COUNT JEHAN IS NOT CONVINCED
Monsieur de Quernais was certainly in a hurry; so much so that he had
lost his temper, and been in too great a haste to recover it again.
There had been reasons enough to disturb a less irritable nature.
To begin with, the failure of his mission had been bitter. Most bitter
of all, seeing the trickery played on him by his own cousin, a Varenac
and a traitor!
The English blood must be held accountable, of course, but even then he
could not bear to think of it.
During that headlong journey from Langton Hall to the Manor of Varenac
he had been brooding over it.
What would la Rouerie say? A last hope gone through the betrayal of
one who should have been heart and soul on their side.
The collapse of a golden castle in the air had caused Monsieur le Comte
to despair.
He was very young and very enthusiastic. Besides, his adoration of la
Rouerie amounted almost to an absurdity. The Chouan leader had
inspired such affection a score of times in man and woman.
And la Rouerie must be told, not only of failure on his follower's
part, but the shame of a noble Breton name. It was terrible.
But Monsieur le Comte could not feel as murderous as he chose since
Morice Conyers' sister had so nobly stepped into the breach.
Here was a kindred spirit, here a true Varenac with Breton blood
running unsullied in her veins.
Love for the sister almost counterbalanced hatred for the brother in
the heart of Jehan de Quernais.
In such a turmoil of emotion he had ridden to Varenac and found that
the new Marquis had failed to arrive.
The news inspired that hope which is twin comrade to youth.
He rode to Kernak building fresh castles, and reached his home to find
that the man who had been so much in his thoughts had but now left it.
The story was told by Madame his mother, with Cecile standing by, a
smile hovering around her pretty lips.
But, alas! the smile had died all too soon, frozen out of being by her
brother's answering words.
A traitor, double-dyed in hue,--a traitor to his country, to his
people, to his own kith and kin!
Liar and dishonoured he seemed to stand before her, as Jehan poured
forth his tale in the first fury of his wrath.
What! Had the vaurien hound _dared_ shelter under his roof? _dared_ to
tell his lying tale to them?
The young Count paced the hall to and fro in his anger.
He would have forgotten that Morice Conyers was Gabrielle's brother had
he met him at that moment.
It ended by Cecile suddenly bursting into a tempest of tears, and
running out of the room. This had been the last straw to an overfull
cup.
Mother and son looked at each other for a full minute, and then Madame
de Quernais held out trembling hands.
"Do nothing rash," she faltered. "Remember he is my sister's son."
Had he been less a gentleman Jehan would have thundered out an oath and
ridden forth, hot-haste, in search of his enemy. As it was, a higher
instinct prevailed. He bowed, with old-fashioned formality, over his
mother's hand, though his lips were livid and his eyes ablaze.
"I will remember, Madame," he replied, and dared not trust himself to
say more.
* * * * *
A sleepless night for those at Kernak, and now, with morning, Count
Jehan had ridden over to Varenac.
But still Monsieur le Marquis was absent. It was inexplicable.
Was the fellow such a coward that he trumped up this excuse not to see
him?
De Quernais felt his fingers itching at his sword-hilt; though what use
to storm when one's foe is absent?
And if Morice were not here Gabrielle was. The door opened suddenly on
the Count's meditations, and she stood there on the threshold.
"Oh, Jehan!" she cried, running to him eagerly, "I am so glad you have
come, so glad."
And, at sight of her fair face, the young noble felt his bitterness
vanish as the grey shadows must before the sunshine.
How he had learnt to love her, this brave little cousin, who was Breton
to her finger-tips!
When the emotions are stirred in a hot, impetuous nature it is a quick
leap from love to hate.
Yet he did not blind himself with the belief that love here was
returned.
He had seen the light grow in hazel eyes on a day when Michael
Berrington appeared suddenly in the morning-room at Langton Hall.
Since then he had known that Cousin Jehan meant brother Jehan to
Gabrielle. And, being a man of honour as well as Breton noble, he
accepted Fate's decree without murmur or strife. But it could not kill
love, since that was of immortal birth, and so he hid his eyes from
hers, lingering, as he bent over her hand, till he should regain the
mastery over himself which he had been in danger of losing.
But Gabrielle had no thought for possible embarrassment. From the
first moment she had accepted the new cousin as brother, and never
dreamt of shyness or diffidence.
"I am so glad you have come," she repeated. "You will help us to find
Morice."
"To find Morice?"
The echo of her words reminded him of past anger, of la Rouerie, of
Cecile; and his mouth hardened.
"He came hither this morning," Gabrielle continued,--and told her tale.
De Quernais listened, with knitted brow and incredulity in his eyes.
"And he has gone again?" he concluded, when Gabrielle had finished.
"Yes. We have searched everywhere."
"And Marcel Trouet comes from Paris with his Revolutionaries?"
"Yes, yes. That is what makes me afraid. If they meet----"
"They will probably meet."
"And Morice may be--killed."
"I do not think you need alarm yourself."
She was quick to catch the note of sarcasm, and faced him, a little
indignantly.
"You do not believe that--that he is changed?"
"To be honest, ma cousine, I find it difficult."
Gabrielle turned impulsively towards the man who had entered and stood
apart near the window behind her.
"Michael believes me," she cried.
The eyes of Breton and Englishman met.
"Does Monsieur Berrington believe in him?" asked Jehan slowly.
"In Morice Conyers?" demanded Michael quietly. "Yes, Monsieur le
Comte, I do--until he disproves such belief."
De Quernais shrugged his shoulders, spreading out his hands with an
impatient gesture.
