The Hillman

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 187, 28 October 1927, Page 14

The Hillman

Jar

E.PHILLIRS OPPNHEIA.

CHAPTER XXIX. (continued). Her fingers played nervously for a moment with the edge of the rug. She drew it higher up. “Well, when I left your house the first time this afternoon, I went straight back to the prince. I pointed out to him that, after what had been said, us it might become known that you were his guest of to-day, it 'would be better for him to postpone your visit. He agreed to do so.” “Was that all that passed between you?” “Not quite,” John replied. “He asked me what concern it was of mine, and I told him exactly what my concern was. I told him I hoped that some day you would be my wife.” She sat quite still, looking down upon the flaring lights. She was filled with a restless desire to escape, to start the motor herself and rush through the wet air into London and safety. And side by side with that desire she knew that there was nothing in the world she wanted so much as to stay just where she was, and to hear just the words she was going to hear. “So much for that!” John proceeded. “And now', please, listen. I have brought you out here because under these conditions 1 feel more master of myself and my thoughts, and of the things I want to say to you. Something takes me by the throat in your little drawing-room, with its shaded lights, its perfume of flowers, and its atmosphere of perfection. You sit enthroned there like the queen of a world I know nothing of, and all the time letters and flowers and flattering invitations are show*ered upon you from the greatest men in London. The atmosphere there stifles me, Louise. Out here you are a woman and I a man, and those other things fall away. I have tried my best to come a little way into sympathy with your life. I want you now* to make up your mind to come down a little way into mine!” She shook her head. “We are still too far apart,” she murmured. “Can’t you understand that yourself?” “I have been a pupil for many months,” he answrered, turning toward her. w’ith one arm at the back of her cushions and the fingers of the other hand suddenly seeking hers. “Can’t you understand, if you do care a little, if you have just a little flame of love in your heart for me, that many of these other things which keep us apart are like the limelight which flashes out to give artificial light in an honest darkness? Don’t you believe, at the bottom of your heart, that you can be happier if you will climb with me to the place where we first met, even where the clouds lean over my own hills? You thought me very narrow then. Perhaps I am. But I think you are beginning to understand, dear, that that life is only a type. We can wander about where you will. My hills are only the emblems of the things that are dear to me. There are many countries I want to visit. I don’t want to cramp your life. You can’t really be afraid of that, because it is the

most widening thing in the world that I have to give you—my love, the love of my heart and .my soul.” She felt the sudden snapping of every nerve in her body, the passing away of all sense of will or resistance. She was conscious only of the little movement toward him, the involuntary yielding of herself. She lay back in his arms, and the kisses which closed her eyes and lips seemed to be working some strange miracle. She was in some great empty space, breathing wonderful things. She was on the hilltops, and from the heights she looked down at herself as she had been —a poor little white-faced puppet, strutting about an overheated stage, in a fetid atmosphere of adulation, with a brain artificially stimulated, and a heart growing cold with selfishness. She pitied herself as she had been. Then she opened her eyes with a start of joy. “How wonderful it all is!” she murmured. “You brought me here to tell me this?” “And to hear something!” he insisted. “I have tried not to, John,” she confessed, amazed at the tremble of her sweet, low voice. Her words seemed like the confession of a weeping child. “I cannot help it. I do love you! I have tried not to so hard, but now—now I shall not try any more!” They drove quietly down the long hill and through the dripping streets. Not another word passed between them till they drew up outside her door. She felt a new timidity as he handed her out, an immense gratitude for his firm tone and intuitive tact. “No, I won’t come in—thanks,” he declared. “You have so little time to rest and get ready for the theatre.” “You will be there to-night?” she asked. He laughed as if there were humour In the suggestion of his absence. “Of course.” He slipped in his clutch and drove off through the rain-gleaming streets with the smile and air of a conqueror. Louise passed into her little house to find a visitor waiting for her there. CHAPTER XXX. Eugene, Prince of Seyre, had spent the early part of that afternoon in a manner wholly strange to him. In pursuance of an order given to his majordomo immediately on his return from the club after lunch, the great reception-rooms of Seyre House, the picture gallery and the ballroom, were prepared as if for a reception. Dustsheets were swept aside, masterpieces of painting and sculpture were uncovered, the soft brilliance of concealed electric lights lit up many dark corners. When all was ready, the prince, with his hands clasped behind him, with expressionless face and slow, thoughtful movements, passed from room to room of the treasure-house which had come to him through a long line of distinguished and famous men. Here and there he paused to handle with the fingers of a connoisseur some excellent

