CHAPTER V
THE MESSAGE OF HOPE
I
After Martin-Roget and Chauvelin had left her, Yvonne had sat for a longtime motionless, almost unconscious. It seemed as if gradually, hour byhour, minute by minute, her every feeling of courage and of hope weredeserting her. Three days now she had been separated from herfather--three days she had been under the constant supervision of awoman who had not a single thought of compassion or of mercy for the"aristocrat" whom she hated so bitterly.
At night, curled up on a small bundle of dank straw Yvonne had made vainefforts to snatch a little sleep. Ever since the day when she had beenruthlessly torn away from the protection of her dear milor, she hadpersistently clung to the belief that he would find the means to come toher, to wrest her from the cruel fate which her pitiless enemies haddevised for her. She had clung to that hope throughout that drearyjourney from dear England to this abominable city. She had clung to iteven whilst her father knelt at her feet in an agony of remorse. She hadclung to hope while Martin-Roget alternately coaxed and terrorised her,while her father was dragged away from her, while she endured untoldmisery, starvation, humiliation at the hands of Louise Adet: butnow--quite unaccountably--that hope seemed suddenly to have fled fromher, leaving her lonely and inexpressibly desolate. That small,shrunken figure which, wrapped in a dark mantle, had stood in the cornerof the room watching her like a serpent watches its prey, had seemedlike the forerunner of the fate with which Martin-Roget, gloating overher helplessness, had already threatened her.
She knew, of course, that neither from him, nor from the callous brutewho governed Nantes, could she expect the slightest justice or mercy.She had been brought here by Martin-Roget not only to die, but to suffergrievously at his hands in return for a crime for which she personallywas in no way responsible. To hope for mercy from him at the eleventhhour were worse than futile. Her already overburdened heart ached atthought of her father: he suffered all that she suffered, and inaddition he must be tortured with anxiety for her and with remorse.Sometimes she was afraid that under the stress of desperate soul-agonyhe might perhaps have been led to suicide. She knew nothing of what hadhappened to him, where he was, nor whether privations and lack of foodor sleep, together with Martin-Roget's threats, had by now weakened hismorale and turned his pride into humiliating submission.
II
A distant tower-clock struck the evening hours one after the other.Yvonne for the past three days had only been vaguely conscious of time.Martin-Roget had spoken of a few hours' respite only, of the proconsul'sdesire to be soon rid of her. Well! this meant no doubt that the morrowwould see the end of it all--the end of her life which such a briefwhile ago seemed so full of delight, of love and of happiness.
The end of her life! She had hardly begun to live and her dear milor hadwhispered to her such sweet promises of endless vistas of bliss.
Yvonne shivered beneath her thin gown. The north-westerly blast came incruel gusts through the unglazed window and a vague instinct ofself-preservation caused Yvonne to seek shelter in the one corner of theroom where the icy draught did not penetrate quite so freely.
Eight, nine and ten struck from the tower-clock far away: she heardthese sounds as in a dream. Tired, cold and hungry her vitality at thatmoment was at its lowest ebb--and, with her back resting against thewall she fell presently into a torpor-like sleep.
Suddenly something roused her, and in an instant she sat up--wide-awakeand wide-eyed, every one of her senses conscious and on the alert.Something had roused her--at first she could not say what it was--orremember. Then presently individual sounds detached themselves from thebuzzing in her ears. Hitherto the house had always been so still; excepton the isolated occasions when Martin-Roget had come to visit her andhis heavy tread had caused every loose board in the tumble-down house tocreak, it was only Louise Adet's shuffling footsteps which had rousedthe dormant echoes, when she crept upstairs either to her own room, orto throw a piece of stale bread to her prisoner.
But now--it was neither Martin-Roget's heavy footfall nor the shufflinggait of Louise Adet which had roused Yvonne from her trance-like sleep.It was a gentle, soft, creeping step which was slowly, cautiouslymounting the stairs. Yvonne crouching against the wall could count everytread--now and then a board creaked--now and then the footsteps halted.
Yvonne, wide-eyed, her heart stirred by a nameless terror was watchingthe door.
The piece of tallow-candle flickered in the draught. Its feeble lightjust touched the remote corner of the room. And Yvonne heard those soft,creeping footsteps as they reached the landing and came to a haltoutside the door.
Every drop of blood in her seemed to be frozen by terror: her kneesshook: her heart almost stopped its beating.
Under the door something small and white had just been introduced--ascrap of paper; and there it remained--white against the darkness of theunwashed boards--a mysterious message left here by an unknown hand,whilst the unknown footsteps softly crept down the stairs again.
