A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 9

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 plat.i.tudes 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 fair To 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.

CHAPTER VIII

AT LANGTON HALL

"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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sion, 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, roue, 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 st.u.r.dy, black-browed boy.

Sir Stephen's merry voice broke through an unpleasant memory.