The Scarlet Pimpernel (19 page)

Perhaps he divined what was passing in her mind. His whole attitude was
one of intense longing—a veritable prayer for that confidence, which
her foolish pride withheld from him. When she remained silent he sighed,
and said with marked coldness—

"Faith, Madame, since it distresses you, we will not speak of it. . . .
As for Armand, I pray you have no fear. I pledge you my word that he
shall be safe. Now, have I your permission to go? The hour is getting
late, and . . ."

"You will at least accept my gratitude?" she said, as she drew quite
close to him, and speaking with real tenderness.

With a quick, almost involuntary effort he would have taken her then in
his arms, for her eyes were swimming in tears, which he longed to kiss
away; but she had lured him once, just like this, then cast him aside
like an ill-fitting glove. He thought this was but a mood, a caprice,
and he was too proud to lend himself to it once again.

"It is too soon, Madame!" he said quietly; "I have done nothing as yet.
The hour is late, and you must be fatigued. Your women will be waiting
for you upstairs."

He stood aside to allow her to pass. She sighed, a quick sigh of
disappointment. His pride and her beauty had been in direct conflict,
and his pride had remained the conqueror. Perhaps, after all, she had
been deceived just now; what she took to be the light of love in his
eyes might only have been the passion of pride or, who knows, of hatred
instead of love. She stood looking at him for a moment or two longer. He
was again as rigid, as impassive, as before. Pride had conquered, and he
cared naught for her. The grey light of dawn was gradually yielding
to the rosy light of the rising sun. Birds began to twitter; Nature
awakened, smiling in happy response to the warmth of this glorious
October morning. Only between these two hearts there lay a strong,
impassable barrier, built up of pride on both sides, which neither of
them cared to be the first to demolish.

He had bent his tall figure in a low ceremonious bow, as she finally,
with another bitter little sigh, began to mount the terrace steps.

The long train of her gold-embroidered gown swept the dead leaves off
the steps, making a faint harmonious sh—sh—sh as she glided up, with
one hand resting on the balustrade, the rosy light of dawn making an
aureole of gold round her hair, and causing the rubies on her head and
arms to sparkle. She reached the tall glass doors which led into the
house. Before entering, she paused once again to look at him, hoping
against hope to see his arms stretched out to her, and to hear his voice
calling her back. But he had not moved; his massive figure looked the
very personification of unbending pride, of fierce obstinacy.

Hot tears again surged to her eyes, as she would not let him see them,
she turned quickly within, and ran as fast as she could up to her own
rooms.

Had she but turned back then, and looked out once more on to the
rose-lit garden, she would have seen that which would have made her own
sufferings seem but light and easy to bear—a strong man, overwhelmed
with his own passion and his own despair. Pride had given way at last,
obstinacy was gone: the will was powerless. He was but a man madly,
blindly, passionately in love, and as soon as her light footsteps had
died away within the house, he knelt down upon the terrace steps, and in
the very madness of his love he kissed one by one the places where her
small foot had trodden, and the stone balustrade there, where her tiny
hand had rested last.

When Marguerite reached her room, she found her maid terribly anxious
about her.

"Your ladyship will be so tired," said the poor woman, whose own eyes
were half closed with sleep. "It is past five o'clock."

"Ah, yes, Louise, I daresay I shall be tired presently," said
Marguerite, kindly; "but you are very tired now, so go to bed at once.
I'll get into bed alone."

"But, my lady . . ."

"Now, don't argue, Louise, but go to bed. Give me a wrap, and leave me
alone."

Louise was only too glad to obey. She took off her mistress's gorgeous
ball-dress, and wrapped her up in a soft billowy gown.

"Does your ladyship wish for anything else?" she asked, when that was
done.

"No, nothing more. Put out the lights as you go out."

"Yes, my lady. Good-night, my lady."

"Good-night, Louise."

