Hillman

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 181, 21 October 1927, Page 14

Hillman

By

PHILLIRS OPPENHELM.

CHAPTER XXI (Continued.) Dinner —which, as John observed when they entered the room, was laid only for two —was served at a small, round table drawn pleasantly up to the fire. John, who had never admired his hostess more, put all disquieting thoughts behind him and thoroughly enjoyed the dainty meal. The pleasant warmth of the room, the excellent champagne and Lady Hilda s amusing conversation unlocked his tongue. He talked much more freely than usual of his life in Cumberland, of the various half-formed plans which he had made as to the spending of his unexpected fortune, of the new pleasure he found in motoring, of his almost pathetic, efforts to understand and appreciate the town life which at heart he hated. A clever listener, like most good talkers. Lady Hilda frequently encouraged him with a sympathetic word or two They were sitting over their coffee and liqueurs in two great easy chairs dmwn up to the fire, when John glanced at the clock with a little start. “Why it*s nearly ten o’clock!” he exclaimed. “What on earth can have become of your brother?” Almost as he spoke the telephone bell rang. It stood on a table behind him Lady Hilda, who was leaning back in her chair in an attitude of luxurious repose, pointed lazily to it. “Answer it for me, there’s a dear man,” she begged. John took up the receiver. He recognised the voice at once—it was Lady Hilda's brother who spoke. “I say, is Lady Hilda there?” ho asked. “Yes, where are you?” John replied. “I am John Strangewey. We have been expecting you all the evening.” Expecting me?” was the reply. “What on earth are you talking about? And what are you doing in the wilderness ?” “I am spending a week-end with your sister,” John replied. "I understood that you were coming.” The young man at the other end laughed derisively. “Something better to do, old chap!” he said. “I am dining with Flo Henderson—just speaking from her flat. Send Hilda along, there’s a good fellow.” John turned round. His eyes met Lady Hilda’s, and he understood. He handed the receiver to her in silence. Of the conversation which passed he scarcely heard a word. As soon as it began, in fact, h© left the room and went across the hall to the billiard room. The lights were already lit, and cues, ready chalked, were standing by the table. John went through a few moments of dismayed wonder. He glanced out of the window toward the garage, which was all in darkness. He heard the soft sweep of Lady Hilda’s skirts across the hall, the closing of the door as she

entered. Her eyes met his, as he turned around, with something of a challenge in them. Her lips were curved in a faintly ironical smile. “Well?” she exclaimed, a little defiantly. “Shall I telephone to London for a chaperon?” “Not unless you think it necessary,” John replied, suddenly feeling the fire of battle in his blood. “I can assure you that I am to be trusted. On the other hand, if you prefer it, I can motor back to town; or I can go to the inn, and come and take you on the river in the morning.” It was obvious that she was a little surprised. She came over to him, put her hands upon the billiard table, and looked up into his face. “Don’t be a goose,” she begged, “and please don’t imagine foolish things. I suppose my telegram to Fred must have gone wrong. Anyhow, I don’t think we need anybody else. We’ve got along very well so far to-day, haven’t we?” “I’ve enjoyed every moment of it,” John declared cheerfully, “and I am looking forward more than I can tell you to beating you at billiards, to sleeping once more with my windows wide open and no smuts, and to having another pull on that river in the morning. Let me give you fifteen this time. I want to play my best!” She took up her cue with a little sigh of half-puzzled relief. They played two games, the second one at John’s insistence. Then the butler brought whisky and soda. “Is there anything further to-night, madam?” he asked, after he had arranged the tray. “Nothing,” Lady Hilda answered. “You can go to bed.” They played the last game almost in silence. Then Lady Hilda replaced her cue in the rack and threw herself into one of the easy chairs. “Bring me a whisky-and-soda,” she said. “We’ll have one cigarette before we go to bed.” John obeyed her, and sat by her side. She looked at him a little questioningly. His unhesitating acceptance of the situation had puzzled her. There was nothing but the slightest change in his manner to denote his realisation of the fact that the house-party was a sham. “I believe you are cross,” she exclaimed, suddenly. “On the contrary,” John replied, “I have had a thoroughly delightful day.” “You don’t like people who tell fibs,” she went on. “You know quite well, now, that my house-party was a farce. I never asked the Dauirceys, I never sent a telegram to Fred. It was simply rotten luck that he rang me up. I asked you down here to spend the week-end with me—alone.”

