The Hillman

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 167, 5 October 1927, Page 6

The Hillman

Hims

E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM.

SYNOF’SIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS Chapters I and ll.—Louise finds that she. her ma d and chauffeur, are stranded on the Cumberland hills. The car has broken down The Hillman comes to their aid. He escorts them to his home. <?UUkf to the faS Seif and it s years since a woman crossed the threshold. Stephen’s welcome is hostile, In the large old-fashioned bedroom Louise notes the family tree. The name Strangewe;/ sounds familiar. At the foot of the stairs John meets her in evening dress. U “* the formidable meal. Stephen announces that they are haters of her sex. and enters into some family particulars to justify this attitude. The family portraits are examined. At ten o'clock she bid* them good-night. _______ A i,**a-« t—*l chatter iv. The churchyard gate was opened and closed noisily. They both glanced

up. Stephen Strangewey was coming slowly toward them along the flinty path. Louise, suddenly herself again, ro.se briskly to her feet, Here comes: your brother,” she , ..j wis] . » ie wouldn’t trlower at SK so- S relll 5 h am W „°o U t such^^terribte to *j, t , John muttered a or two of po ite but unconvincing protest. They stood together awaiting his approach, Stephen had apparently lost none of his dourness of the previous night. He was dressed in grey homespun, with knickerbockers and stockings of great ~ • , ,§ _ .■ , thickness. He wore a flannel shirt, an * collar ana black wisp ot a tie Underneath his battered felt hat his weather-beaten face seemed longer an i grimmer than ever, his mouth jme re uncompromising. As he looked toward Louise, there was no mistaking the g j ow dislike in his steely eyes. Your chauffeur, madam, has just | returned,’* he announced. “He sent

word that he will be ready to start at one o’clock.” Louise, inspired to battle by the almost provocative hostility of her elder host, smiled sweetly upon him. “You can t imagine how sorry I am to hear it,’ she said. “I don’t know when, in the whole course of my life, 1 have met with such a delightfyl adventure or spent such a perfect morning!” Stephen looked at her with level, disapproving eyes—at her slender form in its perfectly-fitting tailored gown; at her patent shoes, so obviously unsuitable for her surroundings, and at the faint vision of silk stockings. “If I might say so without appearing inhospitable,” he remarked, with faint sarcasm, “this would seem to be the fitting moment for your departure. A closer examination*of our rough life up here might alter your views.” She turned toward John, and caught the deprecating glance which flushed from him to Stephen. “Your brother is making fun of me,” she declared. “He looks at me and judges me just as I believe he would judge most people—sternly and without mercy. After all, you know, even though I am a daughter of the cities, there is another point of view—ours. Can you not believe that the call which prompts men and women to do the things in life which are really worth while is heard as often amid the hubbub of the city as in the solitude of these austere hills?” “The question is a bootless one,” Stephen answered firmly. “The city calls to its own, as the country holds its children, and both do best in their own environment. Like to and each bird to his own nest. lou would be as much out of place here with us, madam, as my brother and I on the pavements of your city.” “You may be right,” she admitted, “yet you dismiss one of the greatest questions of life with a single turn of your tongue. It is given to no one to be infallible. It is even possible that

you may be wrong.” “It is possible,” Stephen agreed grimly. “Our inclinations—my brother’s inclinations and mine—lead us, as they have led my people for hundreds of years, to seek the cleaner things in life and the sirfipler forms of happiness. If I do not have the pleasure, madam, of seeing you again, permit me to wish you farewell.” He turned and walked away. Louise watched him with very real interest. “Do you know,” she said to John, “there is something which I can only describe as biblical about your brother, something a little like the prophets of the Old Testament, in the way he sees only one issue and clings to it. Are you, too, of his way of thinking? Do you ever feel cramped—in your mind, I mean?—feel that you want to push your way through the clouds into some other life?” “I feel nearer the clouds here,” he answered simply. “I suppose you are sure of content—that is to say, if you can keep free from doubts. Still, there is the fighting instinct, you know; the craving for action. Don’t you feel that sometimes?” “Perhaps,” he admitted. They were leaving the churchyard now. She paused abruptly, pointing to a single grave in a part of the churchyard which seemed detached from the rest. “Whose grave is that?” she inquired. He hesitated. “It is the grave of a young girl,” he told her quietly. “But why is she buried so fur off, and all alone?” Louise persisted. “She was the daughter of one of our shepherds,” lie replied. “She went into service at Carlisle, and returned here with a child. They are both buried there.” “Because of that her grave is apart from the others?”

