A low hall heavily raftered with black oak, and walls hung with tapestry and armour; a huge fire blazing on the open hearth, and two ladies seated near, in carved oaken seats, one busy with her embroidery, the other with the spinning-wheel.
An old-fashioned, stereotyped picture enough, yet that was what Morice Conyers saw as he stood, dripping and bedraggled, in the doorway, demanding, somewhat peremptorily at first, for a night's lodging of the old major-domo who had opened the gate.
But the masterful key was lowered as, from her seat by the fire, the elder lady arose.
"Welcome, Monsieur," she said—speaking with that clear enunciation and purity of accent which proclaimed the aristocrat—"as any stranger would be, on such a night, in the home of Louise de Quernais."
It was the graceful introduction which showed that, for all his sodden garments and dishevelled appearance, she had recognised an equal in the suppliant whom Guillaume eyed so dubiously.
Morice stepped hastily forward, bowing as well as he might under the circumstances, but with a shamed flush on his cheeks.
"I thank you, Madame," he replied in French, "and a kindly Fate which—which has guided me to your doors. My name is Morice Conyers, and, if I mistake not, it was Count Jéhan, your son, who, but a few days since, announced to me that I am now Marquis de Varenac as well."
He spoke haltingly, aware that his night's lodging would be hardly earned without the aid of some lying, yet thinking—on the spur of the moment—that it was best to assume the role of frankness.
She would, in any case, know him by his title soon, and, in the meantime, he could use it now by way of introduction.
It made all the difference to the present, and Morice Conyers was not the man to look much farther than the ease of the moment.
At any rate if they scorned and loathed him to-morrow these hostesses would make him very welcome to-night.
There was no doubt of that, for, at his words, Madame's face lighted up with a smile of rare sweetness, whilst the girl, who had remained near the fire, sprang to her feet, heedless of fallen embroidery.
"Ah! Madame Maman," she cried eagerly, "it is the good English cousin."
Morice turned at the cry, looking beyond the stately figure of the elder lady towards the dainty little maiden in her white gown, with crimson ribbons knotted at breast and throat and nestling amidst the dark coils of her hair.
For all her eighteen years Cécile de Quernais looked nothing more than a child, possessing a slim, round figure, tiny, delicate features, with great black eyes which seemed almost out of proportion in that small baby-face.
A child to love and protect, appealing mutely to the manhood of a man, and showing nothing of a resolute will and courage hidden away in the young heart.
Somehow, as he looked at her, Morice Conyers felt ashamed and guilty.
He had come to Brittany to cry "Death to the aristocrats!"
The thought was as ugly as it was persistent, so that he only half heard the cordial welcome of Madame de Quernais herself.
Madame was of the old régime, yet, if her language savoured of a bygone generation, the sentiments were none the less sincere.
She was glad, most glad, to welcome her nephew—the son of her dear sister, Marie. But it is not wise for a man to stand, even to receive a welcome—if it be a long one—in dripping clothes.
Monsieur le Marquis de Varenac was conducted in all haste to the room of Count Jéhan, whither Guillaume accompanied him to offer his services as valet.
A suit of the young Count's fitted the new-comer admirably. He looked a different being, when, an hour later, he descended the grand staircase into the salon.
In the picturesque costume of the eighteenth century a man must needs be singularly unendowed to appear ugly.
Nature had been kind to Morice Conyers. If there were lines of weakness about the sensitive mouth, and a wavering expression in the fine blue eyes, he nevertheless presented a handsome figure as he bowed over the hands of his aunt and cousin.
He could talk, too, for that was an accomplishment necessitous to the friends and satellites of Prince Florizel, who hated nothing so much as being bored.
And it was no hard matter to talk to such gracious hostesses.
Madame was ready to smile, and be interested in everything he said, whilst little Cécile, seated demurely in the background with her embroidery, raised great eyes of wondering admiration to his again and again, though she would drop them quickly, with a dawning blush, when she found his gaze ever fixed upon her. As for Morice, he was living in a new world for the moment, and could hardly have fathomed his own feelings had he tried.
Were there two personalities within—one of which had but newly sprung to life?
He did not deem it possible at present, though he was vaguely conscious of the desire to be indeed Monsieur le Marquis de Varenac, and not Morice Conyers, member of a certain London Corresponding Society, friend of one Marcel Trouet, and burning advocate of the glorious and blood-thirsty Revolution.
