 Chapter 15 of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Marguerite Blakeney had watched the slight, sable-clad figure of Chauvelin as he worked his way through the ballroom. Then perforce she had had to wait while her nerves tingled with excitement. Listlessly she sat in the small, still-deserted boudoir, looking out through the curtain doorway on the dancing couples beyond, looking at them yet seeing nothing, hearing the music, yet conscious of not, save a feeling of expectancy, of anxious, weary waiting. Her mind conjured up before her the vision of what was perhaps at this very moment passing downstairs. The half-deserted dining room, the fateful hour Chauvelin on the watch, then precise to the moment the entrance of a man, he, the Scarlet Pimpernel, the mysterious leader, who to Marguerite had become almost unreal, so strange, so weird was this hidden identity. She wished she were in the supper-room, too, at this moment, watching him as he entered. She knew that her woman's penetration would at once recognize in the stranger's face whoever he might be, that strong individuality which belongs to a leader of men, to a hero, to the mighty, high-soring eagle whose daring wings were becoming entangled in the ferret's trap. Womanlike, she thought of him with unmixed sadness, the irony of that fate seemed so cruel which allowed the fearless lion to succumb to the gnawing of a rat. Ah, had Armand's life not been at stake— Faith, your ladyship, must have thought me very remiss. Said a voice suddenly, close to her elbow. I had a deal of difficulty in delivering your message, or I could not find Blancony anywhere at first. Marguerite had forgotten all about her husband and her message to him. His very name, as spoken by Lord Fancourt, sounded strange and unfamiliar to her, so completely had she in the last five minutes lived her old life in the rue de Richelieu again, with Armand always near her to love and protect her, to guard her from the many subtle intrigues which were forever raging in Paris in those days. I did find him at last. Continued, Lord Fancourt. Gave him your message. He said that he would give orders at once for the horses to be put to. Ah, she said, still very absently. You found my husband and gave him my message. Yes, he was in the dining-room, fast asleep. I could not manage to wake him up at first. Thank you very much. She said mechanically, trying to collect her thoughts. Will your ladyship honor me with the contra-dance until your coach is ready? Asked Lord Fancourt. No, I thank you, my lord, but—and you will forgive me. I really am too tired, and the heat in the ballroom has become oppressive. The conservatory is deliciously cool. Let me take you there, and then get you something. You seem ailing, Lady Blancony. I am only very tired. She repeated wearily, as she allowed Lord Fancourt to lead her where subdued lights and green plants lent coolness to the air. He got her a chair into which she sank. This long interval of waiting was intolerable. Why did not Chauvalin come and tell her the result of his watch? Lord Fancourt was very attentive. She scarcely heard what he said, and suddenly startled him by asking abruptly— Lord Fancourt, did you perceive who was in the dining-room just now besides Sir Percy Blakeney? Only the agent of the French government, M. Chauvalin, equally fast asleep in another corner. He said— Why does your ladyship ask? I know not. I—did you notice the time when you were there? It must have been about five or ten minutes past one. I wonder what your ladyship is thinking about. He added, for evidently the Fair Lady's thoughts were very far away, and she had not been listening to his intellectual conversation. But indeed her thoughts were not very far away—only one story below, in this same house in the dining-room where sat Chauvalin still on the watch. Had he failed? For one instant that possibility rose before as a hope—the hope that the Scarlet Pimpernel had been warned by Sir Andrew, and that Chauvalin's trap had failed to catch his bird—but that hope soon gave way to fear. Had he failed? But then, Armand! Lord Fancourt had given up talking, since he found that he had no listener. He wanted an opportunity for slipping away, for sitting opposite to a lady, however fair, who was evidently not heeding the most vigorous efforts made for her entertainment, is not exhilarating, even to a cabinet minister. Shall I find out if your ladyship's coach is ready? He said it last, tentatively. Oh, thank you. Thank you, if you would be so kind. I fear I am but sorry company. But I am really tired, and perhaps would be best alone. But Lord Fancourt went, and still Chauvalin did not come. Oh, what had happened? She felt Armand's fate trembling in the balance. She feared, now with a deadly fear that Chauvalin had failed, and that the mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel had proved elusive once more. Then she knew that she need hope for no pity, no mercy from him. He had pronounced his either or, and nothing less would content him. He was very spiteful, and would affect the belief that she had willfully misled him. And having failed to trap the eagle once again, his revengeful mind would be content with the humble prey. Armand, yet she had done her best, had strained every nerve for Armand's sake. She could not bear to think that all had failed. She could not sit still. She wanted to go and hear the worst at once. She wondered even that Chauvalin had not come yet to vent his wrath and satire upon her. Lord Grenville himself came presently to tell her that her coach was ready, and that Sir Percy was already waiting for her, ribbons in hand. Marguerite said farewell to her distinguished host. Many of her friends stopped her as she crossed the rooms to talk to her, and exchanged pleasant auroirs. The minister only took leave of beautiful Lady Blakeney on the top of the stairs. Below, on the landing, a veritable army of gallant gentlemen were waiting to bid goodbye to the queen of beauty and fashion, whilst outside, under the massive portico, Sir Percy's magnificent bays were impatient pawing the ground. At the top of the stairs, just after she had taken final leave of her host, she suddenly saw Chauvalin. He was coming up the stairs slowly, and rubbing his thin hands very softly together. There was a curious look on his mobile face, partly amused and wholly puzzled, as his keen eyes met Marguerite's, they became strangely sarcastic. She said as he stopped on top of the stairs, bowing elaborately before her. As gallant as ever, he offered her his arm and let her downstairs. The crowd was very great. Some of the minister's guests were departing, others were leaning against the bannisters, watching the throng as it filed up and down the wide staircase. Chauvalin. She said at last desperately. I must know what has happened. What has happened, dear lady? He said with affected surprise. Where? When? You are torturing me, Chauvalin. I have helped you tonight. Surely I have the right to know. What happened in the dining-room at one o'clock just now? She spoke in a whisper, trusting that in the general hubbub of the crowd, her words would remain unheeded by all, save the man at her side. Quiet and peace rang supreme, fair lady. At that hour I was asleep in one corner of one sofa, and surpersed by leckony in another. Nobody came into the room at all. And nobody? Then we have failed you and I. Yes, we have failed, perhaps. But Amon? She pleaded. Ah, Amon, s'injustes chances hang on a thread. Pray even, dear lady, that that thread may not snap. Chauvalin, I worked for you sincerely, earnestly, remember. I remember my promise. He said quietly, The day that the Scarlet Pimpanel and I meet on French soil, s'injuste will be in the arms of his charming sister. Which means that a brave man's blood will be on my hands. She said with a shudder. His blood? Or that of your brother? Surely at the present moment you must hope, as I do, that the enigmatic Scarlet Pimpanel will start for Calais today. I am only conscious of one hope, citoyen. And that is? That Satan, your master, will have need of you elsewhere before the sun rises today. She had detained him for a while, midway down the stairs, trying to gather the thoughts which lay beyond that thin, fox-like mask. But Chauvalin remained urbane, sarcastic, mysterious, not a line betrayed to the poor, anxious woman, whether she need fear or whether she dared to hope. Downstairs on the landing she was soon surrounded. Lady Blakeney never stepped from any house into her coach, without an escort of fluttering human moths around the dazzling light of her beauty. But before she finally turned away from Chauvalin, she held out a tiny hand to him, with that pretty gesture of childish appeal which was essentially her own. Give me some hope, my little Chauvalin. She pleaded. With perfect gallantry he bowed over that tiny hand, which looked so dainty and white through the delicately transparent black lace mitten, and kissing the tips of the rosy finger. Pray, heaven, that the thread may not snap. He repeated, with his enigmatic smile. And stepping aside, he allowed the moths to flutter more closely round the candle, and the brilliant throng of the jeunesse doré eagerly attentive to Lady Blakeney's every movement. Hid the keen fox-like face from her view. Richmond. A few minutes later she was sitting, wrapped in cozy furs, near Sir Percy Blakeney on the box seat of his magnificent coach, and the four splendid bays had thundered down the quiet street. The night was warm in spite of the gentle breeze which fan margarites burning cheeks. Soon London houses were left behind, and rattling over Old Hammersmith Bridge, Sir Percy was driving his bays rapidly towards Richmond. The river wound in and out in its pretty delicate curves, looking like a silver serpent beneath the glittering rays of the moon. Long shadows from overhanging trees spread occasional deep falls right across the road. The bays were rushing along at breakneck speed, held but slightly back by Sir Percy's strong, unerring hands. These nightly drives after balls and suppers in London were a source of perpetual delight to margarite, and she appreciated her husband's eccentricity keenly, which caused him to adopt this mode of taking her home every night to their beautiful home by the river instead of living in a stuffy London house. He loved driving his spirited horses along the lonely moonlit roads, and she leapt to sit on the box seat, with a soft air of an English late summer's night fadding her face after the hot atmosphere of a ball or supper-party. The drive was not a long one, less than an hour sometimes when the bays were very fresh, and Sir Percy gave them full rain. Tonight he seemed to have a very devil in his fingers, and the coach seemed to fly along the road beside the river. As usual he did not speak to her but stared straight in front of him. The ribbon seemed to lie quite loosely in his slender white hands. Margarite looked at him tentatively once or twice. She could see his handsome profile in one lazy eye, with its straight fine brow and drooping heavy lid. The face in the moonlight looked singularly earnest, and recalled to margarite's aching heart those happy days of courtship before he had become the lazy nincompoop, the effet-fop whose life seemed spent in card and supper rooms. But now, in the moonlight, she could not catch the expression of the lazy blue eyes. She could only see the outline of the firm chin, the corner of the strong mouth, the well-cut, massive shape of the forehead. Truly nature had meant well by Sir Percy. His faults must all be laid at the door of that poor, half-crazy mother, and of the