A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 10

"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 d.i.c.k 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 rea.s.sure her famished guest that an ample meal awaited them in the dining-room, bidding Morice escort her ladys.h.i.+p 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 ladys.h.i.+p, 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 cas.e.m.e.nt 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!