Sir Percy Blakeney, as the chronicles of the time inform us, was in thisyear of grace 1792, still a year or two on the right side of thirty.Tall, above the average, even for an Englishman, broad-shouldered andmassively built, he would have been called unusually good-looking,but for a certain lazy expression in his deep-set blue eyes, and thatperpetual inane laugh which seemed to disfigure his strong, clearly-cutmouth.
It was nearly a year ago now that Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., one of therichest men in England, leader of all the fashions, and intimate friendof the Prince of Wales, had astonished fashionable society in Londonand Bath by bringing home, from one of his journeys abroad, a beautiful,fascinating, clever, French wife. He, the sleepiest, dullest, mostBritish Britisher that had ever set a pretty woman yawning, had secureda brilliant matrimonial prize for which, as all chroniclers aver, therehad been many competitors.
Marguerite St. Just had first made her DEBUT in artistic Parisiancircles, at the very moment when the greatest social upheaval theworld has ever known was taking place within its very walls. Scarcelyeighteen, lavishly gifted with beauty and talent, chaperoned only bya young and devoted brother, she had soon gathered round her, inher charming apartment in the Rue Richelieu, a coterie which was asbrilliant as it was exclusive--exclusive, that is to say, only from onepoint of view. Marguerite St. Just was from principle and by convictiona republican--equality of birth was her motto--inequality of fortunewas in her eyes a mere untoward accident, but the only inequality sheadmitted was that of talent. "Money and titles may be hereditary,"she would say, "but brains are not," and thus her charming salon wasreserved for originality and intellect, for brilliance and wit, forclever men and talented women, and the entrance into it was soon lookedupon in the world of intellect--which even in those days and in thosetroublous times found its pivot in Paris--as the seal to an artisticcareer.
Clever men, distinguished men, and even men of exalted station formed aperpetual and brilliant court round the fascinating young actress ofthe Comedie Francaise, and she glided through republican, revolutionary,bloodthirsty Paris like a shining comet with a trail behind her of allthat was most distinguished, most interesting, in intellectual Europe.
Then the climax came. Some smiled indulgently and called it an artisticeccentricity, others looked upon it as a wise provision, in view of themany events which were crowding thick and fast in Paris just then, butto all, the real motive of that climax remained a puzzle and a mystery.Anyway, Marguerite St. Just married Sir Percy Blakeney one fine day,just like that, without any warning to her friends, without a SOIREE DECONTRAT or DINER DE FIANCAILLES or other appurtenances of a fashionableFrench wedding.
How that stupid, dull Englishman ever came to be admitted withinthe intellectual circle which revolved round "the cleverest woman inEurope," as her friends unanimously called her, no one venturedto guess--golden key is said to open every door, asserted the moremalignantly inclined.
Enough, she married him, and "the cleverest woman in Europe" had linkedher fate to that "demmed idiot" Blakeney, and not even her most intimatefriends could assign to this strange step any other motive than that ofsupreme eccentricity. Those friends who knew, laughed to scorn the ideathat Marguerite St. Just had married a fool for the sake of the worldlyadvantages with which he might endow her. They knew, as a matter offact, that Marguerite St. Just cared nothing about money, and still lessabout a title; moreover, there were at least half a dozen other men inthe cosmopolitan world equally well-born, if not so wealthy as Blakeney,who would have been only too happy to give Marguerite St. Just anyposition she might choose to covet.
As for Sir Percy himself, he was universally voted to be totallyunqualified for the onerous post he had taken upon himself. His chiefqualifications for it seemed to consist in his blind adoration for her,his great wealth and the high favour in which he stood at the Englishcourt; but London society thought that, taking into consideration hisown intellectual limitations, it would have been wiser on his part hadhe bestowed those worldly advantages upon a less brilliant and wittywife.
