Blue Eyes and Grey

By Baroness Emmuska Orczy

The romance of a man who slipped and recovered…
As dramatic and moving anything the author of “The Scarlet Pimpernel” has ever written… “And the story—the lovable Amos, the wicked Mr. Horfman, patient Blue Eyes and adorable Grey Eyes—all contrive to bring about the well-known Orczy mixture of love and adventure, laughter nad tears.”
Daily Telegraph

• Language: English
• Publisher: Classica Libris
• Release date: Sep 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9791221395778

Baroness Emmuska Orczy

Baroness Emma Orczy (; 23 September 1865 – 12 November 1947), usually known as Baroness Orczy (the name under which she was published) or to her family and friends as Emmuska Orczy, was a Hungarian-born British novelist and playwright. She is best known for her series of novels featuring the Scarlet Pimpernel, the alter ego of Sir Percy Blakeney, a wealthy English fop who turns into a quick-thinking escape artist in order to save French aristocrats from "Madame Guillotine" during the French Revolution, establishing the "hero with a secret identity" in popular culture.

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Baroness Emmuska Orczy

BLUE EYES AND GREY

Copyright

First published in 1928

Copyright © 2022 Classica Libris

The characters in this book are entirely fictitious and not one of them is the portrait of any living person

Dedication

To

the President,

Directors and all

connected with that

marvellous organization

the Canadian Pacific Railway.

To you whose unparalleled kindness

and generous hospitality enabled me to

visit your marvellous country and the scenes

where the regeneration of a young soul cast down by

misfortunes in the Old Country actually took place,

do I dedicate this faithful and true record of sin and of

atonement. For obvious reasons I have modified even the

incidents of the story, in order to preserve the anonymity

of the principal characters, but the story is a true

one in its main facts. It aroused my keenest

interest and sympathy at the time that it

occurred, but I could not have written the

book had it not been for the happy

time you gave me in Canada.

In all gratitude and

friendship, therefore, I

dedicate "Blue Eyes

and Grey" to

you.

Monte Carlo, 1928

Emmuska Orczy

Prologue

They were waiting together on the landing stage. The liner from Montreal was late owing to the fog. But the fog had lifted, and the ship might loom out of the darkness at any moment. And these last few minutes were so precious—so very, very precious. They had had an excellent dinner at the Château Frontenac; everybody had been so kind; it was hard to leave it all, the gaiety, the lavish hospitality, the new friends, and above all Fay. She had walked with him as far as the landing stage, so as to put off the inevitable farewell as long as possible. Here in Quebec there had been little if any fog; the waning moon, always so unaccountably mysterious and different to other moons, threw a shower of diamonds over the swift current of the great river, and endowed even distant Levis, its few towers and irregular buildings, with a strange, poetic beauty.

To Amos there was beauty everywhere, beauty and sadness. He was very young, only twenty-two, he was in love for the first time in his short life, and the object of his adoration was standing close beside him, with her head partly hidden under her closely fitting little cloché hat, and partly buried in the fur collar of her coat, so that all he could see of her face was her eyes, those large, luminous eyes with that far-off look in them peculiar to dwellers in vast spaces. Only yesterday it had seemed as if this wonderful happiness would last forever and ever. When her eyes had softened and her hand become warm and yielding, when presently she had turned and nestled her head against his shoulder, he felt that the world had become a paradise in which he and Fay could dwell forever.

He had forgotten that he would have to go away on the morrow, to return to England. His passage was booked: he had to go back. For one thing he would have to work now, to make a name for himself and a home for her. His mind was full of schemes, his whole being filled with ambition. If father was alive now he would no longer have cause for complaint that Amos was forever idling his time away, that Amos would not work: neither at Harrow nor at Oxford. He would not work. Father used to send for him periodically and read him endless lectures. Mother, his pretty mother with the white hands and crimson lips, would weep and make him promise that he would turn over a new leaf and work—really work: and neither father’s lectures nor mother’s tears would have the slightest effect on his incorrigible supineness, his indolence of mind. Life was so nice! There were so many nice things to do at school or at college, whilst work was usually dreary and school cricket tiresome.

I would forgive you, father used to say, if at least you were good at games. Look at John, captain of his house eleven, or James, a double blue at Oxford, or else Harry, first-class honours in law. Games or work, my boy, you do neither.

It was quite right. He didn’t. That time when father and mother came down to Harrow to watch the cricket, Amos, who had been most unwillingly pushed into his house’s junior team, was seen at a critical moment in the match practising standing on his head, when he should have been fielding. Neither at games nor at work was Amos any good. But give him a pony, or later on a horse, give him a high jump or a water jump, give him a chance of putting up his fists, or give him a foil, an épée or a sabre, and he would give a good account of himself. Unfortunately those things weren’t thought much of at school or college; not like games or the boat, so, of course, father was not satisfied.

