Yes, he would prove that, and, by his own deeds, wipe out the stain which seemed ready to tear his shrinking soul.
The curtain fell back into its place. Sir Henry turned to his grandson.
They did not speak, but stood there in the dying sunlight, whilst grey eyes alone spoke their promise to sunken blue ones.
Then the old, withered hand fell on the lad's shoulder.
"You understand?" he said simply.
Michael understood.
CHAPTER IV
ON THE COACH FROM OXFORD
A rough night, cold and wet, with a thin sleet falling and the wind blowing from the north-east full against the great coach which lumbered on its way from Oxford to London.
Passengers inside huddled together, stamping benumbed feet and wishing for the journey's end. Passengers outside poured anathemas against the weather and the slowness of the horses into the depths of fur-lined coats, wherein their faces were buried.
Only two or three of the younger men perched near the driver were able to crack occasional jokes, whilst one alone strove huskily to troll a stanza of some popular ditty.
Insulting! Positively insulting to sing of drinking and being jolly, or drowning melancholy either, in face of such a gale, and the coach an hour behind time! Even his comrades upbraided him, whilst one beetroot-nosed individual near looked positively murderous.
But Michael Berrington was made that way, and—so an Oxford wag declared—would have found food for laughter with a noose around his neck.
"Hi, there! Hi! hi. For Heaven's sake, my masters! Hey——"
Michael leant over the side of the coach and called aloud to the driver to pull up.
A man, in holland smock, and face as white as chalk, had burst through the hedge on their left and was running frantically after them.
"Hey, hi, for Heaven's——"
He was breathless before he reached them, and the anathemas of the beetroot-nosed passenger rose high above his fur collar.
But Michael—nimble now as when, ten years before, he had scaled a high garden wall with a child's ball—had swung himself down on to the ground beside the man.
"Come," he cried gaily; "you've been running. Have a drink, my friend, and tell us the merry news afterwards. I'll wager it's worth the hearing."
The man gulped down the contents of the extended flask readily enough, and proceeded to tell his tale in crescendo tones.
He had been working yonder with the mangels for Farmer Benton's sheep, and had just stepped into the copse near, when he heard voices on the other side of it, and the jingling of bits.
Gentlemen of the road they were—three of them, black-masked, and dainty in their dress as any lords. How they laughed too, little dreaming of the mangel-digger, as they discussed how they and the rest of their band meant to rob the Oxford coach at Craven's Hollow, not far from Reading. Seven was the hour, and the prey secure. A lonely place, my masters, and rich booty. They had news of a certain gentleman whose valise was worth risking their necks for.
The man told his tale in the broad Berkshire dialect, but the outline of it was enough for those who rode on the Oxford coach.
Marry! What a to-do there was! Gabbling, crying, cursing—one urging this thing, one the other, whilst the excitement of the beetroot-nosed passenger caused more than one to wonder what his valise contained.
And above all the cackling and hysterical shrieks of the women, rose a rollicking voice.
"The hour of seven," cried Michael Berrington, with gusty laughter. "And it's not six of the clock yet. Why, troth, we'll be miles away past Craven's Hollow and through Reading itself before then, so you give me leave to handle the ribbons."
More clamour at this you may be sure, more cursings too, and cries that to be robbed by highwaymen was better than to have their necks broken by a mad young blood from Oxford University.
But Michael's friends were nearest the driver, and the beetroot-nosed passenger stood their champion, so that, before more could be said, the driver of the "Red Reindeer" was whisked from his seat and stowed struggling away in the custody of two chuckling Oxonians, whilst Michael gathered up the reins with a cry of encouragement to the horses, which were growing restive with long standing in the cold.
It was Tom Blakeley who wound the horn, and he of the beetroot nose who cried "Well played," as the greys leapt forward under the light touch of the lash, leaving the mangel-digger—richer by many a coin of the realm—to pass the time of night with a certain bearded traveller who swore, with mighty pretty oaths and hectorings, that he would rather tramp it through the slush to Reading than trust his neck to any devil-may-care Oxford scholar.
And meantime Michael Berrington drove as surely those four sleek but sweating greys had never been driven before.
Those within the coach vowed that their last hour had come, and clung together, the women in hysterics, and the men swearing as a sudden jolt would fling them one against the other, whilst shrieks and groans told of bumps and bruises manifold.
Outside, however, things wore a merrier aspect.
The Oxford grads were enjoying themselves, trolling out jocular songs as though they sat to see the finish of the punch-bowl at a College wine, rather than a likely finish in a neighbouring ditch with a broken neck or two thrown in.
But the stranger with the nose and valise neither sang nor swore, but sat behind Michael, urging him to quicken his steeds' pace again and again, in tones which were inflected with growing anxiety.
But Michael needed no urging.
He was at least half an Irishman and was bred for a sportsman; moreover, he meant winning that race.
Faith! those inside might split, slit, and confound themselves and others till they were hoarse, the coachman, pinioned firmly by Nat and Horace Goulden, might entreat and implore for pity on horses and passengers, but Michael heeded nothing of them all.
High above the shrieking wind and creaking of tossing boughs overhead rose his strong, young voice, whooping on the straining, panting steeds as they dashed downhill at a gallop.
It was Providence that looked to the wheels of the coach.
A yell from Tom Blakeley, perched behind, set hearts a-thumping lustily.
Cross roads and a stretch of common land had shown keen eyes the sight of a group of horsemen riding with loose rein to meet them.
Half a mile lower was Craven's Hollow, and our merry gentlemen of the road were on their way for their tryst.
But the Oxford coach was half an hour before her time.
"Hola! Hola! Hola!"
It was a wonder those chanting grads did not fling themselves from the coach-top in their excitement.
They were ahead of their pursuers.
Blunderbusses and pistols had been handed up from the arm-chest below, but it was agreed that a fight was to be avoided.
These gentry of the black mask were straight shooters and might let more hot blood than was desirable.
"Hola! Hola! gallant greys! The best feed Reading can provide, and no more journeyings to-night if you do it."
Michael's voice, coaxing at first, rose to shrill command, as the long whip cracked, and the