CECILE DE QUERNAIS
A low hall heavily raftered with black oak, and walls hung with
tapestry and armour; a huge fire blazing on the open hearth, and two
ladies seated near, in carved oaken seats, one busy with her
embroidery, the other with the spinning-wheel.
An old-fashioned, stereotyped picture enough, yet that was what Morice
Conyers saw as he stood, dripping and bedraggled, in the doorway,
demanding, somewhat peremptorily at first, for a night's lodging of the
old major-domo who had opened the gate.
But the masterful key was lowered as, from her seat by the fire, the
elder lady arose.
"Welcome, Monsieur," she said--speaking with that clear enunciation and
purity of accent which proclaimed the aristocrat--"as any stranger
would be, on such a night, in the home of Louise de Quernais."
It was the graceful introduction which showed that, for all his sodden
garments and dishevelled appearance, she had recognised an equal in the
suppliant whom Guillaume eyed so dubiously.
Morice stepped hastily forward, bowing as well as he might under the
circumstances, but with a shamed flush on his cheeks.
"I thank you, Madame," he replied in French, "and a kindly Fate
which--which has guided me to your doors. My name is Morice Conyers,
and, if I mistake not, it was Count Jehan, your son, who, but a few
days since, announced to me that I am now Marquis de Varenac as well."
He spoke haltingly, aware that his night's lodging would be hardly
earned without the aid of some lying, yet thinking--on the spur of the
moment--that it was best to assume the role of frankness.
She would, in any case, know him by his title soon, and, in the
meantime, he could use it now by way of introduction.
It made all the difference to the present, and Morice Conyers was not
the man to look much farther than the ease of the moment.
At any rate if they scorned and loathed him to-morrow these hostesses
would make him very welcome to-night.
There was no doubt of that, for, at his words, Madame's face lighted up
with a smile of rare sweetness, whilst the girl, who had remained near
the fire, sprang to her feet, heedless of fallen embroidery.
"Ah! Madame Maman," she cried eagerly, "it is the good English cousin."
Morice turned at the cry, looking beyond the stately figure of the
elder lady towards the dainty little maiden in her white gown, with
crimson ribbons knotted at breast and throat and nestling amidst the
dark coils of her hair.
For all her eighteen years Cecile de Quernais looked nothing more than
a child, possessing a slim, round figure, tiny, delicate features, with
great black eyes which seemed almost out of proportion in that small
baby-face.
A child to love and protect, appealing mutely to the manhood of a man,
and showing nothing of a resolute will and courage hidden away in the
young heart.
Somehow, as he looked at her, Morice Conyers felt ashamed and guilty.
He had come to Brittany to cry "Death to the aristocrats!"
The thought was as ugly as it was persistent, so that he only half
heard the cordial welcome of Madame de Quernais herself.
Madame was of the old regime, yet, if her language savoured of a bygone
generation, the sentiments were none the less sincere.
She was glad, most glad, to welcome her nephew--the son of her dear
sister, Marie. But it is not wise for a man to stand, even to receive
a welcome--if it be a long one--in dripping clothes.
Monsieur le Marquis de Varenac was conducted in all haste to the room
of Count Jehan, whither Guillaume accompanied him to offer his services
as valet.
A suit of the young Count's fitted the new-comer admirably. He looked
a different being, when, an hour later, he descended the grand
staircase into the salon.
In the picturesque costume of the eighteenth century a man must needs
be singularly unendowed to appear ugly.
Nature had been kind to Morice Conyers. If there were lines of
weakness about the sensitive mouth, and a wavering expression in the
fine blue eyes, he nevertheless presented a handsome figure as he bowed
over the hands of his aunt and cousin.
He could talk, too, for that was an accomplishment necessitous to the
friends and satellites of Prince Florizel, who hated nothing so much as
being bored.
And it was no hard matter to talk to such gracious hostesses.
