Mabel Winifred Knowles

“ He was going to fight a duel with Lord Denningham.
Honour demanded it now.
But he was remembering tales which had often been the subject of Carlton House gossip—tales of this man's skill with the pistols, his unerring aim, his callous disregard of life.
"You are going to death, you are going to death," moaned the autumn wind in his ear; and the voice seemed like the voice of Cécile crying its sad farewell.
Yet he could not go back; it was too late. If death awaited him, there in the grim forest, he must meet the grisly foe as a man, not a puling coward.
A man! ”

“ What could woman want more?"
"I can scarce be woman yet," she answered, laughing in spite of obvious annoyance at his glances, "for I should need much more. My woods and my primroses for instance."
Her eyes grew dreamy over a memory. Lord Denningham grinned as he slowly took a pinch of snuff.
"Even Arcadia needs the shepherd's flute—or the lover's whisper," said he. "You must show me your woods to-morrow, and teach me that primrose-plucking is more entertaining than rout or race-course. I vow I'm ready to learn—and be convinced—by such a mistress." ”

“ Instead of sealing the hopes of that gallant enterprise led by la Rouerie and other noble gentlemen of Brittany, the doom of the Chouannerie would be pronounced, and the Republic would again triumph. The balances, trembling and uncertain, would sink under the weight of a traitor's blow.
All an Englishman's notions of honour and fair play rose in revolt against the hideous baldness of the facts.
Yet what could he do?
Doubtless, both Trouet and Conyers were already on their way, and the latter would soon be joined by his evil genii, Lord Denningham and Sir Stephen. ”

“ His father the friend of Morice Conyers! His father the traitor who had sent Ralph Conyers to his grave!
Lord! what a world!
And a third note,—be it added beneath his breath,—he himself the man who would woo Ralph Conyers's pretty daughter and win her—if the world could hold so much happiness for a sinner—as his wife.
The very thought, mingling with a vision of hazel eyes and the soft roundness of a white throat, set his pulses galloping.
He opened the casement window, stepping out on to the terrace to cool the fever in his veins. ”

“ Her eyes strayed to where, at the other end of the great saloon, Lady Helmington's fat shoulders were shaking with excitement as she dealt the cards.
Her ladyship was as fond of gambling as her lord was of rum punch.
But Lord Denningham was smiling as he toyed with the gilt inlaid snuff-box in his hand.
"Not lovers then, for such a little lady," quoth he, persisting. "But a lover—or husband—the most devoted, on the soul of——"
She interrupted him, more rosy red with anger than maiden coyness.
"No, nor lover neither, I thank you, my lord," she replied hastily. ”

“ It was at this moment that Père Mouet stepped forward.
A familiar little figure in brown habit, with a brown, kindly old face.
But, just now, the memories of the men of Kérnak were short.
"My children," he cried, raising his arm, "what is this? You would be led by this man into sin? I will not believe it of you. This is not Paris—it is not even France. It is Brittany—our Brittany. We of a good and noble land will not join hands with murderers; or what will le bon Dieu say to us,—He who guards and protects us in storm and gale, and who brings love and joy to our homes? ”

“ Sir Stephen yawned, helped himself to another glass of punch from the bowl at his elbow, and continued to bewail his lot.
Where was Denningham? Wet blanket or no, even he would be better than no one in this old barn.
It was beginning to grow dusk, and Steenie was not fond of moping in the twilight.
Memory and he were ill friends.
Yet memory, unbidden, came and perched herself beside him.
A small fire of logs crackled on the hearth. Autumn winds were cold, and he was not so young as he used to be.
It is wonderful how old a fit of loneliness can make one. ”

“ But she drew herself up with quaint pride.
"There is Nurse Bond," she replied. "I sup with her when Morry's friends are not to my liking."
He held soft little fingers in both his strong hands, little guessing how the power in them comforted her.
"You call me your knight," said he. "Pray God I may ever be your true and faithful one; that you will let me be such."
She could not laugh or mock him with empty coquetry as she looked into his eyes, for here was no longer the merry, careless youth who tossed yellow blossoms into her apron, but a man who was ready to be lover, too. ”

