Perhaps for the first time in his life Lord Denningham was taken aback.
The vision was so wholly unexpected, so welcome, and yet most unwelcome, for behind the slim, girlish figure, muffled in its long travelling-coat, stood Michael Berrington and the young Breton, de Quernais, whom Denningham had met and strongly disapproved at that jolly hostel the Goat and Compasses.
Behind this triple apparition lurked a mystery calling for explanation.
However, at the moment, an impatient lady awaited an answer.
"Where is Morice?" she repeated, glancing from Denningham to Sir Stephen, who stood leaning against the wall laughing softly to himself in maudlin enjoyment.
"I fear, Mistress Gabrielle, that that is the question we have been asking ourselves for the last thirty-six hours."
My lord's tones were slightly mocking, and his glance into the pretty, flushed face over-bold.
Michael made a step forward.
"Mr. Conyers is here," he said quietly.
"Indeed, Mr. Berrington, you are vastly astute. On my honour, I am glad, however, to hear your news. Your father and I came here at Mr. Conyers' own invitation, but at present he appears to be absent—perhaps a Breton fashion of treating guests."
Lord Denningham's bow included de Quernais deftly enough in the gibe; but, to his surprise, the young Breton noble paid no heed to the sly hint.
"My brother not here?" echoed Gabrielle, in perplexity. "But he must have been here?"
A shrug of the shoulders was her only answer.
"You appear to have doubts as to my word, Mistress. Would it not be better to apply to old grey-beard without! He will tell you that, till you came, we have been the only guests beneath this ancestral roof."
She took no heed of his sneer, but turned instinctively to Michael.
"What does it mean?" she asked. "What shall I do?"
It was indeed a perplexing situation,—after so hot a chase, and then to draw a blank.
But the news, which so discomfited her, was well enough to the taste of Count Jéhan.
"The saints be praised, ma cousine," he cried, taking her cold hand. "It is evident that he has been delayed. We are in time to save Varenac from dishonour."
Her face lighted with answering enthusiasm.
"Yes," she said; "what you say is true, Jéhan. If Morice is not here, his ill-work is yet to do and I"—she nodded her head emphatically—"I can do something, seeing that I am as much Varenac as he."
"Bravely spoken, Gabrielle. You are an angel. Ciel! and a heroine too. But——"
Even boyish enthusiasm perceived difficulties ahead, as he thought of this young girl here, unattended, save for an old nurse, at the Manor of Varenac with these others.
"Perhaps," he added slowly, "as your brother is not here, it were better did I take you to Kérnak. The post-chaise is still at the door."
But this suggestion did not find favour in the sight of little Mistress Gabrielle.
"My place is at Varenac," she observed, with an air of amusing self-importance. "I thank you, cousin, but I must stay here."
"Alone?"
His faintly murmured expostulation met with wide-eyed surprise.
"Certainly not. These gentlemen will be here to ... to protect me. And I have Nurse Bond."
He dared say no more, though conscious that his mother would regard such an arrangement with horror.
"Perhaps to-morrow my sister Cécile will ride over with me," he said, "to stay with you as companion."
"Yes, yes. Do bring her, Cousin Jéhan. I am longing to see her. There, I shall be looking forward so eagerly now for the morrow. And you are returning to Kérnak to-night?"
"Unless I can be of service to you here?"
"I thank you heartily; but there is nothing to be done at present. I am very weary and shall go to bed. To-morrow——"
To-morrow! How each heart echoed the word with strangely mingled anticipation.
"To-morrow," replied Count Jéhan, gravely bowing over his cousin's outstretched hand, "I will bring Cécile to Varenac."
"I shall welcome her gladly. And Morice will be here to-morrow?"
"Most probably."
"And then we will persuade him. Yes, I am sure we shall do that—persuade him that he is the Marquis de Varenac."
Her voice rang proudly over those last words. But Michael Berrington was watching the face of Lord Denningham as he stood, with folded arms, surveying the little champion of Royalty, whilst she spoke her happy, confident words.
Would Morice listen if he came? And, if he came not, where was he?
Michael alone remembered—at that moment—Marcel Trouet, the astute exponent of liberty, equality, and fraternity on both sides of the Channel.
"I had thought it too late for roses, fair mistress. Permit me to compliment you upon my mistake."
