It was a room of silence, save for the hissing of the green logs that
burned on the open hearth, and for the slow movements of Jennings as he
cleared the table. Straight and grim in his chair, with the newspaper by
his side, Stephen Strangewey sat smoking stolidly. Opposite to him,
almost as grim, equally silent, sat John.
"Things were quiet at Market Ketton to-day, then, John?" Stephen asked
at last.
"There was nothing doing," was the brief reply.
That, for the space of a quarter of an hour or so, was the sole attempt
at conversation between the two brothers. Then Jennings appeared with a
decanter of wine and two glasses, which he reverently filled. Stephen
held his up to the light and looked at it critically. John's remained by
his side, unnoticed.
"A glass for yourself, Jennings," Stephen ordered.
"I thank ye kindly, sir," the old man replied.
He fetched a glass from the sideboard, filled it, and held it
respectfully before him.
"It's the old toast," Stephen said glumly. "You know it!"
"Aye, Master Stephen!" the servant assented. "We've drunk it together
for many a long year. I give it ye now with all my heart--confusion to
all women!"
They both glanced toward John, who showed no signs of movement. Then
they drank together, the older man and his servant. Still John never
moved. Jennings drained his glass, placed the decanter by his master's
side, and withdrew.
"So the poison's still there, brother?" Stephen asked.
"And will be so long as I live," John confessed gloomily. "For all that,
I'll not drink your toast."
"Why not?"
"There was a little girl--you saw her when you were in London. She is
married now, but I think of her sometimes; and when I do, you and old
Jennings seem to me like a couple of blithering idiots cursing things
too wonderful for you to understand!"
Stephen made no protest. For a time he smoked in silence. Curiously
enough, as they sat there together, some of the grim fierceness seemed
to have passed from his expression and settled upon John. More than
once, as he looked across at his younger brother, it almost seemed as if
there was something of self-reproach in his questioning look.
"You dined at the ordinary in Market Ketton?" Stephen asked at last.
"I did."
"Then you heard the news?"
"Who could help it?" John muttered. "There wasn't much else talked
about."
"Bailiff Henderson has been over here," Stephen went on. "There's a
small army of painters and decorators coming down to the castle next
week. You saw the announcement of the wedding in the _Morning Post_,
maybe?"
John assented without words. Stephen smoked vigorously for a few
moments. Every now and then he glanced across to where John was sitting.
Once again the uneasiness was in his eyes, an uneasiness which was
almost self-reproach.
"You mind what I called her once, John--a witch-woman? She is that,
right enough. This marriage of hers proves it. Although he is half a
Frenchman, the Prince of Seyre is the greatest landowner in the county.
He is the worst landlord, maybe, but the blood's there. He is a man who
has lived among women all his life. He should know something about them,
and be proof against their wiles. Yet he's going to marry her next
Thursday!"
John moved a little restlessly in his chair.
"Let's drop it, Stephen," he begged. "We both know the facts. She is
going to marry him, and that's the end of it. Fill your glass up again.
Here's mine untouched. I'll drink your toast with you, if you'll leave
out the little girl who was kind to me. I'll give it to you
myself--confusion to all women!"
"Confusion to--" Stephen began. "What on earth is that?"
They both heard it at the same time--the faint beating of a motor-engine
in the distance. John set down his glass. There was a strange look in
his eyes.
"There are more cars passing along the road now than in the old days,"
he muttered; "but that's a queer sound. It reminds one--good Heavens,
how it reminds one!"
There was a look of agony in his face for a moment. Then once more he
raised his glass to his lips.
"It's passed out of hearing," Stephen said. "It's some one on the way to
the castle, maybe."
Still their glasses remained suspended in mid air. The little garden
gate had opened and closed with a click; there were footsteps upon the
flinty walk.
"It's some one coming here!" John cried hoarsely. "Why can't they keep
away? It's two years ago this week since I brought her up the drive and
you met us at the front door. Two years ago, Stephen! Who can it be?"
They heard the front door open, they heard Jenning's voice raised in
unusual and indignant protest. Then their own door was suddenly flung
wide, and a miracle happened. John's glass slipped from his fingers, and
the wine streamed out across the carpet. He shrank back, gripping the
tablecloth. Stephen turned his head, and sat as if turned to stone.
"John!"
