The Hillman by E. Phillips Oppenheim
II
Louise, with a heavy, silver-plated candlestick in her hand, stood uponthe uneven floor of the bedroom to which she had been conducted, lookingup at the oak-framed family tree which hung above the broadchimney-piece. She examined the coat of arms emblazoned in the corner,and peered curiously at the last neatly printed addition, whichindicated Stephen and John Strangewey as the sole survivors of adiminishing line. When at last she turned away, she found the name uponher lips.
"Strangewey!" she murmured. "John Strangewey! The name seems to bringsomething 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 itsomewhere. One finds it familiar."
Louise shrugged her shoulders. She stood for a moment looking around herbefore she laid down the candlestick.
The room was of unusual size, with two worm-eaten beams across theceiling; the windows were casemented, with broad seats in each recess.The dressing table, upon which her belongings were set out, was ofsolid, black oak, as was also the framework of the huge sofa, themirror, and the chairs. The ancient four-poster, hung with chintz andsupported by carved pillars, was spread with fine linen and covered witha quilt made of small pieces of silk, lavender-perfumed. The greatwardrobe, with its solid mahogany doors, seemed ancient enough to havestood in its place since the building of the house itself. A log ofsweet-smelling wood burned cheerfully in the open fireplace.
"Really," Louise decided, "we have been most fortunate. This is anadventure! Aline, give me some black silk stockings and some blackslippers. I will change nothing else."
The maid obeyed in somewhat ominous silence. Her mistress, however, wasliving in a little world of her own.
"John Strangewey!" she murmured to herself, glancing across the room atthe family tree. "It is really curious how that name brings with it asense of familiarity. It is so unusual, too. And what an unusual-lookingperson! Do you think, Aline, that you ever saw any one so superblyhandsome?"
The maid's little grimace was expressive.
"Never, _madame_," she replied. "And yet to think of it--a gentleman, aperson of intelligence, who lives here always, outside the world, withjust a terrible old man servant, the only domestic in the house! Nearlyall 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 oldcheval-glass, before which were suspended two silver candlestickscontaining lighted wax candles. She looked steadfastly at her ownreflection. A little smile parted her lips. In the bedroom of thisquaint farmhouse she was looking upon a face and a figure which theillustrated papers and the enterprise of the modern photographer hadcombined to make familiar to the world.
A curious feeling came to her that she was looking at the face of astranger. She gazed earnestly into the mirror, with new eyes and a newcuriosity. She contemplated critically the lines of her slender figurein its neat, perfectly tailored skirt--the figure of a girl, it seemed,notwithstanding her twenty-seven years. Her soft, white blouse was openat the neck, displaying a beautifully rounded throat. Her eyes traveledupward, 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 alittle full, perhaps, but soft and sensitive; at the masses of brownhair drawn low over her ears.
This was herself, then. Did she really justify her reputation forbeauty, or was she just a cult, the passing craze of a world a littleweary of the ordinary standards? Or, again, was it only her art that hadfocused the admiration of the world upon her?
How would she seem to these two men down-stairs, she asked herself--thedour, grim master of the house, and her more youthful rescuer, whosecoming 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 outthat they were entertaining an angel unawares?
She thought with a gratified smile of her incognito. It was a realtrial of her strength, this! When she turned away from the mirror thesmile still lingered upon her lips, a soft light of anticipation wasshining in her eyes.
John met her at the foot of the stairs. She noticed with some surprisethat 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. Theelder brother rose from his chair as they entered, although hissalutation was even grimmer than his first welcome. He was wearing adress-coat of old-fashioned cut, and a black stock, and he remainedstanding, without any smile or word of greeting, until she had taken herseat. Behind his chair stood a very ancient man servant in a graypepper-and-salt suit, with a white tie, whose expression, at theentrance of this unexpected guest, seemed curiously to reflect theinhospitable instincts of his master.
Although conscious of this atmosphere of antagonism, Louise lookedaround her with frank admiration as she took her place in thehigh-backed chair which John was holding for her. The correctness of thesetting appealed strongly to her artistic perceptions. The figures andfeatures of the two men--Stephen, tall, severe, stately; John, amazinglyhandsome, but of the same type; the black-raftered ceiling; the Jacobeansideboard; the huge easy chairs; the fine prints upon the walls; thepine log which burned upon the open hearth--nowhere did there seem to bea single alien or modern note.
