The buxom daughter of mine host at the Goat and Compasses, not half-a-mile from Carlton House, had her own opinions. They were decided, and showed an unusual power of discernment.
Mr. Conyers was a very pretty gentleman, in spite of a reprehensible habit of kissing too freely when rosy lips were near and tempting; but he was not to be compared—so Mollie told herself—with Mr. Michael Berrington, who was not pretty at all, and had not even a glance for Mollie, let alone a kiss, but was all eyes and ears for that handsome and lavish gentleman his father, who clung to him one moment and flouted him the next.
Mollie had met a good many Sir Stephens before! Then there was that Frenchman, who talked so much and seemed so fond of making fun of King George—bless him! Mollie did not like foreigners, and was as loyal as she was plump and pretty.
With her ear to the keyhole she was trying hard to hear more of what Moosoo Trouet was saying to Mr. Conyers and that sleepy-eyed Lord Denningham, who had made her blush with the freedom of his remarks as to her charms.
Mollie frowned, and glued her ear closer.
Lack-a-day! She could hear little, and was so intent on courting better success that she fell back with a squeal when a hand caught her shoulder.
Sir Stephen Berrington was laughing.
"Come, chick," he gibed. "We'll have to dub you Mistress of the Keyhole, instead of honest men's hearts. There! don't change colour. I'll not betray you if you run straight away, and cook me an omelette of chickens' livers for a snack before I start for Brighton. And, hark ye, my pretty, a bottle of port as crusty as your father's temper to drink your health in."
Mollie needed no second bidding, for, sure, that Lord Denningham would not have spared her had he known of her curiosity, and Peter Cooling had a strap which he was not too tender a parent to use across an erring daughter's fair shoulders.
Nevertheless, Mollie's cheeks were aflame and her brown eyes sparkling with truly righteous indignation.
Morice Conyers had not thought of eavesdroppers when he made that last speech of his. Loyalty to conviction as well as King makes great demands on one at times. Mollie, the innkeeper's daughter, was something near a lady by instinct just now, and ready to make a mighty sacrifice at the call of honour.
Her reputation as the best omelette maker in England might be at stake, yet she never hesitated more than a second at the kitchen door before she thrust her head inside, bidding the serving-wench put aside kettle-scrubbing, and see to the execution of Sir Stephen's order.
La! there would be some swearing upstairs unless Jenny could rise to the occasion beyond expectations. But what signified a burnt omelette compared with the business in hand?
Mollie, rosier than ever with haste, stood at the parlour door.
Was her father inside? If so, it would be a case of fibbing to get that sober gentleman, Mr. Berrington, outside.
But old Peter was not within. He was discoursing to the ostler in the yard. A broad-shouldered figure in a blue, many-caped coat, adorned by brass buttons, with legs stretched well before him, and hands thrust deeply in his pockets, sat alone.
Mollie advanced, bashful, but brimming with self-importance.
"Mr. Berrington, sir," she cried breathlessly.
Michael turned, half rising as he saw her standing there, for, if he had neither kisses nor smiles for pretty barmaids, he treated every woman he met with a deference which they found vastly pleasing.
"Why, yes, Mollie," quoth he. "The coach is never ready to start yet?"
"No, indeed!" she answered at a gabble. "Sir Stephen has but now ordered an omelette, which that slut Jenny is sure to burn, but I had to leave her, having news of moment for your ear."
Her air of self-importance was amusing.
Michael's grey eyes twinkled.
"News of moment! Now you must not complain to me, child, if Mr. Conyers kisses you too often."
She pouted at that, with the air of a spoilt little coquette.
"Kisses indeed! I'll teach Mr. Conyers! No, no, Mr. Berrington, sir. It's news I bring you. You remember the young gentleman from France who rode up from the country a day since to see that same Mr. Conyers?"
"Jéhan de Quernais? His pardon! Monsieur le Comte. Oh yes, I recall him very well, since he only left yesterday."
"He was cousin to Mr. Conyers, and had a favour to crave from him?"
"Fie, Mollie, you should not interest yourself with the affairs of gentlemen."
"There's no harm done if I have, this time, Mr. Berrington, sir. Perhaps you know, as well as I, that Mr. Conyers sent him back to his country-house, bidding him wait there a few days for him, and promising to do afterwards all he asked."
Michael nodded, recollecting an annoyance that Morry should send this dainty Breton gentleman back to Langton, where Mistress Gabrielle dwelt alone, save for the chaperonage of old Nurse Bond.
"They sent him away," nodded Mollie. "But, poor gentleman, they mean to play a scurvy trick on him from what Mr. Conyers cried, laughing, to that ugly Frenchman just now. They'll play him false, and leave him in the country, whilst they go back to Brittany to do what Moosoo Trouet and the black Revolution want, and from what the pretty young gentleman begged Mr. Conyers to save them."