She was coming toward him exactly as he had dreamed of her so many
times, her hands outstretched, her lips quivering, with that sweet look
in her face which had dwelt there once for a few days--just a few days
of her life.
"John," she faltered, "it isn't the car this time--it is I who have
broken down! I cannot go on. I have no pride left. I have come to you.
Will you help me?"
He found himself upon his feet. Stephen, too, had risen. She stood
between the two men, and glanced from one to the other. Then she looked
more closely into John's face, peering forward with a little start of
pain, and her eyes were filled with tears.
"John," she cried, "forgive me! You were so cruel that morning, and you
seemed to understand so little. Don't you really understand, even now?
Have you ever known the truth, I wonder?"
"The truth!" he echoed hoarsely. "Don't we all know that? Don't we all
know that he is to give you your rights, that you are coming--"
"Stop!" she ordered him.
He obeyed, and for a moment there was silence--a tense, strained
silence.
"John," she continued at last, "I have no rights to receive from the
Prince of Seyre. He owes me nothing. Listen! Always we have seen life
differently, you and I. To me there is only one great thing, and that is
love; and beyond that nothing counts. I tried to love the prince before
you came, and I thought I did, and I promised him at last what you know,
because I believed that he loved me and that I loved him, and that if so
it was his right. Look down the road, John! On that night I was on my
way to the castle, to give myself to him; but I broke down, and in the
morning the world was all different, and I went back to London. It has
been different ever since, and there has never been any question of
anything between the prince and me, because I knew that it was not
love."
John was shaking in every limb. His eyes were filled with fierce
questioning. Stephen sat there, and there was wonder in his face, too.
"When you came to me that morning," she went on, "you spoke to me in a
strange tongue. I couldn't understand you, you seemed so far away. I
wanted to tell you the whole truth, but I didn't. Perhaps I wasn't
sure--perhaps it seemed to me that it was best for me to forget, if ever
I had cared, for the ways of our lives seemed so far apart. You went
away, and I drifted on; but it wasn't true that I ever promised to marry
the prince. No one had any right to put that paragraph in the
newspaper!"
"But what are you doing here, then?" John asked hoarsely. "Aren't you on
your way to the castle?"
She came a little nearer still; her arms went around his neck.
"You dear stupid!" she cried. "Haven't I told you? I've tried to do
without you, and I can't. I've come for you. Come outside, please! It's
quite light. The moon's coming over the hills. I want to walk up the
orchard. I want to hear just what I've come to hear!"
He passed out of the room in a dream, under the blossom-laden boughs of
the orchard, and up the hillside toward the church. The dream passed,
but Louise remained, flesh and blood. Her lips were warm and her arms
held him almost feverishly.
"In that little church, John, and quickly--so quickly, please!" she
whispered.
* * * * *
Jennings hastened in to where Stephen was sitting alone.
"Mr. Stephen," he cried, "what's coming to us? There's that French hussy
outside, and a motor-car in the drive, and the chauffeur's asking where
he's to sleep. The woman wants to know whether she can have the same
bedroom for her mistress as last time!"
"Then why don't you go and see about it, you old fool?" Stephen replied.
"Pick up those pieces of glass there, lay the cloth, and get some supper
ready."
Jennings gazed at his master, dumbfounded. No power of speech remained
to him.
Through the open doorway they heard Aline's voice in the hall.
"Meester Jennings, will you please come and help me with the luggage?"
"Get along with you!" Stephen ordered. "You'd better hurry up with the
supper, too. The boy Tom can see to the luggage."
The old man recovered himself slowly.
"You're taking 'em in, sir--taking 'em into the house?" he gasped. "What
about that toast?"
Stephen refilled two glasses.
"We'd better alter it a little," he declared. "Here's confusion to most
women, but luck to John and his wife!"
"Mr. John and his wife!" Jennings repeated, as he set his glass down
empty. "I'll just see that them sheets is aired up-stairs, sir, or that
hussy will be making eyes at Tom!"
He departed, and Stephen was left alone. He sat and listened to the
sound of luggage being taken upstairs, to Aline's little torrent of
directions, good-humored but profuse, to the sound of preparations in
the kitchen. In the room the tall clock ticked solemnly; a fragment of
the log every now and then fell upon the hearth.
Presently he rose to his feet. He heard the click of the garden gate,
the sound of John and Louise returning. He rose and stood ready to
welcome them.