Produced by Al Haines
[Transcriber's note: the leaf containing pages 175 and 176 was missing
from the source book. Should you happen to have access to a complete
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A BLOT ON THE SCUTCHEON
BY
MAY WYNNE
AUTHOR OF "HENRY OF NAVARRE," "A MAID OF BRITTANY," "FOR CHURCH AND
CHIEFTAIN," ETC.
SECOND EDITION
MILLS & BOON, LIMITED
49 WHITCOMB STREET
LONDON W.C.
TO MY MOTHER
Published, January 12, 1910
Second Edition, February, 1910
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. SIR HENRY'S HEIR
II. SWEETHEARTS TRUE
III. A TRAITOR'S SON
IV. ON THE COACH FROM OXFORD
V. A LEGACY
VI. MISTRESS GABRIELLE GOES PRIMROSING
VII. THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN
VIII. AT LANGTON HALL
IX. "WHEN TWO'S COMPANY AND THREE NONE"
X. THE COUSIN FROM BRITTANY
XI. THE ADVANTAGES OF A KEYHOLE
XII. AN UNPRINCELY JEST
XIII. A WOMAN'S WILL
XIV. ON BRETON SOIL
XV. CECILE DE QUERNAIS
XVI. A MORNING ADVENTURE
XVII. FAITH AND UNFAITH
XVIII. MY LORD AWAITS HIS HOST
XIX. AND WELCOMES A HOSTESS
XX. MORRY EXPLAINS
XXI. A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE
XXII. COUNT JEHAN IS NOT CONVINCED
XXIII. THE MEETING IN THE FOREST
XXIV. THE HUT OF NANETTE LEROC
XXV. BERTRAND TELLS A TALE
XXVI. A BLIND ATONEMENT
XXVII. WHO MICHAEL MET ON THE ROAD TO VARENAC
XXVIII. LORD DENNINGHAM FIGHTS
XXIX. "I AM THE MARQUIS DE VARENAC"
XXX. THE TERROR COMES TO KERNAK
XXXI. THE CALVARY ON THE MOORS
XXXII. "MICHAEL! MICHAEL!"
XXXIII. THE CAVE OF LOST SOULS
A Blot on the Scutcheon
CHAPTER I
SIR HENRY'S HEIR
The evening sunshine fell athwart the pleasant gardens of Berrington
Manor, glorifying all. Stray beams of light stole through the
mullioned windows of the old grey building, peeping unbidden into dusty
corners and dim recesses. They shone, too, on the figure of an old
man, seated near an open casement, in the wainscotted library.
But Sir Henry Berrington was heedless of the dancing shafts of glory
which played daringly amongst the powdered hairs of his wig and shone
on the gold buttons adorning his blue coat.
He was busy adjusting his lace cravat, as though it choked him, whilst
he addressed his friend, Squire Poynder, who sat opposite, sipping his
port and puffing smoke from a long and blackened pipe.
"My heir, indeed," Sir Henry was crying, with much heat, and a twisted
frown of displeasure on his fine old face, "that gawk of a lad! with
the brains of a mouse, I'll be sworn, and a name which any honest
Englishman would be ashamed of. Michael! _Michael_! Faith, Hugh, you
laugh at me, but it's sober truth I'm telling you. Heir of mine he is,
I'll not deny it. And the son of his father, too, unless I'm mistaken.
Thus more shame and dishonour to the name I'm proud--or was proud--to
bear. Lord grant I may be in my grave before the boy proves my words."
Squire Poynder puffed at his pipe in silence. It was not often that
his friend ever alluded--even indirectly--to his son.
It was time to change the conversation.
The Squire gulped an inspiring draught of wine, pulled his pipe
reluctantly from his lips, and, remarking hastily that the lad was
young, turned his host's attention to the points of a certain black
mare which a neighbour had for sale.
And, meantime, in the garden, perched on the bough of a chestnut-tree,
overhanging a sunken wall, sat the object of Sir Henry's dislike and
choler, one Michael Berrington, sole heir to Berrington Manor, its wide
estates--and something more, of which, as yet, he was in pleasant
ignorance.
A well-grown lad of fifteen, his clothes the shabbier for rough usage
rather than long wear, curly brown hair caught back by a black ribbon,
a long face which gave the impression of being one of many points,
accentuated by the long, thin nose; lean cheeks, fine grey eyes, and a
mouth which showed sensitiveness and a love of humour, closing, too,
with the resoluteness of a strong will.
An expressive, if not a handsome, face, with possibilities of
improvement when the owner reached maturity; above all, the desire for
laughter and mischief dominant. And what wonder, since his mother was
Irish and a pretty little wit to boot before she married Stephen
Berrington?