The table was laid with all manner of cold dishes, supplemented byothers upon the sideboard. There were pots of jam and honey, a silverteapot and silver spoons and forks of quaint design, strangely cutglass, and a great Dresden bowl filled with flowers.
"I am afraid," John remarked, "that you are not used to dining at thishour. My brother and I are very old-fashioned in our customs. If we hadhad a little longer notice--"
"I never in my life saw anything that looked so delicious as your coldchicken," Louise declared. "May I have some--and some ham? I believethat you must farm some land yourselves. Everything looks as if it werehome-made or home-grown."
"We are certainly farmers," John admitted, with a smile, "and I don'tthink there is much here that isn't of our own production."
"Of course, one must have some occupation, living so far out of theworld," Louise murmured. "I really am the most fortunate person," shecontinued. "My car comes to grief in what seems to be a wilderness, andI find myself in a very palace of plenty!"
"I am not sure that your maid agrees," John laughed. "She seemed ratherhorrified when she found that there was no woman servant about theplace."
"Aline is spoiled, without a doubt," her mistress declared. "But is thatreally the truth?"
"Absolutely."
"But how do you manage?" Louise went on. "Don't you need dairymaids, forinstance?"
"The farm buildings are some distance away from the house," Johnexplained. "There is quite a little colony at the back, and the womanwho superintends the dairy lives there. It is only in the house that weare entirely independent of your sex. We manage, somehow or other, withJennings here and two boys."
"You are not both woman-haters, I hope?"
Her younger host flashed a warning glance at Louise, but it was toolate. Stephen had laid down his knife and fork and was leaning in herdirection.
"Madam," he intervened, "since you have asked the question, I willconfess that I have never known any good come to a man of our familyfrom the friendship or service of women. Our family history, if ever youshould come to know it, would amply justify my brother and myself forour attitude toward your sex."
"Stephen!" John remonstrated,
The older man sat, for a moment, grim and silent.
"Perhaps you are right, brother," he admitted. "This lady did not seekour company, but it may interest her to know that she is the first womanwho 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 youare none the less heartily welcome here. We have few women neighbors,and intercourse with them seems to have slipped out of our lives. Tellme, how far have you come to-day, and where did you hope to sleepto-night?"
Louise hesitated for a moment. For some reason or other, the questionseemed to bring with it some unexpected and disturbing thought.
"I was motoring from Edinburgh. As regards to-night, I had not made upmy mind. I rather hoped to reach Kendal. My journey is not at all aninteresting matter to talk about," she went on. "Tell me about your lifehere. It sounds most delightfully pastoral. Do you really mean that youproduce nearly everything yourselves? Your honey and preserves and breadand butter, for instance--are they all home-made?"
"And our hams," the young man laughed, "and everything else upon thetable. You underestimate the potentiality of male labor. Jennings iscertainly a better cook than the average woman. Everything you see wascooked by him. We have a sort of secondary kitchen, though, down at thebailiff'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 nearestmarket-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 awaythan Carlisle or Kendal. I go into the camp near Kendal for three weeksevery year--Territorial training, you know."
"But how do you pass your time? What do you do with yourself?" sheasked.
"Farm," he answered. "Farming is our daily occupation. Then foramusement we hunt, shoot, and fish. The seasons pass before we know it."
She looked appraisingly at John Strangewey. Notwithstanding hissun-tanned cheeks and the splendid vigor of his form, there was nothingin the least agricultural about his manner or his appearance. There washumor as well as intelligence in his clear, gray eyes. She opined thatthe books which lined one side of the room were at once his property andhis hobby.
"It is a very healthy life, no doubt," she said; "but somehow it seemsincomprehensible to think of a man like yourself living always in suchan out-of-the-way corner, with no desire to see what is going on in theworld, or to be able to form any estimate of the changes in men'sthoughts and habits. Human life seems to me so much more interestingthan anything else. Does this all sound a little impertinent?" she woundup naively. "I am so sorry! My friends spoil me, I believe, and I getinto 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 intheir hearts, born with the desire to mingle with their fellows, toabsorb the conventional vices and virtues, to become one of themultitude. It has been different with us Strangeweys."
Jennings, at a sign from his master, removed the tea equipage, evidentlyproduced in honor of their visitor. Three tall-stemmed glasses wereplaced upon the table, and a decanter of port reverently produced.
Louise had fallen for a moment or two into a fit of abstraction. Hereyes were fixed upon the opposite wall, from which, out of their fadedframes, a row of grim-looking men and women, startlingly like her twohosts, seemed to frown down upon her.
