"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!"

x.x.xI

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 _c.u.mberland 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s for yourself."

Jennings obeyed promptly. Stephen filled both gla.s.ses, 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 gla.s.ses. 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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.sented. "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?"