Gabrielle started, blushing, as Lord Denningham, in a morning-suit of brown cloth, embroidered with gold thread, and with rich lace ruffles at neck and wrists, stood bowing before her, having approached unseen from behind a clump of bushes.
Her curtsey was severely formal as she made her reply.
"I see no roses, sir, nor did I come to look for them, but rather to make a first acquaintance with my mother's native land."
He did not take the hint that she would prefer her own company, but turned to pace slowly down the garden path by her side.
"A bleak and doleful country," he observed, pointing to the long vista of moors stretching northwards. "No wonder its people are sour of face and surly of temper."
"You speak from experience, I doubt not?" she retorted, quickening her steps.
"Nay, this also is my first visit."
"I should have thought that you needed some strong attraction then, my lord, to remain, seeing that you find Brittany so little to your taste."
"I have found the attraction already, fair mistress."
A low bow pointed the compliment and further ruffled her temper.
But discretion bade her ignore his words.
"You have friends in Brittany, sir?" she asked, and wished that she had not come so far on a morning ramble.
"If I could count one fair lady such, I should ask no more of life," he replied, with exaggerated humility.
Again she crimsoned, not from coyness but hot anger.
"I prefer straight answers," she said coldly.
"Alas! Mistress, I should offend did I speak more plainly."
He had contrived to move a little in advance, so that he could look back into the pretty face only half concealed by the lace hood she had flung over her curls.
Her eyes certainly did not invite tender speeches.
"You mock me, my lord," she retorted, her chin tilted aggressively. "Your purpose in coming to Brittany concerned—concerned——"
He did not attempt to help her, but watched, with insolently admiring gaze, the hotly flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.
"Concerned?"
"My brother Morice."
"Indeed!"
Passion brought her to a halt for all her haste to reach the house.
"Do you think I knownothing, sir, of your wicked plots?"
"You wrong me, fairest. Of what plots can I think but how to steal the citadel of your heart?"
"You may try to turn aside my thoughts with empty phrases, but I have heard of your fine Corresponding Society, and of your proposed deputation to the liberty-lovingheroesof Paris after their wholesale massacre of defenceless men and women."
"Your pardon, most gracious lady. But, an' I dared, I would warn you that pretty ears are made to listen only to pretty speeches and not to harken to matters of which they know nothing."
He spoke as one might to a petulant child, so that she could have cried for very chagrin and anger.
It was bitter after the heroics of that mad journey. But she would teach him that women are to be reckoned with.
"We shall see when Morice comes," she retorted. "He will listen to his true friends, and—and his conscience."
The last words forced the smile to mocking lips. It was humorous indeed to associate a conscience with one of the gayest young bucks of Carlton House.
What lengths the argument might have led to is uncertain. My Lord Denningham, I fear, was finding that beauty in a passion bade fair to be irresistible, and rosy lips the more tempting in a pout, when a diversion was called by Mistress Gabrielle herself.
Wide-eyed she stood, turning from her tormentor, whilst anger died away into pleased welcome on her face.
"Morry!" she cried, and pushed past the man who would have hindered her, running lightly down the path and across a tangled stretch of neglected lawn, straight into the arms of her brother, who came at great strides to meet her.
"Gabrielle!"
"Oh, Morry! I am so glad."
He bent to kiss her with an affection that augured well for his temper, whilst she smiled up at him, half-curious, half-defiant, wondering when the scolding would begin.
Morice seemed in no hurry to commence, though he looked down doubtfully into his sister's eager face.
"Did the good fairies bring you, Gay?" he asked, giving her the pet name of long years ago, with a wistfulness she did not fail to note. "Tell me, child, what brought you hither?"
She faced him straightly, with a tiny wrinkle now between her brows.
"The honour of Varenac and Conyers," she replied, with the air of some grizzled veteran rather than a maid in her teens. "It seems that these poor, ignorant peasants, who are now to call you Seigneur, wanted a leader in crying 'Vive le roi.' And so I came to help them, hearing that you had forgotten how to be a leader of men, and were ready to echo new tunes with foul meaning."
She paused, out of breath, and fully expecting a torrent of angry words in reply.
To her surprise there was silence for one of those long minutes in which one hears the twittering of birds and the drowsy hum of Nature's myriad voices.
Then Morice spoke, not angrily, but with humility and steadfast purpose.