Michael was frowning now, his cheeks pale and grey eyes stern.
"Where learnt you this, girl?" he rapped out imperiously.
Mollie flushed, hanging her head.
"I ... I learnt it b—but now, sir," she stammered.
"Ah, I see. At the keyhole. Fie, Mollie; it was not well done!"
Yet his tone was more absent than upbraiding, for he was trying to fit the key to the tale.
"I ... I did it to p-pleasure you, sir, and because my father says the Revolution in France is a bloody and wicked thing. And ... and I am sure Moosoo Trouet would be ready to murder us all in our beds as they have been doing in Paris. So, for sake of it all, and the pretty young gentleman from France, I came to tell you. An' it's certain Jenny's burnt the omelette, which if father knew he'd beat me sorely."
A tear in a pretty eye is a wonderful softener to men's hearts.
Michael Berrington took Mollie's hand and tried to express at the same moment his gratitude for her good intent and the wrongness of deceit and eavesdropping.
Mollie sobbed a little, smiled a little, found coquetry vain, and a golden guinea consoling.
Michael's conscience pricked him at the thought that this last might be termed bribery and corruption.
Yet Mollie's news was startling even if incoherent.
What did it mean?
The cousin from Brittany had found more in common with Michael Berrington than with Morice Conyers, though the latter had been constrainedly affable.
Monsieur Marcel Trouet had been confined to his room through illness during the young Count's stay, but Morry had visited him.
Monsieur Jéhan de Quernais had been pressing and enthusiastic in the cause of his mission. At first Morice, with a round oath, had declared that nothing should take him to Brittany. He had his own pies to bake, and had not the least wish for the embrace of the "widow."*
* The guillotine.
But this hectoring decision, mark you, was before he visited Monsieur Trouet—poor Monsieur Trouet, who lay groaning in bed with that kind Lord Denningham to act as sick nurse!
Afterwards Morry climbed down; that is, he began to feel the bonds of kinship and the great responsibility due to him as Monsieur le Marquis de Varenac.
Yes, he would come and guide his waiting people in the right way.
He and the overjoyed Jéhan talked long into the night over the matter, till Morice felt that he was indeed Breton too, and almost ready to join the ranks of la Rouerie's desperate band, which meant to sweep Robespierre, the guillotine, and the whole Revolution itself into the sea.
But Jéhan must not be impatient.
It was absolutely impossible for his cousin to be whirled off on the instant to Varenac.
He must arrange his affairs. An appointment of the utmost importance, nay, the command of the Prince of Wales himself, took him the next day to Brighton.
Three days, and then he would be at the disposal of Brittany, the Royalists, and, finally, of Jéhan de Quernais. But for those three days he asked his good cousin to accept the hospitality of Langton Hall. He himself would not be there, though he regretted it a thousand times. However, he would find many interests and amusements, as well as the society of his little sister Gabrielle.
Monsieur Jéhan, even though he disliked delay, was ready to admit that he should find Langton Hall charming.
He had seen la belle Cousine Gabrielle.
It was that last speech which had so ruffled poor Michael's humour.
Morry had no right to make it possible that even the breath of a sullying whisper should spread about young Mistress Conyers entertaining a handsome foreigner alone.
Morry—whose ideas of propriety were as elastic as London morals—would have laughed at such a suggestion.
So, perforce, Michael, having no right to interfere, had to swallow his vexation.
He was glad to see in Monsieur Jéhan a discreet and pleasant gentleman.
Yet his own heart-strings tugged him homewards, whilst that fetish, honour, held him bound at the Goat and Compasses.
The power of a strong will over a weak had already given him some influence with Sir Stephen, and he would not leave him alone in the company of such men as Denningham and Trouet.
Mollie's story had convinced him that the honour of more than one house was at stake. And Morice Conyers was Gabrielle's brother.
There was little of the dare-devil, racketing youth left in the sober-eyed man who sat pondering over the fire, whilst without, in the yard, the ostlers called to each other, laughing and joking, as they led out the roan horses which my Lord Denningham was driving to Brighton, comparing them with the blacks which Mr. Berrington handled with such skill.
And upstairs a group of finely-clothed gentlemen lounged over their wine, which they found soothing enough after shouting themselves hoarse in anathemas on Mollie's devoted head for the foulest omelette ever beaten.
But Mollie, escaping in good time to her chamber, laughed softly as she tucked away her guinea in a silken pouch, and reflected how truly angry that hateful little Moosoo would be if he knew how she had tried to foil his nasty, creepy ways.
Faugh! The snake! How she hated him, although he called her "Ze pretty, pretty Mollee."
