WHO MICHAEL MET ON THE ROAD TO VARENAC
Michael Berrington rode to Varenac.
Grey gloom around suited well with his mood, for therein strove counter
forces as fiercely as storm-lashed waves against the jagged rocks of a
forbidding coast.
Behind lay Kernak--and love. Before him was Varenac--and duty.
He dared not leave his father in the unscrupulous hands of such men as
Denningham and Trouet.
Had he not promised his grandfather to preserve Berrington honour with
his life?
So he set his face sternly, never once glancing back, though his heart
cried aloud, bidding him return to the woman he loved.
Gabrielle might be in danger, for already rumour was busy, telling of
the ferment in the towns around, and the growing cries of "Vive la
nation," "A bas les aristocrats!" Yet he must go on--on--on, leaving
Gabrielle behind.
It was getting dark; purple moorland and purple sky blending together
in a misty haze. Hooting of owl and barking of fox came from the
forest on his right, whilst far away to the left the waves broke dully
against the cliffs.
A ghost? Was it a ghost?
Surely something akin to it.
A flutter of white, a shadowy figure looming large in the mist, then
gradually resolving itself into a woman's form.
A woman, alone on the moorland, at this hour--in these times?
A peasant girl come to meet her lover, perhaps, but brave even then,
since Breton superstitions are manifold concerning these bleak landes
at the witching hour of twilight.
But this woman came in haste. Surely it was to no love-tryst!
Michael was soon convinced of that.
Stumbling, panting, tripping, over the rough, uneven ground she came,
pausing, with a shrill cry, half-fear, half-welcome, at sight of the
man who had leapt from his horse and stood ready to greet her.
It was Olerie Koustak, the fair-haired daughter of the old major-domo
at Varenac. Michael had recognised her at once, and guessed that she
ran thus for some purpose.
"M'nsieur, M'nsieur," she cried, even before she reached his side.
"Oh, M'nsieur, help!"
"Olerie," he exclaimed, catching her hand as she swayed, white to the
lips with a sudden faintness. "Why! what has chanced? Has the Terror
come already to Varenac?"
She looked at him, her great blue eyes beseeching him dumbly, even
before she could regain breath for speech.
But presently she told her tale.
Murder at Varenac?
Murder of one of the English m'nsieurs who said they were friends of
M'nsieur le Marquis who never came?
Michael found it difficult to put the next question, and it came short
and harsh enough at last.
"Which one?"
"The elder, M'nsieur--the one who laughed all day, and who sang and
drank much wine!"
"And he is dead?"
Was it Michael's own voice that asked the question? He could hardly
believe it.
"Yes, yes. He is dead--murdered. But it was not my father who did it.
By all the blessed saints I swear it, M'nsieur. It was impossible.
Only two minutes had he left me to go to the pantry when the English
milord called him."
"And then?"
Olerie clasped her hands tightly.
"Oh, M'sieur, I was afraid, and--and I hid--whilst I listened.
I--heard all. They told my father it--it was he who committed the
murder, and locked him in an upper room. Afterwards they--they laughed
and talked together. I--I do not altogether--comprehend, for it was
not Breton tongue they talked; but it seemed that the--English milord
will stay and--call himself M'nsieur le Marquis, whilst the other
goes--to tell our people."
"And how know you this if they did not speak the Breton tongue?"
"M'nsieur, I went to an aunt in Paris when I was little. I stayed
three--four years. I talked French."
"And it was French these others talked? How many were there?"
"Two, M'nsieur. One was the English milord. I did not see the face of
the other."
"But he was French?"
"Yes, M'nsieur. Oh, M'nsieur, they will kill my father."
Her tears flowed fast at the thought.
"They have already killed mine."
Michael's face was very stern.
Olerie looked up in startled wonder.
"_Your_ father, M'nsieur?--the English M'nsieur who laughed and sang
always?"
"Yes."
He turned his face away, afraid to read pity in her eyes. It was not
pity he needed just then.
His father was dead.
The thought filled him with infinite horror and infinite relief.
The Berrington honour was safe.
Yet filial affection was not wholly dead. Weak, vacillating, utterly
unscrupulous though he was, Steenie Berrington had not been without a
certain lovableness--a kindly, merry humour which, even if insincere
and selfish, was fascinating after its kind.
And now he was dead!
Heaven have mercy on his soul!
But there were the living to think of--and justice to be done.
Michael was not one to lose opportunity in vain reveries and regrets.
He must ride with the hotter haste to Varenac, even though only his
enemies awaited him there.
He told Olerie this briefly, promising that, if the dealing of justice
lay in his hands, the innocent should not suffer for the guilty.
She thanked him tearfully, allowing him to lift her upon his horse; and
thus, together, the strange companions rode, as quickly as they might
in the gathering dusk, to Varenac.