CHAPTER XX
MORRY EXPLAINS
"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 know nothing, 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-loving heroes of 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 come now as 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 I am Marquis 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.
"I hate Lord 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.