Perhaps this faint stabbing of a drugged conscience was what made him so eager to talk of everything but the object that brought him to Brittany.
It was of England that he talked, of Gabrielle, of the long-dead mother, whom he but vaguely remembered. Of everything, indeed, excepting Breton woes and Breton hopes.
It was not till later, when the hour for retiring drew near, that Madame leant forward a little in her chair, laying a gentle, almost motherly, touch on his twitching fingers.
"Tell me, my nephew," she asked, "why is it that Jéhan did not return with you?"
A brief silence followed, in which Morice could hear the faint click of the needle drawn through the stiff satin of Mademoiselle Cécile's work.
"Why Jéhan did not return?" he answered vaguely. "He was indisposed, Madame—nothing of consequence, but he was obliged to remain at Langton for a day or two longer."
"And you could not delay? Ah, my nephew, you are Breton at heart. You have enthusiasm in our cause. Brittany will thank you one day,—not far distant,—I pray the Holy Virgin. But Jéhan? It is not like him to remain behind for a trifling ailment."
Maternal concern rose to the fore at the moment. Jéhan was her only son.
"It was not serious, Madame, but the fever would have been increased by travelling. He will not be long."
She smiled, yet wistfully, being more anxious than she liked to admit in face of his assurances.
"He will not take sufficient care of himself," she said. "He has a delicacy of the throat. But he laughs at me. With him it is all la Rouerie, la Rouerie. He has doubtless told you of our Marquis, my nephew?"
"Yes, Madame. A very noble gentleman."
The words seemed to stick in the speaker's throat as he looked once more across into Mademoiselle's black eyes and saw them ashine with enthusiasm and devotion.
What would she say when she knew his real opinion of this great Chouan leader who dominated the hearts of every one of his followers?
"A very noble gentleman," repeated Madame, nodding her head. "He will thank you, my nephew, for your prompt response to our appeal. There was always the fear that you might have forgotten the good Breton blood in you, and refused to accept your obligations as Seigneur de Varenac."
"I have come with as small delay as possible," he replied shortly; and this time he dared not look towards Cécile.
"And you have come in time," she smiled. "The Terror has not arrived here yet. We have no tree of liberty planted at Kérnak or Varenac, though we hear that at St. Malo——"
She shuddered, crossing herself.
"But the Marquis de la Rouerie will save us—and France too," she added. "You, who are a Varenac at heart, will adore him like the rest of us. As for your tenants——"
She smiled, thoughtfully.
"They await your coming," said she softly.
But Maurice Conyers did not reply; he was thinking how Marcel Trouet would be already marching from Paris with his red-capped murderers, singing the song he himself had been so ready to join in over the wine-cups as they toasted the Red Revolution and the cause of Liberty at club and coffee-house.
Somehow things were beginning to wear a different complexion on this side of the Channel, and fear crept knocking vaguely at his heart when he thought of the part a certain noble Marquis had come to play in his mother's land and amongst his mother's kin.
But Cécile sang softly to herself that night as she stood, later on, looking out towards the wild coast-line.
The storm had passed, the stars were shining, and, as she watched the glittering lights so far above her, it seemed to the young girl that they were eyes looking down and down and down into her heart.
And she blushed rosy red with a thought but half-conceived, turning away lest those twinkling stars should read it—yet unformed.
A morning of sunshine, Nature's atonement for past cruelties.
And Morice Conyers was ready enough to accept it, seeing that the storm itself had been something less than an enemy in bringing him to Kérnak.
However, he must leave to-day and ride for Varenac. Steenie would be on his way there, and Denningham too, not to mention Marcel Trouet, whose coming would not be delayed more than a week at most. And yet he could do nothing till Trouet came. The temper of his people was too uncertain to dare announce his policy with none to back him up.
"Ça ira" might possibly stick in Breton throats, and then what would happen if Marcel were not by to teach them another tune?
All this was food for thought as Morice strode moodily along the uneven path bordered by heather and gorse.
He had risen early, and, being in restless mood, had gone out.
It would be easier to think with the morning sunshine around, and the cool autumn breezes to clear his brain.
Yet he walked aimlessly, filled with doubts which tore him first one way and then another.
