THE MESSAGE OF HOPE
I
After Martin-Roget and Chauvelin had left her, Yvonne had sat for a long
time motionless, almost unconscious. It seemed as if gradually, hour by
hour, minute by minute, her every feeling of courage and of hope were
deserting her. Three days now she had been separated from her
father--three days she had been under the constant supervision of a
woman who had not a single thought of compassion or of mercy for the
"aristocrat" whom she hated so bitterly.
At night, curled up on a small bundle of dank straw Yvonne had made vain
efforts to snatch a little sleep. Ever since the day when she had been
ruthlessly torn away from the protection of her dear milor, she had
persistently clung to the belief that he would find the means to come to
her, to wrest her from the cruel fate which her pitiless enemies had
devised for her. She had clung to that hope throughout that dreary
journey from dear England to this abominable city. She had clung to it
even whilst her father knelt at her feet in an agony of remorse. She had
clung to hope while Martin-Roget alternately coaxed and terrorised her,
while her father was dragged away from her, while she endured untold
misery, starvation, humiliation at the hands of Louise Adet: but
now--quite unaccountably--that hope seemed suddenly to have fled from
her, leaving her lonely and inexpressibly desolate. That small,
shrunken figure which, wrapped in a dark mantle, had stood in the corner
of the room watching her like a serpent watches its prey, had seemed
like the forerunner of the fate with which Martin-Roget, gloating over
her helplessness, had already threatened her.
She knew, of course, that neither from him, nor from the callous brute
who governed Nantes, could she expect the slightest justice or mercy.
She had been brought here by Martin-Roget not only to die, but to suffer
grievously at his hands in return for a crime for which she personally
was in no way responsible. To hope for mercy from him at the eleventh
hour were worse than futile. Her already overburdened heart ached at
thought of her father: he suffered all that she suffered, and in
addition he must be tortured with anxiety for her and with remorse.
Sometimes she was afraid that under the stress of desperate soul-agony
he might perhaps have been led to suicide. She knew nothing of what had
happened to him, where he was, nor whether privations and lack of food
or sleep, together with Martin-Roget's threats, had by now weakened his
morale and turned his pride into humiliating submission.
II
A distant tower-clock struck the evening hours one after the other.
Yvonne for the past three days had only been vaguely conscious of time.
Martin-Roget had spoken of a few hours' respite only, of the proconsul's
desire to be soon rid of her. Well! this meant no doubt that the morrow
would see the end of it all--the end of her life which such a brief
while ago seemed so full of delight, of love and of happiness.
The end of her life! She had hardly begun to live and her dear milor had
whispered to her such sweet promises of endless vistas of bliss.
Yvonne shivered beneath her thin gown. The north-westerly blast came in
cruel gusts through the unglazed window and a vague instinct of
self-preservation caused Yvonne to seek shelter in the one corner of the
room where the icy draught did not penetrate quite so freely.
Eight, nine and ten struck from the tower-clock far away: she heard
these sounds as in a dream. Tired, cold and hungry her vitality at that
moment was at its lowest ebb--and, with her back resting against the
wall she fell presently into a torpor-like sleep.
Suddenly something roused her, and in an instant she sat up--wide-awake
and wide-eyed, every one of her senses conscious and on the alert.
Something had roused her--at first she could not say what it was--or
remember. Then presently individual sounds detached themselves from the
buzzing in her ears. Hitherto the house had always been so still; except
on the isolated occasions when Martin-Roget had come to visit her and
his heavy tread had caused every loose board in the tumble-down house to
creak, it was only Louise Adet's shuffling footsteps which had roused
the dormant echoes, when she crept upstairs either to her own room, or
to throw a piece of stale bread to her prisoner.
But now--it was neither Martin-Roget's heavy footfall nor the shuffling
gait of Louise Adet which had roused Yvonne from her trance-like sleep.
It was a gentle, soft, creeping step which was slowly, cautiously
mounting the stairs. Yvonne crouching against the wall could count every
tread--now and then a board creaked--now and then the footsteps halted.
Yvonne, wide-eyed, her heart stirred by a nameless terror was watching
the door.
The piece of tallow-candle flickered in the draught. Its feeble light
just touched the remote corner of the room. And Yvonne heard those soft,
creeping footsteps as they reached the landing and came to a halt
outside the door.
Every drop of blood in her seemed to be frozen by terror: her knees
shook: her heart almost stopped its beating.
Under the door something small and white had just been introduced--a
scrap of paper; and there it remained--white against the darkness of the
unwashed boards--a mysterious message left here by an unknown hand,
whilst the unknown footsteps softly crept down the stairs again.
