It was perhaps the most brilliant September ever known in England, wherethe last days of dying summer are nearly always golden and beautiful.
Strange that in this country, where that same season is so peculiarlyradiant with a glory all its own, there should be no special expressionin the language with which to accurately name it.
So we needs must call it "fin d'ete": the ending of the summer; not theabsolute end, nor yet the ultimate departure, but the tender lingeringof a friend obliged to leave us anon, yet who fain would steal a dayhere and there, a week or so in which to stay with us: who would makethat last pathetic farewell of his endure a little while longer still,and brings forth in gorgeous array for our final gaze all that he haswhich is most luxuriant, most desirable, most worthy of regret.
And in this year of grace 1793, departing summer had lavished thetreasures of her palette upon woodland and river banks; had tinged theonce crude green of larch and elm with a tender hue of gold, had brushedthe oaks with tones of warm russet, and put patches of sienna andcrimson on the beech.
In the gardens the roses were still in bloom, not the delicate blushor lemon ones of June, nor yet the pale Banksias and climbers, but thefull-blooded red roses of late summer, and deep-coloured apricot ones,with crinkled outside leaves faintly kissed by the frosty dew. Insheltered spots the purple clematis still lingered, whilst the dahlias,brilliant of hue, seemed overbearing in their gorgeous insolence,flaunting their crudely colored petals against sober backgrounds ofmellow leaves, or the dull, mossy tones of ancient, encircling walls.
The Gala had always been held about the end of September. The weather,on the riverside, was most dependable then, and there was alwayssufficient sunshine as an excuse for bringing out Madam's last newmuslin gown, or her pale-coloured quilted petticoat. Then the groundwas dry and hard, good alike for walking and for setting up tents andbooths. And of these there was of a truth a most goodly array this year:mountebanks and jugglers from every corner of the world, so it seemed,for there was a man with a face as black as my lord's tricorne, andanother with such flat yellow cheeks as made one think of batterpudding, and spring aconite, of eggs and other very yellow things.
There was a tent wherein dogs--all sorts of dogs, big, little, black,white or tan--did things which no Christian with respect for his ownbackbone would have dared to perform, and another where a weird-facedold man made bean-stalks and walking sticks, coins of the realm and lacekerchiefs vanish into thin air.
And as it was nice and hot one could sit out upon the green and listento the strains of the band, which discoursed sweet music, and watch theyoung people tread a measure on the sward.
The quality had not yet arrived: for humbler folk had partaken of veryearly dinner so as to get plenty of fun, and long hours of delight forthe sixpenny toll demanded at the gates.
There was so much to see and so much to do: games of bowls on thegreen, and a beautiful Aunt Sally, there was a skittle alley, and twomerry-go-rounds: there were performing monkeys and dancing bears, awoman so fat that three men with arms outstretched could not get roundher, and a man so thin that he could put a lady's bracelet round hisneck and her garter around his waist.
There were some funny little dwarfs with pinched faces and a knowingmanner, and a giant come all the way from Russia--so 'twas said.
The mechanical toys too were a great attraction. You dropped a pennyinto a little slit in a box and a doll would begin to dance and play thefiddle: and there was the Magic Mill, where for another modest coppera row of tiny figures, wrinkled and old and dressed in the shabbiest ofrags, marched in weary procession up a flight of steps into the Mill,only to emerge again the next moment at a further door of this wonderfulbuilding looking young and gay, dressed in gorgeous finery and trippinga dance measure as they descended some steps and were finally lost toview.
But what was most wonderful of all and collected the goodliest crowd ofgazers and the largest amount of coins, was a miniature representationof what was going on in France even at this very moment.
And you could not help but be convinced of the truth of it all, socleverly was it done. There was a background of houses and a veryred-looking sky. "Too red!" some people said, but were immediatelyquashed by the dictum of the wise, that the sky represented a sunset, asanyone who looked could see. Then there were a number of little figures,no taller than your hand, but with little wooden faces and arms andlegs, just beautifully made little dolls, and these were dressed inkirtles and breeches--all rags mostly--and little coats and woodenshoes. They were massed together in groups with their arms all turnedupwards.
