A Maid of Brittany. Mabel Winifred Knowles
Sieur de Mereac stood by the long table booted and spurred, his falcon on his wrist, his cloak flung over his shoulder, a gallant figure, in brave attire, his kindly, keen grey eyes fixed questioningly on his daughter. She ran to him, curtsying and smiling, and slipped one slim arm round his caressingly.
"I knew not that it was your pleasure, monsieur my father," she replied, smiling up at him with loving eyes. He stroked back her ruddy curls fondly as he looked down into the beautiful face.
"Thy father always wants thee, little one," he said tenderly, "as thou knowest very well, spoilt child as thou art. And so thou dost not want to come and see me try my new gerfalcon! Donna Maria? tiens! look then how beautiful a bird she is!"
"She is altogether perfect," murmured Gwennola, stroking the bird's soft plumage, "and to-morrow thou shalt again take her hawking, my father, and I will accompany thee on my little Croisette. Say, is it not so?"
"But why not to-day, little bird?" he asked, half impatiently. "See, the sun shines, and the air is glorious. Fie, then! is it because Guillaume is not here?"
A shadow fell across the bright face, and she drew back with a sigh.
"No, my father," she said in a low voice; "that thou knowest very well—oh, father!"—and once again she clung to him with a sudden, new-born tenderness—"thou knowest that I want none but thee—only thee for always."
"Nay, child," he replied, patting her cheek kindly "that would never do; but see, when thou art married to Guillaume we shall still be together; there will come no stranger lord to carry my little sunbeam away from Mereac, leaving it cold and grey for ever. Say then, little one, is that not well?—thou and Guillaume, and the old father here? Tiens! give me a kiss, my Gwennola, for her Spanish Majesty waxes as impatient as my good Barbe without. Adieu, petite, and be kind to the poor Guillaume when he returns."
But Gwennola did not reply; perhaps her voice was too choked with tears just then to make answer to her father's words, but, if so, she quickly dashed the bright drops from her eyes as she met the curious gaze of a youth who sat perched on a stool by the side of the empty hearth: a narrow-faced, undersized lad clad in a fool's motley, his quick beady eyes roving restlessly from his young mistress to watch the gambols of a small ape, which, dressed in quaint imitation of his master, chattered and clambered about, first over the rush-strewn floor, then up the dark tapestries, finally alighting between the outstretched forms of two wolf-hounds, which lay dreaming doubtless of the chase, for, as the impudent little jester sprang to their side, they raised their heads with an ominous growl, and might in sleepy anger have terminated a mischievous career, had not the little creature with an agile bound sprung over their bodies on to the knee of his master, where he sat gibbering and chattering like some mocking imp of darkness, whilst the fool rocked himself backwards and forwards on his stool, chuckling shrilly.
"Silence, Pierre!" commanded Gwennola, the more sharply because she had with difficulty regained her composure; "and go quickly, bid Marie and Job Alloadec come hither; tell them that I would have them accompany me to Mereac to see old Mère Fanchonic. And bid Marie bring the warm wrap I promised the old woman."
Pierre obeyed sullenly enough, for it displeased him to have his sport thus interrupted, but Gwennola paid no heed to his frowns, but stood awaiting her attendants with a little smile hovering around her lips, though why she smiled she could not have told, unless it were that she recalled to mind Father Ambrose's shocked face when the Frenchman spoke of maidens' eyes. Tiens! what harm then was it? It was true—so she supposed—but could it also be true that her eyes——? She broke off, blushing crimson at the unmaidenly thought, then sighed as, instead of Henri d'Estrailles' handsome face, she recalled another face which had looked so mockingly into hers that very morn, yonder on the terrace, a cruel, evil face, with sallow cheeks and pale, cold eyes, the recollection of which started another train of thought. What had it been that had so startled Guillaume de Coray? Why had he been absent since that moment when he had parted from her so suddenly? She was still wondering vaguely when the entrance of Marie and Job Alloadec broke in on her meditations.
