Louise, with a heavy, silver-plated candlestick in her hand, stood upon
the uneven floor of the bedroom to which she had been conducted, looking
up at the oak-framed family tree which hung above the broad
chimney-piece. She examined the coat of arms emblazoned in the corner,
and peered curiously at the last neatly printed addition, which
indicated Stephen and John Strangewey as the sole survivors of a
diminishing line. When at last she turned away, she found the name upon
her lips.
"Strangewey!" she murmured. "John Strangewey! The name seems to bring
something into my memory. Have I ever known any one with such a name,
Aline?"
The maid shook her head.
"Never, _madame_, to the best of my belief," she declared. "Yet I, too,
seem to have heard it, and lately. It is perplexing. One has seen it
somewhere. One finds it familiar."
Louise shrugged her shoulders. She stood for a moment looking around her
before she laid down the candlestick.
The room was of unusual size, with two worm-eaten beams across the
ceiling; the windows were casemented, with broad seats in each recess.
The dressing table, upon which her belongings were set out, was of
solid, black oak, as was also the framework of the huge sofa, the
mirror, and the chairs. The ancient four-poster, hung with chintz and
supported by carved pillars, was spread with fine linen and covered with
a quilt made of small pieces of silk, lavender-perfumed. The great
wardrobe, with its solid mahogany doors, seemed ancient enough to have
stood in its place since the building of the house itself. A log of
sweet-smelling wood burned cheerfully in the open fireplace.
"Really," Louise decided, "we have been most fortunate. This is an
adventure! Aline, give me some black silk stockings and some black
slippers. I will change nothing else."
The maid obeyed in somewhat ominous silence. Her mistress, however, was
living in a little world of her own.
"John Strangewey!" she murmured to herself, glancing across the room at
the family tree. "It is really curious how that name brings with it a
sense of familiarity. It is so unusual, too. And what an unusual-looking
person! Do you think, Aline, that you ever saw any one so superbly
handsome?"
The maid's little grimace was expressive.
"Never, _madame_," she replied. "And yet to think of it--a gentleman, a
person of intelligence, who lives here always, outside the world, with
just a terrible old man servant, the only domestic in the house! Nearly
all the cooking is done at the bailiff's, a quarter of a mile away."
Louise nodded thoughtfully.
"It is very strange," she admitted. "I should like to understand it.
Perhaps," she added, half to herself, "some day I shall."
She passed across the room, and on her way paused before an old
cheval-glass, before which were suspended two silver candlesticks
containing lighted wax candles. She looked steadfastly at her own
reflection. A little smile parted her lips. In the bedroom of this
quaint farmhouse she was looking upon a face and a figure which the
illustrated papers and the enterprise of the modern photographer had
combined to make familiar to the world.
A curious feeling came to her that she was looking at the face of a
stranger. She gazed earnestly into the mirror, with new eyes and a new
curiosity. She contemplated critically the lines of her slender figure
in its neat, perfectly tailored skirt--the figure of a girl, it seemed,
notwithstanding her twenty-seven years. Her soft, white blouse was open
at the neck, displaying a beautifully rounded throat. Her eyes traveled
upward, and dwelt with an almost passionate interest upon the oval face,
a little paler at that moment than usual; with its earnest, brown eyes,
its faint, silky eyebrows, its strong, yet mobile features; its lips a
little full, perhaps, but soft and sensitive; at the masses of brown
hair drawn low over her ears.
This was herself, then. Did she really justify her reputation for
beauty, or was she just a cult, the passing craze of a world a little
weary of the ordinary standards? Or, again, was it only her art that had
focused the admiration of the world upon her?
How would she seem to these two men down-stairs, she asked herself--the
dour, grim master of the house, and her more youthful rescuer, whose
coming had somehow touched her fancy? They saw so little of her sex.
They seemed, in a sense, to be in league against it. Would they find out
that they were entertaining an angel unawares?
She thought with a gratified smile of her incognito. It was a real
trial of her strength, this! When she turned away from the mirror the
smile still lingered upon her lips, a soft light of anticipation was
shining in her eyes.
John met her at the foot of the stairs. She noticed with some surprise
that he was wearing the dinner-jacket and black tie of civilization.
