THE COUSIN FROM BRITTANY
Gabrielle was singing softly as she bent over her tambour frame.
She could sing now that she was alone in her own little boudoir, with
no fear of Morry's intrusions and his wearisome lectures.
The idea of Morry daring to lecture her!
A white chin was tilted upwards at the very thought. And because,
forsooth, she chose to reject the suitor he would have had her take for
husband.
Marry Lord Denningham indeed! The very thought sent the angry blood
racing through her veins.
Why, she would rather be an old maid like Miss Tabitha Mainwaring, or a
nun in the Convent of the Sacred Heart, and wear ugly black robes all
her life, than be wife to a wretch like that!
The silk snapped short under too hasty fingers, and the song ended in a
gasp of indignation, as she recalled the insolently apprising glance of
half-closed blue eyes.
She hated Lord Denningham.
How tiresome this work was! She had pricked her finger, and stained
the green satin. It was most annoying, but no wonder things went wrong
when she thought of that man.
And he might have killed that poor Mr. Berrington when they fought
together. The colour was rising to her cheeks now, and the silk she
tugged at in such desperation was becoming woefully knotted.
They had fought, of course, because--well--because Lord Denningham had
insulted Mr. Berrington's honour.
But her woman's vanity--in spite of repression--brought a flickering
dimple to her cheek as she told herself quite silently that she had
been at the root of the quarrel. Not that she cared for the husks of
affection which Lord Denningham offered her.
Lady Helmington, in loquacious mood, had given her an insight as to how
much his so-called love was worth. The memory of that lady's
conversation brought the blush to her cheek.
But Michael!
Ah! he was so different.
The tambour frame lay in her lap, with her fingers idle a-top of it,
having given up the battle with frayed silks.
She was dreaming of grey eyes.
Michael! Michael!
The birds at the lattice window were singing the sweet refrain of his
name.
Michael! Michael!
Yes, he was her lover--the only one for her in the wide world.
He had come to her in childhood, a lean, untidy lad, with laughing eyes
and hair all awry; but, as he knelt on one knee at her feet, she had
chosen him there and then as her true knight for ever and ever.
Then the long years rolled between till the day when she stood alone,
sighing for a lover, jealous, perhaps, of the songs of mating birds in
the spring woods around.
And he had come to her again.
Even now, in the autumn twilight, she seemed to smell the subtle
sweetness of primrose-blooms and to be looking through a vista of young
foliage to see the tall figure which came striding up the glade with
masterful steps and had looked long into her eyes.
He was her knight for ever and ever, and she had known it then as they
gathered their spring flowers together and laughed like happy children
who share a common joy. But she had not dared to dream too tangibly of
that vague, intuitive knowledge till they stood together in the
moonlight and listened to the faint lapping of water amongst the
sedges. Then, as hand touched hand, heart had gone out to heart, and
the crown of youth had come to both in the first dream of love.
Dimples played merrily in the flushed cheeks, and Gabrielle was smiling
as she looked from the window where westwards a golden sunset flung a
halo of glory over the drowsing landscape.
Russet wood, green meadow, silver stream, all transformed by that
wondrous hour and light into a beauty which touched the girl's heart as
the chords of a perfect melody might have done.
It was the time to dream of love.
And then came a jarring note.
The sparrow-hawk, wheeling high in mid-air, fell with one deadly swoop
upon its little feathered victim, and a faint twitter of pain told of
death in life.
Gabrielle shuddered.
Ah! supposing Denningham had killed him! What then?
She dared not think, only vaguely wondered whether poor Miss Tabitha
had ever had a lover. If so, she would never smile or scoff again at
her quaint, old-maidish ways; for the lover might have died, been
killed in some wicked duel. Who could say?
But Michael had not been killed, and the duel was over, with some
blood-letting on both sides, but nothing of serious consequence. And
now--well, she was glad that Morry and that hateful lordling were in
town, but she wished Sir Stephen Berrington would be content with the
Manor, or even be laid up with gout for a time, for the blackberries
were ripe in Barham woods, and she cared nothing for plucking them
alone, since the brambles would tear her hands and gown.
A step without broke through her reverie. A visitor? Nay! Who could
it be?
Giles, the butler, stood aside with perplexed face. "Moosoo
Yay--Yay--Yay-harn de Quernais," he announced, with dignity which
battled with difficulty.
Gabrielle rose hastily, and her eyes were as brightly curious as her
cheeks flushed.
"Monsieur Jehan de Quernais!" she cried. "Why, then, you are my
cousin."
And she held out both hands, with a gesture of childish welcome to the
young man in the green travelling-suit who stood bowing before her.
Not an ill-looking youth either, this unexpected visitor, but tall and
straight, combining grace with that pride of carriage inherent in
Breton blood.
