At seventeen one"s own company is apt to be wearisome; but then, as Morice said, there was no pleasing his sister. She refused to come to London under the chaperonage of my Lady Helmington, and as often as not she stayed upstairs in her chamber when he drove his friends down from London.
It is true that the friends were of a convivial spirit, and had on one occasion treated Mistress Gabrielle de Varenac Conyers as if she were Betty the serving-wench at some ale-house, instead of a very haughty young lady.
And Gabrielle, being of a high spirit, had greatly resented the treatment, and vowed, many times over, that she would never again put in an appearance at her brother"s orgies, or run risk of such insults.
Morice, however, had only laughed and driven away. A gay buck was he, such as a man in the Prince of Wales"s set need be. Ah! the tales he could have told of Carlton House and the goings on there!
Of course Gabrielle, little fool, wouldn"t listen to a word of them, and was scathing in her remarks when he told the story of how the Prince himself had driven Richmond, the black boxer, down to Moulsey, and held his coat for him when he beat Dutch Sam, or how that merry Princeling another time dressed a second champion of the gloves up as a bishop, and took him with him thus attired to a fete.
Miss Gabrielle, a disdainful maiden of sweet seventeen, tilted a very pretty nose, and declared His Royal Highness to be nothing better than a buffoon.
Perhaps she was right. At any rate no wonder she sighed, picturing the absent Morry at the dicing-board, or under the table snoring away in drunken slumbers till the morning.
In those halcyon days of youth "Prince Florizel"s" set was more notorious for riotous living than for respectability.
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 bl.u.s.tering 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 br.i.m.m.i.n.g 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?
Not here, alas! though the setting would have been ideal,--a wood carpeted with primrose blossoms, birds warbling their prettiest and gayest amongst larches and slender ash, all dressed in the freshest of green robes, and, in the centre, herself,--a Queen amongst her feathered subjects, with sunshine to crown her tumbled curls, and a hat, turned basket, half filled with flowers.
Eden and the most seductive Eve, all waiting for an errant Adam!
He came. Of course he came! She knew he would at last, and smiled a welcome which set the dimples in her cheek playing at hide-and-seek in the most bewitching way.
After all she was but a child, tired of her own company, and she knew the name of her Adam though she had not seen him for three years, nor spoken to him for ten.
So she dropped him the merriest of curtsies, laughing as she watched the colour creep up under his skin at sight of her.
His own bow was formal enough, but he raised his hat with grace.
"Sure, sir, you have been long in coming," she cried, swinging her hat by its blue ribbon, and eyeing him with some show of admonition.
She was quite aware that he did not know her.
"Your pardon, mistress," stammered Michael Berrington, shame-faced as a girl. "I almost--forget----"
She checked him, clapping her hands.
"Fie, sir, but that is what a man of honour should never do, though, certes, it is many a long year since you vowed to be my true knight for ever and ever."
She blushed rosy-red over the last words, only afterwards realising their meaning.
But the blush became her, rendering her more enchanting than ever.
Michael, however, had paled, for he knew now that this was the little Brown Fairy of other days, grown into lovelier girlhood.
Yet was not her name Gabrielle Conyers, daughter to the man whom his father had betrayed?
Instinct and impulse ofttimes help a woman better than long training in worldly wisdom. Gabrielle had heard the story of Stephen Berrington.
But she held out friendly hands to his son.
"I am all alone," she murmured plaintively, "and very dull. Come and help me gather my primroses."
Half-conquered by a flash from hazel eyes, the young man took a step forward.
"But----" he answered with an effort. "Perhaps, madam, you do not know my name is Berrington."
An adorable dimple completed the conquest.
"Michael, not Stephen," she retorted boldly. "Old stories and memories should have no place in the present, sir, so forget, pray, your name, if it displeases you, and remember only your ancient vow. I hold you to it."
She would not have coquetted thus with any of the fops and lordlings whom Morry brought from town, but that same woman"s instinct of hers told her that this stalwart young man with the lean face of many angles, and steadfast grey eyes, was to be trusted.
He yielded, tossing aside misgivings with one of those sudden changes of mood which characterized him, and knelt beside her on the mossy bank to gather the sweet-scented blossoms with which her hands were already half-filled.
Spring-time and youth, sunshine, bird-song, the seductive spell of a woodland glade, all helped to cast their glamour, and, before him, the slim, girlish figure in its simple gown of white, with a bunch of blue ribbons loosely knotted in the fichu at her breast, and a face which Greuze would have loved to paint, framed in a ma.s.s of tumbled curls.
No wonder that Michael Berrington"s blood quickened in his veins and his grey eyes kindled.
Love is like the dawn which, slow of coming in northern skies, yet breaks through the trammels of night to swift and glorious radiance in the south.
So, in pa.s.sionate, impulsive natures, love sometimes dawns, with no warning murmurs, no slowly stirring desire, but swift and warm as the King of Day himself.
Thus surely came love to Michael Berrington, as he gathered primrose-posies in the sunshine of a spring day, and looked long into a young maid"s laughing eyes. Yet he did not call this strange new sweetness, love, but was content to feel it thrilling and animating his whole being. So lonely he had been since old Sir Henry"s death, haunted with ghosts as the old Manor seemed,--ghosts of living and dead, which remorselessly pursued him.
But winter blackness had rolled suddenly aside as a girl"s rippling laugh broke on his ear.
"Dreaming, Sir Knight. Fie on you again! You should be minding your devoir. I asked you to gather me primroses."
He was awake once more, and dreams put aside for a more profitable moment.