Morice Conyers stood leaning against the gnarled trunk of a mulberry-tree.
It mattered nothing to him that his view was bounded by a cluster of shrubs and a stone wall; he was gazing at neither.
What was Cécile thinking of him now? What was she saying? What doing?
Each question was a torture.
Jéhan had returned to Kérnak.
If only he could have seen the young Count first, if only there had been time to prove that repentance had come in time to save his honour!
And nowshewould believe in neither the one nor the other.
He groaned at the thought, passing a trembling hand across his forehead. Oh! he must prove himself—must prove himself, even if he died in doing it.
"Cécile, Cécile, Cécile."
The breeze overhead chanted the name again and again, now sadly, now sweetly, alluringly, distractingly.
"Cécile, Cécile, Cécile."
His heart echoed the cry, going out with wild longing to her who had won it and transformed it at one magic touch.
"Slit me! if it's not Morry himself. You sly dog! What demned mischief have you been up to now, my friend, leaving Steenie and me to cool our heels in that old rat-trap of yours?"
Jack Denningham's voice broke in sharply on a day-dream of love. It was no more welcome interruption than the sight of my lord himself, cool, suave, smiling, with a hearty clap on the shoulder to add to his upbraiding words of welcome.
But there was no response in Morice Conyers' eyes.
Since Denningham was here he might as well understand at once that there was a vast difference between the Marquis de Varenac and Beau Conyers of Carlton House fame.
"I have been attending to business," he replied coldly, "and there's more that needs looking after badly. If you take my advice, Denningham, you and Steenie will be returning to England without asking too many questions."
Seeing that a certain laurel-clump was well within earshot of the mulberry-tree, my lord was singularly obtuse.
"Business? Return to England?" he cried, with a merry chuckle. "Why, we've all come on business, and when we're tired of teaching these surly beggars of yours their Marseillaise, I'll warrant we'll all be ready enough for town, and some good jests for our Florizel, to boot. Ha! ha! Yes, we'll all return togetherafterwards."
But Morice was facing him squarely, and there were no signs of irresolution round the corners of his mouth now.
"As for returning to England, that depends on events," he retorted. "But one thing is certain, Jack,—I'll not be teaching my tenants any of your demned songs of liberty or murder either. I've come to cry: 'God save King Louis, and confound the Red Revolution and all its leaders.'"
He drew himself to his fullest height as he spoke, and looked his quondam friend in the face.
Lord Denningham was neither smiling nor sneering now, but his blue eyes had an ugly expression in them.
"Brittany has evidently had a depressing effect on you," he observed drily. "Come, don't be a fool, Morry. Let's to the house. Steenie is brewing a bowl of punch which will clear your addle-pate. We haven't come here to listen to any demned heroics, but to do business as members of the Corresponding Society."
The words were fuel to smouldering flame.
Morice Conyers forgot caution and wisdom both.
With a curse he sprang forward, dashing his hand into the other's face.
"Fools for the punch-bowl," he shouted. "You may drown your coward whines in it if you're afraid to be a man. But I tell you I've done with your traitor Societies, and the rest of 'em. I've been knave and villain long enough. Heaven knows I was both, with my fool's eyes shut to what I was doing. You brought me here to whistle to your tunes; you'll find I have one of my own to sing—a song that won't sully the lips of a Marquis de Varenac, nor those of an honest Englishman."
Denningham's face was very white—save where the mark of Morice's fingers had brought a red patch to his cheek.
"Honest Englishman!" he gibed. "Mongrel cur is the better title. Where have you been hiding, noble night-bird? Too-whoo—too-whoo,—the owl should keep to forest-shade in the daylight, lest the hunter might shoot her as too noisy a pest."
"You shall give me——"
"Satisfaction? Come, come, Mr. Forest-skulker, be not too valiant; it is dangerous. Still, if you will,—what time like the present?"
"I'll not wait longer."
Morice's fury was at fever-pitch, his passion blinding him to all discretion.
He did not realize that he had fallen at once into the trap my lord had prepared for him.