"Will you come this way, please?" he begged. "Supper is quite ready."
He held open the door of one of the rooms on the other side of the hall,
and she passed into a low dining room, dimly lit with shaded lamps. The
elder brother rose from his chair as they entered, although his
salutation was even grimmer than his first welcome. He was wearing a
dress-coat of old-fashioned cut, and a black stock, and he remained
standing, without any smile or word of greeting, until she had taken her
seat. Behind his chair stood a very ancient man servant in a gray
pepper-and-salt suit, with a white tie, whose expression, at the
entrance of this unexpected guest, seemed curiously to reflect the
inhospitable instincts of his master.
Although conscious of this atmosphere of antagonism, Louise looked
around her with frank admiration as she took her place in the
high-backed chair which John was holding for her. The correctness of the
setting appealed strongly to her artistic perceptions. The figures and
features of the two men--Stephen, tall, severe, stately; John, amazingly
handsome, but of the same type; the black-raftered ceiling; the Jacobean
sideboard; the huge easy chairs; the fine prints upon the walls; the
pine log which burned upon the open hearth--nowhere did there seem to be
a single alien or modern note.
The table was laid with all manner of cold dishes, supplemented by
others upon the sideboard. There were pots of jam and honey, a silver
teapot and silver spoons and forks of quaint design, strangely cut
glass, and a great Dresden bowl filled with flowers.
"I am afraid," John remarked, "that you are not used to dining at this
hour. My brother and I are very old-fashioned in our customs. If we had
had a little longer notice--"
"I never in my life saw anything that looked so delicious as your cold
chicken," Louise declared. "May I have some--and some ham? I believe
that you must farm some land yourselves. Everything looks as if it were
home-made or home-grown."
"We are certainly farmers," John admitted, with a smile, "and I don't
think there is much here that isn't of our own production."
"Of course, one must have some occupation, living so far out of the
world," Louise murmured. "I really am the most fortunate person," she
continued. "My car comes to grief in what seems to be a wilderness, and
I find myself in a very palace of plenty!"
"I am not sure that your maid agrees," John laughed. "She seemed rather
horrified when she found that there was no woman servant about the
place."
"Aline is spoiled, without a doubt," her mistress declared. "But is that
really the truth?"
"Absolutely."
"But how do you manage?" Louise went on. "Don't you need dairymaids, for
instance?"
"The farm buildings are some distance away from the house," John
explained. "There is quite a little colony at the back, and the woman
who superintends the dairy lives there. It is only in the house that we
are entirely independent of your sex. We manage, somehow or other, with
Jennings here and two boys."
"You are not both woman-haters, I hope?"
Her younger host flashed a warning glance at Louise, but it was too
late. Stephen had laid down his knife and fork and was leaning in her
direction.
"Madam," he intervened, "since you have asked the question, I will
confess that I have never known any good come to a man of our family
from the friendship or service of women. Our family history, if ever you
should come to know it, would amply justify my brother and myself for
our attitude toward your sex."
"Stephen!" John remonstrated, a slight frown upon his face. "Need you
weary our guest with your peculiar views? It is scarcely polite, to say
the least of it."
The older man sat, for a moment, grim and silent.
"Perhaps you are right, brother," he admitted. "This lady did not seek
our company, but it may interest her to know that she is the first woman
who has crossed the threshold of Peak Hall for a matter of six years."
Louise looked from one to the other, half incredulously.
"Do you really mean it? Is that literally true?" she asked John.
"Absolutely," the young man assured her; "but please remember that you
are none the less heartily welcome here. We have few women neighbors,
and intercourse with them seems to have slipped out of our lives. Tell
me, how far have you come to-day, and where did you hope to sleep
to-night?"
Louise hesitated for a moment. For some reason or other, the question
seemed to bring with it some unexpected and disturbing thought.
"I was motoring from Edinburgh. As regards to-night, I had not made up
my mind. I rather hoped to reach Kendal. My journey is not at all an
interesting matter to talk about," she went on. "Tell me about your life
here. It sounds most delightfully pastoral. Do you really mean that you
produce nearly everything yourselves? Your honey and preserves and bread
and butter, for instance--are they all home-made?"
