To all appearances he had not changed since those early days of
matrimony, when his young wife dazzled London society by her wit and by
her beauty, and he was one of the many satellites that helped to bring
into bold relief the brilliance of her presence, of her sallies and of
her smiles.
His friends alone, mayhap--and of these only an intimate few--had
understood that beneath that self-same lazy manner, those shy and
awkward ways, that half-inane, half-cynical laugh, there now lurked an
undercurrent of tender and passionate happiness.
That Lady Blakeney was in love with her own husband, nobody could fail
to see, and in the more frivolous cliques of fashionable London this
extraordinary phenomenon had oft been eagerly discussed.
“A monstrous thing, of a truth, for a woman of fashion to adore her own
husband!” was the universal pronouncement of the gaily-decked little
world that centred around Carlton House and Ranelagh.
Not that Sir Percy Blakeney was unpopular with the fair sex. Far be it
from the veracious chronicler's mind even to suggest such a thing. The
ladies would have voted any gathering dull if Sir Percy's witty sallies
did not ring from end to end of the dancing hall, if his new satin coat
and 'broidered waistcoat did not call for comment or admiration.
But that was the frivolous set, to which Lady Blakeney had never
belonged.
It was well known that she had always viewed her good-natured husband
as the most willing and most natural butt for her caustic wit; she still
was fond of aiming a shaft or two at him, and he was still equally ready
to let the shaft glance harmlessly against the flawless shield of his
own imperturbable good humour, but now, contrary to all precedent, to
all usages and customs of London society, Marguerite seldom was seen at
routs or at the opera without her husband; she accompanied him to all
the races, and even one night--oh horror!--had danced the gavotte with
him.
Society shuddered and wondered! tried to put Lady Blakeney's sudden
infatuation down to foreign eccentricity, and finally consoled itself
with the thought that after all this nonsense could not last, and that
she was too clever a woman and he too perfect a gentleman to keep up
this abnormal state of things for any length of time.
In the meanwhile, the ladies averred that this matrimonial love was a
very one-sided affair. No one could assert that Sir Percy was anything
but politely indifferent to his wife's obvious attentions. His lazy eyes
never once lighted up when she entered a ball-room, and there were those
who knew for a fact that her ladyship spent many lonely days in her
beautiful home at Richmond whilst her lord and master absented himself
with persistent if unchivalrous regularity.
His presence at the Gala had been a surprise to everyone, for all
thought him still away, fishing in Scotland or shooting in Yorkshire,
anywhere save close to the apron strings of his doting wife. He himself
seemed conscious of the fact that he had not been expected at this
end-of-summer fete, for as he strolled forward to meet his wife and
Juliette Marny, and acknowledge with a bow here and a nod there the many
greetings from subordinates and friends, there was quite an apologetic
air about his good-looking face, and an obvious shyness in his smile.
But Marguerite gave a happy little laugh when she saw him coming towards
her.
“Oh, Sir Percy!” she said gaily, “and pray have you seen the show? I vow
'tis the maddest, merriest throng I've seen for many a day. Nay! but for
the sighs and shudders of my poor little Juliette, I should be enjoying
one of the liveliest days of my life.”
She patted Juliette's arm affectionately.
“Do not shame me before Sir Percy,” murmured the young girl, casting shy
glances at the elegant cavalier before her, vainly trying to find in the
indolent, foppish personality of this society butterfly, some trace of
the daring man of action, the bold adventurer who had snatched her and
her lover from out the very tumbril that bore them both to death.
“I know I ought to be gay,” she continued with an attempt at a smile, “I
ought to forget everything, save what I owe to...”
Sir Percy's laugh broke in on her half-finished sentence.
“Lud! and to think of all that I ought not to forget!” he said loudly.
“Tony here has been clamouring for iced punch this last half-hour, and I
promised to find a booth wherein the noble liquid is properly dispensed.
