A few minutes later she was sitting, wrapped in cosy furs, near SirPercy Blakeney on the box-seat of his magnificent coach, and the foursplendid bays had thundered down the quiet street.
The night was warm in spite of the gentle breeze which fannedMarguerite's burning cheeks. Soon London houses were left behind, andrattling over old Hammersmith Bridge, Sir Percy was driving his baysrapidly towards Richmond.
The river wound in and out in its pretty delicate curves, looking likea silver serpent beneath the glittering rays of the moon. Long shadowsfrom overhanging trees spread occasional deep palls right across theroad. The bays were rushing along at breakneck speed, held but slightlyback by Sir Percy's strong, unerring hands.
These nightly drives after balls and suppers in London were a sourceof perpetual delight to Marguerite, and she appreciated her husband'seccentricity keenly, which caused him to adopt this mode of takingher home every night, to their beautiful home by the river, instead ofliving in a stuffy London house. He loved driving his spirited horsesalong the lonely, moonlit roads, and she loved to sit on the box-seat,with the soft air of an English late summer's night fanning her faceafter the hot atmosphere of a ball or supper-party. The drive was not along one--less than an hour, sometimes, when the bays were very fresh,and Sir Percy gave them full rein.
To-night he seemed to have a very devil in his fingers, and the coachseemed to fly along the road, beside the river. As usual, he did notspeak to her, but stared straight in front of him, the ribbons seemingto lie quite loosely in his slender, white hands. Marguerite looked athim tentatively once or twice; she could see his handsome profile, andone lazy eye, with its straight fine brow and drooping heavy lid.
The face in the moonlight looked singularly earnest, and recalled toMarguerite's aching heart those happy days of courtship, before he hadbecome the lazy nincompoop, the effete fop, whose life seemed spent incard and supper rooms.
But now, in the moonlight, she could not catch the expression of thelazy blue eyes; she could only see the outline of the firm chin, thecorner 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 laidat the door of that poor, half-crazy mother, and of the distractedheart-broken father, neither of whom had cared for the young lifewhich was sprouting up between them, and which, perhaps, their verycarelessness was already beginning to wreck.
Marguerite suddenly felt intense sympathy for her husband. The moralcrisis she had just gone through made her feel indulgent towards thefaults, the delinquencies, of others.
How thoroughly a human being can be buffeted and overmastered by Fate,had been borne in upon her with appalling force. Had anyone told her aweek ago that she would stoop to spy upon her friends, that she wouldbetray a brave and unsuspecting man into the hands of a relentlessenemy, she would have laughed the idea to scorn.
Yet she had done these things; anon, perhaps the death of that brave manwould be at her door, just as two years ago the Marquis de St. Cyr hadperished through a thoughtless words of hers; but in that case she wasmorally innocent--she had meant no serious harm--fate merely had steppedin. But this time she had done a thing that obviously was base, had doneit deliberately, for a motive which, perhaps, high moralists would noteven appreciate.
As she felt her husband's strong arm beside her, she also felt how muchmore 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, andno charity. She despised her husband for his inanities and vulgar,unintellectual occupations; and he, she felt, would despise her stillworse, because she had not been strong enough to do right for right'ssake, and to sacrifice her brother to the dictates of her conscience.
Buried in her thoughts, Marguerite had found this hour in thebreezy summer night all too brief; and it was with a feeling of keendisappointment, that she suddenly realised that the bays had turned intothe massive gates of her beautiful English home.
Sir Percy Blakeney's house on the river has become a historic one:palatial in its dimensions, it stands in the midst of exquisitelylaid-out gardens, with a picturesque terrace and frontage to the river.Built in Tudor days, the old red brick of the walls looks eminentlypicturesque in the midst of a bower of green, the beautiful lawn, withits old sun-dial, adding the true note of harmony to its foregrounds,and now, on this warm early autumn night, the leaves slightly turned torussets and gold, the old garden looked singularly poetic and peacefulin the moonlight.
With unerring precision, Sir Percy had brought the four bays to astandstill immediately in front of the fine Elizabethan entrance hall;in spite of the late hour, an army of grooms seemed to have emergedfrom the very ground, as the coach had thundered up, and were standingrespectfully round.