He looked her in the face, without the slightest change of expression. “Then I think that it was exceedingly nice of you,” he said, “and I ap-

preciate the compliment. Really,” he went on, with a smile, “I think we are quite safe, aren’t we? You are known as a man-hater, and you are allowed special privileges because you are what you are. And I am known to be in love with another woman.” She frowned slightly. “Does the whole world, then, know of your infatuation?” she asked. “It may know, for all I care,” John replied simply. “I am hoping that after Monday Louise will let me announce it.” There was a short silence. A portion of the log fell to the hearth, and John carefully replaced it upon the fire. “Do you remember,” she asked, dropping her voice almost to a whisper, “what I said to you the first night we met at Covent Garden, before I had any particular interest in you, before I had come to like you?” John made no reply. Why did she again remind him of what she had said that night? “I advised you,” she went on, “not to be too rash. I think I told you that there were better things.” “There is no better thing in the world,” John said simply, “than to give every feeling of which you are capable to the woman you love.” She frowned and threw her cigarette into the hearth. “You talk,” she declared, “either like George Alexander on the stage, or like a country bumpkin! Why doesn’t some one teach you the manners of civilised life?” “Lady Hilda,” he replied, “I am past teaching. You see, the fact of it is that a country bumpkin is exactly what I am.” She turned her white shoulder away from him. “You will find a candle on the hall table,” she snapped. John rose at once to his feet. “It’s your‘ delightful country air, I suppose,” he said. “I am sorry if I betrayed my sleepiness, however. Good night!” Lady Hilda made no answer. John looked backward from the door. She had kicked off her slipper, and was warming her foot before the fire. "Good night!” he repeated. “I am

going to wake like a giant in the morning, and pull you just as far as you like up the river!” CHAPTER XXII. John was awakened the next morning by the sound of rain against the window. He got out of bed and looked upon a scene of desolation. The clouds hung low, and rain was coming clown in level sheets. The lawns and gardens which yesterday had had the air of waiting for the spring were to-day a sodden wilderness. There was a knock at the door, and the butler brought in his tea. “Lady Hilda sends her compliments, sir,” he announced, “and as the morning is so unfavourable she will not rise until eleven o’clock. Breakfast will be ready downstairs at half-past nine, or can be served in your room.” “Thank you, I’ll come down,” John replied. He bathed and shaved himself, he even packed his own clothes. Then he left the room, descending the stairs softly. He breakfasted alone and spent the morning in the billiard-room until Lady Hilda appeared. “I am a terrible hostess, am I not?” she said apologetically, as she opened the door; “but what is there to be done? The weather is too hopeless, isn’t it?” “Appalling!” John agreed. “Still, it’s very comfortable in here, and I have just "made a seventy-one break.” “We’ll have a two hundred and fifty up—that ought to last until lunchtime,” she suggested, throwing herself into a chair. “Give me ten minutes, will you? This weather is so depressing. Even the effort of getting up seems to have tired me.” She threw herself into an easy chair, and John tried to concentrate his attention upon the balls. More than once, however, he glanced across at his hostess. She was looking older this morning, paler, her face a little drawm, her eyes large and soft. She sat looking into the fire; on her knee were some letters, at which she scarcely glanced. Presently she threw them aside and rang the bell. “Bring me a brandy and soda, and the cigarettes,” she told the butler.

