Part 17

He slipped in his clutch and drove off through the rain-gleaming streets with the smile and air of a conqueror. Louise passed into her little house to find a visitor waiting for her there.

XXX

Eugene, Prince of Seyre, had spent the early part of that afternoon in a manner wholly strange to him. In pursuance of an order given to his majordomo immediately on his return from the club after lunch, the great reception rooms of Seyre House, the picture-gallery and the ballroom, were prepared as if for a reception. Dust-sheets were swept aside, masterpieces of painting and sculpture were uncovered, the soft brilliance of concealed electric lights lit up many dark corners.

When all was ready, the prince, with his hands clasped behind him, with expressionless face and slow, thoughtful movements, passed from room to room of the treasure-house which had come to him through a long line of distinguished and famous men. Here and there he paused to handle with the fingers of a connoisseur some excellent piece of bronze statuary, some miracle of Sevres china, some treasure of carved ivory, yellow with age. And more than once he stood still for several minutes in rapt contemplation of one of the great masterpieces with which the walls were hung.

As he passed, a solitary figure, from one to another of that long chain of lofty, palatial rooms, his stature seemed more than ever insignificant; yet he walked always with the dignity of the master. Notwithstanding the slight excesses of his immaculate morning dress, his pallid features, his insignificant build, he appeared to belong to these things, to dominate them, to understand them. Every beautiful object upon which he looked brought back to his memory some reminiscence of his years of travel. He knew the history of the chinas and the bronzes, the statuary and the lacquer-work, the friezes, and the great pictures which adorned his house. Perhaps, he thought, as he paused to study some Italian tapestry of his own discovery, he had spent too many years in the contemplative life.

There had been many careers open to him in his younger days. France was still his own country, and he might easily have joined the long line of soldiers whose portraits filled one side of the picture-gallery. Once he had had ambitions, either to wield the sword or to take his place in the world of diplomacy. It was his political inheritance which had deadened them, the awful debt of blood that he still owed to the enemies of his race. He had found the spirit of patriotism dead within him, and in that day he had turned his back upon his country. Since then he had carried his great name through the pleasure places of the world, always upholding its dignity, perhaps, but never adding to its luster.

He was forty-one years old that day, and the few words which John had spoken to him barely an hour ago had made him realize that there was only one thing in life that he desired. The sight of his treasures merely soothed his vanity. It left empty and unsatisfied his fuller and deeper desire of living. He told himself that his time had come. Others of his race had paid a great price for the things they had coveted in life. He, too, must follow their example.

He was in Louise's drawing-room when she returned--Louise, with hair and cheeks a little damp, but with a wonderful light in her eyes and with footsteps that seemed to fall upon air.

"Some tea and a bath this moment, Aline!" she called out, as she ran lightly up the stairs. "Never mind about dinner, I am so late. I will have some toast. Be quick!"

"_Madame_--" Aline began.

"Don't bother me about anything now," Louise interrupted. "I will throw my things off while you get the bath ready."

She stepped into her little room, throwing off her cloak as she entered. Then she stopped short, almost upon the threshold. The prince had risen to his feet.

"Eugene!"

He came toward her. Even as he stooped to kiss her fingers, his eyes seemed to take in her disheveled condition, the little patches of color in her cheeks, the radiant happiness which shone in her eyes.

"I am not an unwelcome intruder, I hope," he said. "But how wet you are!"

The fingers which he released fell nervelessly to her side. She stood looking at him as if confronted with a sudden nightmare. It was as if this new-found life were being slowly drained from her veins.

"You are overtired," he murmured, leading her with solicitude toward an easy chair. "One would imagine, from your appearance, that I was the bearer of some terrible tidings. Let me assure you that it is not so."

He spoke with his usual deliberation, but she seemed powerless to recover herself. She was still dazed and white. She sank into the chair and looked at him.

"Nothing, I trust," he went on, "has happened to disturb you?"

"Nothing at all," she declared hastily. "I am tired. I ran up-stairs perhaps a little too quickly. Aline had not told me that there was any one here."

"I had a fancy to see you this afternoon," the prince explained, "and, finding you out, I took the liberty of waiting. If you would rather I went away and came for you later, please do not hesitate to say so."

