CHAPTER XXI

SUSPENSE



It was late into the night when she at last reached "The
Fisherman's Rest." She had done the whole journey in less than eight
hours, thanks to innumerable changes of horses at the various coaching
stations, for which she always paid lavishly, thus obtaining the very
best and swiftest that could be had.

Her coachman, too, had been indefatigible; the promise of
special and rich reward had no doubt helped to keep him up, and he had
literally burned the ground beneath his mistress' coach wheels.

The arrival of Lady Blakeney in the middle of the night caused
a considerable flutter at "The Fisherman's Rest." Sally jumped
hastily out of bed, and Mr. Jellyband was at great pains how to make
his important guest comfortable.

Both of these good folk were far too well drilled in the
manners appertaining to innkeepers, to exhibit the slightest surprise
at Lady Blakeney's arrival, alone, at this extraordinary hour. No
doubt they thought all the more, but Marguerite was far too absorbed
in the importance--the deadly earnestness--of her journey, to stop and
ponder over trifles of that sort.

The coffee-room--the scene lately of the dastardly outrage on
two English gentlemen--was quite deserted. Mr. Jellyband hastily
relit the lamp, rekindled a cheerful bit of fire in the great hearth,
and then wheeled a comfortable chair by it, into which Marguerite
gratefully sank.

"Will your ladyship stay the night?" asked pretty Miss Sally,
who was already busy laying a snow-white cloth on the table,
preparatory to providing a simple supper for her ladyship.

"No! not the whole night," replied Marguerite. "At any rate,
I shall not want any room but this, if I can have it to myself for an
hour or two."

"It is at your ladyship's service," said honest Jellyband,
whose rubicund face was set in its tightest folds, lest it should
betray before "the quality" that boundless astonishment which the very
worthy fellow had begun to feel.

"I shall be crossing over at the first turn of the tide," said
Marguerite, "and in the first schooner I can get. But my coachman and
men will stay the night, and probably several days longer, so I hope
you will make them comfortable."

"Yes, my lady; I'll look after them. Shall Sally bring your
ladyship some supper?"

"Yes, please. Put something cold on the table, and as soon as
Sir Andrew Ffoulkes comes, show him in here."

"Yes, my lady."

Honest Jellyband's face now expressed distress in spite of
himself. He had great regard for Sir Percy Blakeney, and did not like
to see his lady running away with young Sir Andrew. Of course, it was
no business of his, and Mr. Jellyband was no gossip. Still, in his
heart, he recollected that her ladyship was after all only one of them
"furriners"; what wonder that she was immoral like the rest of them?

"Don't sit up, honest Jellyband," continued Marguerite kindly,
"nor you either, Mistress Sally. Sir Andrew may be late."

Jellyband was only too willing that Sally should go to bed.
He was beginning not to like these goings-on at all. Still, Lady
Blakeney would pay handsomely for the accommodation, and it certainly
was no business of his.

Sally arranged a simple supper of cold meat, wine, and fruit
on the table, then with a respectful curtsey, she retired, wondering
in her little mind why her ladyship looked so serious, when she was
about to elope with her gallant.

Then commenced a period of weary waiting for Marguerite. She
knew that Sir Andrew--who would have to provide himself with clothes
befitting a lacquey--could not possibly reach Dover for at least a
couple of hours. He was a splendid horseman of course, and would make
light in such an emergency of the seventy odd miles between London and
Dover. He would, too, literally burn the ground beneath his horse's
hoofs, but he might not always get very good remounts, and in any
case, he could not have started from London until at least an hour
after she did.

She had seen nothing of Chauvelin on the road. Her coachman,
whom she questioned, had not seen anyone answering the description his
mistress gave him of the wizened figure of the little Frenchman.

Evidently, therefore, he had been ahead of her all the time.
She had not dared to question the people at the various inns, where
they had stopped to change horses. She feared that Chauvelin had
spies all along the route, who might overhear her questions, then
outdistance her and warn her enemy of her approach.

Now she wondered at what inn he might be stopping, or whether
he had had the good luck of chartering a vessel already, and was now
himself on the way to France. That thought gripped her at the heart
as with an iron vice. If indeed she should not be too late already!

The loneliness of the room overwhelmed her; everything within
was so horribly still; the ticking of the grandfather's
clock--dreadfully slow and measured--was the only sound which broke
this awful loneliness.

Marguerite had need of all her energy, all her steadfastness of
purpose, to keep up her courage through this weary midnight waiting.

