Part 18 (1/2)
Michael turned, half rising as he saw her standing there, for, if he had neither kisses nor smiles for pretty barmaids, he treated every woman he met with a deference which they found vastly pleasing.
”Why, yes, Mollie,” quoth he. ”The coach is never ready to start yet?”
”No, indeed!” she answered at a gabble. ”Sir Stephen has but now ordered an omelette, which that s.l.u.t Jenny is sure to burn, but I had to leave her, having news of moment for your ear.”
Her air of self-importance was amusing.
Michael's grey eyes twinkled.
”News of moment! Now you must not complain to me, child, if Mr.
Conyers kisses you too often.”
She pouted at that, with the air of a spoilt little coquette.
”Kisses indeed! I'll teach Mr. Conyers! No, no, Mr. Berrington, sir.
It's news I bring you. You remember the young gentleman from France who rode up from the country a day since to see that same Mr. Conyers?”
”Jehan de Quernais? His pardon! Monsieur le Comte. Oh yes, I recall him very well, since he only left yesterday.”
”He was cousin to Mr. Conyers, and had a favour to crave from him?”
”Fie, Mollie, you should not interest yourself with the affairs of gentlemen.”
”There's no harm done if I have, this time, Mr. Berrington, sir.
Perhaps you know, as well as I, that Mr. Conyers sent him back to his country-house, bidding him wait there a few days for him, and promising to do afterwards all he asked.”
Michael nodded, recollecting an annoyance that Morry should send this dainty Breton gentleman back to Langton, where Mistress Gabrielle dwelt alone, save for the chaperonage of old Nurse Bond.
”They sent him away,” nodded Mollie. ”But, poor gentleman, they mean to play a scurvy trick on him from what Mr. Conyers cried, laughing, to that ugly Frenchman just now. They'll play him false, and leave him in the country, whilst they go back to Brittany to do what Moosoo Trouet and the black Revolution want, and from what the pretty young gentleman begged Mr. Conyers to save them.”
Michael was frowning now, his cheeks pale and grey eyes stern.
”Where learnt you this, girl?” he rapped out imperiously.
Mollie flushed, hanging her head.
”I ... I learnt it b--but now, sir,” she stammered.
”Ah, I see. At the keyhole. Fie, Mollie; it was not well done!”
Yet his tone was more absent than upbraiding, for he was trying to fit the key to the tale.
”I ... I did it to p-pleasure you, sir, and because my father says the Revolution in France is a b.l.o.o.d.y and wicked thing. And ... and I am sure Moosoo Trouet would be ready to murder us all in our beds as they have been doing in Paris. So, for sake of it all, and the pretty young gentleman from France, I came to tell you. An' it's certain Jenny's burnt the omelette, which if father knew he'd beat me sorely.”
A tear in a pretty eye is a wonderful softener to men's hearts.
Michael Berrington took Mollie's hand and tried to express at the same moment his grat.i.tude for her good intent and the wrongness of deceit and eavesdropping.