The Singer from the Hills

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 1079, 17 September 1930, Page 5

The Singer from the Hills

COPYRIGHT

published by special arrangement

jfy

ROWAN GLEN

Author of "The Groot Anvil,'’ "Dio stranger p-raran ' rho Rom.ntu- Hood.' etc

CHAPTER VI. Far more experienced and skilful in such matters than she, he not only got from her an acceptance of his apology, but contrived to learn something at least of her attitude toward the young doctor. “I think I understand,” he said. “You have not told me very much, but I can guess that our vigorous friend is sighing for sqme prize which so far remains out of his reach. I'm sorry tor him, but I'm glad that you are fancy-free still. And now, good night. Though you’ve given me a bit of a lecture the past two hours or so have been the happiest I’ve had, up to date. 1 mean that, but I promise to be very discreet after this.” It was on that gallant note he went from her, but if Sheila smiled as she dosed the house-door behind her the smile faded long before she closed the door of her bedroom. She could not have explained why she was suddenly unhappy. All she knew was that unhappiness had come. On two occasions Sheila telephoned to the hospital in the hope of speaking to Kennedy, and once she went there, but each time the result was disappointing. Toward the end of the week, however, he called at her rooms and there he spoke to her

gravely, if with a certain awkwardness. “I’m sorry I was out when you called at the hospital and when you ’phoned.” he said. “Actually 1 had meant to be along here ere this, but one thiug and another came in the way, and I didn’t want to write in case I might put things badl3% the way I often do in letters. One thing I want to say right away, Sheila, I’ve been thinking about the mistake I made the other night and I want you to believe that I did not mean to go off so abruptly as 1 did. Looking back I can see that I behaved rather like a pettily-minded schoolboy.” “Not a bit of it,” she comforted him. “Don’t you start calling yourself names, Hew, for I will not have it. And—need we say any more about that night? The incident that you saw meant nothing. Sir William Catterton is an acquaintance of mine who happens to be a friend of Charles Wadeburn, and who is putting up a lot of money, so I think anyway, for this new show.” But Kennedy was determined not to let the matter drop there. He was thinking, as always, about this girl whom he loved. During the past few days anxiety regarding her had been crawling in him. “Let me say just a word or two, ►Sheila,” he asked. "I'm not going to start a long harangue, but you’ll know that whatever I say is said out of my

friendship for you. I’m mighty glad to hear that Catterton is no more than an acquaintance' of yours, but I wish that he were not even that.” “But—why?” • “It would be difficult to explain exactly why. I can speak in a general way only. Running another man down is a rotten sort of job, anyway. I'm not used to it, and I do not like it.” “Then why try, Hew?” “Because I’m probably about the only person in London who would tell you that you should have nothing to do with him. There are plenty who could do that, but they would not be bothered—unless they knew and liked you the way I do. It comes to this, Sheila, Bill Catterton, as he is called even by some of the gossip writers in the newspapers, is a fellow with a pretty lurid reputation, even for the fastish set he mixes with most of the time. I cannot point to any particular thing and say ‘He did this’ or ‘He did that,’ but I’ve heard enough stories about him already to be sure that some of them must be true.” Sheila was frowning; not in anger, but in perplexed surprise. “I suppose I should thank you for having told me,” she returned, “but I’m not sure that I feel like doing that. Anyhow, it’s all hearsay, and I’m more than able to take care of myself. Goodness! Hew, have you forgotten that I’ll probably be meeting all manner of people who may be wicked, for all I know, but to whom I’ll need to be polite? If you worry about them all you’ll have no time left for anything else.” “I had to tell you about Catterton,” he insisted stolidly. “I’m not saying that he's a thoroughly bad 'un. Probably if I knew him I'd like him and find him a jolly good companion. But that’s not the point. The point is that if a quarter of the things that are said about him are true, lie's not fit to have the friendship of a girl like you.” Sheila had been inclined toward irritation. but as she watched her companion’s strongly-featured face and noticed the little lines of worry that had come to crease his brow, her mood softened and she smiled up at him. “You think far too much of me, Hew,” she said. “That’s not said jokingly. It’s true. You’ve put me away up on a pedestal, while all the time I'm not nearly so wonderful a person as you are yourself. There! We’ll talk about something else, shall we? What about going out for a walk as, we used to do in Edinburgh? Or perhaps you've got to scurry off to work, as usual?”