"And our hams," the young man laughed, "and everything else upon the
table. You underestimate the potentiality of male labor. Jennings is
certainly a better cook than the average woman. Everything you see was
cooked by him. We have a sort of secondary kitchen, though, down at the
bailiff's, where the preserves are made and some of the other things."
"And you live here all the year round?" she asked.
"My brother," John told her, "has not been further away than the nearest
market-town for nearly twenty years."
Her eyes grew round with astonishment.
"But you go to London sometimes?"
"I was there eight years ago. Since then I have not been further away
than Carlisle or Kendal. I go into the camp near Kendal for three weeks
every year--Territorial training, you know."
"But how do you pass your time? What do you do with yourself?" she
asked.
"Farm," he answered. "Farming is our daily occupation. Then for
amusement we hunt, shoot, and fish. The seasons pass before we know it."
She looked appraisingly at John Strangewey. Notwithstanding his
sun-tanned cheeks and the splendid vigor of his form, there was nothing
in the least agricultural about his manner or his appearance. There was
humor as well as intelligence in his clear, gray eyes. She opined that
the books which lined one side of the room were at once his property and
his hobby.
"It is a very healthy life, no doubt," she said; "but somehow it seems
incomprehensible to think of a man like yourself living always in such
an out-of-the-way corner, with no desire to see what is going on in the
world, or to be able to form any estimate of the changes in men's
thoughts and habits. Human life seems to me so much more interesting
than anything else. Does this all sound a little impertinent?" she wound
up naively. "I am so sorry! My friends spoil me, I believe, and I get
into the habit of saying things just as they come into my head."
John's lips were open to reply, but Stephen once more intervened.
"Life means a different thing to each of us, madam," he said sternly.
"There are many born with the lust for cities and the crowded places in
their hearts, born with the desire to mingle with their fellows, to
absorb the conventional vices and virtues, to become one of the
multitude. It has been different with us Strangeweys."
Jennings, at a sign from his master, removed the tea equipage, evidently
produced in honor of their visitor. Three tall-stemmed glasses were
placed upon the table, and a decanter of port reverently produced.
Louise had fallen for a moment or two into a fit of abstraction. Her
eyes were fixed upon the opposite wall, from which, out of their faded
frames, a row of grim-looking men and women, startlingly like her two
hosts, seemed to frown down upon her.
"Is that your father?" she asked, moving her head toward one of the
portraits.
"My grandfather, John Strangewey," Stephen told her.
"Was he one of the wanderers?"
"He left Cumberland only twice during his life. He was master of hounds,
magistrate, colonel in the yeomanry of that period, and three times he
refused to stand for Parliament."
"John Strangewey!" Louise repeated softly to herself. "I was looking at
your family tree up-stairs," she went on. "It is curious how both my
maid and myself were struck with a sense of familiarity about the name,
as if we had heard or read something about it quite lately."
Her words were almost carelessly spoken, but she was conscious of the
somewhat ominous silence which ensued. She glanced up wonderingly and
intercepted a rapid look passing between the two men. More puzzled than
ever, she turned toward John as if for an explanation. He had risen
somewhat abruptly to his feet, and his hand was upon the back of her
chair.
"Will it be disagreeable to you if my brother smokes a pipe?" he asked.
"I tried to have our little drawing-room prepared for you, but the fire
has not been lit for so long that the room, I am afraid, is quite
impossible."
"Do let me stay here with you," she begged; "and I hope that both of you
will smoke. I am quite used to it."
John wheeled up an easy chair for her. Stephen, stiff and upright, sat
on the other side of the hearth. He took the tobacco-jar and pipe that
his brother had brought him, and slowly filled the bowl.
"With your permission, then, madam," he said, as he struck a match.
Louise smiled graciously. Some instinct prompted her to stifle her own
craving for a cigarette and keep her little gold case hidden in her
pocket. All the time her eyes were wandering around the room. Suddenly
she rose and, moving round the table, stood once more facing the row of
gloomy-looking portraits.
"So that is your grandfather," she remarked to John, who had followed
her. "Is your father not here?"
He shook his head.