Mud-splashed, it is true, even to his sleeves, and the costly lace at
his wrists frayed and torn, whilst his dark locks were matted and
tumbled. But the face beneath was handsome enough, set in a delicate
mould, but strong too, with its oval contour and firmly-compressed
lips, whilst the long, thin nose and broad forehead told of a sensitive
and intellectual mind.
He smiled in answer to such a welcome, and black eyes flashed a look of
admiration and pleasure into the girl's face ere he bent to kiss the
extended hands.
"Yes, mademoiselle," he replied, "I believe I have that honour. A
slender reason, perhaps, to excuse my presence here, and my claim on
your hospitality."
He spoke English perfectly, with only sufficient accent to make it more
charming.
Gabrielle laughed, the light-hearted gaiety of a bird in her voice.
"Good, good; I welcome you, cousin. You do not know how bored and
weary I was becoming all alone here. And I never guessed how my ennui
would be relieved."
She leant forward so that a shaft of sunshine set a halo about her head.
"And you come from France?"
The smiling face opposite clouded instantly.
"From Brittany, mademoiselle."
"My name is Gabrielle. We are cousins. You must not call me
mademoiselle, and I shall call you Jehan."
If he was surprised at the freedom of her speech he was too courtly a
gentleman to show it, and merely bowed, accepting her words.
"From Brittany?" Gabrielle continued. "Then you have escaped from----"
A frown from him checked her.
"My mother and sister are still at the Chateau Kernak," he said
abruptly.
"Your mother and sister? My aunt and another cousin? I know so little
of my Breton relations, and I have always wanted to know so much. Will
you tell me--Jehan?"
His ruffled humour was soothed instantly.
"Mademoiselle--pardon--Cousin Gabrielle, there is so much to say that I
fear from the beginning I weary you. Your brother----"
It was evident that he required a larger audience than this pretty
little cousin who, doubtless, had small comprehension of serious
matters.
But Gabrielle knitted her white brows.
"Morry is in town; I am alone here."
"Alone!"
His surprise was manifest.
The girl flushed a little.
"Nurse Bond is here too. I have my meals with her. But you see,
monsieur, my mother died before I could toddle, and now that my father
is dead there is only Morry, and he so soon wearies of the country."
"And you, Cousin Gabrielle? Do you not weary too?"
She smiled, fingering the long ends of her fichu.
"If I do it is not for town. I will not go, and that makes Morry
angry. But--but--I could not breathe there if they are all like
Morry's friends and Lady Helmington. However, it is of you I want to
talk now, Jehan. I want to hear of madame my aunt, and your sister,
and why you have come, and, well--if you do not mind relating it--about
the terrible Revolution which some in England say is good and right,
but which makes me sick with horror."
De Quernais looked grim--an expression which ill-suited a face made for
laughter.
"I do not think even your Pitt will hold back for long now," he
replied. "You have heard of Paris, and the prisons?"
She shuddered.
"The September massacres? Oh, yes! The poor, poor Queen, and oh! that
poor Princess."
"De Lamballe? A heroine, mademoiselle!"
"Yes. How brave, how brave! But why do your mother and sister stay in
a country where such things are done?"
"Brittany is not France, as the Marquis de la Rouerie shows them."
"La Rouerie? What a hero! Mr. Barton told me all about him and the
Chouannerie. It made me so glad to think that I was partly Breton too."
"That is why I have come, ma cousine. I am a follower of the Marquis."
"And you have come on some dangerous errand? Of course, I see it now.
And perhaps we can help you? Is it so, Jehan?"
"You are wonderful, Gabrielle. Yes, you can help us; or, rather, it is
your brother who can do so. I will explain."
He was looking at her eagerly as they sat opposite to one another near
the window. She was an angel, this beautiful English cousin who was
yet kith and kin to him, and his errand would prosper.
"Yes, explain," she cried, holding out her hand impulsively, "and we
will help."
So in the twilight he told his story, and neither heeded the length of
the shadows or the dusk which stole grey-footed across the meadows;
wrapping the peaceful landscape in its trailing shroud.
"Near the Chateau Kernak," said Jehan softly, "stands the Manor of
Varenac. It was there that your uncle, our mother's brother, lived,
and the peasants, his tenants, adored him. Whilst Comte Gilles lived
there never could have been talk of the Terror coming to the
neighbourhood. But a month ago he died. Helas! we all mourned the
good old man, and he died at a bad moment for Brittany. There have
been agents from Paris around Varenac and Kernak since, poisoning the
simple minds of the villagers. The Terror, they say, means not only
liberty, fraternity, and equality, but riches and soft living for the
poor. Also power. It is that which appeals most. And yet the
influence of Comte Gilles lives. The men of Varenac have not obeyed
the voices of these agents. They wait."
