THE MEETING IN THE FOREST
Morice Conyers stood leaning against the gnarled trunk of a
mulberry-tree.
It mattered nothing to him that his view was bounded by a cluster of
shrubs and a stone wall; he was gazing at neither.
What was Cecile thinking of him now? What was she saying? What doing?
Each question was a torture.
Jehan had returned to Kernak.
If only he could have seen the young Count first, if only there had
been time to prove that repentance had come in time to save his honour!
And now _she_ would believe in neither the one nor the other.
He groaned at the thought, passing a trembling hand across his
forehead. Oh! he must prove himself--must prove himself, even if he
died in doing it.
"Cecile, Cecile, Cecile."
The breeze overhead chanted the name again and again, now sadly, now
sweetly, alluringly, distractingly.
"Cecile, Cecile, Cecile."
His heart echoed the cry, going out with wild longing to her who had
won it and transformed it at one magic touch.
"Slit me! if it's not Morry himself. You sly dog! What demned
mischief have you been up to now, my friend, leaving Steenie and me to
cool our heels in that old rat-trap of yours?"
Jack Denningham's voice broke in sharply on a day-dream of love. It
was no more welcome interruption than the sight of my lord himself,
cool, suave, smiling, with a hearty clap on the shoulder to add to his
upbraiding words of welcome.
But there was no response in Morice Conyers' eyes.
Since Denningham was here he might as well understand at once that
there was a vast difference between the Marquis de Varenac and Beau
Conyers of Carlton House fame.
"I have been attending to business," he replied coldly, "and there's
more that needs looking after badly. If you take my advice,
Denningham, you and Steenie will be returning to England without asking
too many questions."
Seeing that a certain laurel-clump was well within earshot of the
mulberry-tree, my lord was singularly obtuse.
"Business? Return to England?" he cried, with a merry chuckle. "Why,
we've all come on business, and when we're tired of teaching these
surly beggars of yours their Marseillaise, I'll warrant we'll all be
ready enough for town, and some good jests for our Florizel, to boot.
Ha! ha! Yes, we'll all return together _afterwards_."
But Morice was facing him squarely, and there were no signs of
irresolution round the corners of his mouth now.
"As for returning to England, that depends on events," he retorted.
"But one thing is certain, Jack,--I'll not be teaching my tenants any
of your demned songs of liberty or murder either. I've come to cry:
'God save King Louis, and confound the Red Revolution and all its
leaders.'"
He drew himself to his fullest height as he spoke, and looked his
quondam friend in the face.
Lord Denningham was neither smiling nor sneering now, but his blue eyes
had an ugly expression in them.
"Brittany has evidently had a depressing effect on you," he observed
drily. "Come, don't be a fool, Morry. Let's to the house. Steenie is
brewing a bowl of punch which will clear your addle-pate. We haven't
come here to listen to any demned heroics, but to do business as
members of the Corresponding Society."
The words were fuel to smouldering flame.
Morice Conyers forgot caution and wisdom both.
With a curse he sprang forward, dashing his hand into the other's face.
"Fools for the punch-bowl," he shouted. "You may drown your coward
whines in it if you're afraid to be a man. But I tell you I've done
with your traitor Societies, and the rest of 'em. I've been knave and
villain long enough. Heaven knows I was both, with my fool's eyes shut
to what I was doing. You brought me here to whistle to your tunes;
you'll find I have one of my own to sing--a song that won't sully the
lips of a Marquis de Varenac, nor those of an honest Englishman."
Denningham's face was very white--save where the mark of Morice's
fingers had brought a red patch to his cheek.
"Honest Englishman!" he gibed. "Mongrel cur is the better title.
Where have you been hiding, noble night-bird? Too-whoo--too-whoo,--the
owl should keep to forest-shade in the daylight, lest the hunter might
shoot her as too noisy a pest."
"You shall give me----"
"Satisfaction? Come, come, Mr. Forest-skulker, be not too valiant; it
is dangerous. Still, if you will,--what time like the present?"
"I'll not wait longer."
Morice's fury was at fever-pitch, his passion blinding him to all
discretion.
He did not realize that he had fallen at once into the trap my lord had
prepared for him.
"Come, then," observed his smiling adversary, helping himself to a
pinch of snuff with a languid air. "If you _will_ have it so, your
forest lair will be the best scene for your lesson. You will be more
at home there; though, if you prefer it, nearer to your Manor, and
within call of your servants----."
