The Hillman

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 189, 31 October 1927, Page 14

The Hillman

Jfar

E. PHILLIPS OPPENHELN.

CHAPTER XXXII. (Continued). She lay, for a moment, passive in his arms. He smoothed her hair and kissed her tenderly. Then he led her back to her place upon the couch. Her emotional mood, while it flattered him in a sense, did nothing to quiet the little demons of unrest that pulled, every now and then, at his heartstrings. “What is this reception?” he asked. She made a little grimace. “It is a formal welcome from the English stage to the French company that has come over to play at the new French theatre,” she told him. "Sir Edward and I are to receive them. You will come, will you not?” “I haven’t an Invitation,” he told her. “Invitation? I invite you. I am the hostess of the evening.” “Then I am not likely to refuse, am I?” he asked, smiling. “Shall I come to the theatre?'’ “Come straight to the reception at the Whitehall Rooms,” she begged. •‘Sir Edward is calling for me, and Oraillot will go down with us. Later, If you care to, you can drive me home.” “Don’t you think,” he suggested, “that It would be rather a good opportunity to announce our engagement?” “Noi to-night!” she pleaded. “You know, I cannot seem to believe it myself, except when I am with you and we are alone. It seems too wonderful after all these years. Do you know. John, that I am nearly thirty?’’ He laughed. “How pathetic! All the more reason, I should say, why we should let people know about it as soon as possible.” “There is no particular hurry,” she Said a little nervously. “Let me get used to it myself. I don’t think you will have to wait long. Everything I have been used to doing and thinking Seems to be crumbling up around me. Last night I even hated my work, or at least part of it.” His eyes lit up with genuine pleasure. * I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear you say that,” he declared. “I don't hate your work—l’ve got over that. I don’t think I am narrow about U. I admire Oraillot, and his play is wonderful. But I think, and I always shall think, that the denouement in that third act is damnable!” She nodded understanding^. “I am beginning to realise how you tnust feel.” she confessed. “We won't talk about it any more now. Drif'o tne to the theatre, will you? I want to be there early to-night, just to get everything ready for changing afterward.” The telephone bell rang as they were paving the room. John put the receiver to his ear and a moment later held it away. “It is Sophy,” he announced. “Shall I 101 l them to send her up?” “Sophy, indeed!” Louise exclaimed. I thought she was in the country, on tour, and was not expected back until to-morrow.” “I thought she went away for a week ” John said: “but there she is waiting lown stairs.” Louise hesitated for a moment. Then the came over to John with a tremulous * smile at the corners of her lips. Dear ’ she said, “I am in a strange « m J nd I don’t want even i "

here. She can wait for you while you take me out the other way.” “May I tell her?” John asked, as he rang for the lift. “She has been such a good little pal!” Once more Louise seemed to hesitate. A vague look of trouble clouded her face. “Perhaps you had better, dear,” she agreed spiritlessly. “Only tell her not to breathe it to another soul. It is to be our secret for a little time—not ldng —just a day or two longer.” The gates of the lift swung open, and John raised her fingers to his lips. “It is for you to say, dear,” he promised. When he came back to his room, Sophy was curled up on the couch with: a cigarette between her lips. She looked at him severely. “I am losing faith in you,” she declared. “There are signs of a hurried departure from this room. There is a distinct perfume of roses about the place. You have aways told me that I am the only visitor of my sex you allow here. lam fiercely jealous! Tell me what this tea-tray and the empty cups mean?” “It means Louise,” he answered, smiling. “She has just this moment gone away.” Sophy sighed with an air of mock relief. “Louise I suppose I must tolerate,” she said. “Fancy her coming here to tea with you, though ! ” “I have been up to Cumberland for a day,” he told her, “and Louise came to meet me at the station.” “How is your angel brother?” she asked. “Did he ask after me?” “He did mention you,” John confessed. “I don’t remember any direct message, though. You want a cocktail, of course, don’t you?” “Dying for it,” she admitted. “I have had such a dull week! We’ve be<yi playing in wretched little places, and last night the show went bust. The manager presented us with our fares home this morning. We were only down in Surrey, so here I am.’ “Well, I’m glad to see you back again,” John told her, after he had ordered cocktails. “Louise has been quite lost without you, too.” “I didn’t want to go away,” she sighed, “but I do get so tired of not working! Although my part wasn’t worth anything, I hated it being cut out. It makes one feel so aimless. One has too much time to think.” He laughed at her, pleasantly, but derisively. “Time to think!” he repeated. “Why, 1 have never seen you serious for five minutes in your life, except when you’ve been adding up Louise’s house-keeping-books!” She threw her cigarette into the grate, swung round toward him, and looked steadily into his face. “Men take me out because I am bright, because I save them the trouble of talking, and they don’t feel quite so stupid with me as with another woman. My young man at Bath wants to marry me for the same reason. He thinks it would be so pleasant to have me always at hand to chatter nonsense. That is why you like me, too. You have been pitched into a strange world. You are not really in touch with it. You like to be with some one who will talk noosense and take you a