distracted, heartbroken father, neither of whom had cared for the young life which was sprouting up between them, and which, perhaps, their very carelessness was already beginning to wreck. Margarite suddenly felt intense sympathy for her husband. The moral crisis she had just gone through made her feel indulgent towards the faults, the delinquencies of others. How thoroughly a human being can be buffeted and overmastered by fate had been born in upon her with appalling force. Had anyone told her a week ago that she would stoop to spy upon her friends, that she would betray a brave and unsuspecting man into the hands of a relentless enemy, she would have laughed the idea to scorn. Yet she had done these things. A non-perhaps the death of that brave man would be at her door. Just as two years ago the Marquita Saint-Cyr had perished through a thoughtless word of hers. But in that case she was morally innocent. She had meant no serious harm. Fate merely had stepped in. But this time she had done a thing that obviously was base. Had done it deliberately for a motive which, perhaps, high moralists would not even appreciate. As she felt her husband's strong arm beside her, she also felt how much more he would dislike and despise her if he knew of this night's work. Thus human beings judge of one another, with but little reason and no charity. She despised her husband for his inanities and vulgar unintellectual occupations, and he, she felt, would despise her still worse, because she had not been strong enough to do right for right's sake, and to sacrifice her brother to the dictates of her conscience. Buried in her thoughts, Marguerite had found this hour in the breezy summer night, all too brief, and it was with a feeling of keen disappointment that she suddenly realized that the bays had turned into the massive gates of her beautiful English home. So Percy Blakeney's house on the river has become a historic one. Palatial in its dimensions it stands in the midst of its squizzedly laid-out gardens, with a picturesque terrace and frontage to the river. Built in Tudor days, the old red brick of the walls looks eminently picturesque in the midst of a bower of green, the beautiful lawn with its old sundial adding the true note of harmony to its foregrounds. And now, on this warm early autumn night, the leaves slightly turned to russets and gold, the old garden looks singularly poetic and peaceful in the moonlight. With unerring precision, Sir Percy had brought the four bays to a standstill immediately in front of the fine Elizabethan entrance hall. In spite of the late hour an army of grooms seemed to have emerged from the very ground as the coach had thundered up and were standing respectfully round. Sir Percy jumped down quickly, then helped Marguerite to a light. She lingered outside a moment whilst he gave a few orders to one of his men. She skirted the house and stepped on to the lawn looking out dreamily into the silvery landscape. Nature seemed exquisitely at peace in comparison with the tumultuous emotion she had gone through. She could faintly hear the ripple of the river and the occasional soft and ghostlike fall of a dead leaf from a tree. All else was quiet round her. She had heard the horses prancing as they were being led away to their distant stables, the hurrying of servants' feet as they had all gone within to rest. The house also was quite still. In two separate suites of apartments just above the magnificent reception rooms lights were still burning. They were her rooms and his, well divided from each other by the whole width of the house, as far apart as their own lives had become. Involuntarily she sighed. At that moment she could really not have told why. She was suffering from unconquerable heartache. Deeply and achingly she was sorry for herself. Never had she felt so pityably lonely, so bitterly in want of comfort and of sympathy. With another sigh she turned away from the river towards the house, vaguely wondering if, after such a night, she could ever find rest in sleep. Suddenly before she reached the terrace she heard a firm step upon the crisp gravel, and the next moment her husband's figure emerged out of the shadow. He, too, had skirted the house and was wandering along the lawn towards the river. He still wore his heavy driving-coat with the numerous lapels and collars he himself had set in fashion. But he had thrown it well back, bearing his hands as was his want in the deep pockets of his satin breeches. The gorgeous white costume he had worn in Lord Grenville's ball with a jabbo of priceless lace looked strangely ghostly against the dark background of the house. He apparently did not notice her, for, after a few moments' pause, he presently turned back towards the house and walked straight up to the terrace. Sir Percy! He already had one foot on the lowest of the terrace steps, but at her voice he started and paused, then looked searchingly into the shadows when she had called to him. She came forward quickly into the moonlight, and as soon as he saw her he said with that air of consummate gallantry he always wore when speaking to her. At your service, madam. But his foot was still on the step, and in his whole attitude there was a remote suggestion, distinctly visible to her, that he wished to go and had no desire for a midnight interview. The air is deliciously cool, she said. The moonlight, peaceful and poetic, in the garden inviting. Will you not stay in it a while? The hour is not yet late. Or is my company so distasteful to you, that you are in a hurry to rid yourself of it? Nay, madam. He rejoined placidly. But as on the other foot the shoe happens to be, and I'll warrant you'll find the midnight air more poetic without my company. No doubt the sooner I remove the obstruction the better your ladyship will like it. He turned once more to go. I protest you mistake me, Sir Percy. She said hurriedly, and drawing a little closer to him. The estrangement which, alas, has arisen between us was none of my making, remember? Begad, you must pardon me there, madam. He protested coldly. My memory was always of the shortest. He looked her straight in the eyes with that lazy nonchalance which had become second nature to him. She returned his gaze for a moment. Then her eyes softened as she came up quite close to him to the foot of the terrace steps. Of the shortest, Sir Percy! Faith! How it must have altered! Was it three years ago of four that you saw me for one hour in Paris on your way to the east? When you came back two years later you had not forgotten me. She looked divinely pretty as she stood there in the moonlight, with the fur cloak sliding off her beautiful shoulders, the gold embroidery on her dress shimmering round her, her childlike blue eyes turned up fully at him. He stood for a moment rigid and still, but for the clenching of his hand against the stone voucher, say to the terrace. You desired my presence, madam? He said frigidly. I take it that it was not with the view to indulging in tender reminiscences. His voice certainly was cold and uncompromising, his attitude before her stiff and unbending. Womanly decorum would have suggested Marguerite should return coldness for coldness, and should sweep past him without another word, only with a curt nod of her head. But womanly instinct suggested that she should remain. That keen instinct which makes a beautiful woman conscious of her powers long to bring to her knees the one man who pays her no homage. She stretched out her hand to him. Nay, Sir Percy! Why not? The present is not so glorious, but that I should not wish to dwell a little in the past. He bent his tall figure and taking hold of the extreme tip of the fingers which he still held out to him. He kissed them ceremoniously. If faith, madam? He said. Then you will pardon me if my dull wits cannot accompany you there. Once again he attempted to go. Once more her voice, sweet, childlike, almost tender called him back. Sir Percy! He'll servant, madam. Is it possible that love can die? She said with sudden, unreasoning vehemence. Me thought that the passion which you once felt for me would outlast the span of human life. Is there nothing left of that love, Percy? Which might help you to bridge over that sad estrangement? His massive figure seemed while she spoke thus to him to stiffen still more. The strong mouth hardened, a look of relentless obstinacy crept into the habitually lazy blue eyes. With what object I pray you, madam? He asked coldly. I do not understand you. Yet it is simple enough. He said with sudden bitterness, which seemed literally to surge through his words though he was making visible efforts to suppress it. I humbly put the question to you, for my slow wits are unable to grasp the cause of this, your ladyship's sudden new mood. Is it that you have the taste to renew the devilish sport, which you played so successfully last year? Do you wish to see me once more a love six supplient at your feet, so that you might again have the pleasure of kicking me aside, like a troublesome lap dog? She had succeeded in rousing him for the moment, and again she looked straight at him for it was thus she remembered him a year ago. Percy! I entreat you! She whispered. Can we not bury the past? Pardon me, madam, but I understood you to say that your desire was to dwell in it. Nay, I spoke not of that past, Percy. She said while a tone of tenderness crept into her voice. Rather did I speak of a time when you loved me still. And I... Oh, I was vain and frivolous. Your wealth and position had lured me. I married you, hoping in my heart that your great love for me would begetten me a love for you, but alas! The moon had sunk low down behind a bank of clouds. In the east a soft gray light was beginning to chase away the heavy mantle of the night. He could only see her graceful outline now, the small queenly head with its wealth of reddish golden curls, and the glittering gems forming the small star-shaped red flower which she wore as a diadem in her hair. Twenty-four hours after our marriage, madam. The marquis de Saint Cyr and all his family perished on the guillotine, and the popular rumour reached me that it was the wife of Sir Percy Blakeney who helped to send them there. Nay, I myself told you the truth of that odious tale. Not till after it had been recounted to me by strangers with all its horrible details. And you believed them, then and there? She said with great vehemence. Without a proof or question, you believed that I whom you vowed you loved more than life, whom you professed you worshiped, that I could do a thing so base as these strangers chose to recount. You thought I meant to deceive you about it all, that I ought to have spoken before I married you. Yet had you listened, I would have told you that up to the very morning on which Salsir went to the guillotine, I was straining every nerve, using every influence I possessed to save him and his family. But my pride sealed my lips, when your love seemed to perish as if under the knife of that same guillotine. Yet I would have told you how I was duped, I whom that same popular rumour has endowed with the sharpest wits in France. I was tricked into doing this thing, by men who knew how to play upon my love for an only brother, and my desire for revenge. Was it unnatural? Her voice became choked with tears. She paused for a moment or two trying to regain some sort of composure. She looked appealingly at him almost as if he were her judge. He had allowed her to speak on in her own vehement impassioned way, offering no comment, no word of sympathy. And now, while she paused trying to swallow down the hot tears that gushed to her eyes, he waited, impassant and