A Blot on the Scutcheon.

by May Wynne.

CHAPTER I

SIR HENRY'S HEIR

The evening sunshine fell athwart the pleasant gardens of Berrington Manor, glorifying all. Stray beams of light stole through the mullioned windows of the old grey building, peeping unbidden into dusty corners and dim recesses. They shone, too, on the figure of an old man, seated near an open cas.e.m.e.nt, in the wainscotted library.

But Sir Henry Berrington was heedless of the dancing shafts of glory which played daringly amongst the powdered hairs of his wig and shone on the gold b.u.t.tons adorning his blue coat.

He was busy adjusting his lace cravat, as though it choked him, whilst he addressed his friend, Squire Poynder, who sat opposite, sipping his port and puffing smoke from a long and blackened pipe.

"My heir, indeed," Sir Henry was crying, with much heat, and a twisted frown of displeasure on his fine old face, "that gawk of a lad! with the brains of a mouse, I'll be sworn, and a name which any honest Englishman would be ashamed of. Michael! _Michael_! Faith, Hugh, you laugh at me, but it's sober truth I'm telling you. Heir of mine he is, I'll not deny it. And the son of his father, too, unless I'm mistaken.

Thus more shame and dishonour to the name I'm proud--or was proud--to bear. Lord grant I may be in my grave before the boy proves my words."

Squire Poynder puffed at his pipe in silence. It was not often that his friend ever alluded--even indirectly--to his son.

It was time to change the conversation.

The Squire gulped an inspiring draught of wine, pulled his pipe reluctantly from his lips, and, remarking hastily that the lad was young, turned his host's attention to the points of a certain black mare which a neighbour had for sale.

And, meantime, in the garden, perched on the bough of a chestnut-tree, overhanging a sunken wall, sat the object of Sir Henry's dislike and choler, one Michael Berrington, sole heir to Berrington Manor, its wide estates--and something more, of which, as yet, he was in pleasant ignorance.

A well-grown lad of fifteen, his clothes the shabbier for rough usage rather than long wear, curly brown hair caught back by a black ribbon, a long face which gave the impression of being one of many points, accentuated by the long, thin nose; lean cheeks, fine grey eyes, and a mouth which showed sensitiveness and a love of humour, closing, too, with the resoluteness of a strong will.

An expressive, if not a handsome, face, with possibilities of improvement when the owner reached maturity; above all, the desire for laughter and mischief dominant. And what wonder, since his mother was Irish and a pretty little wit to boot before she married Stephen Berrington?

Michael's mother had not been sorry when Death's call had dried her tears shed for a worthless husband. Yet she had laughed for her boy's sake, laughed with a breaking heart, and Michael had grown up laughing till that mother of his died.

He had wept then.

And afterwards his grandfather had sent for him, and he had come to Berrington Manor, in the county of Kent, in that year of grace, 1780.

Once there he had quickly discovered two things. First, that his grandfather hated him; secondly, that, with no soft eyes to utter mute reproaches, he could let that spirit of dare-devilry within him run riot. He did not fear canings.

So he sat, swinging long, lean legs over the sunken wall, and then, heedless of a rent in his plum-coloured coat, gave a quick leap to the ground and set off at a swinging pace across the meadow.

He was going with Jake Williams to see a c.o.c.k-fight at Dunley Town that evening, regardless of certain injunctions anent late hours.

The road was rough after the soft springiness of the meadow, and Michael paused once to shake out a stone which had slipped sideways into his buckled shoe.

As he did so, the unexpected trifle, which was to change his whole life, happened.

Bounce!

Only the falling of a soft ball from over a high wall near.

An absurdly trivial thing!

It would have been so easy to throw it back, especially as he had caught the sound of a childish cry of dismay from the other side. But Michael did not throw it back. Instead, he climbed like a monkey up the wall, hanging on to st.u.r.dy strands of ivy till he had swung himself to the top.

"Ah!"

It was a mutual exclamation.

The boy, looking down, saw a vision of the daintiest of seven-year-old maidens,--a study in brown, from her little, brown, flowered-cotton dress with its quaint fichu, to the brown curls, partly hidden by a muslin cap, whilst great brown eyes, soft as velvet, and coy under their long lashes, were raised shyly to his.

And the brown eyes saw a broad-shouldered lad, lean of limb and face, with pointed nose, high cheek-bones, laughing mouth, and grey eyes, which made her own rosy cheeks dimple in amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Ah, I thank you," cried the Brown Fairy, dropping the demurest of curtsies; "I cried for my ball."

"Fie!" he laughed; "you are no baby. See! I mean to give you the ball myself, and you shall give me something too."

She watched him breathlessly, as he clambered down the old, gnarled medlar-tree which grew against the wall, and clapped her hands when he offered her the ball with the grandest and most courtly of bows.

"I like you, boy," she said. "You shall stay here and play ball with me."

"With pleasure, little mistress," he made gay answer. "But you must give me a kiss first for bringing you your plaything."

At this, child though she was, she made a fine show of indignation.

"I am no village wench to be kissed at will, sir," she declared, with a faintly foreign accent which was very fascinating. "I am Gabrielle de Varenac Conyers, and one day I shall be a grand lady."

And she nodded her brown curls at him.

"Gabrielle? 'tis a nice name," responded Michael critically, "and you are a very pretty Gabrielle. So instead of being a grand lady you shall be my little sweetheart, and one day we will be married, and I will love you and share all that I have. So kiss me now, Gabrielle, and promise."

But the Brown Fairy only dimpled afresh and shook her curls.

"Bah!" she retorted. "I tell you I am going to be a _very_ grand lady.

Perhaps I shall have to go away, however, from this dear garden and home, and be Madame la Marquise, far off over the sea. I do not want to go away. So, if you will let me stay here _always_ and have my white rabbits and dear old Nurse Bond, why, then I perhaps will be your little sweetheart."

She announced this with much deliberation, so that Michael's eyes twinkled merrily.

"You shall certainly stay here," he said. "For I am Michael Berrington, and one day the old Manor yonder will be mine, and then I shall come for you, Gabrielle, and you shall be _my_ lady."

She nodded, dancing first on one foot then on the other.

"It is better than playing ball all alone," she cried gleefully. "I am glad I threw it over the wall and that you brought it back, for now you will have to be my brave knight, such as Nurse has told me of, and I will be your sweet lady."

Michael bowed. "Yes," he promised, "I will be your knight, and you shall give me kisses when I ask for them."

Again she clapped her hands, then paused, a pink finger pressed against her lips.

"And will you fight the dragons when they come?" she asked, "and save me from being devoured?"