AN UNPRINCELY JEST
The Prince of Wales was in hilarious mood. And with reason too.
At his Brighton Pavilion he had enjoyed full many a carouse with
convivial spirits, and this was to be the merriest of all.
Clarence and York were there, besides many another well-known figure
which haunted Carlton House,--good drinkers, good gamblers, good
comrades all; boon and fitting companions for such a master.
What bursts of merriment went up from the throng gathered around the
royal chair!
Florizel had an idea, and the throats of laughing satellites were
hoarse with crying: "Excellent!" "Excellent!"
"He'll dine and sleep with us here, at the Pavilion," chuckled the
Prince. "A wager that he'll sleep sound."
As he spoke a grand equipage was driving into the courtyard--that
gilded coach and famous team of greys were long remembered in
Sussex--and from the coach descended an old, grey-headed man. It was
His Grace the great Duke of Norfolk, known to his friends as "Jockey of
Norfolk," who had driven over from his castle of Arundel at the
Prince's invitation.
They had been friends and then quarrelled, as most of the Whigs
quarrelled with George, and this visit was to proclaim a kind of
reconciliation between them.
Thus the old noble entered the Pavilion and was greeted uproariously by
an uproarious host.
Dignity and our Prince were unknown to each other, and there were some
who saw the wink which passed between him and his brother of York.
But the Duke was not thinking of plots or traps in the presence of the
First Gentleman of Europe. He was delighted with his reception and the
banquet which followed.
An honoured guest indeed! As his age and station demanded.
Jockey of Norfolk smiled, bowing over his glass at the ring of familiar
faces, whilst George, grinning, winked again at his portly brother.
So many friends! and all of one mind. Drink must each one with His
Grace. He did not refuse, though, from under bushy brows, the still
piercing eyes looked round, noting the snigger on this face and the
scoff on that.
It was a conspiracy then.
Honour was to be dishonour for the Howard. Yet he did not refuse the
challenges, his reputation with the bottle being almost as great as his
standing.
Many a less seasoned head lay low round that merry table. Last toasts
had been drunk here and there along the line, but Jockey of Norfolk sat
erect, his lips smiling, his face stern.
Bumpers of brandy were suggested at last by that gallant Florizel, that
First Gentleman himself,--bumpers of brandy to seal a plot as degrading
as it was contemptible. York, with unsteady hand, filled a great glass
with the spirits and gave it to his brother's guest.
The Duke stood up, and, raising the goblet, tossed off the contents at
a draught.
A brave old toper! with something pathetic in this last defiance, for
all its sordidness.
"And now," quoth he, aloud and very sternly, "I'll have my carriage and
go home."
The Prince of Wales laid a detaining hand on the velvet sleeve of his
outraged guest.
"No, no," he cried thickly. "I vow we'll make a night of it. You've
promised to sleep here, Jockey. You'll not go against your
Prin--Prince's commands. You can't complain ... entertainment."
But the old man shook off the fat hand.
"I'll go," he growled, with an oath. "I see through such hospitality,
Your Highness."
The thought of the trap made his blood boil. But the Howard honour was
at stake. He would not sleep beneath the roof of the man who had
wished to stain it.
Alas! they called the carriage, but, before it could drive to the
Pavilion doors, the hoary head of England's premier Duke lay helpless
on the table, with that chuckling, mocking throng around, glorying in
their successful wit, and finding the sight of shamed grey hairs hugely
entertaining.
It was the sort of jest Florizel delighted in, though historians clack
so much of his good-nature and kindly heart.
Poor old Jockey of Norfolk! He managed somehow to stumble to his
carriage, bidding the postillions drive him to Arundel. But the Prince
was loath to part with his fun, and gave other orders.
So, for half an hour, they drove him round the Pavilion lawn, whilst in
the porch stood a crowd of revellers laughing and mocking at the
helpless old figure inside.
Presently they lifted him out and put him to bed in the Pavilion. He
awoke to find himself there in the morning, and the bitterness of that
awakening stayed with him to his dying day.