still. The dim-gray light of early dawn seemed to make his tall form look taller and more rigid. The lazy, good-natured face looked strangely altered. Marguerite, excited as she was, could see that the eyes were no longer languid. The mouth no longer good-humored in a name. A curious look of intense passion seemed to glow from beneath his drooping lids. The mouth was tightly closed, the lips compressed, as if the will alone held that surging passion in check. Marguerite Blakeney was, above all, a woman, with all a woman's fascinating foibles, all a woman's most lovable sins. She knew in a moment that for the past few months she had been mistaken, that this man who stood here before her cold as a statue when her musical voice struck upon his ear loved her, as he had loved her a year ago, that his passion might have been dormant but that it was there, as strong, as intense, as overwhelming as when first her lips met his in one long maddening kiss. Pride had kept him from her, and womanlike she meant to win back that conquest which had been hers before. Suddenly it seemed to her that the only happiness life could ever hold for her again would be in feeling that man's kiss once more upon her lips. Listen to the tale, Sir Percy. She said, and her voice was low, sweet, infinitely tender, Our mount was all in all to me. We had no parents, and brought one another up. He was my little father and I his tiny mother. We loved one another so. Then one day, do you mind me, Sir Percy? The Marquita Salciar had my brother our mount thrashed, thrashed by his lackeys, that brother whom I loved better than all the world, and his offence, that he, a plebeian, had dared to love the daughter of the aristocrat. For that he was waylaid and thrashed, thrashed like a dog within an inch of his life. Oh, how I suffered! His humiliation had eaten into my very soul. When the opportunity occurred, and I was able to take my revenge, I took it. But I only thought to bring that proud Marquita trouble and humiliation. He plotted with Austria against his own country. Chance gave me knowledge of this. I spoke of it, but I did not know. How could I guess? They trapped and duped me. When I realized what I had done, it was too late. It is perhaps a little difficult, madam, said Sir Percy, after a moment of silence between them. To go back over the past. I have confessed to you that my memory is short, but the thought certainly lingered in my mind that, at the time of the Marquita's death, I entreated you for an explanation of those same noisome popular rumors. That same memory does not even now play me a trick. I fancy that you refused me all explanation then, and demanded of my love a humiliating allegiance it was not prepared to give. I wished to test your love for me, and it did not bear the test. You used to tell me that you drew the very breath of life, but for me, and for love of me. And to probe that love, you demanded that I should forfeit my honor. He said, whilst gradually his impassiveness seemed to leave him, his rigidity to relax. That I should accept without murmur or question, as a dumb and submissive slave, every action of my mistress, my heart overflowing with love and passion, I asked for no explanation. I waited for one, not doubting, only hoping. Had you spoken but one word, from you I would have accepted any explanation and believed it. But you left me without a word beyond a bold confession of the actual horrible facts. Proudly you returned to your brother's house and left me alone, for weeks, not knowing now in whom to believe, since the shrine which contained my one illusion lay shattered to earth at my feet. She need not complain now that he was cold and impassive. His very voice shook with an intensity of passion which he was making superhuman efforts to keep in check. I, the madness of my pride, she said sadly. Hardly had I gone, already I had repented. But when I returned, I found you, oh, so altered, wearing already that mask of somnolent indifference, which you have never laid aside until, until now. She was so close to him that her soft, loose hair was wafted against his cheek. Her eyes glowing with tears maddened him. The music in her voice sent fire through his veins. But he would not yield to the magic charm of this woman whom he had so deeply loved, and at whose hands his pride had suffered so bitterly. He closed his eyes to shut out the dainty vision of that sweet face, of that snow-white neck and graceful figure round which the faint rosy light of dawn was just beginning to hover playfully. Nay, madam, it is no mask. He said icely. I swore to you once that my life was yours. For months now it has been your plaything. It has served its purpose. But now she knew that the very coldness was a mask. The trouble, the sorrow she had gone through last night suddenly came back into her mind, but no longer with bitterness, rather with a feeling that this man who loved her would help her bear the burden. So, Percy, she said impulsively, Heaven knows you have been at pains to make the task which I had set to myself difficult to accomplish. You spoke of my mood just now. Well, we will call it that, if you will. I wish to speak to you, because I was in trouble and had need of your sympathy. It is yours to command, madam. How cold you are! She sighed. Faith, I can scarce believe that, but a few months ago, one tear in my eye had set you well-nigh crazy. Now I come to you with a half-broken heart. I pray you, madam. He said whilst his voice shook almost as much as hers. In what way can I serve you? Percy, Armand is in deadly danger. A letter of his rash, impetuous, as were all his actions, and written to Sir Andrew Fuchs, has fallen into the hands of a fanatic. Armand is hopelessly compromised. Tomorrow, perhaps, he will be arrested. After that, the guillotine, unless it is horrible. She said with a sudden wail of anguish, as all the events of the past night came rushing back to her mind. Horrible! And you do not understand. You cannot. And I have no one to whom I can turn for help, or even for sympathy. Tears now refuse to be held back. All her trouble, her struggles, the awful uncertainty of Armand's fate overwhelmed her. She tottered, ready to fall, and leading against the stone voucher-said, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed bitterly. At first mentioned of Armand Saint-Jus's name, and of the peril in which he stood, Sir Percy's face had become a shade more pale, and the look of determination and obstinacy appeared more marked than ever between his eyes. However, he said nothing for the moment, but watched her. As her delicate frame was shaken with sobs, watched her until, unconsciously, his face softened, and what looked almost like tears seemed to glisten in his eyes. And so, he said with bitter sarcasm, the murderous dog of the revolution is toning upon the very hands that fed it. Beg ad, madam. He added very gently as Marguerite continued to sob hysterically. Will you dry your tears? I never could bear to see a pretty woman cry, and I— Instinctively, with sudden over-mastering passion at the sight of her helplessness and of her grief, he stretched out his arms, and the next would have seized her and held her to him, protected from every evil with his very life, his very heart's blood. But pride had the better of it in this struggle once again. He restrained himself with a tremendous effort of will and said coldly, though still very gently. Will you not turn to me, madam, and tell me in what way I may have the honor to serve you? She made a violent effort to control herself, and turning her tear-stained face to him, she once more held out her hand, which he kissed with the same punctilious gallantry. But Marguerite's fingers this time lingered in his hand for a second or two longer that was absolutely necessary. And this was because she had felt that his hand trembled perceptibly. And was burning hot whilst his lips felt as cold as marble. Can you do odd for Armand? She said sweetly and simply, You have so much influence at court, so many friends. Nay, madam, should you not seek the influence of your French friend, Monsieur Chauvelin, his extends, if I must take not, even as far as the republican government of France? I cannot ask him, Percy. Oh, I wish I dared to tell you, but… But he has put a price on my brother's head, which… She would have given worlds if she had felt the courage then to tell him everything, all she had done that night, how she had suffered, and how her hand had been forced. But she dared not give way to that impulse, not now when she was just beginning to feel that he still loved her, when she hoped that she could win him back. She dared not make another confession to him. After all, he might not understand. He might not sympathize with her struggles and temptation. His love still dormant might sleep the sleep of death. 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, madam, 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, madam. 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 in her beauty had been in direct conflict, and his pride had remained the conqueror. Perhaps after all she had then 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 not for her. The gray light of dawn was gradually yielding to the rosy light of the rising sun. Birds began to twitter, nature awakened, smiling, and happy response to the warmth of this glorious October morning. Only between these two hearts there lay a strong and passable 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 golden broidered gown swept the dead leaves off the steps, making a faint, harmonious shh as she glided up, with one hand resting on the boutrusade. The rosy light of dawn making an ariel 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, a fierce obstinacy. Hot tears again surged to her eyes, and 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 onto the rose-lit garden, she would have seen that which would have made her own suffering 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-belter stayed there, where her tiny hand had rested last. End of Chapter 16 Chapter 17 of The Scarlet Pimpernel This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Emma or C Chapter 17 Farewell 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's past five o'clock. Ah yes, Louise, I dare say 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 bald 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 a 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 had once been so holy 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 realized that she had never ceased to love him, and deep down in her heart, she had always vaguely felt that in his foolish inanities, his empty laugh, his lazy nonchalance, were nothing but a mask, that the real man, strong, passionate, willful, 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 Blakene, 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 realized 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 rush 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 drowsed 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 a stir. She certainly must have dropped asleep. Quite unconsciously, the noise of the footsteps, also of hush subdued voices, had awakened her. What could they be? Gently, on tiptoe, 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 store-step, she saw something white lying there. A letter evidently, she hardly dared touch it. It seemed so ghost-like. It certainly was not there when she came upstairs. Had Louise dropped it? Or was some tantalizing spook at play, showing her fairy letters were nonexistent? 