Lady Blakeney

“ The cleverest woman in Europe, the elegant and fashionable Lady Blakeney, who had dazzled London society with her beauty, her wit and her extravagances, presented a very pathetic picture of tired-out, suffering womanhood, which would have appealed to any, but the hard, vengeful heart of her baffled enemy.
“It is no use mounting guard over a woman who is half dead,” he said spitefully to the soldiers, “when you have allowed five men who were very much alive to escape.” ”

“ If you will not help me, Sir Andrew, I would still strive to save my husband. I would still exert every faculty I possess for his sake; but I might be powerless, for I might arrive too late, and nothing would be left for you but lifelong remorse, and . . . and . . . for me, a broken heart.”
“But, Lady Blakeney,” said the young man, touched by the gentle earnestness of this exquisitely beautiful woman, “do you know that what you propose doing is man’s work?—you cannot possibly journey to Calais alone. ”

“ Armand St. Just, the brother of Lady Blakeney, had something of the refined beauty of his lovely sister, but the features though manly—had not the latent strength expressed in them which characterised every line of Marguerite’s exquisite face. The forehead suggested a dreamer rather than a thinker, the blue-grey eyes were those of an idealist rather than of a man of action. ”

“ Where in the world am I to look for him?"
"You go everywhere, citoyenne," whispered Chauvelin, insinuatingly, "Lady Blakeney is the pivot of social London, so I am told . . . you see everything, you hear everything."
"Easy, my friend," retorted Marguerite, drawing, herself up to her full height and looking down, with a slight thought of contempt on the small, thin figure before her. "Easy! you seem to forget that there are six feet of Sir Percy Blakeney, and a long line of ancestors to stand between Lady Blakeney and such a thing as you propose."
"For the sake of France, citoyenne!" ”

“ People would talk and ask questions, throw out suggestions and innuendoes. Society a few months ago had been greatly agitated because the beautiful Lady Blakeney, the most fashionable woman about town, had taken a mad fancy for—you'll never believe it, my dear!—for her own husband. She had him by her side at routs and river-parties, in her opera-box and on the Mall. It was positively indecent! Sir Percy was the pet of Society, his sallies, his inane laugh, his lazy, delicious, impertinent ways and his exquisite clothes, made the success of every salon in which he chose to appear. ”

“ 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.
"My lady . . . er . . . h'm! . . . my lady! . . ." came in feeble accents from Jellyband, who stood clumsily trying to bar the way.
"Pardieu, my good man," said Lady Blakeney, with some impatience, "what are you standing in my way for, dancing about like a turkey with a sore foot? Let me get to the fire, I am perished with the cold." ”

“ And the sun which tips the prickly points of holly leaves with gold, joins in this merry make-believe that winter is still a very, very long way off, and that mayhap he has lost his way altogether, and is never coming to this balmy beautiful land again.
Just such a day was the penultimate one of November, 1793, when Lady Anthony Dewhurst sat at a desk in the wide bay window of the drawing-room in Combwich Hall, trying to put into a letter to Lady Blakeney all that her heart would have wished to express of love and gratitude and happiness. ”

“ Just’s brother is a noted republican. There was some talk of a family feud between him and my cousin, the Marquis de St. Cyr. The St. Justs’ are quite plebeian, and the republican government employs many spies. I assure you there is no mistake. . . . You had not heard this story?”
“Faith, Madame, I did hear some vague rumours of it, but in England no one would credit it. . . . Sir Percy Blakeney, her husband, is a very wealthy man, of high social position, the intimate friend of the Prince of Wales . . . and Lady Blakeney leads both fashion and society in London.” ”

“ Boulogne, where Lady Blakeney happens to be at this present moment... as you see, Boulogne has a great responsibility to bear: just now she is to a certain extent the proudest city in France, since she holds within her gates a hostage for the appearance on our shores of her country's most bitter enemy. But she must not fall from that high estate. Her double duty is clear before her: she must guard Lady Blakeney and capture the Scarlet Pimpernel; if she fail in the former she must be punished, if she succeed in the latter she shall be rewarded. ”

