And, in the meantime, pretty Gabrielle lived virtually alone at the dull old Hall in Surrey.
Her father was dead. Poor, rheumatic, growling old man—prematurely old—cursing against Fate and the friend who had betrayed him. Cursing at a Government, too, which had given him the name of rebel, and a King who was little better than usurper—a stodgy German—half madman—whom an English people chose for their liege Sovereign.
But Gabrielle did not trouble about politics, and, though she shed a few filial tears for a cantankerous parent they had soon been dried.
If only Morry had been different they two might have been very happy together.
But Morry was a natural product of the times, and not likely to change so long as he and his boon comrades had money to spend at the gaming-table, or a bottle of good wine to get drunk on, not omitting other delights such as boxing, racing, the smiles of French ballet-dancers, and the latest fantasies of the mode.
Poor little Gabrielle! It was a good thing for her that she had a will and virtue of her own, and shrank from the blustering offers of an introduction into London society, under the painted wing of my Lady Helmington.
Still, seventeen is not apt to be prosaic, and therefore small wonder that a tear stole down a pink cheek as a slim little maiden wandered aimlessly down a garden path and through a wicket-gate. What was the use of being pretty and sweet as a May morning, as old Nurse Bond had just called her, when there was no one to see her but a set of drunken young jackanapes?
What use that the brimming laughter of fun and coquetry rose to her lips when there was no lover to be enthralled?
Ah! a lover! Blush as she might at such forward desires, yet that was what she wanted.
Such a lover as one read of in the romances. A Romeo to whom she might play Juliet. The picture was a fitting one for springtide. But where was he?