Lord Tony’s Wife Baroness Orczy (story read aloud .TXT) 📖

Every drop of blood in her seemed to be frozen by terror: her knees shook: her heart almost stopped its beating.

Under the door something small and white had just been introduced⁠—a scrap of paper; and there it remained⁠—white against the darkness of the unwashed boards⁠—a mysterious message left here by an unknown hand, whilst the unknown footsteps softly crept down the stairs again.

For awhile longer Yvonne remained as she was⁠—cowering against the wall⁠—like a timid little animal, fearful lest that innocent-looking object hid some unthought-of danger. Then at last she gathered courage. Trembling with excitement she raised herself to her knees and then on hands and knees⁠—for she was very weak and faint⁠—she crawled up to that mysterious piece of paper and picked it up.

Her trembling hand closed over it. With wide staring terror-filled eyes she looked all round the narrow room, ere she dared cast one more glance on that mysterious scrap of paper. Then she struggled to her feet and tottered up to the table. She sat down and with fingers numbed with cold she smoothed out the paper and held it close to the light, trying to read what was written on it.

Her sight was blurred. She had to pull herself resolutely together, for suddenly she felt ashamed of her weakness and her overwhelming terror yielded to feverish excitement.

The scrap of paper contained a message⁠—a message addressed to her in that name of which she was so proud⁠—the name which she thought she would never be allowed to bear again: Lady Anthony Dewhurst. She reiterated the words several times, her lips clinging lovingly to them⁠—and just below them there was a small device, drawn in red ink⁠ ⁠… a tiny flower with five petals.⁠ ⁠…

Yvonne frowned and murmured, vaguely puzzled⁠—no longer frightened now: “A flower⁠ ⁠… drawn in red⁠ ⁠… what can it mean?”

And as a vague memory struggled for expression in her troubled mind she added half aloud: “Oh! if it should be⁠ ⁠… !”

But now suddenly all her fears fell away from her. Hope was once more knocking at the gates of her heart⁠—vague memories had taken definite shape⁠ ⁠… the mysterious letter⁠ ⁠… the message of hope⁠ ⁠… the red flower⁠ ⁠… all were gaining significance. She stooped low to read the letter by the feeble light of the flickering candle. She read it through with her eyes first⁠—then with her lips in a soft murmur, while her mind gradually took in all that it meant for her.

“Keep up your courage. Your friends are inside the city and on the watch. Try the door of your prison every evening at one hour before midnight. Once you will find it yield. Slip out and creep noiselessly down the stairs. At the bottom a friendly hand will be stretched out for you. Take it with confidence⁠—it will lead you to safety and to freedom. Courage and secrecy.”

When she had finished reading, her eyes were swimming in tears. There was no longer any doubt in her mind about the message now, for her dear milor had so often spoken to her about the brave Scarlet Pimpernel who had risked his precious life many a time ere this, in order to render service to the innocent and the oppressed. And now, of a surety, this message came from him: from her dear milor and from his gallant chief. There was the small device⁠—the little red flower which had so often brought hope to despairing hearts. And it was more than hope that it brought to Yvonne. It brought certitude and happiness, and a sweet, tender remorse that she should ever have doubted. She ought to have known all along that everything would be for the best: she had no right ever to have given way to despair. In her heart she prayed for forgiveness from her dear absent milor.

How could she ever doubt him? Was it likely that he would abandon her?⁠—he and that brave friend of his whose powers were indeed magical. Why! she ought to have done her best to keep up her physical as well as her mental faculties⁠—who knows? But perhaps physical strength might be of inestimable value both to herself and to her gallant rescuers presently.

She took up the stale brown bread and ate it resolutely. She drank some water and then stamped round the room to get some warmth into her limbs.

A distant clock had struck ten awhile ago⁠—and if possible she ought to get an hour’s rest before the time came for her to be strong and to act: so she shook up her meagre straw paillasse and lay down, determined if possible to get a little sleep⁠—for indeed she felt that that was just what her dear milor would have wished her to do.

Thus time went by⁠—waking or dreaming, Yvonne could never afterwards have said in what state she waited during that one long hour which separated her from the great, blissful moment. The bit of candle burnt low and presently died out. After that Yvonne remained quite still upon the straw, in total darkness: no light came in through the tiny window, only the cold northwesterly wind blew in in gusts. But of a surety the prisoner who was within sight of freedom felt neither cold nor fatigue now.

The tower-clock in the distance struck the quarters with dreary monotony.

The last stroke of eleven ceased to vibrate through the stillness of the winter’s night.

Yvonne roused herself from the torpor-like state into which she had fallen. She tried to struggle to her feet, but intensity of excitement had caused a strange numbness to invade her limbs. She could hardly move. A second or two ago it had seemed to her that she heard a gentle scraping noise at the door⁠—a drawing of bolts⁠—the grating of a key in the lock⁠—then again, soft, shuffling footsteps that came and went and that were not those of Louise Adet.

At last Yvonne contrived to stand on her feet; but she had to