And in the center of this little stage on an elevated platform therewere miniature wooden posts close together, and with a long flat boardat right angles at the foot of the posts, and all painted a bright red.At the further end of the boards was a miniature basket, and between thetwo posts, at the top, was a miniature knife which ran up and down in agroove and was drawn by a miniature pulley. Folk who knew said that thiswas a model of a guillotine.
And lo and behold! when you dropped a penny into a slot just below thewooden stage, the crowd of little figures started waving their arms upand down, and another little doll would ascend the elevated platform andlie down on the red board at the foot of the wooden posts. Then a figuredressed in brilliant scarlet put out an arm presumably to touch thepulley, and the tiny knife would rattle down on to the poor littlereclining doll's neck, and its head would roll off into the basketbeyond.
Then there was a loud whirr of wheels, a buzz of internal mechanism, andall the little figures would stop dead with arms outstretched, whilstthe beheaded doll rolled off the board and was lost to view, no doubtpreparatory to going through the same gruesome pantomime again.
It was very thrilling, and very terrible: a certain air of hushed awereigned in the booth where this mechanical wonder was displayed.
The booth itself stood in a secluded portion of the grounds, far fromthe toll gates, and the band stand and the noise of the merry-go-round,and there were great texts, written in red letters on a black ground,pinned all along the walls.
"Please spare a copper for the starving poor of Paris."
A lady, dressed in grey quilted petticoat and pretty grey and blackstriped paniers, could be seen walking in the booth from time to time,then disappearing through a partition beyond. She would emerge againpresently carrying an embroidered reticule, and would wander round amongthe crowd, holding out the bag by its chain, and repeating in tonesof somewhat monotonous appeal: "For the starving poor of Paris, if youplease!"
She had fine, dark eyes, rather narrow and tending upwards at the outercorners, which gave her face a not altogether pleasant expression.Still, they were fine eyes, and when she went round soliciting alms,most of the men put a hand into their breeches pocket and dropped a coininto her embroidered reticule.
She said the word "poor" in rather a funny way, rolling the "r" at theend, and she also said "please" as if it were spelt with a long line of"e's," and so it was concluded that she was French and was begging forher poorer sisters. At stated intervals during the day, the mechanicaltoy was rolled into a corner, and the lady in grey stood up on aplatform and sang queer little songs, the words of which nobody couldunderstand.
"Il etait une bergere et ron et petit pataplon...."
But it all left an impression of sadness and of suppressed awe upon theminds and susceptibilities of the worthy Richmond yokels come withtheir wives or sweethearts to enjoy the fun of the fair, and gladlydid everyone emerge out of that melancholy booth into the sunshine, thebrightness and the noise.
"Lud! but she do give me the creeps," said Mistress Polly, the prettybarmaid from the Bell Inn, down by the river. "And I must say that Idon't see why we English folk should send our hard-earned pennies tothose murdering ruffians over the water. Bein' starving so to speak,don't make a murderer a better man if he goes on murdering," she addedwith undisputable if ungrammatical logic. "Come, let's look at somethingmore cheerful now."
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p; And without waiting for anyone else's assent, she turned towards themore lively portion of the grounds, closely followed by a ruddy-faced,somewhat sheepish-looking youth, who very obviously was her attendantswain.
It was getting on for three o-clock now, and the quality were beginningto arrive. Lord Anthony Dewhurst was already there, chucking everypretty girl under the chin, to the annoyance of her beau. Ladies werearriving all the time, and the humbler feminine hearts were constantlyset a-flutter at sight of rich brocaded gowns, and the new Charlottes,all crinkled velvet and soft marabout, which were so becoming to thepretty faces beneath.
There was incessant and loud talking and chattering, with here and therethe shriller tones of a French voice being distinctly noticeable in thedin. There were a good many French ladies and gentlemen present, easilyrecognisable, even in the distance, for their clothes were of more soberhue and of lesser richness than those of their English compeers.
But they were great lords and ladies, nevertheless, Dukes and Duchessesand Countesses, come to England for fear of being murdered by thosedevils in their own country. Richmond was full of them just now, as theywere made right welcome both at the Palace and at the magnificent homeof Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney.
Ah! here comes Sir Andrew Ffoulkes with his lady! so pretty anddainty does she look, like a little china doll, in her new-fashionedshort-waisted gown: her brown hair in soft waves above her smoothforehead, her great, hazel eyes fixed in unaffected admiration on thegallant husband by her side.
