The day was well advanced when Marguerite woke, refreshed by her longsleep. Louise had brought her some fresh milk and a dish of fruit, andshe partook of this frugal breakfast with hearty appetite.
Thoughts crowded thick and fast in her mind as she munched her grapes;most of them went galloping away after the tall, erect figure of herhusband, whom she had watched riding out of sight more than five hoursago.
In answer to her eager inquiries, Louise brought back the news that thegroom had come home with Sultan, having left Sir Percy in London. Thegroom thought that his master was about to get on board his schooner,which was lying off just below London Bridge. Sir Percy had ridden thusfar, had then met Briggs, the skipper of the DAY DREAM, and had sent thegroom back to Richmond with Sultan and the empty saddle.
This news puzzled Marguerite more than ever. Where could Sir Percy begoing just now in the DAY DREAM? On Armand's behalf, he had said. Well!Sir Percy had influential friends everywhere. Perhaps he was going toGreenwich, or . . . but Marguerite ceased to conjecture; all would beexplained anon: he said that he would come back, and that he wouldremember. A long, idle day lay before Marguerite. She was expecting avisit of her old school-fellow, little Suzanne de Tournay. With allthe merry mischief at her command, she had tendered her request forSuzanne's company to the Comtesse in the Presence of the Prince of Waleslast night. His Royal Highness had loudly applauded the notion, anddeclared that he would give himself the pleasure of calling on the twoladies in the course of the afternoon. The Comtesse had not dared torefuse, and then and there was entrapped into a promise to send littleSuzanne to spend a long and happy day at Richmond with her friend.
Marguerite expected her eagerly; she longed for a chat about oldschool-days with the child; she felt that she would prefer Suzanne'scompany to that of anyone else, and together they would roam through thefine old garden and rich deer park, or stroll along the river.
But Suzanne had not come yet, and Marguerite being dressed, prepared togo downstairs. She looked quite a girl this morning in her simple muslinfrock, with a broad blue sash round her slim waist, and the daintycross-over fichu into which, at her bosom, she had fastened a few latecrimson roses.
She crossed the landing outside her own suite of apartments, and stoodstill for a moment at the head of the fine oak staircase, which led tothe lower floor. On her left were her husband's apartments, a suite ofrooms which she practically never entered.
They consisted of bedroom, dressing and reception room, and at theextreme end of the landing, of a small study, which, when Sir Percy didnot use it, was always kept locked. His own special and confidentialvalet, Frank, had charge of this room. No one was ever allowed to goinside. My lady had never cared to do so, and the other servants, had,of course, not dared to break this hard-and-fast rule.
Marguerite had often, with that good-natured contempt which she hadrecently adopted towards her husband, chaffed him about this secrecywhich surrounded his private study. Laughingly she had always declaredthat he strictly excluded all prying eyes from his sanctum for fear theyshould detect how very little "study" went on within its four walls: acomfortable arm-chair for Sir Percy's sweet slumbers was, no doubt, itsmost conspicuous piece of furniture.
Marguerite thought of all this on this bright October morning as sheglanced along the corridor. Frank was evidently busy with his master'srooms, for most of the doors stood open, that of the study amongst theothers.
A sudden burning, childish curiosity seized her to have a peep at SirPercy's sanctum. This restriction, of course, did not apply to her, andFrank would, of course, not dare to oppose her. Still, she hoped thatthe valet would be busy in one of the other rooms, that she might havethat one quick peep in secret, and unmolested.
Gently, on tip-toe, she crossed the landing and, like Blue Beard's wife,trembling half with excitement and wonder, she paused a moment on thethreshold, strangely perturbed and irresolute.
The door was ajar, and she could not see anything within. She pushed itopen tentatively: there was no sound: Frank was evidently not there, andshe walked boldly in.
At once she was struck by the severe simplicity of everything aroundher: the dark and heavy hangings, the massive oak furniture, the one ortwo maps on the wall, in no way recalled to her mind the lazy man abouttown, the lover of race-courses, the dandified leader of fashion, thatwas the outward representation of Sir Percy Blakeney.
There was no sign here, at any rate, of hurried departure. Everythingwas in its place, not a scrap of paper littered the floor, not acupboard or drawer was left open. The curtains were drawn aside, andthrough the open window the fresh morning air was streaming in.
Facing the window, and well into the centre of the room, stood aponderous business-like desk, which looked as if it had seen muchservice. On the wall to the left of the desk, reaching almost from floorto ceiling, was a large full-length portrait of a woman, magnificentlyframed, exquisitely painted, and signed with the name of Boucher. It wasPercy's mother.
Marguerite knew very little about her, except that she had died abroad,ailing in body as well as in mind, while Percy was still a lad. She musthave been a very beautiful woman once, when Boucher painted her, and asMarguerite looked at the portrait, she could not but be struck by theextraordinary resemblance which must have existed between mother andson. There was the same low, square forehead, crowned with thick, fairhair, smooth and heavy; the same deep-set, somewhat lazy blue eyesbeneath firmly marked, straight brows; and in those eyes there was thesame intensity behind that apparent laziness, the same latent passionwhich used to light up Percy's face in the olden days before hismarriage, and which Marguerite had again noted, last night at dawn, whenshe had come quite close to him, and had allowed a note of tenderness tocreep into her voice.
Marguerite studied the portrait, for it interested her: after that sheturned and looked again at the ponderous desk. It was covered with amass of papers, all neatly tied and docketed, which looked like accountsand receipts arrayed with perfect method. It had never before struckMarguerite--nor had she, alas! found it worth while to inquire--as tohow Sir Percy, whom all the world had credited with a total lack ofbrains, administered the vast fortune which his father had left him.
Since she had entered this neat, orderly room, she had been takenso much by surprise, that this obvious proof of her husband's strongbusiness capacities did not cause her more than a passing thought ofwonder. But it also strengthened her in the now certain knowledge that,with his worldly inanities, his foppish ways, and foolish talk, he wasnot only wearing a mask, but was playing a deliberate and studied part.
Marguerite wondered again. Why should he take all this trouble? Whyshould he--who was obviously a serious, earnest man--wish to appearbefore his fellow-men as an empty-headed nincompoop?
He may have wished to hide his love for a wife who held him in contempt. . . but surely such an object could have been gained at less sacrifice,and with far less trouble than constant incessant acting of an unnaturalpart.
She looked round her quite aimlessly now: she was horribly puzzled, anda nameless dread, before all this strange, unaccountable mystery, hadbegun to seize upon her. She felt cold and uncomfortable suddenly inthis severe and dark room. There were no pictures on the wall, save thefine Boucher portrait, only a couple of maps, both of parts of France,one of the North coast and the other of the environs of Paris. What didSir Percy want with those, she wondered.
Her head began to ache, she turned away from this strange Blue Beard'schamber, which she had entered, and which she did not understand. Shedid not wish Frank to find her here, and with a fast look round, sheonce more turned to the door. As she did so, her foot knocked against asmall object, which had apparently been lying close to the desk, on thecarpet, and which now went rolling, right across the room.
She stooped to pick it up. It was a solid gold ring, with a flat shield,on which was engraved a small device.
Marguerite turned it over in her fingers, and then studied the engravingon the shi
eld. It represented a small star-shaped flower, of a shape shehad seen so distinctly twice before: once at the opera, and once at LordGrenville's ball.
CHAPTER XIX THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
The Scarlet Pimpernel Page 18