A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 21

CHAPTER XIII

A WOMAN'S WILL

Riding through the darkness of an autumn night with loose rein--a weary journey and dangerous too for the solitary traveller; but Michael Berrington recked nothing then of such danger, seeing he was set to fight a much greater.

A fetish, this honour, say many; but the few who guard her as a possession dearer than life smile, knowing that she is precious, with her songs of inspiration and lofty ideals.

So Michael rode, and found his heart first beating high with that fighting hope which deems failure impossible and the age of miracles not pa.s.sed, and again enveloped in the pall of shame and doubt.

He spared neither spur nor whip that night. Thrice he changed horses and thrice felt the weary beasts stumbling beneath him ere he reached his destination, and by then the dawn was widening and spreading into the glory of morning light.

They were early risers at Langton Hall, and there was small delay in gaining admittance, whilst Giles, grinning a sly welcome, made haste to usher him into the sunny morning-room.

Count Jehan was finding English customs as extraordinary as they were agreeable. French breakfasts of roll and chocolate were as little understood here as French pruderies and proprieties.

During the last two days he had found himself wondering what his mother would say could she see him sitting tete-a-tete at meals with this pretty and adorable little cousin. He had not altogether grasped the fact that Gabrielle, motherless and alone, had been brought up with a freedom wholly unknown to other English maidens.

A cousin--to Gabrielle--seemed to be a vastly superior sort of brother, one who never flouted, but was always kind and most considerate.

During those two days she had heard so much too of Madame her Aunt, and Cecile, that she was longing more than ever for the day to come when she might welcome them to England. And of course they would come--they would _have_ to come.

Morry would bring them back with him, and Cousin Jehan would follow when he and his hero Marquis had finally driven the Revolution into the sea.

In the intervals of such planning Gabrielle showed the new cousin her favourite haunts in the garden and orchard, whilst he taught her charming chansonettes to sing to the accompaniment of her guitar.

But she did not take him to the woods where the blackberries hung ripe and luscious amongst the brambles, for those were sacred to herself, and one other--the other who was no sort of a brother, but her dear knight for ever and ever.

She was telling Count Jehan that they would walk to Berrington village that morning, when the door opened and the man of whom she thought stood before her.

And for the first moment Michael himself had no eyes save for the slender figure in its dainty morning wrapper of flowered chintz, with dark, unpowdered curls caught back by a pink ribbon, and cheeks flushing rosily as the sun-kissed clouds of dawn, as she smiled her welcome.

Count Jehan had risen too, and the eyes of the two men met.

"You bring news, Monsieur?"

De Quernais' anxious tones were broken through by Gabrielle's glad cry.

"Of course Morry has come with you, Michael?"

But to her amaze he shook his head, scarcely turning towards her.

"I have come alone to see Monsieur le Comte," he replied with some emphasis.

But Gabrielle was in no mood to take the hint.

"Then it is about Morry," she said, leaping, woman-like, at a conclusion. "Tell it us quickly, Mr. Berrington."

She knew how to command.

And Michael, sore at heart, but desperate in his need, obeyed, telling the story without garnishings or surmisals, but with a blunt directness which left no shadow of doubt behind.

One little sob was the only answer he received at first, though, in the silence, a robin's cheerful song at the open window jarred almost as much as the glory of October sunshine flooding the room.

Count Jehan's face was whiter than Gabrielle's, and his black eyes blazed.

It was a cruel wound--even more so than Michael could understand, for the young Breton's whole soul and enthusiasm had been kindled to fever-heat by the fascination of leader and cause.

La Rouerie and the Chouannerie were names written in letters of fire on his heart. And this visit to England was to have done so much for both.

Now he knew himself betrayed.

Worse! Instead of bringing a friend to raise men for the Royalist Cause, he had sent a firebrand to kindle the threatening blaze against it.

When Morice Conyers--Marquis de Varenac--sang the song of blood-stained liberty, there would be many voices to echo it as blindly as sheep which follow the tinkling of their leader's bell.

Ruined! Ruined! What would la Rouerie say? He had sworn to succeed in his mission, and had, till the last moment, deemed it an easy one.

And now?

Why! now the chasm yawned for those who pressed forward with such confidence.

A groan burst from his lips, whilst beads of perspiration stood on his brow.

It was Gabrielle who broke the silence.

"Thus Morry plays traitor," said she, very quietly and steadily. "But, gentlemen, it is not my brother that does it, but those whose influence has been his ruin--Lord Denningham and Marcel Trouet."

She was quivering with pa.s.sion as she spoke, for the shame of such treachery was very bitter.

"Marcel Trouet," cried de Quernais sharply. "Trouet, the friend of Robespierre?--the----"

"Same," answered Michael. "And an agent from Republic France to stir up sedition in Royalist England, so that her hands being full, she will have neither time nor power to put straight or avenge the wrongs of French aristocrats."

"A--ah!"

"Morry! Morry!" moaned Gabrielle, her white hands knotted in agony.

Then slowly the girl's bowed head was raised. Erect she faced the two men opposite.

"The Marquis de Varenac rides home," said she. "Then his sister will join him. If I cannot persuade him ... and he listens sometimes when he has not been drinking or gambling heavily ... then I myself will speak to the men of Varenac. Yes, I think I know how to speak and make them listen."

"You, Mademoiselle?"

De Quernais had taken a step forward.

She faced him, pitying, rea.s.suring, perfectly confident.