Everyone else in the house but herself must have been asleep.
She had heard Sally go upstairs. Mr. Jellyband had gone to see to her
coachman and men, and then had returned and taken up a position under
the porch outside, just where Marguerite had first met Chauvelin about
a week ago. He evidently meant to wait up for Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,
but was soon overcome by sweet slumbers, for presently--in addition to
the slow ticking of the clock--Marguerite could hear the monotonous
and dulcet tones of the worthy fellow's breathing.

For some time now, she had realised that the beautiful warm
October's day, so happily begun, had turned into a rough and cold
night. She had felt very chilly, and was glad of the cheerful blaze
in the hearth: but gradually, as time wore on, the weather became more
rough, and the sound of the great breakers against the Admiralty Pier,
though some distance from the inn, came to her as the noise of muffled
thunder.

The wind was becoming boisterous, rattling the leaded windows
and the massive doors of the old-fashioned house: it shook the trees
outside and roared down the vast chimney. Marguerite wondered if the
wind would be favourable for her journey. She had no fear of the
storm, and would have braved worse risks sooner than delay the
crossing by an hour.

A sudden commotion outside roused her from her meditations.
Evidently it was Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, just arrived in mad haste, for
she heard his horse's hoofs thundering on the flag-stones outside,
then Mr. Jellyband's sleepy, yet cheerful tones bidding him welcome.

For a moment, then, the awkwardness of her position struck
Marguerite; alone at this hour, in a place where she was well known,
and having made an assignation with a young cavalier equally well
known, and who arrived in disguise! What food for gossip to those
mischievously inclined.

The idea struck Marguerite chiefly from its humorous side:
there was such quaint contrast between the seriousness of her errand,
and the construction which would naturally be put on her actions by
honest Mr. Jellyband, that, for the first time since many hours, a
little smile began playing round the corners of her childlike mouth,
and when, presently, Sir Andrew, almost unrecognisable in his
lacquey-like garb, entered the coffee-room, she was able to greet him
with quite a merry laugh.

"Faith! Monsieur, my lacquey," she said, "I am satisfied with
your appearance!"

Mr. Jellyband had followed Sir Andrew, looking strangely
perplexed. The young gallant's disguise had confirmed his worst
suspicions. Without a smile upon his jovial face, he drew the cork
from the bottle of wine, set the chairs ready, and prepared to wait.

"Thanks, honest friend," said Marguerite, who was still
smiling at the thought of what the worthy fellow must be thinking at
that very moment, "we shall require nothing more; and here's for all
the trouble you have been put to on our account."

She handed two or three gold pieces to Jellyband, who took
them respectfully, and with becoming gratitude.

"Stay, Lady Blakeney," interposed Sir Andrew, as Jellyband was
about to retire, "I am afraid we shall require something more of my
friend Jelly's hospitality. I am sorry to say we cannot cross over
to-night."

"Not cross over to-night?" she repeated in amazement. "But we
must, Sir Andrew, we must! There can be no question of cannot, and
whatever it may cost, we must get a vessel to-night."

But the young man shook his head sadly.

"I am afraid it is not a question of cost, Lady Blakeney.
There is a nasty storm blowing from France, the wind is dead against
us, we cannot possibly sail until it has changed."

Marguerite became deadly pale. She had not foreseen this.
Nature herself was playing her a horrible, cruel trick. Percy was in
danger, and she could not go to him, because the wind happened to blow
from the coast of France.

"But we must go!--we must!" she repeated with strange,
persistent energy, "you know, we must go!--can't you find a way?"

"I have been down to the shore already," he said, "and had a
talk to one or two skippers. It is quite impossible to set sail
to-night, so every sailor assured me. No one," he added, looking
significantly at Marguerite, "NO ONE could possibly put out of Dover
to-night."

Marguerite at once understood what he meant. NO ONE
included Chauvelin as well as herself. She nodded pleasantly to
Jellyband.

"Well, then, I must resign myself," she said to him. "Have
you a room for me?"

"Oh, yes, your ladyship. A nice, bright, airy room. I'll see
to it at once. . . . And there is another one for Sir Andrew--both
quite ready."

"That's brave now, mine honest Jelly," said Sir Andrew, gaily,
and clapping his worth host vigorously on the back. "You unlock both
those rooms, and leave our candles here on the dresser. I vow you are
dead with sleep, and her ladyship must have some supper before she
retires. There, have no fear, friend of the rueful countenance, her
ladyship's visit, though at this unusual hour, is a great honour to
thy house, and Sir Percy Blakeney will reward thee doubly, if thou
seest well to her privacy and comfort."

Sir Andrew had no doubt guessed the many conflicting doubts
and fears which raged in honest Jellyband's head; and, as he was a
gallant gentleman, he tried by this brave hint to allay some of the
worthy innkeeper's suspicions. He had the satisfaction of seeing that
he had partially succeeded. Jellyband's rubicund countenance
brightened somewhat, at the mention of Sir Percy's name.

