THE HUT OF NANETTE LEROC
But my Lord Denningham had for once been out-witted by a fate more
merciful than himself.
A strangely perverse fate, too, for here she had changed destruction to
salvation. The bullet, winging its way straight to the heart of Morice
Conyers, had glanced aside on the brass button of his heavy
travelling-coat and entered the body several inches to the right of the
spot intended. True, the victim had fallen instantly, his own shot
having gone wide of its mark amongst the trees, and there he lay,
bleeding and unconscious.
But Death had stepped aside--its grey form slipping away through the
misty shadows to pursue other prey.
And thus, in time, Morice opened his eyes once more and found himself,
not in Paradise or Purgatory, but lying still on his bracken couch, his
white shirt stiff with blood, and a feeling of cold faintness which
kept his thoughts slipping from him like ghosts of a fleeting vision.
But presently the misty haze swimming before his eyes cleared a little,
and he became conscious that some one was talking near him.
The voice was as unfamiliar as the little dark face that peered into
his, yet he smiled, muttering faintly that all was well--or would be if
he might have a draught of brandy.
His request evidently fell on deaf ears. But presently a flask was put
to his lips. Not brandy, or anything like it, yet the long drink of
milk, which he swallowed thirstily, revived him, and he sat up.
A little peasant-girl, in picturesque Breton dress, stood by his side,
surveying him with mingled curiosity and awe.
Cecile's lessons might have stood him in good stead had his brain been
less confused. As it was, he was content to let this sympathetic
friend guide him along the path.
Feeble, staggering steps, with frequent halts when the giddiness
overpowered him; but the girl, though small, was stronger than might
have been expected, and helped him bravely, till together they reached
a little hut close to the pathway.
What followed was but a confused dream to Morice Conyers. He
remembered vaguely that an old, white-capped woman came to his side,
and that somehow he reached a bed. Then the dream darkened till all
became a blank, in which surging waves and roaring winds alone were
heard, whilst he drifted helpless and feeble before the tempest.
But morning light told a different tale. Youth, a vigorous
constitution, old Nanette's balsam of herbs, or Providence,--_which_ it
was Morice did not trouble to consider. All he knew was that he was
alive, and thanked God for it, remembering Cecile. Afterwards he
recollected that he was hungry.
The white-capped old woman, who had been but a wraith figure the night
before, came to his side with a bowl of chestnut soup and black bread.
Coarse fare--but our dainty beau had never tasted a more delicious meal.
Ah! It was good to be alive.
In halting Breton he thanked the good mother, and vainly tried to
follow an avalanche of chatter.
All he could gather was that this was the hut of Nanette Leroc, and
that the little one, who found him, was her niece, Marie, who had been
returning from a fete.
Of course the good saints had directed her feet that way, and had shown
her where he lay.
Marie, busy shelling chestnuts in the background, must have blushed at
this last, seeing that the saints had apparently less to do with the
direction of her steps than a certain Meloir Duvaine, who had promised
to meet her on her return from Cervenais, but who had failed to keep
tryst.
But Morice cared little whether saint or lover, or both, had had finger
in the pie. It was sufficient that Marie _had_ found him, and that he
lay here with the warm life-blood flowing freely in his veins.
He would have risen from his humble couch had not Nanette and common
sense withheld him.
Loss of blood had weakened him, even though the wound was not serious
in itself.
The brass button on his coat was twisted and bent beyond recognition.
When he saw it, Morice Conyers thanked God again.
The sight sobered him.
Nanette and Marie chattered incessantly when they were in the hut.
Fortunately their work kept them a good deal without.
Later, Morice fell asleep to the whirring of the spinning-wheel. It
was more soothing than unintelligible Breton.
For two days he remained in the hut of old Nanette. On the third he
was strong enough to rise. Weak though he was, he could return now to
Varenac.
He still had his work to do; and what might not be happening if the
story of his death had got abroad?
At first Nanette refused the gold he offered her with halting but
heartfelt thanks.
It was le bon Dieu who had sent him, she said. But the sight of the
glittering coins was too much for her thrifty soul to withstand; and
folk said the winter was likely to be a hard one.
So she took money and thanks, bidding her patient a voluble farewell,
and invoking many blessings on his head.
Morice was already half across a forest glade before she had come to
the end of them.
It was past mid-day, but, though the autumn sunshine warmed the purple
landes beyond, it was chilly in the shade. More than once Morice
paused, shivering a little; but whether from cold, weakness, or the
excitement of what he knew must lie before him, he could not tell.
A step on the path, a bend in the road, the flutter of a crimson
cloak--and there before him stood Cecile herself.
For a moment trees, path, figure, swam giddily before the young man's
eyes. Then, as the mists cleared, he looked into a face pale as his
own.
