Chapter 8 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, roué, 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, tête-à-tête 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.