A kiss!
The very thought seemed to bewilder him,—lips meeting his, eyes to dream the same dream into his, the soft clasp of yielding arms, the caress of a velvet cheek against his burning one.
Fool and idiot! Away with such fantasies! Was it likely that such an angel would look at him so? Would—love—him?
He became fierce in his self-contempt, even though the hot blood of youth surged wildly in his veins, ready to beat down all barriers. She love him. Absurd!
Yet stay! Think of those golden hours in Barham woods only that afternoon.
Cupid had been in frolicsome mood then, and yet he could shoot his arrows straight. Standing there in the moonlight alone he was picturing the scene, lingering over the memory of how one bolder sunbeam had been made willing captive in the coils of an errant curl, whilst dimples had danced riotously in smooth cheeks.
Love! love! Golden in the glamour of youth, and none less sweet and true because it was born and matured in the fleeting hours of a single spring day.
A hand touching his arm, and a deep voice in his ear, broke the fairy spell which Queen Mab had been busy to weave around him.
Guy Barton knew better than most how to measure his punch—and his man.
"You are no songster then, my hero of the road?" quoth he in kindly tones. "Well, well, so much the better. I confess I don't care for all their tunes in there. Besides, I wanted a chat with Sir Henry's grandson."
"Sir Henry? You knew my grandfather?"
The very suggestion was passport already to the younger man's favour.
"Why, yes! An old friend of mine and a dear one to boot. You'd not heard him talk of Guy Barton?"
"Of a truth I'm recalling the name. There was some tale of a main of cocks——"
"Ha, ha! the old story. Yes, the hero of the cock-pit. Though I'll not be vaunting before the man who handled the ribbons through Craven's Hollow. You did me good service then, Mr. Berrington."
"'Twas nothing. Yet I'm glad to have served my grandfather's friend."
"Your own too, boy, if you'll have it. I see your father's back at Berrington."
"He returned to-day."
"Returned to-day. H'm! And a night of it at Langton Hall to celebrate the occasion. But he's your father. I'll not say more."
"I thank you, sir. Perhaps you knew him when younger?"
"I knew his mother, too. Poor lady! she's not the first to die of heart-break for a bad son. No, I'm no friend to Steenie Berrington, but I'll stand yours, as I say,—if you'll have me. I think I read grandfather before sire in your face."
"Sir Henry was both to me."
"Ah, yes; I believe it. Well, lad, I don't take friends from every bylane as a rule, yet I'll trust you with three-fold reason."
He tapped his snuff-box significantly.
"The Oxford coach, your grandfather, and your own eyes. I am a reader of character rather than books."
Michael bowed.
The elderly gentleman with the loquacious tongue and beetroot nose was already more to his liking than the gay friends of Prince Florizel.
Mr. Barton had taken his arm in a most confidential manner.
"I'm the friend of little Gabrielle Conyers, too," he observed shrewdly. "She needs one, poor maid. You know her brother?"
"I fought him once as a boy, and I meet him for the second time here to-night."
"Are you, too, a discerner of men?"
"Nay. I'm apt to be too hasty in my judgments, sir."
"Ah yes! Your mother was Irish, I remember. Hot blood for a fight, warm heart for a friend, true love for a wife. So you do not admire our friend's French-embroidered waistcoats?"
"I am no beau, and am little likely to choose my friends from the Carlton House set."
"Yet poor Morice has his finer qualities. Given adversity and a good sword he'd make a fighter and a gentleman."
"At present he is doubtless a pretty fool in the eyes of his tailor—and Lady Helmington."
"If the latter can raise her gaze from the whist-table, which is doubtful. But I still look for the day when Ralph Conyers' son will forget his follies and become a man. Still, I confess that I do not likeFrenchwaistcoats."
"The Prince, I believe, admires them."
"Yes, so it is said. But he wears them with more discretion. Did you happen to notice a gentleman who sat on our host's left hand at supper!"
"A little under-sized fellow with black eyes and moustachios?"
"Monsieur Marcel Trouet, accredited agent of the French Republic."
"Of the French Republic! You mean that Morice Conyers——
"Is in sympathy with the glorious Revolution across the Channel," replied Mr. Barton, taking a pinch of snuff with great deliberation. "You may have heard of the London Corresponding Society, Mr. Berrington?"
"Since my grandfather's death I have remained in Surrey. I fear the news of the towns has not sufficiently interested me."