"It is true, Gay," he said. "I had forgotten many things, of which you do well and bravely to remind me. Yet Brittany had taught me those neglected lessons already. I came from Kérnak hither to meet my people and cry with them 'Vive le roi'."
"You?"
She was too amazed to speak another word.
"Yes, I. Do not fear that I lie to you, child. I comenowas Marquis, not citizen, to my own."
Still she was incredulous.
"But Michael said you had come to bid the peasants of your villages join the patriots—become Revolutionaries."
"I did so come."
"With Marcel Trouet!"
"He went first to Paris; but he will be coming to Varenac."
"And he——"
"Will meet a different reception to what he anticipated."
"I don't understand."
Her cry was one of perplexity.
"I cannot tell you all, Gay; only see, sister mine, I found a teacher in Brittany worth a hundred Trouets and Denninghams."
The last word took her mind momentarily from the vital subject.
"Lord Denningham!" she echoed. "Did you know he was here, and Sir Stephen Berrington too? Lord Denningham was with me but now——"
She turned from her brother, as she spoke, to glance behind.
But the garden path was empty. There was no sign of the tall figure which had stood barring her way ten minutes previously.
"He must have returned to the house," she went on. "They were angry that you were not here."
"When did you arrive?"
"Last night. Mr. Berrington and Cousin Jéhan brought me, with Nurse Bond for chaperon. Poor nurse! She's a mighty poor traveller, and cried 'lack-a-day' every moment she could spare from her groanings."
But Morice had no thought for the sufferings of Nurse Bond.
"De Quernais!" he repeated. "He is here?"
"Oh, no. He returned to Kérnak last night. He wanted me to go too, but I waited for you. He promised to ride over this morning with Cécile."
The colour burned suddenly in Morice's cheeks.
"Cécile?"
The speaking of a name may betray one.
Gabrielle, looking up sharply, understood at once who the teacher of Varenac honour had been.
A dimple deepened in her cheeks.
"You have met Cousin Cécile?"
"Yes."
"Jéhan tells me she is pretty."
"It ... it is true."
"You do not appear very certain, sir."
"It is because I am too certain. She is as lovely as she is good."
"Then it is she who called you M. le Marquis?"
What woman could have resisted the touch of raillery?
But Morice was very serious in his reply.
"It is for that reason that IamMarquis de Varenac, and cry 'Vive le roi,'" he answered. "She showed me what loyalty meant. I have been fool and knave, Gay, but pray Heaven she may not know it, till I have proved my honour."
Another pause.
"Jéhan!" whispered Gabrielle. "Oh! if only he had not returned last night to Kérnak! But how did you miss him?"
"I should have been here myself ere midnight, but lost my way in the stretch of forest which lies between. I should have had a sorry night had it not been for the hospitality of a charcoal burner, who allowed me to sleep in his hut."
"And now——"
"We must not delay, sister. There is work to be done, and at once, though ... though I fear that Cécile will not come over to-day."
Instinct of sympathy bade Gabrielle put loving arms about his neck.
"But to-morrow we will go to her," she whispered. "And Jéhan will see then that you are indeed the Marquis."
"I would that Jéhan were here now," he answered. "I tell you, Gay, we should not wait an instant. Trouet and his red-cap orators from Paris may be here at any time now to do their devil's work. Let's to the house and see what steps we must take first to make sure of our hearing; my Breton is too halting to face an assembly of tenants unaided."
"There is Pierre," Gabrielle replied. "He was butler and valet for forty years to the old Marquis Gilles. Last night he wept for joy to see me. His daughter Olérie told me he would do anything for a Varenac. If all are like him our task is easy."
"Good. But did you not say that Denningham and Steenie were here?"
"Yes, they are both here."
"If I could see Pierre first, it would be better."
Gabrielle nodded brightly.
"Stay here," she commanded, "and I will bring both him and Michael. Then we can arrange."
"Michael Berrington? What is he doing here?"
She frowned and blushed at the same time.
"I told you—he accompanied Jéhan and me."
Their eyes met, and it was Morice's turn to smile. It appeared that little Cécile had taught him how to be observant, amongst other things.
"So, so, my Gay. Is that the reason you flout my lord?"
The lashes drooped over tell-tale eyes, but rosy lips were scornful.
"IhateLord Denningham."
