Oxford to London, London to Berrington. And arriving there to be greeted with the news that old Sir Henry was dying.
Shock enough for the young man to whom Sir Henry meant everything of affection in life. Ten years had passed since he had come, a raw, uncouth lad fresh from the little Irish village and his mother's death-bed.
Sir Henry had been as much bogey to him then as he had been thorn in flesh to Sir Henry. But the years had altered that,—years, and the story of his father.
That story had changed young Michael Berrington from a scapegrace lad into something of sterner, more manlike, mould; though, at twenty-four, he was known at Oxford as Hotspur Mike by reason of the devilry of his pranks. Yet it was a Hotspur who had won himself a certain honour, and there was no mud thrown against the name.
And Sir Henry had come to love this big, stalwart grandson of his, finding him true stuff, with Berrington honour to stiffen his backbone for all his wild Irish blood.
Michael's pranks were not those of a coward, and his grey eyes looked straight and fearless in owning a fault, punishment or no.
So the ten years had passed in strengthening fibres which grew down into native soil, and the old man and young one had been drawn very near to each other.
And now Sir Henry was dying.
Michael's hand fell listless on the great head of Comrade, the deerhound, as he sat opposite to the little, black-coated doctor who took his snuff and ran nervous fingers through his wig, as his manner was in breaking ill news.
This young man, with the white, set face and enigmatical grey eyes, disturbed him far more than the vapourings and hysterical screaming with which my lady received the news of the passing of my lord.
"He is dying?"
"I regret very greatly to say—yes, Mr. Michael. It is a case of inflammation around the heart. I fear——"
"May I go to him?"
"As I was about to say, Mr. Michael, Sir Henry has asked to see you. Any moment——"
"Any moment?"
"May be his last. The valves of the heart being——"
But Michael did not want explanations.
His grandfather was dying and had asked for him. That was enough.
Instinct and canine sympathy brought Comrade with drooping tail and ears at his heels.
In the great, wainscotted bedroom, with its huge, four-poster bed and dark hangings, Sir Henry Berrington lay dying.
It was very gloomy, that room, and though lights flared in the silver candlesticks on the table and mantel-shelf, yet there were shadows—heavy shadows.
Shadows too under the tired old eyes; but there was no fear in the latter.
A true Berrington feared only one thing—dishonour.
Poor Sir Henry. Was it that ghost which haunted him even now!
A strong, lean hand was gently drawing back the bed curtain.
"Ah, Michael."
The tremulous voice spoke a hundred unuttered welcomes in the brief sentence.
"Grandfather."
It was not weakness which shook the other tones.
Sir Henry smiled. How good the touch and clasp of warm young fingers is on those that grow cold and chill!
For a moment the shadows have gone, as blue eyes look into the clear depths of grey. This is a Berrington who will hold honour high—a Berrington whom he can trust to remember all that is due to the name.
The old man's heart throbbed quickly, whilst mute lips thanked God for such an heir. Then, once more, the shadow fell. Bending low, Michael listened to the faintly gasping breaths.
"He ... may be ... alive. If so ... he ... will come back ... when he hears. He ... was always afraid ... of me. That was how ... it began. My boy ... Stephen ... I ... have cursed him ... but his mother ... loved him. If he comes ... back ... I leave the ... honour of ... Berrington in your hands, ... Michael. Swear you will ... watch over it ... always?"
"I swear."
A smile broke over the tired lips, as though a burden had been dropped from weary arms into the safe clasp of stronger ones.
"Michael," whispered the old man. "Yes ... can trust ... Michael. He ... has not failed me.... Would ... God he had ... been my son. Yet Mary ... loved Stephen.... Poor lad ... afraid of me ... and then ... a traitor.... May God ... forgive——"
One long sigh, and Sir Henry had gone to finish his plea for pardon in the presence of Heaven itself.
*****
But Michael sat pondering long by the dead man's side, pondering on many things, till the candles guttered and went out with a final flare, leaving him alone in the darkness with Death.
Yet he was not afraid, even though the sigh which broke from his lips presently was half a sob.
Supposing his father were yet alive?
