A WOMAN'S WILL
Riding through the darkness of an autumn night with loose rein--a weary
journey and dangerous too for the solitary traveller; but Michael
Berrington recked nothing then of such danger, seeing he was set to
fight a much greater.
A fetish, this honour, say many; but the few who guard her as a
possession dearer than life smile, knowing that she is precious, with
her songs of inspiration and lofty ideals.
So Michael rode, and found his heart first beating high with that
fighting hope which deems failure impossible and the age of miracles
not passed, and again enveloped in the pall of shame and doubt.
He spared neither spur nor whip that night. Thrice he changed horses
and thrice felt the weary beasts stumbling beneath him ere he reached
his destination, and by then the dawn was widening and spreading into
the glory of morning light.
They were early risers at Langton Hall, and there was small delay in
gaining admittance, whilst Giles, grinning a sly welcome, made haste to
usher him into the sunny morning-room.
Count Jehan was finding English customs as extraordinary as they were
agreeable. French breakfasts of roll and chocolate were as little
understood here as French pruderies and proprieties.
During the last two days he had found himself wondering what his mother
would say could she see him sitting tete-a-tete at meals with this
pretty and adorable little cousin. He had not altogether grasped the
fact that Gabrielle, motherless and alone, had been brought up with a
freedom wholly unknown to other English maidens.
A cousin--to Gabrielle--seemed to be a vastly superior sort of brother,
one who never flouted, but was always kind and most considerate.
During those two days she had heard so much too of Madame her Aunt, and
Cecile, that she was longing more than ever for the day to come when
she might welcome them to England. And of course they would come--they
would _have_ to come.
Morry would bring them back with him, and Cousin Jehan would follow
when he and his hero Marquis had finally driven the Revolution into the
sea.
In the intervals of such planning Gabrielle showed the new cousin her
favourite haunts in the garden and orchard, whilst he taught her
charming chansonettes to sing to the accompaniment of her guitar.
But she did not take him to the woods where the blackberries hung ripe
and luscious amongst the brambles, for those were sacred to herself,
and one other--the other who was no sort of a brother, but her dear
knight for ever and ever.
She was telling Count Jehan that they would walk to Berrington village
that morning, when the door opened and the man of whom she thought
stood before her.
And for the first moment Michael himself had no eyes save for the
slender figure in its dainty morning wrapper of flowered chintz, with
dark, unpowdered curls caught back by a pink ribbon, and cheeks
flushing rosily as the sun-kissed clouds of dawn, as she smiled her
welcome.
Count Jehan had risen too, and the eyes of the two men met.
"You bring news, Monsieur?"
De Quernais' anxious tones were broken through by Gabrielle's glad cry.
"Of course Morry has come with you, Michael?"
But to her amaze he shook his head, scarcely turning towards her.
"I have come alone to see Monsieur le Comte," he replied with some
emphasis.
But Gabrielle was in no mood to take the hint.
"Then it is about Morry," she said, leaping, woman-like, at a
conclusion. "Tell it us quickly, Mr. Berrington."
She knew how to command.
And Michael, sore at heart, but desperate in his need, obeyed, telling
the story without garnishings or surmisals, but with a blunt directness
which left no shadow of doubt behind.
One little sob was the only answer he received at first, though, in the
silence, a robin's cheerful song at the open window jarred almost as
much as the glory of October sunshine flooding the room.
Count Jehan's face was whiter than Gabrielle's, and his black eyes
blazed.
It was a cruel wound--even more so than Michael could understand, for
the young Breton's whole soul and enthusiasm had been kindled to
fever-heat by the fascination of leader and cause.
La Rouerie and the Chouannerie were names written in letters of fire on
his heart. And this visit to England was to have done so much for both.
Now he knew himself betrayed.
Worse! Instead of bringing a friend to raise men for the Royalist
Cause, he had sent a firebrand to kindle the threatening blaze against
it.
When Morice Conyers--Marquis de Varenac--sang the song of blood-stained
liberty, there would be many voices to echo it as blindly as sheep
which follow the tinkling of their leader's bell.
Ruined! Ruined! What would la Rouerie say? He had sworn to succeed
in his mission, and had, till the last moment, deemed it an easy one.
And now?
Why! now the chasm yawned for those who pressed forward with such
confidence.
A groan burst from his lips, whilst beads of perspiration stood on his
brow.
