Hillman

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 169, 7 October 1927, Page 14

Hillman

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SYNONSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. Chapters 1 and 2. —Louise finds that she, her maid and chaffeur, are stranded on the Cumberland Hills. The car has broken down. The Hillman comes to their aid. He escorts them to his home. John Strangewey introduces Louise to his elder brother, Stephen. The family have a keen dislike to the fair sex, and it is 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 Strangewey sounds familiar. At the foot of the stairs John meets her in evening dress. Louise adapts herself, and does justice to 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 bids them goodnight. Chapters 3 and 4.—Louise finds her maid Aline, on awakening the next morning. She partakes of an ample breakfast. Aline recollects that the reason why the name of Strangewey seemed familiar was because a farmer of that name in the north of England had had a vast fortune left to him fi'om a relative in Australia. Loise joins John, who shows her the beauties of the place. They visit the churchyard. Stephen joins them with the intimation thal her car is ready. He then walks a.way. John and Louise discuss some cf the deeper problems of life, and Louise declares she has something to say to him. CHAPTER V. (Continued). John s unspoken response was prompt and unmistakeable, and she smiled ever so slightly. She no longer thought him narrow and prejudiced, an unfair judge of things beyond his comprehension. He had helped her in a moment of trial. An idea had Hashed between them, and she acted upon it with amazing promptitude. "Alas, prince,” she sighed, as he turned back toward them, “I am so sorry, but I fear that this little accident must change all my plans. As you know, mine was to have been only ft brief stay at Raynham, and I fear now that even that is impossible.” The prince drew a step nearer. {Something of the calm suavity had s uddenly gone from his manner. When he spoke, his measured words were full of appeal.

“But, my dear friend,’* he begged, “you will not rob me altogether of this visit, to which I have looked forward ,so eagerly? It was to receive you for a. few hours that I came from Paris and opened Raynham Castle. You yourself shall decide the length of your stay, and a special train shall take

you bad: to London the moment you give the word. In that way you will both save time and spare me—one of the greatest disappointments of my life.” She shook her head, slowly and very decisively. “You cannot imagine how sorry I am, prince,’ she said, “but as it is I must take a special train from Kendal, if there is not one starting soon after I reach the station. I wish to reach London either this evening or very early in the morning. “Is the necessity so urgent?” he asked- “ Judge for yourself,** she replied. “Henri Graillot is there, waiting for me. You know how impatient he is, and all London is clamouring for his play. Night to him is just the same as day. I shall telegraph from Kendal the hour of my arrival. The prince sighed. “I think,” he said quietly, “that I am the most unfortunate man in the world. At least, then, you will permit me to drive you to Kendal? I gather from your chauffeur that your car, although temporarily repaired, is not altogether reliable.” “That will be very kind of you,** she assented. “If we start at once,’* the prince suggested, "‘we shall catch the Scotch mail.” “You will surely lunch first—and you, prince?” John begged. ‘My friend, no,” she replied. “I am feverishly anxious to get back to London. Walk with me to the car. 1 will wave my adieux to Peak Hall when we are up among the hills.” She drew him on a few paces ahead. “I am going back to London,” she continued, lowering her voice a little, “with some very strange impressions and some very pleasant memories. I feel that your life here is, in its way, very beautiful, and yet the contemplation of your future fills me with an immense curiosity. I have not talked to you for very long, Mr. Strangewey. and you may not be quite the sort of person I think you are, but I am seldom mistaken. I am an artist, you see, and we have perceptions. I think that even here the time will come when the great unrest will seize you, too, in its toils. Though the colour may not fade from your hills, and though the apple blossom may still glorify your orchard, and your flowers bloom and swell as sweetly, and your winds bring: you the same music, I think that the time will come when the

note in you which answers to these things, and which gives you contentment, will fail to respond. Then I think—l hope, perhaps—that we may meet.” Stephen’s measured words as he walked with his uncongenial companion, seemed to come to John from some other world. Notwithstanding the unrealised joy of these few hours, his last words to Louise were almost words of anger: his last look from beneath his level, close-drawn e3 r ebrows was almost militant. “I hope,” he declared, “that what you have said may not be true. I hope fervently that the time may never come when I shall feel that I need anything more in life than I can find in the home 1 love, in the work which is second nature to me, in my books and my sports.” The prince, escaping gracefully from a companion who remained adamant to all his advances, had manoeuvred his way to their side. The last few steps were taken together. In a few moments