Mollie indeed! The impertinence!
The Prince of Wales was in hilarious mood. And with reason too.
At his Brighton Pavilion he had enjoyed full many a carouse with convivial spirits, and this was to be the merriest of all.
Clarence and York were there, besides many another well-known figure which haunted Carlton House,—good drinkers, good gamblers, good comrades all; boon and fitting companions for such a master.
What bursts of merriment went up from the throng gathered around the royal chair!
Florizel had an idea, and the throats of laughing satellites were hoarse with crying: "Excellent!" "Excellent!"
"He'll dine and sleep with us here, at the Pavilion," chuckled the Prince. "A wager that he'll sleep sound."
As he spoke a grand equipage was driving into the courtyard—that gilded coach and famous team of greys were long remembered in Sussex—and from the coach descended an old, grey-headed man. It was His Grace the great Duke of Norfolk, known to his friends as "Jockey of Norfolk," who had driven over from his castle of Arundel at the Prince's invitation.
They had been friends and then quarrelled, as most of the Whigs quarrelled with George, and this visit was to proclaim a kind of reconciliation between them.
Thus the old noble entered the Pavilion and was greeted uproariously by an uproarious host.
Dignity and our Prince were unknown to each other, and there were some who saw the wink which passed between him and his brother of York.
But the Duke was not thinking of plots or traps in the presence of the First Gentleman of Europe. He was delighted with his reception and the banquet which followed.
An honoured guest indeed! As his age and station demanded.
Jockey of Norfolk smiled, bowing over his glass at the ring of familiar faces, whilst George, grinning, winked again at his portly brother.
So many friends! and all of one mind. Drink must each one with His Grace. He did not refuse, though, from under bushy brows, the still piercing eyes looked round, noting the snigger on this face and the scoff on that.
It was a conspiracy then.
Honour was to be dishonour for the Howard. Yet he did not refuse the challenges, his reputation with the bottle being almost as great as his standing.
Many a less seasoned head lay low round that merry table. Last toasts had been drunk here and there along the line, but Jockey of Norfolk sat erect, his lips smiling, his face stern.
Bumpers of brandy were suggested at last by that gallant Florizel, that First Gentleman himself,—bumpers of brandy to seal a plot as degrading as it was contemptible. York, with unsteady hand, filled a great glass with the spirits and gave it to his brother's guest.
The Duke stood up, and, raising the goblet, tossed off the contents at a draught.
A brave old toper! with something pathetic in this last defiance, for all its sordidness.
"And now," quoth he, aloud and very sternly, "I'll have my carriage and go home."
The Prince of Wales laid a detaining hand on the velvet sleeve of his outraged guest.
"No, no," he cried thickly. "I vow we'll make a night of it. You've promised to sleep here, Jockey. You'll not go against your Prin—Prince's commands. You can't complain ... entertainment."
But the old man shook off the fat hand.
"I'll go," he growled, with an oath. "I see through such hospitality, Your Highness."
The thought of the trap made his blood boil. But the Howard honour was at stake. He would not sleep beneath the roof of the man who had wished to stain it.
Alas! they called the carriage, but, before it could drive to the Pavilion doors, the hoary head of England's premier Duke lay helpless on the table, with that chuckling, mocking throng around, glorying in their successful wit, and finding the sight of shamed grey hairs hugely entertaining.
It was the sort of jest Florizel delighted in, though historians clack so much of his good-nature and kindly heart.
Poor old Jockey of Norfolk! He managed somehow to stumble to his carriage, bidding the postillions drive him to Arundel. But the Prince was loath to part with his fun, and gave other orders.
So, for half an hour, they drove him round the Pavilion lawn, whilst in the porch stood a crowd of revellers laughing and mocking at the helpless old figure inside.
Presently they lifted him out and put him to bed in the Pavilion. He awoke to find himself there in the morning, and the bitterness of that awakening stayed with him to his dying day.
A goodly jest, indeed, for a Prince and gentleman! Yet Florizel, debauchee, gambler, libertine, has his admirers to this day. A rare, merry fellow indeed, this German princeling! A noble ruler for old England later on.
So thought Michael Berrington, bitterly enough, as he sat grim and disapproving at the table till he could bear the spectacle no longer.
Sir Stephen already lay half insensible on the floor—excuse enough for the son to carry an erring father home.
Lord Denningham had his sneers there. As for Morice Conyers and Monsieur Trouet, they were not present, though they had driven to Brighton on Denningham's coach.
Vaguely uneasy was Michael at the absence of those two, coupled with Mollie Cooling's story.
Some plot was stirring beneath the depths, and he remembered that Guy Barton, the kindly friend of his grandfather and now of his own, had told him how Morice Conyers had allowed himself to be mixed up with dangerous and seditious societies.