"Of course not!" she exclaimed. "I do not know why I should have been so silly. Aline, take my coat and veil," she directed, turning to the maid, who was lingering at the other end of the room. "I am not wet. Serve some tea in here. I will have my bath later, when I change to go to the theater."

She spoke bravely, but fear was in her heart. She tried to tell herself that this visit was a coincidence, that it meant nothing, but all the time she knew otherwise.

The door closed behind Aline, and they were alone. The prince, as if anxious to give her time to recover herself, walked to the window and stood for some moments looking out. When he turned around, Louise had at least nerved herself to meet what she felt was imminent.

The prince approached her deliberately. She knew what he was going to say.

"Louise," he began, drawing a chair to her side, "I have found myself thinking a great deal about you during the last few weeks."

She did not interrupt him. She simply waited and watched.

"I have come to a certain determination," he proceeded; "one which, if you will grace it with your approval, will give me great happiness. I ask you to forget certain things which have passed between us. I have come to you to-day to beg you to do me the honor of becoming my wife."

She turned her head very slowly until she was looking him full in the face. Her lips were a little parted, her eyes a little strained. The prince was leaning toward her in a conventional attitude; his words had been spoken simply and in his usual conversational manner. There was something about him, however, profoundly convincing.

"Your wife!" Louise repeated.

"If you will do me that great honor."

It seemed at first as if her nerves were strained to the breaking-point. The situation was one with which her brain seemed unable to grapple. She set her teeth tightly. Then she had a sudden interlude of wonderful clear-sightedness. She was almost cool.

"You must forgive my surprise, Eugene," she begged. "We have known each other now for some twelve years, have we not?--and I believe that this is the first time you have ever hinted at anything of the sort!"

"One gathers wisdom, perhaps, with the years," he replied. "I am forty-one years old to-day. I have spent the early hours of this afternoon in reflection, and behold the result!"

"You have spoken to me before," she said slowly, "of different things. You have offered me a great deal in life, but never your name. I do not understand this sudden change!"

"Louise," he declared, "if I do not tell you the truth now, you will probably guess it. Besides, this is the one time in their lives when a man and a woman should speak nothing but the truth. It is for fear of losing you--that is why."

Her self-control suddenly gave way. She threw herself back in her chair. She began to laugh and stopped abruptly, the tears streaming from her eyes. The prince leaned forward. He took her hands in his, but she drew them away.

"You are too late, Eugene!" she said. "I almost loved you. I was almost yours to do whatever you liked with. But somehow, somewhere, notwithstanding all your worldly knowledge and mine, we missed it. We do not know the truth about life, you and I--at least you do not, and I did not."

He rose very slowly to his feet. There was no visible change in his face save a slight whitening of the cheeks.

"And the sequel to this?" he asked.

"I have promised to marry John Strangewey," she told him.

"That," he replied, "is impossible! I have a prior claim."

The light of battle flamed suddenly in her eyes. Her nervousness had gone. She was a strong woman, face to face with him now, taller than he, seeming, indeed, to tower over him in the splendor of her anger. She was like a lioness threatened with the loss of the one dear thing.

"Assert it, then!" she cried defiantly. "Do what you will. Go to him this minute, if you have courage enough, if it seems to you well. Claim, indeed! Right! I have the one right every woman in the world possesses--to give herself, body and soul, to the man she loves! That is the only claim and the only right I recognize, and I am giving myself to him, when he wants me, forever!"

She stopped suddenly. Neither of them had heard a discreet knock at the door. Aline had entered with the tea. There was a moment of silence.

"Put it down here by my side, Aline," her mistress ordered, "and show the Prince of Seyre out."

Aline held the door open. For a single moment the prince hesitated. Then he picked up his hat and bowed.

"Perhaps," he said, "this may not be the last word!"

XXXI

Jennings stood with a decanter in his hand, looking resentfully at his master's untasted wine. He shook his head ponderously. Not only was the wine untouched, but the _Cumberland Times_ lay unopened upon the table. Grim and severe in his high-backed chair, Stephen Strangewey sat with his eyes fixed upon the curtained window.