"I ask your reasons, Monsieur," he said. "I too am ready to believe,
if possible, but you see the case. My cousin is a friend of the
Revolution, a member of the Society which congratulates murderers. He
is so enthusiastic in their cause that he plays a trick, which,--your
pardon, Gabrielle,--is not in accordance with honour, and comes to
Brittany for the purpose of stirring up his people to join what he is
pleased to call the Cause of Liberty.
"He comes--with Marcel Trouet, a spy, Revolutionary, murderer,
liar,--and arrives at Kernak, where he--again your pardon, ma
cousine--continues the policy of his friends, and calls himself a
Royalist and _my friend_. Then, suddenly leaving Kernak, he comes to
Varenac, where comrades of his and Trouet's already await him. He sees
his sister, tells her a tale--a wonderful tale of conversion--and
disappears. What do you think of this story?"
Michael leant his dark head against the window-frame, facing the
flushed and trembling Count Jehan, whose eyes were ablaze with hot
anger and excitement.
"It sounds as though Morice Conyers were a traitor," quoth he. "Yet
I'll still believe in the miraculous. You have a sister, Monsieur, and
a fair woman has been known to make as many conversions as a saint."
"Yes, yes, that is it," cried Gabrielle eagerly. "Jehan, you don't
know Morry. He--he is not wicked as you think. It is true that he has
been very foolish, and done many things that are wrong--very wrong.
But he has had bad friends, and he has been weak and vain, allowing
himself to be led by them. Oh! I do not excuse him, but I
believe--yes, I do believe--that he might change and be a very
honourable gentleman. He told me that in Brittany he had found a
teacher worth a hundred Marcel Trouets."
"But why did he disappear?" demanded the Count fiercely. "Ciel! if he
had not, and he had his eyes opened indeed to his duty, we should yet
win Varenac, aye, and Brittany too, for la Rouerie and the Cause. But
where is he?"
It was the question on the lips of each. Where could he be? What
could he be doing if ha were not on the road to meet Marcel Trouet?
Gabrielle covered her face with her hands, moaning. "Oh, Morry,
Morry," she sobbed, "where are you? If only----"
An opening door made her break off sharply, whilst tear-dimmed, eager
eyes watched for the entering figure. But it was only my Lord
Denningham, smiling, debonair, handsome as ever, who stood looking in
on the little trio.
He paid not the least attention to Monsieur le Comte, who drew himself
up stiffly at sight of him, but made his bow to Gabrielle with the
exaggerated homage he so well knew annoyed her.
"Ah, Mistress," he murmured plaintively, "you have punished me cruelly.
Isn't it enough that Morry's left Steenie and me in the lurch without
you scorning us into the bargain? Lud', me lady, it's hardly the work
of so dainty a hostess. You'd not treat us so at Langton. You'll be
merciful now, and join us at the card-table, or sing us a song of
Brittany to your guitar?--though, stap me! I believe I'd rather it
were an English one. I've no love for this cheerless land."
He accentuated the last words with a grimace.
"I have no taste for cards, and no humour for song," retorted
Gabrielle, her eyes alight with the indignation Lord Denningham ever
kindled within her. "And, if I had, my song would scarcely please
_your_ ears, my lord, since it would be loyal and royal both."
Her overstrained nerves showed in a gusty little fit of passion, which
brought a wider smile to Jack Denningham's mocking lips.
"Loyal and royal," he murmured. "And you are Morry's sister!"
The last words beneath his breath had bitter sting in them.
It goaded Gabrielle to indiscretion.
"Yes," she replied hotly, "I am Morry's sister,--sister to the Marquis
de Varenac, I would have you remember, and mistress here in his
absence."
A low bow was her answer, but Lord Denningham's eyes were malicious.
"I congratulate you, with all my heart," he said softly, "on your new
mistress-ship." And he smiled as he glanced towards Michael
Berrington.
The latter was standing erect, and his eyes were ready to flash their
reply and challenge.
But Gabrielle interrupted--she had not caught the drift of his subtle
insult.
"Ere the day is over Morry will be here himself," she cried. "I think
you will find the room cramped at the Manor of Varenac when he returns."
The smile broadened on the sneering features.
"I am prepared to remain _till then_," retorted my lord suavely. "I do
not think I need look for another lodging at present."
Count Jehan stepped suddenly forward.
"Your lace is soiled, Monsieur," he observed, with meaning in his
tones, whilst, stretching out his hand, he touched the ruffle of
Mechlin lace which fell back from Lord Denningham's wrist.
"Soiled?"
The owner of the ruffle looked down with a careless laugh.
The whole of the under-portion of the lace was stiff with blood.
Gabrielle gave a low cry.
"What is it?" she gasped. "What is it?"
Lord Denningham forced another laugh, not quite so careless and mocking
as the first.
"A mere scratch," he replied, with would-be lightness--"nothing of any
consequence."
But impulse had already brought Gabrielle to his side.
"If you are hurt," she said, very gravely, "you shall let me bind it
for you. I--I have some slight skill in such work. Nurse Bond taught
me."
She made as though to touch the wounded wrist, but he drew it back
sharply.
"Tush! a scratch!" he growled. "Half healed already. I want no
bandages."
Count Jehan was yawning, as he helped himself to snuff.
"An excellent flavour," he murmured, half to himself. "Bought from a
friend who has traded much in the East. Permit me, Monsieur."
He offered the dainty little box with a graceful bow.
Lord Denningham stretched out a ready hand. In doing so the lace
ruffle fell back, disclosing an arm too white for manhood, though
muscular and hardened by sword-play. Count Jehan looked from arm to
owner.
His glance was significant.
"Have you by chance met my cousin, the Marquis de Varenac, this
morning, Monsieur?" he questioned smoothly.
Lord Denningham forgot to inhale the delicate aroma of the snuff as he
turned scowling away--a curse on his lips.