Chapter 3
In a moment the pleasant oak-raftered coffee-room of the inn became the scene of hopeless confusion and discomfort. At the first announcement made by the stable boy, Lord Antony, with a fashionable oath, had jumped up from his seat and was now giving many and confused directions to poor bewildered Jellyband, who seemed at his wits’ end what to do.
“For goodness’ sake, man,” admonished his lordship, “try to keep Lady Blakeney talking outside for a moment while the ladies withdraw. Zounds!” he added, with another more emphatic oath, “this is most unfortunate.”
“Quick Sally! the candles!” shouted Jellyband, as hopping about from one leg to another, he ran hither and thither, adding to the general discomfort of everybody. The Comtesse, too, had risen to her feet: rigid and erect, trying to hide her excitement beneath more becoming sang-froid, she repeated mechanically,
“I will not see her!—I will not see her!”
Outside, the excitement attendant upon the arrival of very important guests grew apace.
“Good-day, Sir Percy!—Good-day to your ladyship! Your servant, Sir Percy!”—was heard in one long, continued chorus, with alternate more feeble tones of—”Remember the poor blind man! of your charity, lady and gentleman!”
Then suddenly a singularly sweet voice was heard through all the din.
“Let the poor man be—and give him some supper at my expense.”
The voice was low and musical, with a slight sing-song in it, and a faint soupcon of foreign intonation in the pronunciation of the consonants.
Everyone in the coffee-room heard it and paused instinctively, listening to it for a moment. Sally was holding the candles by the opposite door, which led to the bedrooms upstairs, and the Comtesse was in the act of beating a hasty retreat before that enemy who owned such a sweet musical voice; Suzanne reluctantly was preparing to follow her mother, while casting regretful glances towards the door, where she hoped still to see her dearly-beloved, erstwhile school-fellow.
Then Jellyband threw open the door, still stupidly and blindly hoping to avert the catastrophe, which he felt was in the air, and the same low, musical voice said, with a merry laugh and mock consternation,—
“B-r-r-r-r! I am as wet as a herring! Dieu! has anyone ever seen such a contemptible climate?”
“Suzanne, come with me at once—I wish it,” said the Comtesse, peremptorily.
“Oh! Mama!” pleaded Suzanne.
There are many portraits and miniatures extant of Marguerite St. Just—Lady Blakeney as she was then—but it is doubtful if any of these really do her singular beauty justice. Tall, above the average, with magnificent presence and regal figure, it is small wonder that even the Comtesse paused for a moment in involuntary admiration before turning her back on so fascinating an apparition.
Marguerite Blakeney was then scarcely five-and-twenty, and her beauty was at its most dazzling stage. The large hat, with its undulating and waving plumes, threw a soft shadow across the classic brow with the auerole of auburn hair—free at the moment from any powder; the sweet, almost childlike mouth, the straight chiselled nose, round chin, and delicate throat, all seemed set off by the picturesque costume of the period. The rich blue velvet robe moulded in its every line the graceful contour of the figure, whilst one tiny hand held, with a dignity all its own, the tall stick adorned with a large bunch of ribbons which fashionable ladies of the period had taken to carrying recently.
With a quick glance all around the room, Marguerite Blakeney had taken stock of everyone there. She nodded pleasantly to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, whilst extending a hand to Lord Antony.
“Hello! my Lord Tony, why—what are you doing here in Dover?” she said merrily.
Then, without waiting for a reply, she turned and faced the Comtesse and Suzanne. Her whole face lighted up with additional brightness, as she stretched out both arms towards the young girl.
She stood there before them, in all the unconscious insolence of beauty, and stretched out her dainty hand to them, as if she would, by that one act, bridge over the conflict and bloodshed of the past decade.
“Suzanne, I forbid you to speak to that woman,” said the Comtesse, sternly, as she placed a restraining hand upon her daughter’s arm.
“Hoity-toity, citizeness,” she said gaily, “what fly stings you, pray?”
“We are in England now, Madame,” rejoined the Comtesse, coldly, “and I am at liberty to forbid my daughter to touch your hand in friendship. Come, Suzanne.”
She beckoned to her daughter, and without another look at Marguerite Blakeney, but with a deep, old-fashioned curtsey to the two young men, she sailed majestically out of the room.
There was silence in the old inn parlour for a moment, as the rustle of the Comtesse’s skirts died away down the passage. Marguerite, rigid as a statue followed with hard, set eyes the upright figure, as it disappeared through the doorway—but as little Suzanne, humble and obedient, was about to follow her mother, the hard, set expression suddenly vanished, and a wistful, almost pathetic and childlike look stole into Lady Blakeney’s eyes.