little way out of it. I am just a little fool, you see, a harmless little creature, in cap and bells, whom every one amuses himself with.” John stared at her for a moment, only half understanding. “Why, little girl,” he exclaimed, “I believe you’re in earnest!” “I am in deadly earnest,” she assured him, her voice breaking a little. “Don’t take any notice of me. I have had a wretched week, and it’s a rotten world, anyway.” There was a knock at the door, and the waiter entered. “Come,” said John,' as he took a g'ass from the tray, “I will tell you some news that will give you something to think about. I hope that you will be glad—l feel sure that you will. I want you to be the first to drink our healths—Louise’s and mine!” The glass slipped through her fingers and fell upon the carpet. She never uttered even an exclamation. John was upon his knees, picking up the broken glass. “My fault,” he insisted. “I am so sorry, Sophy. I am afraid some of the stuff has gone on your frock. Looks as if you’ll have to take me out shopping. I’ll ring for another.” He rose to his feet and stepped toward the bell. Then it suddenly occurred to him that as yet she had not Sp «?^ en ‘ turned quickly around. “Sophy,” he exclaimed, “what is the matter Aren’t you going to congratulate ipe?” She was sitting bolt upright upon the couch, her fingers buried in the cushions, her eyes closed. He moved quickly toward her. “I say, Sophy, what’s wrong?” he asked hastily. “Aren’t•you well?” She waved him away. “Don’t touch me,” she begged. “I went without my lunch—nearly missed the train, as it was. I was feeling a little queer when I came, and dropping that glass gave me a shock. Let me drink yours, may I?” He handed it to her, and she drained its contents. Then she smiled up at him weakly. “What a shame!” she said. “Just as you were telling me your wonderful news! I can scarcely believe it —you and Louise!” John sat down beside Sophy. “Louise does not want it talked about for a day or two,” he observed. “We have not made any plans yet.” “Is Louise going to remain upon the stage?” “Probably, if she wishes it,” he replied; “but I want to travel first for a year or so, before we settle definitely uport anything. I did not think that you would be so much surprised, Sophy.” “Perhaps I am not really,” she admitted. “One thinks of a thing as being possible, for a long time, and when it actually comes—well, it takes you off your feet just the same. You know,” she added slowly, “there are no two people in this world so far apart in their ways as you and Louise.” “That is true from one point of view,” he confessed. “From another, I think that there are no two people so close together. Of course, it seems wonderful to me, and I suppose it does to you, Sophy, that she should care for a man of my type. She is so brilliant and so talented, such a woman of this latter-day world, the world of which I am about as ignorant as a man can be. Perhaps, after all, that is the real explanation of it. Each of us represents things new to the other.” “Did you say that no one has been told yet—no one at all?” “No one except Stephen,” John assented. “That is why I went up to Cumberland, to tell him.” “You have not told the prince?” Sophy asked, dropping her voice a little. “Louise has not told him?” "Not that I know of. Why do you ask?” John inquired, looking into Sophy’s face. “I don’t know,” she answered. “It just occurred to me. He and Louise have known each other for such a long time, and I wondered what he might have to say about it.” John laid his hands upon the poisonous thoughts that had stolen once more into his blood, and told himself that he had strangled them. He swept them away and glanced at his watch. “Let’s have some dinner before I change, down in the grill room—in a quarter of an hour’s time, say.. I don’t

