A Blot on the Scutcheon. Mabel Winifred Knowles
But the men behind quite understood the game now, and were ready enough to play it out. One does not see a rich prize disappearing round the corner without giving chase.
And their horses were fresh.
Yet the coach had a good start.
Craven's Hollow at last!
"Steady there, Michael, steady! Bad going, and a rickety old bridge which wants treating with respect."
But Michael was deaf to caution. To steady down meant capture, and one must risk something for success.
So down the hollow rattled the great, clumsy vehicle, and even the youngsters grouped round the box-seat forgot to sing and shout now, but clung on in silence—wondering——
Over!
A positive gasp of relief went up as the greys, galloping across the wooden bridge, went sturdily up the hill, whilst the coach swayed and rocked from side to side of the rough lane.
"Huzza, huzza!" cried Blakeley, waving his hat; and the shout was taken up with growing fervour as the passengers, looking back, saw half a dozen horsemen come down the Hollow pell-pell.
La! what a crash and what a yell of triumph from the hill-top.
The bridge, strained to its last plank by the coach, had split and broken as the pursuers set horse-hoof on it, thus precipitating two of the foremost riders into the stream.
It was highly regrettable that they could not wait to see the end of the adventure; but the greys were already half-way down the hill, and yonder twinkled the lights of Reading.
It was unlikely that the gentry behind would leave their comrades to drown in a swollen torrent, since there is considerable honour amongst thieves; so the Oxford coach proceeded at a more respectable rate towards the town, thus enabling those within to right and congratulate themselves on being alive.
On the outside a merry chorus was being sung, and one Michael Berrington, much patted on the back, urged to write himself down hero as he drove his panting horses up to the sign of the "Blue Boar."
Even the beetroot-nosed traveller asked leave to shake hands and congratulate the finest young whip he had ever driven behind.
Michael, being no swaggerer, laughed, and passed off the honours with a jest.
But it was good to know that the name of Berrington was being toasted that night in the little inn-parlour of a Reading posting-house.
One day—ah well! Youth must have its dreams, and we all figure as heroes to ourselves in them some time in our lives.
CHAPTER V
A LEGACY
Oxford to London, London to Berrington. And arriving there to be greeted with the news that old Sir Henry was dying.
Shock enough for the young man to whom Sir Henry meant everything of affection in life. Ten years had passed since he had come, a raw, uncouth lad fresh from the little Irish village and his mother's death-bed.
Sir Henry had been as much bogey to him then as he had been thorn in flesh to Sir Henry. But the years had altered that—years, and the story of his father.
That story had changed young Michael Berrington from a scapegrace lad into something of sterner, more manlike, mould; though, at twenty-four, he was known at Oxford as Hotspur Mike by reason of the devilry of his pranks. Yet it was a Hotspur who had won himself a certain honour, and there was no mud thrown against the name.
And Sir Henry had come to love this big, stalwart grandson of his, finding him true stuff, with Berrington honour to stiffen his backbone for all his wild Irish blood.
Michael's pranks were not those of a coward, and his grey eyes looked straight and fearless in owning a fault, punishment or no.
So the ten years had passed in strengthening fibres which grew down into native soil, and the old man and young one had been drawn very near to each other.
And now Sir Henry was dying.
Michael's hand fell listless on the great head of Comrade, the deerhound, as he sat opposite to the little, black-coated doctor who took his snuff and ran nervous fingers through his wig, as his manner was in breaking ill news.
This young man, with the white, set face and enigmatical grey eyes, disturbed him far more than the vapourings and hysterical screaming with which my lady received the news of the passing of my lord.
"He is dying?"
"I regret very greatly to say—yes, Mr. Michael. It is a case of inflammation around the heart. I fear——"
"May I go to him?"
"As I was about to say, Mr. Michael, Sir Henry has asked to see you. Any moment——"
"Any moment?"
"May be his last. The valves of the heart being——"
But Michael did not want explanations.
His grandfather was dying and had asked for him. That was enough.
Instinct and canine sympathy brought Comrade with drooping tail and ears at his heels.
In the great, wainscotted bedroom, with its huge, four-poster bed and dark hangings, Sir Henry Berrington lay dying.
It was very gloomy, that room, and though lights flared in the silver candlesticks on the table and mantel-shelf, yet there were shadows—heavy shadows.
Shadows too under the tired old eyes; but there was no fear in the latter.
A true Berrington feared only one thing—dishonour.
Poor Sir Henry. Was it that ghost which haunted him even now!
A strong, lean hand was gently drawing back the bed curtain.
"Ah, Michael."
The tremulous voice spoke a hundred unuttered welcomes in the brief sentence.
"Grandfather."
It was not weakness which shook the other tones.
Sir Henry smiled. How good the touch and clasp of warm young fingers is on those that grow cold and chill!
For a moment the shadows have gone, as blue eyes look into the clear depths of grey. This is a Berrington who will hold honour high—a Berrington whom he can trust to remember all that is due to the name.
The old man's heart throbbed quickly, whilst mute lips thanked God for such an heir. Then, once more, the shadow fell. Bending low, Michael listened to the faintly gasping breaths.
"He … may be … alive. If so … he … will come back … when he hears. He … was always afraid … of me. That was how … it began. My boy … Stephen … I … have cursed him … but his mother … loved him. If he comes … back … I leave the … honour of … Berrington in your hands, … Michael. Swear you will … watch over it … always?"
"I swear."
A smile broke over the tired lips, as though a burden had been dropped from weary arms into the safe clasp of stronger ones.
"Michael," whispered the old man. "Yes … can trust … Michael. He … has not failed me. … Would … God he had … been my son. Yet Mary … loved Stephen. … Poor lad … afraid of me … and then … a traitor. … May God … forgive——"
One long sigh, and Sir Henry had gone to finish his plea for pardon in the presence of Heaven itself.
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