He must go to Varenac. He could not fail his friends.
As member of the London Corresponding Society, and sympathizer with these leaders of the great cause of Liberty, he had his part to play.
Of course all revolutions had their black side.
Yet they were necessities.
The cry of the people must be heard.
It was justice, not revenge, they took in their hands.
All the old claptraps which he had heard so often of late, and which he took care to rehearse over and over again!
But somehow they seemed strangely hollow now as he paced between the purple and the gold of this new land of his, and heard that dumb, mysterious voice of Nature crying to him in strange, alluring chant, reminding him that he was something more than Morice Conyers the Englishman—namely, a Varenac of Varenac, a noble of this Brittany which already fascinated as much as it repelled him.
Marquis of Varenac, scion of an ancient race, noble of the noble, as well as Breton of the Breton.
Was he to cast aside these newly forged bonds of honour as though they were useless shackles?
He had been ready enough to do so twenty-four hours ago; but that was before he had seen Cécile de Quernais.
A pair of lustrous black eyes, a small, innocent face, sweet and pure as child's or nun's, and a heart which, shining through those wonderful eyes, proclaimed her trust and admiration in this cousin who had come to save Brittany.
Many a fair lady had smiled upon Morice Conyers at St. James's, many a woman, far more beautiful than this little Bretonne girl, had shown him her favour. Yet they had never stirred his heart as this simple child had done.
They had known him for what he was, being ready to accept him at his current valuation and ask no more.
But Cécile did not know him. He knew that as well as the fact that she was quite ready to regard him as some new knight, willing to give his life for country and honour.
It is no easy task to tumble off a pedestal of one's own accord, even when one has not put oneself there.
Should he? Should he?——
Pish! Of course he must go to Varenac. He would go at once. He would not return to the Château of Kérnak. He would reach Varenac and forget the episode of a night's lodging.
A wooded knoll, bordering on the forest he had noted the night before, stood on his left. Surely that was a hut amongst the trees? That of a woodsman perhaps.
At any rate, he would go and make inquiries as to the road to Varenac.
But, half-way there, a strange interruption befell—a girl's scream and a burst of rough laughter.
"Hola! hola! my pretty one. You had forgotten Bertrand. Malédiction; but I had not forgotten you. Madame was hard. Ha, ha! It does not do for the seigneurs to be too hard nowadays. By the bones of St. Efflam! How she can struggle! But I will explain, Mademoiselle. Bertrand has a grudge. V'là! v'là! It shall be repaid. Come, a kiss, my little cabbage. You are so pretty that I shall steal many, and then it may be that I shall take you with me to St. Quinton, where they have ideas about the aristos. Yes, ideas more sensible than the thickheads about here can conceive. And from St. Quinton to Paris is a pleasant journey. Té! Té! it is then that Bertrand will be amused. Click, click go thetricoteuses. Click, click, answers the 'widow.' And Sanson makes his bow to perfection. Mille diables! but it is a little fiend."
The high-pitched, chanting voice broke into a snarl over the last words.
It was evident that Mademoiselle did not allow herself to be easily captured.
But, alas! One may struggle, one may even bite in extremis, but a man's strength must surely conquer in the end.
Thus Cécile de Quernais, crying aloud in terror, had given herself up as lost, when, through the trees, came a figure, racing up the slope in hot haste.
"Ah! ah!"
"Ah! ah!"
They were pitched in different keys, those simple exclamations.
As for Bertrand, he had breath for no more, since the oaths which rose hot to his lips were choked back by that firm grip on his throat.
Morice Conyers had learnt boxing in England from Richmond himself.
Cécile de Quernais sat on a mossy bank close by, sobbing piteously, from sheer exhaustion and the shock of that desperate struggle.
The sounds of her distress tempted Morice to choke not only oaths, but life too, out of his fallen adversary.
But to murder one of the people might lead to consequences now, though five years ago it would have been no matter at all. So Bertrand was allowed to live.
Mademoiselle Cécile, wiping pretty eyes with a tiny piece of cambric, implored this between gasping breaths.
It was more than he deserved, however, Morice explained in a few words of execrable Breton, enforcing each syllable with a kick.
Bertrand crouched, whining as cur under the whip. But his eyes were vicious.