Although lately he had been so prominent a figure in fashionable Englishsociety, he had spent most of his early life abroad. His father, thelate Sir Algernon Blakeney, had had the terrible misfortune of seeingan idolized young wife become hopelessly insane after two years of happymarried life. Percy had just been born when the late Lady Blakeneyfell prey to the terrible malady which in those days was looked upon ashopelessly incurable and nothing short of a curse of God upon the entirefamily. Sir Algernon took his afflicted young wife abroad, and therepresumably Percy was educated, and grew up between an imbecile motherand a distracted father, until he attained his majority. The death ofhis parents following close upon one another left him a free man, andas Sir Algernon had led a forcibly simple and retired life, the largeBlakeney fortune had increased tenfold.
Sir Percy Blakeney had travelled a great deal abroad, before he broughthome his beautiful, young, French wife. The fashionable circles of thetime were ready to receive them both with open arms; Sir Percy was rich,his wife was accomplished, the Prince of Wales took a very great likingto them both. Within six months they were the acknowledged leaders offashion and of style. Sir Percy's coats were the talk of the town, hisinanities were quoted, his foolish laugh copied by the gilded youth atAlmack's or the Mall. Everyone knew that he was hopelessly stupid, butthen that was scarcely to be wondered at, seeing that all the Blakeneysfor generations had been notoriously dull, and that his mother died animbecile.
Thus society accepted him, petted him, made much of him, since hishorses were the finest in the country, his FETES and wines the mostsought after. As for his marriage with "the cleverest woman in Europe,"well! the inevitable came with sure and rapid footsteps. No one pitiedhim, since his fate was of his own making. There were plenty of youngladies in England, of high birth and good looks, who would have beenquite willing to help him to spend the Blakeney fortune, whilstsmiling indulgently at his inanities and his good-humoured foolishness.Moreover, Sir Percy got no pity, because he seemed to require none--heseemed very proud of his clever wife, and to care little that she tookno pains to disguise that good-natured contempt which she evidently feltfor him, and that she even amused herself by sharpening her ready witsat his expense.
But then Blakeney was really too stupid to notice the ridicule withwhich his wife covered him, and if his matrimonial relations with thefascinating Parisienne had not turned out all that his hopes and hisdog-like devotion for her had pictured, society could never do more thanvaguely guess at it.
In his beautiful house at Richmond he played second fiddle to his cleverwife with imperturbable BONHOMIE; he lavished jewels and luxuries ofall kinds upon her, which she took with inimitable grace, dispensing thehospitality of his superb mansion with the same graciousness with whichshe had welcomed the intellectual coterie of Paris.
Physically, Sir Percy Blakeney was undeniably handsome--alwaysexcepting the lazy, bored look which was habitual to him. He was alwaysirreproachable dressed, and wore the exaggerated "Incroyable" fashions,which had just crept across from Paris to England, with the perfectgood taste innate in an English gentleman. On this special afternoon inSeptember, in spite of the long journey by coach, in spite of rain andmud, his coat set irreproachably across his fine shoulders, his handslooked almost femininely white, as they emerged through billowy frillsof finest Mechline lace: the extravagantly short-waisted satin coat,wide-lapelled waistcoat, and tight-fitting striped breeches, set off hismassive figure to perfection, and in repose one might have admired sofine a specimen of English manhood, until the foppish ways, the affectedmovements, the perpetual inane laugh, brought one's admiration of SirPercy Blakeney to an abrupt close.
He had lolled into the old-fashioned inn parlour, shaking the wet offhis fine overcoat; then putting up a gold-rimmed eye-glass to his lazyblue eye, he surveyed the company, upon whom an embarrassed silence hadsuddenly fallen.
"How do, Tony? How do, Ffoulkes?" he said, recognizing the two youn
gmen and shaking them by the hand. "Zounds, my dear fellow," he added,smothering a slight yawn, "did you ever see such a beastly day? Demmedclimate this."
With a quaint little laugh, half of embarrassment and half of sarcasm,Marguerite had turned towards her husband, and was surveying him fromhead to foot, with an amused little twinkle in her merry blue eyes.
"La!" said Sir Percy, after a moment or two's silence, as no one offeredany comment, "how sheepish you all look . . . What's up?"
"Oh, nothing, Sir Percy," replied Marguerite, with a certain amount ofgaiety, which, however, sounded somewhat forced, "nothing to disturbyour equanimity--only an insult to your wife."
