In the meanwhile silence had fallen over the beautiful old manorialhouse. One by one the guests had departed, leaving that peaceful senseof complete calm and isolation which follows the noisy chatter of anygreat throng bent chiefly on enjoyment.
The evening had been universally acknowledged to have been brilliantlysuccessful. True, the much talked of French artiste had not sung thepromised ditties, but in the midst of the whirl and excitement ofdances, of the inspiring tunes of the string band, the elaborate supperand recherche wines, no one had paid much heed to this change in theprogramme of entertainments.
And everyone had agreed that never had Lady Blakeney looked moreradiantly beautiful than on this night. She seemed absolutelyindefatigable; a perfect hostess, full of charming little attentionstowards every one, although more than ordinarily absorbed by her dutiestowards her many royal guests.
The dramatic incidents which had taken place in the small boudoir hadnot been much bruited abroad. It was always considered bad form inthose courtly days to discuss men's quarrels before ladies, and in thisinstance, those who were present when it all occurred instinctively feltthat their discretion would be appreciated in high circles, and heldtheir tongues accordingly.
Thus the brilliant evening was brought to a happy conclusion without asingle cloud to mar the enjoyment of the guests. Marguerite performed averitable miracle of fortitude, forcing her very smiles to seem naturaland gay, chatting pleasantly, even wittily, upon every known fashionabletopic of the day, laughing merrily the while her poor, aching heart wasfilled with unspeakable misery.
Now, when everybody had gone, when the last of her guests had bobbedbefore her the prescribed curtsey, to which she had invariably respondedwith the same air of easy self-possession, now at last she felt free togive rein to her thoughts, to indulge in the luxury of looking her ownanxiety straight in the face and to let the tension of her nerves relax.
Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been the last to leave and Percy had strolledout with him as far as the garden gate, for Lady Ffoulkes had left inher chaise some time ago, and Sir Andrew meant to walk to his home, notmany yards distant from Blakeney Manor.
In spite of herself Marguerite felt her heartstrings tighten as shethought of this young couple so lately wedded. People smiled alittle when Sir Andrew Ffoulkes' name was mentioned, some called himeffeminate, others uxorious, his fond attachment for his pretty littlewife was thought to pass the bounds of decorum. There was no doubt thatsince his marriage the young man had greatly changed. His love of sportand adventure seemed to have died out completely, yielding evidently tothe great, more overpowering love, that for his young wife.
Suzanne was nervous for her husband's safety. She had sufficientinfluence over him to keep him at home, when other members of the bravelittle League of The Scarlet Pimpernel followed their leader with madzest, on some bold adventure.
Marguerite too at first had smiled in kindly derision when SuzanneFfoulkes, her large eyes filled with tears, had used her wiles to keepSir Andrew tied to her own dainty apronstrings. But somehow, lately,with that gentle contempt which she felt for the weaker man, there hadmingled a half-acknowledged sense of envy.
How different 'twixt her and her husband.
Percy loved her truly and with a depth of passion proportionate to hisown curious dual personality: it were sacrilege, almost, to doubt theintensity of his love. But nevertheless she had at all times a feelingas if he were holding himself and his emotions in check, as if his love,as if she, Marguerite, his wife, were but secondary matters in his life;as if her anxieties, her sorrow when he left her, her fears for hissafety were but small episodes in the great book of life which he hadplanned out and conceived for himself.
Then she would hate herself for such thoughts: they seemed like doubtsof him. Did any man ever love a woman, she asked herself, as Percy lovedher? He was difficult to understand, and perhaps--oh! that was an awful"perhaps"--perhaps there lurked somewhere in his mind a slight mistrustof her. She had betrayed him once! unwittingly 'tis true! did he fearshe might do so again?
And to-night after her guests had gone she threw open the great windowsthat gave on the beautiful terrace, with its marble steps leading downto the cool river beyond. Everything now seemed so peaceful and still;the scent of the heliotrope made the midnight air swoon with itsintoxicating fragrance: the rhythmic murmur of the waters came gentlyechoing from below, and from far away there came the melancholy cry of anight-bird on the prowl.
That cry made Marguerite shudder: her thoughts flew back to theepisodes of this night and to Chauvelin, the dark bird of prey with hismysterious death-dealing plans, his subtle intrigues which all tendedtowards the destruction of one man: his enemy, the husband whomMarguerite loved.
Oh! how she hated these wild adventures which took Percy away from herside. Is not a woman who loves--be it husband or child--the most trulyselfish, the most cruelly callous creature in the world, there, wherethe safety and the well-being of the loved one is in direct conflictwith the safety and well-being of others.