"I'll go and see to it at once, sir," he said with alacrity,
and with less frigidity in his manner. "Has her ladyship everything
she wants for supper?"

"Everything, thanks, honest friend, and as I am famished and
dead with fatigue, I pray you see to the rooms."

"Now tell me," she said eagerly, as soon as Jellyband had gone
from the room, "tell me all your news."

"There is nothing else much to tell you, Lady Blakeney,"
replied the young man. "The storm makes it quite impossible for any
vessel to put out of Dover this tide. But, what seems to you at first
a terrible calamity is really a blessing in disguise. If we cannot
cross over to France to-night, Chauvelin is in the same quandary.

"He may have left before the storm broke out."

"God grant he may," said Sir Andrew, merrily, "for very likely
then he'll have been driven out of his course! Who knows? He may now
even be lying at the bottom of the sea, for there is a furious storm
raging, and it will fare ill with all small craft which happen to be
out. But I fear me we cannot build our hopes upon the shipwreck of
that cunning devil, and of all his murderous plans. The sailors I
spoke to, all assured me that no schooner had put out of Dover for
several hours: on the other hand, I ascertained that a stranger had
arrived by coach this afternoon, and had, like myself, made some
inquiries about crossing over to France.

"Then Chauvelin is still in Dover?"

"Undoubtedly. Shall I go waylay him and run my sword through him?
That were indeed the quickest way out of the difficulty."

"Nay! Sir Andrew, do not jest! Alas! I have often since last
night caught myself wishing for that fiend's death. But what you
suggest is impossible! The laws of this country do not permit of
murder! It is only in our beautiful France that wholesale slaughter
is done lawfully, in the name of Liberty and of brotherly love."

Sir Andrew had persuaded her to sit down to the table, to partake of
some supper and to drink a little wine. This enforced rest of at least
twelve hours, until the next tide, was sure to be terribly difficult to
bear in the state of intense excitement in which she was. Obedient in
these small matters like a child, Marguerite tried to eat and drink.

Sir Andrew, with that profound sympathy born in all those who
are in love, made her almost happy by talking to her about her
husband. He recounted to her some of the daring escapes the brave
Scarlet Pimpernel had contrived for the poor French fugitives, whom a
relentless and bloody revolution was driving out of their country. He
made her eyes glow with enthusiasm by telling her of his bravery, his
ingenuity, his resourcefulness, when it meant snatching the lives of
men, women, and even children from beneath the very edge of that
murderous, ever-ready guillotine.

He even made her smile quite merrily by telling her of the
Scarlet Pimpernel's quaint and many disguises, through which he had
baffled the strictest watch set against him at the barricades of
Paris. This last time, the escape of the Comtesse de Tournay and her
children had been a veritable masterpiece--Blakeney disguised as a
hideous old market-woman, in filthy cap and straggling grey locks, was
a sight fit to make the gods laugh.

Marguerite laughed heartily as Sir Andrew tried to describe
Blakeney's appearance, whose gravest difficulty always consisted in
his great height, which in France made disguise doubly difficult.

Thus an hour wore on. There were many more to spend in
enforced inactivity in Dover. Marguerite rose from the table with an
impatient sigh. She looked forward with dread to the night in the bed
upstairs, with terribly anxious thoughts to keep her company, and the
howling of the storm to help chase sleep away.

She wondered where Percy was now. The DAY DREAM was a strong,
well-built sea-going yacht. Sir Andrew had expressed the opinion
that no doubt she had got in the lee of the wind before the storm
broke out, or else perhaps had not ventured into the open at all,
but was lying quietly at Gravesend.

Briggs was an expert skipper, and Sir Percy handled a schooner as well
as any master mariner. There was no danger for them from the storm.

It was long past midnight when at last Marguerite retired to
rest. As she had feared, sleep sedulously avoided her eyes. Her
thoughts were of the blackest during these long, weary hours, whilst
that incessant storm raged which was keeping her away from Percy. The
sound of the distant breakers made her heart ache with melancholy.
She was in the mood when the sea has a saddening effect upon the
nerves. It is only when we are very happy, that we can bear to gaze
merrily upon the vast and limitless expanse of water, rolling on and
on with such persistent, irritating monotony, to the accompaniment of
our thoughts, whether grave or gay. When they are gay, the waves echo
their gaiety; but when they are sad, then every breaker, as it rolls,
seems to bring additional sadness, and to speak to us of hopelessness
and of the pettiness of all our joys.

****

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