She threw her arms impulsively round Marguerite. Child as she
was, she felt the poignancy of her friend's grief, and with the
infinite tact of her girlish
tenderness, she did not try to pry into
it, but was ready to efface herself.
She kissed Marguerite again and again, then walked sadly back
across the lawn. Marguerite did not move, she remained there,
thinking. . .wondering what was to be done.
Just as little Suzanne was about to mount the
terrace steps, a
groom came
running round the house towards his
mistress. He carried a
sealed letter in his hand. Suzanne
instinctively" target="_blank" title="ad.本能地">
instinctively turned back; her
heart told her that here perhaps was further ill news for her friend,
and she felt that poor Margot was not in a fit state to bear any more.
The groom stood
respectfully" target="_blank" title="ad.恭敬地">
respectfully beside his
mistress, then he
handed her the sealed letter.
"What is that?" asked Marguerite.
"Just come by
runner, my lady."
Marguerite took the letter
mechanically, and turned it over in
her trembling fingers.
"Who sent it?" she said.
"The
runner said, my lady," replied the groom, "that his
orders were to deliver this, and that your ladyship would understand
from whom it came."
Marguerite tore open the
envelope. Already her
instinct told
her what it contained, and her eyes only glanced at it
mechanically.
It was a letter by Armand St. Just to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes--the
letter which Chauvelin's spies had
stolen at "The Fisherman's Rest,"
and which Chauvelin had held as a rod over her to
enforce her
obedience.
Now he had kept his word--he had sent her back St. Just's
compromising letter. . .for he was on the track of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
Marguerite's senses reeled, her very soul seemed to be leaving
her body; she tottered, and would have fallen but for Suzanne's arm
round her waist. With superhuman effort she regained control over
herself--there was yet much to be done.
"Bring that
runner here to me," she said to the servant, with
much calm. "He has not gone?"
"No, my lady."
The groom went, and Marguerite turned to Suzanne.
"And you, child, run within. Tell Lucile to get ready. I
fear that I must send you home, child. And--stay, tell one of the
maids to prepare a travelling dress and cloak for me."
Suzanne made no reply. She kissed Marguerite
tenderly and
obeyed without a word; the child was overawed by the terrible,
nameless
misery in her friend's face.
A minute later the groom returned, followed by the
runner who
had brought the letter.
"Who gave you this packet?" asked Marguerite.
"A gentleman, my lady," replied the man, "at `The Rose and
Thistle' inn opposite Charing Cross. He said you would understand."
"At `The Rose and Thistle'? What was he doing?"
"He was
waiting for the coach, you ladyship, which he had ordered."
"The coach?"
"Yes, my lady. A special coach he had ordered. I understood
from his man that he was posting straight to Dover."
"That's enough. You may go." Then she turned to the groom:
"My coach and the four swiftest horses in the stables, to be ready at
once."
The groom and
runner both went quickly off to obey.
Marguerite remained
standing for a moment on the lawn quite alone.
Her
graceful figure was as rigid as a
statue, her eyes were fixed, her
hands were
tightly clasped across her breast; her lips moved as they
murmured with
pathetic heart-breaking persistence,--
"What's to be done? What's to be done? Where to find
him?--Oh, God! grant me light."
But this was not the moment for
remorse and
despair. She had
done--unwittingly--an awful and terrible thing--the very worst crime,
in her eyes, that woman ever committed--she saw it in all its horror.
Her very
blindness in not having guessed her husband's secret seemed
now to her another
deadly sin. She ought to have known! she ought
to have known!
How could she imagine that a man who could love with so much
intensity as Percy Blakeney had loved her from the first--how could
such a man be the brainless idiot he chose to appear? She, at least,
ought to have known that he was wearing a mask, and having found that
out, she should have torn it from his face,
whenever they were alone
together.
Her love for him had been paltry and weak, easily crushed by
her own pride; and she, too, had worn a mask in assuming a contempt
for him,
whilst, as a matter of fact, she completely misunderstood
him.
But there was no time now to go over the past. By her own
blindness she had sinned; now she must repay, not by empty
remorse,
but by
prompt and useful action.
Percy had started for Calais, utterly
unconscious of the fact
that his most
relentless enemy was on his heels. He had set sail
early that morning from London Bridge. Provided he had a favourable
wind, he would no doubt be in France within twenty-four hours; no
doubt he had reckoned on the wind and chosen this route.
Chauvelin, on the other hand, would post to Dover,
charter a
vessel there, and
undoubtedly reach Calais much about the same time.
Once in Calais, Percy would meet all those who were
eagerlywaitingfor the noble and brave Scarlet Pimpernel, who had come to
rescue them
from
horrible and unmerited death. With Chauvelin's eyes now fixed
upon his every
movement, Percy would thus not only be endangering his
own life, but that of Suzanne's father, the old Comte de Tournay, and
of those other fugitives who were
waiting for him and
trusting in him.
There was also Armand, who had gone to meet de Tournay, secure in the
knowledge that the Scarlet Pimpernel was watching over his safety.
All these lives and that of her husband, lay in Marguerite's hands;
these she must save, if human pluck and
ingenuity were equal to the task.
Unfortunately, she could not do all this quite alone. Once in
Calais she would not know where to find her husband,
whilst Chauvelin,
in stealing the papers at Dover, had obtained the whole itinerary.
Above every thing, she wished to warn Percy.
She knew enough about him by now to understand that he would
never
abandon those who trusted in him, that he would not turn his
back from danger, and leave the Comte de Tournay to fall into the
bloodthirsty hands that knew of no mercy. But if he were warned, he
might form new plans, be more wary, more
prudent. Unconsciously, he
might fall into a
cunning trap, but--once warned--he might yet succeed.
And if he failed--if indeed Fate, and Chauvelin, with all the
resources at his command, proved too strong for the
daring plotter
after all--then at least she would be there by his side, to comfort,
love and
cherish, to cheat death perhaps at the last by making it seem
sweet, if they died both together, locked in each other's arms, with
the
supreme happiness of
knowing that
passion had responded to
passion, and that all misunder
standings were at an end.
Her whole body stiffened as with a great and firm
resolution.
This she meant to do, if God gave her wits and strength. Her eyes
lost their fixed look; they glowed with
inward fire at the thought of
meeting him again so soon, in the very midst of most
deadly perils;
they sparkled with the joy of sharing these dangers with him--of
helping him perhaps--of being with him at the last--if she failed.
The childlike sweet face had become hard and set, the curved
mouth was closed
tightly over her clenched teeth. She meant to do or
die, with him and for his sake. A frown, which spoke of an iron will
and unbending
resolution, appeared between the two straight brows;
already her plans were formed. She would go and find Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes first; he was Percy's best friend, and Marguerite remembered,
with a
thrill, with what blind
enthusiasm the young man always spoke
of his
mysterious leader.