Sir Percy jumped down quickly, then helped Marguerite to alight. Shelingered outside a moment, whilst he gave a few orders to one of hismen. She skirted the house, and stepped on to the lawn, looking outdreamily into the silvery landscape. Nature seemed exquisitely at peace,in comparison with the tumultuous emotions she had gone through: shecould faintly hear the ripple of the river and the occasional soft andghostlike fall of a dead leaf from a tree.
All else was quiet round her. She had heard the horses prancing as theywere being led away to their distant stables, the hurrying of servant'sfeet as they had all gone within to rest: the house also was quitestill. In two separate suites of apartments, just above the magnificentreception-rooms, lights were still burning, they were her rooms, andhis, well divided from each other by the whole width of the house, asfar apart as their own lives had become. Involuntarily she sighed--atthat moment she could really not have told why.
She was suffering from unconquerable heartache. Deeply and achinglyshe was sorry for herself. Never had she felt so pitiably lonely, sobitterly in want of comfort and of sympathy. With another sigh sheturned away from the river towards the house, vaguely wondering if,after such a night, she could ever find rest and sleep.
Suddenly, before she reached the terrace, she heard a firm step upon thecrisp gravel, and the next moment her husband's figure emerged out ofthe shadow. He too, had skirted the house, and was wandering along thelawn, towards the river. He still wore his heavy driving coat with thenumerous lapels and collars he himself had set in fashion, but he hadthrown it well back, burying his hands as was his wont, in the deeppockets of his satin breeches: the gorgeous white costume he had wornat Lord Grenville's ball, with its jabot of priceless lace, lookedstrangely ghostly against the dark background of the house.
He apparently did not notice her, for, after a few moments pause, hepresently turned back towards the house, and walked straight up to theterrace.
"Sir Percy!"
He already had one foot on the lowest of the terrace steps, but at hervoice he started, and paused, then looked searchingly into the shadowswhence she had called to him.
She came forward quickly into the moonlight, and, as soon as he sawher, he said, with that air of consummate gallantry he always wore whenspeaking to her,--
"At your service, Madame!" But his foot was still on the step, and inhis whole attitude there was a remote suggestion, distinctly visible toher, that he wished to go, and had no desire for a midnight interview.
"The air is deliciously cool," she said, "the moonlight peaceful andpoetic, and the garden inviting. Will you not stay in it awhile; thehour is not yet late, or is my company so distasteful to you, that youare in a hurry to rid yourself of it?"
"Nay, Madame," he rejoined placidly, "but 'tis on the other foot theshoe happens to be, and I'll warrant you'll find the midnight air morepoetic without my company: no doubt the sooner I remove the obstructionthe better your ladyship will like it."
He turned once more to go.
"I protest you mistake me, Sir Percy," she said hurriedly, and drawing alittle closer to him; "the estrangement, which alas! has arisen betweenus, was none of my making, remember."
"Begad! you must pardon me there, Madame!" he protested
coldly, "mymemory was always of the shortest."
He looked her straight in the eyes, with that lazy nonchalance whichhad 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 footof the terrace steps.
"Of the shortest, Sir Percy! Faith! how it must have altered! Was itthree years ago or four that you saw me for one hour in Paris, onyour way to the East? When you came back two years later you had notforgotten me."
She looked divinely pretty as she stood there in the moonlight, with thefur-cloak sliding off her beautiful shoulders, the gold embroidery onher dress shimmering around her, her childlike blue eyes turned up fullyat him.
He stood for a moment, rigid and still, but for the clenching of hishand against the stone balustrade of the terrace.
"You desired my presence, Madame," he said frigidly. "I take it that itwas not with the view to indulging in tender reminiscences."
His voice certainly was cold and uncompromising: his attitude beforeher, stiff and unbending. Womanly decorum would have suggestedMarguerite should return coldness for coldness, and should sweep pasthim without another word, only with a curt nod of her head: but womanlyinstinct suggested that she should remain--that keen instinct, whichmakes a beautiful woman conscious of her powers long to bring to herknees the one man who pays her no homage. She stretched out her hand tohim.
