"He may be a banker now ... but he certainly is no royalist--he is the son of a peasant who was unjustly put to death four years ago by the duc de Kernogan."
"Ye G.o.ds!"
"He came over to England plentifully supplied with money--I could not gather if the money is his or if it has been entrusted to him by the revolutionary government for purposes of spying and corruption--but he came to England in order to ingratiate himself with the duc de Kernogan and his daughter, and then to lure them back to France, for what purpose you may well imagine."
"Good G.o.d, man ... you can"t mean ...?"
"He has chartered a smuggler"s craft--or rather Chauvelin has done it for him. Her name is the _Hollandia_, her master hath name Kuyper. She was to be in Portishead harbour on the last day of November: all her papers in order. Cargo of West India sugar, destination Amsterdam, consignee some Mynheer over there. But Martin-Roget, or whatever his name may be, and no doubt our friend Chauvelin too, were to be aboard her, and also M. le duc de Kernogan and his daughter. And the _Hollandia_ is to put into Le Croisic for Nantes, whose revolutionary proconsul, that infamous Carrier, is of course Chauvelin"s bosom friend."
Sir Percy Blakeney finished speaking. Lord Tony had listened to him quietly and in silence: now he rose and turned resolutely to his friend. There was no longer any trace in him of that stunned apathy which had been the primary result of the terrible blow. His young face was still almost unrecognisable from the lines of grief and horror which marred its habitual fresh, boyish look. He looked twenty years older than he had done a few hours ago, but there was also in his whole att.i.tude now the virility of more mature manhood, its determination and unswerving purpose.
"And what can I do now?" he asked simply, knowing that he could trust his friend and leader with what he held dearest in all the world.
"Without you, Blakeney, I am of course impotent and lost. I haven"t the head to think. I haven"t sufficient brains to pit against those cunning devils. But if you will help me...."
Then he checked himself abruptly, and the look of hopeless despair once more crept into his eyes.
"I am mad, Percy," he said with a self-deprecating shrug of the shoulders, "gone crazy with grief, I suppose, or I shouldn"t talk of asking your help, of risking your life in my cause."
"Tony, if you talk that rubbish, I shall be forced to punch your head,"
retorted Blakeney with his light laugh. "Why man," he added gaily, "can"t you see that I am aching to have at my old friend Chauvelin again?"
And indeed the zest of adventure, the zest to fight, never dormant, was glowing with compelling vigour now in those lazy eyes of his which were resting with such kindliness upon his stricken friend. "Go home, Tony!"
he added, "go, you rascal, and collect what things you want, while I send for Hastings and Ffoulkes, and see that four good horses are ready for us within the hour. To-night we sleep at Portishead, Tony. The _Day-Dream_ is lying off there, ready to sail at any hour of the day or night. The _Hollandia_ has twenty-four hour"s start of us, alas! and we cannot overtake her now: but we"ll be in Nantes ere those devils can do much mischief: and once in Nantes!... Why, Tony man! think of the glorious escapes we"ve had together, you and I! Think of the gay, mad rides across the north of France, with half-fainting women and swooning children across our saddle-bows! Think of the day when we smuggled the de Tournais out of Calais harbour, the day we s.n.a.t.c.hed Juliette Deroulede and her Paul out of the tumbril and tore across Paris with that howling mob at our heels! Think! think, Tony! of all the happiest, merriest moments of your life and they will seem dull and lifeless beside what is in store for you, when with your dear wife"s arms clinging round your neck, we"ll fly along the quays of Nantes on the road to liberty! Ah, Tony lad! were it not for the anxiety which I know is gnawing at your heart, I would count this one of the happiest hours of my happy life!"
He was so full of enthusiasm, so full of vitality, that life itself seemed to emanate from him and to communicate itself to the very atmosphere around. Hope lit up my lord Tony"s wan face: he believed in his friend as mediaeval ascetics believed in the saints whom they adored.
Enthusiasm had crept into his veins, dull despair fell away from him like a mantle.
"G.o.d bless you, Percy," he exclaimed as his firm and loyal hand grasped that of the leader whom he revered.
"Nay!" retorted Blakeney with sudden gravity. "He hath done that already. Pray for His help to-day, lad, as you have never prayed before."
CHAPTER VII
MARGUERITE
I
Lord Tony had gone, and for the s.p.a.ce of five minutes Sir Percy Blakeney stood in front of the hearth staring into the fire. Something lay before him, something had to be done now, which represented the heavy price that had to be paid for those mad and happy adventures, for that reckless daring, aye for that selfless supreme sacrifice which was as the very breath of life to the Scarlet Pimpernel.
And in the dancing flames he could see Marguerite"s blue eyes, her ardent hair, her tender smile all pleading with him not to go. She had so much to give him--so much happiness, such an infinity of love, and he was all that she had in the world! It seemed to him as if he could feel her arms around him even now, as if he could hear her voice whispering appealingly: "Do not go! Am I nothing to you that thoughts of others should triumph over my pleading? that the need of others should outweigh mine own most pressing need? I want you, Percy! aye! even I! You have done so much for others--it is my turn now."
