XXXI
Jennings stood with a decanter in his hand, looking resentfully at hismaster's untasted wine. He shook his head ponderously. Not only was thewine untouched, but the _Cumberland Times_ lay unopened upon the table.Grim and severe in his high-backed chair, Stephen Strangewey sat withhis eyes fixed upon the curtained window.
"There's nothing wrong with the wine, I hope, sir?" the man asked. "It'snot corked or anything, sir?"
"Nothing is the matter with it," Stephen answered. "Bring me my pipe."
Jennings shook his head firmly.
"There's no call for you, sir," he declared, "to drop out of your oldhabits. You shall have your pipe when you've drunk that glass of port,and not before. Bless me! There's the paper by your side, all unread,and full of news, for I've glanced it through myself. Corn was higheryesterday at Market Ketton, and there's talk of a bad shortage of fodderin some parts."
Stephen raised his glass to his lips and drained its contents.
"Now bring me my pipe, Jennings," he ordered.
The old man was still disposed to grumble.
"Drinking wine like that as if it were some public-house stuff!" hemuttered, as he crossed the room, toward the sideboard. "It's more anight, this, to my way of thinking, for drinking a second glass of winethan for shilly-shallying with the first. There's the wind coming acrossTownley Moor and down the Fells strong enough to blow the rocks out ofthe ground. It 'minds me of the time Mr. John was out with theTerritorials, and they tried the moor for their big guns."
The rain lashed the window-panes, and the wind whistled past the frontof the house. Stephen sat quite still, as if listening--it may have beento the storm.
"Well, here's your pipe, sir," Jennings continued, laying it by hismaster's side, "and your tobacco and the matches. If you'd smoke lessand drink a glass or two more of the right stuff, it would be more to myliking."
Stephen filled his pipe with firm fingers. Then he laid it down, unlit,by his side.
"Bring me back the port, Jennings," he ordered, "and a glass foryourself."
Jennings obeyed promptly. Stephen filled both glasses, and the two menlooked at each other as they held them out.
"Here's confusion to all women!" Stephen said, as he raised his to hislips.
"Amen, sir!" Jennings muttered.
They set down the two empty glasses. Stephen lit his pipe. He satsmoking stolidly, blowing out great clouds of smoke. Jennings retreated,coughing resentfully.
"Spoils the taste of good wine, that tobacco do," he snapped. "Good portlike that should be left to lie upon the palate, so to speak. Bless me,what's that?"
Above the roar of the wind came another and unmistakable sound. Thefront door had been opened and shut. There were steps upon the stonefloor of the hall--firm, familiar steps.
Jennings, with his mouth open, stood staring at the door. Stephen slowlyturned his head. The hand which held his pipe was as firm as a rock, butthere was a queer little gleam of expectation in his eyes. Then the doorwas thrown open and John entered. The rain was dripping from hisclothes. He was breathless from his struggle with the elements.
The two other men looked at him fixedly. They both realized the samething at the same moment--there was no trace of the returned prodigal inJohn's countenance, or in his buoyant expression. The ten-mile rideseemed to have brought back all his color.
"Master John!" Jennings faltered.
Stephen said nothing. John crossed the room and gripped his brother'shand.
"Wet through to the skin, and starving!" he declared. "I thought I'dfind something at Ketton, but it was all I could do to get Gibson, atthe George, to lend me a horse. Give me a glass of wine, Jennings. I'llchange my clothes--I expect you've kept them aired."
Not a word of explanation concerning his sudden return, nor did eitherof the two ask any questions. They set the bell clanging in thestable-yard and found shelter for the borrowed horse. Presently, in dryclothes, John sat down to a plentiful meal. His brother watched him witha grim smile.
"You haven't forgotten how to eat in London, John," he remarked.
"If I had, a ten-mile ride on a night like this would help me toremember! How's the land doing?"
"Things are backward. The snow lay late, and we've had drying winds."
"And the stock?"
"Moderate. We are short of heifers. But you didn't come back from Londonto ask about the farm."
John pushed back his plate and drew his chair opposite to his brother's.
"I did not," he assented. "I came back to tell you my news."
"I was thinking that might be it," Stephen muttered.
John crossed the room, found his pipe in a drawer, filled it withtobacco, and lit it.
"Old man," he said, as he returned to his place, "it's all very well foryou and old Jennings to put your heads together every night and drinkconfusion to all women; but you know very well that if there are to beany more Strangeweys at Peak Hall, either you or I must marry!"
Stephen moved uneasily in his chair.
