A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 39

Besides, it was unlikely there _would_ be questions.

Murder was too everyday an occurrence just now. And, though the Terror had not yet come to Varenac, it would be no great matter of surprise that a n.o.ble landlord returning to his own should be found with a bullet in his heart in the woods near his home.

So Jack Denningham argued as he hurried back along the forest path, only stopping to wash the blood once more from his hand, and with scarcely a thought to bestow on a quondam friend who lay with eyes fast closed and white face upturned to greet the sunbeams which stole down, half shyly, through leafy shade, to peep, as it were, at that which lay so still amongst the fading bracken.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE HUT OF NANETTE LEROC

But my Lord Denningham had for once been out-witted by a fate more merciful than himself.

A strangely perverse fate, too, for here she had changed destruction to salvation. The bullet, winging its way straight to the heart of Morice Conyers, had glanced aside on the bra.s.s b.u.t.ton of his heavy travelling-coat and entered the body several inches to the right of the spot intended. True, the victim had fallen instantly, his own shot having gone wide of its mark amongst the trees, and there he lay, bleeding and unconscious.

But Death had stepped aside--its grey form slipping away through the misty shadows to pursue other prey.

And thus, in time, Morice opened his eyes once more and found himself, not in Paradise or Purgatory, but lying still on his bracken couch, his white s.h.i.+rt stiff with blood, and a feeling of cold faintness which kept his thoughts slipping from him like ghosts of a fleeting vision.

But presently the misty haze swimming before his eyes cleared a little, and he became conscious that some one was talking near him.

The voice was as unfamiliar as the little dark face that peered into his, yet he smiled, muttering faintly that all was well--or would be if he might have a draught of brandy.

His request evidently fell on deaf ears. But presently a flask was put to his lips. Not brandy, or anything like it, yet the long drink of milk, which he swallowed thirstily, revived him, and he sat up.

A little peasant-girl, in picturesque Breton dress, stood by his side, surveying him with mingled curiosity and awe.

Cecile's lessons might have stood him in good stead had his brain been less confused. As it was, he was content to let this sympathetic friend guide him along the path.

Feeble, staggering steps, with frequent halts when the giddiness overpowered him; but the girl, though small, was stronger than might have been expected, and helped him bravely, till together they reached a little hut close to the pathway.

What followed was but a confused dream to Morice Conyers. He remembered vaguely that an old, white-capped woman came to his side, and that somehow he reached a bed. Then the dream darkened till all became a blank, in which surging waves and roaring winds alone were heard, whilst he drifted helpless and feeble before the tempest.

But morning light told a different tale. Youth, a vigorous const.i.tution, old Nanette's balsam of herbs, or Providence,--_which_ it was Morice did not trouble to consider. All he knew was that he was alive, and thanked G.o.d for it, remembering Cecile. Afterwards he recollected that he was hungry.

The white-capped old woman, who had been but a wraith figure the night before, came to his side with a bowl of chestnut soup and black bread.

Coa.r.s.e fare--but our dainty beau had never tasted a more delicious meal.

Ah! It was good to be alive.

In halting Breton he thanked the good mother, and vainly tried to follow an avalanche of chatter.

All he could gather was that this was the hut of Nanette Leroc, and that the little one, who found him, was her niece, Marie, who had been returning from a fete.

Of course the good saints had directed her feet that way, and had shown her where he lay.

Marie, busy sh.e.l.ling chestnuts in the background, must have blushed at this last, seeing that the saints had apparently less to do with the direction of her steps than a certain Meloir Duvaine, who had promised to meet her on her return from Cervenais, but who had failed to keep tryst.

But Morice cared little whether saint or lover, or both, had had finger in the pie. It was sufficient that Marie _had_ found him, and that he lay here with the warm life-blood flowing freely in his veins.

He would have risen from his humble couch had not Nanette and common sense withheld him.

Loss of blood had weakened him, even though the wound was not serious in itself.

The bra.s.s b.u.t.ton on his coat was twisted and bent beyond recognition.

When he saw it, Morice Conyers thanked G.o.d again.

The sight sobered him.

Nanette and Marie chattered incessantly when they were in the hut.

Fortunately their work kept them a good deal without.

Later, Morice fell asleep to the whirring of the spinning-wheel. It was more soothing than unintelligible Breton.

For two days he remained in the hut of old Nanette. On the third he was strong enough to rise. Weak though he was, he could return now to Varenac.

He still had his work to do; and what might not be happening if the story of his death had got abroad?

At first Nanette refused the gold he offered her with halting but heartfelt thanks.

It was le bon Dieu who had sent him, she said. But the sight of the glittering coins was too much for her thrifty soul to withstand; and folk said the winter was likely to be a hard one.

So she took money and thanks, bidding her patient a voluble farewell, and invoking many blessings on his head.

Morice was already half across a forest glade before she had come to the end of them.

It was past mid-day, but, though the autumn suns.h.i.+ne warmed the purple landes beyond, it was chilly in the shade. More than once Morice paused, s.h.i.+vering a little; but whether from cold, weakness, or the excitement of what he knew must lie before him, he could not tell.

A step on the path, a bend in the road, the flutter of a crimson cloak--and there before him stood Cecile herself.

For a moment trees, path, figure, swam giddily before the young man's eyes. Then, as the mists cleared, he looked into a face pale as his own.

The basket she carried had slipped from her grasp, and she stood, hands clasped together, leaning against a tree.

"Morice!"

It was a faint whisper coming from white lips, but he heard it.

"Cecile!"

Did the pinched cheeks and hollow eyes tell their own tale?

It must have been so, for she was at his side the next moment.

"You are not dead?" she faltered, and touched his hand, half fearfully, as though she fancied the apparition would slip out of sight as she approached.

But he caught and held her fingers in no ghost-like touch.