"Come," she said, a little impatiently, "I have been awaiting thee this long time, my Marie; it grows late, and I would fain be home before the twilight deepens; but, ma foi, what ails the good Jobik?"
It certainly appeared as if somewhat greatly ailed the poor retainer; his usually ruddy cheeks were flabby and pale, and his blue eyes glanced from side to side, with the nervous stare of one who has been badly frightened. Marie crossed herself, paling too as she replied—
"Ah, mademoiselle, pardon, it is true that I delayed, but poor Job was at first so fear-stricken that I deemed he would verily have become crazed outright."
Gwennola stamped her foot impatiently. "Foolish one!" she cried, though there was a ripple of laughter mingled with the anger in her tones. "Say then what has befallen? has the poor Jobik seen the same vision that affrighted Monsieur de Coray this morning?"
"Truly, I know not," replied Marie in a whisper. "But he says—nay, lady, he says—tiens, Job! tell the Lady Gwennola what thou sawest yonder in the forest."
For reply the poor Breton poured forth a mumbled string of vows and prayers, from amongst which Gwennola at last extracted the startling fact that, as he stood by the river bank, he had seen amongst the trees, on the other side, a vision of Yvon de Mereac, his young lord, who had perished on the bloody field of St. Aubin du Cormier nearly three years since.
Even Gwennola grew pale as she devoutly crossed herself, murmuring a prayer to her patron saint before she faltered out an inquiry as to the manner of the vision. It was this, it appeared, which had so puzzled the faithful Jobik, who had worshipped his young master with all a Breton's devotion: he had not stood before him clad in armour as he had fallen, but in ragged and poor attire, with wasted cheeks and eyes at once haunting and terrible, as if, so Job averred, the tortured spirit were in some great peril, from which it pleaded with Job to release it.
In vain Gwennola strove to convince the poor fellow that the vision could be naught but some phantasy of the brain, or that the figure seen was that of some wandering madman who bore a likeness to her dead brother. Job clung to his tale, at last breaking down utterly in his terror and perplexity, and sobbing out prayers to every saint in the calendar to enlighten him as to what the vision would have him do.
It was some time before all were sufficiently calm to set out on their expedition, an expedition from which Marie in vain strove to dissuade her mistress. The thought of so immediately entering the now horror-haunted forest was agony to the poor waiting woman; but in spite of her own inward qualms, Gwennola was firm in her purpose. Truth to tell, the young mistress was inclined to be of an obstinate and tenacious disposition, and, having decided on her plan of action, carried it through in spite of opposition, so that Marie, knowing well her wilful temper, was fain to yield to her wishes, and strive, if vainly, to conquer her fears.
Gwennola, on the contrary, gave no outward sign of her misgivings; some strange elation seemed suddenly to have over-mastered them, and her merry laugh rang cheerily through the sunlit glades as she challenged Marie to a race.
Mère Fanchonic's humble dwelling was reached at last, and the young châtelaine's gracious sympathy and kindly words brought many a blessing down on her head from the old woman ere they departed once more on their homeward way, Mère Fanchonic herself hobbling slowly to the door to scream shrill injunctions to Job to guard well his young mistress, for, though the way was short, there were perils on all sides.
That such was the case in those lawless times Gwennola knew only too well, but she possessed the daring spirit of her race, and her father had ever yielded to her more licence than was deemed fitting for a young girl in those days. Therefore Gwennola had been accustomed from childhood to wander in the woods around Mereac, accompanied only by the faithful Job and Marie, or perchance by her father, or brother. The thought of that brother, so dear and so long mourned, brought a sadness afresh to her bright face as she turned her steps towards the château. The thrill of elation had gone, and a sudden gloom seemed to have plunged her from unaccountable mirth to melancholy; neither could she altogether explain what oppressed her, unless indeed it could be Job Alloadec's strange vision.