A Blot on the Scutcheon. Mabel Winifred Knowles
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 mass 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 passionate, 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.
"Sweet flowers for sweeter wearer," he said. "Would I were indeed your knight, little mistress, so should you ever walk on primrose paths."
She looked at him from over the great posy she held in her hands.
"Nay," she replied, "I think the primrose path would soon be left if you were no more faithful than you have been these ten years. Alas! I remember now the tears I shed watching vainly day by day under the shadow of the old wall for my playmate."
"You watched?"
"And wept."
"I thought——"
"And so did I—that you had vowed to be my true knight."
"It was before you knew my name—or understood."
"Understood what?"
She was plucking at green leaves and would not spare him.
"That your father would not have had you speak to a traitor's son."
"Bah! But my father died four years ago."
"The traitor's son remains."
"We cannot answer for our fathers' sins. As long as you are not a traitor, what matter?"
For answer he silently raised her little hand to his lips.
She was smiling as presently she withdrew it. So, after all, the lover had come.
"You will be my friend?" she asked simply; but her eyes, under veiled lashes, flashed with coquetry.
"To death if you will have me."
"In life I should prefer it. I need a friend, sir."
"I am sure so fair a lady must have many."
"Not one."
"Not one? But you have a brother?"
"Morry! There! I must not be scornful, for I love him devoutly—when he's sober. But the Prince of Wales has admitted him into his most select circle. You understand, sir?"
Understand! The Prince of Wales's debts, extravagances, follies, and empty-headed good-nature were the gossip of every ale-house throughout England!
Yes, Michael Berrington understood.
"There is only old Nurse Bond," sighed Gabrielle. "My father had no kin and my mother's are in Brittany. Sometimes I vow that I will go out to them for protection."
"You forget the Revolution in France. Ere long, methinks, these friends of yours are like to seek protection from you."
"Perhaps; but I would rather go out there. As for the Revolution, Morry says it is a good thing, and Mr. Fox and Mr. Sheridan say the same."
"And every young rake in the Prince of Wales's set to boot. Yet I will not believe that they think it, mistress. It is a party question, and they air their opinions to annoy Burke and Pitt. But it is too fair a day for politics, and I am no politician. Where shall I bestow my posies?"
She laughed, ready enough to change from grave to gay.
"My hat is full. You must lend me yours." And she pointed to the flat, three-cornered hat on the bank. "Or, stay—my apron!"
She spread out a miniature muslin apron to hold a sweet burden of blossoms.
"You have been most diligent, sir."
"My name is Michael."
"You should be a saint then."
"Alas! Only a poor sinner, I fear, though I claim company with the angels."
"The angels?"
"One, gathering primroses, is enough for me. Do you come here every day?"
"My name is Gabrielle."
"Gabrielle."
How she blushed as he said it very slowly, dwelling tenderly on each syllable.
But it was vain to shake her curls, for she had given him permission.
"I must be returning to the Hall," she said primly, "or my brother and his friends will be there before me."
"And you are alone?"
A swift pity stirred him. Poor little child! How sorely she must need a protector.
But she drew herself up with quaint pride.
"There is Nurse Bond," she replied. "I sup with her when Morry's friends are not to my liking."
He held soft little fingers in both his strong hands, little guessing how the power in them comforted her.
"You call me your knight," said he. "Pray God I may ever be your true and faithful one; that you will let me be such."
She could not laugh or mock him with empty coquetry as she looked into his eyes, for here was no longer the merry, careless youth who tossed yellow blossoms into her apron, but a man who was ready to be lover, too.
And she had sighed so long for one—ever since Lady Helmington promised last autumn to take her to London.
"Thank you," she answered, quite simply in return. "I—I do not think I shall be afraid of Morry's friends again."
Michael's eyes flashed.
"If they give you reason to be so," quoth he, "I pray you tell me their names. They shall learn a lesson in manners at least—from a traitor's son."
The last words revealed—in part—to the girl a latent bitterness in this man's life. Yet she smiled as she ran home, through the wicket and over the lawns, leaving a trail of primrose blooms behind her, for she knew that thus unexpectedly on a May day she had reached womanhood's first goal.
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