It is true that every right-minded Englishman cried out in horror when the terrible news of the September massacres in the Parisian prisons reached them. But yet Michael had heard also of the decision of these so-called sympathisers of freedom—the London Corresponding Society and others—to send deputies to the leaders of the Revolution, bearing their congratulations on deeds which were as brutal as they were inhuman.
And not only Morice Conyers, but his own father, were members of this Society.
Michael's eyes grew grimmer at the thought, recalling the solemn vow to his grandfather that he would do his best to save the Berrington honour from further stain, and wipe out—if possible—that dark debt which a Berrington owed a Conyers.
Yes, for that reason, as well as the knowledge that he was Gabrielle's brother, he had sought to win Morice's friendship. But ever between them loomed the dark figures of John Denningham and Marcel Trouet.
That both the latter hated him he was aware, returning their animosity with interest.
Left to himself, Morice Conyers had the making of an honourable gentleman, but a fatal weakness and vanity had drawn him down into dark paths of vice and intrigue.
It does not do to look deep into the lives of the town-bred beaux and bucks of that vicious period; but Michael, made of stronger and better stuff, had turned with loathing and disgust from the enjoyments and pastimes into which the necessary shadowing of his father led him.
After many years of privation Sir Stephen was tasting greedily of the pleasures of life.
And Marcel Trouet took care that these should not lack the delicate spice of political intrigue. There are men who court notoriety, clean or unclean. There are others who love their flatterers so much that they allow themselves to be drawn into affairs for which they have no taste, and against which their better instincts cry out lustily enough.
Of such were Sir Stephen Berrington and Morice Conyers.
No wonder Michael found his task a hard one, for the two, pitted against him in his work of rescue, were no fools.
The leaders of the glorious Revolution had the greatest confidence in Marcel Trouet.
Lord Denningham might lack morals, but brains he had in plenty.
Without scruples the latter gift is dangerous.
So Michael felt the uneasiness growing in him as he helped his father up the stairs of the lodging they had taken.
"Lesh drink an' b' jolly, an' drownsh melancholy,"
warbled Sir Stephen, rousing himself. "Ha, ha, Mike, boy, drownsh it, drownsh it."
Michael did not reply. He was thinking.
Sir Stephen sank back in an easy-chair, his handsome face flushed, his satin suit crumpled and stained with wine splashes, his wig awry. And over him stood his son, stern and commanding.
"Where is Morice Conyers?" he asked gravely and very slowly, whilst grey eyes dominated wavering blue ones.
Sir Stephen began chuckling.
"Morry! Wantsh to know where Morry is? Why, you knowsh better'n I. He's with Moosoo. Ha, ha! a pretty joke, split me if it ain't. We'll make them laugh at Almack's over it. Ha, ha! good old Morry. Fancy him turningsh politics! Red capsh, Marshellaise, too funny."
"He has gone with Marcel Trouet to France," said Michael, in even, quiet tones.
Sir Stephen looked slily up.
"Marcel Trouet? Ha! ha! He's the birdsh for Paris. Paris! I knowsh Paris. Course I do! Not going there now, though. Marcel may go alone. No redsh caps for me. Mightn't leave head to wear it on. No, no. I'm goingsh, Morry."
"And Morry is going to——?"
"Brittany. Thatsh it! Brittany. Never, never will be slaves. No, no, thatsh wrong. Morry's a Marquish. Gran' thing Marquish, but Morry's not proud. Red capsh for Morry, Marshellaise. Send all the demsh arist'crats to the guillotine. That's what Trouet wants. Goodsh fellow, Trouet. Those demsh Bretons such fools. Don't know where breadsh buttered. Morry'll teach 'em, an' the little Count can sit an' shing to Gabrielle. Pretty girl, Gabrielle, Morry's shishter. The little Count'll be waitingsh, an' waitingsh. Ha, ha! 'Have to wait,' says Marcel. Bumpers on that. Morry'll dosh own work to ownsh tune. Won't be dictated to by whipper-shnappers. I'm with Morry—Denningham an' I'sh with Morry. All goin' together. Good joke that. Right side too. No danger there. Quality, libertysh, fraternitish."
His head fell forward as he spoke, though he lay chuckling still.
And Michael, standing there in that mean room, with the helpless, drunken figure in a bunch before him, felt his pulses stir with something more wild and despairing than mere loathing.
The tale, which would have been incomprehensible enough but for Mollie Cooling, was plain now.
Urged to it by the subtle arguments of Marcel Trouet, Morice Conyers was evidently allowing himself to betray not only his own order, but his own kith and kin.
The simple Breton peasants, who awaited the word of their seigneur, were to hear it as young de Quernais had asked that they should.