"Ah! You think it might interest you now?"
"I am convinced of it."
"A secret society is scarcely a concern for men of honour to interest themselves in," went on Mr. Barton calmly. "Yet it appears that many calling themselves such have joined these absurd, and, to my way of thinking, pernicious bodies of sympathisers with a Revolution which should have for its motto 'Murder, plunder, and rapine' instead of 'Liberty, equality, and fraternity.' Yet, when the Society of the Friends of the People numbers such names as Grey, Sheridan, Erskine, and even Lord John Russell on its lists, small wonder that more virulent types of seditionary bands, such as this London Corresponding Society, should spring up."
"And its object is—sympathy——?"
"Pah! Sympathy!Sedition, lad, sedition, brewed and stirred here for English palates by French cooks like Marcel Trouet. Pamphlets, such as ought to bring the writers to the gallows, are sown broadcast amongst the people, army, and navy, urging them on to follow Johnny Crapaud's example, and drag down all law and existing order. Yes, and this fine Society of which I am speaking is the worst of all, because it works in the dark. No one knows the five names of the governing committee, though there are over seven thousand enrolled in the ranks. And, as I have said, the French Republicans do something more than smile on their English friends. That is why such men as Monsieur Trouet sit at English tables as honoured guests. Do you understand?"
Michael's face was very white.
"And my father?"
Guy Barton shrugged his shoulders.
"I have not Sir Stephen Berrington's personal acquaintancenow," he observed. "But he and Morice Conyers are excellent comrades." He laid his hand on his companion's shoulder.
"I have told you this," he said gently, "for two reasons. Firstly, because Sir Henry was my very dear friend—and your father is his son, and a Berrington. Secondly, because little Gabrielle Conyers holds a daughter's place in my heart, and—well—I saw the child greet you. You understand? If her brother goes mixing himself up with seditious societies and the like, she will need a strong arm and more than one honest friend. Morice should have more respect for his sister than to bring home his John Denninghams and Marcel Trouets."
Hand gripped hand there in the moonlight, but, before Michael had time to answer, a burst of song and an opening casement interrupted him.
"Let's drink and be jolly and drown melancholy,So merrily let us rejoice, too, and sing.So fill up your bowls, all ye loyal souls,And toast a good health, to great George our King."
A roar of laughter and stamping followed the chorus, whilst out on to the terrace came lurching a trio of half-drunken revellers, their wigs awry, waistcoats wine-stained, faces flushed and excited.
"A good health to great G-George our K-King," hiccoughed one, and fell flat on the lawn.
Guy Barton turned with a frown of disgust to his new friend.
"Come," said he shortly. "'Tis time for gentlemen to be returning home. They'll be singing the Marseillaise next."
And Michael followed readily enough. He had seen his father on the steps talking and jesting with Marcel Trouet.
Even a drunkard should be more discriminating in his company.
"Lack-a-day, if the old master could see it," groaned Bates to himself, as he ran hurrying across the hall, carrying the great silver loving-cup, which had been so carefully hoarded away for twenty years and more, towards the supper-room.
"But times are changed since Sir Stephen came home. Ah! it's Mr. Michael should ha' been master here instead o' him. What with junketings an' drunkenness, gamblin' an' boxin', with balls an' such like now to top all—no wonder the timber in Barham woods wants a-fellin', an' the tenants grumblin' at skinflint ways. Love-a-daisy! say I—'Old ways is best—old ways is best.'"
But old Bates's lamentations, echoed though they might be by the household and dependants of Berrington, found no place in the hearts of the merrymakers, who crowded the supper-room and great saloon, which, for the nonce, served as ballroom.
A gay scene, surely.—Fair faces and handsome figures, sparkle of jewels, and sheen of satin and silk, vivid colouring with stately setting, long mirrors reflecting the bright throng of dancers with their powdered wigs and rich clothing.
Sir Stephen himself, growing younger, though perhaps more portly, in prosperity, was life and soul to his entertainment. A gallant figure, too, in coat of mauve velvet with white satin knee-breeches and buckled shoes, broidered waistcoat and fine lace ruffles. It was easy to forget the brand which had marked him, in former days, as one outside the pale of honourable company.
Fair lips were ready to smile now on the owner of Berrington Manor. Roguish eyes looked coy as he bowed before their dainty owners, and tongues which, under other circumstances, might have been caustic, became honeyed in their phrases when addressing him.