The laugh which accompanied this remark was evidently intended toreassure Sir Percy as to the gravity of the incident. It apparentlysucceeded in that, for echoing the laugh, he rejoined placidly--
"La, m'dear! you don't say so. Begad! who was the bold man who dared totackle you--eh?"
Lord Tony tried to interpose, but had no time to do so, for the youngVicomte had already quickly stepped forward.
"Monsieur," he said, prefixing his little speech with an elaborate bow,and speaking in broken English, "my mother, the Comtesse de Tournay deBasserive, has offenced Madame, who, I see, is your wife. I cannot askyour pardon for my mother; what she does is right in my eyes. But I amready to offer you the usual reparation between men of honour."
The young man drew up his slim stature to its full height and lookedvery enthusiastic, very proud, and very hot as he gazed at six foot oddof gorgeousness, as represented by Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart.
"Lud, Sir Andrew," said Marguerite, with one of her merry infectiouslaughs, "look on that pretty picture--the English turkey and the Frenchbantam."
The simile was quite perfect, and the English turkey looked down withcomplete bewilderment upon the dainty little French bantam, whichhovered quite threateningly around him.
"La! sir," said Sir Percy at last, putting up his eye glass andsurveying the young Frenchman with undisguised wonderment, "where, inthe cuckoo's name, did you learn to speak English?"
"Monsieur!" protested the Vicomte, somewhat abashed at the way hiswarlike attitude had been taken by the ponderous-looking Englishman.
"I protest 'tis marvellous!" continued Sir Percy, imperturbably, "demmedmarvellous! Don't you think so, Tony--eh? I vow I can't speak the Frenchlingo like that. What?"
"Nay, I'll vouch for that!" rejoined Marguerite, "Sir Percy has aBritish accent you could cut with a knife."
"Monsieur," interposed the Vicomte earnestly, and in still more brokenEnglish, "I fear you have not understand. I offer you the only posseeblereparation among gentlemen."
"What the devil is that?" asked Sir Percy, blandly.
"My sword, Monsieur," replied the Vicomte, who, though still bewildered,was beginning to lose his temper.
"You are a sportsman, Lord Tony," said Marguerite, merrily; "ten to oneon the little bantam."
But Sir Percy was staring sleepily at the Vicomte for a moment or two,through his partly closed heavy lids, then he smothered another yawn,stretched his long limbs, and turned leisurely away.
"Lud love you, sir," he muttered good-humouredly, "demmit, young man,what's the good of your sword to me?"
What the Vicomte thought and felt at that moment, when that long-limbedEnglishman treated him with such marked insolence, might fill volumesof sound reflections. . . . What he said resolved itself into a singlearticulate word, for all the others were choked in his throat by hissurging wrath--
"A duel, Monsieur," he stammered.
Once more Blakeney turned, and from his high altitude looked down on thecholeric little man before him; but not even for a second did he seem tolose his own imperturbable good-humour. He laughed his own pleasantand inane laugh, and burying his slender, long hands into the capaciouspockets of his overcoat, he said leisurely--"a bloodthirsty youngruffian, Do you want to make a hole in a law-abiding man? . . . As forme, sir, I never fight duels," he added, as he placidly sat down andstretched his long, lazy legs out before him. "Demmed uncomfortablethings, duels, ain't they, Tony?"
Now the Vicomte had no doubt vaguely heard that in England the fashionof duelling amongst gentlemen had been surpressed by the law with avery stern hand; still to him, a Frenchman, whose notions of bravery andhonour were based upon a code that had centuries of tradition to backit, the spectacle of a gentleman actually refusing to fight a duel was alittle short of an enormity. In his mind he vaguely pondered whetherhe should strike that long-legged Englishman in the face and call hima coward, or whether such conduct in a lady's presence might be deemedungentlemanly, when Marguerite happily interposed.
