The Hillman

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 188, 29 October 1927, Page 26 (Supplement)

The Hillman

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E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM.

CHAFTER XXXI (Continued) The two other men looked at him fixedly. They both realised the same thing at the same moment —there was no trace of the returned prodigal in John’s countenance, or in his buoyant expression. The ten-mile ride seemed to have brought back all his colour. “Master John!” Jennings faltered. Stephen said nothing. John crossed the room and gripped his brother’s hand. “Wet through to the skin and starving!” he declared. “I thought I’d find something at Ketton, but it was all I could do to get Gibson, at the George, to lend me a horse. Give me a glass of wine, Jennings. I’ll change my clothes —I expect you’ve kept them aired.”

V Not a word of explanation concernr ing his sudden return, nor did either • of the two ask any questions. They set i the bell clanging in the stable-yard I and found shelter for the borrowed I horse. Presently, in dry clothes. John f sat down to a plentiful meal. His | brother watched him with a grim smile. (“You haven’t forgotten how to eat in London, John,” he remarked. “If I had, a ten-mile ride on a night like this would help me to remember! I How’s the land doing? (“Things are backward. The snow lay late, and we’ve had drying winds.” “And the stock?” “Moderate. We are short of heifers. But you didn't come back from London ? to ask about the farm.” I John pushed back his plate and drew 1 his chair opposite to his brother’s. a "I did not.” he assented. * I came f back to tell you my news.” 5 **l was thinking that might be it,” I Stephen muttered. 1 John crossed the room, found his I pipe in a drawer, filled it with tobacco F and lit it. ) “Old man,” he said, as he returned

to his place, “it’s all very well for you and old Jennings to put your heads together every night and drink confusion to all women; but you know very well that if there are to be any more Strangeweys at Peak Hall, either you or I must marry!” Stephen moved uneasily in his chair. “If you’re going to marry that woman —” he began.

“I am going to marry Louise Maurel,” John interrupted firmly. “Stephen, listen to me for a moment before you say another word, please. It is all settled. She has promised to be my wife. I don’t forget what we’ve been to each other. I don’t forget the old name and the old tradition; but I have been fortunate enough to meet a woman whom I love, and I am going to marry her. Don’t speak hurriedly, Stephen! Think whatever you will, but keep it to yourself. Some day I shall expect you to give me your hand and tell me you are glad.” Stephen knocked the ashes deliberately from his pipe. “I will tell you this much now,” he said. "I had rather that we Strangeweys died out, that the roof dropped off Peak Hall and the walls stood naked to the skjy than that this woman should be your wife and the mother of your children!” “Let it go at that, then, Stephen,” John replied. “It is enough for me to i say that I will not take it ill from you, ; because you do not know her.” | "But I do know her.” Stephen an- : swered. “Perhaps she didn't tell you that I paid her a visit?” "You paid her a visit?” “Aye, that I did! She wouldn’t tell you. There’ll be many a thing in life she won’t tell you. I went to let her hear from my lips what I thought i of her as a wife for you.” j "Stephen!” John thundered, i “It seems I did no good—no good,

that is, if she has promised to marry you.” John drew a breath. His task was harder, even, than he had imagined. All the time he tried to keep one thought fixed in his mind. Stephen was his elder brother. It was Stephen who had been his guardian and his guide through all his youth. He thought of Stephen’s fifty odd years of simple and strenuous living, of his charity, of his strength—that very strength which had kept him in the narrow way, which had kept him from looking to the right or to the left in his walk through life. “Stephen,” John said, “you are growing harder with the years. Was there never a time when you were younger, when you were my age, when you felt differently toward women?”

“Never, thank Heaven!” Stephen replied. “I was too near the sorrow that fell upon our house when our father died with a broken heart. There were the other two as well —one with a bullet in his brain, the other a drunkard. Maybe, when I was your age, I felt at times what I suppose you feel. Well, I just took it in both hands and strangled it. If you must have a sweetheart, why don’t you take the little fair-haired girl—Sophy, you called her? She’d do you as little harm as any of them.”

“Because it is not a sweetheart of that sort I want,” John protested vigorously. “I’ve had the same feelings as most men, I suppose, but I’ve fought my battle out to the end, only for a different reason. I want a wife and I want children.”

“Will she bring you children, that woman?” Stephen asked bitterly. “I hope so,” John asserted. “I be-

There was a moment’s silence. Stephen lit his pipe and puffed steadily at it, his eyes fixed upon the log that blazed on the hearth.

“There is a muzzle upon my mouth,” he said presently. “There are words close to my lips which would part you and me, so I’ll say no more. Go your own way, John. I’ll ask you but one more question, and you must take that as man from man, brother from brother. How old is she?”

“Twenty-seven.” “And you believe she’s a good

John gripped at the sides of his chair. With a tremendous effort he kept the torrent of words from his lips. “I know she is,” he answered calmly. “Has she told you so?” “A man has no need to put such a question to the woman he cares for.” “Then you haven't asked her?”

John laid down his pipe and rose to his feet. He gripped his brother by the arm.

“Stephen,” he said, “it’s a hard fight for me, this, to sit face to face with you and know what you are thinking, with the love for this woman strong and sweet in my heart. You don’t un-

derstand, Stephen; you’re a long way from understanding. But*you are my brother. Don’t make it too hard. lam not a child. Believe in me. I Would not take any woman to be my wife, and the mother of my children, who was not a good woman. I am off tomorrow morning, Stephen. I came all the way just on an impulse, because I felt that I must tell you myself. It would be one of the best things in the world to ride that ten miles back again to-morrow morning, to have told you how things are, to have felt your hand in mine, and to know that there was no shadow of misunderstanding between us!”

Stephen, too, rose to his feet. They stood together before the fire. “Man to man, John,” Stephen said, as he gripped his brother by the hands, “I love you this moment as I always have done and as I always shall do. and if this thing must be between us I’ll say but one last word, and you’ll take it from me, even though I am the only man on earth you’d take it from: Before you marry, ask her!” CHAPTER XXXII. John went back to town, telling himself that all had gone as well as he had expected. He had done his duty. He had told Stephen his news, and they had parted friends. Yet all the time he was conscious of an under-

tions prematurely. Then, when they are disturbed for the replanting a check is given. When the bulbs are dried sufficiently without being shrivelled, and all the leaf-stalks readily’ drop away, store them in a dry, cool cupboard or room in readiness for the replanting.