A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 17

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, chere cousine, where maids may not."

"Yes, yes; I have heard that before. But do you know, Jehan, I have _always_ had 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 tete-a-tete they supped, lingering over dessert of grapes and plums, whilst Jehan de Quernais told of the tempest-lashed old chateau, 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 n.o.ble and simple, or what was due to the houses of Varenac and Quernais in respect and honour.

And then there was Cecile--Cousin Cecile, who was just one year her senior. It was clear that Jehan 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 Cecile 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 Jehan 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 Cecile," 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 Jehan 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.

CHAPTER XI

THE ADVANTAGES OF A KEYHOLE

The buxom daughter of mine host at the Goat and Compa.s.ses, not half-a-mile from Carlton House, had her own opinions. They were decided, and showed an unusual power of discernment.

Mr. Conyers was a very pretty gentleman, in spite of a reprehensible habit of kissing too freely when rosy lips were near and tempting; but he was not to be compared--so Mollie told herself--with Mr. Michael Berrington, who was not pretty at all, and had not even a glance for Mollie, let alone a kiss, but was all eyes and ears for that handsome and lavish gentleman his father, who clung to him one moment and flouted him the next.

Mollie had met a good many Sir Stephens before! Then there was that Frenchman, who talked so much and seemed so fond of making fun of King George--bless him! Mollie did not like foreigners, and was as loyal as she was plump and pretty.

With her ear to the keyhole she was trying hard to hear more of what Moosoo Trouet was saying to Mr. Conyers and that sleepy-eyed Lord Denningham, who had made her blush with the freedom of his remarks as to her charms.

Mollie frowned, and glued her ear closer.

Lack-a-day! She could hear little, and was so intent on courting better success that she fell back with a squeal when a hand caught her shoulder.

Sir Stephen Berrington was laughing.

"Come, chick," he gibed. "We'll have to dub you Mistress of the Keyhole, instead of honest men's hearts. There! don't change colour.

I'll not betray you if you run straight away, and cook me an omelette of chickens' livers for a snack before I start for Brighton. And, hark ye, my pretty, a bottle of port as crusty as your father's temper to drink your health in."

Mollie needed no second bidding, for, sure, that Lord Denningham would not have spared her had he known of her curiosity, and Peter Cooling had a strap which he was not too tender a parent to use across an erring daughter's fair shoulders.

Nevertheless, Mollie's cheeks were aflame and her brown eyes sparkling with truly righteous indignation.

Morice Conyers had not thought of eavesdroppers when he made that last speech of his. Loyalty to conviction as well as King makes great demands on one at times. Mollie, the innkeeper's daughter, was something near a lady by instinct just now, and ready to make a mighty sacrifice at the call of honour.

Her reputation as the best omelette maker in England might be at stake, yet she never hesitated more than a second at the kitchen door before she thrust her head inside, bidding the serving-wench put aside kettle-scrubbing, and see to the execution of Sir Stephen's order.

La! there would be some swearing upstairs unless Jenny could rise to the occasion beyond expectations. But what signified a burnt omelette compared with the business in hand?

Mollie, rosier than ever with haste, stood at the parlour door.

Was her father inside? If so, it would be a case of fibbing to get that sober gentleman, Mr. Berrington, outside.

But old Peter was not within. He was discoursing to the ostler in the yard. A broad-shouldered figure in a blue, many-caped coat, adorned by bra.s.s b.u.t.tons, with legs stretched well before him, and hands thrust deeply in his pockets, sat alone.

Mollie advanced, bashful, but br.i.m.m.i.n.g with self-importance.

"Mr. Berrington, sir," she cried breathlessly.