As for company, the countryside was there as well as the party from town. Persons of fashion, these latter, at whom the country misses, whose style was as ancient as their lineage, stared agape.
But in the embrasure of a window Gabrielle Conyers looked up reproachfully into the dark, lean face of Michael Berrington.
"You're quite a stranger, sir," said she, with some asperity.
"I have been in town, Mistress Conyers."
"Ah yes! I know what that means." The child assumed an air of worldly wisdom. "Gambling, drinking, duelling, and playing all sorts of foolish pranks to amuse your master."
"My master?"
"The Prince, of course. You're in his set now, I suppose, like Morry and Lord Denningham. No wonder the country palls."
He looked wistfully down into the up-turned face. In her gown of flowered silk, with its soft pink kerchief and laces, Gabrielle looked like some dainty fairy from dreamland—in his eyes at least.
"Pardon me, mistress. I love the country. It could never weary me."
"Yet you go to town?"
"It was—necessary."
"Necessary?"
She intended to have an explanation and not be baulked of her scolding, since past weeks had been sadly long and monotonous.
"My father went to town."
She shook her dark curls in disdain.
"And are you so tied to Sir Stephen's apron-strings that you must follow against your will? I'll not believe it."
"It is true."
He bent forward a little, her soft hazel eyes impelling him.
"Shall I tell you," he said softly, "what I mean? Nay! I think you know already."
"I do not," she persisted.
"My father's honour went to town too."
"Ah!"
She was remembering.
"And you?"
"The honour of Berrington was the idol my grandfather worshipped. I took it—as a trust."
"You loved him—old Sir Henry?"
Her eyes were dewy.
"I loved him—and promised."
She rose, touching his arm as the band struck up a fresh measure.
"You will lead me through the minuet?"
He bowed.
She did not meet his glance just then. A stately dance—too stately for some of the younger beaux who leant back, lolling against the walls.
Lord Denningham, side by side with Marcel Trouet, was looking vicious.
That dark-faced fellow—the younger Berrington—was as handsome as he was sour and strait-laced; a suit of peach-coloured velvet suited him to perfection.
Yet Lord Denningham's glance was not one of admiration.
The young devil—his rival—could smile too on occasion, it seemed, whilst Gabrielle was dimpling with happy smiles.
The minuet was over at last, and the ballroom insufferably hot. At least so Gabrielle declared, as her partner led her down the wide staircase and out through the open window on to the lawns.
A lake, surrounded by choice shrubs, and a seat under shelter of the rockery near, proved an ideal halting-place, whilst moonlight was good for dreams and fairy visions. Michael half lay on the grass at her feet.
"My primroses are faded," she said suddenly, coming back from dreamland to look into the dark face upturned to meet her gaze. "You did not come again to help me gather them."
"And now it is too late?"
The passion vibrating through the whisper stirred her pulses as the moonlight had failed to do.
"Spring is over."
"And summer is here."
"My roses have thorns. I do not gather many alone. See how one tore my finger but yesterday."
He took the little hand in his, and, growing bolder, or more desperate, held the scarred finger to his lips.
She drew it away, laughing.
"If you had been there——"
"Ah, mistress, if I might be always there to pluck the thorns away, so that for you life might have only roses."
"Nay, you might hurt your own hands, and I would not have that. But you shall come with me to Barham woods to gather the honeysuckle that grows there. It is sweet, without cruel prickings, yet sometimes it twines out of reach. You shall help me."
He did not answer, for very fear of saying too much, and thus frightening her with the passion which he needs must hold in check as a strong man reins back restive steed.
But perhaps she guessed what he might say, and, woman-like, tempted him on.
"Do you hear the ripple of the water among the sedges?" she whispered. "It sets me dreaming; and you—do you ever dream, Michael?"
The soft cadences of her words stole like soothing music to his throbbing heart.
"One dream I have," he answered huskily, "and only one. Yet when I dream it I pray never to awake."
"Tell it to me," she demanded, smiling as she turned her face half from him.
"I dare not."
"I thought you brave. But is it so ill a fancy, then, that comes to you in your sleep?"
"Rather so fair that I would never look away."
"Then I would see it too. Tell me of it."
"'Twere easier for you to look in your mirror, mistress, for tongue of mine could never tell half the charms of which I dare to dream."
She laughed again, laying her hand on his shoulder very lightly.
