A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 15

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 p.r.i.c.ked 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 Jehan 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."