want to be at the theatre before the second act.” Sophy hesitated. There was a hard feeling in her throat, a burning at the back of her eyes. She was passionately anxious to be alone, yet she could not bring herself to refuse. She could not deny herself, or tear herself at once away from the close companionship which seemed, somehow or other, to have crept up between herself and John, and to have become the one thing that counted in life. “I’d love to,” she said, “but remember I’ve been travelling. Look at me! I must either go home, or you must let me go into your room—” “Make yourself at home,”* John invited. “I have three letters to write, and some telephone messages to answer. Sophy lit another cigarette and strolled jauntily through his suite of rooms. When she was quite sure that she was alone, however, she closed the door behind her, dropped her cigarette and staggered to the window. She stood

there, gazing down into an alleyway six storeys below, where the people passing back and forth looked like drawf creatures. One little movement forward! No one could have been meant to bear pain like this. She set her teeth. “It would be so soon over!” Then she suddenly found that she could see nothing; the people below were blurred images. A rush of relief had come to her. She sank into the nearest chair and sobbed. CHAPTER XXXIII. The reception in honour of the little company of French tragedians, at which almost the whole of the English stage and a sprinkling of society people were present, was a complete success. Louise made a charming hostess, and Sir Edward more than ever justified his reputation for saying the right thing to the right person at the right moment. The rooms were crowded .with throngs of distinguished

people, who all seemed to have plenty to say to one another. The only person, perhaps, who found himself curiously ill at ease was John. He heard nothing but French on all sides of him—a language which he read with some facility, but which he spoke like a schoolboy. He had been wandering about for more than an hour before Louise discovered him. She at once left her place and crossed the room to where he was standing by the wall. “Cheer up!” she begged, with a delightful smile. “I am afraid that you are being bored to death. Will you not come and be presented to our guests?” “For goodness sake, no!” John implored. “I have never seen one of them act, and my French is appalling. lam all right, dear. It’s quite enough pleasure to see you looking so beautiful, and to think that I am going to be allowed to drive you home afterward.” Louise looked into a neighbouring mirror, and gazed critically at her

own reflected image. The lines of her figure, fine and subtle, seemed traced by the finger of some great sculptor underneath her faultlessly made whitesatin gown. She studied her white neck and shoulders and her perfectlyshaped head, seeking everywhere for some detail with which an impartial critic might find fault. She had a curious feeling that, at that precise moment, she had reached the zenith of her power and her charm. Pier audience at the theatre had been wonderfully sympathetic, had responded with rare appreciation to every turn of her voice, to every movement and gesture. She was conscious, acutely conscious, of the atmosphere she had created around her. She was glorying in the subtle outward signs of it. She was in love with herself; in love, too, with this delightful new feeling of loving. It would have given her more joy than anything else in the world, in that moment of her triumph, to have passed her arm through John’s,