All that, however, was going to be so different now. With Fay as his aim in life, Amos was setting out to conquer the world.

They had spent a wonderful evening last night making plans:

You wouldn’t mind, Amos had suggested tentatively, if I went into business, would you? Shipping pays awfully well, you know. Or tea, or rubber, he concluded with a vague gesture of his hand which held the cigarette.

Fay, who had been born on the prairie and who had worked in Neave’s stores during vacation time while she was completing her education at Toronto University, before her father had become the rich man he now was, had assured him that she wouldn’t mind it in the least if he went into shipping, or tea, or rubber.

Nor would she mind living in England. She had visited England last year with her mother and father, and at a dance given by a mutual friend she had met Amos. They had quickly become pals—but only pals. Amos at the time was paying marked attention to two or three beautiful débutantes in London, and the Canadian girl, though pretty, was nothing like so smart and up to date as they were. But somehow or other he took to Fay, and Fay to him. And when the tragedy occurred—the awful tragedy—when his mother with the delicate white hands and crimson lips went off with that cad Burton-Conroy, and his father, in despair at the wreckage of his home, put a bullet through his brains, Amos had remembered the kind Canadian friends: Mr. and Mrs. Mazeline—and he remembered Fay.

They wrote to him, kind letters of sympathy, and asked him to come out and pay them a visit. He needed distraction, for his nerves were all on edge, and he went. He had spent four lovely months in Canada; had stayed with the Mazelines at their pretty bungalow on the lakes, and at their town house in Montreal; had travelled across the great continent and seen this new world now awakening from its age-long sleep. But above all he had felt this great love for Fay Mazeline growing in his heart, until his whole being seemed transformed. They had gone on long trail-rides together, they had tramped and motored together, and stood hand-in-hand, mute and awed by the glories of nature made manifest in giant canyons and turbulent waterfalls. They had played tennis and danced, and bathed in the lakes, and had thought that life henceforth would flow on forever in the same smooth and happy way. Then one day had come the summons for Amos to return home. What money he had was giving out; the lawyer who at one time had seemed so accommodating, had suddenly cried a halt and refused further supplies. Amos must come home and see to things: that was the trumpet call that sounded the knell of happy Canadian days. It found the Mazelines at Quebec on a visit to some relations and Amos Beyvin as usual in their company.

A few days spent in the old historic town, a few rambles in Kent Park or the Île d’Orléans, and now Shed 18, with the tender moored against it, gently balanced on the bosom of the great river, and the St. Lawrence flowing silently and ceaselessly to the great ocean which for endless days to come would lie between Amos and all that he had learned to love.

You won’t forget me? he murmured over and over again, clumsily, stupidly, just because he felt choked, and no other words would come so readily as those.

At first Fay had responded with a shake of the head, trying very hard not to cry. But when he asked her for the fifth time if she wouldn’t forget she said rather huskily:

You hurt me when you say that, Amos.

So after that he couldn’t say anything more, chiefly because no other words would come, and also because there were people about, walking up and down, and they might overhear. He longed—longed with painful intensity for one more kiss: that last one snatched in a dark corner of the lounge at the Château Frontenac was the most wonderful thing he had ever experienced in his life, and he longed with all his might for one more taste of it. This horrible, crowded stage, how he hated it! how he hated all those people who were walking up and down, not knowing, not understanding! And how he hated this great silent river, and the liner which presently would loom out of the darkness and carry him away all those hundreds of miles from Fay!

I’ll make pots of money, you’ll see, he contrived to say after a little while.

I’m sure, she whispered.

And then I’ll come and fetch you.

I shall be ready.

And we’ll get married.

Yes!

She gave a great sigh, for she felt herself choking with sobs, which she was determined to keep back. And suddenly Amos felt her little hand firmly gripping his wrist.

Look, she whispered.

She was looking up at the sky, and obediently he looked up too: then held his breath, awed, amazed, for he had never seen anything like it before. The whole sky was suffused with Northern Lights. It looked as if giant hands were wielding filmy veils of the palest mauve and rose and chrysoprase, moving them across the surface of the night, winding them in and out as if in folds of translucent gauze.

A voice from somewhere out of the crowd said:

I’ve never seen such a fine display!

But to Amos those pale, ever-moving tints were not a mere manifestation of nature, they were the robes of an unseen goddess—and that goddess his own destiny. Movement and colour and vaporous, intangible beauty, through which the waning moon shone with a golden radiance and the stars glittered with a promise of something great and wonderful that lay beyond. The word Wonderful rose out of his heart but never reached his lips. He could only clutch Fay’s hand—that little hand which was the fulfilment of all that those mysterious lights did promise him.