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, business-like 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 ladyships pardon if I do not avail myself of the honour of bidding you goodbye. 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. Piercy Bligney. Marguerite must suddenly have been imbued with her husband's slowness of intellect, for she had perforced 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 pre-sendiment 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 awake a week at a time. But it seems 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 flagstones. 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 and that he might have gone without her seeing him, embedding him godspeed. 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 favorite 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 toward the horses. He had changed his gorgeous ball costume, but was as usual irreproachably and richly appareled in a suit of fine cloth, with lace jubbo 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. With her. As I have had the honor of informing your ladieship, urgent, most unexpected business calls me to the north this morning. He said in his usual cold, drawly manner, But your guests tomorrow. I have prayed your ladieship 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 honor to tell you, madame, is as unexpected as it is urgent. May I therefore crave your permission to go? Can I do what 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, while 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 today? 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, so Percy, if you will, but accept it, in exchange for what you do for Armand. She said, as impulsively, she stretched out both of her hands to him. There. I will not attain 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. You will come back. She said tenderly. Very soon. He replied, looking longingly into her blue eyes. And he will remember. She asked, as her eyes, in response to his look, gave him an infinity of promise. I will always remember, madame, that you have honoured me by commanding my services. The words were cold and formal, but they did not kill her this time. Her woman's heart had read his. Beneath the impassive mask his pride still forced him to wear. He bowed to her again, then begged her leaf to depart. She stood on one side whilst he jumped on to Sulton's back. Then, as he galloped out of the gates, she waved him a final adieu. Abandoned the road soon hid him from view. His confidential groom had some difficulty in keeping pace with him, for Sulton flew along in response to his master's excited mood. Marguerite, with a sigh that was almost a happy one, turned and went within. She went back to her room for suddenly, like a tired child, she felt quite sleepy. Her heart seemed all at once to be in complete peace, and though it still ached with undefined longing, a vague and delicious hope sued it as with a balm. She felt no longer anxious about our mind. The man who had just ridden away, bent on helping her brother, inspired her with complete confidence in his strength and his power. She marveled at herself forever having looked upon him as an inane fool. Of course, that was a mask worn to hide the bitter wound she had dealt to his faith and to his love. His passion would have over-mastered him, and he would not let her see how much he still cared and how deeply he suffered. But now all would be well. She would crush her own pride, humble it before him, tell him everything, trust him in everything, and those happy days would come back when they used to wander off together in the forest of Fontainebleau. When they spoke little, for he was always a silent man, but when she felt that against that strong heart she would always find rest and happiness. The more she thought of the events of the past night, the less fears she had of Chauvelin and his schemes. He had failed to discover the identity of the scarlet Pimpernel. Of that, she felt sure. Both Lord Fancourt and Chauvelin himself had assured her that no one had been in the dining room at one o'clock, except the Frenchman himself and Percy. Yes, Percy. She might have asked him had she thought of it. Anyway, she had no fears that the unknown and brave hero would fall in Chauvelin's trap. His death at any rate would not be at her door. Armand was certainly still in danger, but Percy had pledged his word that Armand would be safe, and somehow, as Marguerite had seen him riding away, the possibility that he could fail in whatever he undertook never even remotely crossed her mind. When Armand was safely over in England, she would not allow him to go back to France. She felt almost happy now, and drawing the curtains closely together again to shut out the piercing sun, she went to bed at last, laid her head upon the pillow, and, like a weary child, soon fell into a peaceful and dreamless sleep. Chapter 18 The Mysterious Device The day was well advanced when Marguerite woke, refreshed by her long sleep. Louise had brought her some fresh milk and a dish of fruit, and she partook of this frugal breakfast with hearty appetite. Thoughts crowded thick and fast in her mind, as she munched her grapes, most of them went galloping away after the tall, erect figure of her husband, whom she had watched riding out of sight more than five hours ago. In answer to her eager inquiries, Louise brought back the news that the groom had come home with Sultan, having left Sir Percy in London. The groom thought that his master was about to get on board his schooner, which was lying off just below London Bridge. Sir Percy had ridden thus far, had then met Briggs, the skipper of the daydream, and had sent the groom back to Richmond with Sultan and the empty saddle. This news puzzled Marguerite more than ever. Where could Sir Percy be going just now in the daydream? On Armand's behalf, he had said, Well, Sir Percy had influential friends everywhere. Perhaps he was going to Greenwich, or But Marguerite ceased to conjecture. All would be explained anon. He said that he would come back and that he would remember. A long idle day lay before Marguerite. She was expecting a visit of her old school fellow, Little Suzanne de Tournai. With all the merry mischief at her command, she had tendered her request for Suzanne's company to the contests in the presence of the Prince of Wales last night. His Royal Highness had loudly applauded the notion and declared that he would give himself the pleasure of calling on the two ladies in the course of the afternoon. The contests had not dared to refuse, and then in there was entrapped into a promise to send little Suzanne to spend a long and happy day at Richmond with her friend. Marguerite expected her eagerly. She longed for a chat about old school days with the child. She felt that she would prefer Suzanne's company to that of anyone else, and together they would roam through the final garden and rich deer park or stroll along the river. But Suzanne had not come yet and Marguerite, being dressed, prepared to go downstairs. She looked quite a girl this morning in her simple muslin frock with a broad blue sash around her slim waist and the dainty crossover fissue into which at her bosom she had fastened a few late crimson roses. She crossed the landing outside her own suite of apartments and stood still for a moment at the head of the fine oak staircase which led to the lower floor. On her left were her husband's apartments, a suite of rooms which she practically never entered. They consisted of a bedroom, dressing and reception room, and at the extreme end of the landing of a small study which, when Sir Percy did not use it, was always kept locked. His own special and confidential valet, Frank, had charge of this room. No one was ever allowed to go inside. My lady had never cared to do so, and the other servants had, of course, not dared to break his hard and fast rule. Marguerite had often, with that good-natured contempt which she had recently adopted toward her husband, chafed him about the secrecy which surrounded his private study. Laughingly, she had always declared that he strictly excluded all prying eyes from his sanctum for fear that they should detect how very little study went on within its four walls. A comfortable armchair for Sir Percy's sweet slumbers was, no doubt, its most conspicuous piece of furniture. Marguerite thought of all this on this bright October morning as she glanced along the corridor. Frank was evidently busy with his master's rooms, for most of the door stood open, that of the study, amongst the others. A sudden, burning, childish curiosity seized her to have a peep at Sir Percy's sanctum. This restriction, of course, did not apply to her, and Frank would, of course, not dare to oppose her. Still, she hoped that the valet would be busy in one of the other rooms, that she might have one quick peep in secret and unmolested. Gently, on tiptoe, she crossed the landing, and, like Bluebeard's wife, trembling half with excitement and wonder, she paused a moment on the threshold, strangely perturbed and irresolute. The door was ajar, and she could not see anything within. She pushed it open tentatively, there was no sound. Frank was evidently not there, and she walked boldly in. At once she was struck by the severe simplicity of everything around her, the dark and heavy hangings, the massive oak furniture, the one or two maps on the wall, in no way recalled to her mind the lazy man about town, the lover of race courses, the dandy-fied leader of fashion, that was the outward representation of Sir Percy Blakeney. There was no sign here, at any rate, of hurried departure. Everything was in its place, not a scrap of paper littered the floor, not a cupboard or drawer was left open, the curtains were drawn aside, and, through the open window, the fresh morning air was streaming in. Facing the window, and well into the center of the room, stood a ponderous business-like desk, which looked as if it had seen much service. On the wall to the left of the desk, reaching almost from floor to ceiling, was a large, full-length portrait of a woman, magnificently framed, exquisitely painted, and signed with the name of Boucher. It was Percy's mother. Marguerite knew very little about her, except that she had died abroad, ailing in body as well as in mind, which Percy was still a lad. She must have been a very beautiful woman once, when Boucher painted her, and, as Marguerite looked at the portrait, she could not but be struck by the extraordinary resemblance, which must have existed between mother and son. There was the same low square forehead, crowned with thick, fair hair, smooth and heavy, the same deep set, somewhat lazy blue eyes, beneath firmly marked, straight brows, and in those eyes, there was the same intensity behind that apparent laziness, the same latent passion which used to light up Percy's face in the olden days before his marriage, and which Marguerite had again noted last night at dawn, when she had come quite close to him, and had allowed a note of tenderness to creep into her voice. Marguerite studied the portrait, for it interested her. After that she turned and looked again at the ponderous desk. It was covered with a mass of papers, all neatly tied and docketed, which looked like accounts and receipts arrayed with perfect method. It had never before struck Marguerite, nor had she alas, found it worthwhile to inquire as to how Sir Percy, whom all the world had credited with a total lack of brains, administered the vast fortune which his father had left him. Since she had entered this neat orderly room, she had been taken so much by surprise that this obvious proof of her husband's strong business capacities did not