The Scarlet Pimpernel (4 page)

It almost seemed, when the young man said these words, as if he threw a
defiant look towards the quiet strangers in the corner.

"Thanks to you, my lord, and to your friends, so I've heard it said,"
said Mr. Jellyband.

But in a moment Lord Antony's hand fell warningly on mine host's arm.

"Hush!" he said peremptorily, and instinctively once again looked
towards the strangers.

"Oh! Lud love you, they are all right, my lord," retorted Jellyband;
"don't you be afraid. I wouldn't have spoken, only I knew we were among
friends. That gentleman over there is as true and loyal a subject of
King George as you are yourself, my lord saving your presence. He is
but lately arrived in Dover, and is setting down in business in these
parts."

"In business? Faith, then, it must be as an undertaker, for I vow I
never beheld a more rueful countenance."

"Nay, my lord, I believe that the gentleman is a widower, which no doubt
would account for the melancholy of his bearing—but he is a friend,
nevertheless, I'll vouch for that-and you will own, my lord, that who
should judge of a face better than the landlord of a popular inn—"

"Oh, that's all right, then, if we are among friends," said Lord Antony,
who evidently did not care to discuss the subject with his host. "But,
tell me, you have no one else staying here, have you?"

"No one, my lord, and no one coming, either, leastways—"

"Leastways?"

"No one your lordship would object to, I know."

"Who is it?"

"Well, my lord, Sir Percy Blakeney and his lady will be here presently,
but they ain't a-goin' to stay—"

"Lady Blakeney?" queried Lord Antony, in some astonishment.

"Aye, my lord. Sir Percy's skipper was here just now. He says that my
lady's brother is crossing over to France to-day in the DAY DREAM, which
is Sir Percy's yacht, and Sir Percy and my lady will come with him as
far as here to see the last of him. It don't put you out, do it, my
lord?"

"No, no, it doesn't put me out, friend; nothing will put me out, unless
that supper is not the very best which Miss Sally can cook, and which
has ever been served in 'The Fisherman's Rest.'"

"You need have no fear of that, my lord," said Sally, who all this while
had been busy setting the table for supper. And very gay and inviting
it looked, with a large bunch of brilliantly coloured dahlias in the
centre, and the bright pewter goblets and blue china about.

"How many shall I lay for, my lord?"

"Five places, pretty Sally, but let the supper be enough for ten at
least—our friends will be tired, and, I hope, hungry. As for me, I vow
I could demolish a baron of beef to-night."

"Here they are, I do believe," said Sally excitedly, as a distant
clatter of horses and wheels could now be distinctly heard, drawing
rapidly nearer.

There was a general commotion in the coffee-room. Everyone was curious
to see my Lord Antony's swell friends from over the water. Miss Sally
cast one or two quick glances at the little bit of mirror which hung
on the wall, and worthy Mr. Jellyband bustled out in order to give
the first welcome himself to his distinguished guests. Only the two
strangers in the corner did not participate in the general excitement.
They were calmly finishing their game of dominoes, and did not even look
once towards the door.

"Straight ahead, Comtesse, the door on your right," said a pleasant
voice outside.

"Aye! there they are, all right enough." said Lord Antony, joyfully;
"off with you, my pretty Sally, and see how quick you can dish up the
soup."

The door was thrown wide open, and, preceded by Mr. Jellyband, who was
profuse in his bows and welcomes, a party of four—two ladies and two
gentlemen—entered the coffee-room.

"Welcome! Welcome to old England!" said Lord Antony, effusively, as he
came eagerly forward with both hands outstretched towards the newcomers.

"Ah, you are Lord Antony Dewhurst, I think," said one of the ladies,
speaking with a strong foreign accent.

"At your service, Madame," he replied, as he ceremoniously kissed the
hands of both the ladies, then turned to the men and shook them both
warmly by the hand.

Sally was already helping the ladies to take off their traveling cloaks,
and both turned, with a shiver, towards the brightly-blazing hearth.

There was a general movement among the company in the coffee-room. Sally
had bustled off to her kitchen whilst Jellyband, still profuse with his
respectful salutations, arranged one or two chairs around the fire. Mr.
Hempseed, touching his forelock, was quietly vacating the seat in
the hearth. Everyone was staring curiously, yet deferentially, at the
foreigners.

