A LEGACY
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.