MARGUERITE
In a moment the pleasant oak-raftered coffee-room of the inn became the
scene of hopeless confusion and discomfort. At the first announcement
made by the stable boy, Lord Antony, with a fashionable oath, had
jumped up from his seat and was now giving many and confused directions
to poor bewildered Jellyband, who seemed at his wits’ end what to do.
“For goodness’ sake, man,” admonished his lordship, “try to keep Lady
Blakeney talking outside for a moment, while the ladies withdraw.
Zounds!” he added, with another more emphatic oath, “this is most
unfortunate.”
“Quick, Sally! the candles!” shouted Jellyband, as hopping about from
one leg to another, he ran hither and thither, adding to the general
discomfort of everybody.
The Comtesse, too, had risen to her feet: rigid and erect, trying to
hide her excitement beneath more becoming _sang-froid_, she repeated
mechanically,—
“I will not see her!—I will not see her!”
Outside, the excitement attendant upon the arrival of very important
guests grew apace.
“Good-day, Sir Percy!—Good-day to your ladyship! Your servant, Sir
Percy!”—was heard in one long, continued chorus, with alternate more
feeble tones of—“Remember the poor blind man! of your charity, lady and
gentleman!”
Then suddenly a singularly sweet voice was heard through all the din.
“Let the poor man be—and give him some supper at my expense.”
The voice was low and musical, with a slight sing-song in it, and a
faint _soupçon_ of foreign intonation in the pronunciation of the
consonants.
Everyone in the coffee-room heard it and paused, instinctively
listening to it for a moment. Sally was holding the candles by the
opposite door, which led to the bedrooms upstairs, and the Comtesse was
in the act of beating a hasty retreat before that enemy who owned such
a sweet musical voice; Suzanne reluctantly was preparing to follow her
mother, whilst casting regretful glances towards the door, where she
hoped still to see her dearly-beloved, erstwhile school-fellow.
Then Jellyband threw open the door, still stupidly and blindly hoping
to avert the catastrophe which he felt was in the air, and the same
low, musical voice said, with a merry laugh and mock consternation,—
“B-r-r-r-r! I am as wet as a herring! _Dieu!_ has anyone ever seen such
a contemptible climate?”
“Suzanne, come with me at once—I wish it,” said the Comtesse,
peremptorily.
“Oh! Mama!” pleaded Suzanne.
“My lady . . . er . . . h’m! . . . my lady! . . .” came in feeble
accents from Jellyband, who stood clumsily trying to bar the way.
“_Pardieu_, my good man,” said Lady Blakeney, with some impatience,
“what are you standing in my way for, dancing about like a turkey with
a sore foot? Let me get to the fire, I am perished with the cold.”
And the next moment Lady Blakeney, gently pushing mine host on one
side, had swept into the coffee-room.
There are many portraits and miniatures extant of Marguerite St.
Just—Lady Blakeney as she was then—but it is doubtful if any of these
really do her singular beauty justice. Tall, above the average, with
magnificent presence and regal figure, it is small wonder that even the
Comtesse paused for a moment in involuntary admiration before turning
her back on so fascinating an apparition.
Marguerite Blakeney was then scarcely five-and-twenty, and her beauty
was at its most dazzling stage. The large hat, with its undulating and
waving plumes, threw a soft shadow across the classic brow with the
aureole of auburn hair—free at the moment from any powder; the sweet,
almost childlike mouth, the straight chiselled nose, round chin, and
delicate throat, all seemed set off by the picturesque costume of the
period. The rich blue velvet robe moulded in its every line the
graceful contour of the figure, whilst one tiny hand held, with a
dignity all its own, the tall stick adorned with a large bunch of
ribbons which fashionable ladies of the period had taken to carrying
recently.
With a quick glance all around the room, Marguerite Blakeney had taken
stock of everyone there. She nodded pleasantly to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,
whilst extending a hand to Lord Antony.
“Hello! my Lord Tony, why—what are _you_ doing here in Dover?” she said
merrily.
Then, without waiting for a reply, she turned and faced the Comtesse
and Suzanne. Her whole face lighted up with additional brightness, as
she stretched out both arms towards the young girl.
“Why! if that isn’t my little Suzanne over there. _Pardieu_, little
citizeness, how came you to be in England? And Madame too!”
She went up effusively to them both, with not a single touch of
embarrassment in her manner or in her smile. Lord Tony and Sir Andrew
watched the little scene with eager apprehension. English though they
were, they had often been in France, and had mixed sufficiently with
the French to realise the unbending hauteur, the bitter hatred with
which the old _noblesse_ of France viewed all those who had helped to
contribute to their downfall. Armand St. Just, the brother of beautiful
Lady Blakeney—though known to hold moderate and conciliatory views—was
an ardent republican; his feud with the ancient family of St. Cyr—the
rights and wrongs of which no outsider ever knew—had culminated in the
downfall, the almost total extinction, of the latter. In France, St.