"Go to your kennel, dog and pig," commanded his opponent, with a last blow. "And next time you use ugly words about your masters, your tongue shall be cut out."
Bertrand rose, groaning. He was very sore; but the inward bruises were the worst, though he rubbed the outer ones dolefully as he limped away.
Morice did not catch the glint in his eyes as he went, or hear the vows and curses growled low in the husky throat.
He was bending over Cécile.
"My poor little cousin, he has hurt you—the brute. You should have let me kill him. Such vermin are dangerous."
"To—to their slayers, Monsieur."
Her English was almost as adorable as her eyes, over which tear-laden lashes drooped piteously.
A sudden desire to kiss away those heavy drops seized the man beside her.
Yet he forbore, fearing to frighten her afresh; but his pulses were throbbing as he made answer:
"They need an example. I did not know such dangers were so near you here, Mademoiselle."
"Nor I, Monsieur. Till now our people have been so good and kind. We owe much to the influence of our good curé, Père Mouet. They love him as he deserves, and it is he who keeps the Terror from our villages as much as the memory of my uncle the Marquis."
"They loved him!"
"As they will love you, Monsieur."
He had succeeded in drawing her thoughts from Bertrand, and the tears were drying on her cheeks.
But he lacked tact.
"And this fellow?"
Her eyes grew troubled again, whilst she shuddered a little.
"He was our gardener. Madame Maman dismissed him because he stole, and sang the Marseillaise. He has a brother in Paris who has a bad influence over him."
She spoke with the air of a matron.
"It would have been better to kill him."
"Oh no, no. I ... I do not think he will come near again. Our people would have no sympathy with him."
"He deserves none—the brute! See how he has hurt you."
The blue weals were clearly visible on the slender wrists which Morice raised for inspection.
"I was afraid," she confessed, her eyes filling again. "But, Monsieur, you saved me."
"I would that I had come sooner. I did not guess who I should meet on my walk."
"I often come here," she said simply, "to visit old Nanette Leroc, who used to be our nurse. She is blind, and lonely too, although her niece lives with her. But Marie cannot read, and that is what Nanette likes."
She stooped, as she spoke, to pick up the little velvet-covered Book of Hours which had fallen from her grasp in the struggle.
"You, too, were up early, Monsieur," she added shyly.
"Yes."
His voice was hesitant.
"We should be returning to the château," she continued, not noticing his confusion. "Madame Maman will be wondering what has become of us. She—she does not altogether approve of my journeys to Nanette's cottage all alone. But what would you? Guillaume could not always be spared to come with me, and till to-day I had trusted in our people."
"They are not to be trusted, Mademoiselle."
A tiny furrow wrinkled her white brow and she shuddered.
"Oh yes, yes," she whispered. "I will not believe that the Terror can come to Kérnak and Varenac."
"It is already at St. Malo."
He did not mean to frighten her, and noted with self-reproach and admiration how, whilst her cheeks paled, her eyes shone bravely.
"Yes," she replied, "Louise told me. They have a guillotine there which they call the 'widow,' and make terrible jests. Oh yes! I know that the Terror has come to St. Malo and to our dear Brittany—but not to us. Our people love us, and we are so safely hidden away here, with the forest on one side and the landes on the other. We are not near a town, and, excepting for Bertrand, the people of the villages are loyal. And you yourself, Monsieur, will strengthen their loyalty."
She held out her hands as she spoke, smiling gladly.
"Yes," she added, "that is what la Rouerie says. The spark is needed—an example. In the towns the men listen to the Revolutionaries from Paris. They are ready to cry 'À bas' to everything. But those are not the heart of Brittany; that waits—it wants impulse, quickening. Yet the inspiration cannot come from the nobles. Just now they will not listen to them—so Jéhan tells me. It must be the cry of the people to the people. It will be the cry of Varenac to Brittany. You smile, Monsieur Cousin? Ah! you do not know like Jéhan and our Marquis. True, our villages may be very small, very secluded; but see how a spark caught by a strong wind may become a great blaze.
"That will be the work of the nobles, of the Marquis, of Jéhan, of you too, Monsieur. You will let the voice of Varenac echo over the landes till others hear and listen. It is then the true heart of Brittany will awake and beat with life till her people rise to save themselves and France,—from the monster who devours her."