"Ah, Messieurs! what can I say?" said the elder of the two ladies, as
she stretched a pair of fine, aristocratic hands to the warmth of the
blaze, and looked with unspeakable gratitude first at Lord Antony, then
at one of the young men who had accompanied her party, and who was busy
divesting himself of his heavy, caped coat.

"Only that you are glad to be in England, Comtesse," replied Lord
Antony, "and that you have not suffered too much from your trying
voyage."

"Indeed, indeed, we are glad to be in England," she said, while her
eyes filled with tears, "and we have already forgotten all that we have
suffered."

Her voice was musical and low, and there was a great deal of calm
dignity and of many sufferings nobly endured marked in the handsome,
aristocratic face, with its wealth of snowy-white hair dressed high
above the forehead, after the fashion of the times.

"I hope my friend, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, proved an entertaining
travelling companion, madame?"

"Ah, indeed, Sir Andrew was kindness itself. How could my children and I
ever show enough gratitude to you all, Messieurs?"

Her companion, a dainty, girlish figure, childlike and pathetic in its
look of fatigue and of sorrow, had said nothing as yet, but her eyes,
large, brown, and full of tears, looked up from the fire and sought
those of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, who had drawn near to the hearth and to
her; then, as they met his, which were fixed with unconcealed admiration
upon the sweet face before him, a thought of warmer colour rushed up to
her pale cheeks.

"So this is England," she said, as she looked round with childlike
curiosity at the great hearth, the oak rafters, and the yokels with
their elaborate smocks and jovial, rubicund, British countenances.

"A bit of it, Mademoiselle," replied Sir Andrew, smiling, "but all of
it, at your service."

The young girl blushed again, but this time a bright smile, fleet and
sweet, illumined her dainty face. She said nothing, and Sir Andrew too
was silent, yet those two young people understood one another, as young
people have a way of doing all the world over, and have done since the
world began.

"But, I say, supper!" here broke in Lord Antony's jovial voice, "supper,
honest Jellyband. Where is that pretty wench of yours and the dish of
soup? Zooks, man, while you stand there gaping at the ladies, they will
faint with hunger."

"One moment! one moment, my lord," said Jellyband, as he threw open the
door that led to the kitchen and shouted lustily: "Sally! Hey, Sally
there, are ye ready, my girl?"

Sally was ready, and the next moment she appeared in the doorway
carrying a gigantic tureen, from which rose a cloud of steam and an
abundance of savoury odour.

"Odd's life, supper at last!" ejaculated Lord Antony, merrily, as he
gallantly offered his arm to the Comtesse.

"May I have the honour?" he added ceremoniously, as he led her towards
the supper table.

There was a general bustle in the coffee-room: Mr. Hempseed and most of
the yokels and fisher-folk had gone to make way for "the quality," and
to finish smoking their pipes elsewhere. Only the two strangers stayed
on, quietly and unconcernedly playing their game of dominoes and sipping
their wine; whilst at another table Harry Waite, who was fast losing his
temper, watched pretty Sally bustling round the table.

She looked a very dainty picture of English rural life, and no wonder
that the susceptible young Frenchman could scarce take his eyes off her
pretty face. The Vicomte de Tournay was scarce nineteen, a beardless
boy, on whom terrible tragedies which were being enacted in his own
country had made but little impression. He was elegantly and even
foppishly dressed, and once safely landed in England he was evidently
ready to forget the horrors of the Revolution in the delights of English
life.

"Pardi, if zis is England," he said as he continued to ogle Sally with
marked satisfaction, "I am of it satisfied."

It would be impossible at this point to record the exact exclamation
which escaped through Mr. Harry Waite's clenched teeth. Only respect
for "the quality," and notably for my Lord Antony, kept his marked
disapproval of the young foreigner in check.

"Nay, but this IS England, you abandoned young reprobate," interposed
Lord Antony with a laugh, "and do not, I pray, bring your loose foreign
ways into this most moral country."

