Part 9 (1/2)
Stephen Berrington's hand dropped, whilst his blue eyes wavered and fell before the stern gaze of the younger man.
”Aye,” he muttered, ”I'll cry 'Mea culpa' there. My poor little Norah.
Yes, I'll admit I was to blame.”
”You broke her heart.”
”Slit me if I would, had she ever won mine! The marriage was a mistake. But come, lad, I've had enough of plat.i.tudes and fault-finding. I come to make merry, and find a dour face as ill to meet as Calvin's own,--and, as for drink, the bowl is empty. Ha, ha!
I'm for Langton Hall and a night of it with my merry friends. Tra lal-de-lal! You may come, too; an' you list, son Michael. You'll remember your filial duties an' fall on my neck in welcome after a stoop or so of punch and some of Conyers' boasted port. Rare bucks those, and the devil of a time awaiting us. Cast glum looks to the dogs, boy, and join me. You'll be welcome. I'll stake my head on that. Steenie Berrington's son needn't fear the cold shoulder.”
He rose, staggering slightly, and laying a hand on his son's arm to steady himself.
Something in the touch sent a thrill--half shudder--through Michael.
_His father_. Yes! _His father_.
Old Sir Henry's dying words came back to him vividly enough.
”If he returns I leave the honour of Berrington in your hands. Swear you will watch over it always.”
Yes, he had sworn that he would hold the honour even when it lay in another's power to trample it under foot; and swiftly it came to him that he could not keep that oath and stand against this newly-found parent. For the honour of his house he must be his father's friend and companion.
Perhaps he found it less hard to yield, feeling that helpless touch on his arm, and seeing that half-pleading, half-defiant look on the handsome but weak face.
”Yes,” he replied. ”I will come.”
Sir Stephen greeted the decision with a roar of laughter.
”Well done, Mike,” he cried. ”Split me, but I don't believe you're so sour after all, in spite of those straight looks. We'll be comrades, eh, boy? and drown the ghosts in the flowing bowl. They'll need drowning,” he added, leaning against his son's broad shoulder and speaking in a whisper. ”That's why I didn't come before. Not that I care for Sir Henry; he may frown an' curse at me till he rots, I'll but drink the deeper. But the little mother is different; she looks sad, and I see her crying over there by her tambour frame, and I know the tears are for me. That's what I can't stand, Mike, d'you hear? It makes me--there, there, I'm a drunken fool or yet not drunk enough,
'And that I think's a reason fair To drink and fill again.'”
He flung back his head with a rollicking laugh over the refrain.
Ghosts there should not be at Berrington Manor.
”Let's to the Hall,” he cried, with an oath. ”There's good wine, good company, and pretty faces there, if Phil Berkeley's to be believed. He vows Morry's sister's a jewel fit for a king's crown. You'll be your father's son where a pair of pretty eyes are to be toasted, eh, boy?
Ha! ha!”
But Michael did not reply, though his own eyes were grim for those of a youth who went a-wooing.
CHAPTER VIII
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 s.h.i.+ne 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.”