Light came to his grave eyes. ‘l've got to go along to see the man whom I’d just left when you and I last met.” he said. “And there are two other houses I should call at, though I wouldn’t be more than a minute or so in each It’s a poorish sort of quarter, Sheila, but maybe you would not mind going with me? You’ve got an hour or two to spare?” “Not quite that, for I must meet Mr. Wadeburn at six,” she answered. “But I'd love to come with you. Give me exactly two minutes and I’ll be ready.” She went with him. and though there was one house into which he would not let her go —“There might be risk of infection though I don’t think so.” he said—she watched him in two others and felt stirring in her again that warm admiration- which she had always felt for him when she had seen him going about his duties in St. Cerf’s Hospital. His manner with patients of whatever class could not have been bettered. He was always genial and encouraging, but never foolishly cheerful. He formed his decisions without waste of time, yet never over-quickly —so that thoroughness was never lacking, and there was no doubt whatsoever about his high ability and the enthusiasm with which that ability was blended. Further, he sfeemed to have the great gift of drawing unwavering trust from people, and was •able to inspire self-confidence in even the most nervous.

“I expect,” Sheila said, when they were walking slowly away from the poor street where he had made his calls, “you will give up coming to places like this? You came to London, Hew, to develop into a West End throat specialist, not to visit cases in what are almost slums. I’m looking forward to tile thrilling day when you put up your plate in Harley Street, or just off it.” “If won’t be so very long now,” he told her. "Luckily for me I love my work more than the idea of making a fortune by it, but. all the same I think that I’ll start in on my own soon. Knowing that you want me to do that, makes me all the more keen. But those slum-cases —for they’re almost that —have their interest and their uses. They’re not my cases really, you know. I’m doing these small jobs to help out a fellow who’s been absurd enough to turn in with measles. X don’t think you know him, but he’s a good sort and I know that, if ever I

needed help and he could give it, he would.” “That’s like you.” Sheila commented. "You’re always doifig things for other people, and then trying to make out that they are more worthy of praise than you. And now, what are we going to do with ourselves? You’ve been very quick, and there’s nearly an hour yet before I must be at the Majestic.” “That’s- where you’re meeting Wadei burn?” , “Yes. r don’t know quite what ne wants with me, but I suppose it will be a case of sing, sing, sing again. You’ll be sure to come to the first night of the show, Hew? You’ve heard me at a few concerts and charity shows, where 1 was learning to get rid of nervousness, but you’ve never heard me in a theatre. You will come to give me a clap, won’t you? I’ll need all the applause I can get.” “Y’ou can bet that I’ll be there even if I have to crawl into my stall,” he answered. “No matter what important work came along it would be shelved on that night. As for applauding you I’ve a fancy that the theatre attendants will be dragging me out into the street half way through the performance. But that’s getting away from the matter jn hand. What do you say if we have tea in some quiet place? After that I’ll take you to the Majestic, and then go on to the hospital.” So it was arranged, and because | Sheila knew that he was ready at any moment to speak of serious things which really meant about his love for her, she steered the conversation into what she regarded as safer channels. “Tell me if it’s really true that you’re going to play in your last International this year?” she asked. “A girl called Dorothy Beamish heard me speak your name, and it was she who mentioned the thing. it was after she had said to me: ‘But surely you do not know the great Hew Kennedy?’ just as though you were to go down to fame as a footballer and not as a medical genius.” Kennedy grinned at that. “W’ho’s this Dorothy Beamish?” he asked inconsequently. “Oh, nobody in particular—a society spoiled darling, who seems to go everywhere and meet everyone. Not your sort, I think, though she is such a staunch admirer. Toward this time of year she begins to go Rugby-mad, she says, and the madness reaches its height when the match between England and Scotland is played. When it is at Twickenham she’s always there. Are you to get your cap again, Hew?” He was fiddling with his teaspoon. “I think so,” he said. “They’ve asked me to turn out, though they know perfectly well that I’m getting to be an old, old man and past the best. They know, too, that I’ve had scarcely any time for practice, of late, either in Edinburgh or since coming South. But I’d like one more whack at it—before I begin wearing a morning coat every day and trying to be dignified. If Ido play you’ll come to Twickenham, Sheila? Tickets will be hard to get, but I’ll dig up a couple somehow.” “You’ve promised to come to the first night at the Majestic, can I do less than promise to come to see you at the great match?” she returned laughingly. “Of course I’ll be there, and. if there’s a matinee on that day, I’ll go sick. I hope there will be something printed on the programme saying that ‘Miss Sheila Stewart is indisposed, but there is every prospect of her appearing at the evening performance.’ Something like that. I wonder if 1 could get Meg Cameron with me to see you play.” “Don’t do it,” Kennedy warned her, meeting the jesting mood. “She’d probably run out into the middle of the field yo stop what she’d call a lot of silly young men trying to hurt each other.”