"Come, then," observed his smiling adversary, helping himself to a pinch of snuff with a languid air. "If youwillhave it so, your forest lair will be the best scene for your lesson. You will be more at home there; though, if you prefer it, nearer to your Manor, and within call of your servants——."
"I am ready," broke in Morice, sternly. "Let it be where you will, and with what weapons you will, so it be at once."
Lord Denningham did not hesitate.
"The forest, by all means, then," he yawned. "and pistols will be more appropriate than swords. Stap me! It's the first time I'll have been owl-shooting since I was a boy."
Morice did not reply, though he strode quickly enough on the heels of the other as he led the way down the path, through the wicket, and across the heather-crowned strip of moorland towards the outskirts of the forest.
The cool breeze blowing in his face seemed to restore the young man to his senses. He was going to fight a duel with Lord Denningham.
Honour demanded it now.
But he was remembering tales which had often been the subject of Carlton House gossip—tales of this man's skill with the pistols, his unerring aim, his callous disregard of life.
"You are going to death, you are going to death," moaned the autumn wind in his ear; and the voice seemed like the voice of Cécile crying its sad farewell.
Yet he could not go back; it was too late. If death awaited him, there in the grim forest, he must meet the grisly foe as a man, not a puling coward.
A man! Yes, a man whom Cécile, in years to come, might think of not wholly in shame, but with a great pity, as of one who, after many sins, many failures, many mistakes, had tried to redeem the past and expiate his faults—for her sake. If only he could have sent a message!
But that, too, was impossible.
"I think, with your permission, we have gone far enough," observed Lord Denningham affably, as he halted near a small clearing in the wood.
Morice nodded.
He knew not if he had walked one mile or ten, so deep had been his reverie.
And now death stood at his side.
"It is a matter of regret that there is no time to procure seconds," smiled my lord, as he proceeded to divest himself of his coat and walk slowly across the clearing, carefully measuring his paces.
"But I do not think there will be any dispute—afterwards."
"No," replied Morice dully.
He understood the gist of the remark.
"The light might be worse," went on Denningham. "If we are careful where we stand,—so—there is too deep a shadow there. You have a good weapon, sir? If not, permit me to offer you the choice of mine."
He opened a leather case as he spoke, holding it towards Morice with a mocking bow.
A pair of gold-mounted pistols lay within.
But Morice shook his head.
"I thank you, my lord, but I prefer using my own," he replied shortly.
Lord Denningham raised his eyebrows.
"As you like. But you will surely remove your coat?"
"Thank you. No."
"Again—as you will, though I warn you those gilt buttons of yours make a pretty target."
"I am ready."
They were facing each other—Morice Conyers grim and pale, yet with eyes stern of purpose and undaunted enough, though he knew death looked him in the face.
Denningham was white too, but his blue eyes were scornful, and his thin lips twisted in a cold smile.
He never doubted for a second the issue of that duel.
And his pistol was levelled point-blank at the other's heart.
It was by far the simplest method of dealing with a crazy fool.
Two shots rang out in the silent wood. A dull thud, a faint cracking of dried twigs, as a heavy body fell backward; then silence again.
Lord Denningham was carefully replacing a smoking pistol within its case, wiping it first with his silk handkerchief.
Inwardly he was experiencing that acute satisfaction of having fulfilled his purpose neatly and expeditiously.
A pistol was far more satisfactory in every way than a sword. The latter bungled at times, the former, never.
A wounded opponent would have been a demned difficulty.
Having put on his coat, and replaced his case of weapons, he approached the figure which lay, half hidden, amongst the dense undergrowth.
He would make certain of his work.
Faugh!
In haste he withdrew a searching hand. It was dripping with blood.
The contact was distasteful. It even went so far as to shake his nerves.
Wiping the red stains again and again on the grass, he rose to his feet.
He would wash his hand in the stream they had passed on their way, and then no time must be lost in returning to the Manor and seeking Sir Stephen.
It must not be suspected that he had ever left the card-table that morning.
Steenie would be too fuddled to contradict if questions were asked.
Besides, it was unlikely therewouldbe questions.