But, alas! how different a word would it be to what was anticipated. Instead of sealing the hopes of that gallant enterprise led by la Rouerie and other noble gentlemen of Brittany, the doom of the Chouannerie would be pronounced, and the Republic would again triumph. The balances, trembling and uncertain, would sink under the weight of a traitor's blow.
All an Englishman's notions of honour and fair play rose in revolt against the hideous baldness of the facts.
Yet what could he do?
Doubtless, both Trouet and Conyers were already on their way, and the latter would soon be joined by his evil genii, Lord Denningham and Sir Stephen.
Against these what weight would his unsupported word carry?
A laugh, threats,failure—yes, that was all he minded,—that last; and it would be inevitable, seeing that he could not fight his own father,—and Trouet was no duellist.
What should he do? What should he do?
The question drummed ceaselessly in his ear, whilst honour's mournful ghost seemed to rise to his side, looking at him with Sir Henry's reproachful eyes.
Could he not, by some means, save them both,—these two, weak backsliders, from this same honour's roll,—and thus redeem his vow and wipe that dimmer blot from the scutcheon of his house?
Save Morice Conyers and his father! Pray Heaven to find a way for that!
An idea came to him, a swift flash, which carried but a half-germ of hope to his heart, as he stood listening to Sir Stephen's heavy breathing.
At least he could ride to Langton Hall and warn Count Jéhan that he was betrayed.
He shrank from proclaiming Gabrielle's brother traitor, yet better first than last, since truth and proof must out.
Yes, he would warn de Quernais, and then, perchance, Providence would show him the fashion of his next step.
With head erect, and pulses on fire, he turned, striding down the narrow stairway and out into the street below.
Their horses were at the inn-stable opposite, though mine host of the Flying Fish had had no accommodation for more guests.
On his way Michael passed merry bands of revellers, for the Prince had brought Brighton into considerable fashion; he also passed one solitary figure, wrapped in a long driving-coat over a rich suit of silk and satin. It was Lord Denningham, hurrying from the Pavilion to the lodging of Sir Stephen Berrington.
Sir Stephen's son set his jaw grimly. There was to be a fight of sorts between them, even though, at present, his sword lay idle in its scabbard.
Riding through the darkness of an autumn night with loose rein—a weary journey and dangerous too for the solitary traveller; but Michael Berrington recked nothing then of such danger, seeing he was set to fight a much greater.
A fetish, this honour, say many; but the few who guard her as a possession dearer than life smile, knowing that she is precious, with her songs of inspiration and lofty ideals.
So Michael rode, and found his heart first beating high with that fighting hope which deems failure impossible and the age of miracles not passed, and again enveloped in the pall of shame and doubt.
He spared neither spur nor whip that night. Thrice he changed horses and thrice felt the weary beasts stumbling beneath him ere he reached his destination, and by then the dawn was widening and spreading into the glory of morning light.
They were early risers at Langton Hall, and there was small delay in gaining admittance, whilst Giles, grinning a sly welcome, made haste to usher him into the sunny morning-room.
Count Jéhan was finding English customs as extraordinary as they were agreeable. French breakfasts of roll and chocolate were as little understood here as French pruderies and proprieties.
During the last two days he had found himself wondering what his mother would say could she see him sitting tête-à-tête at meals with this pretty and adorable little cousin. He had not altogether grasped the fact that Gabrielle, motherless and alone, had been brought up with a freedom wholly unknown to other English maidens.
A cousin—to Gabrielle—seemed to be a vastly superior sort of brother, one who never flouted, but was always kind and most considerate.
During those two days she had heard so much too of Madame her Aunt, and Cécile, that she was longing more than ever for the day to come when she might welcome them to England. And of course they would come—they wouldhaveto come.
Morry would bring them back with him, and Cousin Jéhan would follow when he and his hero Marquis had finally driven the Revolution into the sea.
In the intervals of such planning Gabrielle showed the new cousin her favourite haunts in the garden and orchard, whilst he taught her charming chansonettes to sing to the accompaniment of her guitar.
But she did not take him to the woods where the blackberries hung ripe and luscious amongst the brambles, for those were sacred to herself, and one other—the other who was no sort of a brother, but her dear knight for ever and ever.
She was telling Count Jéhan that they would walk to Berrington village that morning, when the door opened and the man of whom she thought stood before her.
And for the first moment Michael himself had no eyes save for the slender figure in its dainty morning wrapper of flowered chintz, with dark, unpowdered curls caught back by a pink ribbon, and cheeks flushing rosily as the sun-kissed clouds of dawn, as she smiled her welcome.
Count Jéhan had risen too, and the eyes of the two men met.
"You bring news, Monsieur?"
De Quernais' anxious tones were broken through by Gabrielle's glad cry.