"And you do not hate Michael? Aha! Gay, though I will not tease you now, but only wish you happiness when you seek it. Now run away and bring those two to me. We'll hold a Royalist Council between us which shall quash the designs of Trouet and his brood for ever."
So spoke Morice, lightly enough, yet with a deeper note vibrating in his voice—a note that had not been there before Cécile touched and set it throbbing with her little hand.
Gabrielle was laughing softly to herself as she sped away back over the lawns, and across the pretty rustic bridge, which led by way of the avenue to the house.
She did not notice how a man stood crouching amongst the shrubs to her left as she passed—so near that the hem of her white gown touched his foot.
But Lord Denningham smiled.
"He has gone!"
Gabrielle looked round in wondering perplexity, repeating the words again.
"He has gone!"
Old Pierre's eager face lengthened.
"Mademoiselle?" he faltered.
Gabrielle stood still, her hands clasped together, eyes deepening with anxiety.
"I can't understand it," she cried. "It washere, just here; and he promised to await your coming."
"Perhaps he wearied at the delay," suggested Michael Berrington, "and has wandered farther down the path."
"I do not think he would, and we have not been very long. Still, we can look. Where does the path lead, Pierre?"
"Only to the wicket, Mamselle, and then out on to the moor."
"We can go to the wicket then. He would not have strayed beyond."
Together they hurried down the path, Gabrielle calling her brother's name again and again.
No answer.
And the wicket-gate was closed.
Nothing was to be seen beyond saving a narrow stretch of moorland broken by forest growth, which bordered a valley.
"Morice! Morice! Oh, Michael, where can he be?"
She had called him Mr. Berrington yesterday, and the man's heart stirred with quick throbbing at the sound of his name, and the appeal in her tones.
"Do not be afraid," he replied. "No harm can have befallen him; none knew of his coming."
"Excepting my Lord Denningham."
"But he had no speech with him. You say he went away at once."
"At once."
"Probably to tell my father of his coming. You remember it was arranged that they should meet."
"Yes, yes; and of course they do not know that he—has changed."
"Impossible. Do not be afraid. Your brother will join us in a few minutes."
"He may have gone towards the house by some other way."
"Of course. Shall I send Pierre in to see?"
She nodded.
At the moment Pierre was certainly a superfluity.
Pierre, disappointment written large on his face, trotted off obediently. He was more than eager to welcome his new master, the nephew of his adored Monsieur Gilles de Varenac.
"You think he will return with him?" asked Gabrielle anxiously, as the old man's steps died away in the distance.
Michael smiled.
"Certainly. These are not the days of fairies and hobgoblins. He can't have been spirited away."
She gave a little sigh of relief.
"I hope he will be here soon. Oh, Michael, I am so happy now thathehas learnt his lesson before it is too late, and will break with all those wicked friends."
A pause. Gabrielle, with a swift side-glance, suddenly coloured hotly.
"I—I meant Lord Denningham and Marcel Trouet," she faltered.
Michael sighed heavily.
"Yes," he muttered, "and—my father."
"Your father is different. He is not bad, only weak, like Morice."
"Weakness, such as his, is wickedness. See how it has marred his life and ruined his friends."
She laid her hand on his where it gripped the topmost bar of the wicket-gate.
"Do not talk so," she answered. "Sir Stephen has a—a kind heart; and I think—one day—he will atone."
Michael did not reply, only he raised the comforting hand, kissing it reverently.
With woman's wisdom, she made haste to change a painful subject.
"I should be so afraid if you were not here," she said, with child-like frankness—"so very afraid."
"Of what, little one?"
He still held her hand very closely.
"Lord Denningham. Oh! I hate him, and yet he frightens me. His eyes are horrible."
Her cheeks flushed as she remembered the insolent boldness of my lord's stare when he met her not two hours since in the garden.
"He shall not hurt you, Gabrielle."
She smiled at the assurance in happy trustfulness.
"I know he would not if you were near. Only, when I am alone——"
"Would God you never were alone."
She looked up with shy, startled eyes, for the cry had come from a man's heart.
"I am used to being alone at Langton," she answered simply.
"Alone!" he answered, bending his dark head closer to hers. "Why should you be, my darling, my darling, when I need you so sorely at Berrington?"
The blushes on her cheeks were not angry ones this time, and her eyes were smiling into his.