Even the ultimate farewell, when at last the liner was in sight and the tender put off with him on board, seemed less poignant than Amos had feared. Slowly the distance widened between himself and that slim little figure on the landing stage. She stood there straight as a young sapling from the vast forests of her native land, clutching her small handbag, with fingers interlocked in a gesture of determination not to break down till she was out of his sight. Two or three women, who like herself had come to see some dear ones off, were sobbing audibly. But Fay did not cry. The tears would come later; when she was alone.

At the last, when the tender was alongside the liner, and all the passengers hustled in order to get on board, Amos took a final long glance at the land where he had tasted such marvellous happiness. The great mass of the picturesque hotel towering above the river was lit up by hundreds of little lights. And on the bridge of Shed 18, Fay was standing with her face turned to the sky. Overhead the Titans and the gods moved and waved the folds of their luminous robes. A radiance of pale tints vied with the golden light of the moon for mastery over the night.

And then the liner slowly began to move downstream.

BOOK I

THE OLD WORLD

Chapter 1

Amos Beyvin had been taken back to the cells, in anticipation of the verdict.

The verdict! Oh, my God!

He knew what it would be, of course. He was guilty, and he knew it. So did those twelve men who had sat wooden-faced and impassible whilst an array of witnesses was brought one by one to tell the tale of that awful night. All the while that this went on—this swearing-in, these examinations and cross-examinations and summing-up and what-not, the whole paraphernalia with which Justice chooses to surround herself—Amos Beyvin had only been conscious of an unendurable feeling of impatience. Why all this? Why didn’t they get on with it? He had owned up to it, had in legal parlance pleaded guilty; then why all this? Two days! It had been hell and worse than hell. But now it was all drawing to an end, and in a few minutes it would be all over. The judge would put on a black cap and say something about God’s mercy in connection with death and the hangman’s rope.

Amos had often in the past read about such things in the papers. Some wretched devil had been sent to the gallows, and Amos would shrug his shoulders and quickly turn to the Sporting Column, which was more amusing. He didn’t think of these creatures as wretched devils in those days—that is if he thought of them at all. No! He was just indifferent or else thought: What a brute! Deserves hanging, of course.

Amos wondered vaguely how many of his friends, when they read the verdict in his case, would say with an indifferent shrug: That brute Beyvin! Deserves hanging, of course. They would be the righteous ones, his relations, people who had never been involved in anything more exciting than a friendly game of bridge—people, too, who had looked askance at him because of his mother—his poor little mother—and because of his father, who would not face the world after she left him, and had put a bullet through his brains. These people, of course, would cast their eyes up to the ceiling and murmur: Of course, my dear, what can you expect? With such a mother, and such a father? The boy never had a chance.

They didn’t know about Fay! The one chance Amos had had in his life. A chance which he had thrown aside like a fool, the criminal fool, that he was. And yet he had loved her, loved her with an intensity that he had not gauged until now. That night when the liner bore him away down the St. Lawrence River, and the lights of Quebec slowly faded away in the distance, he had felt a heartache such as he had never experienced before or since—a heartache which in itself was akin to happiness, for it taught him what love really meant, the joy of perfect union, the sweet sadness of enforced farewells. His only anxiety in those days was that Fay might forget: that she might forget him and the impassioned words which he had whispered in her ear: that she might forget that wonderful kiss which had at the time seemed to weld her whole soul to his own. And because of this anxiety, which was ever present, he had written to her every day, putting his whole heart into every word he wrote. He sent a long budget off to her by the tender some hours before the liner entered the Mersey, and another when he landed at Liverpool. And after that for weeks and months he wrote every day, and once a week he had a reply from her.

She never wrote much, didn’t Fay. It was not her way. She never said much either by word of mouth or on paper. She would tell him about the friends at Montreal where she spent the winter season, about the lectures she had heard, her activities in connection with the Women’s Club, the articles she had written and which had appeared in the Gazette or the Star: and then right at the end there would be a few words, a phrase or two, so sweet and tender, just like herself: they would send Amos wandering back into that paradise which her kiss had opened up for him; he would press the paper to his lips, the paper on which her hand had rested, and he would close his eyes and, as in a vision, see her slim figure standing on the bridge of Shed 18 wrapped in her fur coat, and her dear face turned up to the sky. He would hear her whisper: Look! and obediently he would gaze upwards, too, and see the Northern Lights, the titanic veils, pale rose and mauve and turquoise, move and wave across the sky like luminous gauze draperies wielded by giant hands.

