The Hillman

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 176, 15 October 1927, Page 28 (Supplement)

The Hillman

E.PHILLIPS OPPENHEIN

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS Chapters 1 and 2.—Louise finds that she, her maid and chaffeur, are stranded on the Cumberland Hiils. 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 Louis© 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 from a relative in Australia. Louise joins John, who shows her the beauties of the place. They visit the churchyard. Stephen joins them with the intimation that her car is ready. He then walks away. John and Louise discuss some of the deeper problems of life, and Louise declares she has something to say to him. Chapters 4 (continued), 5 and 6.—John and Louise discuss the laws of life, and she tries to make him see her viewpoint. She finds he is the Stangewey who has inherited that large fortune. He promises her that, if the call to a wider life comes, he will obey it. The Prince of Seyre arrives in his car, seeking Louise. She regrets that she cannot accompany him, as Henri Graillot earnestly demands her presence in London. The Prince gives John Strangewey a courteous invitation to the shooting. The party leaves for Kendal to catch the express for London. Three months later John is confronted by Stephen, who asks his brother whether he is thinking of that woman yet. He points out that she is an actress in doubtful plays. John denies that there is anything wrong, and hurls back the insults that Stephen heaps upon Louise. Chapters 6 (continued), 7 and B.—ln anger John leaves his brother, and, seeking solitude, reviews his position. He drives into Market Ketton, puts his trap into the hands of a man to take back to Peak Hall. Then he flings himself into a train and goes straight to London. There is an undress rehearsal in progress on the stage. Graillot and his English friends disagree as to what is best suited to an English audience. They go through the first act, and then proceed to the third. Louise notices a figure. It is John Strangewey. She introduces him to the company. Miles Faraday takes him to a seat at the back of the stage, and the play proceeds. Afterwards the Prince of Seyre converses with Strangewey. Louise takes John to the Carlton. She says she is glad he has come to London. He says that he has come to be near her. Strangewey is not impressed by the people he sees at the Carlton. CHAPTER XI\ r . “Lest your reverie, dear lady, should end in spoken words not meant for my ears, I, who often give myself up to reveries, hasten to acquaint you with the fact of my presence.” She turned quickly around. It was Graillot who had returned noiselessly into the room. “You?” she exclaimed. “Why, I thought you were the first -to leave.” “X returned.” Graillot explained, “An j

impulse brought me back. A thought came into my mind. I wanted to share it with you as a proof of the sentiment which I feel exists between us. It is my firm belief that the same thought, in a different guise, was travelling through your mind, as you watched the departure of your guests.” She motioned him to a place upon the couch, close to where she had already seated herself. “To begin, then, I find our friend, the Prince of Seyre, a most interesting, I might almost say, a most fascinating, study.” Louise did not reply. After a moment’s pause he continued: “Let me tell you something which may or may not be unknown to you. A matter of eighty years ago, there was first kindled in the country places of France that fire which ultimately blazed over the whole land, devastating, murderous, anarchic, yet purifying. The family seat of the house of Seyre was near Orleans. In that region were many oppressors of the poor who, when they heard the mutterings of the storm, shivered for their safety. Upon not one of them did that furious mob of men and women pause to waste a single moment of their time. Without even a spoken word save one simultaneous, unanimous yell, they grouped together from all quarters—from every hamlet, from every homestead, men and women and even children—and moved in one solid body upon the Chateau de Seyre. The old prince would have been buried alive but for a servant who threw him a pistol, with which he blew out his brains, spitting at the mob. One of the sons was caught and torn almost to pieces. Only the father of our friend, the present Prince of Seyre, escaped.” “Why do you tell me all this?” Louise asked, shivering. “It is such a chapter of horrors!” “It illustrates a point,” Graillot replied. “Among the whole aristocracy of France there was no family so loathed and detested as the seigneurs of Seyre. Those at the chateau, and others who were arrested in Paris, met their death with singular contempt and calm. Eugene of Seyre, whose character in my small way I have studied, is of the same breed.” Louise took up a fan which lay on the table by her side, and waved it carelessely in front of her face. “One does so love,” she murmured, “to hear one’s friends discussed in this friendly spirit!” “It is because Eugene of Seyre is a friend of yours that I am talking to you in this fashion,” Graillot continued. “You have also another friend —this young man from Cumberland.” “Well?” “In him,” Graillot went on, “one perceives all the primitive qualities which go to the making of splendid manhood. Physically he is almost perfect, for which alone we owe him a debt of gratitude. He has, if I judge him rightly, all the qualities possessed by men who have been brought up free from the taint of cities, from the smear of our spurious over-civilisation. He is chivalrous and unsuspicious- He is also, unfortunately for him, the enemy of the prince.” Louise laid down her fan. She no longer tried to conceal her agitation. “Why are you so melodramatic?” she

