In the meanwhile silence had fallen over the beautiful old manorial
house. One by one the guests had departed, leaving that peaceful sense
of complete calm and isolation which follows the noisy chatter of any
great throng bent chiefly on enjoyment.
The evening had been universally acknowledged to have been brilliantly
successful. True, the much talked of French artiste had not sung the
promised ditties, but in the midst of the whirl and excitement of
dances, of the inspiring tunes of the string band, the elaborate supper
and recherche wines, no one had paid much heed to this change in the
programme of entertainments.
And everyone had agreed that never had Lady Blakeney looked more
radiantly beautiful than on this night. She seemed absolutely
indefatigable; a perfect hostess, full of charming little attentions
towards every one, although more than ordinarily absorbed by her duties
towards her many royal guests.
The dramatic incidents which had taken place in the small boudoir had
not been much bruited abroad. It was always considered bad form in
those courtly days to discuss men's quarrels before ladies, and in this
instance, those who were present when it all occurred instinctively felt
that their discretion would be appreciated in high circles, and held
their tongues accordingly.
Thus the brilliant evening was brought to a happy conclusion without a
single cloud to mar the enjoyment of the guests. Marguerite performed a
veritable miracle of fortitude, forcing her very smiles to seem natural
and gay, chatting pleasantly, even wittily, upon every known fashionable
topic of the day, laughing merrily the while her poor, aching heart was
filled with unspeakable misery.
Now, when everybody had gone, when the last of her guests had bobbed
before her the prescribed curtsey, to which she had invariably responded
with the same air of easy self-possession, now at last she felt free to
give rein to her thoughts, to indulge in the luxury of looking her own
anxiety 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 strolled
out with him as far as the garden gate, for Lady Ffoulkes had left in
her chaise some time ago, and Sir Andrew meant to walk to his home, not
many yards distant from Blakeney Manor.
In spite of herself Marguerite felt her heartstrings tighten as she
thought of this young couple so lately wedded. People smiled a
little when Sir Andrew Ffoulkes' name was mentioned, some called him
effeminate, others uxorious, his fond attachment for his pretty little
wife was thought to pass the bounds of decorum. There was no doubt that
since his marriage the young man had greatly changed. His love of sport
and adventure seemed to have died out completely, yielding evidently to
the great, more overpowering love, that for his young wife.
Suzanne was nervous for her husband's safety. She had sufficient
influence over him to keep him at home, when other members of the brave
little League of The Scarlet Pimpernel followed their leader with mad
zest, on some bold adventure.
Marguerite too at first had smiled in kindly derision when Suzanne
Ffoulkes, her large eyes filled with tears, had used her wiles to keep
Sir Andrew tied to her own dainty apronstrings. But somehow, lately,
with that gentle contempt which she felt for the weaker man, there had
mingled 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 his
own curious dual personality: it were sacrilege, almost, to doubt the
intensity of his love. But nevertheless she had at all times a feeling
as 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 his
safety were but small episodes in the great book of life which he had
planned out and conceived for himself.
Then she would hate herself for such thoughts: they seemed like doubts
of him. Did any man ever love a woman, she asked herself, as Percy loved
her? He was difficult to understand, and perhaps--oh! that was an awful
“perhaps”--perhaps there lurked somewhere in his mind a slight mistrust
of her. She had betrayed him once! unwittingly 'tis true! did he fear
she might do so again?
And to-night after her guests had gone she threw open the great windows
that gave on the beautiful terrace, with its marble steps leading down
to the cool river beyond. Everything now seemed so peaceful and still;
the scent of the heliotrope made the midnight air swoon with its
intoxicating fragrance: the rhythmic murmur of the waters came gently
echoing from below, and from far away there came the melancholy cry of a
night-bird on the prowl.
That cry made Marguerite shudder: her thoughts flew back to the
episodes of this night and to Chauvelin, the dark bird of prey with his
mysterious death-dealing plans, his subtle intrigues which all tended
towards the destruction of one man: his enemy, the husband whom
Marguerite loved.
Oh! how she hated these wild adventures which took Percy away from her
side. Is not a woman who loves--be it husband or child--the most truly
selfish, the most cruelly callous creature in the world, there, where
the safety and the well-being of the loved one is in direct conflict
with the safety and well-being of others.
She would right gladly have closed her eyes to every horror perpetrated
in France, she would not have known what went on in Paris, she wanted
her husband! And yet month after month, with but short intervals, she
saw him risk that precious life of his, which was the very essence of
her 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 seized
him to go on one of those wild quests, wherefrom she always feared he
could not return alive: and this, although she might use every noble
artifice, every tender wile of which a loving and beautiful wife is
capable.
At times like those her own proud heart was filled with hatred and with
envy towards everything that took him away from her: and to-night all
these passionate feelings which she felt were quite unworthy of her and
of him seemed to surge within her soul more tumultuously than ever. She
was longing to throw herself in his arms, to pour out into his loving
ear all that she suffered, in fear and anxiety, and to make one more
appeal to his tenderness and to that passion which had so often made him
forget the world at her feet.
And so instinctively she walked along the terrace towards that more
secluded part of the garden just above the river bank, where she had
so oft wandered hand in hand with him, in the honeymoon of their
love. There great clumps of old-fashioned cabbage roses grew in untidy
splendour, and belated lilies sent intoxicating odours into the air,
whilst the heavy masses of Egyptian and Michaelmas daisies looked like
ghostly 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, his
ruling passion, strong in death, would be holding him in its thrall.
She too felt wide awake and unconscious of fatigue; when she reached
the secluded path beside the river, she peered eagerly up and down, and
listened for a sound.
