A Blot on the Scutcheon
CHAPTER I
SIR HENRY'S HEIR
The evening sunshine fell athwart the pleasant gardens of Berrington Manor, glorifying all. Stray beams of light stole through the mullioned windows of the old grey building, peeping unbidden into dusty corners and dim recesses. They shone, too, on the figure of an old man, seated near an open casement, in the wainscotted library.
But Sir Henry Berrington was heedless of the dancing shafts of glory which played daringly amongst the powdered hairs of his wig and shone on the gold buttons adorning his blue coat.
He was busy adjusting his lace cravat, as though it choked him, whilst he addressed his friend, Squire Poynder, who sat opposite, sipping his port and puffing smoke from a long and blackened pipe.
"My heir, indeed," Sir Henry was crying, with much heat, and a twisted frown of displeasure on his fine old face, "that gawk of a lad! with the brains of a mouse, I'll be sworn, and a name which any honest Englishman would be ashamed of. Michael! Michael! Faith, Hugh, you laugh at me, but it's sober truth I'm telling you. Heir of mine he is, I'll not deny it. And the son of his father, too, unless I'm mistaken. Thus more shame and dishonour to the name I'm proud—or was proud—to bear. Lord grant I may be in my grave before the boy proves my words."
Squire Poynder puffed at his pipe in silence. It was not often that his friend ever alluded—even indirectly—to his son.