demanded. “They have scarcely spoken. This is, I think, their third meeting.” “When two friends,” Graillot declared, “desire the same woman, then all of friendship that there may have been between them is buried. When two others, who are so far from being friends that they possess opposite characteristics, also desire the same woman ” “Don’t!” Louise interrupted, with a sudden little scream. “Don’t! You are talking wildly. You must not say such things!” Graillot leaned forward. He shook his head very slowly; his heavy hand rested upon her shoulder. “Ah, no, dear lady,” he insisted. “I am not talking wildly. lam Graillot, who, for thirty years, have written dramas on one subject and one subject only—men and women. It has been given to me to study many varying types of the human race, to watch the outcome of many strange situations. I have watched the prince draw you nearer and nearer to him. What there is or may be between you I do not know. It is not for me to know-” “You do not realise,” Louise protested, almost eagerly, “how slight is my acquaintance with Mr. Strangewey. I once spent the night and a few hours of the next morning at his house in Cumberland, and that is all I have ever seen of him. How can his presence here be of any serious import to Eugene?” “As to that,” Graillot replied, “I say nothing. If what I have suggested does not exist, then for the first time in my life I have made a mistake; but I do not think I have. You may not realise it, but there is before you one of those struggles that make or mar the life of women of every age. As for the men, I will only say this, and it is because of it that .1 have spoken at all—l am a lover of fair play, and the struggle is not even. The younger man may hold every card in the pack, but Eugene of Seyre has learned how to win tricks without aces. I stayed behind to say this to you, Louise. You know this young man, and Ido not. It is you who must warn him.” “Warn him?” Louise repeated, with upraised eyebrows. “Dear master aren’t we just a little—do you mind if I use the word so hateful to you—melodramatic? The age of duels is past, also the age of hired bravos and assassins.” “Agreed,” Graillot interrupted, “but the weapons of to-day are more dangerous. It is the souls of their enemies that men attack. If I were a friend of that young man’s I would say to him: ■? e^ are ’ not of the enmity of Eugene of Seyre, but of his friendship!” And now, dear lady, I have finished. I lingered behind because the world holds no more sincere admirer of yourself and your genius than I. Don’t ring. May I not let myself out?”

“Stop!” Louise begged. Graillot resumed his seat. He watched with an almost painful curiosity the changes in Louise’s face, which was convulsed by a storm of passionate apprehension. Yet behind it all he could see the truth. There was something softer in her face than he had ever perceived before, a tenderer light than he had ever seen in her eyes. He sighed and looked down at the carpet. Louise rose presently and walked abruptly to the window. Then she came back and reseated herself by his side. “You are the one friend I have in life who understands, dear master,” she said. “Do I weary you if I speak?” “Louise,” he begged, “let me be your confidant! No man knows more of the game of life as it is played out between men and women. There is no one in whom you can place a greater trust.” Her fingers clutched his, her nails dug into his palm, but he did not flinch. “I do not know,” she murmured, her voice trembling with agitation. “That is the truth of it all. I do not know where to go for guidance or inspiration. Life has suddenly become mysterious. Men seem always so strong and sure. It is only we poor women who lose our bearings.” Graillot patted her hand tenderly. Then he rose to his feet. “You are not going?” she asked him. “Dear Louise,” he said, “I am going, because the time when I can help is

not yet. Listen! More harm has been done in this world by advice than in any other way. I have no advice to give you. You have one sure and certain guide, and that is your own heart, your own instincts, your own sweet consciousness of what is best. I leave you to that. If trouble comes, I am always ready!” CHAPTER XV. During the remainder of that afternoon and evening John was oppressed by a vague sense of the splendour of his surroundings and his companion’s mysterious capacity for achieving impossibilities. Their visits to the tailors, the shirt-makers, the hosiers, and the bootmakers almost resembled a royal progress. All difficulties were waved aside. That night he dined, clothed like other men from head to foot, in the lofty dining-room of one of the most exclusive clubs in London. From the club, where the question of John’s proposed membership, the prince acting as liis sponsor, was favourably discussed with several members of the committee, they drove to Covent Garden, and for the first time in his life, John entered the famous opera house. The prince preceded by an attendant, led the way to a box upon the second tier. A woman turned her head as they entered, and stetched out her hand, which the prince raised to his lips. “You see, I have taken you at your word, Eugene,” she remarked. “So many evenings I have looked longingly from my stall at your empty box. To-night I summoned up all my courage, and here I am!” “You give me a double pleasure, dear lady,” the prince declared. “Not only is it a joy to be your host, but you give me also the opportunity of presenting to you my friend, John Strangewey. Strangewey, this is my very distant relative and very dear friend, Lady Hilda Mulloeh.” Lady Hilda smiled graciously at John. She was apparently of little less than middle age, with dark bands of chestnut hair surmounted by a. tiara. Her face was tho face of a clever and still beautiful woman; her figure slender and dignified; her voice low and delightful. “Are you paying your nightly homage to Calavera, Mr. Strangewey, or are you only an occasional visitor?” she asked.

