"WHEN TWO'S COMPANY AND THREE NONE"
"Lack-a-day, if the old master could see it," groaned Bates to himself,
as he ran hurrying across the hall, carrying the great silver
loving-cup, which had been so carefully hoarded away for twenty years
and more, towards the supper-room.
"But times are changed since Sir Stephen came home. Ah! it's Mr.
Michael should ha' been master here instead o' him. What with
junketings an' drunkenness, gamblin' an' boxin', with balls an' such
like now to top all--no wonder the timber in Barham woods wants
a-fellin', an' the tenants grumblin' at skinflint ways. Love-a-daisy!
say I--'Old ways is best--old ways is best.'"
But old Bates's lamentations, echoed though they might be by the
household and dependants of Berrington, found no place in the hearts of
the merrymakers, who crowded the supper-room and great saloon, which,
for the nonce, served as ballroom.
A gay scene, surely.--Fair faces and handsome figures, sparkle of
jewels, and sheen of satin and silk, vivid colouring with stately
setting, long mirrors reflecting the bright throng of dancers with
their powdered wigs and rich clothing.
Sir Stephen himself, growing younger, though perhaps more portly, in
prosperity, was life and soul to his entertainment. A gallant figure,
too, in coat of mauve velvet with white satin knee-breeches and buckled
shoes, broidered waistcoat and fine lace ruffles. It was easy to
forget the brand which had marked him, in former days, as one outside
the pale of honourable company.
Fair lips were ready to smile now on the owner of Berrington Manor.
Roguish eyes looked coy as he bowed before their dainty owners, and
tongues which, under other circumstances, might have been caustic,
became honeyed in their phrases when addressing him.
As for company, the countryside was there as well as the party from
town. Persons of fashion, these latter, at whom the country misses,
whose style was as ancient as their lineage, stared agape.
But in the embrasure of a window Gabrielle Conyers looked up
reproachfully into the dark, lean face of Michael Berrington.
"You're quite a stranger, sir," said she, with some asperity.
"I have been in town, Mistress Conyers."
"Ah yes! I know what that means." The child assumed an air of worldly
wisdom. "Gambling, drinking, duelling, and playing all sorts of
foolish pranks to amuse your master."
"My master?"
"The Prince, of course. You're in his set now, I suppose, like Morry
and Lord Denningham. No wonder the country palls."
He looked wistfully down into the up-turned face. In her gown of
flowered silk, with its soft pink kerchief and laces, Gabrielle looked
like some dainty fairy from dreamland--in his eyes at least.
"Pardon me, mistress. I love the country. It could never weary me."
"Yet you go to town?"
"It was--necessary."
"Necessary?"
She intended to have an explanation and not be baulked of her scolding,
since past weeks had been sadly long and monotonous.
"My father went to town."
She shook her dark curls in disdain.
"And are you so tied to Sir Stephen's apron-strings that you must
follow against your will? I'll not believe it."
"It is true."
He bent forward a little, her soft hazel eyes impelling him.
"Shall I tell you," he said softly, "what I mean? Nay! I think you
know already."
"I do not," she persisted.
"My father's honour went to town too."
"Ah!"
She was remembering.
"And you?"
"The honour of Berrington was the idol my grandfather worshipped. I
took it--as a trust."
"You loved him--old Sir Henry?"
Her eyes were dewy.
"I loved him--and promised."
She rose, touching his arm as the band struck up a fresh measure.
"You will lead me through the minuet?"
He bowed.
She did not meet his glance just then. A stately dance--too stately
for some of the younger beaux who leant back, lolling against the walls.
Lord Denningham, side by side with Marcel Trouet, was looking vicious.
That dark-faced fellow--the younger Berrington--was as handsome as he
was sour and strait-laced; a suit of peach-coloured velvet suited him
to perfection.
Yet Lord Denningham's glance was not one of admiration.
The young devil--his rival--could smile too on occasion, it seemed,
whilst Gabrielle was dimpling with happy smiles.
The minuet was over at last, and the ballroom insufferably hot. At
least so Gabrielle declared, as her partner led her down the wide
staircase and out through the open window on to the lawns.
A lake, surrounded by choice shrubs, and a seat under shelter of the
rockery near, proved an ideal halting-place, whilst moonlight was good
for dreams and fairy visions. Michael half lay on the grass at her
feet.
"My primroses are faded," she said suddenly, coming back from dreamland
to look into the dark face upturned to meet her gaze. "You did not
come again to help me gather them."
"And now it is too late?"
The passion vibrating through the whisper stirred her pulses as the
moonlight had failed to do.
"Spring is over."
"And summer is here."
"My roses have thorns. I do not gather many alone. See how one tore
my finger but yesterday."
He took the little hand in his, and, growing bolder, or more desperate,
held the scarred finger to his lips.
She drew it away, laughing.
"If you had been there----"
"Ah, mistress, if I might be always there to pluck the thorns away, so
that for you life might have only roses."
"Nay, you might hurt your own hands, and I would not have that. But
you shall come with me to Barham woods to gather the honeysuckle that
grows there. It is sweet, without cruel prickings, yet sometimes it
twines out of reach. You shall help me."
He did not answer, for very fear of saying too much, and thus
frightening her with the passion which he needs must hold in check as a
strong man reins back restive steed.
