A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 25

But Maurice Conyers did not reply; he was thinking how Marcel Trouet would be already marching from Paris with his red-capped murderers, singing the song he himself had been so ready to join in over the wine-cups as they toasted the Red Revolution and the cause of Liberty at club and coffee-house.

Somehow things were beginning to wear a different complexion on this side of the Channel, and fear crept knocking vaguely at his heart when he thought of the part a certain n.o.ble Marquis had come to play in his mother's land and amongst his mother's kin.

But Cecile sang softly to herself that night as she stood, later on, looking out towards the wild coast-line.

The storm had pa.s.sed, the stars were s.h.i.+ning, and, as she watched the glittering lights so far above her, it seemed to the young girl that they were eyes looking down and down and down into her heart.

And she blushed rosy red with a thought but half-conceived, turning away lest those twinkling stars should read it--yet unformed.

CHAPTER XVI

A MORNING ADVENTURE

A morning of suns.h.i.+ne, 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 Kernak.

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.

"ca 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 rehea.r.s.e 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 n.o.ble of this Brittany which already fascinated as much as it repelled him.

Marquis of Varenac, scion of an ancient race, n.o.ble of the n.o.ble, 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 Cecile de Quernais.

A pair of l.u.s.trous black eyes, a small, innocent face, sweet and pure as child's or nun's, and a heart which, s.h.i.+ning 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 Cecile 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?----

Pis.h.!.+ Of course he must go to Varenac. He would go at once. He would not return to the Chateau of Kernak. 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. Malediction; 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'la! v'la! 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. Te! Te! 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 Cecile 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.

Cecile 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.