It was Gabrielle who broke the silence.
"Thus Morry plays traitor," said she, very quietly and steadily. "But,
gentlemen, it is not my brother that does it, but those whose influence
has been his ruin--Lord Denningham and Marcel Trouet."
She was quivering with passion as she spoke, for the shame of such
treachery was very bitter.
"Marcel Trouet," cried de Quernais sharply. "Trouet, the friend of
Robespierre?--the----"
"Same," answered Michael. "And an agent from Republic France to stir
up sedition in Royalist England, so that her hands being full, she will
have neither time nor power to put straight or avenge the wrongs of
French aristocrats."
"A--ah!"
"Morry! Morry!" moaned Gabrielle, her white hands knotted in agony.
Then slowly the girl's bowed head was raised. Erect she faced the two
men opposite.
"The Marquis de Varenac rides home," said she. "Then his sister will
join him. If I cannot persuade him ... and he listens sometimes when
he has not been drinking or gambling heavily ... then I myself will
speak to the men of Varenac. Yes, I think I know how to speak and make
them listen."
"You, Mademoiselle?"
De Quernais had taken a step forward.
She faced him, pitying, reassuring, perfectly confident.
"Yes, I," she replied--"Mademoiselle de Varenac. You will see they
will listen to me as well as to Morice, and if the worst came, and they
made mock of a woman's command, I would don man's dress and proclaim
myself the Marquis."
Wild words, but daring spirit.
How different to gentle, shy Cecile!
Yet the young Count had nothing but reverence and admiration in his
heart as he looked into the beautiful face animated with that kindred
courage which made of her sweet comrade as well as fair lady. But
Michael Berrington's brow was knit in a frown of perplexity.
"It is impossible, Mistress Gabrielle," he said. "How could you
journey thither alone and unattended, even if there were not a hundred
other dangers?"
"Dangers!" she scoffed, flushing. "How can one talk of dangers after
the news you bring?"
Her eyes challenged him.
"Did you not yourself tell me that honour is above everything?" she
demanded.
"A man's honour----"
"You are scarcely complimentary, Mr. Berrington. I see you find that
of a woman poor stuff which needs no defending."
"Mistress, indeed you wholly mistake----"
"Besides, I shall not go alone," she added, with a smile succeeding the
frown. "You will both be with me."
She held out her hands.
It was here that her cousin interposed.
"Nay, Gabrielle," he said--and Michael, with a jealous pang, noted how
his voice lingered over her name--"you yourself know well that we are
not proper escort for you without another----"
"Chaperon?" she asked quickly. "Oh, if that is all, I will take Nurse
Bond. But go I _shall_, and at once."
"Mistress Gabrielle, think----"
She paused, her dark eyes raised to Michael's perplexed and shadowed
face.
"I do think," she replied softly. "And that is why I am going. I may
save Varenac, I may save a very noble cause; still, it is true I may
fail in all that, yet I vow to succeed in one thing--I will save my
brother."
Long he looked into the sweet, childish face, which had grown so
inexpressibly dear to him, and, reading there the purpose of high
resolve, bowed low and stood aside.
At least she had bidden him ride with her, and he would be at hand to
protect her with his life against those dangers which before had been
without reality.
But de Quernais, claiming the right of cousinship, must needs have the
last word.
"Ma cousine," he whispered, catching at her hand, and raising it to his
lips, "what shall I say? From despair springs hope, and you are the
angel who brings it. Yes, yes. They will listen to you. My heart
tells me so. They will listen to you, and Brittany will save not only
herself but all France. We will save the King and our fair Queen too.
Ah, ciel! could I think otherwise I should go mad. And la Rouerie will
thank you himself for the noble part you play."
He spoke as though that last were reward enough for all.
But Gabrielle cared nothing for la Rouerie. It was her brother, her
only brother, whom she went to save,--his honour which he, too weak to
hold it, must give into her keeping.
Thus she would act as Michael himself acted, and he would approve.
Seeing that, shining through the trouble in his face, she herself could
afford to smile.
They would save Morry together, save Varenac too, and come home as the
heroes and heroines of gilded romance ever did, to live happily ever
after.
No wonder that sweet seventeen, seeing dangers and difficulties
_couleur de rose_ under love's glamour, ran singing softly upstairs to
acquaint Nurse Bond of the journey before her.