"I am glad you are my knight," she said, with the whimsical frankness of a child. "For when you say your pretty speeches they sound true, and not hollow, like those of the others."
Vaguely jealous, he was yet grateful.
"Your knight," he answered, in that deep, low voice of his which rang with suppressed feeling, "to pluck aside the thorns and shield my lady with my life."
Her lips were parted, smiling at a picture his words conveyed.
Yet her eyes challenged his.
"But you have other work to do, that takes you away from your lady's side."
He drew a sharp breath.
"Aye," he answered more sternly. "Pray God I may not forget."
"Forget?"
"That of which you reminded me yourself, my lady."
She flushed a little over the two last words.
"Your other work?"
"The honour of Berrington."
Her little foot tapped the gravel path impatiently.
"Must honour ever come first?"
"Would my lady have her knight place it second?"
"Nay, love should have first place," she declared boldly; and now her eyes were tender.
"Twin sisters to go hand in hand rather," he said softly, "as you and I would have them."
"But it is lonely at Langton Hall," she replied piteously, as a spoilt child.
"Less lonely than London town, I warrant. Yet my father remains at Berrington now."
"And my brother's friends stay at the Hall. It does not please me."
"You will not forget the honeysuckle?"
"I do not forget what I want."
"Nor I—even in dreams," he whispered, raising the white hand which lay against his sleeve and kissing it reverently.
A step on the path behind startled them, for it had seemed before that the world was empty save for they two. But no Paradise lacks its serpent.
Lord Denningham might have been conscious of the simile.
"A moonlight rhapsody," he sneered. "But I fear, madam, your brother grows impatient."
She rose with immense dignity.
"You will give me your hand to my coach, sir?" she asked of Michael.
Lord Denningham laughed shortly beneath his breath.
"The squire of dames is a pleasant role to fill—and a safe one," he observed with another sneer.
Michael drew himself up proudly.
"Lord Denningham will find me ready enough to fill another, anon," he retorted.
The young nobleman toyed with a ribbon about his neck.
"And that?" he scoffed.
"A teacher of manners to blatant puppy-dogs."
"You forget, sir, that puppy-dogs bite sometimes, and I have heard that a Berrington is afraid of a cracked skin."
"It is dangerous to listen to too many tales, my lord."
The voices of both were rising higher, whilst Michael's eyes were ablaze at his adversary's last insult.
Swords half drawn and hotter words to follow were intercepted by Gabrielle herself.
"I have already requested the favour of your hand to my coach, Mr. Berrington," she said, with a calmness and severity which were, alas! betrayed by a tremulous catch in the young voice. "A—a lady does not ask a gentleman twice."
He bowed gravely, offering her his arm, which she took, demurely curtseying.
"We shall meet again, my lord," he muttered behind his hand to Lord Denningham.
The latter grinned sardonically.
"I have heard of a Berrington hiding behind a woman's petticoats before," he drawled aloud; but in a low tone, "I'll tell you the tale, sir, at my own leisure."
"Come, Michael," cried Gabrielle sharply; "my brother waits."
Lord Denningham, left alone to moonlight reflection, took snuff with a scowl. He had thought the winning of a country mouse like to be easy work, since past experience had told him that the worse a man is the more probable that he takes the fancy of an innocent maid.
Little Gabrielle Conyers evidently had other tastes; and my lord, half in love by reason of her flouting, swore tremendous oaths.
Thus he was found, later, by Marcel Trouet, whose business in life was to act as a political firebrand, but who did not find his good friends the English of the most inflammable material.
But to-night Marcel was smiling.
"We drink good healths in ze house," he observed, taking Denningham's arm familiarly. "Come, come. We drink well, we sing very well, but we do need your voice to lead the rest. They are sheep who bleat for ze shephaird."
His lordship yawned.
"Why leave them then?" he retorted.
Trouet chuckled.
"Hélas," he murmured. "I am no shephaird, but only what you call the sheep-dog that barks, barks, always barks. But the shephaird of this noble Société de Correspondance——" He bowed with exaggerated politeness.
"I do behold him now," he said suavely. And Denningham followed slowly towards the house, from which the last coach had rolled away, leaving only a little knot of men around—and beneath—the supper-table.
They were toasting one Robespierre, a shining light upon the path of liberty.
Michael Berrington was not amongst them.
Gabrielle was singing softly as she bent over her tambour frame.