"No wonder she dotes on him!" sighed pretty Mistress Polly after she hadbobbed her curtsy to my lady. "The brave deeds he did for love of her!Rescued her from those murderers over in France and brought her toEngland safe and sound, having fought no end of them single-handed, soI've beard it said. Have you not, Master Thomas Jezzard?"
And she looked defiantly at her meek-looking cavalier.
"Bah!" replied Master Thomas with quite unusual vehemence in response tothe disparaging look in her brown eyes, "'Tis not he who did it all,as you well know, Mistress Polly. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes is a gallantgentleman, you may take your Bible oath on that, but he that fightsthe murdering frogeaters single-handed is he whom they call The ScarletPimpernel: the bravest gentleman in all the world."
Then, as at mention of the national hero, he thought that he detected inMistress Polly's eyes an enthusiasm which he could not very well ascribeto his own individuality, he added with some pique:
"But they do say that this same Scarlet Pimpernel is mightilyill-favoured, and that's why no one ever sees him. They say he is fit toscare the crows away and that no Frenchy can look twice at his face, forit's so ugly, and so they let him get out of the country, rather thanlook at him again."
"Then they do say a mighty lot of nonsense," retorted Mistress Polly,with a shrug of her pretty shoulders, "and if that be so, then why don'tyou go over to France and join hands with the Scarlet Pimpernel? I'llwarrant no Frenchman'll want to look twice at your face."
A chorus of laughter greeted this sally, for the two young people hadin the meanwhile been joined by several of their friends, and now formedpart of a merry group near the band, some sitting, others standing, butall bent on seeing as much as there was to see in Richmond Gala thisday. There was Johnny Cullen, the grocer's apprentice from Twickenham,and Ursula Quekett, the baker's daughter, and several "young 'uns" fromthe neighbourhood, as well as some older folk.
And all of them enjoyed a joke when they heard one and thought MistressPolly's retort mightily smart. But then Mistress Polly was possessed oftwo hundred pounds, all her own, left to her by her grandmother, andon the strength of this extensive fortune had acquired a reputation forbeauty and wit not easily accorded to a wench that had been penniless.
But Mistress Polly was also very kind-hearted. She loved to tease MasterJezzard, who was an indefatigable hanger-on at her pretty skirts, andwhose easy conquest had rendered her somewhat contemptuous, but at thelook of perplexed annoyance and bewildered distress in the lad's face,her better nature soon got the upper hand. She realized that her remarkhad been unwarrantably spiteful, and wishing to make atonement, shesaid with a touch of coquetry which quickly spread balm over the honestyokel's injured vanity:
"La! Master Jezzard, you do seem to make a body say some queer things.But there! you must own 'tis mighty funny about that Scarlet Pimpernel!"she added, appealing to the company in general, just as if MasterJezzard had been disputing the fact. "Why won't he let anyone see who heis? And those who know him won't tell. Now I have it for a fact frommy lady's own maid Lucy, that the young lady as is stopping at LadyBlakeney's house has actually spoken to the man. She came over fromFrance, come a fortnight to-morrow; she and the gentleman they callMossoo Deroulede. They both saw the Scarlet Pimpernel and spoke to him.He brought them over from France. Then why won't they say?"
"Say what?" commented Johnny Cullen, the apprentice.
"Who this mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel is."
"Perhaps he isn't," said old Clutterbuck, who was clerk of the vestry atthe church of St. John's the Evangelist.
"Yes!" he added sententiously, for he was fond of his own sayings andusually liked to repeat them before he had quite done with them, "that'sit, you may be sure. Perhaps he isn't."
"What do you mean, Master Clutterbuck?" asked Ursula Quekett, for sheknew the old man liked to explain his wise saws, and as she wanted tomarry his son, she indulged him whenever she could. "What do you mean?He isn't what?"
"He isn't. That's all," explained Clutterbuck with vague solemnity.
Then seeing that he had gained the attention of the little party roundhim, he condescended to come to more logical phraseology.
"I mean, that perhaps we must not ask, 'who IS this mysterious ScarletPimpernel?' but 'who WAS that poor and unfortunate gentleman?'"
"Then you think..." suggested Mistress Polly, who felt unaccountablylow-spirited at this oratorical pronouncement.