pieces of bronze statuary, some miracle of Sevres china, some treasure of carved ivory, yellow with age. And more than once he stood still for several minutes in rapt contemplation of one of the great masterpieces with which the walls were hung. He was forty-one years old that day, and the few words which John had spoken to him, barely an hour ago, had made him realise that- there was only one thing in life that he desired. The sight of his treasures merely soothed his vanity. It left empty and unsatisfied his fuller and deeper desire of living. He told himself that his time had come. Others of his race had paid a great price for the things they had coveted in life. He, too, must follow their example. He was in Louise’s dressing-room when she returned —Louise, with hair and cheeks a little damp, but with a wonderful light in her eyes and with footsteps that seemed to fall on air. “Some tea and a bath this moment, Aline!” she called out, as she ran lightly up the stairs. “Never mind about dinner, I am so late. I will have some toast. Be quick!” “Madame ” Aline began. “Don’t bother me about anything now,” Louise interrupted. “I will throw my things off while you get the bath ready.” She stepped into her little room, throwing off her cloak as she entered. Then she stopped short, almost upon the threshold. The prince had risen to his feet. “Eugene!” He came toward her. Even as he stooped to kiss her fingers, his eyes seemed to take in her dishevelled condition, the little patches of colour in her cheeks, the radiant happiness which shone in her eyes. “I am not an unwelcome intruder, 1 hope,” he said. “But how wet you are.! ” The fingers which he released fell nervelessly to her side. She stood looking at him as if confronted wt h a sudden nightmare. It was as if this this new-found life were being slowly drained from her veins. “You a,re overtired.” he murmured, leading her with solicitude toward an easy chair. “One would imagine, from your appearance, that I was the bearer of some terrible tidings. Let me assure you that it is not so.” He spoke with his usual deliberation, but she seemed powerless to recover herself. She was still dazed and white. She sank into the chair and looked at him. “Nothing, I trust,” he went on. “has happened to disturb you?” “Nothing at all.” she declared hastily. “I am tired. I ran upstairs perhaps a little too quickly. Aline had not told me that there was any one here.” “I had a fancy to see you this afternoon,” the prince explained, “and, finding you out, I took the liberty of waiting. If you would rather I went away and came for you later, please do not hesitate to say so.” “Of course not!” she exclaimed. “I do not know why I should have been so silly. Aline, take my coat and veil,” she directed, turning to the maid, who was lingering at the other end of the room. “I am not wet. Serve some tea in here. I will have my bath later, when I change to go to the theatre.” She spoke bravely, but fear was in her heart. She tried to tell herself that this visit was a coincidence, that it meant nothing, but all the time she knew otherwise. The door closed behind Aline, and they were alone. The prince, as if anxious to give her time to recover herself, walked to the window and stood for some moments looking out. When he turned around, Louise had at least nerved herself to meet what she felt was imminent. The prince approached her deliberately. She knew what he was going to say. . “Louise,” he began, drawing a chair to her side. “I have found myself thinking a great deal about you during the last few weeks.” She did not interrupt him. She simply waited and watched. j

“I have come to a certain determination,” he proceeded; “one which, if you will grace it with your approval, will give me great happiness. I ask you to forget certain things which have passed between us. I have come to you to-day to beg you to do me the honour of becoming my wife.” She turned her head very slowly until she was looking him full in the face. Her lips were a little parted, her eyes a little strained. The prince was leaning toward her in a conventional attitude his words had been spoken simply and in his usual conversational manner. There was something about him, however, profoundly convincing. “Your wife!” Louise repeated. “If you will do me that great honour.” It seemed at first as if her nerves were strained to the breaking-point. The situation was one with which her brain seemed unable to grapple. She set her teeth tightly. Then she had a sudden interlude of wonderful clearsightedness. She was almost cool. “You must forgive my surprise, Eugene.” she begged. “We have known each other now for some twelve years, have we not? —and I believe that this is the first time you have ever hinted at anything of the sort!” “One gathers wisdom, perhaps, with the years,” he replied. “I am forty-one years old to-day. I have spent the early hours of this afternoon in reflection, and behold the result!” “You have spoken to me before,” she said, slowly, “of different things. You have offered me a great deal in life, but never your name. I do not understand this sudden change.” “Louise.” he declared, “if I do not tell you the truth now. you will probably guess it. Besides, this is the one time in their lives when a man and a woman should speak nothing but the truth. It is for fear of losing you—that is why.”