they were in the car and ready to start. Stephen, with a stiff little bow, had already departed. Louise leaned out from her place with outstretched hands. “And now, good-bye, dear Mr. Strangewej r ! Your brother would not let me make my little speech to him, so you must accept the whole of my thanks. And,” she went on, the corners of her mouth twitching a little, although her face remained perfectly grave, “if the time should come when the need of reinvestments, or of some new machinery for your farm, brings you to London, will you promise that you will come and see me?” “I will promise that with much pleasure,” John answered. She leaned back, and the prince took her place, holding out his hand. “Mr. Strangewey, although your luck ' has been better than mine, and you have robbed me of a visit to which I had looked forward for months, I bear you no ill-will. I trust that you will do me the honour of shooting with me before long. My head keeper arranges

for the local guns, and I shall see that he sends you a list of the days on which we shall shoot. May I beg that you will select the most convenient for yourself? If you have no car here, it will give me additional pleasure to welcome you at Raynham as my guest.” John, struggling against an instinctive dislike of which, for many reasons, he was a little ashamed, murmured a few incoherent words. The prince leaned back, and the car glided away, followed, a few minutes later, by Louise’s own landaulette, with Aline in solitary state inside. John watched the little procession until it finally disappeared from sight; then he turned on his heel and went into the house. Stephen, who had just filled a pipe, was smoking furiously in the hall. “Have they gone?” he demanded. John nodded. “They are racing into Kendal to catch the Scotsman for London.” “The sooner she gets there the better,” Stephen. growled. John raised his head. The light of battle flashed for a moment in his eyes. “She came here unbidden,” he said, “and we did no more than our bounden duty in entertaining her. For the rest, what is there that you can say against her? Women there must be in the worlcL Why do you judge those who come your way so harshly?” “Curse it, that’s enough!” he said. “She’s gone, anyway. Come, let’s have our lunch!” CHAPTER VI. Up the long slope, where three months before he had ridden to find himself confronted with the adventure of his life, John Strangewey jogged homeward in his high dog-cart. The mare, scenting her stable, broke into a quick trot as they topped the long rise. Stephen was waiting for him, as he had expected, in the dining-room. The elder Strangewey was seated in his accustomed chair, smoking his pipe and reading the paper. The table was laid for a meal, which Jennings was preparing to serve. “Back again, John?” his brother remarked. loking at him fixedly over his newspaper. John picked up one or two letters, glanced them over, and flung them down upon the table. “As . you see.”

“Had a good time?” “Not very. We were too strong for them. They came without a bowler at all.”

“Did you get a good knock?” “A hundred and seven,” John replied. “It was just a slog, though. Nothing to eat, thank you, Jennings. You can clear the table so far as I’m concerned. I had supper with the Greys. Have they finished the barley-fields, Stephen?” “All in at eight o’clock.” There was a brief silence. Then Stephen knocked the ashes from his pipe and rose to his feet. “John.” he asked, “why did you pull up on the road there?” There was no immediate answer. The slightest of frowns formed itself upon the younger man’s face. “Blow did you know that I pulled up ?” “I was sitting with the window open, listening for you. I came outside to see what had happened, and I saw your lights standing still.” “I had a fancy to stop for a moment,” John said ‘ nothing more.”

“You aren’t letting your thoughts dwell upon that woman?” “I have thought about her sometimes,” John answered, almost defiantly. “WhAt’s the harm? I’m still here, am I not?” Stephen crossed the room. From the drawer of the old mahogany sideboard ho produced an illustrated paper. He turned back the frontispiece fiercely and held it up. “Do you see that, John?” “I’ve seen it already.” Stephen threw the paper upon the table. “She’s going to act in another of those confounded French plays,” he said; “translations with all the wit taken out and all the vulgarity left in.” “We know nothing of her art,” John delcared coldly. “We shouldn’t understand it, even if we saw her act. Therefore, it isn’t right for us to judge her. The world has found her a great actress. She is not responsible for the plays she acts in.” Stephen turned away and lit his pipe anew. He smoked for a minute or two furiously. His thick eyebrows came closer together. He seemed to be turning some thought over in his mind. “John” he asked, “is it this cursed money that is making you restless?” “I never think of it except when someone comes begging. I promised a thousand pounds to the infirmary to-day.” “Then what’s wrong with you?” John stretched himself out a splendid figure of healthy manhood His cheeks were sun-tanned, his eyes clear and bright. “The matter? There’s nothing on earth the matter with me,” he declared. To be continued.