For awhile longer Yvonne remained as she was--cowering against thewall--like a timid little animal, fearful lest that innocent-lookingobject hid some unthought-of danger. Then at last she gathered courage.Trembling with excitement she raised herself to her knees and then onhands and knees--for she was very weak and faint--she crawled up to thatmysterious piece of paper and picked it up.
Her trembling hand closed over it. With wide staring terror-filled eyesshe looked all round the narrow room, ere she dared cast one more glanceon that mysterious scrap of paper. Then she struggled to her feet andtottered up to the table. She sat down and with fingers numbed with coldshe smoothed out the paper and held it close to the light, trying toread what was written on it.
Her sight was blurred. She had to pull herself resolutely together, forsuddenly she felt ashamed of her weakness and her overwhelming terroryielded to feverish excitement.
The scrap of paper contained a message--a message addressed to her inthat name of which she was so proud--the name which she thought shewould never be allowed to bear again: Lady Anthony Dewhurst. Shereiterated the words several times, her lips clinging lovingly tothem--and just below them there was a small device, drawn in red ink ...a tiny flower with five petals....
Yvonne frowned and murmured, vaguely puzzled--no longer frightened now:"A flower ... drawn in red ... what can it mean?"
And as a vague memory struggled for expression in her troubled mind sheadded half aloud: "Oh! if it should be ...!"
But now suddenly all her fears fell away from her. Hope was once moreknocking at the gates of her heart--vague memories had taken definiteshape ... the mysterious letter ... the message of hope ... the redflower ... all were gaining significance. She stooped low to read theletter by the feeble light of the flickering candle. She read it throughwith her eyes first--then with her lips in a soft murmur, while her mindgradually took in all that it meant for her.
"Keep up your courage. Your friends are inside the city and on the watch. Try the door of your prison every evening at one hour before midnight. Once you will find it yield. Slip out and creep noiselessly down the stairs. At the bottom a friendly hand will be stretched out for you. Take it with confidence--it will lead you to safety and to freedom. Courage and secrecy."
When she had finished reading, her eyes were swimming in tears. Therewas no longer any doubt in her mind about the message now, for her dearmilor had so often spoken to her about the brave Scarlet Pimpernel whohad risked his precious life many a time ere this, in order to renderservice to the innocent and the oppressed. And now, of a surety, thismessage came from him: from her dear milor and from his gallant chief.There was the small device--the little red flower which had so oftenbrought hope to despairing hearts. And it was more than hope that itbrought to Yvonne. It brought certitude and happiness, and a sweet,tender remorse that she should ever have doubted. She ought to haveknown all along that everything would be for the best: she had no rightever to have given way to
despair. In her heart she prayed forforgiveness from her dear absent milor.
How could she ever doubt him? Was it likely that he would abandonher?--he and that brave friend of his whose powers were indeed magical.Why! she ought to have done her best to keep up her physical as well asher mental faculties--who knows? But perhaps physical strength might beof inestimable value both to herself and to her gallant rescuerspresently.
She took up the stale brown bread and ate it resolutely. She drank somewater and then stamped round the room to get some warmth into her limbs.
A distant clock had struck ten awhile ago--and if possible she ought toget an hour's rest before the time came for her to be strong and to act:so she shook up her meagre straw paillasse and lay down, determined ifpossible to get a little sleep--for indeed she felt that that was justwhat her dear milor would have wished her to do.
Thus time went by--waking or dreaming, Yvonne could never afterwardshave said in what state she waited during that one long hour whichseparated her from the great, blissful moment. The bit of candle burntlow and presently died out. After that Yvonne remained quite still uponthe straw, in total darkness: no light came in through the tiny window,only the cold north-westerly wind blew in in gusts. But of a surety theprisoner who was within sight of freedom felt neither cold nor fatiguenow.
The tower-clock in the distance struck the quarters with drearymonotony.
III
The last stroke of eleven ceased to vibrate through the stillness of thewinter's night.
Yvonne roused herself from the torpor-like state into which she hadfallen. She tried to struggle to her feet, but intensity of excitementhad caused a strange numbness to invade her limbs. She could hardlymove. A second or two ago it had seemed to her that she heard a gentlescraping noise at the door--a drawing of bolts--the grating of a key inthe lock--then again, soft, shuffling footsteps that came and went andthat were not those of Louise Adet.
At last Yvonne contrived to stand on her feet; but she had to close hereyes and to remain quite still for awhile after that, for her ears werebuzzing and her head swimming: she thought that she must fall if shemoved and mayhap lose consciousness.