Presently it seemed to her that above the gentle clapper of the waters
she could hear a rustle and the scrunching of the fine gravel under
carefully measured footsteps. She waited a while. The footsteps seemed
to draw nearer, and soon, although the starlit night was very dark, she
perceived 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 close
to Marguerite and drew her hood still lower over her eyes. “I am all
alone ... I wanted to see someone--you if possible, Lady Blakeney... for
I 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?” asked
Candeille.
“What is that to you?” replied Marguerite haughtily.
“I pray you do not misunderstand me...” pleaded Candeille eagerly. “I
know my presence in your house... the quarrel which I provoked must have
filled your heart with hatred and suspicion towards me... but oh! how
can I persuade you?... I acted unwillingly... will you not believe
me?... I was that man's tool... and... Oh God!” she added with sudden,
wild vehemence, “if only you could know what tyranny that accursed
government of France exercises over poor helpless women or men who
happen to have fallen within reach of its relentless clutches...”
Her voice broke down in a sob. Marguerite hardly knew what to say or
think. She had always mistrusted this woman with her theatrical ways and
stagy airs, from the very first moment she saw her in the tent on the
green: and she did not wish to run counter against her instinct, in
anything pertaining to the present crisis. And yet in spite of her
mistrust the actress' vehement words found an echo in the depths of her
own heart. How well she knew that tyranny of which Candeille spoke with
such bitterness! Had she not suffered from it, endured terrible sorrow
and humiliation, when under the ban of that same appalling tyranny
she had betrayed the identity--then unknown to her--of the Scarlet
Pimpernel?
Therefore when Candeille paused after those last excited words, she said
with more gentleness than she had shown hitherto, though still quite
coldly:
“But you have not yet told me why you came back here to-night? If
Citizen Chauvelin was your taskmaster, then you must know all that has
occurred.”
“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, that
Citizen Chauvelin has a personal hatred against your husband?”
“How do you know that?” asked Marguerite, with her suspicions once more
on the qui-vive. She could not understand Candeille's attitude. This
midnight visit, the vehemence of her language, the strange mixture of
knowledge and ignorance which she displayed. What did this woman know of
Chauvelin'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 that
prince of intriguers?
Candeille, however, seemed quite unaware of the spirit of antagonism
and mistrust which Marguerite took but little pains now to disguise. She
clasped her hands together, and her voice shook with the earnestness of
her entreaty.
“Oh!” she said eagerly, “have I not seen that look of hatred in
Chauvelin's cruel eyes?... He hates your husband, I tell you.... Why I
know not... but he hates him.. and means that great harm shall come to
Sir Percy through this absurd duel.... Oh! Lady Blakeney, do not let him
go... I entreat you, do not let him go!”
But Marguerite proudly drew back a step or two, away from the reach of
those hands, stretched out towards her in such vehement appeal.
“You are overwrought, Mademoiselle,” she said coldly. “Believe me, I
have no need either of your entreaties or of your warning.... I should
like you to think that I have no wish to be ungrateful... that I
appreciate any kind thought you may have harboured for me in your
mind.... But beyond that... please forgive me if I say it somewhat
crudely--I do not feel that the matter concerns you in the least.... The
hour is late,” she added more gently, as if desiring to attenuate the
harshness 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 need
of discretion... I am not ashamed of my visit to you to-night.... You
are very proud, and for your sake I will pray to God that sorrow and
humiliation may not come to you, as I feared.... We are never likely
to meet again, Lady Blakeney... you will not wish it, and I shall have
passed out of your life as swiftly as I had entered into it.... But
there 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 near
Boulogne... 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 see
when I came back here to-night in the silence and the darkness--I had
not guessed that you would be so proud... I thought that I, a woman,
would know how to touch your womanly heart.... I was clumsy, I
suppose.... 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, which
I feel sure Chauvelin has prepared for him.... I myself start for France
shortly. Citizen Chauvelin has provided me with the necessary passport
for myself and my maid, who was to have accompanied me.... Then, just
now, when I was all alone... and thought over all the mischief which
that 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 in
the gloom. But Marguerite, who was taller than the Frenchwoman, was
standing, very stiff and erect, giving the young actress neither
discouragement nor confidence. She did not interrupt Candeille's long
and voluble explanation: vaguely she wondered what it was all about,
and even now when the Frenchwoman paused, Marguerite said nothing, but
watched her quietly as she took a folded paper from the capacious pocket
of her cloak and then held it out with a look of timidity towards Lady
Blakeney.
“My maid need not come with me,” said Desiree Candeille humbly. “I would
far rather travel alone... this is her passport and... Oh! you need not
take 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 will
leave it here among the roses!... You mistrust me now... it is only
natural... presently, perhaps, calmer reflection will come... you will
see that my purpose now is selfless... that I only wish to serve you and
him.”
She stooped and placed the folded paper in the midst of a great clump of
centifolium roses, and then without another word she turned and went her
way. For a few moments, whilst Marguerite still stood there, puzzled and
vaguely moved, she could hear the gentle frou-frou of the other woman's
skirts against the soft sand of the path, and then a long-drawn sigh
that sounded like a sob.
Then all was still again. The gentle midnight breeze caressed the tops
of the ancient oaks and elms behind her, drawing murmurs from their
dying leaves like unto the whisperings of ghosts.
Marguerite shuddered with a slight sense of cold. Before her, amongst
the dark clump of leaves and the roses, invisible in the gloom, there
fluttered with a curious, melancholy flapping, the folded paper placed
there by Candeille. She watched it for awhile, as, disturbed by the
wind, it seemed ready to take its flight towards the river. Anon it fell
to the ground, and Marguerite with sudden overpowering impulse, stooped
and picked it up. Then clutching it nervously in her hand, she walked
rapidly back towards the house.