"You ... need ... me?"
"Always and for ever, Gabrielle."
"And I need you," she answered, with a happy sigh, as she allowed him to take her in his strong arms, laying her head on his shoulder with the content of a child who is tired of battling alone with life.
Autumn winds may moan, and shadows of coming sorrows may lie deep across life's pathway, but where love's glory sheds its golden light the eyes are too dazzled to look beyond.
So they dreamt of love, finding it the sweeter after past loneliness and troubles, and strengthener, too, for those that lay before. And the melancholy of that grey land touched them not at all, though Celtic blood ran in the veins of both.
But it was the romance of youth's fairest dream, the springtime of love, that was with them now, and they were blind to falling leaves and the dirge of coming gloom after summer sunshine.
It was Pierre who broke the spell of an enchanted hour,—Pierre, who came hurrying back along the path with furrowed brow and anxious eyes.
Monsieur le Marquis was not at the Manor. No one had seen him. In fact, the two Messieurs, who said before that they were his friends, had laughed at him.
But now M'nsieur le Comte had ridden over from Kérnak, and desired to see both M. le Marquis and Mademoiselle. He was in haste, M'nsieur le Comte.
The sunshine was fading in Gabrielle's eyes. Shadows were stealing back into hazel depths as she looked up at Michael Berrington.
"What does it mean?" she asked, and turned quickly to Pierre.
"He has not brought Mademoiselle Cécile?"
"No, Mademoiselle; Monsieur le Comte is alone. His business seems to be very urgent. He is eager to see M'nsieur le Marquis and you."
"I will come. But—but——"
Her lips trembled for all her bravery as she looked again at Michael.
"Whathashappened to Morice?" she whispered piteously.
But Michael, much as he longed to comfort her, could find no answer to the question.
Monsieur de Quernais was certainly in a hurry; so much so that he had lost his temper, and been in too great a haste to recover it again.
There had been reasons enough to disturb a less irritable nature.
To begin with, the failure of his mission had been bitter. Most bitter of all, seeing the trickery played on him by his own cousin, a Varenac and a traitor!
The English blood must be held accountable, of course, but even then he could not bear to think of it.
During that headlong journey from Langton Hall to the Manor of Varenac he had been brooding over it.
What would la Rouerie say? A last hope gone through the betrayal of one who should have been heart and soul on their side.
The collapse of a golden castle in the air had caused Monsieur le Comte to despair.
He was very young and very enthusiastic. Besides, his adoration of la Rouerie amounted almost to an absurdity. The Chouan leader had inspired such affection a score of times in man and woman.
And la Rouerie must be told, not only of failure on his follower's part, but the shame of a noble Breton name. It was terrible.
But Monsieur le Comte could not feel as murderous as he chose since Morice Conyers' sister had so nobly stepped into the breach.
Here was a kindred spirit, here a true Varenac with Breton blood running unsullied in her veins.
Love for the sister almost counterbalanced hatred for the brother in the heart of Jéhan de Quernais.
In such a turmoil of emotion he had ridden to Varenac and found that the new Marquis had failed to arrive.
The news inspired that hope which is twin comrade to youth.
He rode to Kérnak building fresh castles, and reached his home to find that the man who had been so much in his thoughts had but now left it.
The story was told by Madame his mother, with Cécile standing by, a smile hovering around her pretty lips.
But, alas! the smile had died all too soon, frozen out of being by her brother's answering words.
A traitor, double-dyed in hue,—a traitor to his country, to his people, to his own kith and kin!
Liar and dishonoured he seemed to stand before her, as Jéhan poured forth his tale in the first fury of his wrath.
What! Had the vaurien hounddaredshelter under his roof?daredto tell his lying tale to them?
The young Count paced the hall to and fro in his anger.
He would have forgotten that Morice Conyers was Gabrielle's brother had he met him at that moment.
It ended by Cécile suddenly bursting into a tempest of tears, and running out of the room. This had been the last straw to an overfull cup.
Mother and son looked at each other for a full minute, and then Madame de Quernais held out trembling hands.
"Do nothing rash," she faltered. "Remember he is my sister's son."
Had he been less a gentleman Jéhan would have thundered out an oath and ridden forth, hot-haste, in search of his enemy. As it was, a higher instinct prevailed. He bowed, with old-fashioned formality, over his mother's hand, though his lips were livid and his eyes ablaze.