"Nay, Sir Percy, why not? the present is not so glorious but that Ishould not wish to dwell a little in the past."
He bent his tall figure, and taking hold of the extreme tip of thefingers which she still held out to him, he kissed them ceremoniously.
"I' faith, Madame," he said, "then you will pardon me, if my dull witscannot accompany you there."
Once again he attempted to go, once more her voice, sweet, childlike,almost tender, called him back.
"Sir Percy."
"Your servant, Madame."
"Is it possible that love can die?" she said with sudden, unreasoningvehemence. "Methought that the passion which you once felt for me wouldoutlast the span of human life. Is there nothing left of thatlove, Percy . . . which might help you . . . to bridge over that sadestrangement?"
His massive figure seemed, while she spoke thus to him, to stiffen stillmore, the strong mouth hardened, a look of relentless obstinacy creptinto the habitually lazy blue eyes.
"With what object, I pray you, Madame?" he asked coldly.
"I do not understand you."
"Yet 'tis simple enough," he said with sudden bitterness, which seemedliterally to surge through his words, though he was making visibleefforts to suppress it, "I humbly put the question to you, for my slowwits are unable to grasp the cause of this, your ladyship's sudden newmood. Is it that you have the taste to renew the devilish sport whichyou played so successfully last year? Do you wish to see me once morea love-sick suppliant at your feet, so that you might again have thepleasure of kicking me aside, like a troublesome lap-dog?"
She had succeeded in rousing him for the moment: and again she lookedstraight 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, Madame, but I understood you to say that your desire was todwell in it."
"Nay! I spoke not of THAT past, Percy!" she said, while a tone oftenderness crept into her voice. "Rather did I speak of a time when youloved me still! and I . . . oh! I was vain and frivolous; your wealth andposition allured me: I married you, hoping in my heart that your greatlove for me would beget in me a love for you . . . but, alas! . . ."
The moon had sunk low down behind a bank of clouds. In the east a softgrey light was beginning to chase away the heavy mantle of the night.He could only see her graceful outline now, the small queenly head, withits wealth of reddish golden curls, and the glittering gems forming thesmall, star-shaped, red flower which she wore as a diadem in her hair.
"Twenty-four hours after our marriage, Madame, the Marquis de St. Cyrand all his family perished on the guillotine, and the popular rumourreached me that it was the wife of Sir Percy Blakeney who helped to sendthem 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 itshorrible 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 youloved more than life, whom you professed you worshipped, that _I_ coulddo a thing so base as these STRANGERS chose to recount. You thought Imeant to deceive you about it all--that I ought to have spoken before Imarried you: yet, had you listened, I would have told you that up to thevery morning on which St. Cyr went to the guillotine, I was strainingevery nerve, using every influence I possessed, to save him and hisfamily. 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 youhow I was duped! Aye! I, whom that same popular rumour had endowed withthe sharpest wits in France! I was tricked into doing this thing, by menwho knew how to play upon my love for an only brother, and my desire forrevenge. 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 herown vehement, impassioned way, offering no comment, no word of sympathy:and now, while she paused, trying to swallow down the hot tears thatgushed to her eyes, he waited, impassive and still. The dim, grey lightof 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-humoured and inane. A curious look of intensepassion seemed to glow from beneath his drooping lids, the mouth wastightly closed, the lips compressed, as if the will alone held thatsurging passion in check.
Marguerite Blakeney was, above all, a woman, with all a woman'sfascinating foibles, all a woman's most lovable sins. She knew in amoment that for the past few months she had been mistaken: that thisman who stood here before her, cold as a statue, when her musical voicestruck upon his ear, loved her, as he had loved her a year ago: that hispassion might have been dormant, but that it was there, as strong, asintense, as overwhelming, as when first her lips met his in one long,maddening kiss. Pride had kept him from her, and, woman-like, she meantto win back that conquest which had been hers before. Suddenly it seemedto her that the only happiness life could ever hold for her again wouldbe 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. "Armand was all in all to me! We had no parents, andbrought 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? theMarquis de St. Cyr had my brother Armand thrashed--thrashed by hislacqueys--that brother whom I loved better than all the world! And hisoffence? That he, a plebeian, had dared to love the daughter of thearistocrat; for that he was waylaid and thrashed . . . thrashed like adog within an inch of his life! Oh, how I suffered! his humiliation hadeaten into my very soul! When the opportunity occurred, and I was ableto take my revenge, I took it. But I only thought to bring that proudmarquis to trouble and humiliation. He plotted with Austria against hisown country. Chance gave me knowledge of this; I spoke of it, but I didnot know--how could I guess?--they trapped and duped me. When I realisedwhat I had done, it was too late."