Her words, rehearsed from the lips of enthusiasts, were spoken with a conviction and spirit which stirred the listener's wavering pulses.
What would she have said had she known that he had been on the road to Varenac with a vastly different purpose in his heart?
But an hour had changed his resolves. The brief struggle with the cur who would wreak a paltry revenge on an innocent girl had helped to show him what underlay the gaudy picture which Marcel Trouet had painted so often for him and his comrades in England.
He could read the writing on the wall in another language this side of the Channel.
With a low bow he offered the little Royalist champion his hand.
"As you say, Mademoiselle," he answered softly, "we must return to Kérnak. Afterwards I will go to my people."
"Yes," she smiled, "when Jéhan comes. I think he would bid us wait for him, Monsieur. He knows the men of Varenac, and it would be easier did you go together."
But Morice Conyers was thinking too deeply to reply to those last words.
Was it that the shadow of the "widow" was already on his heart?—the cry of the Terror's victims already ringing in his ears?
The next day found Morice Conyers at the Château de Kérnak—and the next.
He was learning Breton.
That, of course, was necessary, especially as Jéhan delayed his coming. When would the latter be here?
There were two at Kérnak who declared they longed for his arrival, and yet secretly prayed for his delay.
Mademoiselle Cécile found the role of instructress to her new cousin decidedly attractive, although the countless proprieties hedging in a high-born demoiselle of Brittany somewhat spoilt the amusement.
But there were compensations, begotten of that unlooked-for attack near old Nanette's cottage.
Madame de Quernais had become liable to nerves. Cécile could no longer be permitted to roam at will over the country.
St. Malo was too near, and tales were afloat of the work that the "widow" was busy with there. It was as though some terrible wolf prowled in the forests around.
However, Cécile could not remain indoors all the time: she would pine after the freedom of her life.
It was therefore agreed that the stricter proprieties should be laid aside a little, and Mademoiselle de Quernais be allowed to accept the escort of Monsieur le Marquis de Varenac on her walks.
Morice was quite ready to accept the task of acting cavalier to such a dainty little lady. As I have said, he was one to live in the present.
For those two days life was bounded only by a pair of black eyes, which looked deeper and deeper into his heart every moment.
Past and future were banished. He was dreaming, and the dream was sweet.
He put the moment of awakening from him with the resolution of an epicure.
As for Cécile, the English cousin continued to be the hero come to save her country. And the black eyes caught the trick of dreaming with wonderful rapidity.
If Madame de Quernais noticed, she stifled old-fashioned self-reprovings with the thought that the days were evil, and that her little Cécile needed a stronger and closer protector than herself or Jéhan, who was too bound up in his work to think much or seriously even of the welfare of a dearly-loved sister.
And the Marquis de Varenac would be in every way a suitable protector.
Her dear Marie's boy! Of course that was a link already between them.
Thus Morice Conyers, instead of riding to Varenac to welcome Steenie Berrington and Jack Denningham, sat on a rocky ledge with a slim, little grey-clad figure beside him, listening to her chatter of Jéhan and la Rouerie, of the Terror and her dear Brittany.
The last was the subject Cécile lingered over longest. It was necessary that the English cousin should understand the meaning of his Breton birthright.
"If you were a sailor, Monsieur," she was saying now, pointing across the bay, "you might see strange things."
"Strange things?" he echoed. "Nay, cousin, what kind of things mean you?"
She crossed herself devoutly.
"One does not speak of them, but they are there—the spirits of those whom the sea has taken. On winter nights we may hear them wailing and imploring for Christian burial; but only a sailor may see their forms."
"Then I am glad to be no sailor. I confess the sea has no attractions for me."
"It is cruel, cruel," she answered, gazing wistfully out over the grey waste of waters. "Sometimes it makes me afraid, when I see the great waves dashing and roaring over the rocks. Jéhan laughs at me and says I am no Bretonne to feel so, for we are a people of the sea. Yet I cannot help it, sometimes, when I think of those poor women and children who have waited and waited in vain for the husbands who never came back."
"And yet you come here to watch the waves you fear?"
Morice's smile was faintly quizzical.
"Oh yes," she replied naïvely, "I come here often to make my dreams. I like to picture what it must have been like long, long ago before the cruel sea swallowed up so much of our Brittany."
