The Scarlet Pimpernel

FAREWELL

When Marguerite reached her room, she found her maid terribly anxious
about her.

“Your ladyship will be so tired,” said the poor woman, whose own eyes
were half closed with sleep. “It is past five o’clock.”

“Ah, yes, Louise, I daresay I shall be tired presently,” said
Marguerite, kindly; “but you are very tired now, so go to bed at once.
I’ll get into bed alone.”

“But, my lady . . .”

“Now, don’t argue, Louise, but go to bed. Give me a wrap, and leave me
alone.”

Louise was only too glad to obey. She took off her mistress’s gorgeous
ball-dress, and wrapped her up in a soft billowy gown.

“Does your ladyship wish for anything else?” she asked, when that was
done.

“No, nothing more. Put out the lights as you go out.”

“Yes, my lady. Good-night, my lady.”

“Good-night, Louise.”

When the maid was gone, Marguerite drew aside the curtains and threw
open the windows. The garden and the river beyond were flooded with
rosy light. Far away to the east, the rays of the rising sun had
changed the rose into vivid gold. The lawn was deserted now, and
Marguerite looked down upon the terrace where she had stood a few
moments ago trying vainly to win back a man’s love, which once had been
so wholly hers.

It was strange that through all her troubles, all her anxiety for
Armand, she was mostly conscious at the present moment of a keen and
bitter heartache.

Her very limbs seemed to ache with longing for the love of a man who
had spurned her, who had resisted her tenderness, remained cold to her
appeals, and had not responded to the glow of passion, which had caused
her to feel and hope that those happy olden days in Paris were not all
dead and forgotten.

How strange it all was! She loved him still. And now that she looked
back upon the last few months of misunderstandings and of loneliness,
she realised that she had never ceased to love him; that deep down in
her heart she had always vaguely felt that his foolish inanities, his
empty laugh, his lazy nonchalance were nothing but a mask; that the
real man, strong, passionate, wilful, was there still—the man she had
loved, whose intensity had fascinated her, whose personality attracted
her, since she always felt that behind his apparently slow wits there
was a certain something, which he kept hidden from all the world, and
most especially from her.

A woman’s heart is such a complex problem—the owner thereof is often
most incompetent to find the solution of this puzzle.

Did Marguerite Blakeney, “the cleverest woman in Europe,” really love a
fool? Was it love that she had felt for him a year ago when she married
him? Was it love she felt for him now that she realised that he still
loved her, but that he would not become her slave, her passionate,
ardent lover once again? Nay! Marguerite herself could not have told
that. Not at this moment at any rate; perhaps her pride had sealed her
mind against a better understanding of her own heart. But this she did
know—that she meant to capture that obstinate heart back again. That
she would conquer once more . . . and then, that she would never lose
him . . . . She would keep him, keep his love, deserve it, and cherish
it; for this much was certain, that there was no longer any happiness
possible for her without that one man’s love.

Thus the most contradictory thoughts and emotions rushed madly through
her mind. Absorbed in them, she had allowed time to slip by; perhaps,
tired out with long excitement, she had actually closed her eyes and
sunk into a troubled sleep, wherein quickly fleeting dreams seemed but
the continuation of her anxious thoughts—when suddenly she was roused,
from dream or meditation, by the noise of footsteps outside her door.

Nervously she jumped up and listened; the house itself was as still as
ever; the footsteps had retreated. Through her wide-open windows the
brilliant rays of the morning sun were flooding her room with light.
She looked up at the clock; it was half-past six—too early for any of
the household to be already astir.

She certainly must have dropped asleep, quite unconsciously. The noise
of the footsteps, also of hushed, subdued voices had awakened her—what
could they be?

Gently, on tip-toe, she crossed the room and opened the door to listen;
not a sound—that peculiar stillness of the early morning when sleep
with all mankind is at its heaviest. But the noise had made her
nervous, and when, suddenly, at her feet, on the very doorstep, she saw
something white lying there—a letter evidently—she hardly dared touch
it. It seemed so ghostlike. It certainly was not there when she came
upstairs; had Louise dropped it? or was some tantalising spook at play,
showing her fairy letters where none existed?

At last she stooped to pick it up, and, amazed, puzzled beyond measure,
she saw that the letter was addressed to herself in her husband’s
large, businesslike-looking hand. What could he have to say to her, in
the middle of the night, which could not be put off until the morning?

She tore open the envelope and read:—

“A most unforeseen circumstance forces me to leave for the North
immediately, so I beg your ladyship’s pardon if I do not avail myself
of the honour of bidding you good-bye. My business may keep me employed
for about a week, so I shall not have the privilege of being present at
your ladyship’s water-party on Wednesday. I remain your ladyship’s most
humble and most obedient servant,

PERCY BLAKENEY.”

Marguerite must suddenly have been imbued with her husband’s slowness
of intellect, for she had perforce to read the few simple lines over
and over again, before she could fully grasp their meaning.

She stood on the landing, turning over and over in her hand this curt
and mysterious epistle, her mind a blank, her nerves strained with
agitation and a presentiment she could not very well have explained.

Sir Percy owned considerable property in the North, certainly, and he
had often before gone there alone and stayed away a week at a time; but
it seemed so very strange that circumstances should have arisen between
five and six o’clock in the morning that compelled him to start in this
extreme hurry.

Vainly she tried to shake off an unaccustomed feeling of nervousness:
she was trembling from head to foot. A wild, unconquerable desire
seized her to see her husband again, at once, if only he had not
already started.

Forgetting the fact that she was only very lightly clad in a morning
wrap, and that her hair lay loosely about her shoulders, she flew down
the stairs, right through the hall towards the front door.

It was as usual barred and bolted, for the indoor servants were not yet
up; but her keen ears had detected the sound of voices and the pawing
of a horse’s hoof against the flag-stones.