"I swear."
It was the mute reiteration of an oath.
"I vow that I would sooner be a nun than live here all my life alone."
And Beauty in a passion stamped her little foot, scolded her dog, and then ran upstairs to put her hat on.
At seventeen one's own company is apt to be wearisome; but then, as Morice said, there was no pleasing his sister. She refused to come to London under the chaperonage of my Lady Helmington, and as often as not she stayed upstairs in her chamber when he drove his friends down from London.
It is true that the friends were of a convivial spirit, and had on one occasion treated Mistress Gabrielle de Varenac Conyers as if she were Betty the serving-wench at some ale-house, instead of a very haughty young lady.
And Gabrielle, being of a high spirit, had greatly resented the treatment, and vowed, many times over, that she would never again put in an appearance at her brother's orgies, or run risk of such insults.
Morice, however, had only laughed and driven away. A gay buck was he, such as a man in the Prince of Wales's set need be. Ah! the tales he could have told of Carlton House and the goings on there!
Of course Gabrielle, little fool, wouldn't listen to a word of them, and was scathing in her remarks when he told the story of how the Prince himself had driven Richmond, the black boxer, down to Moulsey, and held his coat for him when he beat Dutch Sam, or how that merry Princeling another time dressed a second champion of the gloves up as a bishop, and took him with him thus attired to a fête.
Miss Gabrielle, a disdainful maiden of sweet seventeen, tilted a very pretty nose, and declared His Royal Highness to be nothing better than a buffoon.
Perhaps she was right. At any rate no wonder she sighed, picturing the absent Morry at the dicing-board, or under the table snoring away in drunken slumbers till the morning.
In those halcyon days of youth "Prince Florizel's" set was more notorious for riotous living than for respectability.
And, in the meantime, pretty Gabrielle lived virtually alone at the dull old Hall in Surrey.
Her father was dead. Poor, rheumatic, growling old man—prematurely old—cursing against Fate and the friend who had betrayed him. Cursing at a Government, too, which had given him the name of rebel, and a King who was little better than usurper—a stodgy German—half madman—whom an English people chose for their liege Sovereign.
But Gabrielle did not trouble about politics, and, though she shed a few filial tears for a cantankerous parent they had soon been dried.
If only Morry had been different they two might have been very happy together.
But Morry was a natural product of the times, and not likely to change so long as he and his boon comrades had money to spend at the gaming-table, or a bottle of good wine to get drunk on, not omitting other delights such as boxing, racing, the smiles of French ballet-dancers, and the latest fantasies of the mode.
Poor little Gabrielle! It was a good thing for her that she had a will and virtue of her own, and shrank from the blustering offers of an introduction into London society, under the painted wing of my Lady Helmington.
Still, seventeen is not apt to be prosaic, and therefore small wonder that a tear stole down a pink cheek as a slim little maiden wandered aimlessly down a garden path and through a wicket-gate. What was the use of being pretty and sweet as a May morning, as old Nurse Bond had just called her, when there was no one to see her but a set of drunken young jackanapes?
What use that the brimming laughter of fun and coquetry rose to her lips when there was no lover to be enthralled?
Ah! a lover! Blush as she might at such forward desires, yet that was what she wanted.
Such a lover as one read of in the romances. A Romeo to whom she might play Juliet. The picture was a fitting one for springtide. But where was he?
Not here, alas! though the setting would have been ideal,—a wood carpeted with primrose blossoms, birds warbling their prettiest and gayest amongst larches and slender ash, all dressed in the freshest of green robes, and, in the centre, herself,—a Queen amongst her feathered subjects, with sunshine to crown her tumbled curls, and a hat, turned basket, half filled with flowers.
Eden and the most seductive Eve, all waiting for an errant Adam!
He came. Of course he came! She knew he would at last, and smiled a welcome which set the dimples in her cheek playing at hide-and-seek in the most bewitching way.
After all she was but a child, tired of her own company, and she knew the name of her Adam though she had not seen him for three years, nor spoken to him for ten.
So she dropped him the merriest of curtsies, laughing as she watched the colour creep up under his skin at sight of her.