"Wait?"
"For their seigneur's commands."
"And he?"
"Is in England, probably unconscious of his inheritance."
"You mean that Morry----?"
"Is also Monsieur le Marquis de Varenac."
"Ah! And his people await him?"
"As men watch for the dawn. He is to decide."
"Decide?"
"Whether Varenac plants the tree of liberty in her streets and starts
on the path of murder, bloodshed, and terrorism, or whether she
welcomes the coming of de Rouerie and his avengers."
For a few moments there was silence in the darkening room. Then
Gabrielle spoke.
"And Morry must decide!"
"The peasants of three villages await his coming."
She rose, her hand resting against the knot of the fichu at her breast.
"Oh, I would it were I," she cried, "instead of he."
"Yet surely, cousin, you think alike?"
Her voice sounded heavy and lifeless in answer.
"I--do--not--know. Morry has bad friends."
Although she had scarcely addressed Marcel Trouet her suspicions were
keen.
But Gabrielle possessed that power which is, perhaps, the best--though
ofttimes fatal--prerogative of youth. She could put aside forebodings
and doubts to dwell in the pleasanter atmosphere of the present. After
all, Morry was half Breton too, and Monsieur le Marquis now, into the
bargain. Surely he would not fail to respond to this appeal to his
honour?
At any rate she would believe so.
"And when you and Morry return to Varenac I shall come too," she
declared, nodding her pretty head. "And learn to know my aunt and
cousin. You see how lonely I am here, so I shall come."
"Impossible!"
"Not at all, if you both go."
"Men may go, chere cousine, where maids may not."
"Yes, yes; I have heard that before. But do you know, Jehan, I have
_always_ had my own way and done what I willed since I first toddled."
He smiled, well believing it, and wondering what his stately mother,
with her old-fashioned ideas of what was convenable for demoiselles of
birth, would say to this wayward child, who knew no restrictions and
was good comrade before grand lady.
"I shall come," she added determinedly. "It is no use smiling up your
sleeve in that way. And so let us go now and find Giles and tell him
we are ready to sup. I am hungry, although I have only been sitting
here for hours day-dreaming, so you must be famished. I am so sorry,
monsieur. I fear I lack virtue as a hostess."
She dropped him a curtsey, apologetic yet half laughing, and led the
way downstairs, he following, wondering at her freedom from
bashfulness, yet admiring too, for it was done with all the charm and
frankness of a child, and lacked any spice of forwardness.
So tete-a-tete they supped, lingering over dessert of grapes and plums,
whilst Jehan de Quernais told of the tempest-lashed old chateau, not
far from St. Malo, where he had lived from babyhood.
A thousand questions had Gabrielle to ask of madame his mother,
white-haired, gentle Madame de Quernais, who, Breton of the Breton,
looked in wondering horror at the doings and deeds that racked France,
and refused to believe it possible that her Breton peasants could ever
forget the gulf which separated noble and simple, or what was due to
the houses of Varenac and Quernais in respect and honour.
And then there was Cecile--Cousin Cecile, who was just one year her
senior. It was clear that Jehan adored his sister almost as much as
his mother. She was perfection in his eyes, and Gabrielle could
picture the slim little figure with dark tresses piled high and the
pretty baby face beneath, with its big black eyes and arched brows.
She had courage and determination too, this Cecile de Quernais, and was
no doll who cared only for dress and compliments.
Brittany bred daughters of better stuff than that.
Gabrielle listened and asked questions till she would have wearied a
less interested speaker. But Jehan could not weary when he talked of
home.
When at last his young hostess rose, her hazel eyes were determined and
red lips positive.
"I shall certainly return with you to Brittany," she declared. "Ah!
you do not know how lonely it is here, and how I have
always--always--longed for a sister."
Then suddenly the colour flooded her cheeks.
"I shall love Cecile," she said. "But perhaps ... yes, perhaps ... it
would be better if she and Madame your mother came ... here."
De Quernais bowed to hide a smile.
"If it is impossible now for you to come to Brittany, my cousin," he
murmured, "I shall pray the saints that one day I may have the felicity
of taking you there."
But Gabrielle, remembering--for the first time, perhaps, that day--that
a cousin is not the same as a brother by many degrees, did not answer.
She was thinking of some one else who was neither kith nor kin, but
vastly dearer all the same. If ever she went to Brittany she hoped
that Michael Berrington would be beside her. Cousin Jehan was but a
boy!
She did not, however, press the latter to remain at Langton when he
suggested--half hesitatingly--that he might ride to town that night in
quest of Morry. Certainly no time should be lost on such an errand.