But this state of weakness only lasted a few seconds: the next she hadgroped her way to the door and her hand had found the iron latch. Ityielded. Then she waited, calling up all her strength--for the hour hadcome wherein she must not only think and act for herself, but think ofevery possibility which might occur, and act as she imagined her dearlord would require it of her.
She pressed the clumsy iron latch further: it yielded again, and anonshe was able to push open the door.
Excited yet confident she tip-toed out of the room. The darkness--likeunto pitch--was terribly disconcerting. With the exception of her narrowprison Yvonne had only once seen the interior of the house and that waswhen, half fainting, she had been dragged across its threshold and upthe stairs. She had therefore only a very vague idea as to where thestairs lay and how she was to get about without stumbling.
Slowly and cautiously she crept a few paces forward, then she turned andcarefully closed the door behind her. There was not a sound inside thehouse: everything was silent around her: neither footfall norwhisperings reached her straining ears. She felt about her with herhands, she crouched down on her knees: anon she discovered the head ofthe stairs.
Then suddenly she drew back, like a frightened hare conscious of danger.All the blood rushed back to her heart, making it beat so violently thatshe once more felt sick and faint. A sound--gentle as a breath--hadbroken that absolute and dead silence which up to now had given herconfidence. She felt suddenly that she was no longer alone in thedarkness--that somewhere close by there was some one--friend or foe--whowas lying in watch for her--that somewhere in the darkness somethingmoved and breathed.
The crackling of the paper inside her kerchief served to remind her thather dear milor was on the watch and that the blessed message had spokenof a friendly hand which would be stretched out to her and which she wasenjoined to take with confidence. Reassured she crept on again, and anona softly murmured: "Hush--sh!--sh!--" reached her ear. It seemed tocome from down below--not very far--and Yvonne, having once more locatedthe head of the stairs with her hands, began slowly to creepdownstairs--softly as a mouse--step by step--but every time that a boardcreaked she paused, terrified, listening for Louise Adet's heavyfootstep, for a sound that would mean the near approach of danger.
"Hush--sh--sh" came again as a gentle murmur from below and thesomething that moved and breathed in the darkness seemed to draw nearerto Yvonne.
A few more seconds of soul-racking suspense, a few more steps down thecreaking stairs and she felt a strong hand laid upon her wrist and hearda muffled voice whisper in English:
"All is well! Trust me! Follow me!"
She did not recognise the voice, even though there was something vaguelyfamiliar in its intonation. Yvonne did not pause to conjecture: she hadbeen made happy by the very sound of the language which stood to her forevery word of love she had ever heard: it restored her courage and herconfidence in their fullest measure.
Obeying the whispered command, Yvonne was content now to follow hermysterious guide who had hold of her hand. The stairs were steep andwinding--at a turn she perceived a feeble light at their foot downbelow. Up against this feeble light the form of her guide wassilhouetted in a broad, dark mass. Yvonne could see nothing of himbeyond the square outline of his shoulders and that of his sugar-loafhat. Her mind now was thrilled with excitement and her fingers closedalmost convulsively round his hand. He led her across Louise Adet's backkitchen. It was from here that the feeble light came--from a small oillamp which stood on the centre table. It helped to guide Yvonne and hermysterious friend to the bottom of the stairs, then across the kitchento the front door, where again complete darkness reigned. But soonYvonne--who was following blindly whithersoever she was led--heard theclick of a latch and the grating of a door upon its hinges: a coldcurrent of air caught her straight in the face. She could see nothing,for it seemed to be as dark out of doors as in: but she had thesensation of that open door, of a threshold to cross, of freedom andhappiness beckoning to her straight out of the gloom. Within the nextsecond or two she would be out of this terrible place, its squalid anddank walls would be behind her. On ahead in that thrice welcomeobscurity her dear milor and his powerful friend were beckoning to herto come boldly on--their protecting arms were already stretched out forher; it seemed to her excited fancy as if the cold night-wind brought toher ears the echo of their endearing words.
She filled her lungs with the keen winter air: hope, happiness,excitement thrilled her every nerve.
"A short walk, my lady," whispered the guide, still speaking in English;"you are not cold?"
"No, no, I am not cold," she whispered in reply. "I am conscious ofnothing save that I am free."
"And you are not afraid?"
"Indeed, indeed I am not afraid," she murmured fervently. "May Godreward you, sir, for what you do."
Again there had been that certain something--vaguely familiar--in theway the man spoke which for the moment piqued Yvonne's curiosity. Shedid not, of a truth, know English well enough to detect the very obviousforeign intonation; she only felt that sometime in the dim and happypast she had heard this man speak. But even this vague sense ofpuzzlement she dismissed very quickly from her mind. Was she not takingeverything on trust? Indeed hope and confidence had a very firm hold onher at last.