"The sea?"
"But certainly. Yonder, do you not see in the sand, those ruins? Ah! there is not much left to-day, but many, many years ago those were happy villages, with green fields stretching beyond, and the oak-trees of Scissy sheltering the valleys."
"Is it a fairy story you are telling me, Mademoiselle Cécile?"
She did not heed his raillery, but replied with sober earnestness:
"No, no; it is quite true. That was before the Deluge."
"Before the Deluge?"
He could hardly hide his laughter.
"It is so called in Armorica, Monsieur. It was a terrible flood. There is a legend about it which some say is quite true."
"Tell it to me."'
He was not greatly interested—this trifler who was in danger of being in such deadly earnest himself; but he liked to see the animation on the pretty, childish face and the quaint seriousness with which she told her story.
"It is the tale of Amel and Penhor," she said gravely. "They lived at Sant Vinol, and Amel was a shepherd. He was also a brave man. In the forest near, wandered the striped wolf of Cheza. It was a fearful animal, and the terror of the whole land. It was bigger than a six-weeks' foal, and no arrow could pierce its hide. As for fear of man, it had none. It was Amel who vowed to kill this creature, which had devoured his nephew.
"Before he went to the conflict he hung a distaff of fine linen by the altar of the Virgin. Afterwards he fought and strangled the striped wolf.
"Amel and Penhor had no children, but now the Virgin was pleased with them, and gave them their hearts' desire. Their little son they called Paol, and dedicated him to the Holy Mother of God. In her honour he always wore a blue dress.
"Then one night the river Couesnon rose rapidly, the wind howled, and the earth shook. In the morning the sea had risen over the barriers.
"All the inhabitants of the land fled to the church, which stood on a hill; but Amel and Penhor came too late.
"Then Amel lifted Penhor high in his arms, and she in turn raised her child above the cruel waves. It was at this moment that the Virgin left her niche in the church to fly heavenwards, and, in passing, she saw Paol's blue frock, and remembered he was hers.
"So she raised him in her arms, but found he was very heavy. Then, as she lifted him higher to her breast, she saw his mother held him, and that Amel, the father, held both; so, with a smile, she gathered them all in her arms, and they awoke in heaven."
"A pretty legend," said Morice absently, for he had heard but little of the tale, his eyes being on the speaker's face.
"It is the land of legend," she replied—"the land of romance and poetry."
"And of sorrow, too."
"Ah! you feel that? It is because you are also Breton. Yes, we have our sorrow—it is in the voice of the sea. Not only the lament of the crierien,* but the warning that always at our doors there waits an enemy as cruel as it is remorseless. Yet to-day——"
* Unburied dead, drowned at sea.
"To-day we will not think of the sighings of ghosts or the weepings of widows to be. I prefer your romance."
"And I. But the sorrow is there, and now——"
She was thinking of the tales Louise had told her that morning.
The shadow of the Terror eclipsed the possible sunshine of the present.
But Morice was not one to see coming shadows. The present for him; and his pulses were stirring as they never had before.
"You are teaching me," he said suddenly.
She smiled.
"Yes; and you are clever. But Père Mouet would do it better than I."
"I was not speaking of your Breton lessons."
"No!"
She looked up in surprise, and, meeting his gaze, felt the warm blood surge in her cheeks.
"I would like to teach you of our Brittany," she said falteringly, "because—well—is it not your country too?"
"I never counted it such till I knew you."
"You have never been here before?"
"I vow I shall never wish to leave it,if——"
"If——"
Her face was half turned from him, so that he should not see the blushes which might betray the fact that she had read a secret in his eyes.
But he was leaning forward, half across the rocky ledge on which they sat, his blue eyes aflame with sudden passion.
"If you will go on teaching me—always—always—Cécile."
She was no coquette, this child of a grim and yet tender land, where all are in earnest with the battle and stress of life.
And yet her lashes drooped over her eyes as though she dared not meet his glance.
"Teach you, Monsieur, I who know nothing? What could I teach, save only——"
"Save only what love is," quoth he, with new-born boldness, for the magic of the moment was with him, transforming him into something stronger, deeper, truer than his old self.
No need for veiling lashes now. He had caught her two little hands, slender, sun-burnt hands which seemed too soft for resistance, and bent his face to the level of hers.