“ She had detained him for a while, mid-way down the stairs, trying to get at the thoughts which lay beyond that thin, fox-like mask. But Chauvelin remained urbane, sarcastic, mysterious; not a line betrayed to the poor, anxious woman whether she need fear or whether she dared to hope.
Downstairs on the landing she was soon surrounded. Lady Blakeney never stepped from any house into her coach, without an escort of fluttering human moths around the dazzling light of her beauty. ”

“ But it is on record that at the brilliant wedding of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, Bart., with Mlle. Suzanne de Tournay de Basserive, a function at which H.R.H. the Prince of Wales and all the élite of fashionable society were present, the most beautiful woman there was unquestionably Lady Blakeney, whilst the clothes Sir Percy Blakeney wore were the talk of the jeunesse dorée of London for many days. ”

“ I thank you for the safe-conducts. They will make our journey exceedingly pleasant. Shall I give your regards to M. le Marquis de Montorgueil or to M. le Vicomte? They are on board the Day-Dream, you know. Oh! I was forgetting! Lady Blakeney desired to be remembered to you."
The next moment he was gone. Chauvelin, standing at the window of the wayside house, saw Sir Percy Blakeney once more mount the box of the chaise. ”

“ The cold grey dawn was just breaking, dreary and damp, as all the past days had been. Blakeney watched the lad as he approached, the small, naked feet falling noiselessly on the cobblestones of the road. When the boy was quite close to him and to the house, Blakeney shifted his position and took the pipe out of his mouth.
“Up early, my son!” he said gruffly.
“Yes,” said the pale-faced little creature; “I have a message to deliver at No. 9 Rue St. Germain l’Auxerrois. It must be somewhere near here.”
“It is. You can give me the message.”
“Oh, no, citizen!” ”

“ Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had left his young wife because of that, and Armand had demanded it as a right to join hands in this noble work. Blakeney had not left France for over three months now. Backwards and forwards between Paris, or Nantes, or Orleans to the coast, where his friends would meet him to receive those unfortunates whom one man’s whole-hearted devotion had rescued from death; backwards and forwards into the very hearts of those cities wherein an army of sleuth-hounds were on his track, and the guillotine was stretching out her arms to catch the foolhardy adventurer. ”

“ Sir Percy Blakeney, the bold adventurer, ever ready for a gamble where lives were at stake, might have demurred before he subscribed to his own dishonour, in order to save his wife from humiliation and the shame of the terrible fate that had been mapped out for her. But the same man passionately in love with such a woman as Marguerite Blakeney would count the world well lost for her sake. ”

“ Blakeney. "Giraffe marrow-bone is the king of veldt fare. There's nothing to equal it. But we must cry enough. It's rich food, and I've known men in the low country bring on a fresh attack of fever simply from over-indulging themselves in too much of this good thing."
They sat after supper near the blazing fire--the boys writing up their diaries by its cheerful light, Mr. Blakeney smoking his pipe and skinning a beautiful crimson-breasted shrike which he had shot that afternoon in some thorn bush along the river. ”

“ Once more Blakeney turned, and from his high altitude looked down on the choleric little man before him; but not even for a second did he seem to lose his own imperturbable good-humour. He laughed his own pleasant and inane laugh, and burying his slender, long hands into the capacious pockets of his overcoat, he said leisurely—
“A duel? La! is that what he meant? Odd’s fish! you are a bloodthirsty young ruffian. Do you want to make a hole in a law-abiding man? ”

“ Every minute that you spend inside the city now is full of danger—oh, no! not for you,” added Blakeney, checking with a good-humoured gesture Armand’s words of protestation, “danger for the others—and for our scheme tomorrow.”
“How can I go to St. Germain, Percy, knowing that she—”
“Is under my charge?” interposed the other calmly. “That should not be so very difficult. Come,” he added, placing a kindly hand on the other’s shoulder, “you shall not find me such an inhuman monster after all. But I must think of the others, you see, and of the child whom I have sworn to save. ”