Within half an hour from now His Royal Highness will be here. I assure
you, Mlle. Juliette, that from that time onwards I have to endure the
qualms of the damned, for the heir to Great Britain's throne always
contrives to be thirsty when I am satiated, which is Tantalus' torture
magnified a thousandfold, or to be satiated when my parched palate most
requires solace; in either case I am a most pitiable man.”
“In either case you contrive to talk a deal of nonsense, Sir Percy,”
said Marguerite gaily.
“What else would your ladyship have me do this lazy, hot afternoon?”
“Come and view the booths with me,” she said. “I am dying for a sight of
the fat woman and the lean man, the pig-faced child, the dwarfs and
the giants. There! Monsieur Deroulede,” she added, turning to the young
Frenchman who was standing close beside her, “take Mlle. Juliette to
hear the clavecin players. I vow she is tired of my company.”
The gaily-dressed group was breaking up. Juliette and Paul Deroulede
were only too ready to stroll off arm-in-arm together, and Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes was ever in attendance on his young wife.
For one moment Marguerite caught her husband's eye. No one was within
earshot.
“Percy,” she said.
“Yes, m'dear.”
“When did you return?”
“Early this morning.”
“You crossed over from Calais?”
“From Boulogne.”
“Why did you not let me know sooner?”
“I could not, dear. I arrived at my lodgings in town, looking a
disgusting object.... I could not appear before you until I had washed
some of the French mud from off my person. Then His Royal Highness
demanded my presence. He wanted news of the Duchesse de Verneuil, whom I
had the honour of escorting over from France. By the time I had told him
all that he wished to hear, there was no chance of finding you at home,
and I thought I should see you here.”
Marguerite said nothing for a moment, but her foot impatiently tapped
the ground, and her fingers were fidgeting with the gold fringe of her
scarf. The look of joy, of exquisite happiness, seemed to have suddenly
vanished from her face; there was a deep furrow between her brows.
She sighed a short, sharp sigh, and cast a rapid upward glance at her
husband.
He was looking down at her, smiling good-naturedly, a trifle
sarcastically perhaps, and the frown on her face deepened.
“Percy,” she said abruptly.
“Yes, m'dear.”
“These anxieties are terrible to bear. You have been twice over to
France within the last month, dealing with your life as lightly as if
it did not now belong to me. When will you give up these mad adventures,
and leave others to fight their own battles and to save their own lives
as best they may?”
She had spoken with increased vehemence, although her voice was scarce
raised above a whisper. Even in her sudden, passionate anger she was on
her guard not to betray his secret. He did not reply immediately, but
seemed to be studying the beautiful face on which heartbroken anxiety
was now distinctly imprinted.
Then he turned and looked at the solitary booth in the distance, across
the frontal of which a large placard had been recently affixed, bearing
the words: “Come and see the true representation of the guillotine!”
In front of the booth a man dressed in ragged breeches, with Phrygian
cap on his head, adorned with a tri-colour cockade, was vigorously
beating a drum, shouting volubly the while:
“Come in and see, come in and see! the only realistic presentation of
the original guillotine. Hundreds perish in Paris every day! Come and
see! Come and see! the perfectly vivid performance of what goes on
hourly in Paris at the present moment.”
Marguerite had followed the direction of Sir Percy's eyes. She too was
looking at the booth, she heard the man's monotonous, raucous cries. She
gave a slight shudder and once more looked imploringly at her husband.
His face--though outwardly as lazy and calm as before--had a strange set
look about the mouth and firm jaw, and his slender hand, the hand of a
dandy accustomed to handle cards and dice and to play lightly with the
foils, was clutched tightly beneath the folds of the priceless Mechlin
frills.
It was but a momentary stiffening of the whole powerful frame, an
instant's flash of the ruling passion hidden within that very secretive
soul. Then he once more turned towards her, the rigid lines of his face
relaxed, he broke into a pleasant laugh, and with the most elaborate and
most courtly bow he took her hand in his and raising her fingers to his
lips, he gave the answer to her questions:
“When your ladyship has ceased to be the most admired woman in Europe,
namely, when I am in my grave.”