Fay was to him like the spirit of those lights, pure and radiant as they. For weeks he wrote to her every day and had his weekly letter from her. He was very busy looking for a job: but none had presented itself as yet. A little money had come to him from his father, so he felt that he need not hurry. When he did take on a job it should be a good one: one that had possibilities and a future, so that he and Fay could get married before this year was out. As a matter of fact there was the prospect of something very good turning up soon. He had the promise of an introduction to a big shipping magnate who was returning to England from Australia in June, and who had said to a friend of Amos out there that he would be requiring a young secretary when he returned, one with a public-school and university education. The very thing for Amos.

He wrote to Fay about that and asked her advice. Long before her answer came he had already decided not to rush into anything in a hurry, but to wait for the return of the shipping magnate from Australia. From what his friend said, he, Amos, was just the very man for this secretarial job, which, by the way, was worth £1,200 a year, to commence. So as there were three or four months’ time to kill until June, Amos decided to join a party of young people who were motoring down to the South of France. They would stay in Paris for few days, which, of course, would be very educative, as they would visit museums, picture galleries and the Comédie Française. And after that they would drive through gorgeous scenery and spend a month at Cannes, Nice or Monte Carlo.

Still Amos wrote to Fay every day—that is while they were in Paris. The trouble came when he and the party were motoring. Driving all day, tired at night, up betimes, Amos missed writing one day, then two. He wrote as soon as they arrived at Cannes, explaining everything. Then somehow he missed another day, and then another, and presently he was writing to Fay twice a week—oh! quite regularly for a time, telling her all about the Riviera and the beautiful sunshine and the warmth, so different from the snow of the prairies, or the cold, moonlit nights on the lakes.

Amos never actually perceived that he was drifting. His love for Fay was as great as it had ever been, of that he was absolutely convinced; but, of course, to write to her every day, when she was still content to reply once a week, was ridiculous. And once when at a dinner party in the Casino he gave a description to his friends of the wonderful Northern Lights which he had seen on the St. Lawrence, Muriel Lamprière had shrugged her pretty shoulders and said, laughing: Brrr! how cold! you are making me shiver, Amos! and she had darted a queer glance at him out of her large dark-rimmed eyes and added: I suppose the Canadian girls make you shiver, too! They are very cold, aren’t they?

Cold? Amos at once thought of Fay. Was she as cold as those pale-toned Northern Lights? as distant? as elusive? He caught himself comparing her to Muriel Lamprière. She certainly was not as gay, nor nearly as amusing. Muriel could keep a crowd amused with her stories and her remarks, and she could make a man’s nerves tingle with the sparkle of her eyes and play of her lips. And then Fay was just herself, exquisite as a snowdrop, radiant with life, tender and sympathetic. Muriel with her thin shoulders and rouged lips, and her long legs and pointed knees, was all very well for an evening’s amusement, but imagine her at breakfast with pale lips and tired eyes, her nerves on edge, her temper trying.

Amos was quite glad when she went away with an aunt to spend a month in Rome, and when he heard presently that she was engaged to an American millionaire. He came back to London and, in his own words, had a hectic season. Once a week he wrote and told Fay all about it—balls, theatres, dinners, Ascot, Goodwood, Lord’s and so on. He was asked to join a house party for shooting in Scotland, then he had some hunting in Yorkshire, and was back in London for the little season. Busy wasn’t the word! Impossible to write every week! Fay would understand! He simply hadn’t had a minute this past fortnight. He thanked her for her last two letters and loved her more ardently than ever. Soon he would have some good news for her about a splendid job which he had in view.

And so Amos continued to drift. He hardly noticed it when Fay’s letters arrived more and more irregularly, when a whole month went by once without a letter from her. Folly! Criminal folly! It was too late now to regret. Love and life were going away from him together, hand-in-hand. Both had been very sweet, very precious: and both had turned to Dead Sea fruit. Life with all the gaiety of the past two years, ending as it did in such unutterable shame: and love which was nothing now but a might-have-been.

Would Fay ever know? Every coherent thought which had coursed through Amos Beyvin’s mind since that terrible night had centred on this: Would Fay know? Would his miserable case be of sufficient importance to be reported in the Canadian press? or would an English paper casually picked up reveal to her the awful tragedy? He hoped with the full strength of his soul that she would never hear, but only think that he had gradually learned to forget.

But if Fay did know, what would she feel? Pity for him or contempt? Love, of course, would be dead—killed by his own folly—and there was Muriel. If Fay knew anything she would know about Muriel. Poor Muriel! Had she succeeded in slipping away, or was she caught like