She would right gladly have closed her eyes to every horror perpetratedin France, she would not have known what went on in Paris, she wantedher husband! And yet month after month, with but short intervals, shesaw him risk that precious life of his, which was the very essence ofher own soul, for others! for others! always for others!
And she! she! Marguerite, his wife, was powerless to hold him back!powerless to keep him beside her, when that mad fit of passion seizedhim to go on one of those wild quests, wherefrom she always feared hecould not return alive: and this, although she might use every nobleartifice, every tender wile of which a loving and beautiful wife iscapable.
At times like those her own proud heart was filled with hatred and withenvy towards everything that took him away from her: and to-night allthese passionate feelings which she felt were quite unworthy of her andof him seemed to surge within her soul more tumultuously than ever. Shewas longing to throw herself in his arms, to pour out into his lovingear all that she suffered, in fear and anxiety, and to make one moreappeal to his tenderness and to that passion which had so often made himforget the world at her feet.
And so instinctively she walked along the terrace towards that moresecluded part of the garden just above the river bank, where she hadso oft wandered hand in hand with him, in the honeymoon of theirlove. There great clumps of old-fashioned cabbage roses grew in untidysplendour, and belated lilies sent intoxicating odours into the air,whilst the heavy masses of Egyptian and Michaelmas daisies looked likeghostly constellations in the gloom.
She thought Percy must soon be coming this way. Though it was so late,she knew that he would not go to bed. After the events of the night, hisruling passion, strong in death, would be holding him in its thrall.
She too felt wide awake and unconscious of fatigue; when she reachedthe secluded path beside the river, she peered eagerly up and down, andlistened for a sound.
Presently it seemed to her that above the gentle clapper of the watersshe could hear a rustle and the scrunching of the fine gravel undercarefully measured footsteps. She waited a while. The footsteps seemedto draw nearer, and soon, although the starlit night was very dark, sheperceived a cloaked and hooded figure approaching cautiously toward her.
"Who goes there?" she called suddenly.
The figure paused: then came rapidly forward, and a voice said timidly:
"Ah! Lady Blakeney!"
"Who are you?" asked Marguerite peremptorily.
"It is I... Desiree Candeille," replied the midnight prowler.
"Demoiselle Candeille!" ejaculated Marguerite, wholly taken by surprise."What are you doing here? alone? and at this hour?"
"Sh-sh-sh..." whispered Candeille eagerly, as she approached quite closeto Marguerite and drew her hood still lower over her eyes. "I am allalone ... I wanted to see someone--you if possible, Lady Blakeney... forI could not rest... I wanted to know what had happened."
"What had happened? When? I don't understand."
"What happened between Citizen Chauvelin and your husband?" askedCandeille.
"What is that to you?" replied Marguerite haughtily.
"I pray you do not misunderstand me..." pleaded Candeille eagerly. "Iknow my presence in your house... the quarrel which I provoked must havefilled your heart with hatred and suspicion towards me... but oh! howcan I persuade you?... I acted unwillingly... will you not believeme?... I was that man's tool... and... Oh God!" she added with sudden,wild vehemence, "if only you could know what tyranny that accursedgovernment of France exercises over poor helpless women or men whohappen to have fallen within reach of its relentless clutches..."
Her voice broke down in a sob. Marguerite hardly knew what to say orthink. She had always mistrusted this woman with her theatrical ways andstagy airs, from the very first moment she saw her in the tent on thegreen: and she did not wish to run counter against her instinct, inanything pertaining to the present crisis. And yet in spite of hermistrust the actress' vehement words found an echo in the depths of herown heart. How well she knew that tyranny of which Candeille spoke withsuch bitterness! Had she not suffered from it, endured terrible sorrowand humiliation, when under the ban of that same appalling tyrannyshe had betrayed the identity--then unknown to her--of the ScarletPimpernel?
Therefore when Candeille paused after those last excited words, she saidwith more gentleness than she had shown hitherto, though still quitecoldly:
"But you have not yet told me why you came back here to-night? IfCitizen Chauvelin was your taskmaster, then you must know all that hasoccurred."
"I had a vague hope that I might see you."
"For what purpose?"
"To warn you if I could."
"I need no warning."
"Or are too proud to take one.... Do you know, Lady Blakeney, thatCitizen Chauvelin has a personal hatred against your husband?"