When the maid was gone, Marguerite drew aside the curtains and threw
open the windows. The garden and the river beyond were flooded with rosy
light. Far away to the east, the rays of the rising sun had changed the
rose into vivid gold. The lawn was deserted now, and Marguerite looked
down upon the terrace where she had stood a few moments ago trying in
vain to win back a man's love, which once had been so wholly hers.

It was strange that through all her troubles, all her anxiety for
Armand, she was mostly conscious at the present moment of a keen and
bitter heartache.

Her very limbs seemed to ache with longing for the love of a man who
had spurned her, who had resisted her tenderness, remained cold to her
appeals, and had not responded to the glow of passion, which had caused
her to feel and hope that those happy olden days in Paris were not all
dead and forgotten.

How strange it all was! She loved him still. And now that she looked
back upon the last few months of misunderstandings and of loneliness,
she realised that she had never ceased to love him; that deep down in
her heart she had always vaguely felt that his foolish inanities, his
empty laugh, his lazy nonchalance were nothing but a mask; that the real
man, strong, passionate, wilful, was there still—the man she had loved,
whose intensity had fascinated her, whose personality attracted her,
since she always felt that behind his apparently slow wits there was
a certain something, which he kept hidden from all the world, and most
especially from her.

A woman's heart is such a complex problem—the owner thereof is often
most incompetent to find the solution of this puzzle.

Did Marguerite Blakeney, "the cleverest woman in Europe," really love a
fool? Was it love that she had felt for him a year ago when she married
him? Was it love she felt for him now that she realised that he still
loved her, but that he would not become her slave, her passionate,
ardent lover once again? Nay! Marguerite herself could not have told
that. Not at this moment at any rate; perhaps her pride had sealed her
mind against a better understanding of her own heart. But this she did
know—that she meant to capture that obstinate heart back again. That
she would conquer once more . . . and then, that she would never lose him
. . . . She would keep him, keep his love, deserve it, and cherish
it; for this much was certain, that there was no longer any happiness
possible for her without that one man's love.

Thus the most contradictory thoughts and emotions rushed madly through
her mind. Absorbed in them, she had allowed time to slip by; perhaps,
tired out with long excitement, she had actually closed her eyes and
sunk into a troubled sleep, wherein quickly fleeting dreams seemed but
the continuation of her anxious thoughts—when suddenly she was roused,
from dream or meditation, by the noise of footsteps outside her door.

Nervously she jumped up and listened; the house itself was as still
as ever; the footsteps had retreated. Through her wide-open window the
brilliant rays of the morning sun were flooding her room with light. She
looked up at the clock; it was half-past six—too early for any of the
household to be already astir.

She certainly must have dropped asleep, quite unconsciously. The noise
of the footsteps, also of hushed subdued voices had awakened her—what
could they be?

Gently, on tip-toe, she crossed the room and opened the door to listen;
not a sound—that peculiar stillness of the early morning when sleep
with all mankind is at its heaviest. But the noise had made her nervous,
and when, suddenly, at her feet, on the very doorstep, she saw something
white lying there—a letter evidently—she hardly dared touch it. It
seemed so ghostlike. It certainly was not there when she came upstairs;
had Louise dropped it? or was some tantalising spook at play, showing
her fairy letters where none existed?

At last she stooped to pick it up, and, amazed, puzzled beyond measure,
she saw that the letter was addressed to herself in her husband's large,
businesslike-looking hand. What could he have to say to her, in the
middle of the night, which could not be put off until the morning?

She tore open the envelope and read:—

"A most unforeseen circumstance forces me to leave for the North
immediately, so I beg your ladyship's pardon if I do not avail myself of
the honour of bidding you good-bye. My business may keep me employed for
about a week, so I shall not have the privilege of being present at
your ladyship's water-party on Wednesday. I remain your ladyship's most
humble and most obedient servant, PERCY BLAKENEY."

Marguerite must suddenly have been imbued with her husband's slowness
of intellect, for she had perforce to read the few simple lines over and
over again, before she could fully grasp their meaning.

