A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 52

CHAPTER x.x.x

THE TERROR COMES TO KeRNAK

"I love him. Oh, Gabrielle, I love him. And--and yet I bade him go to Varenac."

"You love Morice?"

Gabrielle's arm was round her cousin's slender waist as they sat together in the deep embrasure of a window overlooking the cl.u.s.tering heads of the oak-trees, which grew around the foot of the hillock on which the chateau stood, and away over the purple landes where the mist-wraiths of evening gathered.

"You love Morice?"

A pair of big, troubled eyes were raised to hers at the repet.i.tion of the words.

"Oh, yes, I love him, with all my heart, Gabrielle."

"With all your heart? But you have only known him these few short days."

Cecile sighed.

"Yet it is there," she whispered, laying her little hand over her heart. "I do not understand, for I have never loved before, but I think I loved him from the first moment he stood in the hall and told us that he was my cousin."

"And then you found----"

"Ah, yes--yes, the great cloud came, just when the sun was beginning to shine. But, though I despaired, love did not die, Gabrielle."

"Love cannot die, little cousin. It is for always."

"But it became bitter. Mother of Heaven! how bitter! You do not know the tears I shed--and the shame, when Jehan told the story."

"And yet you loved him, even though he were a traitor?"

"Yes. But after all, he is no traitor, Gabrielle. He has gone to Varenac to prove it."

"Thank G.o.d for that."

"Thank G.o.d. Yes, that is easy to say; but supposing--supposing----"

"I will suppose nothing, dear Cecile. We are asking all the time that the good G.o.d will take care of those we love, and He will hear us."

"Holy Virgin, grant He may. Let us go on praying all the time. But you, Gabrielle, for you it is different. A brother----"

"He is my only one."

"So is Jehan to me, and yet I do not think of him now."

The colour came rosily to Gabrielle's cheeks.

"There is one at Varenac who is more than brother to me," she whispered, plucking at the end of her fichu.

"A--a lover? Oh, Gabrielle, forgive me. I understand. It is the tall Monsieur with the dark face and grey eyes, which can look two things at once. And he----"

"He is at Varenac. Cecile, Cecile, G.o.d grant they may all come back in safety. I am afraid."

The two girls clung to each other, finding comfort in this new bond of sympathy.

"We will not be afraid," Cecile murmured in her cousin's ear. "We will ask le bon Dieu to guard them. See, it is getting dark--perhaps they will soon be back now. It is certain that the men of Varenac will listen to Morice and cry, 'Vive le roi,' and then others will take example and do the same, and Monsieur de la Rouerie will march at the head of his army into France to save the poor King and Queen, and put an end to the dreadful Revolution. Afterwards we shall all be happy."

It was the summing up of a child who knows nothing of the world, and even Gabrielle smiled at such a rose-coloured picture.

"That is a very charming dream," she replied, "and I would that we could see Michael and Morice riding over the heath to tell us that the first part is accomplished."

"Yes, and Jehan. Poor Jehan! I fear we forget him."

Gabrielle sighed.

"Poor Jehan! Yes, and yet I think he will be quite happy if he can carry good news to this great hero of yours, the Marquis de la Rouerie."

"Ciel! It is true he is a hero. And so handsome. All the demoiselles of Brittany are in love with him; but Jehan says his head is too full of the Royalist cause to think of women. Ah, Gabrielle, look! I believe it is a messenger."

As she spoke Cecile pushed open the cas.e.m.e.nt, peering out into the gathering darkness.

Certainly it was some one who came in haste. Clattering steps in the courtyard and a panting cry told that.

"It is----?" murmured Gabrielle.

The two girls looked at each other.

"Jean Marie, one of the shepherds. He is a good boy, and--and promised to bring warning."

"Warning?"

"Of danger."

They were standing now, the cool evening air blowing in on them, setting stray curls fluttering.

Perhaps it was the snap of autumn chill that sent a shudder through Cecile's slender frame.

"Come," she said, holding out an impulsive hand to her cousin. "Let us go down and see what Madame Maman and the good father are talking about."

Lights were already kindled in the salon below. Madame de Quernais, seated near the fire, was conversing gravely with a little man in the brown habit of a Benedictine.

A little man with a round and kindly face, which reminded one of a russet apple long gathered.

He nodded smilingly to the two girls as they curtsied, whilst Madame bade them come nearer the fire, as they looked cold.

"It is certainly chilly," replied Pere Mouet. "Henri Joustoc says it will be a winter of great severity. But I do not heed the croakers.

Always take the days as they come, and leave the future to the bon Dieu. That is the secret of happiness."

The salon door was flung open most unceremoniously as he spoke, and in rushed Guillaume, the butler.