But perhaps she guessed what he might say, and, woman-like, tempted him
on.
"Do you hear the ripple of the water among the sedges?" she whispered.
"It sets me dreaming; and you--do you ever dream, Michael?"
The soft cadences of her words stole like soothing music to his
throbbing heart.
"One dream I have," he answered huskily, "and only one. Yet when I
dream it I pray never to awake."
"Tell it to me," she demanded, smiling as she turned her face half from
him.
"I dare not."
"I thought you brave. But is it so ill a fancy, then, that comes to
you in your sleep?"
"Rather so fair that I would never look away."
"Then I would see it too. Tell me of it."
"'Twere easier for you to look in your mirror, mistress, for tongue of
mine could never tell half the charms of which I dare to dream."
She laughed again, laying her hand on his shoulder very lightly.
"I am glad you are my knight," she said, with the whimsical frankness
of a child. "For when you say your pretty speeches they sound true,
and not hollow, like those of the others."
Vaguely jealous, he was yet grateful.
"Your knight," he answered, in that deep, low voice of his which rang
with suppressed feeling, "to pluck aside the thorns and shield my lady
with my life."
Her lips were parted, smiling at a picture his words conveyed.
Yet her eyes challenged his.
"But you have other work to do, that takes you away from your lady's
side."
He drew a sharp breath.
"Aye," he answered more sternly. "Pray God I may not forget."
"Forget?"
"That of which you reminded me yourself, my lady."
She flushed a little over the two last words.
"Your other work?"
"The honour of Berrington."
Her little foot tapped the gravel path impatiently.
"Must honour ever come first?"
"Would my lady have her knight place it second?"
"Nay, love should have first place," she declared boldly; and now her
eyes were tender.
"Twin sisters to go hand in hand rather," he said softly, "as you and I
would have them."
"But it is lonely at Langton Hall," she replied piteously, as a spoilt
child.
"Less lonely than London town, I warrant. Yet my father remains at
Berrington now."
"And my brother's friends stay at the Hall. It does not please me."
"You will not forget the honeysuckle?"
"I do not forget what I want."
"Nor I--even in dreams," he whispered, raising the white hand which lay
against his sleeve and kissing it reverently.
A step on the path behind startled them, for it had seemed before that
the world was empty save for they two. But no Paradise lacks its
serpent.
Lord Denningham might have been conscious of the simile.
"A moonlight rhapsody," he sneered. "But I fear, madam, your brother
grows impatient."
She rose with immense dignity.
"You will give me your hand to my coach, sir?" she asked of Michael.
Lord Denningham laughed shortly beneath his breath.
"The squire of dames is a pleasant role to fill--and a safe one," he
observed with another sneer.
Michael drew himself up proudly.
"Lord Denningham will find me ready enough to fill another, anon," he
retorted.
The young nobleman toyed with a ribbon about his neck.
"And that?" he scoffed.
"A teacher of manners to blatant puppy-dogs."
"You forget, sir, that puppy-dogs bite sometimes, and I have heard that
a Berrington is afraid of a cracked skin."
"It is dangerous to listen to too many tales, my lord."
The voices of both were rising higher, whilst Michael's eyes were
ablaze at his adversary's last insult.
Swords half drawn and hotter words to follow were intercepted by
Gabrielle herself.
"I have already requested the favour of your hand to my coach, Mr.
Berrington," she said, with a calmness and severity which were, alas!
betrayed by a tremulous catch in the young voice. "A--a lady does not
ask a gentleman twice."
He bowed gravely, offering her his arm, which she took, demurely
curtseying.
"We shall meet again, my lord," he muttered behind his hand to Lord
Denningham.
The latter grinned sardonically.
"I have heard of a Berrington hiding behind a woman's petticoats
before," he drawled aloud; but in a low tone, "I'll tell you the tale,
sir, at my own leisure."
"Come, Michael," cried Gabrielle sharply; "my brother waits."
Lord Denningham, left alone to moonlight reflection, took snuff with a
scowl. He had thought the winning of a country mouse like to be easy
work, since past experience had told him that the worse a man is the
more probable that he takes the fancy of an innocent maid.
Little Gabrielle Conyers evidently had other tastes; and my lord, half
in love by reason of her flouting, swore tremendous oaths.
Thus he was found, later, by Marcel Trouet, whose business in life was
to act as a political firebrand, but who did not find his good friends
the English of the most inflammable material.
But to-night Marcel was smiling.
"We drink good healths in ze house," he observed, taking Denningham's
arm familiarly. "Come, come. We drink well, we sing very well, but we
do need your voice to lead the rest. They are sheep who bleat for ze
shephaird."
His lordship yawned.
"Why leave them then?" he retorted.
Trouet chuckled.
"Helas," he murmured. "I am no shephaird, but only what you call the
sheep-dog that barks, barks, always barks. But the shephaird of this
noble Societe de Correspondance----" He bowed with exaggerated
politeness.
"I do behold him now," he said suavely. And Denningham followed slowly
towards the house, from which the last coach had rolled away, leaving
only a little knot of men around--and beneath--the supper-table.
They were toasting one Robespierre, a shining light upon the path of
liberty.
Michael Berrington was not amongst them.