ON BRETON SOIL
A solitary traveller along a bleak and desolate road--solitary, that
is, to all intents and purposes, since he could comprehend scarcely a
word spoken by the sturdy Breton peasant who jogged along on foot by
his horse's side.
Morice Conyers was in anything but good humour.
Away from the merry throng at Almack's and Arthur's, things in general
presented a vastly different complexion.
In a certain set it had been fashionable to talk glibly of liberty,
equality, and fraternity, and to drink bumpers to the health of those
who strove for them across the Channel. The young bloods of the
coffee-houses--though only that particular coterie, mind you--found it
easy and amusing to toast such an upheaval of law and order.
And the Marseillaise was a demned catchy tune. Thus the pigeons
prepared themselves for roasting.
And French chefs were not lacking.
That was how Morry Conyers became a member of the London Corresponding
Society, a membership which consisted in talking very largely on a
score of subjects of which he knew nothing, and vowing, by tremendous
oaths, to assist the French Republic as far as lay in his power.
Empty phrases, emptier oaths. But the day of reckoning had most
unexpectedly come. Marcel Trouet knew to a hair how to play his mouse.
Flattery and high-sounding jargon of binding vows had succeeded
admirably, and Morice, reluctant at first, had begun to look upon
himself as a fine hero, whose name would be spoken in every London
coffee-house and club before history--and Marcel Trouet--had done with
him. Twinges of conscience had been sternly repressed, drowned in the
"flowing bowl," to whose honour every wit and poet sang.
But ghosts will rise at night, and they were rising now on every
side--impalpable, shadowy creatures, less tangible than the brooding
mists which floated over the desolate lande before him, like the
fleeing spirits of a phantom army.--Ghosts of memories, ghost of
honour, ghost of his better self, ghost of little Gabrielle, whom he
loved well enough in his crooked, careless way,--all ready to taunt him
and upbraid him as he rode onwards to Varenac.
How oppressive the silence was! How wild and dreary the scene around
him!
Half Breton himself by birth, his mother's native land was calling to
him with that strange, mysterious voice which can be heard only by
Celtic ears.
A strange, indefinable longing had stirred within him as he strode
through the narrow streets of St. Malo; it was quickening now into
stronger life as he listened to the moaning of the wind as it swept
across from the coast and over the purple moorland.
A minor note it struck; yet who shall deny that truest sweetness
lingers in that key?
Nature calling to her child, not through the beautiful but the
sorrowful.
Grey crags, heather-crowned landes, lines of yellow sand-dunes, the
fading light of an autumn evening, and through all, above all, the
melancholy charm which allures rather than repels, crying aloud of
sorrow, yet singing its wild music as melodiously as any Lorelei on
charmed rock.
Not that Morice Conyers heard it all; only vaguely it struck his heart,
reproaching him in that he, a son of Brittany, came, as a thief in the
night, to betray his land and add to her burden of lament.
And he was alone.
That was the reason why such foolish ghosts pursued him. Jack
Denningham would have killed them with a sneer, Trouet would have
stabbed them with a mocking witticism, Berrington have drowned them
with a jolly laugh and long pull at his brandy-flask.
Wise fellows, those comrades of his; but why had they left him thus in
the lurch?
True, Denningham and Sir Stephen had promised to follow, after the
former had had time to deal with a little private business of his which
concerned a lady and needed delicate handling.
Ha, ha! A bit of a rake, old Jack, but a demned good fellow! Not such
a convivial spirit as Steenie, though.
Good old Steenie! He was the chap needed on such an occasion as the
present, to troll out a song, and brew a bowl of punch when they
arrived at this confounded Manor of his, which was probably as mouldy
and rat-run as it was aristocratic.
And little Marcel? What in the world did he want tearing off to Paris
instead of accompanying him?
Going to bring a horde of red-caps with him, was he?
The tune of "Ca ira" would sound strangely foreign to English lips, but
they were good fellows, these, from all accounts. Rough, perhaps, in
their pulling down, but equally ready to build up that new altar to
liberty and fraternity.
All the same a picture of these same shouting, sweating Parisians with
red hands, red hearts, red death as well as caps to be brought along
with them, was scarcely to the taste of a gentleman.
Marcel should not have gone to Paris. There would be men enough to
sing to Goddess Liberty in Brittany after the Marquis de Varenac had
given the lead.