"Of course Morry has come with you, Michael?"
But to her amaze he shook his head, scarcely turning towards her.
"I have come alone to see Monsieur le Comte," he replied with some emphasis.
But Gabrielle was in no mood to take the hint.
"Then it is about Morry," she said, leaping, woman-like, at a conclusion. "Tell it us quickly, Mr. Berrington."
She knew how to command.
And Michael, sore at heart, but desperate in his need, obeyed, telling the story without garnishings or surmisals, but with a blunt directness which left no shadow of doubt behind.
One little sob was the only answer he received at first, though, in the silence, a robin's cheerful song at the open window jarred almost as much as the glory of October sunshine flooding the room.
Count Jéhan's face was whiter than Gabrielle's, and his black eyes blazed.
It was a cruel wound—even more so than Michael could understand, for the young Breton's whole soul and enthusiasm had been kindled to fever-heat by the fascination of leader and cause.
La Rouerie and the Chouannerie were names written in letters of fire on his heart. And this visit to England was to have done so much for both.
Now he knew himself betrayed.
Worse! Instead of bringing a friend to raise men for the Royalist Cause, he had sent a firebrand to kindle the threatening blaze against it.
When Morice Conyers—Marquis de Varenac—sang the song of blood-stained liberty, there would be many voices to echo it as blindly as sheep which follow the tinkling of their leader's bell.
Ruined! Ruined! What would la Rouerie say? He had sworn to succeed in his mission, and had, till the last moment, deemed it an easy one.
And now?
Why! now the chasm yawned for those who pressed forward with such confidence.
A groan burst from his lips, whilst beads of perspiration stood on his brow.
It was Gabrielle who broke the silence.
"Thus Morry plays traitor," said she, very quietly and steadily. "But, gentlemen, it is not my brother that does it, but those whose influence has been his ruin—Lord Denningham and Marcel Trouet."
She was quivering with passion as she spoke, for the shame of such treachery was very bitter.
"Marcel Trouet," cried de Quernais sharply. "Trouet, the friend of Robespierre?—the——"
"Same," answered Michael. "And an agent from Republic France to stir up sedition in Royalist England, so that her hands being full, she will have neither time nor power to put straight or avenge the wrongs of French aristocrats."
"A—ah!"
"Morry! Morry!" moaned Gabrielle, her white hands knotted in agony.
Then slowly the girl's bowed head was raised. Erect she faced the two men opposite.
"The Marquis de Varenac rides home," said she. "Then his sister will join him. If I cannot persuade him ... and he listens sometimes when he has not been drinking or gambling heavily ... then I myself will speak to the men of Varenac. Yes, I think I know how to speak and make them listen."
"You, Mademoiselle?"
De Quernais had taken a step forward.
She faced him, pitying, reassuring, perfectly confident.
"Yes, I," she replied—"Mademoiselle de Varenac. You will see they will listen to me as well as to Morice, and if the worst came, and they made mock of a woman's command, I would don man's dress and proclaim myself the Marquis."
Wild words, but daring spirit.
How different to gentle, shy Cécile!
Yet the young Count had nothing but reverence and admiration in his heart as he looked into the beautiful face animated with that kindred courage which made of her sweet comrade as well as fair lady. But Michael Berrington's brow was knit in a frown of perplexity.
"It is impossible, Mistress Gabrielle," he said. "How could you journey thither alone and unattended, even if there were not a hundred other dangers?"
"Dangers!" she scoffed, flushing. "How can one talk of dangers after the news you bring?"
Her eyes challenged him.
"Did you not yourself tell me that honour is above everything?" she demanded.
"A man's honour——"
"You are scarcely complimentary, Mr. Berrington. I see you find that of a woman poor stuff which needs no defending."
"Mistress, indeed you wholly mistake——"
"Besides, I shall not go alone," she added, with a smile succeeding the frown. "You will both be with me."
She held out her hands.
It was here that her cousin interposed.
"Nay, Gabrielle," he said—and Michael, with a jealous pang, noted how his voice lingered over her name—"you yourself know well that we are not proper escort for you without another——"
"Chaperon?" she asked quickly. "Oh, if that is all, I will take Nurse Bond. But go Ishall, and at once."
"Mistress Gabrielle, think——"
She paused, her dark eyes raised to Michael's perplexed and shadowed face.
"I do think," she replied softly. "And that is why I am going. I may save Varenac, I may save a very noble cause; still, it is true I may fail in all that, yet I vow to succeed in one thing—I will save my brother."
Long he looked into the sweet, childish face, which had grown so inexpressibly dear to him, and, reading there the purpose of high resolve, bowed low and stood aside.
At least she had bidden him ride with her, and he would be at hand to protect her with his life against those dangers which before had been without reality.
