“Men don’t alter much at my age, sir,” replied Braxfield, shaking the offered hand respectfully. “That comes a bit later, Mr. Harborough. But—you’re really back, sir? I hadn’t heard of it—still, we don’t hear very much our way, now—quieter than ever at Markenmore Court, sir.”
“I only got home this afternoon, Braxfield,” answered Harborough. “And just as I was finishing my dinner I heard that Sir Anthony was ill, so I came straight across to hear about him? Is it serious?”
“Well, sir, he’s been a bit bad this last day or two,” said Braxfield. “He varies—of course, it’s now a good two years since he ever left his room. Between you and me, Mr. Harborough, he might go any time—any time. So the doctors say, sir.”
“Who’s here?” asked Harborough, glancing at the lighted windows in front.
“Nobody but Mr. Harry and Miss Valencia,” replied the butler. “Mr. Guy—ah, we haven’t seen him at Markenmore for—aye, it must be quite seven years. He went off—why, just about the time that you did, Mr. Harborough, and he’s never been back—never once! I don’t know where he is—I don’t believe they do, either.”
“Um!” said Harborough. “Harry, now—he was a boy when I went away, and Valencia—she was a slip of a girl.”
“Aye, sir,” said Braxfield, “but Mr. Harry’s now a young man of three-and-twenty, and Miss Valencia—she’s a young lady of well over nineteen. You’ve been away a long time, sir! But come in, Mr. Harborough, come in!—glad to see you at Markenmore again, sir.”
Harborough followed the old butler inside the house, and through the ancient stone hall, ornamented with deers’ antlers, foxes’ masks, old muskets, and other trophies of the chase and of country life, to a room which he remembered well enough—one which the family now used as a usual gathering-place. There was a bright fire of logs in the hearth; Braxfield pulled up a chair to it.
“Never use the drawing-room nowadays, Mr. Harborough,” he whispered confidentially. “This room does for everything—dining-room, sitting-room, and so on. Not as well off as we used to be, sir—eh? But—we’ve still a glass of rare good port wine for old friends! Can I get you anything, Mr. Harborough?—say the word, sir!”
“Nothing, nothing, Braxfield, thank you,” replied Harborough. He looked round and nodded at various objects. “I remember it all,” he murmured. “Nothing changed! Well, tell the young folks I’m here, Braxfield.”