Thus deftly did Sheila contrive to side-step topics which would have meant, in all probability, distress for them both. Chance, which seems to play so big a part in the lives of most, of us, brought Sheila and her escort to the Majestic Theatre at the precise moment when Charles Wadeburn reached it in his newest and largest car. He greeted with great breeziness of manner the young man and the young woman whom he liked to refer to as his “Edinburgh benefactors,” but when, after a shrewdly-put question or two, he learned where Sheila had been in Dr. Kennedy’s company, he frowned. “I feel like ticking you off about that, Kennedy,” he announced. “Miss Stewart here is under a very definite contract with me, and, in a manner of speaking, she’s in my charge. You shouldn’t have taken her on your slumming expedition. Heaven knows there are dangers enough in the illness way going around without walking into places where one may be likely to find them. There’s an illness clause in the contract, but the carry-

ing out of that would help neither Miss Stewart nor me.” He had not spoken harshly, but Kennedy found it difficult to force back his berilement. “1 don’t think you need worry. Mr. Wadeburn,” he said. “Miss Stewart was not exposed to any infection, so far as I know. I do know that un in the Edinburgh Hospital she took big risks day by day and came off in the way that nurses seem to do “ “All very fine.” Wadeburn grumbled. “But she’s not. a nurse now, she’s a singer. But don’t take me too seriously, doctor. I’ve got to be careful about my future leading lady, that’s all.” The meeting with him ended on a good-natured note, principally because Sheila, knowing his keenness about sport of any sort., told him that in all probability Kennedy would be playing for Scotland against England In a few weeks’ time. “I’ll be there,” Wadeburn told them. “Yes, I’ll fix things, Sheila. Matinee or no matinee, I’ll go with you to Twickenham. And, as a matter of fact, I don’t see our show having it’s kickoff till after the date of the International.” CHAPTER VII. As it turned out he was right about that, and he kept his promise to Sheila, too, and went with her to see the year’s greatest, cleanest and most gallant game of Rugby football. By means known only to himself, Sir William Catterton had "wangled,” as he confessed, a ticket which placed him in a seat beside them, and he chortled boyishly over the fact that, this seat might have been filled

by Mrs. Meg Cameron, if Dr. Kennedy had been a little more astute, and if Mrs. Cameron had been willing to come to a place where, in her view, thirty young men were trying to do murder over a silly-looking ball. It was a hard match, and a dingdong one from start to finish, but just before that finish came, Hew Kennedy, who, though he had turned out as a veteran, had been the most brilliant of the Scottish forwards, went down —to stay down. They carried him off the field, and before he had been in the dressingroom five minutes an agitated Sheila was with him. Almost she told herself that she did love him after all. But when she had been assured that the injury was not likely to prove a serious one she grew more calm. He was still unconscious when she tvent from him, but she determined that, as soon as possible after he had been taken to hospital, she would go to him there. While the cheers which followed on

the end of the match were still quiv- i ering in the air above the thousands j who had given those cheers, Sir Wil- ! liam Catterton was saying to Charles j W adeburn: ‘’There you are, then. Sheila’s booked for that studio-party tonight ; at Carruther’s. You must see that she’s there. I’ve got a little scheme | on. And, by the way, give her a w T ord of warning about this doctor man of hers, pot me?” “Yes,” the impresario said. “I’ll see that, Kennedy or no Kennedy, she turns up at Carruther’s. I wonder what your game is, Bill?” “Never mind.” Catterton said, and smiled. “But l do mind,” Wadeburn returned. “What is the game?” “It would not interest you, and it does not affect you in any way,” he was told. “Financially speaking we’ve got a sort of equal interest in the beautiful and golden-voiced Miss Sheila Stewart, but, apart from that, I’m running quietly along on my own. All I want you to do, Charles, is to drop honeyed words into her ears j about this afternoon’s Scottish hero, j Oive her to understand that any ; thought of marriage with him—or j ■with anybody whom you don’t approve—is going to hamper her career, and possibly put a definite stop to it. That’s all. I’m going to clear before she gets back here, which I expect she will do.” He was right about that for Sheila, I

when she returned io a lip-nibbling Wadeburn, was still held by some thing of nervous tension. “You don’t know wrhat I’ve been going through,” she said. “I though at first he was going to die—everybody did. But he’s all right now, or at least he will be all right once he has had a day or two’s rest and attention.” “So I had gathered from the newr that has got around.” Wadeburn returned drily. “He’ll get what we call a good press, that’s certain. And, by the way, that rather puts him out of things for Carruther’s spree tonight. Dashed had luck. But you’re coming, Sheila?” “I don’t know,” she answered. “1 don’t feel like it now. somehow 7. One thing’s certain—l’m going to see Hew when he gets to hospital.” “Do that by all means,” her companion said. “I don’t suppose the hospital folk will let you stay for more than five minutes or so, but the fact that Kennedy cannot join us must not keep you away. It’s a matter of business really. And by the way. Bill Catterton asked me to make his apologies to you. He had to get off in a hurry, but you 11 be meeting him at the studio.” “I’m not so sure,” Sheila said. ‘Tr not interested in the party now.” To be continued tomorrow)