She stood on the landing, turning over and over in her hand this curt
and mysterious epistle, her mind a blank, her nerves strained with
agitation and a presentiment she could not very well have explained.

Sir Percy owned considerable property in the North, certainly, and he
had often before gone there alone and stayed away a week at a time; but
it seemed so very strange that circumstances should have arisen between
five and six o'clock in the morning that compelled him to start in this
extreme hurry.

Vainly she tried to shake off an unaccustomed feeling of nervousness:
she was trembling from head to foot. A wild, unconquerable desire
seized her to see her husband again, at once, if only he had not already
started.

Forgetting the fact that she was only very lightly clad in a morning
wrap, and that her hair lay loosely about her shoulders, she flew down
the stairs, right through the hall towards the front door.

It was as usual barred and bolted, for the indoor servants were not yet
up; but her keen ears had detected the sound of voices and the pawing of
a horse's hoof against the flag-stones.

With nervous, trembling fingers Marguerite undid the bolts one by one,
bruising her hands, hurting her nails, for the locks were heavy and
stiff. But she did not care; her whole frame shook with anxiety at the
very thought that she might be too late; that he might have gone without
her seeing him and bidding him "God-speed!"

At last, she had turned the key and thrown open the door. Her ears had
not deceived her. A groom was standing close by holding a couple of
horses; one of these was Sultan, Sir Percy's favourite and swiftest
horse, saddled ready for a journey.

The next moment Sir Percy himself appeared round the further corner
of the house and came quickly towards the horses. He had changed his
gorgeous ball costume, but was as usual irreproachably and richly
apparelled in a suit of fine cloth, with lace jabot and ruffles, high
top-boots, and riding breeches.

Marguerite went forward a few steps. He looked up and saw her. A slight
frown appeared between his eyes.

"You are going?" she said quickly and feverishly. "Whither?"

"As I have had the honour of informing your ladyship, urgent, most
unexpected business calls me to the North this morning," he said, in his
usual cold, drawly manner.

"But . . . your guests to-morrow . . ."

"I have prayed your ladyship to offer my humble excuses to His Royal
Highness. You are such a perfect hostess, I do not think I shall be
missed."

"But surely you might have waited for your journey . . . until after
our water-party . . ." she said, still speaking quickly and nervously.
"Surely this business is not so urgent . . . and you said nothing about
it—just now."

"My business, as I had the honour to tell you, Madame, is as unexpected
as it is urgent. . . . May I therefore crave your permission to go.
. . . Can I do aught for you in town? . . . on my way back?"

"No . . . no . . . thanks . . . nothing . . . But you will be back soon?"

"Very soon."

"Before the end of the week?"

"I cannot say."

He was evidently trying to get away, whilst she was straining every
nerve to keep him back for a moment or two.

"Percy," she said, "will you not tell me why you go to-day? Surely I, as
your wife, have the right to know. You have NOT been called away to the
North. I know it. There were no letters, no couriers from there before
we left for the opera last night, and nothing was waiting for you when
we returned from the ball. . . . You are NOT going to the North, I feel
convinced. . . . There is some mystery . . . and . . ."

"Nay, there is no mystery, Madame," he replied, with a slight tone of
impatience. "My business has to do with Armand . . . there! Now, have I
your leave to depart?"

"With Armand? . . . But you will run no danger?"

"Danger? I? . . . Nay, Madame, your solicitude does me honour. As you
say, I have some influence; my intention is to exert it before it be too
late."

"Will you allow me to thank you at least?"

"Nay, Madame," he said coldly, "there is no need for that. My life is at
your service, and I am already more than repaid."

"And mine will be at yours, Sir Percy, if you will but accept it, in
exchange for what you do for Armand," she said, as, impulsively, she
stretched out both her hands to him. "There! I will not detain you
. . . my thoughts go with you . . . Farewell! . . ."

How lovely she looked in this morning sunlight, with her ardent hair
streaming around her shoulders. He bowed very low and kissed her hand;
she felt the burning kiss and her heart thrilled with joy and hope.