The basket she carried had slipped from her grasp, and she stood, hands
clasped together, leaning against a tree.
"Morice!"
It was a faint whisper coming from white lips, but he heard it.
"Cecile!"
Did the pinched cheeks and hollow eyes tell their own tale?
It must have been so, for she was at his side the next moment.
"You are not dead?" she faltered, and touched his hand, half fearfully,
as though she fancied the apparition would slip out of sight as she
approached.
But he caught and held her fingers in no ghost-like touch.
"You are not dead?"
A hundred questions were in her eyes.
"No, I am not dead, dear love, dear love."
He spoke the last words hungrily, wistfully, longing for response, yet
scarcely daring to hope for it.
The colour had not come to her cheeks at his words; she was still
staring up in that same wonder.
Yet he saw another thought dawning behind it.
"If you are alive, what does it mean?" she asked, then shuddered
violently. "They told me you were a traitor," she said.
"A traitor? And so I was, Cecile--a black and dishonoured traitor.
But I repented."
"Repented!"
Her voice rang harshly.
"Ay. God grant before too late."
"When--when you rode to Varenac----"
"I went as its Marquis, to cry 'Long live the King.'"
"And yet----"
"I never reached Varenac."
"You--turned back?"
How her eyes accused him.
"Cecile! Cecile! Yet I deserve it. No, I did not turn back. I met
my sister----"
"She has told me all that, and how you disappeared before she could
return."
"Lord Denningham found me awaiting her. A quarrel was forced. He
sneered at me for a Chouan. I lost my temper, and gave him his desire.
We fought near here, and I think he left me for dead. Old Nanette
nursed me back to life--it was a miracle that saved me. I am on my way
to Varenac."
He spoke breathlessly, almost incoherently. Yet each word carried
truth with it. And she believed him, though, by reason of her very
love and fear, she hesitated.
"You go to Varenac?"
"At once, Mademoiselle."
"Your enemies are there."
"They will be kinder than my friends--or those I dared to hope might be
my friends. But I understand----"
"You understand?"
"That it is too late--there is no forgiveness for sin meditated."
"No forgiveness?"
Her lips were quivering, her eyes full of tears. All the hardness had
gone from the little face which was raised to his.
Morice was trembling, less from weakness now than the hope with which
those eyes inspired him.
"You believe me?"
"I do."
"Cecile!"
She was in his arms, sobbing out all the despair and horror of those
three days. His shame had been hers, and more bitter to hear of than
his death. But Gabrielle's story had helped to clear a name she held
so dear, yet left her doubtful, and utterly miserable.
Dead without proof that penitence had been sincere! Mother of God! it
had seemed to break her heart.
And now, why! now she wept--wept tears of joy and thankfulness which
swept aside despair.
He was alive--alive, and on his way to Varenac.
That last thought sent a chill through throbbing pulses.
To Varenac!
She remembered how Jehan had brought Gabrielle to Kernak, and how grim
he had looked when rumours of the approaching Terror reached them. It
was not only at St. Malo that the "widow" claimed her victims.
And at Varenac Lord Denningham, the avowed friend of Marcel Trouet,
still remained. She shivered at the thought.
Gabrielle had told her much of this man, and her belief that he could,
if he chose, explain the reason of Morice's disappearance.
Yes, she feared Lord Denningham almost as much as the Terror.
Yet it was true that Morice must go to Varenac.
It might not be too late even now to do something for the Cause.
But he should not go alone.
"You must return with me to Kernak," she whispered. "Jehan is there.
He will go with you. You--you must prove to him, too, that you are
Monsieur le Marquis."
The faintest smile parted her trembling lips.
"Prove it--to Jehan?"
"Yes."
Morice raised his head proudly.
"I will prove it to the whole world," said he.
"And you will come to Kernak?"
"If you will. But my heart burns to reach Varenac. You--you do not
know all, perhaps. I tell you every moment is precious, the danger
nearer."
He spoke feverishly, thinking of Marcel Trouet.
But she could bring reasons for her importunity.
"You may fail if you go alone. The people do not know you. They might
refuse to believe that you are their Marquis; but they will believe
Jehan."
He saw that the argument was good.
"Then let us go to Kernak," he cried, turning back along the path, with
a sudden gesture of impatience.
Cecile smiled.
"Yes, to Kernak," she echoed, with a happy sob.
Even their love, born in autumn sunlight, and wellnigh killed by autumn
blasts, took no first place at that moment in their hearts, when a
man's honour and a country's hopes were at stake; though Cecile, being
a woman, felt her heart beat gladly when she remembered that she had
turned her lover from the road to Varenac--and death.