She could sing now that she was alone in her own little boudoir, with no fear of Morry's intrusions and his wearisome lectures.
The idea of Morry daring to lecture her!
A white chin was tilted upwards at the very thought. And because, forsooth, she chose to reject the suitor he would have had her take for husband.
Marry Lord Denningham indeed! The very thought sent the angry blood racing through her veins.
Why, she would rather be an old maid like Miss Tabitha Mainwaring, or a nun in the Convent of the Sacred Heart, and wear ugly black robes all her life, than be wife to a wretch like that!
The silk snapped short under too hasty fingers, and the song ended in a gasp of indignation, as she recalled the insolently apprising glance of half-closed blue eyes.
She hated Lord Denningham.
How tiresome this work was! She had pricked her finger, and stained the green satin. It was most annoying, but no wonder things went wrong when she thought of that man.
And he might have killed that poor Mr. Berrington when they fought together. The colour was rising to her cheeks now, and the silk she tugged at in such desperation was becoming woefully knotted.
They had fought, of course, because—well—because Lord Denningham had insulted Mr. Berrington's honour.
But her woman's vanity—in spite of repression—brought a flickering dimple to her cheek as she told herself quite silently that she had been at the root of the quarrel. Not that she cared for the husks of affection which Lord Denningham offered her.
Lady Helmington, in loquacious mood, had given her an insight as to how much his so-called love was worth. The memory of that lady's conversation brought the blush to her cheek.
But Michael!
Ah! he was so different.
The tambour frame lay in her lap, with her fingers idle a-top of it, having given up the battle with frayed silks.
She was dreaming of grey eyes.
Michael! Michael!
The birds at the lattice window were singing the sweet refrain of his name.
Michael! Michael!
Yes, he was her lover—the only one for her in the wide world.
He had come to her in childhood, a lean, untidy lad, with laughing eyes and hair all awry; but, as he knelt on one knee at her feet, she had chosen him there and then as her true knight for ever and ever.
Then the long years rolled between till the day when she stood alone, sighing for a lover, jealous, perhaps, of the songs of mating birds in the spring woods around.
And he had come to her again.
Even now, in the autumn twilight, she seemed to smell the subtle sweetness of primrose-blooms and to be looking through a vista of young foliage to see the tall figure which came striding up the glade with masterful steps and had looked long into her eyes.
He was her knight for ever and ever, and she had known it then as they gathered their spring flowers together and laughed like happy children who share a common joy. But she had not dared to dream too tangibly of that vague, intuitive knowledge till they stood together in the moonlight and listened to the faint lapping of water amongst the sedges. Then, as hand touched hand, heart had gone out to heart, and the crown of youth had come to both in the first dream of love.
Dimples played merrily in the flushed cheeks, and Gabrielle was smiling as she looked from the window where westwards a golden sunset flung a halo of glory over the drowsing landscape.
Russet wood, green meadow, silver stream, all transformed by that wondrous hour and light into a beauty which touched the girl's heart as the chords of a perfect melody might have done.
It was the time to dream of love.
And then came a jarring note.
The sparrow-hawk, wheeling high in mid-air, fell with one deadly swoop upon its little feathered victim, and a faint twitter of pain told of death in life.
Gabrielle shuddered.
Ah! supposing Denningham had killed him! What then?
She dared not think, only vaguely wondered whether poor Miss Tabitha had ever had a lover. If so, she would never smile or scoff again at her quaint, old-maidish ways; for the lover might have died, been killed in some wicked duel. Who could say?
But Michael had not been killed, and the duel was over, with some blood-letting on both sides, but nothing of serious consequence. And now—well, she was glad that Morry and that hateful lordling were in town, but she wished Sir Stephen Berrington would be content with the Manor, or even be laid up with gout for a time, for the blackberries were ripe in Barham woods, and she cared nothing for plucking them alone, since the brambles would tear her hands and gown.
A step without broke through her reverie. A visitor? Nay! Who could it be?
Giles, the butler, stood aside with perplexed face. "Moosoo Yay—Yay—Yay-harn de Quernais," he announced, with dignity which battled with difficulty.
Gabrielle rose hastily, and her eyes were as brightly curious as her cheeks flushed.
"Monsieur Jéhan de Quernais!" she cried. "Why, then, you are my cousin."
And she held out both hands, with a gesture of childish welcome to the young man in the green travelling-suit who stood bowing before her.
