The Hillman Part 58

"If only you cared, John!" she sobbed.

"But I do," he insisted. "I love to have you with me, I love to see you happy, I shall love to give you pretty things. I shall be proud of you, soothed by you--and rested. What do you say, Sophy?"

"John," she whispered, hiding her face for a moment. "What can I say?

What could any poor, weak, little creature like me say? You know I am fond of you--I haven't had the pride, even, to conceal it!"

He stood up, held her face for a moment between his hands, and kissed her forehead.

"Then that's all settled," he declared. "I am going back to my rooms now. I want you to come and dine with me there to-night, at eight o'clock."

Her eyes sought his, pleaded with them, searched them.

"You are sure, John?" she asked, her voice a little broken. "You want me really? I am to come? You won't be sorry--afterward?"

"I am sure," he answered steadfastly. "I shall expect you at eight o'clock!"

John went back to his rooms fighting all the time against a sense of unreality, a sense almost of lost ident.i.ty. He bought an evening newspaper and read it on the way. He talked to the hall-porter, he talked to a neighbor with whom he ascended in the lift--he did everything except think.

In his rooms he telephoned to the restaurant for a waiter, and with the menu in his hand, a few minutes later, he ordered dinner. Then he glanced at his watch--it was barely seven o'clock. He went down to the barber-shop, was shaved and had his hair cut, encouraging the barber all the time to talk to him. He gave his hands over to a manicure, and did his best to talk nonsense to her. Then he came up-stairs again, changed his clothes with great care, and went into his little sitting room.

It was five minutes to eight, and dinner had been laid at a little round table in the center of the room. There was a bowl of pink roses--Sophy's favorite flower--sent in from the florist's; the table was lighted by a pink-shaded lamp. John went around the room, turning out the other lights, until the apartment was hung with shadows save for the little spot of color in the middle. An unopened bottle of champagne stood in an ice-pail, and two specially prepared c.o.c.ktails had been placed upon the little side-table. There were no more preparations to be made.

John walked restlessly to the window and gazed at the curving line of lights along the Embankment. This was the end, then--the end of his strenuous days, the end of his ideals, the end of a love-story which had made life for a time seem so wonderful! He could hear them talking about him in a few days' time--the prince's subtle sneer, the jests of his acquaintances. And Louise! His heart stopped for a moment as he tried to think of her face when she heard the news.

He turned impatiently away from the window and glanced at the clock. It was almost eight. He tried to imagine that the bell was ringing, that Sophy was standing there on the threshold in her simple but dainty evening dress, with a little smile parting her lips. The end of it all!

He pulled down the blind. No more of the window, no more looking out at the lights, no more living in the clouds! It was time, indeed, that he lived as other men. He lifted one of the gla.s.ses to his lips and drained its contents.

Then the bell rang. He moved forward to answer its summons with beating heart. As he opened it, he received a shock. A messenger-boy stood outside. He took the note which the boy handed him and tore it open under the lamp. There were only a few lines:

John, my heart is breaking, but I know you do not mean what you said. I know it was only a moment of madness with you. I know you will love Louise all your life, and will bless me all your life because I am giving up the one thing which could make my life a paradise. I shall be in the train when you read this, on my way to Bath. I have wired my young man, as you call him, to meet me. I am going to ask him to marry me, if he will, next week.

Good-by! I give you no advice. Some day I think that life will right itself with you.

SOPHY.

The letter dropped upon the table. John stood for a moment dazed.

Suddenly he began to laugh. Then he remembered the messenger-boy, gave him half a crown, and closed the door. He came back into the room and took his place at the table. He looked at the empty chair by his side, looked at the full gla.s.s on the sideboard. It seemed to him that he was past all sensations. The waiter came in silently.

"You can serve the dinner," John ordered, shaking out his napkin. "Open the champagne before you go."

"You will be alone, sir?" the man inquired.

"I shall be alone," John answered.

x.x.xVIII

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 s.p.a.ce 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 gla.s.ses, which he reverently filled. Stephen held his up to the light and looked at it critically. John's remained by his side, unnoticed.

"A gla.s.s for yourself, Jennings," Stephen ordered.

"I thank ye kindly, sir," the old man replied.

He fetched a gla.s.s 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 a.s.sented. "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 gla.s.s, 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sented 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.