Little Suzanne caught that look; the child’s sweet nature went out to the beautiful woman, scarcely older than herself; filial obedience vanished before girlish sympathy; at the door she turned, ran back to Marguerite, and putting her arms round her, kissed her effusively; then only did she follow her mother, Sally bringing up the rear, with a final curtsey to my lady.
Suzanne’s sweet and dainty impulse had relieved the unpleasant tension. Sir Andrew’s eyes followed the pretty little figure, until it had quite disappeared, then they met Lady Blakeney’s with unassumed merriment.
Marguerite, with dainty affection, had kissed her hand to the ladies, as they disappeared through the door, then a humorous smile began hovering round the corners of her mouth.
“So that’s it, is it?” she said gaily. “La! Sir Andrew, did you ever see such an unpleasant person? I hope when I grow old I sha’n’t look like that.”
She gathered up her skirts and assuming a majestic gait, stalked towards the fireplace.
“Suzanne,” she said, mimicking the Comtesse’s voice, “I forbid you to speak to that woman!”
The laugh which accompanied this sally sounded perhaps a trifled forced and hard, but neither Sir Andrew nor Lord Tony were very keen observers. The mimicry was so perfect, the tone of the voice so accurately reproduced, that both the young men joined in a hearty cheerful “Bravo!”
“Ah! Lady Blakeney!” added Lord Tony, “how they must miss you at the Comedie Francaise, and how the Parisians must hate Sir Percy for having taken you away.”
“Lud, man,” rejoined Marguerite, with a shrug of her graceful shoulders, “tis impossible to hate Sir Percy for anything; his witty sallies would disarm even Madame la Comtesse herself.”
The young Vicomte, who had not elected to follow his mother in her dignified exit, now made a step forward, ready to champion the Comtesse should Lady Blakeney aim any further shafts at her. But before he could utter a preliminary word of protest, a pleasant though distinctly inane laugh, was heard from outside, and the next moment an unusually tall and very richly dressed figure appeared in the doorway.
Sir Percy Blakeney, as the chronicles of the time inform us, was in this year of grace 1792, still a year or two on the right side of thirty. Tall, above the average, even for an Englishman, broad-shouldered and massively built, he would have been called unusually good-looking, but for a certain lazy expression in his deep-set blue eyes, and that perpetual inane laugh which seemed to disfigure his strong, clearly-cut mouth.
It was nearly a year ago now that Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., one of the richest men in England, leader of all the fashions, and intimate friend of the Prince of Wales, had astonished fashionable society in London and Bath by bringing home, from one of his journeys abroad, a beautiful, fascinating, clever, French wife. He, the sleepiest, dullest, most British Britisher that had ever set a pretty woman yawning, had secured a brilliant matrimonial prize for which, as all chroniclers aver, there had been many competitors.
Marguerite St. Just had first made her debut in artistic Parisian circles, at the very moment when the greatest social upheaval the world has ever known was taking place within its very walls. Scarcely eighteen, lavishly gifted with beauty and talent, chaperoned only by a young and devoted brother, she had soon gathered round her, in her charming apartment in the Rue Richelieu, a coterie which was as brilliant as it was exclusive—exclusive, that is to say, only from one point of view. Marguerite St. Just was from principle and by conviction a republican—equality of birth was her motto—inequality of fortune was in her eyes a mere untoward accident, but the only inequality she admitted was that of talent. “Money and titles may be hereditary,” she would say, “but brains are not,” and thus her charming salon was reserved for originality and intellect, for brilliance and wit, for clever men and talented women, and the entrance into it was soon looked upon in the world of intellect—which even in those days and in those troublous times found its pivot in Paris—as the seal to an artistic career.
Clever men, distinguished men, and even men of exalted station formed a perpetual and brilliant court round the fascinating young actress of the Comedie Francaise, and she glided through republican, revolutionary, bloodthirsty Paris like a shining comet with a trail behind her of all that was most distinguished, most interesting, in intellectual Europe.
They knew, as a matter of fact, that Marguerite St. Just cared nothing about money, and still less about a title; moreover, there were at least half a dozen other men in the cosmopolitan world equally well-born, if not so wealthy as Blakeney, who would have been only too happy to give Marguerite St. Just any position she might choose to covet.
As for Sir Percy himself, he was universally voted to be totally unqualified for the onerous post he had taken upon himself. His chief qualifications for it seemed to consist in his blind adoration for her, his great wealth and the high favour in which he stood at the English court; but London society thought that, taking into consideration his own intellectual limitations, it would have been wiser on his part had he bestowed those worldly advantages upon a less brilliant and witty wife.