"There's nothing wrong with the wine, I hope, sir?" the man asked. "It's not 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 old habits. 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 higher yesterday at Market Ketton, and there's talk of a bad shortage of fodder in 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!" he muttered, as he crossed the room, toward the sideboard. "It's more a night, this, to my way of thinking, for drinking a second glass of wine than for shilly-shallying with the first. There's the wind coming across Townley Moor and down the Fells strong enough to blow the rocks out of the ground. It 'minds me of the time Mr. John was out with the Territorials, and they tried the moor for their big guns."

The rain lashed the window-panes, and the wind whistled past the front of the house. Stephen sat quite still, as if listening--it may have been to the storm.

"Well, here's your pipe, sir," Jennings continued, laying it by his master's side, "and your tobacco and the matches. If you'd smoke less and drink a glass or two more of the right stuff, it would be more to my liking."

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 for yourself."

Jennings obeyed promptly. Stephen filled both glasses, and the two men looked at each other as they held them out.

"Here's confusion to all women!" Stephen said, as he raised his to his lips.

"Amen, sir!" Jennings muttered.

They set down the two empty glasses. Stephen lit his pipe. He sat smoking stolidly, blowing out great clouds of smoke. Jennings retreated, coughing resentfully.

"Spoils the taste of good wine, that tobacco do," he snapped. "Good port like 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. The front door had been opened and shut. There were steps upon the stone floor of the hall--firm, familiar steps.

Jennings, with his mouth open, stood staring at the door. Stephen slowly turned his head. The hand which held his pipe was as firm as a rock, but there was a queer little gleam of expectation in his eyes. Then the door was thrown open and John entered. The rain was dripping from his clothes. He was breathless from his struggle with the elements.

The two other men looked at him fixedly. They both realized the same thing at the same moment--there was no trace of the returned prodigal in John's countenance, or in his buoyant expression. The ten-mile ride seemed to have brought back all his color.

"Master John!" Jennings faltered.

Stephen said nothing. John crossed the room and gripped his brother's hand.

"Wet through to the skin, and starving!" he declared. "I thought I'd find something at Ketton, but it was all I could do to get Gibson, at the George, to lend me a horse. Give me a glass of wine, Jennings. I'll change my clothes--I expect you've kept them aired."

Not a word of explanation concerning his sudden return, nor did either of the two ask any questions. They set the bell clanging in the stable-yard and found shelter for the borrowed horse. Presently, in dry clothes, John sat down to a plentiful meal. His brother watched him with a 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 to remember! 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 London to 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 with tobacco, and lit it.

"Old man," he said, as he returned to his place, "it's all very well for you and old Jennings to put your heads together every night and drink confusion to all women; but you know very well that if there are to be any 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 all settled. She has promised to be my wife. I don't forget what we've been to each other. I don't forget the old name and the old tradition; but I have been fortunate enough to meet a woman whom I love, and I am going to 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 your hand 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 we Strangeweys died out, that the roof dropped off Peak Hall and the walls stood naked to the sky, than that this woman should be your wife and the mother of your children!"

"Let it go at that, then, Stephen," John replied. "It is enough for me to say that I will not take it ill from you, because you do not know her."

"But I do know her," Stephen answered. "Perhaps she didn't tell you that I paid her a visit?"

"You paid her a visit?"

"Aye, that I did! She wouldn't tell you. There'll be many a thing in life she won't tell you. I went to let her hear from my lips what I thought of her as a wife for you. I told her what I thought of a woman who plays the part of a wanton--"

"Stephen!" John thundered.

"The part of an adulterous wife upon the stage for every man and woman who 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. All the time he tried to keep one thought fixed in his mind. Stephen was his elder brother. It was Stephen who had been his guardian and his guide through all his youth. He thought of Stephen's fifty odd years of simple and strenuous living, of his charity, of his strength--that very strength which had kept him in the narrow way, which had kept him from looking to the right or to the left in his walk through life.

"Stephen," John said, "you are growing harder with the years. Was there never a time, when you were younger, when you were my age, when you felt differently toward women?"

"Never, thank Heaven!" Stephen replied. "I was too near the sorrow that fell upon our house when our father died with a broken heart. There were the other two as well--one with a bullet in his brain, the other a drunkard. Maybe, when I was your age, I felt at times what I suppose you feel. Well, I just took it in both hands and strangled it. If you must have a sweetheart, why don't you take the little fair-haired girl--Sophy, you called her? She'd do you as little harm as any of them."

