SWEETHEARTS TRUE
So Michael found the way to Langton Hall and to little Mistress
Gabrielle Conyers's heart. But never a word said he of his discovery,
not even when Jake Williams upbraided him with being late for the first
round with the cocks.
And they were mettled birds too.
So summer days glided past, and Sir Henry, hearing first of one
mischievous prank, then another, swore again and again that the devil
himself must be in his grandson, and urged on Master Timothy Parblett
to spare not the rod.
But Master Timothy, though he talked boastfully before Sir Henry, was a
very lamb in the presence of his pupil, for Michael had muscle in his
long arms, and a breadth of chest which made the worthy tutor tremble
as he viewed it.
But the devil had gone out of the lad, it seemed, when he scaled the
wall of Langton Hall and greeted the little Brown Fairy who waited
there for him.
There was no one to love Gawky Mike, with his impish pranks, at
Berrington Manor; and so dewy kisses from sweet, childish lips were the
more cherished, and the very thought of them stirred unknown depths in
the boy's soul.
And Gabrielle--little coquette--knew her power. The sauciness of the
pretty baby! What a tyrant she was, refusing him any grace till he had
done her will--sometimes treating him with disdain, at others with a
friendliness which was enchanting; Michael, great booby, taking it all
in deadliest earnest.
Then, one day, her lips pouted in earnest. "Morice is coming to-day,"
she confided to her loyal knight. "Bah! I am not glad, although
Nursie says it is wicked, seeing that he is my only brother. But then
he should not pull my hair and call me Mistress Mouse. I do not like
it; and he is very rough. He is not like you, Michael."
And Michael, rough, dare-devil Michael, smiled triumphantly into
approving brown eyes. He had ever been gentle knight on this side of
the old wall.
The next day found Gabrielle in tears, nursing a black bruise on a
dimpled arm.
It is true the tears had been squeezed into evidence as soon as she
heard a certain voice humming a merry tune in the road yonder.
But sympathy is welcome balm in trouble. The Brown Fairy told a
harrowing tale of how Morry had caught her arm because she stole his
peach at breakfast.
Michael vowed vengeance hot and strong.
The opportunity came sooner than they expected, for, at this moment,
who should come down the path but Morry himself! A fine young
cockerel, this, of nearly seventeen summers, attired according to the
latest mode, and flicking, with a little ebony cane, at the heads of
yellow marigolds. 'Twas a flaunting flower he should have cherished.
Full gape he stood at sight of Gabrielle being comforted by a
dust-begrimed youth in plum-coloured coat and breeches, and with a face
grim set at sight of him.
"An' who the devil are you, sir?" he cried, with a mighty fashionable
oath to set seal to his aping manhood. "Be off on the instant if you
don't want my cane about your shoulders."
But Michael did not waste time in words. Two soft brown eyes had been
swimming in tears as a round, white wrist was raised for his inspection
of a certain ugly mark on it.
With a wild snort he leapt across the marigolds and snatched the dainty
cane out of its owner's clasp.
"Now fight me like a man," he roared, bull-like in his rage, "or else
sure you'll take the soundest thrashing you've tasted yet, for a coward
born."
Mr. Morice St. Just Conyers was not accustomed to such a challenge. It
shocked his delicate sensibilities, yet, after all, he had fight in him.
Little Gabrielle watched them from the shelter of the old medlar-tree,
sobbing in very terror as she saw the raining of hard blows and the
blood on Michael's face.
But the lads paid no heed to her sobs and prayers, for their blood was
up, and they were as hard set to their work as game cockerels in the
pit.
And Michael was the winner, though he panted vigorously as he stood
over his fallen adversary.
"And if ye want more at any time, sir," quoth he, with immense dignity,
"you'll find Michael Berrington ready enough to teach you another
lesson."
Young Conyers' face had not been pretty before, but, at sound of his
enemy's name, it became uglier still.
"Michael Berrington," he screamed. "What! the son of that foul coward,
Stephen Berrington? Faugh! I would have sent the lackeys to beat you
from the place had I known it."
The colour crept up in a dull flush under Michael's tan. "I can't hit
a man who is down," he growled; "but be careful of your words, sir, or
I'll cram them down your throat another day."
But Morice Conyers had risen slowly to his feet, white of cheek,
swollen of feature, but scornful-eyed.
"I'll not waste words with the son of a traitor and murderer," said he
slowly, and beckoned to his little sister.
"Come, Gay," he said; "there will be a talking for you when we reach
home, an' a whipping into the bargain if you do not promise amendment
of such ways. Fie on you for a naughty chit."
But Gabrielle's eyes were glowing as she looked from her brother to the
blood-stained countenance of her true knight.
Had he not fought for her?
With a defiant toss of brown curls she had flown to Michael's side.
"I hate Morry," she cried, flinging warm arms around his neck. "And
... and I love you, Michael."
The words rang in the boy's ears as he stood alone amongst trampled
marigolds long after an indignant brother had dragged off to summary
justice a sobbing and rebellious sister.