“Now, Mr. Strangewey, I am ready, she went on, turning to John. “Give me fifty in two hundred and fifty, if you dare!” “We’ll try,” he agreed. They played until lunch-time, both affecting a rapt interest in the game. At the sound of the gong Lady Hilda laid down her cue. “We’ll finish later,” she suggested. John strolled to the window. There were some signs of clearing in the sky. although the whole place seemed still to reek of moisture. “I am afraid I shall have to start soon after lunch,” he said. “It will take some time to get up to town. I am not a very experienced driver, and my car is a little inclined, to skid on wet roads.” She made no remark, and to both of them the presence of servants during the meal appeared to be somewhat of a relief. The coffee and liqueurs, however, again were served in the bil-liard-room, and there was a very awkward silence. For some time Lady Hilda had baffled his efforts at ordinary conversation, and his last few remarks about the weather she had ignored altogether. "So you are going up this evening?” she said at last. “This afternoon, if you don’t mind,” he replied, glancing at the clock, and thinking of the bliss with which he would turn his car out into the road. “I explained, didn’t I, that I had an engagement this evening?” "Quite right,” she admitted. “All the same, you are rather an inconsiderate guest, aren’t you, to leave me here alone in this swamp?” “Come, too?” he suggested. “I’ll motor you up.” • “Thanks,” she replied. "I will. H was a little taken aback, but, after all, it was perhaps the simplest way out of his difficulties. “I’ll take you with pleasure, if you don’t mind being drenched.” “I can stand physical discomforts, she said. “It's the other sort of knocks that bruise.” "It won’t be so bad,” he continued, ignoring her last speech, “if you wear a mackintosh and something thick for your head. Shouldn’t wonder if it cleared up presently.” Lady Hilda smiled. “I have been out in a shower in Pata;onia,” she reminded him. “which asted for three weeks. Will it suit rou to start in half an hour ?” “Any time you like,” he agreed She had changed her position a little, and he was forced to look at her. “Mr. Strangewey,” she said, “I want to ask you a question. Are you going to marry Louise Maurel?” “I am,” he replied, without hesitation; "at least, I hope to do so." She looked at him for a moment with a strange expression. Then she rose to her feet. Her lips were quivering. She leaned against the mantelpiece, with her forehead upon her arms. At first he imagined that she was going to weep; then, to his horror, he found that she was still laughing—half-hys-terically, perhaps, but still laughing- He drew a step nearer to her, but she waved him away. “Sit down!” she gasped. “Oh, if I might tell this to Henri Graillot! What a play! What humour! My friend, John Strangewey, I congratulate you! You have created a new situation in life. Leave me alone, please!” She bent forward until her face was completely hidden. Her body was shaken. Once or twice he fancied that that her laughter had turned to sobs. When at last she looked up, however, there were the remains of an almost devilish mirth on her lips. She rang the bell. “That is for my maid,” she said. “I am now going to change my clothes and let you motor me up to London. I shall get some fresh air. at any rate, and your car always fills me with I longing. Amuse yourself won’t you?

I shall be an hour getting ready, and I will order an early tea”. “You wouldn’t care to tell me, I suppose,” he asked, “what is the new situation in life which you say I have

She turned to him from the door. She was really a very handsome woman. Her lips were most expressive.

“My friend,” she said, “if you knew, if you understood, the priceless humour of it would be gone.” She closed the door and left John alone. He went back to the billiardtable. but somehow or other his skill seemed to have vanished. He had the picture of her face in his mind, the subtle meaning of her lips, the mockei-y of her eyes. They drove up to London almost In silence. It was nearly seven o’clock when John swung the little car into Pont Street. It was still raining softly. “Thapk you very much,” he said, “for my week-end. I enjoyed the river immensely yesterday afternoon.” “And thank you very much for everything, Mr. John Strangewey,” she returned. “You have given me what we are all sighing for, a new sensation —not exactly what I expected, perhaps, but something new.” “I know you think I am a country yokel and a fool,” John said; “but I wish you’d tell me why you laughed at me in that mysterious fashion.” She shook her head. “It would spoil it,” she replied. “Bessides, it isn’t for me to tell you. I am the last person who should.” They drew up outside her little house, from which came no sign of light. She slipped away and disappeared into her house. John drove slowly back toward the Milan. Just as he was turning in. a little waterproofed figure from the pavement waved her hand and called to him. He drew up and she hastened to his side. “What are you doing here?” Sophy asked. “1 thought you were spending the week-end up the river. (To be Continued.)