Murder was too everyday an occurrence just now. And, though the Terror had not yet come to Varenac, it would be no great matter of surprise that a noble landlord returning to his own should be found with a bullet in his heart in the woods near his home.
So Jack Denningham argued as he hurried back along the forest path, only stopping to wash the blood once more from his hand, and with scarcely a thought to bestow on a quondam friend who lay with eyes fast closed and white face upturned to greet the sunbeams which stole down, half shyly, through leafy shade, to peep, as it were, at that which lay so still amongst the fading bracken.
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.
Cécile'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,—whichit was Morice did not trouble to consider. All he knew was that he was alive, and thanked God for it, remembering Cécile. 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 fête.
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 Mariehadfound 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 Cécile 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.
"Cécile!"
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, Cécile—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.
"Cécile! Cécile! 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."
"Cécile!"
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 Jéhan had brought Gabrielle to Kérnak, 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 Kérnak," she whispered. "Jéhan 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 Jéhan?"
"Yes."
Morice raised his head proudly.
"I will prove it to the whole world," said he.
"And you will come to Kérnak?"
"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 Jéhan."
He saw that the argument was good.
"Then let us go to Kérnak," he cried, turning back along the path, with a sudden gesture of impatience.
Cécile smiled.
"Yes, to Kérnak," 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 Cécile, being a woman, felt her heart beat gladly when she remembered that she had turned her lover from the road to Varenac—and death.
The wine at the sign of Le Bon Camarade was abominable.
Marcel Trouet, trusted servant and officer of the Committee of Public Safety in Paris, evinced his disapprobation by flinging the contents of his glass on the floor and bellowing for the landlord.
Jean Gouicket came in haste. He knew who were the great ones now, this burly Breton. Aha! the cunning one! At the first whisper of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity, he had taken down his signboard, and the Duchesse Anne, with its ermines and arms, had been quickly painted out and replaced by a fine red cap and the name of Le Bon Camarade.
But just in time! Ohé! Jean Gouicket could only gasp out a thanksgiving and promise of many candles to Monseigneur St. Jean—beneath his breath, of course—when Trouet and his party arrived.
That party! It was a grim one enough at first sight—a rabble of idlers with four or five of those other great ones whom Marcel Trouet had brought from Paris.
Not that they were Parisians—nothing of the sort: they were Bretons, every one—dark-skinned, gloomy-faced fellows, with crafty, downcast eyes and scowling lips.
These were men, though, who had seen life beyond the dreary landes, and faced more than the fierce, monotonous battling between sea and shore, such as engrossed their fellows.
And they had learnt to talk in Paris.
Loud, snarling talk of their precious liberty and the way in which they meant to earn it.
Ha, ha! They were beginning to find that out in Brittany too.
They had heard, even in Paris, how the aristocrats of St. Malo and Vannes—ay, and Nantes too—were learning that their day was done. And so, being Bretons themselves, they had come home to join in the fun, and teach their comrades and brothers how the work went in Paris.
Click! click! click! But there were plenty of ways to exterminate vermin besides taking them to the arms of the "widow."
Jean Gouicket and his friends listened agape, not sure whether to applaud or shiver, the former sweating in sudden fear when the great Trouet bellowed for more wine of a better flavour.
A threat underlay the command, and the trembling Gouicket made haste to obey, though it was gall and wormwood to the worthy man to bring to these vaurien comrades the wine which Monsieur le Comte, or M'nsieur l'Abbé would pay a big price for.
Before he returned Marcel had been joined by a stranger—a heavy-faced, ill-looking fellow with a tangle of rough hair, and wearing the sleeveless coat and plaited trousers of a Breton peasant.
But Marcel evidently found him amusing, for he did not even fill his glass with the wine Gouicket placed, with reverent fingers and very great reluctance, by his side.
"Your name, my friend?" he was asking.
"Bertrand Manseau. A good Republican."
"Ça, ça. And you come from Kérnak?"
The man spat and cursed the name before acquiescing.
"It is the place of aristos?"
"Yes, citoyen. But not for long I hope."
His cunning little black eyes blinked with satisfaction.