His own bow was formal enough, but he raised his hat with grace.
"Sure, sir, you have been long in coming," she cried, swinging her hat by its blue ribbon, and eyeing him with some show of admonition.
She was quite aware that he did not know her.
"Your pardon, mistress," stammered Michael Berrington, shame-faced as a girl. "I almost—forget——"
She checked him, clapping her hands.
"Fie, sir, but that is what a man of honour should never do, though, certes, it is many a long year since you vowed to be my true knight for ever and ever."
She blushed rosy-red over the last words, only afterwards realising their meaning.
But the blush became her, rendering her more enchanting than ever.
Michael, however, had paled, for he knew now that this was the little Brown Fairy of other days, grown into lovelier girlhood.
Yet was not her name Gabrielle Conyers, daughter to the man whom his father had betrayed?
Instinct and impulse ofttimes help a woman better than long training in worldly wisdom. Gabrielle had heard the story of Stephen Berrington. But she held out friendly hands to his son.
"I am all alone," she murmured plaintively, "and very dull. Come and help me gather my primroses."
Half-conquered by a flash from hazel eyes, the young man took a step forward.
"But——" he answered with an effort. "Perhaps, madam, you do not know my name is Berrington."
An adorable dimple completed the conquest.
"Michael, not Stephen," she retorted boldly. "Old stories and memories should have no place in the present, sir, so forget, pray, your name, if it displeases you, and remember only your ancient vow. I hold you to it."
She would not have coquetted thus with any of the fops and lordlings whom Morry brought from town, but that same woman's instinct of hers told her that this stalwart young man with the lean face of many angles, and steadfast grey eyes, was to be trusted.
He yielded, tossing aside misgivings with one of those sudden changes of mood which characterized him, and knelt beside her on the mossy bank to gather the sweet-scented blossoms with which her hands were already half-filled.
Spring-time and youth, sunshine, bird-song, the seductive spell of a woodland glade, all helped to cast their glamour, and, before him, the slim, girlish figure 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 asyouare 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.
Michael Berrington walked home alone, but he was no longer lonely.
In his hand he held a tiny bunch of primroses, in his heart was already enshrined a small oval face with hazel stars for eyes, and alluring dimples which might well have tempted St. Anthony's self.
He was dreaming of dimples, eyes, and all the pretty foolishness of a youthful lover's first great passion as he entered his home.
Comrade, the faithful deerhound, met him at the entrance.
"There is news, yonder, master, but I cannot quite understand it," the great animal tried dumbly to explain, and restlessly led the way back towards the library.
Lights were burning, the door open, and old Bates the butler coming nervously forward, when a voice, rich, sweet, and powerful, though broken once and again by an explanatory hiccough, broke the silence:
"The jolly Muse, her wings to try,No frolic flights need take,But round the bowl would dip and flyLike swallows round a lake.And that I think's a reason fairTo drink and fill again."
"Mr. Michael, Mr. Michael," faltered Bates, in nervous agitation.
But Michael Berrington put him aside with commanding hand.
He knew he was going in to greet his father for the first time in his life.
Stephen Berrington lolled back in the wide armchair. Before him on a table was placed a large bowl of punch, in his mouth was a long pipe.
He was very much at home.
He rose, smiling, at sight of the tall figure on the threshold. If he had been drinking he was by no means drunken, and his appearance was that of a very handsome but somewhat dissipated man of fifty, dressed in the height of fashion, his powdered wig a little awry, but his eyes bright and wonderfully amused at the present moment. His manner was perfectly friendly.
"Why, Michael!" he cried. "Demn it all, lad, if the first sight of you doesn't make me feel an old man. Come, you'll shake hands with a prodigal father? You're not your poor mother's son, else."
He held out a welcoming hand as he spoke, but Michael ignored it, dropping into a chair.
In all his visions and pictures of his father's return he had never imagined this.
Stephen Berrington did not appear to take offence at his son's refusal of greeting, but sank back into his chair, refilling his glass with punch.