Madame was ready to smile, and be interested in everything he said,
whilst little Cecile, seated demurely in the background with her
embroidery, raised great eyes of wondering admiration to his again and
again, though she would drop them quickly, with a dawning blush, when
she found his gaze ever fixed upon her. As for Morice, he was living
in a new world for the moment, and could hardly have fathomed his own
feelings had he tried.
Were there two personalities within--one of which had but newly sprung
to life?
He did not deem it possible at present, though he was vaguely conscious
of the desire to be indeed Monsieur le Marquis de Varenac, and not
Morice Conyers, member of a certain London Corresponding Society,
friend of one Marcel Trouet, and burning advocate of the glorious and
blood-thirsty Revolution.
Perhaps this faint stabbing of a drugged conscience was what made him
so eager to talk of everything but the object that brought him to
Brittany.
It was of England that he talked, of Gabrielle, of the long-dead
mother, whom he but vaguely remembered. Of everything, indeed,
excepting Breton woes and Breton hopes.
It was not till later, when the hour for retiring drew near, that
Madame leant forward a little in her chair, laying a gentle, almost
motherly, touch on his twitching fingers.
"Tell me, my nephew," she asked, "why is it that Jehan did not return
with you?"
A brief silence followed, in which Morice could hear the faint click of
the needle drawn through the stiff satin of Mademoiselle Cecile's work.
"Why Jehan did not return?" he answered vaguely. "He was indisposed,
Madame--nothing of consequence, but he was obliged to remain at Langton
for a day or two longer."
"And you could not delay? Ah, my nephew, you are Breton at heart. You
have enthusiasm in our cause. Brittany will thank you one day,--not
far distant,--I pray the Holy Virgin. But Jehan? It is not like him
to remain behind for a trifling ailment."
Maternal concern rose to the fore at the moment. Jehan was her only
son.
"It was not serious, Madame, but the fever would have been increased by
travelling. He will not be long."
She smiled, yet wistfully, being more anxious than she liked to admit
in face of his assurances.
"He will not take sufficient care of himself," she said. "He has a
delicacy of the throat. But he laughs at me. With him it is all la
Rouerie, la Rouerie. He has doubtless told you of our Marquis, my
nephew?"
"Yes, Madame. A very noble gentleman."
The words seemed to stick in the speaker's throat as he looked once
more across into Mademoiselle's black eyes and saw them ashine with
enthusiasm and devotion.
What would she say when she knew his real opinion of this great Chouan
leader who dominated the hearts of every one of his followers?
"A very noble gentleman," repeated Madame, nodding her head. "He will
thank you, my nephew, for your prompt response to our appeal. There
was always the fear that you might have forgotten the good Breton blood
in you, and refused to accept your obligations as Seigneur de Varenac."
"I have come with as small delay as possible," he replied shortly; and
this time he dared not look towards Cecile.
"And you have come in time," she smiled. "The Terror has not arrived
here yet. We have no tree of liberty planted at Kernak or Varenac,
though we hear that at St. Malo----"
She shuddered, crossing herself.
"But the Marquis de la Rouerie will save us--and France too," she
added. "You, who are a Varenac at heart, will adore him like the rest
of us. As for your tenants----"
She smiled, thoughtfully.
"They await your coming," said she softly.
But Maurice Conyers did not reply; he was thinking how Marcel Trouet
would be already marching from Paris with his red-capped murderers,
singing the song he himself had been so ready to join in over the
wine-cups as they toasted the Red Revolution and the cause of Liberty
at club and coffee-house.
Somehow things were beginning to wear a different complexion on this
side of the Channel, and fear crept knocking vaguely at his heart when
he thought of the part a certain noble Marquis had come to play in his
mother's land and amongst his mother's kin.
But Cecile sang softly to herself that night as she stood, later on,
looking out towards the wild coast-line.
The storm had passed, the stars were shining, and, as she watched the
glittering lights so far above her, it seemed to the young girl that
they were eyes looking down and down and down into her heart.
And she blushed rosy red with a thought but half-conceived, turning
away lest those twinkling stars should read it--yet unformed.