With nervous, trembling fingers Marguerite undid the bolts one by one,
bruising her hands, hurting her nails, for the locks were heavy and
stiff. But she did not care; her whole frame shook with anxiety at the
very thought that she might be too late; that he might have gone
without her seeing him and bidding him “God-speed!”

At last, she had turned the key and thrown open the door. Her ears had
not deceived her. A groom was standing close by holding a couple of
horses; one of these was Sultan, Sir Percy’s favourite and swiftest
horse, saddled ready for a journey.

The next moment Sir Percy himself appeared round the further corner of
the house and came quickly towards the horses. He had changed his
gorgeous ball costume, but was as usual irreproachably and richly
apparelled in a suit of fine cloth, with lace jabot and ruffles, high
top-boots, and riding breeches.

Marguerite went forward a few steps. He looked up and saw her. A slight
frown appeared between his eyes.

“You are going?” she said quickly and feverishly. “Whither?”

“As I have had the honour of informing your ladyship, urgent, most
unexpected business calls me to the North this morning,” he said, in
his usual cold, drawly manner.

“But . . . your guests to-morrow . . .”

“I have prayed your ladyship to offer my humble excuses to His Royal
Highness. You are such a perfect hostess, I do not think that I shall
be missed.”

“But surely you might have waited for your journey . . . until after
our water-party . . .” she said, still speaking quickly and nervously.
“Surely the business is not so urgent . . . and you said nothing about
it—just now.”

“My business, as I had the honour to tell you, Madame, is as unexpected
as it is urgent. . . . May I therefore crave your permission to
go. . . . Can I do aught for you in town? . . . on my way back?”

“No . . . no . . . thanks . . . nothing. . . . But you will be back
soon?”

“Very soon.”

“Before the end of the week?”

“I cannot say.”

He was evidently trying to get away, whilst she was straining every
nerve to keep him back for a moment or two.

“Percy,” she said, “will you not tell me why you go to-day? Surely I,
as your wife, have the right to know. You have not been called away
to the North. I know it. There were no letters, no couriers from there
before we left for the opera last night, and nothing was waiting for
you when we returned from the ball. . . . You are not going to the
North, I feel convinced. . . . There is some mystery . . . and . . .”

“Nay, there is no mystery, Madame,” he replied, with a slight tone of
impatience. “My business has to do with Armand . . . there! Now, have I
your leave to depart?”

“With Armand? . . . But you will run no danger?”

“Danger? I? . . . Nay, Madame, your solicitude does me honour. As you
say, I have some influence; my intention is to exert it before it be
too late.”

“Will you allow me to thank you at least?”

“Nay, Madame,” he said coldly, “there is no need for that. My life is
at your service, and I am already more than repaid.”

“And mine will be at yours, Sir Percy, if you will but accept it, in
exchange for what you do for Armand,” she said, as, impulsively, she
stretched out both her hands to him. “There! I will not detain you . .
. my thoughts go with you . . . Farewell! . . .”

How lovely she looked in this morning sunlight, with her ardent hair
streaming around her shoulders. He bowed very low and kissed her hand;
she felt the burning kiss and her heart thrilled with joy and hope.

“You will come back?” she said tenderly.

“Very soon!” he replied, looking longingly into her blue eyes.

“And . . . you will remember? . . .” she asked as her eyes, in response
to his look, gave him an infinity of promise.

“I will always remember, Madame, that you have honoured me by
commanding my services.”

The words were cold and formal, but they did not chill her this time.
Her woman’s heart had read his, beneath the impassive mask his pride
still forced him to wear.

He bowed to her again, then begged her leave to depart. She stood on
one side whilst he jumped on to Sultan’s back, then, as he galloped out
of the gates, she waved him a final “Adieu.”

A bend in the road soon hid him from view; his confidential groom had
some difficulty in keeping pace with him, for Sultan flew along in
response to his master’s excited mood. Marguerite, with a sigh that was
almost a happy one, turned and went within. She went back to her room,
for suddenly, like a tired child, she felt quite sleepy.

Her heart seemed all at once to be in complete peace, and, though it
still ached with undefined longing, a vague and delicious hope soothed
it as with a balm.

She felt no longer anxious about Armand. The man who had just ridden
away, bent on helping her brother, inspired her with complete
confidence in his strength and in his power. She marvelled at herself
for having ever looked upon him as an inane fool; of course, that was
a mask worn to hide the bitter wound she had dealt to his faith and to
his love. His passion would have overmastered him, and he would not let
her see how much he still cared and how deeply he suffered.

But now all would be well: she would crush her own pride, humble it
before him, tell him everything, trust him in everything; and those
happy days would come back, when they used to wander off together in
the forests of Fontainebleau, when they spoke little—for he was always
a silent man—but when she felt that against that strong heart she would
always find rest and happiness.

The more she thought of the events of the past night, the less fear had
she of Chauvelin and his schemes. He had failed to discover the
identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel, of that she felt sure. Both Lord
Fancourt and Chauvelin himself had assured her that no one had been in
the dining-room at one o’clock except the Frenchman himself and
Percy—Yes!—Percy! she might have asked him, had she thought of it!
Anyway, she had no fears that the unknown and brave hero would fall in
Chauvelin’s trap; his death at any rate would not be at her door.

Armand certainly was still in danger, but Percy had pledged his word
that Armand would be safe, and somehow, as Marguerite had seen him
riding away, the possibility that he could fail in whatever he
undertook never even remotely crossed her mind. When Armand was safely
over in England she would not allow him to go back to France.

She felt almost happy now, and, drawing the curtains closely together
again to shut out the piercing sun, she went to bed at last, laid her
head upon the pillow, and, like a wearied child, soon fell into a
peaceful and dreamless sleep.