Her self-control suddenly gave way. She threw herself back in her chair. She began to laugh and stopped abruptly, the tears streaming from her eyes. The prince leaned forward. He took her hands in his, but she drew them away. “You are too late, Eugene,” she said. “I almost loved you. I was almost yours to do whatever you liked with. But somehow, somewhere, notwithstanding all your worldly knowledge and mine, we missed it. We do not know the truth about life, you and I—at least you do not, and I do not.” He rose very slowly to his feet. There was no visible change in his face save a slight whitening of the cheeks. “And the sequel to this?” he asked. “I have promised to marry John Strangewey,” she told him. “That,” he replied, “is impossible! I have a prior claim!” The light of battle flamed suddenly in her eyes. Her nervousness had gone. She was a strong woman, face to face with him now, taller than he, seeming, indeed, to tower over him in the splendour of her anger. She was like a lioness threatened with the loss of the one dear thing “Assert it, then!” she cried defiantly. “Do what you will. Go to him this minute, if you have courage enough, if it seems to you well. Claim, indeed!' Right! I have the one right every woman in the world possesses—to give herself, body and soul,*to the man she loves! That is the only claim and the only right I recognise, and I am giving myself to him, when he wants me, forever!” She stopped suddenly. Neither cf them had heard a discreet knock at the door. Aline had entered with the tea. There was a moment of silence. “Put it down here by my side, Aline,” her mistress ordered, “and show the Prince of Seyre out.” Aline held the door open. For a single

moment the prince hesitated. Then he picked up his hat and bowed. “Perhaps,” he said, “this may not be the last word! ” CHAPTER XXXI. Jennings stood with his decanter in his hand, looking resentfully at his master’s untasted wine. He shook his head ponderously. Not only was the wine untouched, but the “Cumberland Times” lay unopened upon the table. Grim and severe in his high-backed chair, Stephen Strangewey sat with his eyes fixed upon the curtained window. “There’s nothing wrong with the wine, I hope, sir?” the man asked. “It’s not corked, or anything, sir?” “Nothing is the matter with it,” Stephen answered. “Bring me my pipe.” Jennings shook his head firmly. “There’s no call for you, sir,” he declared, “to drop out of your old habits. You shall have your pipe when you’ve drunk that glass of port, and not before. Bless me! There’s the paper by your side, all unread, and full of news, for I’ve glanced it through myself. Corn was higher yesterday at Market Ketton, and there’s talk of a bad shortage of fodder in some parts.” Stephen raised his glass to his lips and drained its contents. “Now bring me my pipe, Jennings.” he ordered. The old man was still disposed to grumble. “Drinking wine like that as if it were some public house stuff!” he muttered, as he crossed the room toward the sideboard. “It’s more a night, this, to my way of thinking, for drinking a second glass of wine than for shilly-shallying with the first. There’s the wind coming across Townley Moor and down the Fells strong enough to blow the rocks out of the ground. It ’minds me of the time M,r. John was out with the Territorials, and they tried the moor for their big guns.” The rain lashed the window-panes, and the wind whistled past the front of the house. Stephen sat quite still, as if listening—it may have been to the storm. “Well, here’s your pipe, sir,” Jennings continued, laying it by his master’s side, “and your tobacco and the matches. If you’d smoke less and drink a glass or two more of the right stuff, it would be more to my liking.” Stephen filled his pipe with firm fingers. Then he laid it down, unlit, by his side. “Bring me back the port, Jennings,” he ordered, “and a glass for yourself.” Jennings obeyed promptly. Stephen filled both glasses, and the two men looked at each other as they held them out. “Here’s confusion to all women!” Stephen said, as he raised his to his lips. “Amen, sir!” Jennings muttered. They set down the two empty glasses. Stephen lit his pipe. He sat smoking stolidly, blowing out great eloLids of smoke. Jennings retreated, coughing resentfully. “Spoils the taste of good wine, that tobacco do.” he snapped. “Good port like that should be left to lie upon the palate, so to speak. Bless me, what’s that?” Above the roar of the wind camp another and unmistakable sound. The front door had been opened and shut. There were steps upon the stone floor of the hall —firm, familiar steps. Jennings, with his mouth open, stood staring at the door. Stephen slowly turned his head. The hand which held his pipe was as firm as a rock, but there was a queer little gleam of expectation in his eyes. Then the door was thrown open and John entered. The rain was dripping from his clothes. He was breathless from his struggle with the elements. <To be Continued).