“ It was Tom Blakeley who wound the horn, and he of the beetroot nose who cried "Well played," as the greys leapt forward under the light touch of the lash, leaving the mangel-digger—richer by many a coin of the realm—to pass the time of night with a certain bearded traveller who swore, with mighty pretty oaths and hectorings, that he would rather tramp it through the slush to Reading than trust his neck to any devil-may-care Oxford scholar.
And meantime Michael Berrington drove as surely those four sleek but sweating greys had never been driven before. ”

“ If fools must be fools, it was time for wise men to escape.
Wrenching himself free from Gourmel's slackened grasp, he dived under the big man's arm and set off at full speed across the lande.
He must reach Varenac and Marcel Trouet. But the men of Kérnak were of another mind.
The tide had turned.
It was no longer "À bas les aristocrats," "Vive la nation!" but the howl of men who seek vengeance.
Floessel heard the howl, and it added wings to his feet.
The blockheads! the fools! All this outcry because one insignificant priest had been killed! Why! they died like flies in Paris. ”

“ 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 Jéhan 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." ”

“ Did not Michael Berrington hold her hand—her heart?
So love must be buried at birth, and, if he must rise again, it should be only as some tender, shadowy ghost, which, though sweet to gaze at, could never be held in mortal arms.
Yes, love must hide from sight.
But Brittany remained.
So Count Jéhan held his head high as he made answer, sternly and quietly, thinking—poor fool—that none guessed his secret, least of all the woman who looked so wistfully into his eyes.
"La Rouerie calls me his friend," said he, "and Brittany her son. As friend and son I remain on Breton soil. ”

“ Gabrielle laughed, a clear, little contemptuous laugh, which cut crisply through Lord Denningham's languorous tones.
"Of a truth I'm sorry for London, my lord," said she shortly, "since it must be a small place for one such light to be sufficient for its illumination, but I'd be sorrier for myself if I were there."
"You've never tried, my sweet princess," he retorted, with lazy ardour and a bold stare at the charms which the simplicity of a white gown and posy of primroses, nestling in the soft laces at her breast, set off to advantage. "You don't know the delights of conquest. ”

“ Hein! men of Brittany, are you such fools? That is no Citoyen Varenac, he is an impostor. The Citoyen has another voice. He cries 'Vive la nation,' 'Vive liberté.' As for that fellow, he is no Varenac but a liar. Come, let us find the Citoyen before his enemies murder him. Let us——"
"I am the Marquis de Varenac," cried Morice, "as Heaven is above. Men of Varenac, listen to me. Will you believe one who knows? Pierre Koustak will tell you I speak truth." ”

“ Young Conyers' face had not been pretty before, but, at sound of his enemy's name, it became uglier still.
"Michael Berrington," he screamed. "What! the son of that foul coward, Stephen Berrington? Faugh! I would have sent the lackeys to beat you from the place had I known it."
The colour crept up in a dull flush under Michael's tan. "I can't hit a man who is down," he growled; "but be careful of your words, sir, or I'll cram them down your throat another day."
But Morice Conyers had risen slowly to his feet, white of cheek, swollen of feature, but scornful-eyed. ”

“ Yes, that is easy to say; but supposing—supposing——"
"I will suppose nothing, dear Cécile. We are asking all the time that the good God 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 Jéhan 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. ”

“ So tête-à-tête they supped, lingering over dessert of grapes and plums, whilst Jéhan de Quernais told of the tempest-lashed old château, not far from St. Malo, where he had lived from babyhood.
A thousand questions had Gabrielle to ask of madame his mother, white-haired, gentle Madame de Quernais, who, Breton of the Breton, looked in wondering horror at the doings and deeds that racked France, and refused to believe it possible that her Breton peasants could ever forget the gulf which separated noble and simple, or what was due to the houses of Varenac and Quernais in respect and honour. ”

“ In the towns the men listen to the Revolutionaries from Paris. They are ready to cry 'À bas' to everything. But those are not the heart of Brittany; that waits—it wants impulse, quickening. Yet the inspiration cannot come from the nobles. Just now they will not listen to them—so Jéhan tells me. It must be the cry of the people to the people. It will be the cry of Varenac to Brittany. You smile, Monsieur Cousin? Ah! you do not know like Jéhan and our Marquis. True, our villages may be very small, very secluded; but see how a spark caught by a strong wind may become a great blaze. ”