to have led him up to them all, and to have said: “After all, you see, I am a verysimple sort of woman. I have done just the sort of simple thing that other women do, and I am glad of it —very glad and very happy!” Her lips moved to the music of her thoughts. John leaned toward her. “Did you say anything?” he asked. “You dear stupid, of course I did not! Or if I did, it was just one of those little -whispers to oneself which mean nothing, yet which count for so much. Can I do anything to make you enjoy yourself more? I shall have to go back to my guests now. We are expecting a royal personage, and those two dears who keep so close to my side do not speak a word of English.” “Please go back, dear,” John begged promptly. “It was nice of you to come at ail. And here’s Sophy at last, thank goodness! Now I am all right.” She laid her fingers upon his arm. “You must take me back to my place,” she said. “Then you can go and talk nonsense to Sophy. I won’t even ask you what she said when you told her the news. I suppose you did tell her?” “Of course!” She glanced at him swiftly. His repis'- had sounded a little lame; but they were back in the crowd now, and she dismissed him with a little nod. lie made his way quickly to the spot where he had seen Sophy. To his disappointment, she had disappeared. Graillot, however, came up and seized him by the arm. “Still playing the moth, my young friend?” he exclaimed. “Aren’t the wings sufficiently burned yet?” “I am afraid it’s become a permanent role,” John replied, as the two men shook hands. “Where have you been all these weeks, and why haven’t you been to see me?” “Paris, my dear young friend —Paris and life! Nowl am back again—l am not sure that I know why. I came over with these French people, to see them start their theatre. Forgive me, I have not paid my respects to our hostess. We shall meet again presently.” He strolled off, and a few minutes later John found Sophy. “How late you are!” he grumbled. “I couldn't help it!” she answered. “This is the only evening dress I possess at present, and I had to mend it before it was decent to come out in. Why are you wandering about alone? Hasn’t Louise been kind to you?” “She has been charming,” John declared promptly, “but she is surrounded with all sorts of people 1 don’t know. I can’t help her. For one thing, my French is absurd. Then they are all talking about things which I don’t understand in the least. Sophy remained silent for a moment. Then she took John’s arm, and led him to the buffet. “Give me an ice and a cigarette, will you, please? You are a dear, impractical person, but you are as much out of this world as a human being well could be.” John waited upon her without any further remark. The Prince of Seyre, passing through, bowed to them. John looked after his retreating figure. An impulse seized him. “Sophy,” he asked, sitting down by her side, “tell me, why have the prince and Louise always been such great friends?” Sophy looked steadfastly at her ice. “I suppose because the prince is a very clever and cultivated person,” she said. “He has been of great assistance to Louise several times. It was he who financed Miles Faraday when he put on this play of Graillot’s. Graillot hasn’t a penny, you know, and poor Miles was almost broke after three failures.” “That was Just an investment,” John remarked irritably. “lie will get his money back again.” “Of course,” Sophy agreed. “I think the prince generally manages to get value for what he does in life.” “You don’t think Louise ever thought of caring for him, do you?” John persisted. Sophy paused until she had lit a cigarette. The expression in her face, when she looked up at John irritated him vaguely. It was as if she were talking to a child. “I think,” she said, “you had better ask Louise that question yourself, don’t you?”

He asked it an hour or so later, when at last the party of guest 3 had taken their leave, and, somewhat to the well-bred surprise of the one or two friends who lingered, Louise had beckoned John to take her out to her car. Her hand had sought his at once, her head rested a little wearily but very contentedly upon his shoulder. “Louise, dear,” he began, “I asked Sophy a question to-night which I ought to have asked you. Quite properly, she told me so.” “Nice little soul, Sophy,” Louise murmured. “What was it, John?” “Once or twice I have wondered,” he went on, “whether you have ever cared in any sort of way, or come near to caring, for the Prince of Seyre?” For a moment she made no movement. Then she turned her head and looked at him. The sleepy content bad gone from her eyes. “Why do you ask?” “Isn’t it a natural question from a jealous man who believes that everyone who sees you must be in love with you. You have seen a great deal of the prince, haven’t you, in the last few years. He understands your art. There are many things that you and he have in common.” “I think that once, perhaps twice,” she confessed, “I came very near to caring for him.” “And now?” “And now,” she repeated, suddenly gripping John’s hands, “I tell you that I am very much nearer hating him. So much for the prince! In ten minutes we shall be at home, and you are such a dear stupid about coming in. You must try to say all the nice things in the world to me quickly—in ten minutes! ” “How shall I begin?” he whispered. She leaned once more toward him. “You don’t need any hints,” she murmured. “You’re really quite good at it.” CHAPTER XXXIV. The ten minutes passed very much too quickly. She was gone, and John, thrilled though he was through all his senses by the almost passionate fervour of her leave-taking, found himself once more confronted by that little demon. He sat up in the car, which bore him quickly back toward his rooms, and although the sense of her presence, the delicate perfume, the empty place by his side, even a fallen flower from her gown, were still there, the unrest seemed sharper. There was something about all of them, all these people whom he knew to be his friends, which seemed to him to savour of a conspiracy. One by one they flitted through his brain—Grail - lot’s covert warning: Sophy’s plaintive, almost fearful doubts; the prince’s subtle yet cynical silence; and behind it all, Stephen’s brutal and outspoken words. There was nothing that could be put into definite shape—just the ghost of torturing, impossible thoughts. John told himself that it must be ended. Even though the words should blister his tongue with shame, they must be spoken. A moment later he hated himself for the thought. He set his teeth, filled his thoughts with the glory of her presence, and crushed those demoniacal suggestions to the back of his brain. He was in no humour to go home, however. Changing the order he had first given to the chauffeur, he was driven instead to a small Bohemian club which he had joined at Graillot’s instigation. He had a vague hope that he might find the great dramatist there. There were no signs of him, however, in the smoking-room, or any one els#* whom John knew. He threw himself into an easy chair and ordered a whisky and soda. Two men close at hand were writing at desks; others were lounging about, discussing the evening’s reception. One man. sitting upon the table, a recognised authority, was treating the company to a fluent dissertation upon modern actresses, winding up by contrasting Louise Maurel’s style with that of her chief French rival. John found himself listening with pleased interest. The man’s opinion was certainly not unfavourable to Louise. “It is only in the finer shades of emotionalism,” the critic declared, “that these French actresses get at us a little more completely even than Louise

