The Elusive Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy (books to read to improve english txt) 📕

He would not trust himself to speak; it well-nigh seemed as if his sinews cracked with the violent effort at self-control. Oh! how she loved him, when she felt in him the passionate lover, the wild, untamed creature that he was at heart, on whom the frigid courtliness of manner sat but as a thin veneer. This was his own real personality, and there was little now of the elegant and accomplished gentleman of fashion, schooled to hold every emotion in check, to hide every thought, every desire save that for amusement or for display.

She⁠—feeling her power and his weakness now⁠—gave herself wholly to his embrace, not grudging one single, passionate caress, yielding her lips to him, the while she murmured:

“You cannot go⁠ ⁠… you cannot⁠ ⁠… why should you go?⁠ ⁠… It is madness to leave me⁠ ⁠… I cannot let you go⁠ ⁠…”

Her arms clung tenderly round him, her voice was warm and faintly shaken with suppressed tears, and as he wildly murmured: “Don’t! for pity’s sake!” she almost felt that her love would be triumphant.

“For pity’s sake, I’ll go on pleading, Percy!” she whispered. “Oh! my love, my dear! do not leave me!⁠ ⁠… we have scarce had time to savour our happiness⁠ ⁠… we have such arrears of joy to make up.⁠ ⁠… Do not go, Percy⁠ ⁠… there’s so much I want to say to you.⁠ ⁠… Nay! you shall not! you shall not!” she added with sudden vehemence. “Look me straight in the eyes, my dear, and tell me if you can leave now?”

He did not reply, but, almost roughly, he placed his hand over her tear-dimmed eyes, which were turned up to his, in an agony of tender appeal. Thus he blindfolded her with that wild caress. She should not see⁠—no, not even she!⁠—that for the space of a few seconds stern manhood was well-nigh vanquished by the magic of her love.

All that was most human in him, all that was weak in this strong and untamed nature, cried aloud for peace and luxury and idleness: for long summer afternoons spent in lazy content, for the companionship of horses and dogs and of flowers, with no thought or cares save those for the next evening’s gavotte, no graver occupation save that of sitting at her feet.

And during these few seconds, whilst his hand lay across her eyes, the lazy, idle fop of fashionable London was fighting a hand-to-hand fight with the bold leader of a band of adventurers: and his own passionate love for his wife ranged itself with fervent intensity on the side of his weaker self. Forgotten were the horrors of the guillotine, the calls of the innocent, the appeal of the helpless; forgotten the daring adventures, the excitements, the hair’s-breadth escapes; for those few seconds, heavenly in themselves, he only remembered her⁠—his wife⁠—her beauty and her tender appeal to him.

She would have pleaded again, for she felt that she was winning in this fight: her instinct⁠—that unerring instinct of the woman who loves and feels herself beloved⁠—told her that for the space of an infinitesimal fraction of time, his iron will was inclined to bend; but he checked her pleading with a kiss.

Then there came a change.

Like a gigantic wave carried inwards by the tide, his turbulent emotion seemed suddenly to shatter itself against a rock of self-control. Was it a call from the boatmen below? a distant scrunching of feet upon the gravel?⁠—who knows, perhaps only a sigh in the midnight air, a ghostly summons from the land of dreams that recalled him to himself.

Even as Marguerite was still clinging to him, with the ardent fervour of her own passion, she felt the rigid tension of his arms relax, the power of his embrace weaken, the wild love-light become dim in his eyes.

He kissed her fondly, tenderly, and with infinite gentleness smoothed away the little damp curls from her brow. There was a wistfulness now in his caress, and in his kiss there was the finality of a long farewell.

“ ’Tis time I went,” he said, “or we shall miss the tide.”

These were the first coherent words he had spoken since first she had met him here in this lonely part of the garden, and his voice was perfectly steady, conventional and cold. An icy pang shot through Marguerite’s heart. It was as if she had been abruptly wakened from a beautiful dream.

“You are not going, Percy!” she murmured, and her own voice now sounded hollow and forced. “Oh! if you loved me you would not go!”

“If I love you!”

Nay! in this at least there was no dream! no coldness in his voice when he repeated those words with such a sigh of tenderness, such a world of longing, that the bitterness of her great pain vanished, giving place to tears. He took her hand in his. The passion was momentarily conquered, forced within his innermost soul, by his own alter ego, that second personality in him, the cold-blooded and coolly-calculating adventurer who juggled with his life and tossed it recklessly upon the sea of chance ’twixt a doggerel and a smile. But the tender love lingered on, fighting the enemy a while longer, the wistful desire was there for her kiss, the tired longing for the exquisite repose of her embrace.

He took her hand in his, and bent his lips to it, and with the warmth of his kiss upon it, she felt a moisture like a tear.

“I must go, dear,” he said, after a little while.

“Why? Why?” she repeated obstinately. “Am I nothing then? Is my life of no account? My sorrows? My fears? My misery? Oh!” she added with vehement bitterness, “why should it always be others? What are others to you and to me, Percy?⁠ ⁠… Are we not happy here?⁠ ⁠… Have you not fulfilled to its uttermost that self-imposed duty to people who can be nothing to us?⁠ ⁠… Is not your life ten thousand times more precious to me than the lives of ten thousand others?”

Even through the darkness, and because his face