CHAPTER XIV
ON BRETON SOIL
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.