Lord Antony had already sat down at the head of the table with the
Comtesse on his right. Jellyband was bustling round, filling glasses and
putting chairs straight. Sally waited, ready to hand round the soup.
Mr. Harry Waite's friends had at last succeeded in taking him out of
the room, for his temper was growing more and more violent under the
Vicomte's obvious admiration for Sally.

"Suzanne," came in stern, commanding accents from the rigid Comtesse.

Suzanne blushed again; she had lost count of time and of place whilst
she had stood beside the fire, allowing the handsome young Englishman's
eyes to dwell upon her sweet face, and his hand, as if unconsciously,
to rest upon hers. Her mother's voice brought her back to reality once
more, and with a submissive "Yes, Mama," she took her place at the
supper table.

They all looked a merry, even a happy party, as they sat round the
table; Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst, two typical
good-looking, well-born and well-bred Englishmen of that year of grace
1792, and the aristocratic French comtesse with her two children, who
had just escaped from such dire perils, and found a safe retreat at last
on the shores of protecting England.

In the corner the two strangers had apparently finished their game; one
of them arose, and standing with his back to the merry company at the
table, he adjusted with much with much deliberation his large triple
caped coat. As he did so, he gave one quick glance all around him.
Everyone was busy laughing and chatting, and he murmured the words "All
safe!": his companion then, with the alertness borne of long practice,
slipped on to his knees in a moment, and the next had crept noiselessly
under the oak bench. The stranger then, with a loud "Good-night,"
quietly walked out of the coffee-room.

Not one of those at the supper table had noticed this curious and silent
Mammanoeuvre, but when the stranger finally closed the door of the
coffee-room behind him, they all instinctively sighed a sigh of relief.

"Alone, at last!" said Lord Antony, jovially.

Then the young Vicomte de Tournay rose, glass in hand, and with the
graceful affection peculiar to the times, he raised it aloft, and said
in broken English,—

"To His Majesty George Three of England. God bless him for his
hospitality to us all, poor exiles from France."

"His Majesty the King!" echoed Lord Antony and Sir Andrew as they drank
loyally to the toast.

"To His Majesty King Louis of France," added Sir Andrew, with solemnity.
"May God protect him, and give him victory over his enemies."

Everyone rose and drank this toast in silence. The fate of the
unfortunate King of France, then a prisoner of his own people, seemed to
cast a gloom even over Mr. Jellyband's pleasant countenance.

"And to M. le Comte de Tournay de Basserive," said Lord Antony, merrily.
"May we welcome him in England before many days are over."

"Ah, Monsieur," said the Comtesse, as with a slightly trembling hand she
conveyed her glass to her lips, "I scarcely dare to hope."

But already Lord Antony had served out the soup, and for the next few
moments all conversation ceased, while Jellyband and Sally handed round
the plates and everyone began to eat.

"Faith, Madame!" said Lord Antony, after a while, "mine was no idle
toast; seeing yourself, Mademoiselle Suzanne and my friend the Vicomte
safely in England now, surely you must feel reasurred as to the fate of
Monsieur le Comte."

"Ah, Monsieur," replied the Comtesse, with a heavy sigh, "I trust in
God—I can but pray—and hope . . ."

"Aye, Madame!" here interposed Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, "trust in God by all
means, but believe also a little in your English friends, who have sworn
to bring the Count safely across the Channel, even as they have brought
you to-day."

"Indeed, indeed, Monsieur," she replied, "I have the fullest confidence
in you and your friends. Your fame, I assure you, has spread throughout
the whole of France. The way some of my own friends have escaped from
the clutches of that awful revolutionary tribunal was nothing short of a
miracle—and all done by you and your friends—"

"We were but the hands, Madame la Comtesse . . ."

"But my husband, Monsieur," said the Comtesse, whilst unshed tears
seemed to veil her voice, "he is in such deadly peril—I would never
have left him, only . . . there were my children . . . I was torn between
my duty to him, and to them. They refused to go without me . . . and you
and your friends assured me so solemnly that my husband would be safe.
But, oh! now that I am here—amongst you all—in this beautiful, free
England—I think of him, flying for his life, hunted like a poor beast
. . . in such peril . . . Ah! I should not have left him . . . I should not
have left him! . . ."