 'give it to 'im.' I've got the letter zomewhere, zir. What may yourname be?"

  "I am Lord Anthony Dewhurst," replied the young man mechanically.

  "Your pardon, my lord, I'll go fetch th' letter."

  VII

  Lord Tony never moved while the woman shuffled across the passage anddown the back stairs. He was like a man who has received a knock-outblow and has not yet had time to recover his scattered senses. At firstwhen the woman spoke, his mind had jumped to fears of some awfulaccident ... runaway horses ... a broken barouche ... or a suddenaggravation of the duc's ill-health. But soon he was forced to rejectwhat now would have seemed a consoling thought: had there been anaccident, he would have heard--a rumour would have reached him--Yvonnewould have sent a courier. He did not know yet what to think, his mindwas like a slate over which a clumsy hand had passed a wetsponge--impressions, recollections, above all a hideous, nameless fear,were all blurred and confused within his brain.

  The woman came back carrying a letter which was crumpled and greasy froma prolonged sojourn in the pocket of her apron. Lord Tony took theletter and broke its heavy seal. The woman watched him, curiously,pityingly now, for he was good to look on, and she scented thesignificance of the tragedy which she had been the means of revealingto him. But he had become quite unconscious of her presence, ofeverything in fact save those few sentences, written in French, in acramped hand, and which seemed to dance a wild saraband before his eyes:

  "MILOR,--

  "You tried to steal my daughter from me, but I have taken her from you now. By the time this reaches you we shall be on the high seas on our way to Holland, thence to Coblentz, where Mademoiselle de Kernogan will in accordance with my wishes be united in lawful marriage to M. Martin-Roget whom I have chosen to be her husband. She is not and never was your wife. As far as one may look into the future, I can assure you that you will never in life see her again."

  And to this monstrous document of appalling callousness and cold-bloodedcruelty there was appended the signature of Andre Dieudonne Duc deKernogan.

  But unlike the writer thereof Lord Anthony Dewhurst neither stormed norraged: he did not even tear the execrable letter into an hundredfragments. His firm hand closed over it with one convulsive clutch, andthat was all. Then he slipped the crumpled paper into his pocket. Quitedeliberately he took out some money and gave a piece of silver to thewoman.

  "I thank you very much," he said somewhat haltingly. "I quite understandeverything now."

  The woman curtseyed and thanked him; tears were in her eyes, for itseemed to her that never had she seen such grief depicted upon any humanface. She preceded him to the hall door and held it open for him, whilehe passed out. After the brief gleam of sunshine it had started to rainagain, but he didn't seem to care. The woman suggested fetching ahackney coach, but he refused quite politely, quite gently: he evenlifted his hat as he went out. Obviously he did not know what he wasdoing. Then he went out into the rain and strode slowly across thePlace.