"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 platitudes 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.