"It is perhaps a little difficult, Madame," said Sir Percy, aftera moment of silence between them, "to go back over the past. I haveconfessed to you that my memory is short, but the thought certainlylingered in my mind that, at the time of the Marquis' death, I entreatedyou for an explanation of those same noisome popular rumours. If thatsame memory does not, even now, play me a trick, I fancy that yourefused me ALL explanation then, and demanded of my love a humiliatingallegiance it was not p
repared to give."
"I wished to test your love for me, and it did not bear the test. Youused to tell me that you drew the very breath of life but for me, andfor love of me."
"And to probe that love, you demanded that I should forfeit minehonour," he said, whilst gradually his impassiveness seemed to leavehim, his rigidity to relax; "that I should accept without murmur orquestion, as a dumb and submissive slave, every action of mymistress. My heart overflowing with love and passion, I ASKED for noexplanation--I WAITED for one, not doubting--only hoping. Had youspoken but one word, from you I would have accepted any explanation andbelieved it. But you left me without a word, beyond a bald confession ofthe actual horrible facts; proudly you returned to your brother's house,and left me alone . . . for weeks . . . not knowing, now, in whomto believe, since the shrine, which contained my one illusion, layshattered to earth at my feet."
She need not complain now that he was cold and impassive; his veryvoice shook with an intensity of passion, which he was making superhumanefforts to keep in check.
"Aye! the madness of my pride!" she said sadly. "Hardly had I gone,already I had repented. But when I returned, I found you, oh, soaltered! wearing already that mask of somnolent indifference which youhave never laid aside until . . . until now."
She was so close to him that her soft, loose hair was wafted againsthis cheek; her eyes, glowing with tears, maddened him, the music in hervoice sent fire through his veins. But he would not yield to the magiccharm of this woman whom he had so deeply loved, and at whose handshis pride had suffered so bitterly. He closed his eyes to shut out thedainty vision of that sweet face, of that snow-white neck and gracefulfigure, round which the faint rosy light of dawn was just beginning tohover playfully.
"Nay, Madame, it is no mask," he said icily; "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, thesorrow she had gone through last night, suddenly came back into hermind, but no longer with bitterness, rather with a feeling that this manwho loved her, would help her bear the burden.
"Sir Percy," she said impulsively, "Heaven knows you have been at painsto 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 wished to speak to you . . . because . . . because I was in trouble. . . and had need . . . of your sympathy."
"It is yours to command, Madame."
"How cold you are!" she sighed. "Faith! I can scarce believe that buta few months ago one tear in my eye had set you well-nigh crazy. Now Icome to you . . . with a half-broken heart . . . and . . . and . . ."
"I pray you, Madame," he said, whilst his voice shook almost as much ashers, "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 Ffoulkes,has fallen into the hands of a fanatic. Armand is hopelessly compromised. . . to-morrow, perhaps he will be arrested . . . after that theguillotine . . . unless . . . oh! it is horrible!" . . . she said, with asudden wail of anguish, as all the events of the past night came rushingback to her mind, "horrible! . . . and you do not understand . . . youcannot . . . and I have no one to whom I can turn . . . for help . . . oreven for sympathy . . ."
Tears now refused to be held back. All her trouble, her struggles, theawful uncertainty of Armand's fate overwhelmed her. She tottered, readyto fall, and leaning against the tone balustrade, she buried her face inher hands and sobbed bitterly.
At first mention of Armand St. Just's name and of the peril in which hestood, Sir Percy's face had become a shade more pale; and the look ofdetermination and obstinacy appeared more marked than ever between hiseyes. However, he said nothing for the moment, but watched her, as herdelicate frame was shaken with sobs, watched her until unconsciously hisface softened, and what looked almost like tears seemed to glisten inhis eyes.