"How do you know that?" asked Marguerite, with her suspicions once moreon the qui-vive. She could not understand Candeille's attitude. Thismidnight visit, the vehemence of her language, the strange mixture ofknowledge and ignorance which she displayed. What did this woman know ofChauvelin's secret plans? Was she his open ally, or his helpless tool?And was she even now playing a part taught her or commanded her by thatprince of intriguers?
Candeille, however, seemed quite unaware of the spirit of antagonismand mistrust which Marguerite took but little pains now to disguise. Sheclasped her hands together, and her voice shook with the earnestness ofher entreaty.
"Oh!" she said eagerly, "have I not seen that look of hatred inChauvelin's cruel eyes?... He hates your husband, I tell you.... Why Iknow not... but he hates him.. and means that great harm shall come toSir Percy through this absurd duel.... Oh! Lady Blakeney, do not let himgo... I entreat you, do not let him go!"
But Marguerite proudly drew back a step or two, away from the reach ofthose hands, stretched out towards her in such vehement appeal.
"You are overwrought, Mademoiselle," she said coldly. "Believe me, Ihave no need either of your entreaties or of your warning.... I shouldlike you to think that I have no wish to be ungrateful... that Iappreciate any kind thought you may have harboured for me in yourmind.... But beyond that... please forgive me if I say it somewhatcrudely--I do not feel that the matter concerns you in the least.... Thehour is late," she added more gently, as if desiring to attenuate theharshness of her last words. "Shall I send my maid to escort you home?She is devoted and discreet..."
"Nay!" retorted the other in tones of quiet sadness, "there is no needof discretion... I am not ashamed of my visit to you to-night.... Youare very proud, and for your sake I will pray to God that sorrow andhumiliation may not come to you, as I feared.... We are never likelyto meet again, Lady Blakeney... you will not wish it, and I shall havepassed out of your life as swiftly as I had entered into it.... Butthere was another thought lurking in my mind when I came to-night....In case Sir Percy goes to France... the duel is to take place in or nearBoulogne... this much I do know... would you not wish to go with him?"
"Truly, Mademoiselle, I must repeat to you..."
"That 'tis no concern of mine... I know... I own that.... But, you seewhen I came back here to-night in the silence and the darkness--I hadnot guessed that you would be so proud... I thought that I, a woman,would know how to touch your womanly heart.... I was clumsy, Isuppose.... I made so sure that you would wish to go with your husband,in case... in case he insisted on running his head into the noose, whichI feel sure Chauvelin has prepared for him.... I myself start for Franceshortly. Citizen Chauvelin has provided me with the necessary passportfor myself and my maid, who was to have accompanied me.... Then, justnow, when I was all alone... and thought over all the mischief whichthat fiend had forced me to do for him, it seemed to me that perhaps..."
She broke off abruptly, and tried to read the other woman's face inthe gloom. But Marguerite, who was taller than the Frenchwoman, wasstanding, very stiff and erect, giving the young actress neitherdiscouragement nor confidence. She did not interrupt Candeille's longand voluble explanation: vaguely she wondered what it was all about,and even now when the Frenchwoman paused, Marguerite said nothing, butwatched her quietly as she took a folded paper from the capacious pockedof her cloak and then held it out with a look of timidity towards LadyBlakeney.
"My maid need not come with me," said Desiree Candeille humbly. "I wouldfar rather travel alone... this is her passport and... Oh! you need nottake it out of my hand," she added in tones of bitter self-deprecation,as Marguerite made no sign of taking the paper from her. "See! I willleave it here among the roses!... You mistrust me now... it is onlynatural... presently, perhaps, calmer reflection will come... you willsee that my purpose now is selfless... that I only wish to serve you andhim."
She stooped and placed the folded paper in the midst of a great clump ofcentifolium roses, and then without another word she turned and went herway. For a few moments, whilst Marguerite still stood there, puzzled andvaguely moved, she could hear the gentle frou-frou of the other woman'sskirts against the soft sand of the path, and then a long-drawn sighthat sounded like a sob.
Then all was still again. The gentle midnight breeze caressed the topsof the ancient oaks and elms behind her, drawing murmurs from theirdying leaves like unto the whisperings of ghosts.
Marguerite shuddered with a slight sense of cold. Before her, amongstthe dark clump of leaves and the roses, invisible in the gloom, therefluttered with a curious, melancholy flapping, the folded paper placedthere by Candeille. She watched it for awhile, as, disturbed by thewind, it seemed ready to take its flight towards the river. Anon it fellto the ground, and Marguerite with sudden overpowering impulse, stoopedand picked it up. Then clutching it nervously in her hand, she walkedrapidly back towards the house.
Chapter XV: Farewell
The Elusive Pimpernel Page 14
