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 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, 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
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 of _my_
father."
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, tete-a-tete 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.
Show _him_ her 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 eyes
And I will pledge with mine.
Or leave a kiss within the cup
And I'll not ask for wine."
A kiss!
The very thought seemed to bewilder him,--lips meeting his, eyes to
dream the same dream into his, the soft clasp of yielding arms, the
caress of a velvet cheek against his burning one.
Fool and idiot! Away with such fantasies! Was it likely that such an
angel would look at him so? Would--love--_him_?
He became fierce in his self-contempt, even though the hot blood of
youth surged wildly in his veins, ready to beat down all barriers. She
love him. Absurd!
Yet stay! Think of those golden hours in Barham woods only that
afternoon.
Cupid had been in frolicsome mood then, and yet he could shoot his
arrows straight. Standing there in the moonlight alone he was
picturing the scene, lingering over the memory of how one bolder
sunbeam had been made willing captive in the coils of an errant curl,
whilst dimples had danced riotously in smooth cheeks.
Love! love! Golden in the glamour of youth, and none less sweet and
true because it was born and matured in the fleeting hours of a single
spring day.
A hand touching his arm, and a deep voice in his ear, broke the fairy
spell which Queen Mab had been busy to weave around him.
Guy Barton knew better than most how to measure his punch--and his man.
"You are no songster then, my hero of the road?" quoth he in kindly
tones. "Well, well, so much the better. I confess I don't care for
all their tunes in there. Besides, I wanted a chat with Sir Henry's
grandson."
"Sir Henry? You knew my grandfather?"
The very suggestion was passport already to the younger man's favour.
"Why, yes! An old friend of mine and a dear one to boot. You'd not
heard him talk of Guy Barton?"
"Of a truth I'm recalling the name. There was some tale of a main of
cocks----"
"Ha, ha! the old story. Yes, the hero of the cock-pit. Though I'll
not be vaunting before the man who handled the ribbons through Craven's
Hollow. You did me good service then, Mr. Berrington."
"'Twas nothing. Yet I'm glad to have served my grandfather's friend."
"Your own too, boy, if you'll have it. I see your father's back at
Berrington."
"He returned to-day."
"Returned to-day. H'm! And a night of it at Langton Hall to celebrate
the occasion. But he's your father. I'll not say more."
"I thank you, sir. Perhaps you knew him when younger?"
"I knew his mother, too. Poor lady! she's not the first to die of
heart-break for a bad son. No, I'm no friend to Steenie Berrington,
but I'll stand yours, as I say,--if you'll have me. I think I read
grandfather before sire in your face."
"Sir Henry was both to me."
"Ah, yes; I believe it. Well, lad, I don't take friends from every
bylane as a rule, yet I'll trust you with three-fold reason."
He tapped his snuff-box significantly.
"The Oxford coach, your grandfather, and your own eyes. I am a reader
of character rather than books."
Michael bowed.
The elderly gentleman with the loquacious tongue and beetroot nose was
already more to his liking than the gay friends of Prince Florizel.
Mr. Barton had taken his arm in a most confidential manner.
"I'm the friend of little Gabrielle Conyers, too," he observed
shrewdly. "She needs one, poor maid. You know her brother?"
"I fought him once as a boy, and I meet him for the second time here
to-night."
"Are you, too, a discerner of men?"
"Nay. I'm apt to be too hasty in my judgments, sir."
"Ah yes! Your mother was Irish, I remember. Hot blood for a fight,
warm heart for a friend, true love for a wife. So you do not admire
our friend's French-embroidered waistcoats?"
"I am no beau, and am little likely to choose my friends from the
Carlton House set."
"Yet poor Morice has his finer qualities. Given adversity and a good
sword he'd make a fighter and a gentleman."
"At present he is doubtless a pretty fool in the eyes of his
tailor--and Lady Helmington."
"If the latter can raise her gaze from the whist-table, which is
doubtful. But I still look for the day when Ralph Conyers' son will
forget his follies and become a man. Still, I confess that I do not
like _French_ waistcoats."
"The Prince, I believe, admires them."
"Yes, so it is said. But he wears them with more discretion. Did you
happen to notice a gentleman who sat on our host's left hand at supper!"
"A little under-sized fellow with black eyes and moustachios?"
"Monsieur Marcel Trouet, accredited agent of the French Republic."
"Of the French Republic! You mean that Morice Conyers----
"Is in sympathy with the glorious Revolution across the Channel,"
replied Mr. Barton, taking a pinch of snuff with great deliberation.
"You may have heard of the London Corresponding Society, Mr.
Berrington?"
"Since my grandfather's death I have remained in Surrey. I fear the
news of the towns has not sufficiently interested me."
"Ah! You think it might interest you now?"
"I am convinced of it."
"A secret society is scarcely a concern for men of honour to interest
themselves in," went on Mr. Barton calmly. "Yet it appears that many
calling themselves such have joined these absurd, and, to my way of
thinking, pernicious bodies of sympathisers with a Revolution which
should have for its motto 'Murder, plunder, and rapine' instead of
'Liberty, equality, and fraternity.' Yet, when the Society of the
Friends of the People numbers such names as Grey, Sheridan, Erskine,
and even Lord John Russell on its lists, small wonder that more
virulent types of seditionary bands, such as this London Corresponding
Society, should spring up."
"And its object is--sympathy----?"
"Pah! Sympathy! _Sedition_, lad, sedition, brewed and stirred here
for English palates by French cooks like Marcel Trouet. Pamphlets,
such as ought to bring the writers to the gallows, are sown broadcast
amongst the people, army, and navy, urging them on to follow Johnny
Crapaud's example, and drag down all law and existing order. Yes, and
this fine Society of which I am speaking is the worst of all, because
it works in the dark. No one knows the five names of the governing
committee, though there are over seven thousand enrolled in the ranks.
And, as I have said, the French Republicans do something more than
smile on their English friends. That is why such men as Monsieur
Trouet sit at English tables as honoured guests. Do you understand?"
Michael's face was very white.
"And my father?"
Guy Barton shrugged his shoulders.
"I have not Sir Stephen Berrington's personal acquaintance _now_," he
observed. "But he and Morice Conyers are excellent comrades." He laid
his hand on his companion's shoulder.
"I have told you this," he said gently, "for two reasons. Firstly,
because Sir Henry was my very dear friend--and your father is his son,
and a Berrington. Secondly, because little Gabrielle Conyers holds a
daughter's place in my heart, and--well--I saw the child greet you.
You understand? If her brother goes mixing himself up with seditious
societies and the like, she will need a strong arm and more than one
honest friend. Morice should have more respect for his sister than to
bring home his John Denninghams and Marcel Trouets."
Hand gripped hand there in the moonlight, but, before Michael had time
to answer, a burst of song and an opening casement interrupted him.
"Let's drink and be jolly and drown melancholy,
So merrily let us rejoice, too, and sing.
So fill up your bowls, all ye loyal souls,
And toast a good health, to great George our King."
A roar of laughter and stamping followed the chorus, whilst out on to
the terrace came lurching a trio of half-drunken revellers, their wigs
awry, waistcoats wine-stained, faces flushed and excited.
"A good health to great G-George our K-King," hiccoughed one, and fell
flat on the lawn.
Guy Barton turned with a frown of disgust to his new friend.
"Come," said he shortly. "'Tis time for gentlemen to be returning
home. They'll be singing the Marseillaise next."
And Michael followed readily enough. He had seen his father on the
steps talking and jesting with Marcel Trouet.
Even a drunkard should be more discriminating in his company.