Maurel. Do you know the reason? I’ll tell you. It is because they live the life. They have a dozen new emotions in a season. They make a cult of feeling. They use their brains to dissect their passions. They cut their own life into small pieces and give us the result without concealment. That is where they score, if anywhere. This Mme. Latrobe, who opens over here to-morrow night, is living at the present moment with Jean TourbeL She had an affair with that Italian poet in the summer, so they tell me. She was certainly in Madrid in October with Bretoldi, the sculptor. These men are all great artists. Think what she must have learned from associating with them! Now Louise Maurel, as far as we know, has never had but one lover, the Prince of Seyre, and has been faithful to him all the time.” It was out at last! John had heard it spoken in plain words. The black demon upon which his hand had lain so heavily, was alive now, without a doubt, jeering at him, mocking at him —alive and self-assertive in the sober words of the elderly, well-bred man who lounged upon the table. For a moment or two John was stunned. A wild impulse assailed him to leap up and confront them all, to choke the lie back down the throat of the man who had uttered it. Every nerve in his body was tingling with the desire for action. The stupor of his senses alone kept him motionless, and a strange, incomprehensible clarity m thought. He realised exactly how things were. This man had not spoken idly, nor as a scandalmonger. He had spoken what he had accepted as a fact, what other people believed. John rose to his feet and made his way toward the door. His face showed little sign of disturbance. He even nodded to somfe men whom he knew slightly. As he passed down the stair* he met Graillot. Then once more his self-control became in danger. He seized the Frenchman savagely by the arm. “Come this way.” he said, leading him toward the card-room. • “Come in here! I want to speak to you.” He locked the door —a most unheardof and irregular proceeding. Graillot felt the coming of the storm. “■Well?” he exclaimed gaily. “Trouble already, eh? I see it in your face, young man. Out with it!” “I was sitting in the smoking-room there, a few moments ago,” he began, jerking his head toward the door. “There were some men talking—, fellows, not dirty scandalmongers. They spoke of Louise Maurel.” Graillot nodded gravely. He knew very well what was coming. “Well?” . “They spoke, also, of the Prince ot Seyre.” “Well?” _ • John felt his throat suddenly dr.*. The words he would have spoken choked him. He banged his fist upor. the table by the side of which they were standing. . . “Look here, Graillot,” lie cried, almost piteously, “you know it is no true, nor likely to be true! Can’t you say so?” . “Stop, my young friend!” the Frenchman interrupted. “I know not ~*P~l It is a habit of mine to know nothing when people make suggestions of tna sort. I make no inquiries. 1 accep life and people as I find them.’’ “But you don’t believe that suen thing could be possible?” “Why not?” Graillot asked steadily* John could do no more than mumD* a repetition of his words. The - was falling away from him. He * dimly conscious that one of the en £ ings upon the wall opposite was ba . hung. For the rest. Graillot s face, stern, yet pitying, seemed to loom a the features of a giant, eclipsing every thing else. A - th “I will not discuss this matter you, my friend. I will only ask you remember the views of the world which we live. Louise Maurel artist —a great artist. If there n been such an affair as you suggest, tween her and any man. if it were som thing which appealed to her affecuonf* it is my opinion that she would not tate. You seem to think it an °^ - ous thing that the prince should na been her lover. To be perfectly fran** I do not. I should be very much mow surprised at her marriage."

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