Part 17 (1/2)

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.”