Chapter 10 THE COUSIN FROM BRITTANY

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

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 pricked 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 Jéhan 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."

"My name is Gabrielle. We are cousins. You must not call me mademoiselle, and I shall call you Jéhan."

If he was surprised at the freedom of her speech he was too courtly a gentleman to show it, and merely bowed, accepting her words.

"From Brittany?" Gabrielle continued. "Then you have escaped from--"

A frown from him checked her.

"My mother and sister are still at the Chateau Kérnak," he said abruptly.

"Your mother and sister? My aunt and another cousin? I know so little of my Breton relations, and I have always wanted to know so much. Will you tell me-Jéhan?"

His ruffled humour was soothed instantly.

"Mademoiselle-pardon-Cousin Gabrielle, there is so much to say that I fear from the beginning I weary you. Your brother--"

It was evident that he required a larger audience than this pretty little cousin who, doubtless, had small comprehension of serious matters.

But Gabrielle knitted her white brows.

"Morry is in town; I am alone here."

"Alone!"

His surprise was manifest.

The girl flushed a little.

"Nurse Bond is here too. I have my meals with her. But you see, monsieur, my mother died before I could toddle, and now that my father is dead there is only Morry, and he so soon wearies of the country."

"And you, Cousin Gabrielle? Do you not weary too?"

She smiled, fingering the long ends of her fichu.

"If I do it is not for town. I will not go, and that makes Morry angry. But-but-I could not breathe there if they are all like Morry's friends and Lady Helmington. However, it is of you I want to talk now, Jéhan. I want to hear of madame my aunt, and your sister, and why you have come, and, well-if you do not mind relating it-about the terrible Revolution which some in England say is good and right, but which makes me sick with horror."

De Quernais looked grim-an expression which ill-suited a face made for laughter.

"I do not think even your Pitt will hold back for long now," he replied. "You have heard of Paris, and the prisons?"

She shuddered.

"The September massacres? Oh, yes! The poor, poor Queen, and oh! that poor Princess."

"De Lamballe? A heroine, mademoiselle!"

"Yes. How brave, how brave! But why do your mother and sister stay in a country where such things are done?"

"Brittany is not France, as the Marquis de la Rouerie shows them."

"La Rouerie? What a hero! Mr. Barton told me all about him and the Chouannerie. It made me so glad to think that I was partly Breton too."

"That is why I have come, ma cousine. I am a follower of the Marquis."

"And you have come on some dangerous errand? Of course, I see it now. And perhaps we can help you? Is it so, Jéhan?"

"You are wonderful, Gabrielle. Yes, you can help us; or, rather, it is your brother who can do so. I will explain."

He was looking at her eagerly as they sat opposite to one another near the window. She was an angel, this beautiful English cousin who was yet kith and kin to him, and his errand would prosper.

"Yes, explain," she cried, holding out her hand impulsively, "and we will help."

So in the twilight he told his story, and neither heeded the length of the shadows or the dusk which stole grey-footed across the meadows; wrapping the peaceful landscape in its trailing shroud.

"Near the Chateau Kérnak," said Jéhan softly, "stands the Manor of Varenac. It was there that your uncle, our mother's brother, lived, and the peasants, his tenants, adored him. Whilst Comte Gilles lived there never could have been talk of the Terror coming to the neighbourhood. But a month ago he died. Hélas! we all mourned the good old man, and he died at a bad moment for Brittany. There have been agents from Paris around Varenac and Kérnak since, poisoning the simple minds of the villagers. The Terror, they say, means not only liberty, fraternity, and equality, but riches and soft living for the poor. Also power. It is that which appeals most. And yet the influence of Comte Gilles lives. The men of Varenac have not obeyed the voices of these agents. They wait."

"Wait?"

"For their seigneur's commands."

"And he?"

"Is in England, probably unconscious of his inheritance."

"You mean that Morry--?"

"Is also Monsieur le Marquis de Varenac."

"Ah! And his people await him?"

"As men watch for the dawn. He is to decide."

"Decide?"

"Whether Varenac plants the tree of liberty in her streets and starts on the path of murder, bloodshed, and terrorism, or whether she welcomes the coming of de Rouerie and his avengers."

For a few moments there was silence in the darkening room. Then Gabrielle spoke.

"And Morry must decide!"

"The peasants of three villages await his coming."

She rose, her hand resting against the knot of the fichu at her breast.

"Oh, I would it were I," she cried, "instead of he."

"Yet surely, cousin, you think alike?"

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, chère cousine, where maids may not."

"Yes, yes; I have heard that before. But do you know, Jéhan, 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-fashioned 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 tête-à-tête they supped, lingering over dessert of grapes and plums, whilst Jéhan 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 noble and simple, or what was due to the houses of Varenac and Quernais in respect and honour.

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