cause her more than a passing thought of wonder, but it also strengthened in her the now certain knowledge that, with his worldly inanities, his foppish ways, and his foolish talk, he was not only wearing a mask, but was playing a deliberate and steady part. Marguerite wondered again, why should he take all this trouble? Why should he, who was obviously a serious, earnest man, wish to appear before his fellow man as an empty-headed nincompoop? He may have wished to hide his love for a wife who held him in contempt, but surely such an object could have been gained at less sacrifice and with far less trouble than constant incessant acting of in a natural part. She looked round her quite aimlessly now. She was horribly puzzled, and a nameless dread, before all this strange, unaccountable mystery, had begun to seize upon her. She felt cold and uncomfortable suddenly in this severe and dark room. There were no pictures on the wall, safe for the fine Boucher portrait. Only a couple of maps, both of parts of France, one of the north coast, and the other of the environs of Paris. What did Sir Percy want with those, she wondered. Her head began to ache. She turned away from this strange, bluebeard's chamber, which she had entered, and which she did not understand. She did not wish Frank to find her here, and, with a fast look round, she once more turned to the door. As she did, so her foot knocked against a small object, which had apparently been lying close to the desk on the carpet, and which now went rolling right across the room. She stooped to pick it up. It was a solid gold ring, with a flat shield, on which was engraved a small device. Marguerite turned it over in her fingers, and then studied the engraving on the shield. It represented a small star-shaped flower of a shape she had seen so distinctly twice before, once at the opera, and once at Lord Grenville's ball. End of Chapter 18. Reading by Belinda Brown of Indianapolis, Indiana. At what particular moment, the strange doubt first crept into Marguerite's mind she could not herself have set. With the ring tightly clutched in her hand, she had run out of the room, down the stairs, and out into the garden, where, in complete seclusion, alone with the flowers and the river and the birds, she could look again at the ring, and study that device more closely. Stupidly, senselessly now, sitting beneath the shade of an overhanging sycamore, she was looking at the plain gold shield with the star-shaped little flower engraved upon it. Bah! It was ridiculous. She was dreaming. Her nerves were over-wrought, and she saw signs and mysteries in the most trivial coincidences. Had not everybody about town recently made a point of affecting the device of that mysterious and heroic scarlet pimpernil? Did she herself wear it embroidered on her gowns, set in gems and enamel in her hair? What was there strange in the fact that Sir Percy should have chosen to use the device as a seal ring? He might easily have done that. Yes, quite easily. And besides, what connection could there be between her exquisite dandy of a husband with his fine clothes and refined, lazy ways, and the daring plotter who rescued French victims from beneath the very eyes of the leaders of a bloodthirsty revolution? Her thoughts were in a whirl, her mind a blank. She did not see anything that was going on around her, and was quite startled when a fresh young voice called to her across the garden. Cherie? Cherie? Where are you? And little Suzanne, fresh as a rosebud, with eyes dancing with glee and brown curls fluttering in the soft morning breeze, came running across the lawn. They told me you were in the garden. She went on praddling merrily and throwing herself with a pretty girlish impulse into Marguerite's arms. So I ran out to give you a surprise. You did not expect me quite so soon, did you, my darling little Margot Cherie? Marguerite, who had hastily concealed the ring in the folds of her kerchief, tried to respond gaily and unconcernedly to the young girl's impulsiveness. Indeed, sweet one. She said with a smile. It is delightful to have you all to myself and for a nice whole long day. You won't be bored. Oh, bored? Margot, how can you say such a wicked thing? Why, when we were in the dear old convent together, we were always happy when we were allowed to be alone together. And to talk secrets? The two young girls had linked their arms in one another's and began wandering round the garden. Oh, how lovely your hummus, Margot darling. Said little Suzanne enthusiastically. And how happy you must be. Hi, indeed. I ought to be happy, odd, nice sweet one. Said Marguerite with a wistful little sigh. How sadly you say it, Sherry. Ah, well. I suppose now that you are a married woman, you won't care to talk secrets with me any longer. Oh, what lots and lots of secrets we used to have at school. Do you remember? Some we did not even confide to sister Teresa of the Holy Angels, though she was such a dear. And now you have one all-important secret, a little one. Said Marguerite merrily. Which you are forthwith going to confide in me. Nay, you need not blush, shall he? She added, as she saw Suzanne's pretty little face crimson with blushes. Faith is not to be ashamed of. He is a noble and true man and one to be proud of as a lover and as a husband. Indeed, Sherry, I am not ashamed. Rejoined Suzanne softly. And it makes me very, very proud to hear you speak so well of him. I think Momon will consent. She added thoughtfully. And I shall be, oh, so happy. But of course, nothing is to be thought of until Papa is safe. Marguerite started. Suzanne's father, the Comte Tournai. One of those whose life would be jeopardized if Chauvin succeeded in establishing the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel. She had understood all along from the Comtesse and also from one or two of the members of the League that their mysterious leader had pledged his honor to bring the fugitive Comte de Tournai safely out of France. Wilt's little Suzanne, unconscious of all, save her own all-important little secret, went praddling on. Marguerite's thoughts went back to the events of the past night. Armand's peril, Chauvin's threat, his cruel either or, which she had accepted. And then her own work in the matter, which should have culminated at one o'clock in Lord Greenville's dining room, when the relentless agent of the French government would finally learn who was this mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel, who so openly defied any army of spies and placed himself so boldly and premier sport on the side of the enemies of France. Since then she had heard nothing from Chauvin. She had concluded that he had failed, and yet she had not felt anxious about Armand because her husband had promised her that Armand would be safe. But now, suddenly, as Suzanne praddled merrily along, an awful horror came upon her for what she had done. Chauvin had told her nothing, it was true, but she remembered how sarcastic and evil he had looked when she took final leave of him after the ball. Had he discovered something then? Had he already laid his plans for catching the daring plotter, red-handed in France, and sending him to the guillotine without compunction or delay? Marguerite turned sick with horror, and her hand convulsively clutched the ring in her dress. You are not listening, Sherrie. Said Suzanne reproachfully, as she paused in her long, highly interesting narrative. Yes, yes, darling, indeed I am. Said Marguerite with an effort, forcing herself to smile. I love to hear you talking, and your happiness makes me so very glad. Have no fear, we will manage to propitiate Lamar. Sir Andrew Fuchs is a noble English gentleman. He has money in position, the contest will not refuse her consent. But now, little one, tell me, what is the latest news about your father? Oh! said Suzanne with mad glee. The best we could possibly hear. Milord Hastings came to see Maman early this morning. He said that all is now well with dear papa, and we may safely expect him here in England in less than four days. Yes? Said Marguerite, whose glowing eyes were fastened on Suzanne's lips as she continued merrily. Oh! we have no fear now. You don't know, Sherrie, that that great and noble scarlet pimpinelle himself has gone to save papa. He has gone, Sherrie, actually gone. Added Suzanne excitedly. He was in London this morning. He will be in Calais, perhaps tomorrow, where he will meet papa, and then, and then. The blow had fallen. She had expected it all along, though she had tried for the last half hour to delude herself and to cheat her fears. He had gone to Calais, had been in London this morning. He, the scarlet pimpinelle, Percy Blackney, her husband, whom she had betrayed last night to Chauvelin. Percy, Percy, her husband, the scarlet pimpinelle. Oh! how could she have been so blind? She understood it all now, all at once. That part he played, the mask he wore, in order to throw dust in everybody's eyes. And all for the sheer sport and devoury, of course. Saving men, women and children from death, as other men destroy and kill animals for the excitement, the love of the thing. The idle, rich man wanted some aim in life. He, and the few young bucks he enrolled under his banner, had amused themselves for months in risking their lives for the sake of an innocent few. Perhaps he had meant to tell her when they were first married, and then the story of the Marquis de Saint-Sierre had come to his ears, and he had suddenly turned from her, thinking, no doubt, that she might someday betray him and his comrades, who had sworn to follow him. And so he had tricked her, as he tricked all others. Wiltsed hundreds now owed their lives to him, and many families owed him both life and happiness. The mask of an inane fob had been a good one, and the part consummately well played. No wonder that Chauvelin's spies had failed to detect, in the apparently brainless nincompoop, the man whose reckless daring and resourceful ingenuity had baffled the keenest French spies, both in France and in England. Even last night, when Chauvelin went to Lord Greenville's dining room to seek that daring scarlet Pimpernel, he only saw that inane Ser Percy Blackney fast asleep in a corner of the sofa. Had his astute mind guessed the secret then, he relayed the whole awful, horrible, amazing puzzle, in betraying a nameless stranger to his fate in order to save her brother. Had Marguerite Blackney sent her husband to his death? No, no, no, a thousand times, no! Surely fate could not deal a blow like that. Nature itself would rise and revolt, her hand, when it held that tiny scrap of paper last night, would have surely have been struck numb air at committed a deed so appalling and so terrible. But what is it, Sherry? Said little Suzanne, now genuinely alarmed, for Marguerite's colour had become dull and ashen. Are you ill, Marguerite? What is it? Nothing, nothing child. She murmured, as in a dream. Wait a moment, let me think. Think! You said the scarlet pimpin'l had gone today. Marguerite, Sherry, what is it? You frighten me. It is nothing, child, I tell you nothing. I must be alone a minute and, dear one, I may have to curtail our time together today. I may have to go away. You'll understand. I understand that something has happened, Sherry, and that you want to be alone. I won't be a hindrance to you. Don't think of me. My maid Lucille has not yet gone. We will go back together. Don't think of me. She threw her arms impulsively round Marguerite. Child as she was, she felt the poignancy of her friend's grief, and with the infinite tact of her girlish tenderness, she did not try to pry into it, but was ready to efface herself. She