Lord Tony's Wife: An Adventure of the Scarlet Pimpernel

  CHAPTER VII

  MARGUERITE

  I

  Lord Tony had gone, and for the space of five minutes Sir Percy Blakeneystood in front of the hearth staring into the fire. Something lay beforehim, something had to be done now, which represented the heavy pricethat had to be paid for those mad and happy adventures, for thatreckless daring, aye for that selfless supreme sacrifice which was asthe very breath of life to the Scarlet Pimpernel.

  And in the dancing flames he could see Marguerite's blue eyes, herardent hair, her tender smile all pleading with him not to go. She hadso much to give him--so much happiness, such an infinity of love, and hewas all that she had in the world! It seemed to him as if he could feelher arms around him even now, as if he could hear her voice whisperingappealingly: "Do not go! Am I nothing to you that thoughts of othersshould triumph over my pleading? that the need of others should outweighmine own most pressing need? I want you, Percy! aye! even I! You havedone so much for others--it is my turn now."

  But even as in a kind of trance those words seemed to reach his strainedsenses, he knew that he must go, that he must tear himself away oncemore from the clinging embrace of her dear arms and shut his eyes to thetears which anon would fill her own. Destiny demanded that he should go.He had chosen his path in life himself, at first only in a spirit ofwild recklessness, a mad tossing of his life into the scales of Fate.But now that same destiny which he had chosen had become his master: heno longer could draw back. What he had done once, twenty times, anhundred times, that he must do again, all the while that the weak andthe defenceless called mutely to him from across the seas, all the whilethat innocent women suffered and orphaned children cried.

  And to-day it was his friend, his comrade, who had come to him in hisdistress: the young wife whom he idolised was in the most dire perilthat could possibly threaten any woman: she was at the mercy of a manwho, driven by the passion of revenge, meant to show her no mercy, andthe devil alone knew these days to what lengths of infamy a man sodriven would go.

  The minutes sped on. Blakeney's eyes grew hot and wearied from staringinto the fire. He closed them for a moment and then quietly turned togo.

  II

  All those who knew Marguerite Blakeney these days marvelled if she wasever unhappy. Lady Ffoulkes, who was her most trusted friend, vowed thatshe was not. She had moments--days--sometimes weeks of intense anxiety,which amounted to acute agony. Whenever she saw her husband start on oneof those expeditions to France wherein every minute, every hour, herisked his life and more in order to snatch yet another threatenedvictim from the awful clutches of those merciless Terrorists, sheendured soul-torture such as few women could have withstood who had nother splendid courage and her boundless faith. But against such crushingsorrow she had to set off the happiness of those reunions with the manwhom she loved so passionately--happiness which was so great, that itoverrode and conquered the very memory of past anxieties.

  Marguerite Blakeney suffered terribly at times--at others she wasoverwhelmingly happy--the measure of her life was made up of the bitterdregs of sorrow and the sparkling wine of joy! No! she was notaltogether unhappy: and gradually that enthusiasm which irradiated fromthe whole personality of the valiant Scarlet Pimpernel, which dominatedhis every action, entered into Marguerite Blakeney's blood too. Hisvitality was so compelling, those impulses which carried him headlonginto unknown dangers were so generous and were actuated by such pureselflessness, that the noble-hearted woman whose very soul was wrappedup in the idolised husband, allowed herself to ride by his side on thebuoyant waves of his enthusiasm and of his desires: she smothered everyexpression of anxiety, she swallowed her tears, she learned to say theword "Good-bye" and forgot the word "Stay!"

  III

  It was half an hour after midday when Percy knocked at the door of herboudoir. She had just come in from a walk in the meadows round the townand along the bank of the river: the rain had overtaken her and she hadcome in very wet, but none the less exhilarated by the movement and thekeen, damp, salt-laden air which came straight over the hills from theChannel. She had taken off her hat and her mantle and was laughing gailywith her maid who was shaking the wet out of a feather. She looked roundat her husband when he entered, and with a quick gesture ordered themaid out of the room.

  She had learned to read every line on Percy's face, every expression ofhis lazy, heavy-lidded eyes. She saw that he was dressed with more thanhis usual fastidiousness, but in dark clothes and travelling mantle. Sheknew, moreover, by that subtle instinct which had become a second natureand which warned her whenever he meant to go.

  Nor did he announce his departure to her in so many words. As soon asthe maid had gone, he took his beloved in his arms.

  "They have stolen Tony's wife from him," he said with that light, quaintlaugh of his. "I told you that the man Martin-Roget had planned somedevilish mischief--well! he has succeeded so far, thanks to thatunspeakable fool the duc de Kernogan."

  He told her briefly the history of the past few days.

  "Tony did not take my warning seriously enough," he concluded with asigh; "he ought never to have allowed his wife out of his sight."

  Marguerite had not interrupted him while he spoke. At first she just layin his arms, quiescent and listening, nerving herself by a supremeeffort not to utter one sigh of misery or one word of appeal. Then, asher knees shook under her, she sank back into a chair by the hearth andhe knelt beside her with his arms clasped tightly round her shoulders,his cheek pressed against hers. He had no need to tell her that duty andfriendship called, that the call of honour was once again--as it sooften has been in the world--louder than that of love.

  She understood and she knew, and he, with that supersensitive instinctof his, understood the heroic effort which she made.

  "Your love, dear heart," he whispered, "will draw me back safely home asit hath so often done before. You believe that, do you not?"

  And she had the supreme courage to murmur: "Yes!"