Mollie's story had convinced him that the honour of more than one house was at stake. And Morice Conyers was Gabrielle's brother.

There was little of the dare-devil, racketing youth left in the sober-eyed man who sat pondering over the fire, whilst without, in the yard, the ostlers called to each other, laughing and joking, as they led out the roan horses which my Lord Denningham was driving to Brighton, comparing them with the blacks which Mr. Berrington handled with such skill.

And upstairs a group of finely-clothed gentlemen lounged over their wine, which they found soothing enough after shouting themselves hoa.r.s.e in anathemas on Mollie's devoted head for the foulest omelette ever beaten.

But Mollie, escaping in good time to her chamber, laughed softly as she tucked away her guinea in a silken pouch, and reflected how truly angry that hateful little Moosoo would be if he knew how she had tried to foil his nasty, creepy ways.

Faugh! The snake! How she hated him, although he called her "Ze pretty, pretty Mollee."

Mollie indeed! The impertinence!

CHAPTER XII

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 hoa.r.s.e 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 Suss.e.x--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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sed 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 gla.s.s 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 sn.i.g.g.e.r 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.

b.u.mpers of brandy were suggested at last by that gallant Florizel, that First Gentleman himself,--b.u.mpers of brandy to seal a plot as degrading as it was contemptible. York, with unsteady hand, filled a great gla.s.s 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 h.o.a.ry 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 n.o.ble 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 ma.s.sacres 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.