"Old Bates hasn't forgotten his mixture," he observed drily, "though it's nearly thirty years since I tasted it. Thirty years! Well! you'll have heard the story, Mike, and I suppose have long since written me down as a black-hearted devil who's no fit company for honest men."
He passed his hand wearily over his brow as he spoke.
Michael flushed. Though he had expected his father's return eventually, the shock of this unlooked-for home-coming had thrown him off his balance.
"I was with my mother and grandfather on their death-beds," said he, shortly.
His father sighed.
"Yes," he said. "I don't wonder you refused my hand, lad; yet there's more excuse than you know of. I can't tell you all now, but I will—one day."
Michael was twisting the stems of a little bunch of primroses between nervous fingers.
"Ralph Conyers is dead also," he replied unsteadily.
Stephen Berrington looked up sharply.
"I know," he answered. "Ah yes! Of coursethatstory has been drummed well into you. A moment's weakness, and a man's whole lifetime to be cursed for it."
"It cost his friends more."
"Oh, aye; I know. But what of it? If I had not spoken we should have all been strung up in a row. I could not have saved Pryor and Farquhar. No, nor Conyers either, for that matter. As it was I saved my own skin, and never really hurt theirs. What blame?"
"Need a gentleman ask that question?"
"Tra, la, la! Sir Henry always was a good schoolmaster there. A trifle out of date, though, my son, as you will find. Why, even Morry himself took my word for it and shook hands afterwards."
"Morry?"
"Morice Conyers—poor old Ralph's son. A buck worth having for a son, too. Why! we're the best of friends."
"Morice Conyers your friend?"
"You look unbelieving, my Bayard, but it is true that I drove down here on friend Morry's coach, and, had it not been for my ardent longing to embrace you and see again these ancestral halls, I should now be toasting the prettiest eyes in the kingdom, and drinking to the august health of our liege lord Prince Florizel, who is at present between the sheets in his royal residence at Carlton House, suffering from an attack of indigestion."
Then, suddenly dropping his lighter tone of badinage, the speaker leant forward.
"Look here, Michael," he said,—and there lacked not a certain wistful pleading in his tones,—"others have agreed to let the past be forgotten; can't my own son join them there? It's true my crop of wild oats was plentiful enough. As for that Jacobite affair, I—well—I've often wished that I'd been in Pryor's place, and written finis on a jumble of mistakes and a life which was not then quite such a wretched failure."
"If it had been only——"
"Roast me, sir! Are you my Lord High Inquisitor to ask what else I've been doing through these years, and call me blackguard for everything not explained?"
"You forget my mother."
Stephen Berrington's hand dropped, whilst his blue eyes wavered and fell before the stern gaze of the younger man.
"Aye," he muttered, "I'll cry 'Mea culpa' there. My poor little Norah. Yes, I'll admit I was to blame."
"You broke her heart."
"Slit me if I would, had she ever won mine! The marriage was a mistake. But come, lad, I've had enough of platitudes and fault-finding. I come to make merry, and find a dour face as ill to meet as Calvin's own,—and, as for drink, the bowl is empty. Ha, ha! I'm for Langton Hall and a night of it with my merry friends. Tra lal-de-lal! You may come, too; an' you list, son Michael. You'll remember your filial duties an' fall on my neck in welcome after a stoop or so of punch and some of Conyers' boasted port. Rare bucks those, and the devil of a time awaiting us. Cast glum looks to the dogs, boy, and join me. You'll be welcome. I'll stake my head on that. Steenie Berrington's son needn't fear the cold shoulder."
He rose, staggering slightly, and laying a hand on his son's arm to steady himself.
Something in the touch sent a thrill—half shudder—through Michael.
His father. Yes!His father.
Old Sir Henry's dying words came back to him vividly enough.
"If he returns I leave the honour of Berrington in your hands. Swear you will watch over it always."
Yes, he had sworn that he would hold the honour even when it lay in another's power to trample it under foot; and swiftly it came to him that he could not keep that oath and stand against this newly-found parent. For the honour of his house he must be his father's friend and companion.
Perhaps he found it less hard to yield, feeling that helpless touch on his arm, and seeing that half-pleading, half-defiant look on the handsome but weak face.