"And so," he said with bitter sarcasm, "the murderous dog of therevolution is turning upon the very hands that fed it? . . . Begad,Madame," he added very gently, as Marguerite continued to sobhysterically, "will you dry your tears? . . . I never could bear to see apretty woman cry, and I . . ."
Instinctively, with sudden overmastering passion at the sight of herhelplessness and of her grief, he stretched out his arms, and the next,would have seized her and held her to him, protected from every evilwith his very life, his very heart's blood. . . . But pride had thebetter of it in this struggle once again; he restrained himself with atremendous effort of will, and said coldly, though still very gently,--
"Will you not turn to me, Madame, and tell me in what way I may have thehonour to serve you?"
She made a violent effort to control herself, and turning hertear-stained face to him, she once more held out her hand, which hekissed with the same punctilious gallantry; but Marguerite's fingers,this time, lingered in his hand for a second or two longer than wasabsolutely necessary, and this was because she had felt that his handtrembled perceptibly and was burning hot, whilst his lips felt as coldas marble.
"Can you do aught for Armand?" she said sweetly and simply. "You have somuch influence at court . . . so many friends . . ."
"Nay, Madame, should you not seek the influence of your French friend,M. Chauvelin? His extends, if I mistake not, even as far as theRepublican 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 himeverything . . . all she had done that night--how she had suffered andhow 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 lovedher, when she hoped that she could win him back. She dared not makeanother confession to him. After all, he might not understand; he mightnot sympathise with her struggles and temptation. His love still dormantmight sleep the sleep of death.
Perhaps he divined what was passing in her mind. His whole attitude wasone of intense longing--a veritable prayer for that confidence, whichher foolish pride withheld from him. When she remained silent he sighed,and said with marked coldness--
"Faith, Madame, 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 heshall be safe. Now, have I your permission to go? The hour is gettinglate, and . . ."
"You will at least accept my gratitude?" she said, as she drew quiteclose to him, and speaking with real tenderness.
With a quick, almost involuntary effort he would have taken her then inhis arms, for her eyes were swimming in tears, which he longed to kissaway; but she had lured him once, just like this, then cast him asidelike 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, Madame!" he said quietly; "I have done nothing as yet.The hour is late, and you must be fatigued. Your women will be waitingfor you upstairs."
He stood aside to allow her to pass. She sighed, a quick sigh ofdisappointment. His pride and her beauty had been in direct conflict,and his pride had remained the conqueror. Perhaps, after all, she hadbeen deceived just now; what she took to be the light of love in hiseyes might only have been the passion of pride or, who knows, of hatredinstead of love. She stood looking at him for a moment or two longer. Hewas again as rigid, as impassive, as before. Pride had conquered, and hecared naught for her. The grey light of dawn was gradually yieldingto the rosy light of the rising sun. Birds began to twitter; Natureawakened, smiling in happy response to the warmth of this gloriousOctober morning. Only between these two hearts there lay a strong,impassable barrier, built up of pride on both sides, which neither ofthem 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 m
ount the terrace steps.
The long train of her gold-embroidered gown swept the dead leaves offthe steps, making a faint harmonious sh--sh--sh as she glided up, withone hand resting on the balustrade, the rosy light of dawn making anaureole of gold round her hair, and causing the rubies on her head andarms to sparkle. She reached the tall glass doors which led into thehouse. Before entering, she paused once again to look at him, hopingagainst hope to see his arms stretched out to her, and to hear his voicecalling her back. But he had not moved; his massive figure looked thevery personification of unbending pride, of fierce obstinacy.
Hot tears again surged to her eyes, as she would not let him see them,she turned quickly within, and ran as fast as she could up to her ownrooms.
Had she but turned back then, and looked out once more on to therose-lit garden, she would have seen that which would have made her ownsufferings seem but light and easy to bear--a strong man, overwhelmedwith 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 haddied away within the house, he knelt down upon the terrace steps, and inthe very madness of his love he kissed one by one the places where hersmall foot had trodden, and the stone balustrade there, where her tinyhand had rested last.
CHAPTER XVII FAREWELL