Sir Percy Blakeney had travelled a great deal abroad, before he brought home his beautiful, young, French wife. The fashionable circles of the time were ready to receive them both with open arms; Sir Percy was rich, his wife was accomplished, the Prince of Wales took a very great liking to them both. Within six months they were the acknowledged leaders of fashion and of style. Sir Percy’s coats were the talk of the town, his inanities were quoted, his foolish laugh copied by the gilded youth at Almack’s or the Mall. Everyone knew that he was hopelessly stupid, but then that was scarcely to be wondered at, seeing that all the Blakeneys for generations had been notoriously dull, and that his mother died an imbecile.
But then Blakeney was really too stupid to notice the ridicule with which his wife covered him, and if his matrimonial relations with the fascinating Parisienne had not turned out all that his hopes and his dog-like devotion for her had pictured, society could never do more than vaguely guess at it.
In his beautiful house at Richmond he played second fiddle to his clever wife with imperturbable bonhomie; he lavished jewels and luxuries of all kinds upon her, which she took with inimitable grace, dispensing the hospitality of his superb mansion with the same graciousness with which she had welcomed the intellectual coterie of Paris.
Physically, Sir Percy Blakeney was undeniably handsome—always excepting the lazy, bored look which was habitual to him. He was always irreproachable dressed, and wore the exaggerated “Incroyable” fashions, which had just crept across from Paris to England, with the perfect good taste innate in an English gentleman. On this special afternoon in September, in spite of the long journey by coach, in spite of rain and mud, his coat set irreproachably across his fine shoulders, his hands looked almost femininely white, as they emerged through billowy frills of finest Mechline lace: the extravagantly short-waisted satin coat, wide-lapelled waistcoat, and tight-fitting striped breeches, set off his massive figure to perfection, and in repose one might have admired so fine a specimen of English manhood, until the foppish ways, the affected movements, the perpetual inane laugh, brought one’s admiration of Sir Percy Blakeney to an abrupt close.
The laugh which accompanied this remark was evidently intended to reassure Sir Percy as to the gravity of the incident. It apparently succeeded in that, for echoing the laugh, he rejoined placidly—“La, m’dear! you don’t say so. Begad! who was the bold man who dared to tackle you—eh?”
Lord Tony tried to interpose, but had no time to do so, for the young Vicomte had already quickly stepped forward.
“Monsieur,” he said, prefixing his little speech with an elaborate bow, and speaking in broken English, “my mother, the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive, has offenced Madame, who, I see, is your wife. I cannot ask your pardon for my mother; what she does is right in my eyes. But I am ready to offer you the usual reparation between men of honour.”
The young man drew up his slim stature to its full height and looked very enthusiastic, very proud, and very hot as he gazed at six foot odd of gorgeousness, as represented by Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart.
“Lud, Sir Andrew,” said Marguerite, with one of her merry infectious laughs, “look on that pretty picture—the English turkey and the French bantam.”
The simile was quite perfect, and the English turkey looked down with complete bewilderment upon the dainty little French bantam, which hovered quite threateningly around him.
“La! sir,” said Sir Percy at last, putting up his eye glass and surveying the young Frenchman with undisguised wonderment, “where, in the cuckoo’s name, did you learn to speak English?”
“Monsieur!” protested the Vicomte, somewhat abashed at the way his warlike attitude had been taken by the ponderous-looking Englishman.
“I protest it is marvellous!” continued Sir Percy, imperturbably, “demmed marvellous! Don’t you think so, Tony—eh? I vow I can’t speak the French lingo like that. What?”
“Nay, I’ll vouch for that!” rejoined Marguerite, “Sir Percy has a British accent you could cut with a knife.”
“Monsieur,” interposed the Vicomte earnestly, and in still more broken English, “I fear you have not understand. I offer you the only posseeble reparation among gentlemen.”
“What the devil is that?” asked Sir Percy, blandly.
“My sword, Monsieur,” replied the Vicomte, who, though still bewildered, was beginning to lose his temper.
“You are a sportsman, Lord Tony,” said Marguerite, merrily; “ten to one on the little bantam.”
But Sir Percy was staring sleepily at the Vicomte for a moment or two, through his partly closed heavy lids, then he smothered another yawn, stretched his long limbs, and turned leisurely away.
“Lud love you, sir,” he muttered good-humouredly. “demmit, young man, what’s the good of your sword to me?”
What the Vicomte thought and felt at that moment, when that long-limbed Englishman treated him with such marked insolence, might fill volumes of sound reflections. . . . What he said resolved itself into a single articulate word, for all the others were choked in his throat by his surging wrath—“A duel, Monsieur,” he stammered.