"I will remember, Madame," he replied, and dared not trust himself to say more.
*****
A sleepless night for those at Kérnak, and now, with morning, Count Jéhan had ridden over to Varenac.
But still Monsieur le Marquis was absent. It was inexplicable.
Was the fellow such a coward that he trumped up this excuse not to see him?
De Quernais felt his fingers itching at his sword-hilt; though what use to storm when one's foe is absent?
And if Morice were not here Gabrielle was. The door opened suddenly on the Count's meditations, and she stood there on the threshold.
"Oh, Jéhan!" she cried, running to him eagerly, "I am so glad you have come, so glad."
And, at sight of her fair face, the young noble felt his bitterness vanish as the grey shadows must before the sunshine.
How he had learnt to love her, this brave little cousin, who was Breton to her finger-tips!
When the emotions are stirred in a hot, impetuous nature it is a quick leap from love to hate.
Yet he did not blind himself with the belief that love here was returned.
He had seen the light grow in hazel eyes on a day when Michael Berrington appeared suddenly in the morning-room at Langton Hall.
Since then he had known that Cousin Jéhan meant brother Jéhan to Gabrielle. And, being a man of honour as well as Breton noble, he accepted Fate's decree without murmur or strife. But it could not kill love, since that was of immortal birth, and so he hid his eyes from hers, lingering, as he bent over her hand, till he should regain the mastery over himself which he had been in danger of losing.
But Gabrielle had no thought for possible embarrassment. From the first moment she had accepted the new cousin as brother, and never dreamt of shyness or diffidence.
"I am so glad you have come," she repeated. "You will help us to find Morice."
"To find Morice?"
The echo of her words reminded him of past anger, of la Rouerie, of Cécile; and his mouth hardened.
"He came hither this morning," Gabrielle continued,—and told her tale.
De Quernais listened, with knitted brow and incredulity in his eyes.
"And he has gone again?" he concluded, when Gabrielle had finished.
"Yes. We have searched everywhere."
"And Marcel Trouet comes from Paris with his Revolutionaries?"
"Yes, yes. That is what makes me afraid. If they meet——"
"They will probably meet."
"And Morice may be—killed."
"I do not think you need alarm yourself."
She was quick to catch the note of sarcasm, and faced him, a little indignantly.
"You do not believe that—that he is changed?"
"To be honest, ma cousine, I find it difficult."
Gabrielle turned impulsively towards the man who had entered and stood apart near the window behind her.
"Michael believes me," she cried.
The eyes of Breton and Englishman met.
"Does Monsieur Berrington believe in him?" asked Jéhan slowly.
"In Morice Conyers?" demanded Michael quietly. "Yes, Monsieur le Comte, I do—until he disproves such belief."
De Quernais shrugged his shoulders, spreading out his hands with an impatient gesture.
"I ask your reasons, Monsieur," he said. "I too am ready to believe, if possible, but you see the case. My cousin is a friend of the Revolution, a member of the Society which congratulates murderers. He is so enthusiastic in their cause that he plays a trick, which,—your pardon, Gabrielle,—is not in accordance with honour, and comes to Brittany for the purpose of stirring up his people to join what he is pleased to call the Cause of Liberty.
"He comes—with Marcel Trouet, a spy, Revolutionary, murderer, liar,—and arrives at Kérnak, where he—again your pardon, ma cousine—continues the policy of his friends, and calls himself a Royalist andmy friend. Then, suddenly leaving Kérnak, he comes to Varenac, where comrades of his and Trouet's already await him. He sees his sister, tells her a tale—a wonderful tale of conversion—and disappears. What do you think of this story?"
Michael leant his dark head against the window-frame, facing the flushed and trembling Count Jéhan, whose eyes were ablaze with hot anger and excitement.
"It sounds as though Morice Conyers were a traitor," quoth he. "Yet I'll still believe in the miraculous. You have a sister, Monsieur, and a fair woman has been known to make as many conversions as a saint."
"Yes, yes, that is it," cried Gabrielle eagerly. "Jéhan, you don't know Morry. He—he is not wicked as you think. It is true that he has been very foolish, and done many things that are wrong—very wrong. But he has had bad friends, and he has been weak and vain, allowing himself to be led by them. Oh! I do not excuse him, but I believe—yes, I do believe—that he might change and be a very honourable gentleman. He told me that in Brittany he had found a teacher worth a hundred Marcel Trouets."