But de Quernais, claiming the right of cousinship, must needs have the last word.
"Ma cousine," he whispered, catching at her hand, and raising it to his lips, "what shall I say? From despair springs hope, and you are the angel who brings it. Yes, yes. They will listen to you. My heart tells me so. They will listen to you, and Brittany will save not only herself but all France. We will save the King and our fair Queen too. Ah, ciel! could I think otherwise I should go mad. And la Rouerie will thank you himself for the noble part you play."
He spoke as though that last were reward enough for all.
But Gabrielle cared nothing for la Rouerie. It was her brother, her only brother, whom she went to save,—his honour which he, too weak to hold it, must give into her keeping.
Thus she would act as Michael himself acted, and he would approve.
Seeing that, shining through the trouble in his face, she herself could afford to smile.
They would save Morry together, save Varenac too, and come home as the heroes and heroines of gilded romance ever did, to live happily ever after.
No wonder that sweet seventeen, seeing dangers and difficultiescouleur de roseunder love's glamour, ran singing softly upstairs to acquaint Nurse Bond of the journey before her.
A solitary traveller along a bleak and desolate road—solitary, that is, to all intents and purposes, since he could comprehend scarcely a word spoken by the sturdy Breton peasant who jogged along on foot by his horse's side.
Morice Conyers was in anything but good humour.
Away from the merry throng at Almack's and Arthur's, things in general presented a vastly different complexion.
In a certain set it had been fashionable to talk glibly of liberty, equality, and fraternity, and to drink bumpers to the health of those who strove for them across the Channel. The young bloods of the coffee-houses—though only that particular coterie, mind you—found it easy and amusing to toast such an upheaval of law and order.
And the Marseillaise was a demned catchy tune. Thus the pigeons prepared themselves for roasting.
And French chefs were not lacking.
That was how Morry Conyers became a member of the London Corresponding Society, a membership which consisted in talking very largely on a score of subjects of which he knew nothing, and vowing, by tremendous oaths, to assist the French Republic as far as lay in his power.
Empty phrases, emptier oaths. But the day of reckoning had most unexpectedly come. Marcel Trouet knew to a hair how to play his mouse.
Flattery and high-sounding jargon of binding vows had succeeded admirably, and Morice, reluctant at first, had begun to look upon himself as a fine hero, whose name would be spoken in every London coffee-house and club before history—and Marcel Trouet—had done with him. Twinges of conscience had been sternly repressed, drowned in the "flowing bowl," to whose honour every wit and poet sang.
But ghosts will rise at night, and they were rising now on every side—impalpable, shadowy creatures, less tangible than the brooding mists which floated over the desolate lande before him, like the fleeing spirits of a phantom army.—Ghosts of memories, ghost of honour, ghost of his better self, ghost of little Gabrielle, whom he loved well enough in his crooked, careless way,—all ready to taunt him and upbraid him as he rode onwards to Varenac.
How oppressive the silence was! How wild and dreary the scene around him!
Half Breton himself by birth, his mother's native land was calling to him with that strange, mysterious voice which can be heard only by Celtic ears.
A strange, indefinable longing had stirred within him as he strode through the narrow streets of St. Malo; it was quickening now into stronger life as he listened to the moaning of the wind as it swept across from the coast and over the purple moorland.
A minor note it struck; yet who shall deny that truest sweetness lingers in that key?
Nature calling to her child, not through the beautiful but the sorrowful.
Grey crags, heather-crowned landes, lines of yellow sand-dunes, the fading light of an autumn evening, and through all, above all, the melancholy charm which allures rather than repels, crying aloud of sorrow, yet singing its wild music as melodiously as any Lorelei on charmed rock.
Not that Morice Conyers heard it all; only vaguely it struck his heart, reproaching him in that he, a son of Brittany, came, as a thief in the night, to betray his land and add to her burden of lament.
And he was alone.
That was the reason why such foolish ghosts pursued him. Jack Denningham would have killed them with a sneer, Trouet would have stabbed them with a mocking witticism, Berrington have drowned them with a jolly laugh and long pull at his brandy-flask.
Wise fellows, those comrades of his; but why had they left him thus in the lurch?
True, Denningham and Sir Stephen had promised to follow, after the former had had time to deal with a little private business of his which concerned a lady and needed delicate handling.
Ha, ha! A bit of a rake, old Jack, but a demned good fellow! Not such a convivial spirit as Steenie, though.
Good old Steenie! He was the chap needed on such an occasion as the present, to troll out a song, and brew a bowl of punch when they arrived at this confounded Manor of his, which was probably as mouldy and rat-run as it was aristocratic.
And little Marcel? What in the world did he want tearing off to Paris instead of accompanying him?