“Yes,” he answered. > “It Is very

seldom, 1 am glad to say, that anything of the sort happens among us.” Fdr the second time that morning Louise was conscious of an unexpected upheaval of emotion. She felt that the sunshine had gone, that the whole sweetness of the place had suddenly passed away. The charm of its simple austerity had perished. ‘And 1 thought I had found paradise!” she cried. She moved quickly from John Strangewey’s side. Before he could realise her intention, she had stepped over the low dividing wall and was on her knees by the side of the plain, neglected grave. She tore out the spray of apple-blossom which she had thrust into the bosom of her gown, and placed it reverently at the head of the little mound. For a moment her eyes drooped and her lips moved—she herself scarcely knew whether it was in prayer. Then she turned and came slowly back to her companion. Something had gone, too, from his charm. She saw in him now nothing but the coming dourness of his brother. Her heart was still heavy. She shivered a little. “Come,” she said, “let us go back!” They commenced the steep descent in silence. Every now and then John held his companion by the arm to steady her somewhat uncertain footsteps. It was he at last who spoke. “Will you tell me, please, what is the matter with you, and why you placed that sprig of apple-blossom where you did?” His tone woke her from her lethargy. She was a little surprised at its poignant, allmost challenging note. “Certainly,” she replied, “I placed it there as a woman’s protest against the injustice of that isolation.” ■T deny that it is unjust.” “The Saviour to whom your church is dedicated thought otherwise,” she reminded him. “Do you play at being lords paramount here over the souls and bodies of your serfs?”

“You judge without knowledge of the facts,” he assured her calmly. Louise’s footsteps slackened. “You men,” she sighed, “are all alike! You judge only by what happens. You never look inside. That is why youjr justice is so different from a woman’s. All that you have told me is very pitiful, but there is another view of the case which you should consider. Let us sit down upon this boulder for a few moments. There is something that I should like to say to you before I go.” John Strangewey and Louise Maurel sat upon a ledge of rock. Below them was the house, with its walled garden and the blossom-laden orchard. Beyond stretched the moorland, brilliant with patches of yellow gorse, and the hills, blue and melting in the morning sunlight. “Don’t you men sometimes realise,” she continued earnestly, “the many, many guises in which temptation may come to a woman, especially to the young girl so far from home? I feel that you are not going to agree with me, and I do not wish to argue with you; but what I so passionately object to is the sweeping judgment you make—the sheep on one side and the goats on the other. That is how man judges; God looks further. Every case is different. The law by which one should be judged may be poor justice for another.” She glanced at him almost appealingly, but there was no sign of yielding in his face. “Laws,” he reminded her, “are made for the benefit of the whole human race. Sometimes an individual may suffer for the benefit of others. That is inevitable.” “And so let the subject pass,” she concluded; “but it saddens me to think that one of the great sorrows of the world should be there like a monument to spoil the wonder of this morning. Now I am going to ask you a question. Are you the John Strange wey who has recently had a fortune left to him?” He nodded.

“Lou read about it in the newspapers, I suppose,” he said. “Part of the story isn't true. It was stated that I had never seen my Australian uncle, but as a matter of fact he lias been over here three or four times. It was he who paid for my education at Harrow and Oxford.” “What did your brother say to that?” “He opposed it,” John confessed, “and he hated my uncle. He detests the

thought of anyone of us going of sight of our hills. My uncle had tn« wan ier-fever.” "And you?” she asked suddenly. “I have none of it.” he asserted. “Do you mean because I have inherited the money?” “Naturally! ” “What difference does my mon«> make?” he demanded. To be continued.