The Marquis de Varenac!
A vastly imposing title.
Plain Morice Conyers grew by proportion--in his own estimation. A
leader of men! Good that! A leader of men! And Jack Denningham to
stand in the background and cry "Well done."
It was a pleasant reverie.
But the ghosts would rise again.
One stern of face, too, at last.
His father!
Twisted, crippled Ralph Conyers, the man who had been ready to give all
for a lost cause. What would he say to his son now?
Ralph Conyers' son preferred not to think, remembering that boon
companion of his, Steenie Berrington, whose name his father had cursed
to his dying day.
The Breton guide had paused, panting, and stood with one lean, bared
arm, pointing towards the coast. Over the horizon had gathered a pall
too black to be mistaken for the shadows of approaching night--a
sinister cloud where storm-furies brooded loweringly over a sinister
land.
The shrill cries of the ospreys mingled with the weary sighing of waves
which beat restlessly against the barren coast-line of white, angular
rocks, tossing hither and thither in their rising anger the fetid
shoals of rotting seaweed which bordered the narrow strip of shingle.
The storm was coming, not stealthily, with warning couriers of shadowed
gloom, but swift as those vultures which winged their way across the
low ridges of sand-dunes, where the golden heads of the sea-poppies lay
low.
The sturdy little Breton horse which Morice bestrode, snorted, shaking
its head as it faced the purple moor before it.
Purple heather, purple heather! Surely those grim dwellers of a grim
land should thank thee for thy touch of softening splendour and beauty
amidst grey barrenness,--the carpet of a king amongst briers and rock,
thistle and waste.
On came the storm, sweeping inland with a fury which gathered force
with every moment.
The mist-clouds had disappeared, rent and twisted by the gale which
struck the travellers with sharp buffetings.
Not a hut nor a cottage near for shelter, nothing to protect them
against the rising blast.
A flash of lightning, a deafening crash of thunder, and down came the
rain, tempest-driven and stinging, like the lash of a thousand fairy
whips.
The man, Pierre Dusac, was talking.
It was unfortunate, but the noble Marquis de Varenac understood not a
single word. It was evident, however, that the guide was anxious to
end the journey as speedily as possible, and, finding it no easy task
to run in face of a hurricane, was demanding to ride on Morice's steed.
It is no use quarrelling with one's bread-and-butter.
If the worthy Pierre forsook him the forlorn Englishman would find
himself in an evil plight. Yet he acquiesced with sorry grace,
surprised, however, to find that the sturdy beast made nothing of the
double weight, but went steadily on, encouraged by the familiar cries
of her new rider.
Oh, for Almack's! Oh, for Arthur's, or White's! Oh, for the comfort
of warm fire and pleasant punch-bowl!
Again and again the champion of Revolutionary enthusiasm cursed himself
for a fool, and vowed that he would return to England with all speed,
heedless of renown.
Wet to the skin, cold and wretched in every sense of the word, he rode
on, whilst overhead the storm raged in full force.
Crash after crash of thunder deafened him as it broke, rolling away
like the roar of a mighty battle towards the distant forests. Flash
after flash showed the same desolate scene which evening light had
displayed--nothing but that dreary stretch of barren lande, with its
scattered rocks and clumps of gorse here and there amongst the heather,
whilst the dark fringe of forest-trees bound the landscape to westwards.
"Ola! Ola!" screamed the guide in his ear. "Kernak, Kernak."
Morice growled out an oath. Wet, cold, and anxious as to his probable
fate, his usually easy temper was sour and crabbed.
"Kernak, Kernak!" cried the man again, pointing to a slope to their
right, on the top of which stood outlined a dark mass.
Kernak? A habitation of sorts, at any rate, as the next blue flash
told Morice.
A chateau of considerable size, with a fringe of forest-trees clustered
round the foot of the hill, like rows of guarding sentinels. Through
the blinding mist of rain the travellers could see lights burning.
Refuge at last!
Morice did not even stop to inquire as to whether Varenac were far or
near. Escape from the battle of striving elements was all he asked.
Pierre was plainly of the same mind, for, seizing the rough bridle, he
sprang to the ground, urging the pony on at a fresh trot towards their
goal.
Morice drew a deep sigh of relief as they reached the shelter of the
trees and hastened up the narrow road which led, through an avenue of
wind-swept oaks, to the chateau gates.