"All in good time, all in good time. You know Varenac?"
"Si. How could it be otherwise? I have lived between Kérnak and Varenac all my life."
"And what have you to say of Varenac?"
"It is a place of fools."
"Ha, ha! Does that mean also of aristos?"
"There is one; that is sufficient."
"But the old aristo died. He who has now come is a good citizen."
Bertrand's face was livid with rage.
"A good citizen! Mille diables! Agood citizen. What! the new Marquis who came last week from England? Nom d'un chien, Citoyen Marcel, he is the worst of the lot—a cursed aristo to his finger-tips."
It was Trouet's turn to stare.
"Bah! comrade, you do not know him. I tell you he is my friend. It is I who brought him from England on purpose to teach those fools at Varenac to cry 'Vive la Revolution.'"
"I do not care what you say. He is a cursed aristo; I have seen him."
Bertrand rubbed his back, scowling darkly over a sore memory.
"You have seen him?"
Marcel poured out a glass of wine and tossed it down at a gulp, indifferent just now as to flavour. He was getting excited.
"Yes, certainly. He would have killed me if it had not been for the girl. I tell you he is the most cursed aristo of them all."
"Where was this? What girl? Quickly then, idiot! I will know what you say."
Bertrand told his story. Alas! it was not only the story of Mademoiselle Cécile's rescue, but more also that he had learnt by spying and close tracking of his enemy.
All was soon clear to Monsieur Trouet.
This fool of an Englishman had fallen in love—with an aristo. He was judge enough of men to guess the rest.
"And he has gone to Varenac?"
"Certainly!"
"And the people?"
"Will be as ready to cry 'Vive le roi,' as 'Vive la nation,' when he bids them."
"He has already——"
"No, no! There has been some delay. I do not altogether understand, for old Pierre Koustak at the Manor is a fool too; but I believe M'nsieur le Marquis is there alone. He waits for a friend."
"Nom d'un chien! a friend will arrive. Mille diables! a friend will arrive."
Marcel tossed off another glass of wine thirstily—it might have been the commonest vintage—and Jean Gouicket, watching, was filled with exquisite pain at the sight.
"En avant!" screamed Marcel, springing to his feet.
Instantly the parlour of Le Bon Camarade was in confusion.
All talked at once, and none knew what they talked of, saving that it was in the cause of liberty, equality, and fraternity.
Poor Jean Gouicket wished devoutly that there would be less of the latter and more honesty in payment; but he dared not ask for his money, recalling the fate of a parsimonious landlord at Vannes.
All things, especially wine, were common in this great bond of brotherhood.
At last Marcel made himself heard.
His good comrades and friends were to divide into five sections, and hasten at once to Varenac, Kérnak, and other villages around.
In all these villages the tree of liberty was to be planted, and death to the aristos proclaimed.
For himself he had a little business of importance to undertake, but would join them at Varenac shortly.
They would soon have plenty of amusement.
A burst of enthusiasm greeted these orders. The Marseillaise, started in a shrill falsetto, was echoed by fifty lusty throats.
It was in the midst of the din that Marcel Trouet, with Bertrand at his side, hurried off in the direction of the Manor of Varenac.
The trusted agent of the Committee of Public Safety had something to say to a ci-devant Marquis and member of a certain London Corresponding Club.
The thought of the meeting appeared to cause the little man the liveliest excitement and anger.
But never mind! never mind!
The Terror was coming to Varenac in spite of turncoats.
"Ça ira!"
Sir Stephen Berrington sat alone in the library at the Manor of Varenac.
Not that he was fond of his own company. Peste! He hated it. But there was no alternative just now.
Morry's sister had gone to Kérnak with that young fool Michael to keep her company, and Morry himself had not arrived.
Too bad that! If it had not been for Morry's over-persuasion he would never have left town.
He was none too fond of my Lord Denningham's company. The fellow was all right at the card-table, but otherwise he was a demned wet blanket.
Yes; a demned wet blanket!
Sir Stephen yawned, helped himself to another glass of punch from the bowl at his elbow, and continued to bewail his lot.
