A MORNING ADVENTURE
A morning of sunshine, Nature's atonement for past cruelties.
And Morice Conyers was ready enough to accept it, seeing that the storm
itself had been something less than an enemy in bringing him to Kernak.
However, he must leave to-day and ride for Varenac. Steenie would be
on his way there, and Denningham too, not to mention Marcel Trouet,
whose coming would not be delayed more than a week at most. And yet he
could do nothing till Trouet came. The temper of his people was too
uncertain to dare announce his policy with none to back him up.
"Ca ira" might possibly stick in Breton throats, and then what would
happen if Marcel were not by to teach them another tune?
All this was food for thought as Morice strode moodily along the uneven
path bordered by heather and gorse.
He had risen early, and, being in restless mood, had gone out.
It would be easier to think with the morning sunshine around, and the
cool autumn breezes to clear his brain.
Yet he walked aimlessly, filled with doubts which tore him first one
way and then another.
He must go to Varenac. He could not fail his friends.
As member of the London Corresponding Society, and sympathizer with
these leaders of the great cause of Liberty, he had his part to play.
Of course all revolutions had their black side.
Yet they were necessities.
The cry of the people must be heard.
It was justice, not revenge, they took in their hands.
All the old claptraps which he had heard so often of late, and which he
took care to rehearse over and over again!
But somehow they seemed strangely hollow now as he paced between the
purple and the gold of this new land of his, and heard that dumb,
mysterious voice of Nature crying to him in strange, alluring chant,
reminding him that he was something more than Morice Conyers the
Englishman--namely, a Varenac of Varenac, a noble of this Brittany
which already fascinated as much as it repelled him.
Marquis of Varenac, scion of an ancient race, noble of the noble, as
well as Breton of the Breton.
Was he to cast aside these newly forged bonds of honour as though they
were useless shackles?
He had been ready enough to do so twenty-four hours ago; but that was
before he had seen Cecile de Quernais.
A pair of lustrous black eyes, a small, innocent face, sweet and pure
as child's or nun's, and a heart which, shining through those wonderful
eyes, proclaimed her trust and admiration in this cousin who had come
to save Brittany.
Many a fair lady had smiled upon Morice Conyers at St. James's, many a
woman, far more beautiful than this little Bretonne girl, had shown him
her favour. Yet they had never stirred his heart as this simple child
had done.
They had known him for what he was, being ready to accept him at his
current valuation and ask no more.
But Cecile did not know him. He knew that as well as the fact that she
was quite ready to regard him as some new knight, willing to give his
life for country and honour.
It is no easy task to tumble off a pedestal of one's own accord, even
when one has not put oneself there.
Should he? Should he?----
Pish! Of course he must go to Varenac. He would go at once. He would
not return to the Chateau of Kernak. He would reach Varenac and forget
the episode of a night's lodging.
A wooded knoll, bordering on the forest he had noted the night before,
stood on his left. Surely that was a hut amongst the trees? That of a
woodsman perhaps.
At any rate, he would go and make inquiries as to the road to Varenac.
But, half-way there, a strange interruption befell--a girl's scream and
a burst of rough laughter.
"Hola! hola! my pretty one. You had forgotten Bertrand. Malediction;
but I had not forgotten you. Madame was hard. Ha, ha! It does not do
for the seigneurs to be too hard nowadays. By the bones of St. Efflam!
How she can struggle! But I will explain, Mademoiselle. Bertrand has
a grudge. V'la! v'la! It shall be repaid. Come, a kiss, my little
cabbage. You are so pretty that I shall steal many, and then it may be
that I shall take you with me to St. Quinton, where they have ideas
about the aristos. Yes, ideas more sensible than the thickheads about
here can conceive. And from St. Quinton to Paris is a pleasant
journey. Te! Te! it is then that Bertrand will be amused. Click,
click go the _tricoteuses_. Click, click, answers the 'widow.' And
Sanson makes his bow to perfection. Mille diables! but it is a little
fiend."
The high-pitched, chanting voice broke into a snarl over the last words.
It was evident that Mademoiselle did not allow herself to be easily
captured.
But, alas! One may struggle, one may even bite in extremis, but a
man's strength must surely conquer in the end.
Thus Cecile de Quernais, crying aloud in terror, had given herself up
as lost, when, through the trees, came a figure, racing up the slope in
hot haste.
"Ah! ah!"
"Ah! ah!"
They were pitched in different keys, those simple exclamations.
As for Bertrand, he had breath for no more, since the oaths which rose
hot to his lips were choked back by that firm grip on his throat.
Morice Conyers had learnt boxing in England from Richmond himself.
Cecile de Quernais sat on a mossy bank close by, sobbing piteously,
from sheer exhaustion and the shock of that desperate struggle.
The sounds of her distress tempted Morice to choke not only oaths, but
life too, out of his fallen adversary.
But to murder one of the people might lead to consequences now, though
five years ago it would have been no matter at all. So Bertrand was
allowed to live.
Mademoiselle Cecile, wiping pretty eyes with a tiny piece of cambric,
implored this between gasping breaths.
It was more than he deserved, however, Morice explained in a few words
of execrable Breton, enforcing each syllable with a kick.
Bertrand crouched, whining as cur under the whip. But his eyes were
vicious.
