CHAPTER XVI
A MORNING ADVENTURE
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 the tricoteuses. 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?