For awhile longer Yvonne remained as she was--cowering against the
wall--like a timid little animal, fearful lest that innocent-looking
object hid some unthought-of danger. Then at last she gathered courage.
Trembling with excitement she raised herself to her knees and then on
hands and knees--for she was very weak and faint--she crawled up to that
mysterious piece of paper and picked it up.
Her trembling hand closed over it. With wide staring terror-filled eyes
she looked all round the narrow room, ere she dared cast one more glance
on that mysterious scrap of paper. Then she struggled to her feet and
tottered up to the table. She sat down and with fingers numbed with cold
she smoothed out the paper and held it close to the light, trying to
read what was written on it.
Her sight was blurred. She had to pull herself resolutely together, for
suddenly she felt ashamed of her weakness and her overwhelming terror
yielded to feverish excitement.
The scrap of paper contained a message--a message addressed to her in
that name of which she was so proud--the name which she thought she
would never be allowed to bear again: Lady Anthony Dewhurst. She
reiterated the words several times, her lips clinging lovingly to
them--and just below them there was a small device, drawn in red ink ...
a tiny flower with five petals....
Yvonne frowned and murmured, vaguely puzzled--no longer frightened now:
"A flower ... drawn in red ... what can it mean?"
And as a vague memory struggled for expression in her troubled mind she
added half aloud: "Oh! if it should be ...!"
But now suddenly all her fears fell away from her. Hope was once more
knocking at the gates of her heart--vague memories had taken definite
shape ... the mysterious letter ... the message of hope ... the red
flower ... all were gaining significance. She stooped low to read the
letter by the feeble light of the flickering candle. She read it through
with her eyes first--then with her lips in a soft murmur, while her mind
gradually took in all that it meant for her.
"Keep up your courage. Your friends are inside the city and on the
watch. Try the door of your prison every evening at one hour before
midnight. Once you will find it yield. Slip out and creep
noiselessly down the stairs. At the bottom a friendly hand will be
stretched out for you. Take it with confidence--it will lead you to
safety and to freedom. Courage and secrecy."
When she had finished reading, her eyes were swimming in tears. There
was no longer any doubt in her mind about the message now, for her dear
milor had so often spoken to her about the brave Scarlet Pimpernel who
had risked his precious life many a time ere this, in order to render
service to the innocent and the oppressed. And now, of a surety, this
message came from him: from her dear milor and from his gallant chief.
There was the small device--the little red flower which had so often
brought hope to despairing hearts. And it was more than hope that it
brought to Yvonne. It brought certitude and happiness, and a sweet,
tender remorse that she should ever have doubted. She ought to have
known all along that everything would be for the best: she had no right
ever to have given way to despair. In her heart she prayed for
forgiveness from her dear absent milor.
How could she ever doubt him? Was it likely that he would abandon
her?--he and that brave friend of his whose powers were indeed magical.
Why! she ought to have done her best to keep up her physical as well as
her mental faculties--who knows? But perhaps physical strength might be
of inestimable value both to herself and to her gallant rescuers
presently.
She took up the stale brown bread and ate it resolutely. She drank some
water and then stamped round the room to get some warmth into her limbs.
A distant clock had struck ten awhile ago--and if possible she ought to
get an hour's rest before the time came for her to be strong and to act:
so she shook up her meagre straw paillasse and lay down, determined if
possible to get a little sleep--for indeed she felt that that was just
what her dear milor would have wished her to do.
Thus time went by--waking or dreaming, Yvonne could never afterwards
have said in what state she waited during that one long hour which
separated her from the great, blissful moment. The bit of candle burnt
low and presently died out. After that Yvonne remained quite still upon
the straw, in total darkness: no light came in through the tiny window,
only the cold north-westerly wind blew in in gusts. But of a surety the
prisoner who was within sight of freedom felt neither cold nor fatigue
now.
The tower-clock in the distance struck the quarters with dreary
monotony.
III
The last stroke of eleven ceased to vibrate through the stillness of the
winter's night.
Yvonne roused herself from the torpor-like state into which she had
fallen. She tried to struggle to her feet, but intensity of excitement
had caused a strange numbness to invade her limbs. She could hardly
move. A second or two ago it had seemed to her that she heard a gentle
scraping noise at the door--a drawing of bolts--the grating of a key in
the lock--then again, soft, shuffling footsteps that came and went and
that were not those of Louise Adet.
At last Yvonne contrived to stand on her feet; but she had to close her
eyes and to remain quite still for awhile after that, for her ears were
buzzing and her head swimming: she thought that she must fall if she
moved and mayhap lose consciousness.
