The Scarlet Pimpernel
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 Ffoulkes 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 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 soothingly 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.
SUSPENSE
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 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’ 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. Jellyband was at great pains how to make his
important guest comfortable.
Both 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. Jellyband hastily relit the
lamp, rekindled a cheerful 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 but this, if I can have it to myself for an hour or
two.”
“It is at your ladyship’s service,” said honest Jellyband, whose
rubicund face was set in its tightest folds, lest it should betray
before “the quality” that boundless astonishment which the 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 coachman 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 Ffoulkes comes, show him in here.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Honest Jellyband’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. Jellyband was no gossip. Still, in his heart, he
recollected that her ladyship was after all only one of them
“furriners”; what wonder that she was immoral like the rest of them?
“Don’t sit up, honest Jellyband,” continued Marguerite, kindly, “nor
you either, Mistress Sally. Sir Andrew may be late.”
Jellyband 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 curtsey, 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
lacquey—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 hoofs, 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 outdistance her and
warn her enemy of her approach.
Now she wondered at what inn 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 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. Jellyband had gone to see to her coachman
and men, and then had returned and taken up a position under the porch
outside, just where Marguerite had first met Chauvelin about a week
ago. He evidently meant to wait up for Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, but was
soon overcome by sweet slumbers, for presently—in addition to the slow
ticking of the clock—Marguerite could hear the monotonous and dulcet
tones of the worthy fellow’s breathing.
For some time now, she had realised 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 Admiralty Pier, though some
distance from the inn, came to her as the noise of muffled thunder.
The wind was becoming boisterous, rattling the leaded windows and 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 favourable 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 Ffoulkes, just arrived in mad haste, for she heard
his horse’s hoofs thundering on the flag-stones outside, then Mr.
Jellyband’s 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
arrives 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.
Jellyband, that, for the first time since many hours, a little smile
began playing round the corners of her childlike mouth, and when,
presently, Sir Andrew, almost unrecognisable in his lacquey-like garb,
entered the coffee-room, she was able to greet him with quite a merry
laugh.
“Faith! Monsieur, my lacquey,” she said, “I am satisfied with your
appearance!”
Mr. Jellyband 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 Jellyband, who took them
respectfully, and with becoming gratitude.
“Stay, Lady Blakeney,” interposed Sir Andrew, as Jellyband 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 Dover to-night.”
Marguerite at once understood what he meant. _No one_ included
Chauvelin as well as herself. She nodded pleasantly to Jellyband.
“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 at
once. . . . And there is another one for Sir Andrew—both quite ready.”
“That’s brave now, mine honest Jelly,” said Sir Andrew, gaily, and
clapping his worthy host vigorously on the back. “You unlock both those
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 seest well to her
privacy and comfort.”
Sir Andrew had no doubt guessed the many conflicting doubts and fears
which raged in honest Jellyband’s head; and, as he was a gallant