"My father's portrait was never painted."
"Tell the truth, John," Stephen enjoined, rising in his place and
setting down his pipe. "Our father's portrait is not here, madam,
because he was one of those of whom I have spoken--one of those who were
drawn into the vortex of the city, and who knew only the shallow ways of
life. Listen!"
With a heavy silver candlestick in either hand, Stephen crossed the
room. He raised them high above his head and pointed to the pictures one
by one.
"John Robert Strangewey, our great-grandfather," he began. "That picture
was a presentation from the farmers of Cumberland. He, too, was a
magistrate, and held many public offices in the county.
"By his side is his brother, Stephen George Strangewey. For thirty-five
years he took the chair at the farmers' ordinary at Market Ketton on
every Saturday at one o'clock, and there was never a deserving man in
this part of the county, engaged in agricultural pursuits, who at any
time sought his aid in vain. They always knew where he was to be found,
and every Saturday, before dinner was served, there would be some one
there to seek his aid or advice. He lived his life to his own benefit
and to the benefit of his neighbors--the life which we are all sent here
to lead.
"Two generations before him you see my namesake, Stephen Strangewey. It
was he who invented the first threshing-machine used in this county. He
farmed the land that my brother and I own to-day. He was churchwarden at
our little church, and he, too, was a magistrate. He did his duty in a
smaller way, but zealously and honestly, among the hillmen of this
district."
"There are gaps in your family history," Louise observed.
"The gaps, madam," Stephen explained, "are left by those who have
abandoned their natural heritage. We Strangeweys were hillfolk and
farmers, by descent and destiny, for more than four hundred years. Our
place is here upon the land, almost among the clouds, and those of us
who have realized it have led the lives God meant us to lead. There have
been some of our race who have been tempted into the lowlands and the
cities. Not one of them brought honor upon our name. Their pictures are
not here. They are not worthy to be here."
Stephen set down the candlesticks and returned to his place. Louise,
with her hands clasped behind her back, glanced toward John, who still
stood by her side.
"Tell me," she asked him, "have none of your people who went out into
the world done well for themselves?"
"Scarcely one," he admitted. "My brother's words seem a little sweeping,
but they are very near the truth. The air of the great cities seems to
have poisoned every Strangewey--"
"Not one," Stephen interrupted. "Colonel John Strangewey died leading
his regiment at Waterloo, an end well enough, but reached through many
years of evil conduct and loose living."
"He was a brave soldier," John put in quietly.
"That is true," Stephen admitted. "His best friends have claimed no
other quality for him. Madam," he went on, turning toward Louise, "lest
my welcome to you this evening should have seemed inhospitable, let me
tell you this. Every Strangewey who has left our county, and trodden the
downward path of failure, has done so at the instance of one of your
sex. That is why those of us who inherit the family spirit look askance
upon all strange women. That is why no woman is ever welcome within this
house."
Louise resumed her seat in the easy chair.
"I am so sorry," she murmured, looking down at her slipper. "I could not
help breaking down here, could I?"
"Nor could my brother fail to offer you the hospitality of this roof,"
Stephen admitted. "The incident was unfortunate but inevitable. It is a
matter for regret that we have so little to offer you in the way of
entertainment." He rose to his feet. The door had been opened. Jennings
was standing there with a candlestick upon a massive silver salver.
Behind him was Aline. "You are doubtless fatigued by your journey,
madam," Stephen concluded.
Louise made a little grimace, but she rose at once to her feet. She
understood quite well that she was being sent to bed, and she shivered a
little when she looked at the hour--barely ten o'clock. Yet it was all
in keeping. From the doorway she looked back into the room, in which
nothing seemed to have been touched for centuries. She stood upon the
threshold to bid her final good-night, fully conscious of the complete
anachronism of her presence there.
Her smile for Stephen was respectful and full of dignity. As she glanced
toward John, however, something flashed in her eyes and quivered at the
corners of her lips, something which escaped her control, something
which made him grip for a moment the back of the chair against which he
stood. Then, between the old man servant, who insisted upon carrying her
candle to her room, and her maid, who walked behind, she crossed the
white stone hall and stepped slowly up the broad flight of stairs.