A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 11

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 pa.s.sport 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 c.o.c.ks----"

"Ha, ha! the old story. Yes, the hero of the c.o.c.k-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 c.r.a.paud'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?"