"Go to your kennel, dog and pig," commanded his opponent, with a last
blow. "And next time you use ugly words about your masters, your
tongue shall be cut out."
Bertrand rose, groaning. He was very sore; but the inward bruises were
the worst, though he rubbed the outer ones dolefully as he limped away.
Morice did not catch the glint in his eyes as he went, or hear the vows
and curses growled low in the husky throat.
He was bending over Cecile.
"My poor little cousin, he has hurt you--the brute. You should have
let me kill him. Such vermin are dangerous."
"To--to their slayers, Monsieur."
Her English was almost as adorable as her eyes, over which tear-laden
lashes drooped piteously.
A sudden desire to kiss away those heavy drops seized the man beside
her.
Yet he forbore, fearing to frighten her afresh; but his pulses were
throbbing as he made answer:
"They need an example. I did not know such dangers were so near you
here, Mademoiselle."
"Nor I, Monsieur. Till now our people have been so good and kind. We
owe much to the influence of our good cure, Pere Mouet. They love him
as he deserves, and it is he who keeps the Terror from our villages as
much as the memory of my uncle the Marquis."
"They loved him!"
"As they will love you, Monsieur."
He had succeeded in drawing her thoughts from Bertrand, and the tears
were drying on her cheeks.
But he lacked tact.
"And this fellow?"
Her eyes grew troubled again, whilst she shuddered a little.
"He was our gardener. Madame Maman dismissed him because he stole, and
sang the Marseillaise. He has a brother in Paris who has a bad
influence over him."
She spoke with the air of a matron.
"It would have been better to kill him."
"Oh no, no. I ... I do not think he will come near again. Our people
would have no sympathy with him."
"He deserves none--the brute! See how he has hurt you."
The blue weals were clearly visible on the slender wrists which Morice
raised for inspection.
"I was afraid," she confessed, her eyes filling again. "But, Monsieur,
you saved me."
"I would that I had come sooner. I did not guess who I should meet on
my walk."
"I often come here," she said simply, "to visit old Nanette Leroc, who
used to be our nurse. She is blind, and lonely too, although her niece
lives with her. But Marie cannot read, and that is what Nanette likes."
She stooped, as she spoke, to pick up the little velvet-covered Book of
Hours which had fallen from her grasp in the struggle.
"You, too, were up early, Monsieur," she added shyly.
"Yes."
His voice was hesitant.
"We should be returning to the chateau," she continued, not noticing
his confusion. "Madame Maman will be wondering what has become of us.
She--she does not altogether approve of my journeys to Nanette's
cottage all alone. But what would you? Guillaume could not always be
spared to come with me, and till to-day I had trusted in our people."
"They are not to be trusted, Mademoiselle."
A tiny furrow wrinkled her white brow and she shuddered.
"Oh yes, yes," she whispered. "I will not believe that the Terror can
come to Kernak and Varenac."
"It is already at St. Malo."
He did not mean to frighten her, and noted with self-reproach and
admiration how, whilst her cheeks paled, her eyes shone bravely.
"Yes," she replied, "Louise told me. They have a guillotine there
which they call the 'widow,' and make terrible jests. Oh yes! I know
that the Terror has come to St. Malo and to our dear Brittany--but not
to us. Our people love us, and we are so safely hidden away here, with
the forest on one side and the landes on the other. We are not near a
town, and, excepting for Bertrand, the people of the villages are
loyal. And you yourself, Monsieur, will strengthen their loyalty."
She held out her hands as she spoke, smiling gladly.
"Yes," she added, "that is what la Rouerie says. The spark is
needed--an example. In the towns the men listen to the Revolutionaries
from Paris. They are ready to cry 'A bas' to everything. But those
are not the heart of Brittany; that waits--it wants impulse,
quickening. Yet the inspiration cannot come from the nobles. Just now
they will not listen to them--so Jehan tells me. It must be the cry of
the people to the people. It will be the cry of Varenac to Brittany.
You smile, Monsieur Cousin? Ah! you do not know like Jehan and our
Marquis. True, our villages may be very small, very secluded; but see
how a spark caught by a strong wind may become a great blaze.
"That will be the work of the nobles, of the Marquis, of Jehan, of you
too, Monsieur. You will let the voice of Varenac echo over the landes
till others hear and listen. It is then the true heart of Brittany
will awake and beat with life till her people rise to save themselves
and France,--from the monster who devours her."
Her words, rehearsed from the lips of enthusiasts, were spoken with a
conviction and spirit which stirred the listener's wavering pulses.
What would she have said had she known that he had been on the road to
Varenac with a vastly different purpose in his heart?
But an hour had changed his resolves. The brief struggle with the cur
who would wreak a paltry revenge on an innocent girl had helped to show
him what underlay the gaudy picture which Marcel Trouet had painted so
often for him and his comrades in England.
He could read the writing on the wall in another language this side of
the Channel.
With a low bow he offered the little Royalist champion his hand.
"As you say, Mademoiselle," he answered softly, "we must return to
Kernak. Afterwards I will go to my people."
"Yes," she smiled, "when Jehan comes. I think he would bid us wait for
him, Monsieur. He knows the men of Varenac, and it would be easier did
you go together."
But Morice Conyers was thinking too deeply to reply to those last words.
Was it that the shadow of the "widow" was already on his heart?--the
cry of the Terror's victims already ringing in his ears?