Not an ill-looking youth either, this unexpected visitor, but tall and straight, combining grace with that pride of carriage inherent in Breton blood.
Mud-splashed, it is true, even to his sleeves, and the costly lace at his wrists frayed and torn, whilst his dark locks were matted and tumbled. But the face beneath was handsome enough, set in a delicate mould, but strong too, with its oval contour and firmly-compressed lips, whilst the long, thin nose and broad forehead told of a sensitive and intellectual mind.
He smiled in answer to such a welcome, and black eyes flashed a look of admiration and pleasure into the girl's face ere he bent to kiss the extended hands.
"Yes, mademoiselle," he replied, "I believe I have that honour. A slender reason, perhaps, to excuse my presence here, and my claim on your hospitality."
He spoke English perfectly, with only sufficient accent to make it more charming.
Gabrielle laughed, the light-hearted gaiety of a bird in her voice.
"Good, good; I welcome you, cousin. You do not know how bored and weary I was becoming all alone here. And I never guessed how my ennui would be relieved."
She leant forward so that a shaft of sunshine set a halo about her head.
"And you come from France?"
The smiling face opposite clouded instantly.
"From Brittany, mademoiselle."
"My name is Gabrielle. We are cousins. You must not call me mademoiselle, and I shall call you Jéhan."
If he was surprised at the freedom of her speech he was too courtly a gentleman to show it, and merely bowed, accepting her words.
"From Brittany?" Gabrielle continued. "Then you have escaped from——"
A frown from him checked her.
"My mother and sister are still at the Château Kérnak," he said abruptly.
"Your mother and sister? My aunt and another cousin? I know so little of my Breton relations, and I have always wanted to know so much. Will you tell me—Jéhan?"
His ruffled humour was soothed instantly.
"Mademoiselle—pardon—Cousin Gabrielle, there is so much to say that I fear from the beginning I weary you. Your brother——"
It was evident that he required a larger audience than this pretty little cousin who, doubtless, had small comprehension of serious matters.
But Gabrielle knitted her white brows.
"Morry is in town; I am alone here."
"Alone!"
His surprise was manifest.
The girl flushed a little.
"Nurse Bond is here too. I have my meals with her. But you see, monsieur, my mother died before I could toddle, and now that my father is dead there is only Morry, and he so soon wearies of the country."
"And you, Cousin Gabrielle? Do you not weary too?"
She smiled, fingering the long ends of her fichu.
"If I do it is not for town. I will not go, and that makes Morry angry. But—but—I could not breathe there if they are all like Morry's friends and Lady Helmington. However, it is of you I want to talk now, Jéhan. I want to hear of madame my aunt, and your sister, and why you have come, and, well—if you do not mind relating it—about the terrible Revolution which some in England say is good and right, but which makes me sick with horror."
De Quernais looked grim—an expression which ill-suited a face made for laughter.
"I do not think even your Pitt will hold back for long now," he replied. "You have heard of Paris, and the prisons?"
She shuddered.
"The September massacres? Oh, yes! The poor, poor Queen, and oh! that poor Princess."
"De Lamballe? A heroine, mademoiselle!"
"Yes. How brave, how brave! But why do your mother and sister stay in a country where such things are done?"
"Brittany is not France, as the Marquis de la Rouerie shows them."
"La Rouerie? What a hero! Mr. Barton told me all about him and the Chouannerie. It made me so glad to think that I was partly Breton too."
"That is why I have come, ma cousine. I am a follower of the Marquis."
"And you have come on some dangerous errand? Of course, I see it now. And perhaps we can help you? Is it so, Jéhan?"
"You are wonderful, Gabrielle. Yes, you can help us; or, rather, it is your brother who can do so. I will explain."
He was looking at her eagerly as they sat opposite to one another near the window. She was an angel, this beautiful English cousin who was yet kith and kin to him, and his errand would prosper.
"Yes, explain," she cried, holding out her hand impulsively, "and we will help."
So in the twilight he told his story, and neither heeded the length of the shadows or the dusk which stole grey-footed across the meadows; wrapping the peaceful landscape in its trailing shroud.
