A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 24

An old-fas.h.i.+oned, 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 Jehan, 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 a.s.sume the role of frankness.

She would, in any case, know him by his t.i.tle 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 Cecile 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 regime, 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 Jehan, 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 Cecile, 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 Jehan 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 Cecile's work.

"Why Jehan 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 Jehan? It is not like him to remain behind for a trifling ailment."

Maternal concern rose to the fore at the moment. Jehan 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 a.s.surances.

"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 n.o.ble 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 as.h.i.+ne 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 n.o.ble 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 Cecile.

"And you have come in time," she smiled. "The Terror has not arrived here yet. We have no tree of liberty planted at Kernak 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.