The grey January day was falling, drowsy, and dull into the arms of night.
Marguerite, sitting in the dusk beside the fire in her small boudoir, shivered a little as she drew her scarf closer round her shoulders.
Edwards, the butler, entered with the lamp. The room looked peculiarly cheery now, with the delicate white panelling of the wall glowing tinder the soft kiss of the flickering firelight and the steadier glow of the rose-shaded lamp.
"Has the courier not arrived yet, Edwards?" asked Marguerite, fixing the impassive face of the well-drilled servant with her large purple-rimmed eyes.
"Not yet, m'lady," he replied placidly.
"It is his day, is it not?"
"Yes, m'lady. And the forenoon is his time. But there have been heavy rains, and the roads must be rare muddy. He must have been delayed, m'lady."
"Yes, I suppose so," she said listlessly. "That will do, Edwards.
No, don't close the shutters. I'll ring presently."
The man went out of the room as automatically as he had come. He closed the door behind him, and Marguerite was once more alone.
She picked up the book which she had fingered idly before the light gave out. She tried once more to fix her attention on this tale of love and adventure written by Mr. Fielding; but she had lost the thread of the story, and there was a mist between her eyes and the printed pages.
With an impatient gesture she threw down the book and passed her hand across her eyes, then seemed astonished to find that her hand was wet.
She rose and went to the window. The air outside had been singularly mild all day; the thaw was persisting, and a south wind came across the Channel--from France.
Marguerite threw open the casement and sat down on the wide sill, leaning her head against the window-frame, and gazing out into the fast gathering gloom. From far away, at the foot of the gently sloping lawns, the river murmured softly in the night; in the borders to the right and left a few snowdrops still showed like tiny white specks through the surrounding darkness. Winter had begun the process of slowly shedding its mantle, coquetting with Spring, who still lingered in the land of Infinity. Gradually the shadows drew closer and closer; the reeds and rushes on the river bank were the first to sink into their embrace, then the big cedars on the lawn, majestic and defiant, but yielding still unconquered to the power of night.
The tiny stars of snowdrop blossoms vanished one by one, and at last the cool, grey ribbon of the river surface was wrapped under the mantle of evening.
Only the south wind lingered on, soughing gently in the drowsy reeds, whispering among the branches of the cedars, and gently stirring the tender corollas of the sleeping snowdrops.
Marguerite seemed to open out her lungs to its breath. It had come all the way from France, and on its wings had brought something of Percy--a murmur as if he had spoken--a memory that was as intangible as a dream.
She shivered again, though of a truth it was not cold. The courier's delay had completely unsettled her nerves. Twice a week he came especially from Dover, and always he brought some message, some token which Percy had contrived to send from Paris. They were like tiny scraps of dry bread thrown to a starving woman, but they did just help to keep her heart alive--that poor, aching, disappointed heart that so longed for enduring happiness which it could never get.
The man whom she loved with all her soul, her mind and her body, did not belong to her; he belonged to suffering humanity over there in terror-stricken France, where the cries of the innocent, the persecuted, the wretched called louder to him than she in her love could do.
He had been away three months now, during which time her starving heart had fed on its memories, and the happiness of a brief visit from him six weeks ago, when--quite unexpectedly--he had appeared before her ... home between two desperate adventures that had given life and ******* to a number of innocent people, and nearly cost him his--and she had lain in his arms in a swoon of perfect happiness.
But be had gone away again as suddenly as he had come, and for six weeks now she had lived partly in anticipation of the courier with messages from him, and partly on the fitful joy engendered by these messages. To-day she had not even that, and the disappointment seemed just now more than she could bear.
She felt unaccountably restless, and could she but have analysed her feelings--had she dared so to do--she would have realised that the weight which oppressed her heart so that she could hardly breathe, was one of vague yet dark foreboding.
She closed the window and returned to her seat by the fire, taking up her hook with the strong resolution not to allow her nerves to get the better of her. But it was difficult to pin one's attention down to the adventures of Master Tom Jones when one's mind was fully engrossed with those of Sir Percy Blakeney.
The sound of carriage wheels on the gravelled forecourt in the front of the house suddenly awakened her drowsy senses. She threw down the book, and with trembling hands clutched the arms of her chair, straining her ears to listen. A carriage at this hour--and on this damp winter's evening! She racked her mind wondering who it could be.
Lady Ffoulkes was in London, she knew. Sir Andrew, of course, was in Paris. His Royal Highness, ever a faithful visitor, would surely not venture out to Richmond in this inclement weather--and the courier always came on horseback.
There was a murmur of voices; that of Edwards, mechanical and placid, could be heard quite distinctly saying:
"I'm sure that her ladyship will be at home for you, m'lady. But I'll go and ascertain."
Marguerite ran to the door and with joyful eagerness tore it open.
"Suzanne!" she called "my little Suzanne! I thought you were in London. Come up quickly! In the boudoir--yes. Oh! what good fortune hath brought you?"