Michael's mother had not been sorry when Death's call had dried her
tears shed for a worthless husband. Yet she had laughed for her boy's
sake, laughed with a breaking heart, and Michael had grown up laughing
till that mother of his died.
He had wept then.
And afterwards his grandfather had sent for him, and he had come to
Berrington Manor, in the county of Kent, in that year of grace, 1780.
Once there he had quickly discovered two things. First, that his
grandfather hated him; secondly, that, with no soft eyes to utter mute
reproaches, he could let that spirit of dare-devilry within him run
riot. He did not fear canings.
So he sat, swinging long, lean legs over the sunken wall, and then,
heedless of a rent in his plum-coloured coat, gave a quick leap to the
ground and set off at a swinging pace across the meadow.
He was going with Jake Williams to see a cock-fight at Dunley Town that
evening, regardless of certain injunctions anent late hours.
The road was rough after the soft springiness of the meadow, and
Michael paused once to shake out a stone which had slipped sideways
into his buckled shoe.
As he did so, the unexpected trifle, which was to change his whole
life, happened.
Bounce!
Only the falling of a soft ball from over a high wall near.
An absurdly trivial thing!
It would have been so easy to throw it back, especially as he had
caught the sound of a childish cry of dismay from the other side. But
Michael did not throw it back. Instead, he climbed like a monkey up
the wall, hanging on to sturdy strands of ivy till he had swung himself
to the top.
"Ah!"
It was a mutual exclamation.
The boy, looking down, saw a vision of the daintiest of seven-year-old
maidens,--a study in brown, from her little, brown, flowered-cotton
dress with its quaint fichu, to the brown curls, partly hidden by a
muslin cap, whilst great brown eyes, soft as velvet, and coy under
their long lashes, were raised shyly to his.
And the brown eyes saw a broad-shouldered lad, lean of limb and face,
with pointed nose, high cheek-bones, laughing mouth, and grey eyes,
which made her own rosy cheeks dimple in amusement.
"Ah, I thank you," cried the Brown Fairy, dropping the demurest of
curtsies; "I cried for my ball."
"Fie!" he laughed; "you are no baby. See! I mean to give you the ball
myself, and you shall give me something too."
She watched him breathlessly, as he clambered down the old, gnarled
medlar-tree which grew against the wall, and clapped her hands when he
offered her the ball with the grandest and most courtly of bows.
"I like you, boy," she said. "You shall stay here and play ball with
me."
"With pleasure, little mistress," he made gay answer. "But you must
give me a kiss first for bringing you your plaything."
At this, child though she was, she made a fine show of indignation.
"I am no village wench to be kissed at will, sir," she declared, with a
faintly foreign accent which was very fascinating. "I am Gabrielle de
Varenac Conyers, and one day I shall be a grand lady."
And she nodded her brown curls at him.
"Gabrielle? 'tis a nice name," responded Michael critically, "and you
are a very pretty Gabrielle. So instead of being a grand lady you
shall be my little sweetheart, and one day we will be married, and I
will love you and share all that I have. So kiss me now, Gabrielle,
and promise."
But the Brown Fairy only dimpled afresh and shook her curls.
"Bah!" she retorted. "I tell you I am going to be a _very_ grand lady.
Perhaps I shall have to go away, however, from this dear garden and
home, and be Madame la Marquise, far off over the sea. I do not want
to go away. So, if you will let me stay here _always_ and have my
white rabbits and dear old Nurse Bond, why, then I perhaps will be your
little sweetheart."
She announced this with much deliberation, so that Michael's eyes
twinkled merrily.
"You shall certainly stay here," he said. "For I am Michael
Berrington, and one day the old Manor yonder will be mine, and then I
shall come for you, Gabrielle, and you shall be _my_ lady."
She nodded, dancing first on one foot then on the other.
"It is better than playing ball all alone," she cried gleefully. "I am
glad I threw it over the wall and that you brought it back, for now you
will have to be my brave knight, such as Nurse has told me of, and I
will be your sweet lady."
Michael bowed. "Yes," he promised, "I will be your knight, and you
shall give me kisses when I ask for them."
Again she clapped her hands, then paused, a pink finger pressed against
her lips.
"And will you fight the dragons when they come?" she asked, "and save
me from being devoured?"
"Of course," he replied, thinking that never before had he seen so
pretty a baby-maid or listened to so sweet a voice.
Her eyes were bright as stars as she came a step nearer.
"Then you may kiss me, my knight," she said with quaint gravity. "And
I will be your true love for ever and ever, like the princesses and
queens in old Nurse's tales."
And Michael bent his dark head to the level of pouting lips.