A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 14

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 n.o.bleman 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.

"Helas," he murmured. "I am no shephaird, but only what you call the sheep-dog that barks, barks, always barks. But the shephaird of this n.o.ble Societe 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.

CHAPTER X

THE COUSIN FROM BRITTANY

Gabrielle was singing softly as she bent over her tambour frame.