But this state of weakness only lasted a few seconds: the next she had
groped her way to the door and her hand had found the iron latch. It
yielded. Then she waited, calling up all her strength--for the hour had
come wherein she must not only think and act for herself, but think of
every possibility which might occur, and act as she imagined her dear
lord would require it of her.
She pressed the clumsy iron latch further: it yielded again, and anon
she was able to push open the door.
Excited yet confident she tip-toed out of the room. The darkness--like
unto pitch--was terribly disconcerting. With the exception of her narrow
prison Yvonne had only once seen the interior of the house and that was
when, half fainting, she had been dragged across its threshold and up
the stairs. She had therefore only a very vague idea as to where the
stairs lay and how she was to get about without stumbling.
Slowly and cautiously she crept a few paces forward, then she turned and
carefully closed the door behind her. There was not a sound inside the
house: everything was silent around her: neither footfall nor
whisperings reached her straining ears. She felt about her with her
hands, she crouched down on her knees: anon she discovered the head of
the stairs.
Then suddenly she drew back, like a frightened hare conscious of danger.
All the blood rushed back to her heart, making it beat so violently that
she once more felt sick and faint. A sound--gentle as a breath--had
broken that absolute and dead silence which up to now had given her
confidence. She felt suddenly that she was no longer alone in the
darkness--that somewhere close by there was some one--friend or foe--who
was lying in watch for her--that somewhere in the darkness something
moved and breathed.
The crackling of the paper inside her kerchief served to remind her that
her dear milor was on the watch and that the blessed message had spoken
of a friendly hand which would be stretched out to her and which she was
enjoined to take with confidence. Reassured she crept on again, and anon
a softly murmured: "Hush--sh!--sh!--" reached her ear. It seemed to
come from down below--not very far--and Yvonne, having once more located
the head of the stairs with her hands, began slowly to creep
downstairs--softly as a mouse--step by step--but every time that a board
creaked she paused, terrified, listening for Louise Adet's heavy
footstep, for a sound that would mean the near approach of danger.
"Hush--sh--sh" came again as a gentle murmur from below and the
something that moved and breathed in the darkness seemed to draw nearer
to Yvonne.
A few more seconds of soul-racking suspense, a few more steps down the
creaking stairs and she felt a strong hand laid upon her wrist and heard
a muffled voice whisper in English:
"All is well! Trust me! Follow me!"
She did not recognise the voice, even though there was something vaguely
familiar in its intonation. Yvonne did not pause to conjecture: she had
been made happy by the very sound of the language which stood to her for
every word of love she had ever heard: it restored her courage and her
confidence in their fullest measure.
Obeying the whispered command, Yvonne was content now to follow her
mysterious guide who had hold of her hand. The stairs were steep and
winding--at a turn she perceived a feeble light at their foot down
below. Up against this feeble light the form of her guide was
silhouetted in a broad, dark mass. Yvonne could see nothing of him
beyond the square outline of his shoulders and that of his sugar-loaf
hat. Her mind now was thrilled with excitement and her fingers closed
almost convulsively round his hand. He led her across Louise Adet's back
kitchen. It was from here that the feeble light came--from a small oil
lamp which stood on the centre table. It helped to guide Yvonne and her
mysterious friend to the bottom of the stairs, then across the kitchen
to the front door, where again complete darkness reigned. But soon
Yvonne--who was following blindly whithersoever she was led--heard the
click of a latch and the grating of a door upon its hinges: a cold
current of air caught her straight in the face. She could see nothing,
for it seemed to be as dark out of doors as in: but she had the
sensation of that open door, of a threshold to cross, of freedom and
happiness beckoning to her straight out of the gloom. Within the next
second or two she would be out of this terrible place, its squalid and
dank walls would be behind her. On ahead in that thrice welcome
obscurity her dear milor and his powerful friend were beckoning to her
to come boldly on--their protecting arms were already stretched out for
her; it seemed to her excited fancy as if the cold night-wind brought to
her ears the echo of their endearing words.
She filled her lungs with the keen winter air: hope, happiness,
excitement thrilled her every nerve.
"A short walk, my lady," whispered the guide, still speaking in English;
"you are not cold?"
"No, no, I am not cold," she whispered in reply. "I am conscious of
nothing save that I am free."
"And you are not afraid?"
"Indeed, indeed I am not afraid," she murmured fervently. "May God
reward you, sir, for what you do."
Again there had been that certain something--vaguely familiar--in the
way the man spoke which for the moment piqued Yvonne's curiosity. She
did not, of a truth, know English well enough to detect the very obvious
foreign intonation; she only felt that sometime in the dim and happy
past she had heard this man speak. But even this vague sense of
puzzlement she dismissed very quickly from her mind. Was she not taking
everything on trust? Indeed hope and confidence had a very firm hold on
her at last.