A goodly jest, indeed, for a Prince and gentleman! Yet Florizel,
debauchee, gambler, libertine, has his admirers to this day. A rare,
merry fellow indeed, this German princeling! A noble ruler for old
England later on.
So thought Michael Berrington, bitterly enough, as he sat grim and
disapproving at the table till he could bear the spectacle no longer.
Sir Stephen already lay half insensible on the floor--excuse enough for
the son to carry an erring father home.
Lord Denningham had his sneers there. As for Morice Conyers and
Monsieur Trouet, they were not present, though they had driven to
Brighton on Denningham's coach.
Vaguely uneasy was Michael at the absence of those two, coupled with
Mollie Cooling's story.
Some plot was stirring beneath the depths, and he remembered that Guy
Barton, the kindly friend of his grandfather and now of his own, had
told him how Morice Conyers had allowed himself to be mixed up with
dangerous and seditious societies.
It is true that every right-minded Englishman cried out in horror when
the terrible news of the September massacres in the Parisian prisons
reached them. But yet Michael had heard also of the decision of these
so-called sympathisers of freedom--the London Corresponding Society and
others--to send deputies to the leaders of the Revolution, bearing
their congratulations on deeds which were as brutal as they were
inhuman.
And not only Morice Conyers, but his own father, were members of this
Society.
Michael's eyes grew grimmer at the thought, recalling the solemn vow to
his grandfather that he would do his best to save the Berrington honour
from further stain, and wipe out--if possible--that dark debt which a
Berrington owed a Conyers.
Yes, for that reason, as well as the knowledge that he was Gabrielle's
brother, he had sought to win Morice's friendship. But ever between
them loomed the dark figures of John Denningham and Marcel Trouet.
That both the latter hated him he was aware, returning their animosity
with interest.
Left to himself, Morice Conyers had the making of an honourable
gentleman, but a fatal weakness and vanity had drawn him down into dark
paths of vice and intrigue.
It does not do to look deep into the lives of the town-bred beaux and
bucks of that vicious period; but Michael, made of stronger and better
stuff, had turned with loathing and disgust from the enjoyments and
pastimes into which the necessary shadowing of his father led him.
After many years of privation Sir Stephen was tasting greedily of the
pleasures of life.
And Marcel Trouet took care that these should not lack the delicate
spice of political intrigue. There are men who court notoriety, clean
or unclean. There are others who love their flatterers so much that
they allow themselves to be drawn into affairs for which they have no
taste, and against which their better instincts cry out lustily enough.
Of such were Sir Stephen Berrington and Morice Conyers.
No wonder Michael found his task a hard one, for the two, pitted
against him in his work of rescue, were no fools.
The leaders of the glorious Revolution had the greatest confidence in
Marcel Trouet.
Lord Denningham might lack morals, but brains he had in plenty.
Without scruples the latter gift is dangerous.
So Michael felt the uneasiness growing in him as he helped his father
up the stairs of the lodging they had taken.
"Lesh drink an' b' jolly, an' drownsh melancholy,"
warbled Sir Stephen, rousing himself. "Ha, ha, Mike, boy, drownsh it,
drownsh it."
Michael did not reply. He was thinking.
Sir Stephen sank back in an easy-chair, his handsome face flushed, his
satin suit crumpled and stained with wine splashes, his wig awry. And
over him stood his son, stern and commanding.
"Where is Morice Conyers?" he asked gravely and very slowly, whilst
grey eyes dominated wavering blue ones.
Sir Stephen began chuckling.
"Morry! Wantsh to know where Morry is? Why, you knowsh better'n I.
He's with Moosoo. Ha, ha! a pretty joke, split me if it ain't. We'll
make them laugh at Almack's over it. Ha, ha! good old Morry. Fancy
him turningsh politics! Red capsh, Marshellaise, too funny."
"He has gone with Marcel Trouet to France," said Michael, in even,
quiet tones.
Sir Stephen looked slily up.