Where was Denningham? Wet blanket or no, even he would be better than no one in this old barn.
It was beginning to grow dusk, and Steenie was not fond of moping in the twilight.
Memory and he were ill friends.
Yet memory, unbidden, came and perched herself beside him.
A small fire of logs crackled on the hearth. Autumn winds were cold, and he was not so young as he used to be.
It is wonderful how old a fit of loneliness can make one.
At that moment the light-hearted Steenie Berrington of Carlton House was an old man.
The hand that carried the glass to trembling lips shook.
An old man!
It must be so since he had taken to looking back.
He had been young once.
Lost youth stood mocking him in the shadows. Laughter, love, hope, and strength,—all had been his.
A mother's hand seemed stretching out from the past years to smooth the fair hair from his forehead, whilst mother-eyes looked into his own laughing ones.
Those mother eyes! Had they ever looked anything but tenderly into his, though they had often been tear-dimmed in pain?
Pain he had inflicted carelessly enough, and, as carelessly, turned away.
Memory had bitter stabs for an old man sitting alone in the twilight.
Sir Stephen gulped down his punch and tried to hum a line of his favourite rhyme.
"Let's drink and be jolly, and drown melancholy;So merrily, then, let us joy, too, and sing,So fill up your bowls, all ye loyal——"
The song broke off, snapped by another of memory's shafts.
Where had he heard that song first?
At Dublin town.
Ah! Dublin held memories too.
A gay ballroom. A girl's sweet face. A kiss, passionate and long.
Norah, Norah—smiling, merry Norah.
He had loved her, too, for a short time—all too short for Norah.
And the boy?
Well! he had not been cut out for domesticity, and after a time Norah's tears bored him far more than Norah's smiles had ever charmed him.
Yet he had felt a pang of remorse when he heard she was dead. He might even have sought out his son had not the old man, his father, adopted him. It was better for Michael to be brought up at Berrington.
And, meantime, Steenie was finding that when one has a handsome face and jolly humour, it is easy to live by one's wits, even though honour be in the mire.
So the years rolled by. He watched them go as the wood spattered and burnt on the hearth, spurting out little jets of flame or leaping up the chimney in long, red tongues of fiery heat.
Michael, his son!His son. His father, it seemed at times, for here was Sir Henry over again, save for sudden fits of wild, rollicking devilry, which came of an Irish birthright, and delighted Sir Stephen hugely.
Mike and he might have been the jolliest of comrades were it not for the young fool's absurd ideas of honour.
Again Sir Stephen filled up his glass. He would at least drown melancholy and memory too.
After all, he hoped spoil-sport Mike would stay at Kérnak. The lad took life like an old man, and left his father behind in the merry ranks of youth.
Yes! of youth. He was not old—wouldnot be old. He was young—merry. Laughter on his lips—in his heart, now the ghosts of the past were laid.
Confusion to memory! Con——
How darkly the shadows fell.
And behind him one was moving forward, nearer—nearer—nearer.
A stooping shadow, with a cap—blood-red in the dying light—on its head, and a face twisted and mocking.
But Sir Stephen was looking into the embers and seeing long years of laughter and song therein.
Oh, that stooping shadow! How stealthily it advanced.
Confusion to memory! Con——
An arm raised swiftly, and as swiftly descending.
Confusion——!
What followed? What followed?
A sudden, terrible pain, a suffocating sense of agony, a blinding rush of memories, of fear, of terror; and then a figure lurched forward, slipping sideways from the chair across the hearth, overturning a half-filled bowl of punch in its fall.
But Marcel Trouet stood cursing volubly in hot anger and dismay, for the features, upturned to his, were not those of Morice Conyers after all.
*****
The moments crept by leaden-footed. But Marcel Trouet stood still—very still—looking down at that white face, those stiffening lips.
He had killed the wrong man.
It was a matter of regret.
Hardened in crime though he was, murder in cold blood had never come his way before, and the horror of a useless deed held him there, actually trembling a little as he watched the slowly oozing blood trickle across the white hearth.
And the twilight was deepening in the silent room.