"Yes," he replied. "I will come."
Sir Stephen greeted the decision with a roar of laughter.
"Well done, Mike," he cried. "Split me, but I don't believe you're so sour after all, in spite of those straight looks. We'll be comrades, eh, boy? and drown the ghosts in the flowing bowl. They'll need drowning," he added, leaning against his son's broad shoulder and speaking in a whisper. "That's why I didn't come before. Not that I care for Sir Henry; he may frown an' curse at me till he rots, I'll but drink the deeper. But the little mother is different; she looks sad, and I see her crying over there by her tambour frame, and I know the tears are for me. That's what I can't stand, Mike, d'you hear? It makes me—there, there, I'm a drunken fool or yet not drunk enough,
'And that I think's a reason fairTo drink and fill again.'"
He flung back his head with a rollicking laugh over the refrain. Ghosts there should not be at Berrington Manor.
"Let's to the Hall," he cried, with an oath. "There's good wine, good company, and pretty faces there, if Phil Berkeley's to be believed. He vows Morry's sister's a jewel fit for a king's crown. You'll be your father's son where a pair of pretty eyes are to be toasted, eh, boy? Ha! ha!"
But Michael did not reply, though his own eyes were grim for those of a youth who went a-wooing.
"I protest, Mistress Gabrielle, it is wanton cruelty of you to bury yourself alive in this dreary hole when all London is in darkness awaiting its sun of beauty to shine on it." Gabrielle laughed, a clear, little contemptuous laugh, which cut crisply through Lord Denningham's languorous tones.
"Of a truth I'm sorry for London, my lord," said she shortly, "since it must be a small place for one such light to be sufficient for its illumination, but I'd be sorrier for myself if I were there."
"You've never tried, my sweet princess," he retorted, with lazy ardour and a bold stare at the charms which the simplicity of a white gown and posy of primroses, nestling in the soft laces at her breast, set off to advantage. "You don't know the delights of conquest. Why, every beau in town would be at your feet, and every belle would be wanting to scratch your pretty eyes out. What could woman want more?"
"I can scarce be woman yet," she answered, laughing in spite of obvious annoyance at his glances, "for I should need much more. My woods and my primroses for instance."
Her eyes grew dreamy over a memory. Lord Denningham grinned as he slowly took a pinch of snuff.
"Even Arcadia needs the shepherd's flute—or the lover's whisper," said he. "You must show me your woods to-morrow, and teach me that primrose-plucking is more entertaining than rout or race-course. I vow I'm ready to learn—and be convinced—by such a mistress."
The note of passion running through the thinly-veiled sarcasm sent the rosy blushes to her cheeks, but her white brow was set in a wrinkle of frowns.
"Nay, my lord," she returned coldly. "You're past conversion, and my woods are no more for you than I am for your gay London. I want neither lovers nor racketings."
Her eyes strayed to where, at the other end of the great saloon, Lady Helmington's fat shoulders were shaking with excitement as she dealt the cards.
Her ladyship was as fond of gambling as her lord was of rum punch.
But Lord Denningham was smiling as he toyed with the gilt inlaid snuff-box in his hand.
"Not lovers then, for such a little lady," quoth he, persisting. "But a lover—or husband—the most devoted, on the soul of——"
She interrupted him, more rosy red with anger than maiden coyness.
"No, nor lover neither, I thank you, my lord," she replied hastily. "I'll not need or wish to go to town for such."
He opened languid blue eyes in surprise.
"What! Do primrose woods supply those too?" said he. "Fie! madam, I shall tell Morry."
She rose, scarlet with temper, and prettier than ever for her passion, sweeping past her insolent admirer with the air of an angry queen.
Half way up the great room she stopped to speak—and this time with smiling graciousness—to a grey-wigged gentleman in a suit of sober green, with fine lace ruffles and jabot,—a gentleman somewhat old, somewhat bent, and more than somewhat rubicund about the nose. Yet his face was kindly and his bearing paternal towards pretty little Mistress Gabrielle.
