have done since the world began.
"But, I say, supper!" here broke in Lord Antony's jovial
voice, "supper, honest Jellyband. Where is that pretty wench of yours
and the dish of soup? Zooks, man, while you stand there gaping at the
ladies, they will faint with hunger."
"One moment! one moment, my lord," said Jellyband, as he
threw open the door that led to the kitchen and shouted lustily:
"Sally! Hey, Sally there, are ye ready, my girl?"
Sally was ready, and the next moment she appeared in the
doorway carrying a
gigantic tureen, from which rose a cloud of steam
and an
abundance of savoury odour.
"Odd's life, supper at last!" ejaculated Lord Antony,
merrily,
as he gallantly offered his arm to the Comtesse.
"May I have the honour?" he added ceremoniously, as he led her
towards the supper table.
There was a general
bustle in the coffee-room: Mr. Hempseed
and most of the yokels and fisher-folk had gone to make way for "the
quality," and to finish smoking their pipes
elsewhere. Only the two
strangers stayed on, quietly and unconcernedly playing their game of
dominoes and sipping their wine;
whilst at another table Harry Waite,
who was fast losing his
temper, watched pretty Sally bustling round
the table.
She looked a very
dainty picture of English rural life, and no
wonder that the
susceptible young Frenchman could
scarce take his eyes
off her pretty face. The Vicomte de Tournay was
scarce nineteen, a
beardless boy, on whom terrible tragedies which were being enacted in
his own country had made but little
impression. He was elegantly and
even foppishly dressed, and once
safely landed in England he was
evidently ready to forget the horrors of the Revolution in the
delights of English life.
"Pardi, if zis is England," he said as he continued to ogle
Sally with marked
satisfaction, "I am of it satisfied."
It would be impossible at this point to record the exact
exclamation which escaped through Mr. Harry Waite's clenched teeth.
Only respect for "the quality," and
notably for my Lord Antony, kept
his marked
disapproval of the young
foreigner in check.
"Nay, but this IS England, you
abandoned young reprobate,"
interposed Lord Antony with a laugh, "and do not, I pray, bring your
loose foreign ways into this most moral country."
Lord Antony had already sat down at the head of the table with
the Comtesse on his right. Jellyband was bustling round, filling
glasses and putting chairs straight. Sally waited, ready to hand
round the soup. Mr. Harry Waite's friends had at last succeeded in
taking him out of the room, for his
temper was growing more and more
violent under the Vicomte's
obviousadmiration for Sally.
"Suzanne," came in stern, commanding accents from the rigid
Comtesse.
Suzanne blushed again; she had lost count of time and of place
whilst she had stood beside the fire, allowing the handsome young
Englishman's eyes to dwell upon her sweet face, and his hand, as if
unconsciously, to rest upon hers. Her mother's voice brought her back
to
reality once more, and with a submissive "Yes, Mama," she took her
place at the supper table.
CHAPTER IV THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
They all looked a merry, even a happy party, as they sat round
the table; Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst, two typical
good-looking, well-born and well-bred Englishmen of that year of grace
1792, and the
aristocratic French comtesse with her two children, who
had just escaped from such dire perils, and found a safe
retreat at
last on the shores of protecting England.
In the corner the two strangers had
apparently finished their
game; one of them arose, and
standing with his back to the merry
company at the table, he adjusted with much with much
deliberation his
large
triple caped coat. As he did so, he gave one quick glance all
around him. Everyone was busy laughing and chatting, and he murmured
the words "All safe!": his
companion then, with the alertness borne of
long practice, slipped on to his knees in a moment, and the next had
crept
noiselessly under the oak bench. The stranger then, with a loud
"Good-night," quietly walked out of the coffee-room.
Not one of those at the supper table had noticed this curious and silent
! Mammanoeuvre, but when the stranger finally closed the door of the coffee-room
behind him, they all
instinctively sighed a sigh of relief.
"Alone, at last!" said Lord Antony, jovially.
Then the young Vicomte de Tournay rose, glass in hand, and
with the
gracefulaffectionpeculiar to the times, he raised it aloft,
and said in broken English,--
"To His Majesty George Three of England. God bless him for
his
hospitality to us all, poor exiles from France."
"His Majesty the King!" echoed Lord Antony and Sir Andrew as
they drank loyally to the toast.
"To His Majesty King Louis of France," added Sir Andrew, with
solemnity. "May God protect him, and give him
victory over his
enemies."
Everyone rose and drank this toast in silence. The fate of
the
unfortunate King of France, then a prisoner of his own people,
seemed to cast a gloom even over Mr. Jellyband's pleasant countenance.
"And to M. le Comte de Tournay de Basserive," said Lord Antony,
merrily.
"May we
welcome him in England before many days are over."
"Ah, Monsieur," said the Comtesse, as with a
slightly trembling hand
she conveyed her glass to her lips, "I
scarcely dare to hope."
But already Lord Antony had served out the soup, and for the
next few moments all conversation ceased, while Jellyband and Sally
handed round the plates and
everyone began to eat.
"Faith, Madame!" said Lord Antony, after a while, "mine was no
idle toast;
seeing yourself, Mademoiselle Suzanne and my friend the
Vicomte
safely in England now, surely you must feel reasurred as to
the fate of Monsieur le Comte."
"Ah, Monsieur," replied the Comtesse, with a heavy sigh, "I
trust in God--I can but pray--and hope. . ."
"Aye, Madame!" here interposed Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, "trust in
God by all means, but believe also a little in your English friends,
who have sworn to bring the Count
safely across the Channel, even as
they have brought you to-day."
"Indeed, indeed, Monsieur," she replied, "I have the fullest
confidence in you and your friends. Your fame, I assure you, has
spread throughout the whole of France. The way some of my own friends
have escaped from the clutches of that awful
revolutionary tribunal
was nothing short of a miracle--and all done by you and your friends--"
"We were but the hands, Madame la Comtesse. . ."
"But my husband, Monsieur," said the Comtesse,
whilst unshed
tears seemed to veil her voice, "he is in such
deadly peril--I would
never have left him, only. . .there were my children. . .I was torn
between my duty to him, and to them. They refused to go without
me. . .and you and your friends
assured me so
solemnly" target="_blank" title="ad.严肃地,庄严地">
solemnly that my husband
would be safe. But, oh! now that I am here--amongst you all--in this
beautiful, free England--I think of him, flying for his life, hunted
like a poor beast. . .in such peril. . .Ah! I should not have left
him. . .I should not have left him!. . ."
The poor woman had completely broken down;
fatigue, sorrow and
emotion had overmastered her rigid,
aristocraticbearing. She was
crying
gently to herself,
whilst Suzanne ran up to her and tried to
kiss away her tears.
Lord Antony and Sir Andrew had said nothing to
interrupt the
Comtesse
whilst she was
speaking. There was no doubt that they felt
deeply for her; their very silence testified to that--but in every
century, and ever since England has been what it is, an Englishman has
always felt somewhat
ashamed of his own
emotion and of his own