The hasty opening of a door startled the watcher into uttering a low cry of terror. But the terror passed at sight of Lord Denningham.
These two understood each other.
"Ah!"
"Unluckily I made a little mistake, mon ami. It was Morice Conyers—the citizen Varenac—I came to find."
"Aha! I understand. A little unfortunate for Steenie! Poor devil! But how go the affairs of State, friend Trouet?"
"It is I who should ask that. I hear that our good Moreece has become indeed a Marquis."
"One born out of time then, though it is true that Conyers was ready to play the fool. However, there is no reason to be anxious; I have already settled matters with him."
"You——?"
"He will not trouble us again any more than poor Steenie here."
Lord Denningham was smiling, but Marcel Trouet wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"Bon, bon. You are a patriot, my friend."
"And now——?"
"Well, it will be clear sailing, as you call it in England. The men of Varenac did not see the dear Moreece?"
"Not a glimpse. They are waiting still."
"Excellent. Ah, ciel! what an idea! We shall have no trouble with these blockheads, who are sometimes difficult. You, my dear milord, will be Marquis, or—still better—the Citizen Varenac."
Jack Denningham stared for a moment. But he was not slow to catch the drift of the other's meaning.
"The Citizen Varenac?" he echoed. "A charming idea, Marcel, only a trifle difficult to practise."
"Difficult?"
"You forget I have been living here as Lord Denningham. The old curmudgeon, Pierre Koustak, would give me away. He is Royalist and Varenac to the backbone, and a gentleman of influence in these parts, if I mistake not."
Trouet shrugged his shoulders.
"Ah, my friend, that is all easy enough. Where is this Pierre Koustak?"
"Below, no doubt, in the pantry, or poking his nose where it is not wanted."
"Let him come here. We will deal with him according to justice."
"Justice!"
"Eh bien! There is a man lying murdered in the library of the Manor of Varenac. We find him here, you and I. Who can be suspected but the only man in the house? It is without doubt the work of a villain. We will name that villain Pierre Koustak. You understand?"
"Perfectly. I will fetch him."
Pierre Koustak was not far away.
The last few days had made him anxious—very anxious. There were things happening he could not understand, and Monsieur le Marquis had not arrived at Varenac.
So he was ready enough to obey the summons to the library, even though he did not like the fair-haired milord with the blue eyes which were cold and hard as granite stones.
Yet perhaps he would hear something.
The worthy Pierre was not mistaken. He did hear something,—but not at all what he expected.
Murder! Ah! how terrible.
The sight of the huddled figure on the hearth made his knees tremble in very horror. But he knew nothing of it, had heard nothing. What did it mean?
In utter bewilderment, he stared from one grim-faced accuser to the other.
Hemurdered the Englishman who laughed and drank all day?
Mother of Heaven! such a thought, such a suggestion, was impossible, absurd.
But, where the prisoner is prejudged, argument is useless.
They refused to listen to the poor man's protestations, cries, and vows of innocency. Sir Stephen Berrington lay here, lately murdered; he, Pierre Koustak, was the only man in the Manor at the time, therefore Pierre must have done the deed.
That was the summing up. Afterwards Pierre, still pleading and imploring against such injustice, was bound, gagged, and carried to a little room at the back of the house.
"He will be safe there," observed Jack Denningham, with a grin, as he withdrew the key from the lock, placing it in his pocket. "And now for the comedy, Citizen Marcel, since tragedy is done with—for the present."
Marcel Trouet seemed thoroughly to appreciate the jest, for his sly face—a little paler perhaps than usual—was twisted into a satisfied grimace.
"You will wait here now, milord," he observed with a grand bow, "and I will bring your obedient and altogether adoring people to listen to the fatherly advice and counsel of the Citoyen Morice Varenac, ci-devant Marquis and aristocrat, but now the friend of liberty and the great and glorious Revolution."
He waved his red cap excitedly over his head as he spoke, laughing uproariously.
One is merry when one's plans succeed beyond—if contrary to—expectation. But it might have been observed that the Revolutionary leader took care to avoid re-entering the library where a dead man lay by a dying fire.