It was a new mode of wooing, as startling as bewildering; yet there was sweetness in it, too.
"Love?" she whispered, and drew one long, wondering breath as she looked into those blue eyes so near her own.
"Mylove.Ourlove, Cécile—Cécile."
His voice was hoarse with suppressed emotion. She was trembling, too, but a smile broke on her lips.
"Morice," she whispered, and her heart beat in echo of the name as he bent to kiss her.
Over the grey waters came the sighing of the autumn breeze, presaging a storm. Aloft, circling round broken crags and high, gaunt rocks, wheeled the ospreys, uttering their shrill, weird cries.
But dirge of rolling waves and wailing winds mattered nothing to those two who sat sheltered in the rocky cleft, for they were dreaming the golden dream of youth, which may come but once in a lifetime, yet leaves a trail of glory on its path for ever.
Side by side they sat, man and maid, with never a thought of anything beyond that dream, and the knowledge that love had bound them thus together.
But what Eden is long without its serpent? Morice Conyers, basking in present sunshine, suddenly felt a quick chill strike his heart. It was the Marquis de Varenac, noble of Brittany, come purposely to save his country, whom the little Cécile loved.
And the day of reckoning drew near.
But Love is nothing if he be not at his purest and best a reformer.
All the latent manhood, all the better feelings, which ill-training and ill comrades had kept dormant, were stirred to life by this innocent child, whose great eyes shone into his with an expression of perfect trust and love. She called for the highest in him, and that highest, neglected, scarcely acknowledged before, rose in response to the appeal.
He would be what she thought him to be, whatever the cost.
In presence of that dominant passion now stirring and animating him, the past shrank into pitiful insignificance.
What were Marcel Trouet and the London Corresponding Society to him now but traps to rob him of that newly cherished honour and love?
As for Steenie Berrington and Jack Denningham, he should tell them his mind plainly, and if they would not stomach his change of opinion, they might go to the devil for all he cared.
Of one thing he was resolved, and that was to ride to Varenac at once and proclaim himself for what he was—the Marquis—not citizen—Varenac, who had come to bid his people cry "Vive le roi Bourbon" rather than "À bas les aristocrats."
Fire ran in his veins, urging him to be up and doing. No time should be lost. When Jéhan came he should not be able to point to him as traitor.
The last thought caused him a perfect fever of anxiety. He must waste no time. Proof must come first ere denunciation.
But Cécile was loath to go. Might they not dream a little longer?
That was the question she would have asked, but shy diffidence withheld her.
Besides, the shadows fell, and she was no peasant lass—to be courted as Marie or Yvette might be,—but a demoiselle of Brittany.
Even as it was she feared her mother's disapproval, recalling the oft-told story of how demoiselles of thirty years ago very often never saw their future husbands till the day offiançailles. Truly the world was going topsy-turvy now; but, in this particular respect, Cécile felt that the change was for the better.
Through the twilight they walked home together, whispering, from time to time, those foolish absurdities which make old grey-beards smile. Yet who, thus smiling, has not sighed too, remembering days when they themselves found foolishness the sweetest thing on earth!
Under the leafy shade of sheltering oaks Morice paused, holding the little hands which lay so warm and passive in his own.
"You love me, Cécile?" he asked wistfully; "you love me?"
He lingered over the repetition.
Stars could have shone no less brightly than the eyes she raised to his.
"I love you, Morice," she answered, and then, blushing rosy-red at such temerity, hid her small face against his shoulder.
For a long moment they stood thus, his arm around her slender little figure, holding her closely, as though he could not bear the thought of letting her go.
"Cécile, Cécile," he groaned, his voice sounding odd and strangled with conflicting fears and love, "pray Heaven you may say it always—always."
She smiled, looking up at him with the boldness bred by the knowledge that he needed all that love and sympathy.
"Always—always, Morice, my dearly-loved," she whispered back.
And the night-wind, sweeping up from the coast, seemed to catch the words and bear them mockingly across the barren landes.
Always—always—always.
"A fine host," sneered my Lord Denningham, with an oath,—"a right jovial and noble host, eh, Steenie? Demme it, man! I didn't come to this old rat-trap to look at you, and be poisoned with ragouts au Bourbon and cold shoulders à Varenac. What in the world is friend Morice up to?"
