was being enacted here.
Sir Andrew had not uttered another word. Then it was that
that extra sense became
potent in Marguerite Blakeney. She could not
see, for her two eyes were closed, she could not hear, for the noise
from the ball-room drowned the soft
rustle of that momentous scrap of
paper;
nevertheless she knew-as if she had both seen and heard--that
Sir Andrew was even now
holding the paper to the flame of one of the
candles.
At the exact moment that it began to catch fire, she opened
her eyes, raised her hand and, with two
dainty fingers, had taken the
burning scrap of paper from the young man's hand. Then she blew out
the flame, and held the paper to her
nostril with perfect unconcern.
"How
thoughtful of you, Sir Andrew," she said gaily, "surely
'twas your
grandmother who taught you that the smell of burnt paper
was a
sovereignremedy against giddiness."
She sighed with
satisfaction,
holding the paper
tightlybetween her jewelled fingers; that talisman which perhaps would save
her brother Armand's life. Sir Andrew was staring at her, too dazed
for the moment to realize what had
actually happened; he had been
taken so completely by surprise, that he seemed quite
unable to grasp
the fact that the slip of paper, which she held in her
dainty hand,
was one perhaps on which the life of his comrade might depend.
Marguerite burst into a long, merry peal of laughter.
"Why do you stare at me like that?" she said playfully. "I
assure you I feel much better; your
remedy has proved most effectual.
This room is most delightedly cool," she added, with the same perfect
composure, "and the sound of the gavotte from the ball-room is
fascinating and soothing."
She was prattling on in the most unconcerned and pleasant way,
whilst Sir Andrew, in an agony of mind, was racking his brains as to
the quickest method he could employ to get that bit of paper out of
that beautiful woman's hand. Instinctively, vague and tumultuous
thoughts rushed through his mind: he suddenly remembered her
nationality, and worst of all, recollected that
horrible take anent
the Marquis de St. Cyr, which in England no one had credited, for the
sake of Sir Percy, as well as for her own.
"What? Still dreaming and staring?" she said, with a merry
laugh, "you are most ungallant, Sir Andrew; and now I come to think of
it, you seemed more startled than pleased when you saw me just now. I
do believe, after all, that it was not concern for my health, nor yet
a
remedy taught you by your
grandmother that caused you to burn this
tiny scrap of paper. . . . I vow it must have been your lady love's
last cruel
epistle you were
trying to destroy. Now
confess!" she
added, playfully
holding up the scrap of paper, "does this
contain her
final CONGE, or a last
appeal to kiss and make friends?"
"Whichever it is, Lady Blakeney," said Sir Andrew, who was
gradually recovering his self-possession, "this little note is
undoubtedly mine, and. . ."
Not caring whether his action was one that would be styled
ill-bred towards a lady, the young man had made a bold dash for the
note; but Marguerite's thoughts flew quicker than his own; her actions
under
pressure of this
intenseexcitement" target="_blank" title="n.兴奋;骚动;煽动">
excitement, were swifter and more sure.
She was tall and strong; she took a quick step
backwards and knocked
over the small Sheraton table which was already top-heavy, and which
fell down with a crash, together with the
massive candelabra upon it.
She gave a quick cry of alarm:
"The candles, Sir Andrew--quick!"
There was not much damage done; one or two of the candles had
blown out as the candelabra fell; others had merely sent some grease
upon the
valuablecarpet; one had ignited the paper shade aver it.
Sir Andrew quickly and dexterously put out the flames and replaced the
candelabra upon the table; but this had taken him a few seconds to do,
and those seconds had been all that Marguerite needed to cast a quick
glance at the paper, and to note its contents--a dozen words in the
same distorted
handwriting she had seen before, and
bearing the same
device--a star-shaped flower drawn in red ink.
When Sir Andrew once more looked at her, he only saw upon her
face alarm at the untoward accident and
relief at its happy issue;
whilst the tiny and momentous note had
apparently fluttered to the
ground. Eagerly the young man picked it up, and his face looked much
relieved, as his fingers closed
tightly over it.
"For shame, Sir Andrew," she said, shaking her head with a
playful sigh, "making havoc in the heart of some impressionable
duchess,
whilst conquering the affections of my sweet little Suzanne.
Well, well! I do believe it was Cupid himself who stood by you, and
threatened the entire Foreign Office with
destruction by fire, just on
purpose to make me drop love's message, before it had been polluted by
my indiscreet eyes. To think that, a moment longer, and I might have
known the secrets of an erring duchess."
"You will
forgive me, Lady Blakeney," said Sir Andrew, now as
calm as she was herself, "if I resume the interesting
occupation which
you have interrupted?"
"By all means, Sir Andrew! How should I
venture to
thwart the
love-god again? Perhaps he would mete out some terrible chastisement
against my
presumption. Burn your love-token, by all means!"
Sir Andrew had already twisted the paper into a long spill,
and was once again
holding it to the flame of the candle, which had
remained
alight. He did not notice the strange smile on the face of
his fair VIS-A-VIS, so
intent was he on the work of
destruction;
perhaps, had he done so, the look of
relief would have faded from his
face. He watched the fateful note, as it curled under the flame.
Soon the last
fragment fell on the floor, and he placed his heel upon
the ashes.
"And now, Sir Andrew," said Marguerite Blakeney, with the
pretty nonchalance
peculiar to herself, and with the most
winning of
smiles, "will you
venture to
excite the
jealousy of your fair lady by
asking me to dance the minuet?"
CHAPTER XIII EITHER--OR?
The few words which Marguerite Blakeney had managed to read on
the half-scorched piece of paper, seemed
literally to be the words of
Fate. "Start myself tomorrow. . . ." This she had read quite
distinctly; then came a blur caused by the smoke of the candle, which
obliterated the next few words; but, right at the bottom, there was
another
sentence, like letters of fire, before her
mentalvision, "If
you wish to speak to me again I shall be in the supper-room at one
o'clock precisely." The whole was signed with the hastily-scrawled
little device--a tiny star-shaped flower, which had become so familiar
to her.
One o'clock precisely! It was now close upon eleven, the last
minuet was being danced, with Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and beautiful Lady
Blakeney leading the couples, through its
delicate and intricate
figures.
Close upon eleven! the hands of the handsome Louis XV. clock
upon its ormolu
bracket seemed to move along with maddening rapidity.
Two hours more, and her fate and that of Armand would be sealed. In
two hours she must make up her mind whether she will keep the
knowledge so
cunningly gained to herself, and leave her brother to his
fate, or whether she will wilfully
betray a brave man, whose life was
devoted to his fellow-men, who was noble,
generous, and above all,
unsuspecting. It seemed a
horrible thing to do. But then, there was
Armand! Armand, too, was noble and brave, Armand, too, was
unsuspecting. And Armand loved her, would have
willingly trusted his
life in her hands, and now, when she could save him from death, she
hesitated. Oh! it was
monstrous; her brother's kind, gentle face, so
full of love for her, seemed to be looking reproachfully at her. "You
might have saved me, Margot!" he seemed to say to her, "and you chose
the life of a stranger, a man you do not know, whom you have never
seen, and preferred that he should be safe,
whilst you sent me to the
guillotine!"
All these conflicting thoughts raged through Marguerite's
brain, while, with a smile upon her lips, she glided through the