“This is my first visit to any sort of Covent Garden,” John told her.

“Do you live abroad?” she asked. John shook his head. “I live in Cumberland,” he said. -Many people here seem to think that that is the same thing. My brother and I have a farm there.” “But you visit London occasionally, surely?” “I have not been in London,” John told her, “since I passed through it on my way home from Oxford, eight years ago.” “But why not?” she persisted. John laughed a little. “Well, really,” he admitted, “when I come to think of it seriously, I scarcely know. I have lived alone with an elder brother, who hates London and would be very unhappy if I got into the way of coming up regularly. I fancy that I have rather grown into his way of thinking. I am quite satisfied —or rather I have been quite satisfied —to live down there all the year round.” “I have never heard anything so extraordinary in my life!” the woman declared frankly. “Is it the prince who has induced you to break out of your seclusion?” “Our young friend,” the prince explained, “finds himself suddenly in altered circumstances. He has been left a large fortune, and has come to spend it. Incidentally, I hope, he has come to see something more of your sex than is possible among his mountain wilds. He has come, in short, to look a little way into life.” Lady Hilda leaned back in her chair. “Of course, it all sounds like a fairy tale,” she declared. “Tell me exactly, please, how long you have been in London.” “About forty-eight hours,” he answered. “And what did you do last night?” “I dined with two friends. We went to the Palace, and one of them took me to a supper club.” She made a little grimace. “You began in some obvious fashion,” she remarked. “I vouch for the friends,” the prince observed, smiling. The curtain rang up upon one of the most gorgeous and sensuous of the Russian ballets. John, who, by their joint insistence, was occupying the front chair in the box, leaned forward in his place, his eyes steaafastly fixed upon the stage. Both the prince and Lady Hilda, in th-e background, although they occasionally glanced at the performance, devoted

most of their attention to watching him. As the story progressed and the music grew in passion and voluptuousness, they distinctly saw his almost militant protest. They saw the knitting of his firm mouth and the slight contraction of his eyebrows. The prince and his friend exchanged glances. She drew her chair a little farther back, and he followed her example. “Where did you find anything so wonderful as this?” she murmured. ‘‘Lost among the hills in Cumberland,” the prince replied. “I have an estate up there—in fact, he and I are joint lords of the manor of the village in which he has lived.” “And you?” she whispered, glancing at John to be sure that she was not overheard. “Where do you come in? As educator of the young? I don’t seem to see you in that role!” A very rare and by no means pleasant smile twisted the corners of his lips for a moment. “It is a long story.” “Can I be brought in?” she asked. He nodded. “It rests with you. It would suit my plans.” “You and I,” Lady Hilda whispered, “do not need to play about with the truth, Eugene. What are you doing this for?” “The idlest whim,” the prince assured her quietly. “Look at him. Think for a moment of his position—absolutely without experience, entirely ignorant about women, with a fortune one only dreams of, and probably the handsomest animal in London. What is going to become of him?” “I think I understand a little,” she confessed. “I think you do,” the prince assented. “He has views, this young man. It is my humour to see them dissipated. The modern Sir Galahad always irritated me a little.” She shrugged her shoulders. “They’ll never give him a chance, these women.” she said. “Much better hand him over to me.” The prince smiled enigmatically, and Lady Hilda returned to her seat. John was still leaning forward with his eyes fixed upon Calavera, who was dancing alone now. The ballet was drawing toward the end . The music had reached its climax of wild and passionate sensuousness, dominated and inspired by the woman whose every movement and every glance seemed part of some occult, dimly understood language. When the curtain rang down, John, like many others was confused. Nevertheless, after that first breathless pause, he stood up and joined in the tumultuous applause. “Well?” the prince asked. John shook his head. “I don’t know,” he answered. “Neither does anyone else,” Lady Hilda said. “I wonder,” she murmured, “wether lam going to be asked out to supper?” “Alas, not to-night, dear lady,” the prince regretted. “I am having a few friends at Seyre House.” She shot a glance at him and shrugged her shoulders. She was evidently displeased. “Mr. Strangewey?” she added, turning to John, “I suppose you can be trusted to reach No. 21 Pont Street without your Mephistophelian chaperon?” “I will come with pleasure,” John promised. They stood for a few moments in the crowded vestibule until Lady Hilda Mulloch’s car was called. The prince stood back, allowing John to escort her to the door. She detained him for a moment after she had taken her seat, and leaned out of the window, her fingers still in his hand. “Be careful!” she whispered. “The prince’s supper parties are just a little —sfcall I say banal? There are better things if one waits!”

(To be Continued.^