"Near the Château Kérnak," said Jéhan softly, "stands the Manor of Varenac. It was there that your uncle, our mother's brother, lived, and the peasants, his tenants, adored him. Whilst Comte Gilles lived there never could have been talk of the Terror coming to the neighbourhood. But a month ago he died. Hélas! we all mourned the good old man, and he died at a bad moment for Brittany. There have been agents from Paris around Varenac and Kérnak since, poisoning the simple minds of the villagers. The Terror, they say, means not only liberty, fraternity, and equality, but riches and soft living for the poor. Also power. It is that which appeals most. And yet the influence of Comte Gilles lives. The men of Varenac have not obeyed the voices of these agents. They wait."
"Wait?"
"For their seigneur's commands."
"And he?"
"Is in England, probably unconscious of his inheritance."
"You mean that Morry——?"
"Is also Monsieur le Marquis de Varenac."
"Ah! And his people await him?"
"As men watch for the dawn. He is to decide."
"Decide?"
"Whether Varenac plants the tree of liberty in her streets and starts on the path of murder, bloodshed, and terrorism, or whether she welcomes the coming of de Rouerie and his avengers."
For a few moments there was silence in the darkening room. Then Gabrielle spoke.
"And Morry must decide!"
"The peasants of three villages await his coming."
She rose, her hand resting against the knot of the fichu at her breast.
"Oh, I would it were I," she cried, "instead of he."
"Yet surely, cousin, you think alike?"
Her voice sounded heavy and lifeless in answer.
"I—do—not—know. Morry has bad friends."
Although she had scarcely addressed Marcel Trouet her suspicions were keen.
But Gabrielle possessed that power which is, perhaps, the best—though ofttimes fatal—prerogative of youth. She could put aside forebodings and doubts to dwell in the pleasanter atmosphere of the present. After all, Morry was half Breton too, and Monsieur le Marquis now, into the bargain. Surely he would not fail to respond to this appeal to his honour?
At any rate she would believe so.
"And when you and Morry return to Varenac I shall come too," she declared, nodding her pretty head. "And learn to know my aunt and cousin. You see how lonely I am here, so I shall come."
"Impossible!"
"Not at all, if you both go."
"Men may go, chère cousine, where maids may not."
"Yes, yes; I have heard that before. But do you know, Jéhan, I havealwayshad my own way and done what I willed since I first toddled."
He smiled, well believing it, and wondering what his stately mother, with her old-fashioned ideas of what was convenable for demoiselles of birth, would say to this wayward child, who knew no restrictions and was good comrade before grand lady.
"I shall come," she added determinedly. "It is no use smiling up your sleeve in that way. And so let us go now and find Giles and tell him we are ready to sup. I am hungry, although I have only been sitting here for hours day-dreaming, so you must be famished. I am so sorry, monsieur. I fear I lack virtue as a hostess."
She dropped him a curtsey, apologetic yet half laughing, and led the way downstairs, he following, wondering at her freedom from bashfulness, yet admiring too, for it was done with all the charm and frankness of a child, and lacked any spice of forwardness.
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.
And then there was Cécile—Cousin Cécile, who was just one year her senior. It was clear that Jéhan adored his sister almost as much as his mother. She was perfection in his eyes, and Gabrielle could picture the slim little figure with dark tresses piled high and the pretty baby face beneath, with its big black eyes and arched brows. She had courage and determination too, this Cécile de Quernais, and was no doll who cared only for dress and compliments.
Brittany bred daughters of better stuff than that.
Gabrielle listened and asked questions till she would have wearied a less interested speaker. But Jéhan could not weary when he talked of home.
When at last his young hostess rose, her hazel eyes were determined and red lips positive.
"I shall certainly return with you to Brittany," she declared. "Ah! you do not know how lonely it is here, and how I have always—always—longed for a sister."
Then suddenly the colour flooded her cheeks.
"I shall love Cécile," she said. "But perhaps ... yes, perhaps ... it would be better if she and Madame your mother came ... here."
De Quernais bowed to hide a smile.
"If it is impossible now for you to come to Brittany, my cousin," he murmured, "I shall pray the saints that one day I may have the felicity of taking you there."
But Gabrielle, remembering—for the first time, perhaps, that day—that a cousin is not the same as a brother by many degrees, did not answer.
She was thinking of some one else who was neither kith nor kin, but vastly dearer all the same. If ever she went to Brittany she hoped that Michael Berrington would be beside her. Cousin Jéhan was but a boy!
She did not, however, press the latter to remain at Langton when he suggested—half hesitatingly—that he might ride to town that night in quest of Morry. Certainly no time should be lost on such an errand.