"Is that your father?" she asked, moving her head toward one of theportraits.
"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 herefused to stand for Parliament."
"John Strangewey!" Louise repeated softly to herself. "I was looking atyour family tree up-stairs," she went on. "It is curious how both mymaid 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 thesomewhat ominous silence which ensued. She glanced up wonderingly andintercepted a rapid look passing between the two men. More puzzled thanever, she turned toward John as if for an explanation. He had risensomewhat abruptly to his feet, and his hand was upon the back of herchair.
"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 firehas not been lit for so long that the room, I am afraid, is quiteimpossible."
"Do let me stay here with you," she begged; "and I hope that both of youwill smoke. I am quite used to it."
John wheeled up an easy chair for her. Stephen, stiff and upright, saton the other side of the hearth. He took the tobacco-jar and pipe thathis 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 owncraving for a cigarette and keep her little gold case hidden in herpocket. All the time her eyes were wandering around the room. Suddenlyshe rose and, moving round the table, stood once more facing the row ofgloomy-looking portraits.
"So that is your grandfather," she remarked to John, who had followedher. "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 andsetting 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 weredrawn into the vortex of the city, and who knew only the shallow ways oflife. Listen!"
With a heavy silver candlestick in either hand, Stephen crossed theroom. He raised them high above his head and pointed to the pictures oneby one.
"John Robert Strangewey, our great-grandfather," he began. "That picturewas a presentation from the farmers of Cumberland. He, too, was amagistrate, and held many public offices in the county.
"By his side is his brother, Stephen George Strangewey. For thirty-fiveyears he took the chair at the farmers' ordinary at Market Ketton onevery Saturday at one o'clock, and there was never a deserving man inthis part of the county, engaged in agricultural pursuits, who at anytime 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 onethere to seek his aid or advice. He lived his life to his own benefitand to the benefit of his neighbors--the life which we are all sent hereto lead.
"Two generations before him you see my namesake, Stephen Strangewey. Itwas he who invented the first threshing-machine used in this county. Hefarmed the land that my brother and I own to-day. He was churchwarden atour little church, and he, too, was a magistrate. He did his duty in asmaller way, but zealously and honestly, among the hillmen of thisdistrict."
"There are gaps in your family history," Louise observed.
"The gaps, madam," Stephen explained, "are left by those who haveabandoned their natural heritage. We Strangeweys were hillfolk andfarmers, by descent and destiny, for more than four hundred years. Ourplace is here upon the land, almost among the clouds, and those of uswho have realized it have led the lives God meant us to lead. There havebeen some of our race who have been tempted into the lowlands and thecities. Not one of them brought honor upon our name. Their pictures arenot here. They are not wo
Stephen set down the candlesticks and returned to his place. Louise,with her hands clasped behind her back, glanced toward John, who stillstood by her side.
"Tell me," she asked him, "have none of your people who went out intothe 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 tohave poisoned every Strangewey--"
"Not one," Stephen interrupted. "Colonel John Strangewey died leadinghis regiment at Waterloo, an end well enough, but reached through manyyears 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 noother quality for him. Madam," he went on, turning toward Louise, "lestmy welcome to you this evening should have seemed inhospitable, let metell you this. Every Strangewey who has left our county, and trodden thedownward path of failure, has done so at the instance of one of yoursex. That is why those of us who inherit the family spirit look askanceupon all strange women. That is why no woman is ever welcome within thishouse."
Louise resumed her seat in the easy chair.
"I am so sorry," she murmured, looking down at her slipper. "I could nothelp 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 amatter for regret that we have so little to offer you in the way ofentertainment." He rose to his feet. The door had been opened. Jenningswas 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. Sheunderstood quite well that she was being sent to bed, and she shivered alittle when she looked at the hour--barely ten o'clock. Yet it was allin keeping. From the doorway she looked back into the room, in whichnothing seemed to have been touched for centuries. She stood upon thethreshold to bid her final good-night, fully conscious of the completeanachronism of her presence there.
Her smile for Stephen was respectful and full of dignity. As she glancedtoward John, however, something flashed in her eyes and quivered at thecorners of her lips, something which escaped her control, somethingwhich made him grip for a moment the back of the chair against which hestood. Then, between the old man servant, who insisted upon carrying hercandle to her room, and her maid, who walked behind, she crossed thewhite stone hall and stepped slowly up the broad flight of stairs.