kissed Marguerite again and again, then walked sadly back across the lawn. Marguerite did not move. She remained there, thinking, wondering what was to be done. Just as little Suzanne was about to mount the terrace steps, a groom came running round the house towards his mistress. He carried a sealed letter in his hand. Suzanne instinctively turned back. Her heart told her that here, perhaps, was further ill news for her friend, and she felt that poor Marguerite was not in a fit state to bear any more. The groom stood respectfully beside his mistress, then he handed her the sealed letter. What is that? Asked Marguerite. Just come by runner, my lady. Marguerite took the letter mechanically, and turned it over in her trembling fingers. Who sent it? She said. The runner said, my lady. Replied the groom. That is all this word to deliver this, and that your ladyship would understand from whom it came. Marguerite tore open the envelope. Already her instinct told her what it contained, and her eyes only glanced at it mechanically. It was a letter by Armand St. Just to Sir Andrew Fox. The letter which Shovland spies had stolen at the fisherman's rest, and which Shovland had held as a rod over her to enforce her obedience. Now he had kept his word. He had sent her back St. Just's compromising letter, for he was on the track of the scarlet Pimpernel. Marguerite's senses reeled. Her very soul seemed to be leaving her body. She tottered, and would have fallen but for Suzanne's arm round her waist. With superhuman effort she regained control over herself. There was yet much to be done. Bring that runner here to me. She said to the servant, with much calm. He has not gone? No, my lady. The groom went, and Marguerite turned to Suzanne. And you, child, run within. Tell Lucille to get ready. I fear that I must send you home, child. And stay. Tell one of the maids to prepare a travelling dress and cloak for me. Suzanne made no reply. She kissed Marguerite tenderly and obeyed without a word. The child was over-rodd by the terrible, nameless misery in her friend's face. A minute later the groom returned, followed by the runner who had brought the letter. Who gave you this packet? Asked Marguerite. A gentleman, my lady. Replied the man. At the rose and thistle in opposite chairing cross. He said you would understand. At the rose and thistle. What was he doing? He was waiting for the coach, your ladyship, which he had ordered. The coach? Yes, my lady. A special coach he had ordered. I understood from his man that he was posting straight to Dover. That's enough. You may go. Then she turned to the groom. My coach and the four swiftest horses in the stable to be ready at once. The groom and runner both went quickly off to obey. Marguerite remained standing for a moment on the lawn, quite alone. Her graceful figure was as rigid as a statue. Her eyes were fixed. Her hands were tightly clasped across her breast. Her lips moved as they murmured with pathetic, heart-breaking persistence. What's to be done? What's to be done? Where to find him? Oh, God! Can't be light. But this was not the moment for remorse and despair. She had done, unwittingly, an awful and terrible thing, the very worst crime in her eyes that woman ever committed. She saw it in all its horror. Her very blindness in not having guessed her husband's secret seemed now to her another deadly sin. She ought to have known. She ought to have known. How could she imagine that a man who could love with so much intensity as Percy Blackney had loved her from the first? How could such a man be the brainless idiot he chose to appear? She, at least, ought to have known that he was wearing a mask, and having found that out, she should have torn it from his face whenever they were alone together. Her love for him had been paltry and weak, easily crushed by her own pride, and she, too, had worn a mask in assuming a contempt for him, whilst, as a matter of fact, she completely misunderstood him. But there was no time now to go over the past. By her own blindness she had sinned. Now she must repay, not by empty remorse, but by prompt and useful action. Percy had started, for Calais, utterly unconscious of the fact that his most relentless enemy was on his heels. He had set sail early that morning from London Bridge, provided he had a favourable wind. He would no doubt be in France within 24 hours. No doubt he had reckoned on the wind and chosen this route. Chauvelin, on the other hand, would post to Dover, charter a vessel there, and undoubtedly reach Calais much about the same time. Once in Calais, Percy would meet all those who were eagerly waiting for the noble and brave Scarlet Pimpernel, who had come to rescue them from horrible and unmerited death. With Chauvelin's eyes now fixed upon his every movement, Percy would thus not only be endangering his own life, but that of Suzanne's father, the old comp de Tournai, and of those other fugitives who were waiting for him and trusting in him. There was also Armand, who had gone to meet de Tournai, secure in the knowledge that the Scarlet Pimpernel was watching over his safety. All these lives and that of her husband lay in Marguerite's hands. These she must save if human pluck and ingenuity were equal to the task. Unfortunately she could not do all this quite alone. Once in Calais she would not know where to find her husband, whilst Chauvelin, in stealing the papers at Dover, had obtained the whole itinerary. Above everything she wished to warn Percy. She knew enough about him by now to understand that he would never abandon those who trusted in him, that he would not turn his back from danger and leave the comp de Tournai to fall into the bloodthirsty hands that knew of no mercy. But if he were warned he might form new plans, be more wary, more prudent. Unconsciously he might fall into a cunning trap, but once warned he might yet succeed. And if he failed, if indeed fate and Chauvelin with all the resources at his command proved too strong for the daring plotter after all, then at least she would be there by his side to comfort, love, and cherish, to cheat death perhaps at the last by making it seem sweet. If they died both together, locked in each other's arms, with the supreme happiness of knowing that passion had responded to passion, and that all misunderstandings were at an end. Her whole body stiffened, as with a great and firm resolution. This she meant to do, if God gave her wits and strength. Her eyes lost their fixed look. They glowed with inward fire at the thought of meeting him again so soon, in the very midst of most deadly perils. They sparkled with the joy of sharing these dangers with him, of helping him perhaps, of being with him at the last, if she failed. The childlike sweet face had become hard and set. The curved mouth was closed tightly over her clenched teeth. She meant to do or die with him and for his sake. A frown, which spoke of an iron will, an unbending resolution, appeared between the two straight brows. Already her plans were formed. She would go and find Sir Andrew Folk's first. He was Percy's best friend, and Marguerite remembered, with a thrill, with what blind enthusiasm the young man always spoke of his mysterious leader. He would help her where she needed help. Her coach was ready. A change of raiment, and a farewell to little Suzanne, and she could be on her way. Without haste, but without hesitation, she walked quietly into the house. Marguerite, buried in thought, sat inside her coach, which was bearing her swiftly to London. She had taken an affectionate farewell of little Suzanne, and seen the child safely started with her maid and in her own coach back to town. She had sent one courier with a respectful letter of excuse to his royal highness, begging for a postponement of the august visit on account of pressing and urgent business, and another on ahead to bespeak a fresh relay of horses at Fevercham. Then she had changed her Muslim frock for a dark travelling costume and mantle, had provided herself with money, which her husband's lavishness always placed fully at her disposal, and had started on her way. She did not attempt to delude herself with any vain and futile hopes. The safety of her brother Armand was to have been conditional on the imminent capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Aschelvon had sent her back, Armand's compromising letter. There was no doubt that he was quite satisfied in his own mind that Percy Blakeney was the man whose death he had sworn to bring about. No, there was no room for any fond illusions. Percy, the husband whom she loved with all the ardour which her admiration for his bravery had kindled, was an immediate deadly peril through her hand. She had betrayed him to his enemy, unwittingly it is true, but she had betrayed him, and if Chauvon succeeded in trapping him, who so far was unaware of his danger, then his death would be at her door. His death, when with her very heart's blood she would have defended him and given willingly her life for his. She had ordered her coach to drive her to the Crown Inn. Once there she told her coachman to give the horses food and rest. Then she ordered a chair, and had herself carried to the house in Paul Mall, where Sir Andrew Folks lived. Among all Percy's friends who were enrolled under his daring banner, she felt that she would prefer to confide in Sir Andrew Folks. He had always been her friend, and now his love for little Suzanne had brought him closer to her still. Had he been away from home, gone on the mad errand with Percy perhaps, then she would have called on Lord Hastings or Lord Tony, for she wanted the help of one of these young men, or she would indeed be powerless to save her husband. Sir Andrew Folks, however, was at home, and his servant introduced her ladyship immediately. She went upstairs to the young man's comfortable bachelor's chambers, and was shown into a small, though luxuriously furnished, dining room. A moment or two later Sir Andrew Folks himself appeared. He had evidently been much startled when he heard who his lady-visitor was, for he looked anxiously, even suspiciously, at Marguerite, whilst performing the elaborate bows before her, which the rigid etiquette of the time demanded. Marguerite had laid aside every vestige of nervousness. She was perfectly calm, and having returned the young man's elaborate salute, she began very calmly, Sir Andrew, I have no desire to waste valuable time in much talk. You must take certain things I am going to tell you for granted. These will be of no importance. What is important is that your leader and comrade, the Scarlet Pimpernel, my husband, Percy Blakeney, is in deadly peril. Had she the remotest out of the correctness of her deductions, she would have had them confirmed now, for Sir Andrew, completely taken by surprise, had grown very pale, and was quite incapable of making the slightest attempt at clever parrying. No matter how I know this, Sir Andrew, she continued quietly, thank God that I do, and that perhaps it is not too late to save him. Unfortunately, I cannot do this quite alone, and therefore have come to you for help. Lady Blakeney? Said the young man, trying to recover himself. Will you hear me first? She interrupted. This is how the matter stands. When the agent of the French government stole your papers that night in Dover, he found amongst them certain plans, which you were your leader meant to carry out for the rescue of the Comte-Tornée and others. The Scarlet Pimpernel, Percy, my husband, has gone on this errand himself to-day. Chevaland knows that the Scarlet Pimpernel and Percy Blakeney are one and the same person. He will follow him to Calais, and there will lay