A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 27

"As you say, Mademoiselle," he answered softly, "we must return to Kernak. Afterwards I will go to my people."

"Yes," she smiled, "when Jehan comes. I think he would bid us wait for him, Monsieur. He knows the men of Varenac, and it would be easier did you go together."

But Morice Conyers was thinking too deeply to reply to those last words.

Was it that the shadow of the "widow" was already on his heart?--the cry of the Terror's victims already ringing in his ears?

CHAPTER XVII

FAITH AND UNFAITH

The next day found Morice Conyers at the Chateau de Kernak--and the next.

He was learning Breton.

That, of course, was necessary, especially as Jehan delayed his coming.

When would the latter be here?

There were two at Kernak who declared they longed for his arrival, and yet secretly prayed for his delay.

Mademoiselle Cecile found the role of instructress to her new cousin decidedly attractive, although the countless proprieties hedging in a high-born demoiselle of Brittany somewhat spoilt the amus.e.m.e.nt.

But there were compensations, begotten of that unlooked-for attack near old Nanette's cottage.

Madame de Quernais had become liable to nerves. Cecile could no longer be permitted to roam at will over the country.

St. Malo was too near, and tales were afloat of the work that the "widow" was busy with there. It was as though some terrible wolf prowled in the forests around.

However, Cecile could not remain indoors all the time: she would pine after the freedom of her life.

It was therefore agreed that the stricter proprieties should be laid aside a little, and Mademoiselle de Quernais be allowed to accept the escort of Monsieur le Marquis de Varenac on her walks.

Morice was quite ready to accept the task of acting cavalier to such a dainty little lady. As I have said, he was one to live in the present.

For those two days life was bounded only by a pair of black eyes, which looked deeper and deeper into his heart every moment.

Past and future were banished. He was dreaming, and the dream was sweet.

He put the moment of awakening from him with the resolution of an epicure.

As for Cecile, the English cousin continued to be the hero come to save her country. And the black eyes caught the trick of dreaming with wonderful rapidity.

If Madame de Quernais noticed, she stifled old-fas.h.i.+oned self-reprovings with the thought that the days were evil, and that her little Cecile needed a stronger and closer protector than herself or Jehan, who was too bound up in his work to think much or seriously even of the welfare of a dearly-loved sister.

And the Marquis de Varenac would be in every way a suitable protector.

Her dear Marie's boy! Of course that was a link already between them.

Thus Morice Conyers, instead of riding to Varenac to welcome Steenie Berrington and Jack Denningham, sat on a rocky ledge with a slim, little grey-clad figure beside him, listening to her chatter of Jehan and la Rouerie, of the Terror and her dear Brittany.

The last was the subject Cecile lingered over longest. It was necessary that the English cousin should understand the meaning of his Breton birthright.

"If you were a sailor, Monsieur," she was saying now, pointing across the bay, "you might see strange things."

"Strange things?" he echoed. "Nay, cousin, what kind of things mean you?"

She crossed herself devoutly.

"One does not speak of them, but they are there--the spirits of those whom the sea has taken. On winter nights we may hear them wailing and imploring for Christian burial; but only a sailor may see their forms."

"Then I am glad to be no sailor. I confess the sea has no attractions for me."

"It is cruel, cruel," she answered, gazing wistfully out over the grey waste of waters. "Sometimes it makes me afraid, when I see the great waves das.h.i.+ng and roaring over the rocks. Jehan laughs at me and says I am no Bretonne to feel so, for we are a people of the sea. Yet I cannot help it, sometimes, when I think of those poor women and children who have waited and waited in vain for the husbands who never came back."

"And yet you come here to watch the waves you fear?"

Morice's smile was faintly quizzical.

"Oh yes," she replied navely, "I come here often to make my dreams. I like to picture what it must have been like long, long ago before the cruel sea swallowed up so much of our Brittany."

"The sea?"

"But certainly. Yonder, do you not see in the sand, those ruins? Ah!

there is not much left to-day, but many, many years ago those were happy villages, with green fields stretching beyond, and the oak-trees of Scissy sheltering the valleys."

"Is it a fairy story you are telling me, Mademoiselle Cecile?"

She did not heed his raillery, but replied with sober earnestness:

"No, no; it is quite true. That was before the Deluge."

"Before the Deluge?"

He could hardly hide his laughter.

"It is so called in Armorica, Monsieur. It was a terrible flood.

There is a legend about it which some say is quite true."

"Tell it to me."'

He was not greatly interested--this trifler who was in danger of being in such deadly earnest himself; but he liked to see the animation on the pretty, childish face and the quaint seriousness with which she told her story.

"It is the tale of Amel and Penhor," she said gravely. "They lived at Sant Vinol, and Amel was a shepherd. He was also a brave man. In the forest near, wandered the striped wolf of Cheza. It was a fearful animal, and the terror of the whole land. It was bigger than a six-weeks' foal, and no arrow could pierce its hide. As for fear of man, it had none. It was Amel who vowed to kill this creature, which had devoured his nephew.

"Before he went to the conflict he hung a distaff of fine linen by the altar of the Virgin. Afterwards he fought and strangled the striped wolf.