Jack Denningham, roué, gambler, and very fine gentleman—in his own eyes—turned away with a chuckle. He had quite determined that this country chit should have the inestimable honour of being Lady Denningham. In the meantime her tantrums and graces amused him.
A jolly shout of welcome from a young man dressed in the height of fashion, from spangled satin waistcoat to buckled shoes, made him turn his head towards the opening door, to which his host was already hastening.
"Come, Steenie, we were waiting for you; ha! ha!" cried Morice Conyers, slapping Sir Stephen Berrington heartily on the back.
"Dice and cards had lost their savour without the salt of your company; as for the punch bowl, it was awaiting its master."
Sir Stephen, surrounded at once by a merry throng of youths, laughed gaily. He was steady now on his legs, and there were no ghosts at Langton Hall—or he forgot them amidst boon comrades.
But Michael, standing in the background, remembered the man whose life had rotted for years in a dungeon, and wondered very greatly how Morice Conyers could touch the hand that had sent his father to a living death.
But Morice had no such thought, though his brow knit slightly at sight of Michael, remembering, perhaps, a more recent event under the shadow of a high wall, where a dainty stripling had been sent sprawling by a sturdy, black-browed boy.
Sir Stephen's merry voice broke through an unpleasant memory.
"Another name for our Florizel's train, Morry," he cried gaily. "My son Michael—a rare buck I'll prophesy."
Morice Conyers bowed—a trifle formally. The tall, broad-shouldered figure in its plain but handsome dress, with dark head held proudly, and a quiet look of steady doggedness in the grey eyes, did not promise a boon companion of the Carlton House order.
A voice from behind broke a moment's pause.
It was that of the green-clad stranger to whom Mistress Gabrielle had been talking.
"Present me, Conyers," he demanded. "Though I'm thinking we have met before."
Michael bowed gravely, but without recognition.
Mr. Guy Barton's twinkling blue eyes surveyed him with friendly interest.
"You may better recall, sir," he observed, "the Oxford coach which you drove with exceeding profit to my pocket last November."
Michael smiled as he held out his hand. He remembered now the beetroot-nosed gentleman with the valise who had been the special subject of interest to Dandy Dick and his followers.
And meantime, whilst Mr. Barton told the tale amidst shouts of approving laughter, the hero of it crossed boldly to where a little figure sat solitary in a big, crimson satin-covered chair with dark head drooping rather wearily.
"Mistress Gabrielle."
Oh! she was awake now, and the blushes were not those of anger.
It was the lover of the primrose woods come to her thus unexpectedly, and all the handsomer in his rich suit and silken hose. For a woman notices these things, though Michael could only have told that it was the same sweet face which had shone suddenly through the grey gloom of his young life and set it a-flood with undreamt-of glory.
He was no courtier, this Michael Berrington. And had no pretty compliments of sparkling frothiness and emptiness to bestow on his lady. Yet she had no fault to find with him for that, though she was quick to note the furrow on his brow which had not been there when they plucked primroses together.
"You are sad?" she asked him. "Tell me what it is."
The child's frankness was no less sweet than the woman's sympathy behind it.
"My father has returned," he replied. "That is how I found entrance here. He is your brother's friend."
She paled a little at the words, and her soft brown eyes took a harder look as she glanced across the room to where Morice hung on the arm of Sir Stephen Berrington in merriest mood.
"Your father?" she whispered, and Michael drew back his breath sharply.
The faint contempt and anger in the two words struck him the cruellest blow he had ever felt.
Perhaps she knew it and repented, for she laid a soft little hand on his clenched one.
"Forgive me," she whispered. "Only—for the moment—I thought ofmyfather."
Michael's face was stern.
"And I also, mistress," he replied. "We have no right here. It shames me——"
He faltered, and she checked further speech by her own contrition.
"Hush," she implored. "See, we are friends. It was our primrose bond, or, rather, an older one still—of ten years since." She smiled with a flash of coquetry to give meaning to her words. "And as you are my knight I lay command upon you never to speak word of that again. The past is dead, quite dead. Your father is Morry's friend—and you are mine."
