The Scarlet Pimpernel. Baroness Orczy

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      Blakeney slowly rose to his feet, and, making a deep and elaborate bow before his wife, he said with consummate gallantry,—

      “I had the pick of the market, Madame, and my taste is unerring.”

      “More so than your chivalry, I fear,” she retorted sarcastically.

      “Odd’s life, m’dear! be reasonable! Do you think I am going to allow my body to be made a pincushion of, by every little frog-eater who don’t like the shape of your nose?”

      “Lud, Sir Percy!” laughed Lady Blakeney as she bobbed him a quaint and pretty curtsey, “you need not be afraid! ’Tis not the men who dislike the shape of my nose.”

      “Afraid be demmed! Do you impugn my bravery, Madame? I don’t patronise the ring for nothing, do I, Tony? I’ve put up the fists with Red Sam before now, and – and he didn’t get it all his own way either—”

      “S’faith, Sir Percy,” said Marguerite, with a long and merry laugh, that went echoing along the old oak rafters of the parlour, “I would I had seen you then … ha! ha! ha! ha! – you must have looked a pretty picture … and … and to be afraid of a little French boy … ha! ha! … ha! ha!”

      “Ha! ha! ha! he! he! he!” echoed Sir Percy, good-humouredly. “La, Madame, you honour me! Zooks! Ffoulkes, mark ye that! I have made my wife laugh! – The cleverest woman in Europe! … Odd’s fish, we must have a bowl on that!” and he tapped vigorously on the table near him. “Hey! Jelly! Quick, man! Here, Jelly!”

      Harmony was once more restored. Mr. Jellyband, with a mighty effort, recovered himself from the many emotions he had experienced within the last half hour. “A bowl of punch, Jelly, hot and strong, eh?” said Sir Percy. “The wits that have just made a clever woman laugh must be whetted! Ha! ha! ha! Hasten, my good Jelly!”

      “Nay, there is no time, Sir Percy,” interposed Marguerite. “The skipper will be here directly and my brother must get on board, or the Day Dream will miss the tide.”

      “Time, m’dear? There is plenty of time for any gentleman to get drunk and get on board before the turn of the tide.”

      “I think, your ladyship,” said Jellyband, respectfully, “that the young gentleman is coming along now with Sir Percy’s skipper.”

      “That’s right,” said Blakeney, “then Armand can join us in the merry bowl. Think you, Tony,” he added, turning towards the Vicomte, “that the jackanapes of yours will join us in a glass? Tell him that we drink in token of reconciliation.”

      “In fact you are all such merry company,” said Marguerite, “that I trust you will forgive me if I bid my brother good-bye in another room.”

      It would have been bad form to protest. Both Lord Antony and Sir Andrew felt that Lady Blakeney could not altogether be in tune with them at the moment. Her love for her brother, Armand St. Just, was deep and touching in the extreme. He had just spent a few weeks with her in her English home, and was going back to serve his country, at the moment when death was the usual reward for the most enduring devotion.

      Sir Percy also made no attempt to detain his wife. With that perfect, somewhat affected gallantry which characterised his every movement, he opened the coffee-room door for her, and made her the most approved and elaborate bow, which the fashion of the time dictated, as she sailed out of the room without bestowing on him more than a passing, slightly contemptuous glance. Only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, whose every thought since he had met Suzanne de Tournay seemed keener, more gentle, more innately sympathetic, noted the curious look of intense longing, of deep and hopeless passion, with which the inane and flippant Sir Percy followed the retreating figure of his brilliant wife.

       CHAPTER VII

       The Secret Orchard

      Once outside the noisy coffee room, alone in the dimly-lighted passage, Marguerite Blakeney seemed to breathe more freely. She heaved a deep sigh, like one who had long been oppressed with the heavy weight of constant self-control, and she allowed a few tears to fall unheeded down her cheeks.

      Outside the rain had ceased, and through the swiftly passing clouds, the pale rays of an after-storm sun shone upon the beautiful white coast of Kent and the quaint, irregular houses that clustered round the Admiralty Pier. Marguerite Blakeney stepped on to the porch and looked out to sea. Silhouetted against the ever-changing sky, a graceful schooner, with white sails set, was gently dancing in the breeze. The Day Dream it was, Sir Percy Blakeney’s yacht, which was ready to take Armand St. Just back to France into the very midst of that seething, bloody Revolution which was overthrowing a monarchy, attacking a religion, destroying a society, in order to try and rebuild upon the ashes of tradition a new Utopia, of which a few men dreamed, but which none had the power to establish.

      In the distance two figures were approaching “The Fisherman’s Rest”: one, an oldish man, with a curious fringe of grey hairs round a rotund and massive chin, and who walked with that peculiar rolling gait which invariably betrays the seafaring man: the other, a young, slight figure, neatly and becomingly dressed in a dark, many caped overcoat; he was clean-shaved, and his dark hair was taken well back over a clear and noble forehead.

      “Armand!” said Marguerite Blakeney, as soon as she saw him approaching from the distance, and a happy smile shone on her sweet face, even through the tears.

      A minute or two later brother and sister were locked in each other’s arms, while the old skipper stood respectfully on one side.

      “How much time have we got, Briggs?” asked Lady Blakeney, “before M. St. Just need go on board?”

      “We ought to weigh anchor before half an hour, your ladyship,” replied the old man, pulling at his grey forelock.

      Linking her arm in his, Marguerite led her brother towards the cliffs.

      “Half an hour,” she said, looking wistfully out to sea, “half an hour more and you’ll be far from me, Armand! Oh! I can’t believe that you are going, dear! These last few days – whilst Percy has been away, and I’ve had you all to myself, have slipped by like a dream.”

      “I am not going far, sweet one,” said the young man gently, “a narrow channel to cross – a few miles of road – I can soon come back.”

      “Nay, ’tis not the distance, Armand – but that awful Paris … just now …”

      They had reached the edge of the cliff. The gentle sea-breeze blew Marguerite’s hair about her face, and sent the ends of her soft lace fichu waving round her, like a white and supple snake. She tried to pierce the distance far away, beyond which lay the shores of France: that relentless and stern France which was exacting her pound of flesh, the blood-tax from the noblest of her sons.

      “Our own beautiful country, Marguerite,” said Armand, who seemed to have divined her thoughts.

      “They are going too far, Armand,” she said vehemently. “You are a republican, so am I … we have the same thoughts, the same enthusiasm for liberty and equality … but even you must think that they are going too far …”

      “Hush!—” СКАЧАТЬ