CHAPTER XXII
COUNT JEHAN IS NOT CONVINCED
Monsieur de Quernais was certainly in a hurry; so much so that he had lost his temper, and been in too great a haste to recover it again.
There had been reasons enough to disturb a less irritable nature.
To begin with, the failure of his mission had been bitter. Most bitter of all, seeing the trickery played on him by his own cousin, a Varenac and a traitor!
The English blood must be held accountable, of course, but even then he could not bear to think of it.
During that headlong journey from Langton Hall to the Manor of Varenac he had been brooding over it.
What would la Rouerie say? A last hope gone through the betrayal of one who should have been heart and soul on their side.
The collapse of a golden castle in the air had caused Monsieur le Comte to despair.
He was very young and very enthusiastic. Besides, his adoration of la Rouerie amounted almost to an absurdity. The Chouan leader had inspired such affection a score of times in man and woman.
And la Rouerie must be told, not only of failure on his follower's part, but the shame of a noble Breton name. It was terrible.
But Monsieur le Comte could not feel as murderous as he chose since Morice Conyers' sister had so nobly stepped into the breach.
Here was a kindred spirit, here a true Varenac with Breton blood running unsullied in her veins.
Love for the sister almost counterbalanced hatred for the brother in the heart of Jéhan de Quernais.
In such a turmoil of emotion he had ridden to Varenac and found that the new Marquis had failed to arrive.
The news inspired that hope which is twin comrade to youth.
He rode to Kérnak building fresh castles, and reached his home to find that the man who had been so much in his thoughts had but now left it.
The story was told by Madame his mother, with Cécile standing by, a smile hovering around her pretty lips.
But, alas! the smile had died all too soon, frozen out of being by her brother's answering words.
A traitor, double-dyed in hue,—a traitor to his country, to his people, to his own kith and kin!
Liar and dishonoured he seemed to stand before her, as Jéhan poured forth his tale in the first fury of his wrath.
What! Had the vaurien hound dared shelter under his roof? dared to tell his lying tale to them?
The young Count paced the hall to and fro in his anger.
He would have forgotten that Morice Conyers was Gabrielle's brother had he met him at that moment.
It ended by Cécile suddenly bursting into a tempest of tears, and running out of the room. This had been the last straw to an overfull cup.
Mother and son looked at each other for a full minute, and then Madame de Quernais held out trembling hands.
"Do nothing rash," she faltered. "Remember he is my sister's son."
Had he been less a gentleman Jéhan would have thundered out an oath and ridden forth, hot-haste, in search of his enemy. As it was, a higher instinct prevailed. He bowed, with old-fashioned formality, over his mother's hand, though his lips were livid and his eyes ablaze.
"I will remember, Madame," he replied, and dared not trust himself to say more.
*****
A sleepless night for those at Kérnak, and now, with morning, Count Jéhan had ridden over to Varenac.
But still Monsieur le Marquis was absent. It was inexplicable.
Was the fellow such a coward that he trumped up this excuse not to see him?
De Quernais felt his fingers itching at his sword-hilt; though what use to storm when one's foe is absent?
And if Morice were not here Gabrielle was. The door opened suddenly on the Count's meditations, and she stood there on the threshold.
"Oh, Jéhan!" she cried, running to him eagerly, "I am so glad you have come, so glad."
And, at sight of her fair face, the young noble felt his bitterness vanish as the grey shadows must before the sunshine.
How he had learnt to love her, this brave little cousin, who was Breton to her finger-tips!
When the emotions are stirred in a hot, impetuous nature it is a quick leap from love to hate.
Yet he did not blind himself with the belief that love here was returned.
He had seen the light grow in hazel eyes on a day when Michael Berrington appeared suddenly in the morning-room at Langton Hall.
Since then he had known that Cousin Jéhan meant brother Jéhan to Gabrielle. And, being a man of honour as well as Breton noble, he accepted Fate's decree without murmur or strife. But it could not kill love, since that was of immortal birth, and so he hid his eyes from hers, lingering, as he bent over her hand, till he should regain the mastery over himself which he had been in danger of losing.
But Gabrielle had no thought for possible embarrassment. From the first moment she had accepted the new cousin as brother, and never dreamt of shyness or diffidence.
"I am so glad you have come," she repeated. "You will help us to find Morice."
"To find Morice?"
The echo of her words reminded him of past anger, of la Rouerie, of Cécile; and his mouth hardened.
"He came hither this morning," Gabrielle continued,—and told her tale.
De Quernais listened, with knitted brow and incredulity in his eyes.
"And he has gone again?" he concluded, when Gabrielle had finished.
"Yes. We have searched everywhere."
"And Marcel Trouet comes from Paris with his Revolutionaries?"
"Yes, yes. That is what makes me afraid. If they meet——"
"They will probably meet."
"And Morice may be—killed."
"I do not think you need alarm yourself."
She was quick to catch the note of sarcasm, and faced him, a little indignantly.
"You do not believe that—that he is changed?"
"To be honest, ma cousine, I find it difficult."
Gabrielle turned impulsively towards the man who had entered and stood apart near the window behind her.
"Michael believes me," she cried.
The eyes of Breton and Englishman met.
"Does Monsieur Berrington believe in him?" asked Jéhan slowly.
"In Morice Conyers?" demanded Michael quietly. "Yes, Monsieur le Comte, I do—until he disproves such belief."
De Quernais shrugged his shoulders, spreading out his hands with an impatient gesture.