"I am ready," broke in Morice, sternly. "Let it be where you will, and
with what weapons you will, so it be at once."
Lord Denningham did not hesitate.
"The forest, by all means, then," he yawned. "and pistols will be more
appropriate than swords. Stap me! It's the first time I'll have been
owl-shooting since I was a boy."
Morice did not reply, though he strode quickly enough on the heels of
the other as he led the way down the path, through the wicket, and
across the heather-crowned strip of moorland towards the outskirts of
the forest.
The cool breeze blowing in his face seemed to restore the young man to
his senses. He was going to fight a duel with Lord Denningham.
Honour demanded it now.
But he was remembering tales which had often been the subject of
Carlton House gossip--tales of this man's skill with the pistols, his
unerring aim, his callous disregard of life.
"You are going to death, you are going to death," moaned the autumn
wind in his ear; and the voice seemed like the voice of Cecile crying
its sad farewell.
Yet he could not go back; it was too late. If death awaited him, there
in the grim forest, he must meet the grisly foe as a man, not a puling
coward.
A man! Yes, a man whom Cecile, in years to come, might think of not
wholly in shame, but with a great pity, as of one who, after many sins,
many failures, many mistakes, had tried to redeem the past and expiate
his faults--for her sake. If only he could have sent a message!
But that, too, was impossible.
"I think, with your permission, we have gone far enough," observed Lord
Denningham affably, as he halted near a small clearing in the wood.
Morice nodded.
He knew not if he had walked one mile or ten, so deep had been his
reverie.
And now death stood at his side.
"It is a matter of regret that there is no time to procure seconds,"
smiled my lord, as he proceeded to divest himself of his coat and walk
slowly across the clearing, carefully measuring his paces.
"But I do not think there will be any dispute--afterwards."
"No," replied Morice dully.
He understood the gist of the remark.
"The light might be worse," went on Denningham. "If we are careful
where we stand,--so--there is too deep a shadow there. You have a good
weapon, sir? If not, permit me to offer you the choice of mine."
He opened a leather case as he spoke, holding it towards Morice with a
mocking bow.
A pair of gold-mounted pistols lay within.
But Morice shook his head.
"I thank you, my lord, but I prefer using my own," he replied shortly.
Lord Denningham raised his eyebrows.
"As you like. But you will surely remove your coat?"
"Thank you. No."
"Again--as you will, though I warn you those gilt buttons of yours make
a pretty target."
"I am ready."
They were facing each other--Morice Conyers grim and pale, yet with
eyes stern of purpose and undaunted enough, though he knew death looked
him in the face.
Denningham was white too, but his blue eyes were scornful, and his thin
lips twisted in a cold smile.
He never doubted for a second the issue of that duel.
And his pistol was levelled point-blank at the other's heart.
It was by far the simplest method of dealing with a crazy fool.
Two shots rang out in the silent wood. A dull thud, a faint cracking
of dried twigs, as a heavy body fell backward; then silence again.
Lord Denningham was carefully replacing a smoking pistol within its
case, wiping it first with his silk handkerchief.
Inwardly he was experiencing that acute satisfaction of having
fulfilled his purpose neatly and expeditiously.
A pistol was far more satisfactory in every way than a sword. The
latter bungled at times, the former, never.
A wounded opponent would have been a demned difficulty.
Having put on his coat, and replaced his case of weapons, he approached
the figure which lay, half hidden, amongst the dense undergrowth.
He would make certain of his work.
Faugh!
In haste he withdrew a searching hand. It was dripping with blood.
The contact was distasteful. It even went so far as to shake his
nerves.
Wiping the red stains again and again on the grass, he rose to his feet.
He would wash his hand in the stream they had passed on their way, and
then no time must be lost in returning to the Manor and seeking Sir
Stephen.
It must not be suspected that he had ever left the card-table that
morning.
Steenie would be too fuddled to contradict if questions were asked.
Besides, it was unlikely there _would_ be questions.
Murder was too everyday an occurrence just now. And, though the Terror
had not yet come to Varenac, it would be no great matter of surprise
that a noble landlord returning to his own should be found with a
bullet in his heart in the woods near his home.
So Jack Denningham argued as he hurried back along the forest path,
only stopping to wash the blood once more from his hand, and with
scarcely a thought to bestow on a quondam friend who lay with eyes fast
closed and white face upturned to greet the sunbeams which stole down,
half shyly, through leafy shade, to peep, as it were, at that which lay
so still amongst the fading bracken.