Part 34 (1/2)
”Of course. Shall I send Pierre in to see?”
She nodded.
At the moment Pierre was certainly a superfluity.
Pierre, disappointment written large on his face, trotted off obediently. He was more than eager to welcome his new master, the nephew of his adored Monsieur Gilles de Varenac.
”You think he will return with him?” asked Gabrielle anxiously, as the old man's steps died away in the distance.
Michael smiled.
”Certainly. These are not the days of fairies and hobgoblins. He can't have been spirited away.”
She gave a little sigh of relief.
”I hope he will be here soon. Oh, Michael, I am so happy now that _he_ has learnt his lesson before it is too late, and will break with all those wicked friends.”
A pause. Gabrielle, with a swift side-glance, suddenly coloured hotly.
”I--I meant Lord Denningham and Marcel Trouet,” she faltered.
Michael sighed heavily.
”Yes,” he muttered, ”and--my father.”
”Your father is different. He is not bad, only weak, like Morice.”
”Weakness, such as his, is wickedness. See how it has marred his life and ruined his friends.”
She laid her hand on his where it gripped the topmost bar of the wicket-gate.
”Do not talk so,” she answered. ”Sir Stephen has a--a kind heart; and I think--one day--he will atone.”
Michael did not reply, only he raised the comforting hand, kissing it reverently.
With woman's wisdom, she made haste to change a painful subject.
”I should be so afraid if you were not here,” she said, with child-like frankness--”so very afraid.”
”Of what, little one?”
He still held her hand very closely.
”Lord Denningham. Oh! I hate him, and yet he frightens me. His eyes are horrible.”
Her cheeks flushed as she remembered the insolent boldness of my lord's stare when he met her not two hours since in the garden.
”He shall not hurt you, Gabrielle.”