"If you're going to marry that woman--" he began.
"I am going to marry Louise Maurel," John interrupted firmly. "Stephen,listen to me for a moment before you say another word, please. It is allsettled. She has promised to be my wife. I don't forget what we've beento each other. I don't forget the old name and the old tradition; but Ihave been fortunate enough to meet a woman whom I love, and I am goingto marry her. Don't speak hurriedly, Stephen! Think whatever you will,but keep it to yourself. Some day I shall expect you to give me yourhand and tell me you are glad."
Stephen knocked the ashes deliberately from his pipe.
"I will tell you this much now," he said. "I had rather that weStrangeweys died out, that the roof dropped off Peak Hall and the wallsstood naked to the sky, than that this woman should be your wife and themother of your children!"
"Let it go at that, then, Stephen," John replied. "It is enough for meto say that I will not take it ill from you, because you do not knowher."
"But I do know her," Stephen answered. "Perhaps she didn't tell you thatI paid her a visit?"
"You paid her a visit?"
"Aye, that I did! She wouldn't tell you. There'll be many a thing inlife she won't tell you. I went to let her hear from my lips what Ithought of her as a wife for you. I told her what I thought of a womanwho plays the part of a wanton--"
"Stephen!" John thundered.
"The part of an adulterous wife upon the stage for every man and womanwho pay their silver to go and gape at! It seems I did no good--no good,that is, if she has promised to marry you."
John drew a breath. His task was harder, even, than he had imagined. Allthe time he tried to keep one thought fixed in his mind. Stephen was hiselder brother. It was Stephen who had been his guardian and his guidethrough all his youth. He thought of Stephen's fifty odd years of simpleand strenuous living, of his charity, of his strength--that verystrength which had kept him in the narrow way, which had kept him fromlooking to the right or to the left in his walk through life.
"Stephen," John said, "you are growing harder with the years. Was therenever a time, when you were younger, when you were my age, when you feltdifferently toward women?"
"Never, thank Heaven!" Stephen replied. "I was too near the sorrow thatfell upon our house when our father died with a broken heart. There werethe other two as well--one with a bullet in his brain, the other adrunkard. Maybe, when I was your age, I felt at times what I suppose youfeel. Well, I just took it in both hands and strangled it. If you musthave a sweetheart, why don't you take the little fair-hairedgirl--Sophy, you called her? She'd do you as little harm as any ofthem."
"Because it is not a sweetheart of that sort I want," John protestedvigorously. "I've had the same feelings as most men, I suppose, but I'vefought my battle out to the end, only for a different reason. I want awife and I want children."
"Will she bring you children, that woman?" Stephen asked bitterly.
&nb
sp; "I hope so," John asserted simply. "I believe so."
There was a moment's silence. Stephen lit his pipe and puffed steadilyat it, his eyes fixed upon the log that blazed on the hearth.
"There is a muzzle upon my mouth," he said presently. "There are wordsclose to my lips which would part you and me, so I'll say no more. Goyour own way, John. I'll ask you but one more question, and you musttake that as man from man, brother from brother. How old is she?"
"Twenty-seven."
"And she has been an actress, playing parts like the one I saw her in,for how long?"
"Since she was nineteen," John replied.
"And you believe she's a good woman?"
John gripped at the sides of his chair. With a tremendous effort he keptthe torrent of words from his lips.
"I know she is," he answered calmly.
"Has she told you so?"
"A man has no need to put such a question to the woman he cares for."
"Then you haven't asked her?"
John laid down his pipe and rose to his feet. He gripped his brother bythe arm.
"Stephen," he said, "it's a hard fight for me, this, to sit face to facewith you and know what you are thinking, with the love for this womanstrong and sweet in my heart. You don't understand, Stephen; you're along way from understanding. But you are my brother. Don't make it toohard! I am not a child. Believe in me. I would not take any woman to bemy wife, and the mother of my children, who was not a good woman. I amoff to-morrow morning, Stephen. I came all the way just on an impulse,because I felt that I must tell you myself. It would be one of the bestthings in the world to ride that ten miles back again to-morrow morning,to have told you how things are, to have felt your hand in mine, and toknow that there was no shadow of misunderstanding between us!"
Stephen, too, rose to his feet. They stood together before the fire.
"Man to man, John," Stephen said, as he gripped his brother by thehands, "I love you this moment as I always have done and as I alwaysshall do. And if this thing must be between us, I'll say but one lastword, and you'll take it from me, even though I am the only man on earthyou'd take it from. Before you marry, ask her!"