The Scarlet Pimpernel

continent of Europe.


III
The Refugees

Feeling in every part of England certainly ran very high at this time against the French and their doings. Smugglers and legitimate traders between the French and the English coasts brought snatches of news from over the water, which made every honest Englishman’s blood boil, and made him long to have “a good go” at those murderers, who had imprisoned their king and all his family, subjected the queen and the royal children to every species of indignity, and were even now loudly demanding the blood of the whole Bourbon family and of every one of its adherents.
The execution of the Princesse de Lamballe, Marie Antoinette’s young and charming friend, had filled everyone in England with unspeakable horror, the daily execution of scores of royalists of good family, whose only sin was their aristocratic name, seemed to cry for vengeance to the whole of civilised Europe.
Yet, with all that, no one dared to interfere. Burke had exhausted all his eloquence in trying to induce the British Government to fight the revolutionary government of France, but  Mr. Pitt, with characteristic prudence, did not feel that this country was fit yet to embark on another arduous and costly war. It was for Austria to take the initiative; Austria, whose fairest daughter was even now a dethroned queen, imprisoned and insulted by a howling mob; surely ’twas not⁠—so argued  Mr. Fox⁠—for the whole of England to take up arms, because one set of Frenchmen chose to murder another.
As for  Mr. Jellyband and his fellow John Bulls, though they looked upon all foreigners with withering contempt, they were royalist and anti-revolutionists to a man, and at this present moment were furious with Pitt for his caution and moderation, although they naturally understood nothing of the diplomatic reasons which guided that great man’s policy.
But now Sally came running back, very excited and very eager. The joyous company in the coffee-room had heard nothing of the noise outside, but she had spied a dripping horse and rider who had stopped at the door of the Fisherman’s Rest, and while the stable boy ran forward to take charge of the horse, pretty Miss Sally went to the front door to greet the welcome visitor.
“I think I see’d my Lord Antony’s horse out in the yard, father,” she said, as she ran across the coffee-room.
But already the door had been thrown open from outside, and the next moment an arm, covered in drab cloth and dripping with the heavy rain, was round pretty Sally’s waist, while a hearty voice echoed along the polished rafters of the coffee-room.
“Aye, and bless your brown eyes for being so sharp, my pretty Sally,” said the man who had just entered, whilst worthy  Mr. Jellyband came bustling forward, eager, alert and fussy, as became the advent of one of the most favoured guests of his hostel.
“Lud, I protest, Sally,” added Lord Antony, as he deposited a kiss on Miss Sally’s blooming cheeks, “but you are growing prettier and prettier every time I see you⁠—and my honest friend, Jellyband here, must have hard work to keep the fellows off that slim waist of yours. What say you,  Mr. Waite?”
 Mr. Waite⁠—torn between his respect for my lord and his dislike of that particular type of joke⁠—only replied with a doubtful grunt.
Lord Antony Dewhurst, one of the sons of the Duke of Exeter, was in those days a very perfect type of a young English gentlemen⁠—tall, well setup, broad of shoulders and merry of face, his laughter rang loudly wherever he went. A good sportsman, a lively companion, a courteous, well-bred man of the world, with not too much brains to spoil his temper, he was a universal favourite in London drawing-rooms or in the coffee-rooms of village inns. At the Fisherman’s Rest everyone knew him⁠—for he was fond of a trip across to France, and always spent a night under worthy  Mr. Jellyband’s roof on his way there or back.
He nodded to Waite, Pitkin and the others as he at last released Sally’s waist, and crossed over to the hearth to warm and dry himself: as he did so, he cast a quick, somewhat suspicious glance at the two strangers, who had quietly resumed their game of dominoes, and for a moment a look of deep earnestness, even of anxiety, clouded his jovial young face.
But only for a moment; the next he turned to  Mr. Hempseed, who was respectfully touching his forelock.
“Well,  Mr. Hempseed, and how is the fruit?”
“Badly, my lord, badly,” replied  Mr. Hempseed, dolefully, “but what can you ’xpect with this ’ere government favourin’ them rascals over in France, who would murder their king and all their nobility.”
“Odd’s life!” retorted Lord Antony; “so they would, honest Hempseed⁠—at least those they can get hold of, worse luck! But we have got some friends coming here tonight, who at any rate have evaded their clutches.”
It almost seemed, when the young man said these words, as if he threw a defiant look towards the quiet strangers in the corner.
“Thanks to you, my lord, and to your friends, so I’ve heard it said,” said  Mr. Jellyband.
But in a moment Lord Antony’s hand fell warningly on mine host’s arm.
“Hush!” he said peremptorily, and instinctively once again looked towards the strangers.
“Oh! Lud love you, they are all right, my lord,” retorted Jellyband; “don’t you be afraid. I wouldn’t have spoken, only I knew we were among friends. That gentleman over there is as true and loyal a subject of King George as you are yourself, my lord saving your presence. He is but lately arrived in Dover, and is settling down in business in these parts.”
“In business? Faith, then, it must be as an undertaker, for I vow I never beheld a more rueful countenance.”
“Nay, my lord, I believe that the gentleman is a widower, which no doubt would account for the melancholy of his bearing⁠—but he is a friend, nevertheless, I’ll vouch for that⁠—and you will own, my lord, that who should judge of a face better than the