But even as in a kind of trance those words seemed to reach his strained senses, he knew that he must go, that he must tear himself away once more from the clinging embrace of her dear arms and shut his eyes to the tears 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 of wild 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: he no longer could draw back. What he had done once, twenty times, an hundred times, that he must do again, all the while that the weak and the defenceless called mutely to him from across the seas, all the while that innocent women suffered and orphaned children cried.
And to-day it was his friend, his comrade, who had come to him in his distress: the young wife whom he idolised was in the most dire peril that could possibly threaten any woman: she was at the mercy of a man who, driven by the pa.s.sion of revenge, meant to show her no mercy, and the devil alone knew these days to what lengths of infamy a man so driven would go.
The minutes sped on. Blakeney"s eyes grew hot and wearied from staring into the fire. He closed them for a moment and then quietly turned to go.
II
All those who knew Marguerite Blakeney these days marvelled if she was ever unhappy. Lady Ffoulkes, who was her most trusted friend, vowed that she was not. She had moments--days--sometimes weeks of intense anxiety, which amounted to acute agony. Whenever she saw her husband start on one of those expeditions to France wherein every minute, every hour, he risked his life and more in order to s.n.a.t.c.h yet another threatened victim from the awful clutches of those merciless Terrorists, she endured soul-torture such as few women could have withstood who had not her splendid courage and her boundless faith. But against such crushing sorrow she had to set off the happiness of those reunions with the man whom she loved so pa.s.sionately--happiness which was so great, that it overrode and conquered the very memory of past anxieties.
Marguerite Blakeney suffered terribly at times--at others she was overwhelmingly happy--the measure of her life was made up of the bitter dregs of sorrow and the sparkling wine of joy! No! she was not altogether unhappy: and gradually that enthusiasm which irradiated from the whole personality of the valiant Scarlet Pimpernel, which dominated his every action, entered into Marguerite Blakeney"s blood too. His vitality was so compelling, those impulses which carried him headlong into unknown dangers were so generous and were actuated by such pure selflessness, that the n.o.ble-hearted woman whose very soul was wrapped up in the idolised husband, allowed herself to ride by his side on the buoyant waves of his enthusiasm and of his desires: she smothered every expression of anxiety, she swallowed her tears, she learned to say the word "Good-bye" and forgot the word "Stay!"
III
It was half an hour after midday when Percy knocked at the door of her boudoir. She had just come in from a walk in the meadows round the town and along the bank of the river: the rain had overtaken her and she had come in very wet, but none the less exhilarated by the movement and the keen, damp, salt-laden air which came straight over the hills from the Channel. She had taken off her hat and her mantle and was laughing gaily with her maid who was shaking the wet out of a feather. She looked round at her husband when he entered, and with a quick gesture ordered the maid out of the room.
She had learned to read every line on Percy"s face, every expression of his lazy, heavy-lidded eyes. She saw that he was dressed with more than his usual fastidiousness, but in dark clothes and travelling mantle. She knew, moreover, by that subtle instinct which had become a second nature and which warned her whenever he meant to go.
Nor did he announce his departure to her in so many words. As soon as the maid had gone, he took his beloved in his arms.
"They have stolen Tony"s wife from him," he said with that light, quaint laugh of his. "I told you that the man Martin-Roget had planned some devilish mischief--well! he has succeeded so far, thanks to that unspeakable 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 a sigh; "he ought never to have allowed his wife out of his sight."
Marguerite had not interrupted him while he spoke. At first she just lay in his arms, quiescent and listening, nerving herself by a supreme effort not to utter one sigh of misery or one word of appeal. Then, as her knees shook under her, she sank back into a chair by the hearth and he 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 and friendship called, that the call of honour was once again--as it so often has been in the world--louder than that of love.
She understood and she knew, and he, with that supersensitive instinct of his, understood the heroic effort which she made.
"Your love, dear heart," he whispered, "will draw me back safely home as it hath so often done before. You believe that, do you not?"
And she had the supreme courage to murmur: "Yes!"
CHAPTER VIII
THE ROAD TO PORTISHEAD
I
It was not until Bath had very obviously been left behind that Yvonne de Kernogan--Lady Anthony Dewhurst--realised that she had been trapped.
During the first half-hour of the journey her father had lain back against the cushions of the carriage with eyes closed, his face pale and wan as if with great suffering. Yvonne, her mind a prey to the gravest anxiety, sat beside him, holding his limp cold hand in hers. Once or twice she ventured on a timid question as to his health and he invariably murmured a feeble a.s.surance that he felt well, only very tired and disinclined to talk. Anon she suggested--diffidently, for she did not mean to disturb him--that the driver did not appear to know his way into Bath, he had turned into a side road which she felt sure was not the right one. M. le duc then roused himself for a moment from his lethargy. He leaned forward and gazed out of the window.
"The man is quite right, Yvonne," he said quietly, "he knows his way. He brought me along this road yesterday. He gets into Bath by a slight detour but it is pleasanter driving."