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 cas.e.m.e.nt 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 Ma.r.s.eillaise 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.

CHAPTER IX

"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 h.o.a.rded 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 b.a.l.l.s 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 a.s.sumed 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 ap.r.o.n-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."