hands on him. You know as well as I do the fate that awaits him at the hands of the revolutionary government of France. No interference from England, from King George himself, would save him. Hobbes Pier and his gang would see to it that the interference came too late. But not only that. The much trusted leader will also have been unconsciously the means of revealing the hiding place of the Comte-Tornée and of all those who even now are placing their hopes in him. She had spoken quietly, dispassionately, and with firm unbending resolution. Her purpose was to make that young man trust and help her, for she could do nothing without him. I do not understand. He repeated, trying to gain time, to think what was best to be done. Aye, but I think you do, Sir Andrew. You must know that I am speaking the truth. Look these facts straight in the face. Percy has sailed for Calais, I presume, for some lonely part of the coast, and Chauvelin is on his track. He has posted for Dover and will cross the channel probably to-night. What do you think will happen? The young man was silent. Percy will arrive at his destination. Unconscious of being followed he will seek out to Tornais and the others. Among these is Amant Saint-Just, my brother. He will seek them out one after another, probably, not knowing that the sharpest eyes in the world are watching his every movement. When he has thus unconsciously betrayed those who blindly trust in him, when nothing can be gained from him and he is ready to come back to England with those whom he has gone so bravely to save, the doors of the trap will close upon him, and he will be sent to end his noble life upon the guillotine. Still, Sir Andrew was silent. You do not trust me. She said passionately, Oh God, can you not see that I am in deadly earnest? Man, man! She added, while, with her tiny hand, she seized the young man suddenly by the shoulders, forcing him to look straight at her. Tell me, do I look like that vilest thing on earth, a woman who would betray her own husband? God forbid, Lady Blakeney. Said the young man at last. That I should attribute such evil motives to you, but— But what? Tell me! Quick man, the very seconds are precious. Will you tell me? He asked resolutely and looking searchingly into her blue eyes. Whose hand helped to guide Monsieur Chauvelin to the knowledge which you say he possesses? Mine. She said quietly, I own it, I will not lie to you, for I wish you to trust me absolutely. But I had no idea, how could I have, of the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel? And my brother's safety was to be my prize if I succeeded. In helping Chauvelin to track the Scarlet Pimpernel? She nodded. It is no use telling you how he forced my hand. Amar is more than a brother to me and— And how could I guess? But we waste time, Sir Andrew, every second is precious. In the name of God, my husband is in peril. Your friend, your comrade, help me to save him. Sir Andrew felt his position to be a very awkward one. The oath he had taken before his leader in Comrade was one of obedience and secrecy. And yet the beautiful woman, who was asking him to trust her, was undoubtedly an earnest. His friend and leader was equally undoubtedly an imminent danger and— Lady Blakeney— He said at last— God knows you have perplexed me, so that I do not know which way my duty lies. Tell me what you wish me to do. There are nineteen of us ready to lay down our lives for the Scarlet Pimpernel if he is in danger. There is no need for lives just now, my friend. She said dryly. My wits and force-wift horses will serve the necessary purpose, but I must nowhere to find him. See— She added, while her eyes filled with tears. I have humbled myself before you. I have owned my faults to you. Shall I also confess my weakness? My husband and I have been estranged because he did not trust me, and because I was too blind to understand. He must confess that the bandage which he put over my eyes was a very thick one. Is it small wonder that I did not see through it? But last night, after I led him unwittingly into such deadly peril, it suddenly fell from my eyes. If you will not help me, Sir Andrew, I would still strive to save my husband. I would still exert every faculty I possess for his sake. But I might be powerless, for I might arrive too late. And nothing would be left for you but life-long remorse, and— for me a broken heart. But Lady Blakeney— said the young man, touched by the gentle earnestness of this exquisitely beautiful woman. Do you know that what you propose doing is band's work? You cannot possibly journey to Calais alone. You will be running the greatest possible risk to yourself, and your chances of finding your husband now were I to direct you ever so carefully, infinitely remote. Oh, I hope there are risks. She murmured softly. I hope there are dangers, too. I have so much to atone for. But I fear you are mistaken. Chevalin's eyes are fixed upon you all. He will scarce notice me. Quick, Sir Andrew, the coach is ready, and there is not a moment to be lost. I must get to him. I must— She repeated with almost savage energy— to warn him that that man is on his track. Can't you see? Can't you see that I must get to him, even— even if it be too late to save him—at least to be by his side. Faith, madam, you must command me. Gladly would I, or any of my comrades, lay down our lives for your husband, if you will go yourself. Nay, friend, do you not see that I would go mad if I let you go without me? She stretched out her hand to him. He will trust me. I await your orders. He said simply, Listen then. My coach is ready to take me to Dover. Do you follow me as swiftly as horses will take you? We meet at nightfall at the fisherman's rest. Chauvelin would avoid it, as he is known there, and I think it would be the safest. I will gladly accept your escort to Calais. As you say, I might miss a person who will you to direct me ever so carefully. We'll charter a schooner at Dover and cross over during the night. Disguised, if you will agree to it as my lackey, you will, I think, escape detection. I'm entirely at your service, madame. Rejoin the young man earnestly. I trust to God that you will cite the daydream before we reach Calais. With Chauvelin at his heels, every step the scarlet pimpineau takes on French soil is fraught with danger. God grant it, Sir Andrew. But thou fare well. We meet tonight at Dover. It will be a race between Chauvelin and me across the channel tonight, and the prize—the life of the scarlet pimpineau. He kissed her hand, and then escorted her to her chair. A quarter of an hour later she was back at the crown in, where her coach and horses were ready and waiting for her. The next moment they thundered along the London streets, and then straight on to the Dover road at maddening speed. She had no time for despair now. She was up and doing and had no leisure to think. With Sir Andrew folks as her companion and ally, hope had once again revived in her heart. God would be merciful. He would not allow so appalling a crime to be committed, as the death of a brave man through the hand of a woman who loved him and worshipped him, and who would gladly have died for his sake. Marguerite's thoughts flew back to him, the mysterious hero whom she had always unconsciously loved, when his identity was still unknown to her. Laughingly, in the olden days, she used to call him the shadowy king of her heart, and now she had suddenly found that this enigmatic personality whom she had worshipped, and the man who had loved her so passionately, were one and the same. What wonder that one or two happier visions began to force their way before her mind? She vaguely wondered what she would say to him when first they would stand face to face. She had had so many anxieties, so much excitement during the past few hours, that she allowed herself the luxury of nursing these few more hopeful, brighter thoughts. Gradually the rumble of the coach-wheels, with its incessant monotony, acted soothily on her nerves, her eyes, aching with fatigue and many shed and unshed tears, closed involuntarily, and she fell into a troubled sleep. CHAPTER XXI It was late into the night when she at last reached the fisherman's rest. She had done the whole journey in less than eight hours, thanks to innumerable changes of horses at the various coaching stations, for which she had always paid lavishly, thus obtaining the very best and swiftest that could be had. Her coachman, too, had been indefatigable. The promise of special and rich reward had no doubt helped to keep him up, and he had literally burned the ground beneath his mistress's coach-wheels. The arrival of Lady Blakeney in the middle of the night caused a considerable flutter at the fisherman's rest. Sally jumped hastily out of bed, and Mr. Jelly-Band was at great pains how to make his important guest feel comfortable. Both of these good folk were far too well-drilled in the manners appertaining to innkeepers, to exhibit the slightest surprise at Lady Blakeney's arrival alone at this extraordinary hour. No doubt they thought all the more, but Marguerite was far too absorbed in the importance the deadly earnestness of her journey to stop and ponder over trifles of that sort. The coffee-room, the scene lately of the dastardly outrage on two English gentlemen, was quite deserted. Mr. Jelly-Band hastily relit the lamp, rekindled a tearful bit of fire in the great hearth, and then wheeled a comfortable chair by it into which Marguerite gratefully sank. Will your ladyship stay the night? Asked pretty Miss Sally, who was already busy laying a snow-white cloth on the table, preparatory to providing a simple supper for her ladyship. No, not the whole night. Replied Marguerite. At any rate I shall not want any room with this if I can have it to myself for an hour or two. It is at your ladyship's service, said Honest Jelly-Band, whose robicun face was set in its tightest fold, lest it should be tray before the quality, that boundless astonishment which the very worthy fellow had begun to feel. I shall be crossing over at the first turn of the tide, said Marguerite, and in the first schooner I can get. But my coachmen and men will stay the night and probably several days longer, so I hope you will make them comfortable. Yes, my lady, I'll look after them. Shall Sally bring your ladyship some supper? Yes, please. Put something cold on the table, and as soon as Sir Andrew Fuchs comes, show him in here. Yes, my lady. Honest Jelly-Band's face now expressed distress in spite of himself. He had great regard for Sir Percy Blakeney, and did not like to see his lady running away with young Sir Andrew. Of course, it was no business of his, and Mr. Jelly-Band was no gossip. Still, in his heart, he recollected that her ladyship was, after all, only one of them furners. What wonder that she was immoral like the rest of them! Don't sit up, Honest Jelly-Band. Continued Marguerite kindly. Nor you either, Mr. Sally. Sir Andrew may be late. Jelly-Band was only too willing that Sally should go to bed. He was beginning not to like these goings on at all. Still, Lady Blakeney would pay handsomely for the accommodation, and it certainly was no business of his. Sally arranged a simple supper of cold meat, wine, and fruit on the table. Then, with a respectful curtsy, she retired, wondering in her little mind why her ladyship looked so serious when she was about to elope with her gallant. Then commenced a period of weary waiting for Marguerite. She knew that Sir Andrew, who would have to provide himself with clothes befitting a lackey, could not possibly reach Dover for at least a couple of hours. He was a splendid horseman, of course, and would