"Marcel Trouet? Ha! ha! He's the birdsh for Paris. Paris! I knowsh
Paris. Course I do! Not going there now, though. Marcel may go
alone. No redsh caps for me. Mightn't leave head to wear it on. No,
no. I'm goingsh, Morry."
"And Morry is going to----?"
"Brittany. Thatsh it! Brittany. Never, never will be slaves. No,
no, thatsh wrong. Morry's a Marquish. Gran' thing Marquish, but
Morry's not proud. Red capsh for Morry, Marshellaise. Send all the
demsh arist'crats to the guillotine. That's what Trouet wants. Goodsh
fellow, Trouet. Those demsh Bretons such fools. Don't know where
breadsh buttered. Morry'll teach 'em, an' the little Count can sit an'
shing to Gabrielle. Pretty girl, Gabrielle, Morry's shishter. The
little Count'll be waitingsh, an' waitingsh. Ha, ha! 'Have to wait,'
says Marcel. Bumpers on that. Morry'll dosh own work to ownsh tune.
Won't be dictated to by whipper-shnappers. I'm with Morry--Denningham
an' I'sh with Morry. All goin' together. Good joke that. Right side
too. No danger there. Quality, libertysh, fraternitish."
His head fell forward as he spoke, though he lay chuckling still.
And Michael, standing there in that mean room, with the helpless,
drunken figure in a bunch before him, felt his pulses stir with
something more wild and despairing than mere loathing.
The tale, which would have been incomprehensible enough but for Mollie
Cooling, was plain now.
Urged to it by the subtle arguments of Marcel Trouet, Morice Conyers
was evidently allowing himself to betray not only his own order, but
his own kith and kin.
The simple Breton peasants, who awaited the word of their seigneur,
were to hear it as young de Quernais had asked that they should.
But, alas! how different a word would it be to what was anticipated.
Instead of sealing the hopes of that gallant enterprise led by la
Rouerie and other noble gentlemen of Brittany, the doom of the
Chouannerie would be pronounced, and the Republic would again triumph.
The balances, trembling and uncertain, would sink under the weight of a
traitor's blow.
All an Englishman's notions of honour and fair play rose in revolt
against the hideous baldness of the facts.
Yet what could he do?
Doubtless, both Trouet and Conyers were already on their way, and the
latter would soon be joined by his evil genii, Lord Denningham and Sir
Stephen.
Against these what weight would his unsupported word carry?
A laugh, threats, _failure_--yes, that was all he minded,--that last;
and it would be inevitable, seeing that he could not fight his own
father,--and Trouet was no duellist.
What should he do? What should he do?
The question drummed ceaselessly in his ear, whilst honour's mournful
ghost seemed to rise to his side, looking at him with Sir Henry's
reproachful eyes.
Could he not, by some means, save them both,--these two, weak
backsliders, from this same honour's roll,--and thus redeem his vow and
wipe that dimmer blot from the scutcheon of his house?
Save Morice Conyers and his father! Pray Heaven to find a way for that!
An idea came to him, a swift flash, which carried but a half-germ of
hope to his heart, as he stood listening to Sir Stephen's heavy
breathing.
At least he could ride to Langton Hall and warn Count Jehan that he was
betrayed.
He shrank from proclaiming Gabrielle's brother traitor, yet better
first than last, since truth and proof must out.
Yes, he would warn de Quernais, and then, perchance, Providence would
show him the fashion of his next step.
With head erect, and pulses on fire, he turned, striding down the
narrow stairway and out into the street below.
Their horses were at the inn-stable opposite, though mine host of the
Flying Fish had had no accommodation for more guests.
On his way Michael passed merry bands of revellers, for the Prince had
brought Brighton into considerable fashion; he also passed one solitary
figure, wrapped in a long driving-coat over a rich suit of silk and
satin. It was Lord Denningham, hurrying from the Pavilion to the
lodging of Sir Stephen Berrington.
Sir Stephen's son set his jaw grimly. There was to be a fight of sorts
between them, even though, at present, his sword lay idle in its
scabbard.