"Till death, if you will have it so," he whispered, and would have added more but that a clamour rose from the card-table where Lady Helmington, having won her rubber and being in a vastly good humour, declared that she was positively dying with hunger, and hoped that supper was served.
Mistress Conyers, youthful and very unwilling hostess, rose to reassure her famished guest that an ample meal awaited them in the dining-room, bidding Morice escort her ladyship thither, whilst—after an instant's hesitation and a faint rising of colour—she demanded the arm of Sir Stephen Berrington.
With ladies in such a minority, and Lady Helmington willing enough, for one, to join in the revelry, supper at Langton Hall was a noisy repast.
Yet Michael noted with pleasure that his father lacked nothing in respect to his young hostess, whilst on her left hand was seated Mr. Guy Barton, a silent and imperturbable gentleman who ate with relish paying no heed to my Lord Denningham's anger at being ousted from a coveted position.
Those were hard-drinking days, when intoxication was considered no disgrace, and rather the exception if a gentleman did not need his valet or butler to escort him to bed; and Sir Stephen's punch-brewing was proverbial, even at Carlton House.
Lady Helmington might fume and fuss in vain, waiting for her whist in the saloon after supper, tête-à-tête with a little prude who turned a deaf and obviously disapproving ear to all the scandal and gossip of town, declaring that the very idea of London depressed her.
It was useless to think that the merry-makers in the dining-room would be in the mood for more card-playing that night. Her ladyship, tired of waiting, declared at last that she was nearly dead of fatigue, and departed in a huff to bed—or, rather, to the rating of her French maid, whilst Gabrielle, after a few minutes' wistful lingering, followed her unwelcome guest, not daring to remain alone, unchaperoned, yet longing—she did not tell herself for what, though she kissed the half-withered posy of primroses ere she laid them aside. Primroses and spring sunshine made pleasant memories, and—and how well he had looked in his Court suit of satin; so different from those popinjay friends of Morry's. She hated them all, in especial that Lord Denningham, with his nasty eyes and familiar speeches.
Showhimher woods, indeed! Faugh! A likely tale. She hated blue eyes that looked—so——. Grey eyes for her—grey eyes that could gaze straight down and down till they found—her heart?
Nay! Sweet seventeen would not say so unbidden, yet still—perhaps—if she dreamt that night, grey eyes would be there with the sunshine and the primroses.
Mistress Gabrielle was smiling as she stood for a moment at the window, her dark curls falling over her white night-rail, before she turned with a blush and sigh, which latter was half laugh of soft content, to climb into the big four-poster bed with its quaint carvings of griffin and goblin, which might have scared the fancy of a maid less healthy and pure-hearted.
As for Michael Berrington, he was finding that the honour of the highest names in the land was like as not to find a common resting-place at the bottom of a punch-bowl; and, try as he might, he was little likely to do good by fishing therein.
The punch of his father's brewing and the port of bygone generations of Conyers were playing havoc with tongues and limbs of the younger beaux of that merry company.
Disgusted with drunken jests, which suited ill with his present mood, the young man took the first opportunity to slip away unseen.
He was hoping to find some one awaiting him in the saloon.
But, as I have said, the little lady he wanted had already retired, less from desire than modesty, and he was left to wander alone the length of the great room pondering philosophically on the strange trick of fate that brought him here. Surely the ghost of Ralph Conyers, bent, twisted Ralph, who had carried a life-grudge to the grave, would be peeping at him from the shadows, shaking a crippled fist at the son of the man who first betrayed and then outraged his memory?
His father the friend of Morice Conyers! His father the traitor who had sent Ralph Conyers to his grave!
Lord! what a world!
And a third note,—be it added beneath his breath,—he himself the man who would woo Ralph Conyers's pretty daughter and win her—if the world could hold so much happiness for a sinner—as his wife.
The very thought, mingling with a vision of hazel eyes and the soft roundness of a white throat, set his pulses galloping.
He opened the casement window, stepping out on to the terrace to cool the fever in his veins. Old Ben Jonson's song rang in his ears:
"Drink to me only with thine eyesAnd I will pledge with mine.Or leave a kiss within the cupAnd I'll not ask for wine."