make light in such an emergency of the seventy-odd miles between London and Dover. He would, too, literally burn the ground beneath his horse's hooves, but he might not always get very good remounts, and in any case, he could not have started from London until at least an hour after she did. She had seen nothing of Chauvelin on the road. Her coachman, whom she questioned, had not seen anyone answering the description his mistress gave him of the wizened figure of the little Frenchman. Evidently, therefore, he had been ahead of her all the time. She had not dared to question the people at the various inns where they had stopped to change horses. She feared that Chauvelin had spies all along the route, who might overhear her questions, then out-distance her and warn her enemy of her approach. Now she wondered at what in he might be stopping, or whether he had had the good luck of chartering a vessel already, and was now himself on the way to France. That thought gripped her at the heart as with an iron vice, if indeed she should not be too late already. The loneliness of the room overwhelmed her. Everything within was so horribly still. The ticking of the grandfather's clock, dreadfully slow and measured, was the only sound which broke this awful loneliness. Marguerite had need of all her energy, all her steadfastness of purpose, to keep up her courage through this weary midnight waiting. Everyone else in the house but herself must have been asleep. She had heard Sally go upstairs. Mr. Jelly-Band had gone to see her coachmen and men, and then had returned and taken up a position under the port outside, just where Marguerite had first met Chauvelin about a week ago. He evidently meant to wait up for surrender folks, but was soon overcome by sweet slumbers. For presently, in addition to the slow ticking of the clock, Marguerite could hear the monotonous and doucelet tones of the worthy fellow's breathing. For some time now she had realized that the beautiful warm October's day, so happily begun, had turned into a rough and cold night. She had felt very chilly, and was glad of the cheerful blaze in the hearth, but gradually, as time wore on, the weather became more rough, and the sound of the great breakers against the Admiral Tree Peer, though some distance from the inn, came to her as the noise of muffled thunder. The wind was becoming boisterous, rattling the leaded windows in the massive doors of the old-fashioned house. It shook the trees outside and roared down the vast chimney. Marguerite wondered if the wind would be favorable for her journey. She had no fear of the storm, and would have braved worse risks sooner than delay the crossing by an hour. A sudden commotion outside roused her from her meditations. Evidently it was Sir Andrew Folks, just arrived in mad haste, for she heard his horses hoos thundering on the flagstones outside, then Mr. Jelly-Ban Sleepy, yet cheerful tones bidding him welcome. For a moment, then, the awkwardness of her position struck Marguerite. Alone at this hour, in a place where she was well known, and having made an assignation with a young cavalier equally well known, and who arrived in disguise, what food for gossip to those mischievously inclined. The idea struck Marguerite chiefly from its humorous side. There was such quaint contrast between the seriousness of her errand, and the construction which would naturally be put on her actions by Honest Mr. Jelly-Ban, that, for the first time since many hours, a little smile became playing round the corners of her childlike mouth. And when, presently, Sir Andrew, almost unrecognizable in his lackey-like garb, entered the coffee-room, she was able to greet him with a merry laugh. Faith, Mr. My Lackey, I am satisfied with your appearance. Mr. Jelly-Ban had followed Sir Andrew, looking strangely perplexed. The young gallant's disguise had confirmed his worst suspicions. Without a smile upon his jovial face, he drew the cork from the bottle of wine, set the chairs ready, and prepared to wait. Thanks, Honest Friend, said Marguerite, who was still smiling at the thought of what the worthy fellow must be thinking at that very moment. We shall require nothing more. And here's for all the trouble you have been put to on our account. She handed two or three gold pieces to Jelly-Band, who took them respectfully and with becoming gratitude. Stay, Lady Blakeney. Interpose, Sir Andrew, as Jelly-Band was about to retire. I am afraid we shall require something more of my friend Jelly's hospitality. I am sorry to say we cannot cross over to-night. Not cross over to-night? She repeated in amazement. But we must, Sir Andrew, we must. There can be no question of cannot, and whatever it may cost, we must get a vessel to-night. But the young man shook his head sadly. I am afraid it is not a question of cost, Lady Blakeney. There is a nasty storm blowing from France. The wind is dead against us. We cannot possibly sail until it has changed. Marguerite became deadly pale. She had not foreseen this. Nature herself was playing her a horrible, cruel trick. Percy was in danger, and she could not go to him, because the wind happened to blow from the coast of France. But we must go. We must. She repeated with strange, persistent energy. You know we must go. Can't you find a way? I have been down to the shore already, he said, and had a talk to one or two skippers. It is quite impossible to set sail to-night, so every sailor assured me. No one. He added, looking significantly at Marguerite. No one could possibly put out of dober to-night. Marguerite at once understood what he meant. No one included Chauvelin as well as herself. She nodded pleasantly to Jelly-Band. Well, then I must resign myself. She said to him, Have you a room for me? Oh yes, your ladyship, a nice, bright, airy room. I'll see to it once, and there is another one for Sir Andrew, both quite ready. That's brave now, my honest Jelly, said Sir Andrew Gailey, and clapping his worth-host vigorously on the back. You unlock both these rooms, and leave our candles here on the dresser. I vow you are dead with sleep, and her ladyship must have some supper before she retires. There have no fear, friend of the rueful countenance, her ladyship's visit, though at this unusual hour, is a great honour to thy house, and Sir Percy Blakeney will reward thee doubly if thou ceased well to her privacy and comfort. Sir Andrew had no doubt guessed the many conflicting doubts and fears which raged in honest Jelly-Band's head, and, as he was a gallant gentleman, he tried by this brave hint to allay some of the worthy innkeeper's suspicions. He had the satisfaction of seeing that he had partially succeeded. Jelly-Band's rueful countenance brightened somewhat, at the mention of Sir Percy's name. I'll go and see to it at once, Sir, he said with alacrity and with less rigidity in his manner. Has her ladyship everything she wants for supper? Everything, thanks, honest friend. And as I am famished and dead with fatigue, I pray you to see to the rooms. Now tell me— She said eagerly, as soon as Jelly-Band had gone from the room. Tell me all your news. There is nothing else much to tell you, Lady Blakeney. Reply, the young man. The storm makes it quite impossible for any vessel to put out of Durba this tide. But what seems to you at first a terrible calamity is really a blessing in disguise. If we cannot cross over to France tonight, Chauvelin is in the same quandary. He may have left before the storm broke out. God grant, he may— Said Sir Andrew Merrily. For very likely then he'll been driven out of his course. Who knows? He may now even be lying at the bottom of the sea, for there is a furious storm raging, and it will fare ill with all small craft which happen to be out. But I fear me we cannot build our hopes upon the shipwreck of that cunning devil, and end of all his murderous plans. The sailors I spoke to all assured me that no schooner had put out of Durba for several hours. On the other hand I ascertained that a stranger had arrived by coach this afternoon. And had, like myself, made some inquiries about crossing over to France. Then Chauvelin is still in Dover. Undoubtedly. Shall I go away lay him and run my sword through him? That were indeed the quickest way out of the difficulty. Nay, Sir Andrew, do not jest. Alas, I have often since last night caught myself wishing for that fiend's death. But what you suggest is impossible. The laws of this country do not permit of murder. It is only in our beautiful France that wholesale slaughter is done lawfully, in the name of liberty and a brotherly love. Sir Andrew had persuaded her to sit down to the table, to partake of some supper and to drink a little wine. This enforced rest of at least 12 hours until the next tide was sure to be terribly difficult to bear in the state of intense excitement in which she was. Obedient in these small manners like a child, Marguerite tried to eat and drink. Sir Andrew, with that profound sympathy born in all those who are in love, made her almost happy by talking to her about her husband. He recounted to her some of the daring escapes the brave Scarlet Pimpernel had contrived for the poor French fugitives, whom a relentless and bloody revolution was driving out of their country. He made her eyes glow with enthusiasm by telling her of his bravery, his ingenuity, his resourcefulness, when it meant stashing the lives of men, women, and even children from beneath the very edge of that murderous, ever ready guillotine. He even made her smile quite merrily by telling her of the Scarlet Pimpernel's quaint and many disguises, through which he had baffled the strictest watch set against him at the barricades of Paris. This last time, the escape of the contest to Torne and her children had been a veritable masterpiece. Blakeney disguised as a hideous old market woman in filthy cap and straggling gray locks was a sight fit to make the gods laugh. Marguerite laughed heartily as Sir Andrew tried to describe Blakeney's appearance, whose gravest difficulty always consisted in his great height, which in France made disguise doubly difficult. Thus an hour wore on. There were many more to spend in enforced inactivity in Dover. Marguerite rose from the table with an impatient sigh. She looked forward with dread to the night in the bed upstairs, with terribly anxious thoughts to keep her company, and the howling of the storm to help chase leap away. She wondered where Percy was now. The daydream was a strong, well-built, sea-going yacht. Sir Andrew had expressed the opinion that no doubt she had got in the lee of the wind before the storm broke out, or else perhaps had not ventured into the open at all, but was lying quietly at gravesend. Briggs was an expert skipper, and Sir Percy handled the schooner as well as any master mariner. There was no danger for them from the storm. It was long past midnight when at last Marguerite retired to rest. As she had feared, sleep saguelessly avoided her eyes. Her thoughts were of the blackest during these long, weary hours, whilst that incessant storm raged which was keeping her away from Percy. The sound of the distant breakers made her heart ache with melancholy. She was in the mood when the sea has a saddening effect upon the nerves. It is only when we are very happy that we can bear to gaze merrily upon the vast and limitless expanse of water, rolling on and on with such persistent, irritating monotony, to the accompaniment of our thoughts, whether grave or gay. When they are gay the waves echo their gaiety, but when they are sad, then every breaker, as it rolls, seems to bring additional sadness, and to speak to us of hopelessness and the pettiness of all our joys.