“I pray you, Lord Tony,” she said in that gentle, sweet, musical voice of hers, “I pray you play the peacemaker. The child is bursting with rage, and,” she added with a soupcon of dry sarcasm, “might do Sir Percy an injury.” She laughed a mocking little laugh, which, however, did not in the least disturb her husband’s placid equanimity. “The British turkey has had the day,” she said. “Sir Percy would provoke all the saints in the calendar and keep his temper the while.”
But already Blakeney, good-humoured as ever, had joined in the laugh against himself.
“Demmed smart that now, wasn’t it?” he said, turning pleasantly to the Vicomte. “Clever woman my wife, sir. . . . You will find that out if you live long enough in England.”
“Sir Percy is right, Vicomte,” here interposed Lord Antony, laying a friendly hand on the young Frenchman’s shoulder. “It would hardly be fitting that you should commence your career in England by provoking him to a duel.”
For a moment longer the Vicomte hesitated, then with a slight shrug of the shoulders directed against the extraordinary code of honour prevailing in this fog-ridden island, he said with becoming dignity. “Ah, well! if Monsieur is satisfied, I have no griefs. You mi’lor’, are our protector. If I have done wrong, I withdraw myself.”
“Aye, do!” rejoined Blakeney, with a long sigh of satisfaction, “withdraw yourself over there. Demmed excitable little puppy,” he added under his breath, “Faith, Ffoulkes, if that’s a specimen of the goods you and your friends bring over from France, my advice to you is, drop ‘em’ ‘mid’ Channel, my friend, or I shall have to see old Pitt about it, get him to clap on a prohibitive tariff, and put you in the stocks an you smuggle.”
“La, Sir Percy, your chivalry misguides you,” said Marguerite, coquettishly, “you forget that you yourself have imported one bundle of goods from France.”
Blakeney slowly rose to his feet, and, making a deep and elaborate bow before his wife, he said with consummate gallantry, “I had the pick of the market, Madame, and my taste is unerring.”
“More so than your chivalry, I fear,” she retorted sarcastically.
“Odd’s life, m’dear! be reasonable! Do you think I am going to allow my body to be made a pincushion of, by every little frog-eater who don’t like the shape of your nose?”
“Lud, Sir Percy!” laughed Lady Blakeney as she bobbed him a quaint and pretty curtsey, “you need not be afraid! Tis not the men who dislike the shape of my nose.”
“Afraid be demmed! Do you impugn my bravery, Madame? I don’t patronise the ring for nothing, do I, Tony? I’ve put up the fists with Red Sam before now, and—and he didn’t get it all his own way either—”
Harmony was once more restored. Mr. Jellyband, with a mighty effort, recovered himself from the many emotions he had experienced within the last half hour. “A bowl of punch, Jelly, hot and strong, eh?” said Sir Percy. “The wits that have just made a clever woman laugh must be whetted! Ha! ha! ha! Hasten, my good Jelly!”
“Nay, there is no time, Sir Percy,” interposed Marguerite. “The skipper will be here directly and my brother must get on board, or the Day Dream will miss the tide.”
“Time, m’dear? There is plenty of time for any gentleman to get drunk and get on board before the turn of the tide.”
“I think, your ladyship,” said Jellyband, respectfully, “that the young gentleman is coming along now with Sir Percy’s skipper.”
“That’s right,” said Blakeney, “then Armand can join us in the merry bowl. Think you, Tony,” he added, turning towards the Vicomte, “that the jackanapes of yours will join us in a glass? Tell him that we drink in token of reconciliation.”
“In fact you are all such merry company,” said Marguerite, “that I trust you will forgive me if I bid my brother good-bye in another room.”
It would have been bad form to protest. Both Lord Antony and Sir Andrew felt that Lady Blakeney could not altogether be in tune with them at the moment. Her love for her brother, Armand St. Just, was deep and touching in the extreme. He had just spent a few weeks with her in her English home, and was going back to serve his country, at the moment when death was the usual reward for the most enduring devotion.
Sir Percy also made no attempt to detain his wife. With that perfect, somewhat affected gallantry which characterised his every movement, he opened the coffee-room door for her, and made her the most approved and elaborate bow, which the fashion of the time dictated, as she sailed out of the room without bestowing on him more than a passing, slightly contemptuous glance. Only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, whose every thought since he had met Suzanne de Tournay seemed keener, more gentle, more innately sympathetic, noted the curious look of intense longing, of deep and hopeless passion, with which the inane and flippant Sir Percy followed the retreating figure of his brilliant wife.
❒