Just and his party had triumphed, and here in England, face to face
with these three refugees driven from their country, flying for their
lives, bereft of all which centuries of luxury had given them, there
stood a fair scion of those same republican families which had hurled
down a throne, and uprooted an aristocracy whose origin was lost in the
dim and distant vista of bygone centuries.
She stood there before them, in all the unconscious insolence of
beauty, and stretched out her dainty hand to them, as if she would, by
that one act, bridge over the conflict and bloodshed of the past
decade.
“Suzanne, I forbid you to speak to that woman,” said the Comtesse,
sternly, as she placed a restraining hand upon her daughter’s arm.
She had spoken in English, so that all might hear and understand; the
two young English gentlemen as well as the common innkeeper and his
daughter. The latter literally gasped with horror at this foreign
insolence, this impudence before her ladyship—who was English, now that
she was Sir Percy’s wife, and a friend of the Princess of Wales to
boot.
As for Lord Antony and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, their very hearts seemed to
stand still with horror at this gratuitous insult. One of them uttered
an exclamation of appeal, the other one of warning, and instinctively
both glanced hurriedly towards the door, whence a slow, drawly, not
unpleasant voice had already been heard.
Alone among those present Marguerite Blakeney and the Comtesse de
Tournay had remained seemingly unmoved. The latter, rigid, erect and
defiant, with one hand still upon her daughter’s arm, seemed the very
personification of unbending pride. For the moment Marguerite’s sweet
face had become as white as the soft fichu which swathed her throat,
and a very keen observer might have noted that the hand which held the
tall, beribboned stick was clenched, and trembled somewhat.
But this was only momentary; the next instant the delicate eyebrows
were raised slightly, the lips curved sarcastically upwards, the clear
blue eyes looked straight at the rigid Comtesse, and with a slight
shrug of the shoulders—
“Hoity-toity, citizeness,” she said gaily, “what fly stings you, pray?”
“We are in England now, Madame,” rejoined the Comtesse, coldly, “and I
am at liberty to forbid my daughter to touch your hand in friendship.
Come, Suzanne.”
She beckoned to her daughter, and without another look at Marguerite
Blakeney, but with a deep, old-fashioned curtsey to the two young men,
she sailed majestically out of the room.
There was silence in the old inn parlour for a moment, as the rustle of
the Comtesse’s skirts died away down the passage. Marguerite, rigid as
a statue, followed with hard, set eyes the upright figure, as it
disappeared through the doorway—but as little Suzanne, humble and
obedient, was about to follow her mother, the hard, set expression
suddenly vanished, and a wistful, almost pathetic and childlike look
stole into Lady Blakeney’s eyes.
Little Suzanne caught that look; the child’s sweet nature went out to
the beautiful woman, scarce older than herself; filial obedience
vanished before girlish sympathy; at the door she turned, ran back to
Marguerite, and putting her arms round her, kissed her effusively; then
only did she follow her mother, Sally bringing up the rear, with a
pleasant smile on her dimpled face, and with a final curtsey to my
lady.
Suzanne’s sweet and dainty impulse had relieved the unpleasant tension.
Sir Andrew’s eyes followed the pretty little figure, until it had quite
disappeared, then they met Lady Blakeney’s with unassumed merriment.
Marguerite, with dainty affectation, had kissed her hand to the ladies,
as they disappeared through the door, then a humorous smile began
hovering round the corners of her mouth.
“So that’s it, is it?” she said gaily. “La! Sir Andrew, did you ever
see such an unpleasant person? I hope when I grow old I sha’n’t look
like that.”
She gathered up her skirts, and assuming a majestic gait, stalked
towards the fireplace.
“Suzanne,” she said, mimicking the Comtesse’s voice, “I forbid you to
speak to that woman!”
The laugh which accompanied this sally sounded perhaps a trifle forced
and hard, but neither Sir Andrew nor Lord Tony were very keen
observers. The mimicry was so perfect, the tone of the voice so
accurately reproduced, that both the young men joined in a hearty
cheerful “Bravo!”
“Ah! Lady Blakeney!” added Lord Tony, “how they must miss you at the
Comédie Française, and how the Parisians must hate Sir Percy for having
taken you away.”
“Lud, man,” rejoined Marguerite, with a shrug of her graceful
shoulders, “’tis impossible to hate Sir Percy for anything; his witty
sallies would disarm even Madame la Comtesse herself.”
The young Vicomte, who had not elected to follow his mother in her
dignified exit, now made a step forward, ready to champion the Comtesse
should Lady Blakeney aim any further shafts at her. But before he could
utter a preliminary word of protest, a pleasant, though distinctly
inane laugh, was heard from outside, and the next moment an unusually
tall and very richly dressed figure appeared in the doorway.