"I ask your reasons, Monsieur," he said. "I too am ready to believe, if possible, but you see the case. My cousin is a friend of the Revolution, a member of the Society which congratulates murderers. He is so enthusiastic in their cause that he plays a trick, which,—your pardon, Gabrielle,—is not in accordance with honour, and comes to Brittany for the purpose of stirring up his people to join what he is pleased to call the Cause of Liberty.
"He comes—with Marcel Trouet, a spy, Revolutionary, murderer, liar,—and arrives at Kérnak, where he—again your pardon, ma cousine—continues the policy of his friends, and calls himself a Royalist and my friend. Then, suddenly leaving Kérnak, he comes to Varenac, where comrades of his and Trouet's already await him. He sees his sister, tells her a tale—a wonderful tale of conversion—and disappears. What do you think of this story?"
Michael leant his dark head against the window-frame, facing the flushed and trembling Count Jéhan, whose eyes were ablaze with hot anger and excitement.
"It sounds as though Morice Conyers were a traitor," quoth he. "Yet I'll still believe in the miraculous. You have a sister, Monsieur, and a fair woman has been known to make as many conversions as a saint."
"Yes, yes, that is it," cried Gabrielle eagerly. "Jéhan, you don't know Morry. He—he is not wicked as you think. It is true that he has been very foolish, and done many things that are wrong—very wrong. But he has had bad friends, and he has been weak and vain, allowing himself to be led by them. Oh! I do not excuse him, but I believe—yes, I do believe—that he might change and be a very honourable gentleman. He told me that in Brittany he had found a teacher worth a hundred Marcel Trouets."
"But why did he disappear?" demanded the Count fiercely. "Ciel! if he had not, and he had his eyes opened indeed to his duty, we should yet win Varenac, aye, and Brittany too, for la Rouerie and the Cause. But where is he?"
It was the question on the lips of each. Where could he be? What could he be doing if ha were not on the road to meet Marcel Trouet?
Gabrielle covered her face with her hands, moaning. "Oh, Morry, Morry," she sobbed, "where are you? If only——"
An opening door made her break off sharply, whilst tear-dimmed, eager eyes watched for the entering figure. But it was only my Lord Denningham, smiling, debonair, handsome as ever, who stood looking in on the little trio.
He paid not the least attention to Monsieur le Comte, who drew himself up stiffly at sight of him, but made his bow to Gabrielle with the exaggerated homage he so well knew annoyed her.
"Ah, Mistress," he murmured plaintively, "you have punished me cruelly. Isn't it enough that Morry's left Steenie and me in the lurch without you scorning us into the bargain? Lud', me lady, it's hardly the work of so dainty a hostess. You'd not treat us so at Langton. You'll be merciful now, and join us at the card-table, or sing us a song of Brittany to your guitar?—though, stap me! I believe I'd rather it were an English one. I've no love for this cheerless land."
He accentuated the last words with a grimace.
"I have no taste for cards, and no humour for song," retorted Gabrielle, her eyes alight with the indignation Lord Denningham ever kindled within her. "And, if I had, my song would scarcely please your ears, my lord, since it would be loyal and royal both."
Her overstrained nerves showed in a gusty little fit of passion, which brought a wider smile to Jack Denningham's mocking lips.
"Loyal and royal," he murmured. "And you are Morry's sister!"
The last words beneath his breath had bitter sting in them.
It goaded Gabrielle to indiscretion.
"Yes," she replied hotly, "I am Morry's sister,—sister to the Marquis de Varenac, I would have you remember, and mistress here in his absence."
A low bow was her answer, but Lord Denningham's eyes were malicious.
"I congratulate you, with all my heart," he said softly, "on your new mistress-ship." And he smiled as he glanced towards Michael Berrington.
The latter was standing erect, and his eyes were ready to flash their reply and challenge.
But Gabrielle interrupted—she had not caught the drift of his subtle insult.
"Ere the day is over Morry will be here himself," she cried. "I think you will find the room cramped at the Manor of Varenac when he returns."
The smile broadened on the sneering features.
"I am prepared to remain till then," retorted my lord suavely. "I do not think I need look for another lodging at present."
Count Jéhan stepped suddenly forward.
"Your lace is soiled, Monsieur," he observed, with meaning in his tones, whilst, stretching out his hand, he touched the ruffle of Mechlin lace which fell back from Lord Denningham's wrist.
"Soiled?"
The owner of the ruffle looked down with a careless laugh.
The whole of the under-portion of the lace was stiff with blood.
Gabrielle gave a low cry.
"What is it?" she gasped. "What is it?"
Lord Denningham forced another laugh, not quite so careless and mocking as the first.
"A mere scratch," he replied, with would-be lightness—"nothing of any consequence."
But impulse had already brought Gabrielle to his side.
"If you are hurt," she said, very gravely, "you shall let me bind it for you. I—I have some slight skill in such work. Nurse Bond taught me."
She made as though to touch the wounded wrist, but he drew it back sharply.
"Tush! a scratch!" he growled. "Half healed already. I want no bandages."
Count Jéhan was yawning, as he helped himself to snuff.
"An excellent flavour," he murmured, half to himself. "Bought from a friend who has traded much in the East. Permit me, Monsieur."
He offered the dainty little box with a graceful bow.
Lord Denningham stretched out a ready hand. In doing so the lace ruffle fell back, disclosing an arm too white for manhood, though muscular and hardened by sword-play. Count Jéhan looked from arm to owner.
His glance was significant.
"Have you by chance met my cousin, the Marquis de Varenac, this morning, Monsieur?" he questioned smoothly.
Lord Denningham forgot to inhale the delicate aroma of the snuff as he turned scowling away—a curse on his lips.