"I have it for a fact," said Mr. Clutterbuck solemnly, "that he whomthey call the Scarlet Pimpernel no longer exists now: that he wascollared by the Frenchies, as far back as last fall, and in the languageof the poets, has never been heard of no more."
Mr. Clutterbuck was very fond of quoting from the works of certainwriters whose names he never mentioned, but who went by the poeticalgenerality of "the poets." Whenever he made use of phrases which he wassupposed to derive from these great and unnamed authors, he solemnlyand mechanically raised his hat, as a tribute of respect to these giantminds.
"You think that The Scarlet Pimpernel is dead, Mr. Clutterbuck? Thatthose horrible Frenchies murdered him? Surely you don't mean that?"sighed Mistress Polly ruefully.
Mr. Clutterbuck put his hand up to his hat, preparatory no doubt tomaking another appeal to the mysterious poets, but was interrupted inthe very act of uttering great thoughts by a loud and prolonged laughwhich came echoing from a distant corner of the grounds.
"Lud! but I'd know that laugh anywhere," said Mistress Quekett, whilstall eyes were turned in the direction whence the merry noise had come.
Half a head taller than any of his friends around him, his lazy blueeyes scanning from beneath their drooping lids the motley throng aroundhim, stood Sir Percy Blakeney, the centre of a gaily-dressed littlegroup which seemingly had just crossed the toll-gate.
"A fine specimen of a man, for sure," remarked Johnnie Cullen, theapprentice.
"Aye! you may take your Bible oath on that!" sighed Mistress Polly, whowas inclined to be sentimental.
"Speakin' as the poets," pronounced Mr. Clutterbuck sententiously,"inches don't make a man."
"Nor fine clothes neither," added Master Jezzard, who did not approve ofMistress Polly's sentimental sigh.
"There's my lady!" gasped Miss Barbara suddenly, clutching MasterClutterbuck's arm vigorously. "Lud! but she is beautiful to-day!"
Beautiful indeed, and radiant with youth and happiness, MargueriteBlakeney had just gone through the gates and was walking along the swardtowards the band stand.
She was dressed in clinging robes of shimmerygreen texture, the new-fashioned high-waisted effect suiting hergraceful figure to perfection. The large Charlotte, made of velvet tomatch the gown, cast a deep shadow over the upper part of her face, andgave a peculiar softness to the outline of her forehead and cheeks.
Long lace mittens covered her arms and hands and a scarf of diaphanousmaterial edged with dull gold hung loosely around her shoulders.
Yes! she was beautiful! No captious chronicler has ever denied that! andno one who knew her before, and who saw her again on this late summer'safternoon, could fail to mark the additional charm of her magneticpersonality. There was a tenderness in her face as she turned her headto and fro, a joy of living in her eyes that was quite irresistiblyfascinating.
Just now she was talking animatedly with the young girl who was walkingbeside her, and laughing merrily the while:
"Nay! we'll find your Paul, never fear! Lud! child, have you forgottenhe is in England now, and that there's no fear of his being kidnappedhere on the green in broad daylight."
The young girl gave a slight shudder and her child-like face became ashade paler than before. Marguerite took her hand and gave it a kindlypressure. Juliette Marny, but lately come to England, saved from underthe very knife of the guillotine, by a timely and daring rescue, couldscarcely believe as yet that she and the man she loved were really outof danger.
"There is Monsieur Deroulede," said Marguerite after a slight pause,giving the young girl time to recover herself and pointing to a group ofmen close by. "He is among friends, as you see."
They made such a pretty picture, these two women, as they stood togetherfor a moment on the green with the brilliant September sun throwinggolden reflections and luminous shadows on their slender forms.Marguerite, tall and queen-like in her rich gown, and costly jewels,wearing with glorious pride the invisible crown of happy wifehood:Juliette, slim and girlish, dressed all in white, with a soft, strawhat on her fair curls, and bearing on an otherwise young and child-likeface, the hard imprint of the terrible sufferings she had undergone, ofthe deathly moral battle her tender soul had had to fight.
Soon a group of friends joined them. Paul Deroulede among these, alsoSir Andrew and Lady Ffoulkes, and strolling slowly towards them, hishands buried in the pockets of his fine cloth breeches, his broadshoulders set to advantage in a coat of immaculate cut, priceless laceruffles at neck and wrist, came the inimitable Sir Percy.
Chapter V: Sir Percy and His Lady