“ So, in passionate, impulsive natures, love sometimes dawns, with no warning murmurs, no slowly stirring desire, but swift and warm as the King of Day himself.
Thus surely came love to Michael Berrington, as he gathered primrose-posies in the sunshine of a spring day, and looked long into a young maid's laughing eyes. Yet he did not call this strange new sweetness, love, but was content to feel it thrilling and animating his whole being. So lonely he had been since old Sir Henry's death, haunted with ghosts as the old Manor seemed,—ghosts of living and dead, which remorselessly pursued him. ”

“ All hope that the mob would listen to their new lord was gone.
Monsieur le Marquis had come too late. What therefore remained?
Little enough, save to die, crying, "Vive le roi," "Vive Bretagne" in the face of these murderers of king and country. So Count Jéhan thought.
But Michael found not the smallest consolation in such a prospect.
Life was strong in his veins,—life and love. It was not only for his own sake that that life was precious.
Gabrielle must be saved—and those other poor ladies of Kérnak. ”

“ Morice Conyers, basking in present sunshine, suddenly felt a quick chill strike his heart. It was the Marquis de Varenac, noble of Brittany, come purposely to save his country, whom the little Cécile loved.
And the day of reckoning drew near.
But Love is nothing if he be not at his purest and best a reformer.
All the latent manhood, all the better feelings, which ill-training and ill comrades had kept dormant, were stirred to life by this innocent child, whose great eyes shone into his with an expression of perfect trust and love. ”

“ There was little of the dare-devil, racketing youth left in the sober-eyed man who sat pondering over the fire, whilst without, in the yard, the ostlers called to each other, laughing and joking, as they led out the roan horses which my Lord Denningham was driving to Brighton, comparing them with the blacks which Mr. Berrington handled with such skill.
And upstairs a group of finely-clothed gentlemen lounged over their wine, which they found soothing enough after shouting themselves hoarse in anathemas on Mollie's devoted head for the foulest omelette ever beaten. ”

“ It was a duel. I killed him."
She drew a deep breath.
Even though she hated Lord Denningham she knew he had loved her—and a woman's hatred of a lover is ever a partial one.
"Yes, I was afraid of him," she mused, and shuddered. "I am afraid altogether," she cried piteously. "Oh, Michael, let us go home."
She stretched out her hands to him, and he took her tenderly enough in his arms. But it was a moment to be more practical than sentimental.
"They may reach the coast before us," he said, looking from her to Jéhan de Quernais. "We should not delay." ”

“ Count Jéhan'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. ”

“ Spring-time and youth, sunshine, bird-song, the seductive spell of a woodland glade, all helped to cast their glamour, and, before him, the slim, girlish figure in its simple gown of white, with a bunch of blue ribbons loosely knotted in the fichu at her breast, and a face which Greuze would have loved to paint, framed in a mass of tumbled curls.
No wonder that Michael Berrington's blood quickened in his veins and his grey eyes kindled.
Love is like the dawn which, slow of coming in northern skies, yet breaks through the trammels of night to swift and glorious radiance in the south. ”

“ A flash of lightning, a deafening crash of thunder, and down came the rain, tempest-driven and stinging, like the lash of a thousand fairy whips.
The man, Pierre Dusac, was talking.
It was unfortunate, but the noble Marquis de Varenac understood not a single word. It was evident, however, that the guide was anxious to end the journey as speedily as possible, and, finding it no easy task to run in face of a hurricane, was demanding to ride on Morice's steed.
It is no use quarrelling with one's bread-and-butter. ”

“ But de Quernais, claiming the right of cousinship, must needs have the last word.
"Ma cousine," he whispered, catching at her hand, and raising it to his lips, "what shall I say? From despair springs hope, and you are the angel who brings it. Yes, yes. They will listen to you. My heart tells me so. They will listen to you, and Brittany will save not only herself but all France. We will save the King and our fair Queen too. Ah, ciel! could I think otherwise I should go mad. And la Rouerie will thank you himself for the noble part you play." ”

“ But ghosts will rise at night, and they were rising now on every side—impalpable, shadowy creatures, less tangible than the brooding mists which floated over the desolate lande before him, like the fleeing spirits of a phantom army.—Ghosts of memories, ghost of honour, ghost of his better self, ghost of little Gabrielle, whom he loved well enough in his crooked, careless way,—all ready to taunt him and upbraid him as he rode onwards to Varenac. ”