Going to bring a horde of red-caps with him, was he?
The tune of "Ça ira" would sound strangely foreign to English lips, but they were good fellows, these, from all accounts. Rough, perhaps, in their pulling down, but equally ready to build up that new altar to liberty and fraternity.
All the same a picture of these same shouting, sweating Parisians with red hands, red hearts, red death as well as caps to be brought along with them, was scarcely to the taste of a gentleman.
Marcel should not have gone to Paris. There would be men enough to sing to Goddess Liberty in Brittany after the Marquis de Varenac had given the lead.
The Marquis de Varenac!
A vastly imposing title.
Plain Morice Conyers grew by proportion—in his own estimation. A leader of men! Good that! A leader of men! And Jack Denningham to stand in the background and cry "Well done."
It was a pleasant reverie.
But the ghosts would rise again.
One stern of face, too, at last.
His father!
Twisted, crippled Ralph Conyers, the man who had been ready to give all for a lost cause. What would he say to his son now?
Ralph Conyers' son preferred not to think, remembering that boon companion of his, Steenie Berrington, whose name his father had cursed to his dying day.
The Breton guide had paused, panting, and stood with one lean, bared arm, pointing towards the coast. Over the horizon had gathered a pall too black to be mistaken for the shadows of approaching night—a sinister cloud where storm-furies brooded loweringly over a sinister land.
The shrill cries of the ospreys mingled with the weary sighing of waves which beat restlessly against the barren coast-line of white, angular rocks, tossing hither and thither in their rising anger the fetid shoals of rotting seaweed which bordered the narrow strip of shingle.
The storm was coming, not stealthily, with warning couriers of shadowed gloom, but swift as those vultures which winged their way across the low ridges of sand-dunes, where the golden heads of the sea-poppies lay low.
The sturdy little Breton horse which Morice bestrode, snorted, shaking its head as it faced the purple moor before it.
Purple heather, purple heather! Surely those grim dwellers of a grim land should thank thee for thy touch of softening splendour and beauty amidst grey barrenness,—the carpet of a king amongst briers and rock, thistle and waste.
On came the storm, sweeping inland with a fury which gathered force with every moment.
The mist-clouds had disappeared, rent and twisted by the gale which struck the travellers with sharp buffetings.
Not a hut nor a cottage near for shelter, nothing to protect them against the rising blast.
A flash of lightning, a deafening crash of thunder, and down came the rain, tempest-driven and stinging, like the lash of a thousand fairy whips.
The man, Pierre Dusac, was talking.
It was unfortunate, but the noble Marquis de Varenac understood not a single word. It was evident, however, that the guide was anxious to end the journey as speedily as possible, and, finding it no easy task to run in face of a hurricane, was demanding to ride on Morice's steed.
It is no use quarrelling with one's bread-and-butter.
If the worthy Pierre forsook him the forlorn Englishman would find himself in an evil plight. Yet he acquiesced with sorry grace, surprised, however, to find that the sturdy beast made nothing of the double weight, but went steadily on, encouraged by the familiar cries of her new rider.
Oh, for Almack's! Oh, for Arthur's, or White's! Oh, for the comfort of warm fire and pleasant punch-bowl!
Again and again the champion of Revolutionary enthusiasm cursed himself for a fool, and vowed that he would return to England with all speed, heedless of renown.
Wet to the skin, cold and wretched in every sense of the word, he rode on, whilst overhead the storm raged in full force.
Crash after crash of thunder deafened him as it broke, rolling away like the roar of a mighty battle towards the distant forests. Flash after flash showed the same desolate scene which evening light had displayed—nothing but that dreary stretch of barren lande, with its scattered rocks and clumps of gorse here and there amongst the heather, whilst the dark fringe of forest-trees bound the landscape to westwards.
"Òla! Òla!" screamed the guide in his ear. "Kérnak, Kérnak."
Morice growled out an oath. Wet, cold, and anxious as to his probable fate, his usually easy temper was sour and crabbed.
"Kérnak, Kérnak!" cried the man again, pointing to a slope to their right, on the top of which stood outlined a dark mass.
Kérnak? A habitation of sorts, at any rate, as the next blue flash told Morice.
A château of considerable size, with a fringe of forest-trees clustered round the foot of the hill, like rows of guarding sentinels. Through the blinding mist of rain the travellers could see lights burning. Refuge at last!
Morice did not even stop to inquire as to whether Varenac were far or near. Escape from the battle of striving elements was all he asked.
Pierre was plainly of the same mind, for, seizing the rough bridle, he sprang to the ground, urging the pony on at a fresh trot towards their goal.
Morice drew a deep sigh of relief as they reached the shelter of the trees and hastened up the narrow road which led, through an avenue of wind-swept oaks, to the château gates.