"Because it is not a sweetheart of that sort I want," John protested vigorously. "I've had the same feelings as most men, I suppose, but I've fought my battle out to the end, only for a different reason. I want a wife and I want children."

"Will she bring you children, that woman?" Stephen asked bitterly.

"I hope so," John asserted simply. "I believe so."

There was a moment's silence. Stephen lit his pipe and puffed steadily at it, his eyes fixed upon the log that blazed on the hearth.

"There is a muzzle upon my mouth," he said presently. "There are words close to my lips which would part you and me, so I'll say no more. Go your own way, John. I'll ask you but one more question, and you must take 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 kept the 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 by the arm.

"Stephen," he said, "it's a hard fight for me, this, to sit face to face with you and know what you are thinking, with the love for this woman strong and sweet in my heart. You don't understand, Stephen; you're a long way from understanding. But you are my brother. Don't make it too hard! I am not a child. Believe in me. I would not take any woman to be my wife, and the mother of my children, who was not a good woman. I am off 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 best things 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 to know 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 the hands, "I love you this moment as I always have done and as I always shall do. And if this thing must be between us, I'll say but one last word, and you'll take it from me, even though I am the only man on earth you'd take it from. Before you marry, ask her!"

XXXII

John went back to town, telling himself that all had gone as well as he had expected. He had done his duty. He had told Stephen his news, and they had parted friends. Yet all the time he was conscious of an undercurrent of disconcerting thoughts.

Louise met him at the station, and he fancied that her expression, too, although she welcomed him gaily enough, was a little anxious.

"Well?" she asked, as she took his arm and led him to where her motor-car was waiting. "What did that terrible brother of yours say?"

John made a little grimace.

"It might have been worse," he declared. "Stephen wasn't pleased, of course. He hates women like poison, and he always will. That is because he doesn't know very much about them, and because he will insist upon dwelling upon certain unhappy incidents of our family history."

"I shall never forget the morning he came to call on me," Louise sighed. "He threatened all sorts of terrible things if I did not give you up."

"Why didn't you tell me about it?" John asked.

"I thought it might worry you," she replied, "and it couldn't do any good. He believed he was doing his duty. John, you are sure about yourself, aren't you?"

"Come and have tea with me in my rooms, and I'll tell you," he laughed.

"Just what I'd planned to do," she assented, with a sigh of content. "It's too late to go home and get back to the theater comfortably."

"The theater!" John murmured, a few minutes later, when they were seated in his comfortable little sitting room and he had ordered tea. "Do you know that I grudge those three or four hours of your day?"

"I believe I do, too," she admitted; "and yet a little while ago it was my only pleasure in life. Don't sit over there, please! You are much too far away. Closer still! Let me feel your arms. You are strong and brave, aren't you, John? You would not let any one take me away from you?"

He was a little startled by the earnestness of her words. She seemed pale and fragile, her eyes larger and deeper than usual, and her mouth tremulous. She was like a child with the shadow of some fear hanging over her. He laughed and held her tightly to him.

"There is nothing that could take you away--you know that quite well! There is nobody in the world whom you need fear for a single moment. If you have troubles, I am here to share them. If you have enemies, you can leave me to dispose of them."

"I think," she murmured, "that I am in an emotional frame of mind to-day. I am not often like this, you know. I woke this morning feeling so happy; and then, all of a sudden, I couldn't somehow believe in it--in myself. I felt it slip away. You won't let it slip away, John?"

"Never a chance!" he promised confidently. "Look at me. Do I seem like a person to be easily got rid of? What you need is a holiday, and you need it badly. We haven't made any plans yet, have we? I wonder whether we could break your contract at the theater!"

"We must talk to Graillot," she said. "There is a little Frenchwoman over here now. I once saw her act in Paris, and I am sure she could play _Therese_ wonderfully. But don't let's talk seriously any longer. Just let us sit here and talk nonsense!"

"Have you told any of your friends yet, Louise--the prince, for instance?"

He had asked this question on his way across the room to ring the bell. There was no reply, and when he turned around, a moment or two later, he was almost frightened. Louise was sitting quite still, but the color seemed to have been drained from her cheeks. Her eyes were filled with some expression which he did not wholly understand. He only knew that they were calling him to her side, and he promptly obeyed the summons. Her head fell upon his shoulder, her arms were locked about his neck.