"Split me if I know," growled Sir Stephen, who was far from being in the most amiable of moods himself.
"He and Marcel started the day before we did, and we should have found him here on arrival. Something must have befallen him."
"The devil flown away with him en route? Hardly likely, my friend, when you consider everything."
"He may have gone to Paris with Trouet."
"That's not Trouet's game—no, no, no. More likely a saucy pair of eyes or a neat waist. Some of these little Bretonnes are worth kissing; I've honoured more than one already. But kissing should not be taken seriously when there is work on hand, and the orders of the London Corresponding Society should be obeyed."
"Orders?"
"What you will, Steenie! We've taken the hand of Madame Republic, and we've got to grip hard—mutual obligations, you know. They may be able to serve us in the same way, later on, when our own business is advanced."
Sir Stephen yawned.
"England ain't France. You'll find that 'à la lanterne' won't fit English throats, any more than 'Ça ira.' Besides, Pitt has his eye on us."
"And we have our eye on Pitt. Rot me, Steenie, you've not got the heart of a mouse. The Society is spreading its netsandpapers pretty far afield. However, to return to our baa-lambs—or rather that woolly-headed sheep, friend Morice. What the deuce ishedoing, hiding away and never turning up at the ancestral mansion? Old Goaty seemed to know nothing at all, but gabbled on about Monsieur le Marquis Gilles de Varenac. We ain't come to dig up corpses."
"Or look for them, either, eh, Jack? Stap me, but I've had enough serious conversation. Swearin' won't bring Morry along a step quicker. Let's have a turn with the dice to kill time."
The suggestion was agreed on, and soon nothing was heard but the rattle of the dice-box, and an occasional lusty oath over an unlucky throw.
The Manor of Varenac was an ancient building surrounded by trees and built in a hollow. The rooms were low and dark, the passages innumerable, with many an intricate winding and turn, sufficient to confuse any new-comer.
The salon, in which the two uninvited guests sat playing, was exceptionally low, with heavy beams of black oak across the ceiling, and a deep wainscotting, which added to the gloom of the long, narrow apartment. Candles in heavy silver and brass sconces had been lighted by the ancient major-domo, Pierre Koustak, who had eyed the strange Messieurs with strongly disapproving eye.
It was true that M'nsieur Jéhan had told him that the new M'nsieur le Marquis was more English than Breton, although he was the son of Mademoiselle Marie. Pierre's ideas of the English were vague and a good deal prejudiced. His opinion of the new master had not been raised when these English friends put in an appearance before M'nsieur le Marquis himself, and announced that they were here by his invitation.
You may be sure that Pierre Koustak paid many a visit to the keyhole to be assured that the strangers were still there, and did not appear to have any burglarious intentions on the treasures of the Manor of Varenac.
Sir Stephen's luck was in that evening. The pile of gold crowns grew by his side. The wine in these dusty cellars, too, was excellent, though old Goaty evidently found it a difficult task to bring bottle after bottle in.
Sir Stephen, therefore, considering all things, was merry.
My Lord Denningham, on the other hand, considering all things, was very sour of mood.
To begin with, the latter's luck was abominable. The dice were certainly bewitched—or cursed. To go on with, he was angry at not finding Morice Conyers here.
He had come to France to win for himself a name for zeal in the cause of liberty, which would raise him to prominence amongst his fellow-members in that London Corresponding Society which had for its object the stirring up of the English people into a sister Revolution.
This zeal fell decidedly flat in a tête-à-tête gamble with Sir Stephen Berrington.
The latter's fatuous laugh irritated him, as did his noisy triumph over his winnings. The jingling of lost gold jarred on my lord's delicate nerves.
[Transcriber's note: page 175 was missing from source book]
[Transcriber's note: page 176 was missing from source book]
... carriage without in the avenue; it stops. Our friend Morice, no doubt."
He turned, with a sneer, to meet the expected host whom they had forestalled.
But it was not Morice Conyers who stood in the doorway, but his sister Gabrielle, her hood flung back from her dark hair, cheeks flushed, and hazel eyes defiant.
She scarcely deigned to bestow a glance at the man before her, but looked past him eagerly.
"Morice!" she cried. "Morice!"
Then swiftly she turned to Denningham.
"Where is my brother?" she asked peremptorily.