"I pray you, Lord Tony," she said in that gentle, sweet, musical voiceof hers, "I pray you play the peacemaker. The child is bursting withrage, and," she added with a SOUPCON of dry sarcasm, "might do Sir Percyan injury." She laughed a mocking little laugh, which, however, didnot in the least disturb her husband's placid equanimity. "The Britishturkey has had the day," she said. "Sir Percy would provoke all thesaints in the calendar and keep his temper the while."
But already Blakeney, good-humoured as ever, had joined in the laughagainst himself.
"Demmed smart that now, wasn't it?" he said, turning pleasantly to theVicomte. "Clever woman my wife, sir. . . . You will find THAT out ifyou live long enough in England."
"Sir Percy is right, Vicomte," here interposed Lord Antony, laying afriendly hand on the young Frenchman's shoulder. "It would hardly befitting that you should commence your career in England by provoking himto a duel."
For a moment longer the Vicomte hesitated, then with a slight shrugof the shoulders directed against the extraordinary code of honourprevailing in this fog-ridden island, he said with becoming dignity,--
"Ah, well! if Monsieur is satisfied, I have no griefs. You mi'lor', areour protector. If I have done wrong, I withdraw myself."
"Aye, do!" rejoined Blakeney, with a long sigh of satisfaction,"withdraw yourself over there. Demmed excitable little puppy," he addedunder his breath, "Faith, Ffoulkes, if that's a specimen of the goodsyou and your friends bring over from France, my advice to you is, drop'em 'mid Channel, my friend, or I shall have to see old Pitt about it,get him to clap on a prohibitive tariff, and put you in the stocks anyou smuggle."
"La, Sir Percy, your chivalry misguides you," said Marguerite,coquettishly, "you forget that you yourself have imported one bundle ofgoods from France."
Blakeney slowly rose to his feet, and, making a deep and elaborate bowbefore 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 mybody to be made a pincushion of, by every little frog-eater who don'tlike the shape of your nose?"
"Lud, Sir Percy!" laughed Lady Blakeney as she bobbed him a quaint andpretty curtsey, "you need not be afraid! 'Tis not the MEN who dislikethe shape of my nose."
"Afraid be demmed! Do you impugn my bravery, Madame? I don't patronisethe ring for nothing, do I, Tony? I've put up the fists with Red Sambefore 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, thatwent echoing along the old oak rafters of the parlour, "I would Ihad seen you then . . . ha! ha! ha! ha!--you must have looked a prettypicture . . . 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 mywife laugh!--The cleverest woman in Europe! . . . Odd's fish, we musthave 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 thelast half hour. "A bowl of punch, Jelly, hot
and strong, eh?" saidSir Percy. "The wits that have just made a clever woman laugh must bewhetted! Ha! ha! ha! Hasten, my good Jelly!"
"Nay, there is no time, Sir Percy," interposed Marguerite. "The skipperwill be here directly and my brother must get on board, or the DAY DREAMwill miss the tide."
"Time, m'dear? There is plenty of time for any gentleman to get drunkand get on board before the turn of the tide."
"I think, your ladyship," said Jellyband, respectfully, "that the younggentleman is coming along now with Sir Percy's skipper."
"That's right," said Blakeney, "then Armand can join us in the merrybowl. Think you, Tony," he added, turning towards the Vicomte, "that thejackanapes of yours will join us in a glass? Tell him that we drink intoken of reconciliation."
"In fact you are all such merry company," said Marguerite, "that I trustyou 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 Andrewfelt that Lady Blakeney could not altogether be in tune with them at themoment. Her love for her brother, Armand St. Just, was deep and touchingin the extreme. He had just spent a few weeks with her in her Englishhome, and was going back to serve his country, at the moment when deathwas 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, heopened the coffee-room door for her, and made her the most approved andelaborate bow, which the fashion of the time dictated, as she sailedout of the room without bestowing on him more than a passing, slightlycontemptuous glance. Only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, whose every thought sincehe had met Suzanne de Tournay seemed keener, more gentle, more innatelysympathetic, noted the curious look of intense longing, of deep andhopeless passion, with which the inane and flippant Sir Percy followedthe retreating figure of his brilliant wife.
CHAPTER VII THE SECRET ORCHARD