"But why did he disappear?" demanded the Count fiercely. "Ciel! if he had not, and he had his eyes opened indeed to his duty, we should yet win Varenac, aye, and Brittany too, for la Rouerie and the Cause. But where is he?"
It was the question on the lips of each. Where could he be? What could he be doing if ha were not on the road to meet Marcel Trouet?
Gabrielle covered her face with her hands, moaning. "Oh, Morry, Morry," she sobbed, "where are you? If only——"
An opening door made her break off sharply, whilst tear-dimmed, eager eyes watched for the entering figure. But it was only my Lord Denningham, smiling, debonair, handsome as ever, who stood looking in on the little trio.
He paid not the least attention to Monsieur le Comte, who drew himself up stiffly at sight of him, but made his bow to Gabrielle with the exaggerated homage he so well knew annoyed her.
"Ah, Mistress," he murmured plaintively, "you have punished me cruelly. Isn't it enough that Morry's left Steenie and me in the lurch without you scorning us into the bargain? Lud', me lady, it's hardly the work of so dainty a hostess. You'd not treat us so at Langton. You'll be merciful now, and join us at the card-table, or sing us a song of Brittany to your guitar?—though, stap me! I believe I'd rather it were an English one. I've no love for this cheerless land."
He accentuated the last words with a grimace.
"I have no taste for cards, and no humour for song," retorted Gabrielle, her eyes alight with the indignation Lord Denningham ever kindled within her. "And, if I had, my song would scarcely pleaseyourears, my lord, since it would be loyal and royal both."
Her overstrained nerves showed in a gusty little fit of passion, which brought a wider smile to Jack Denningham's mocking lips.
"Loyal and royal," he murmured. "And you are Morry's sister!"
The last words beneath his breath had bitter sting in them.
It goaded Gabrielle to indiscretion.
"Yes," she replied hotly, "I am Morry's sister,—sister to the Marquis de Varenac, I would have you remember, and mistress here in his absence."
A low bow was her answer, but Lord Denningham's eyes were malicious.
"I congratulate you, with all my heart," he said softly, "on your new mistress-ship." And he smiled as he glanced towards Michael Berrington.
The latter was standing erect, and his eyes were ready to flash their reply and challenge.
But Gabrielle interrupted—she had not caught the drift of his subtle insult.
"Ere the day is over Morry will be here himself," she cried. "I think you will find the room cramped at the Manor of Varenac when he returns."
The smile broadened on the sneering features.
"I am prepared to remaintill then," retorted my lord suavely. "I do not think I need look for another lodging at present."
Count Jéhan stepped suddenly forward.
"Your lace is soiled, Monsieur," he observed, with meaning in his tones, whilst, stretching out his hand, he touched the ruffle of Mechlin lace which fell back from Lord Denningham's wrist.
"Soiled?"
The owner of the ruffle looked down with a careless laugh.
The whole of the under-portion of the lace was stiff with blood.
Gabrielle gave a low cry.
"What is it?" she gasped. "What is it?"
Lord Denningham forced another laugh, not quite so careless and mocking as the first.
"A mere scratch," he replied, with would-be lightness—"nothing of any consequence."
But impulse had already brought Gabrielle to his side.
"If you are hurt," she said, very gravely, "you shall let me bind it for you. I—I have some slight skill in such work. Nurse Bond taught me."
She made as though to touch the wounded wrist, but he drew it back sharply.
"Tush! a scratch!" he growled. "Half healed already. I want no bandages."
Count Jéhan was yawning, as he helped himself to snuff.
"An excellent flavour," he murmured, half to himself. "Bought from a friend who has traded much in the East. Permit me, Monsieur."
He offered the dainty little box with a graceful bow.
Lord Denningham stretched out a ready hand. In doing so the lace ruffle fell back, disclosing an arm too white for manhood, though muscular and hardened by sword-play. Count Jéhan looked from arm to owner.
His glance was significant.
"Have you by chance met my cousin, the Marquis de Varenac, this morning, Monsieur?" he questioned smoothly.
Lord Denningham forgot to inhale the delicate aroma of the snuff as he turned scowling away—a curse on his lips.