“ The elder Maxwell laughed. "This girl! Given a woman in the case, your imagination promptly conjures up a vision of delight! Eighteen—or has the ideal age advanced a peg or two now?—soft-eyed, soft-voiced, soft-hearted—and soft-headed! Edgar Blakeney was seventy years old when he died—a failure—and his daughter is probably forty, lean, drab, shrill-tongued, and penurious. A thousand dollars for her equity in that land will seem to her like manna to the Israelites. ”

“ You are in England; you are rich, influential, a power in your own country; whilst I am an alien, a political enemy, a refugee, penniless and friendless. You can do with me what you will, of course. But if you do that, milor, my blood will stain your hands for ever; and all the good you and your League have ever done in the cause of humanity will be wiped out by this execrable crime."
She spoke very quietly and with soul-moving earnestness. So was also exquisitely beautiful. Sir Percy Blakeney had been more than human if he had been proof against such an appeal, made by such perfect lips. ”

“ 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. ”

“ I see it now... you do not know what it is to love.”
Blakeney made no reply for the moment. He stood in the centre of the room, with the yellow light of the lamp falling full now upon his tall powerful frame, immaculately dressed in perfectly-tailored clothes, upon his long, slender hands half hidden by filmy lace, and upon his face, across which at this moment a heavy strand of curly hair threw a curious shadow. At Armand’s words his lips had imperceptibly tightened, his eyes had narrowed as if they tried to see something that was beyond the range of their focus. ”

“ Blakeney, on his return to England, found himself the hero of the nation. Rewards came freely to the veteran. He was made colonel of the Enniskillen regiment of infantry, knight of the Bath, and Baron Blakeney of Mount Blakeney in the Irish peerage. A little later Van Most’s statue of him was erected in Dublin, and his popularity continued unabated for the short remainder of his life. He died on the 20th of September 1761, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.
See Memoirs of General William Blakeney (1757) . ”

“ Now, petite maman," he added, turning to the old woman, "are you going to be brave?"
"I will do anything, milor," she replied quietly, "to help my old man."
"Well, then," said Sir Percy Blakeney in that optimistic, light-hearted yet supremely authoritative tone of which he held the secret, "you and Rosette remain here and wait for the gendarmes. When they come, say nothing; behave with absolute meekness, and let them search your place from end to end. If they ask you about your husband say that you believe him to be at his workshop. ”

“ Two more men have joined them, and I can distinguish Rondeau's voice, too."
"The quintette," murmured Sir Andrew. "We are caught like two rats in a trap."
Even as he spoke the opening of the outside door could be distinctly heard, then the confused murmur of many voices. Already Blakeney and Ffoulkes had with perfect presence of mind put the finishing touches to the tidying of the room—put the chairs straight, shut down the lid of the oak chest, closed all the drawers of the desk.
"Nothing but good luck can save us now," whispered Blakeney as he lowered the wick of the lamp. ”

“ And now no more chattering,” he continued lightly; “all to horse, and you, Hastings, have a care. The destinies of France, mayhap, will be lying asleep in your arms.”
“But you, Blakeney?” exclaimed the three men almost simultaneously.
“I am not going with you. I entrust the child to you. For God’s sake guard him well! Ride with him to Mantes. You should arrive there at about ten o’clock. One of you then go straight to No.9 Rue la Tour. Ring the bell; an old man will answer it. Say the one word to him, ‘Enfant’ ”

“ Her intimate friends often marvelled how Marguerite Blakeney bore the strain of these constantly recurring farewells. Every time that in the early dawn she twined her loving arms round the neck of the man she worshipped, feeling that mayhap she was looking into those dear, lazy, laughing eyes for the last time on earth—every time, it seemed to her as if earth could not hold greater misery. ”