Newspaper Page Text
THE HILLMAN
LOUISE SEEMS TO HAVE REACHED THE POINT WHERE
SHE DIDN’T CARE WHAT HAPPENED TO HER—
AND THEN JOHN STRANGEWEY
CAME INTO HER LIFE
Synopsis—On a trip through the English Cumberland country the
breakdown of her motorcar forces Louise Maurel, famous London
actress, to accept the overnight hospitality of Stephen and John
Strungew’ey, recluse woman haters, who own a great farm. Before
she leaves she stirs the interest of John Strangewey and is in turn
interested by him. Three months later John, on impulse, takes a train
for London, and immediately renews his acquaintance with Louise.
He is warned by her friend, Sophy, not to be puritanical in his
regard for Louise.
CHAPTER VII.
The first few minutes that John spent
in Louise’s little house were full of
acute and vivid Interest. The room
that he was so eagerly studying con
firmed his cloudy impressions of its
owner. There was, for a woman’s
apartment, a curious absence of orna
mentation and knickknacks. The walls
were black and white; the carpet was
white; the furniture graceful in its
outline, rather heavy in build, and cov
ered with old-rose colored chints.
There were water-colors upon the wall,
some small black-and-white fantasies,
puzzling to John, who had never even
beard the term futurist. A table, drawn
to the side of one of the easy cliairs.
was covered with books and magazines,
some Italian, a few English, the great
er part French; and upon a smaller
one, close at hand, stood a white bowl
full of pink roses. Their odor was
somehow reminiscent of Louise, curi
ously sweet and wholesome —an odor
which suddenly took him back to the
morning when she had come to him
from under the canopy of apple-blos
som. His heart began to beat with
pleasure even before the opening of
the door announced her presence. She
came in with Sophy, who at once seat
ed herself by his side.
“We have been making plans,” Lou
ise declared, “for disposing of you for
the rest of the day.”
John smiled happily.
“You’re not sending me away, then?
You’re not acting this evening?”
“Not until three weeks next Mon
day,” she replied. “Then, if you are
good, and the production is not post
poned. you may seat yourself in a box
and make all the noise you like after
the fall of the curtain. These are real
holidays for me, except for the nui
sance of rehearsals. You couldn’t have
come at a better time.”
Sophy glanced at the clock.
“Well,” she said, “I must show my
respect to that most ancient of adages
by taking my departure. I feel —”
“You will do nothing of the sort,
child,” Louise interrupted. “I want to
Interest you in the evolution of Mr.
Strangewey. We must remember that
it is his first night in London. What
aspect of it shall we attempt to show
him? Don’t say a word, Sophy. It is
not for us to choose.”
“I’m afraid there isn’t any choice,”
John declared, his face falling. “I
haven’t any clothes except what you
see me in.”
“Hooray!” Sophy exclaimed. “Off
with your smart gown, Louise! We’ll
be splendidly Bohemian. You shall put
on your black frock and a black hat,
and powder your nose, and we’ll all go
to Guido’s first and drink vermuth. I
can’t look the part, but I can act it!"
“But tell me," Louise asked him,
“did you lose your luggage?”
“I brought none,” he answered.
They both looked at him —Sophy po
litely curious, Louise more deeply in
terested.
“You mean,” Louise demanded, “that
after waiting all these months you
started away upon impulse like that —
without even letting your brother know
or^yinglng any Juggage?”
“That’s exactly what I did,” John
agreed, smiling. "I had a sovereign in
my pocket when I had bought my
ticket. The joke of it was,” he went
on, joining in the girls’ laughter, "that
Mr. Appleton has been worrying me
for months to come up and talk over
reinvestments, and take control of the
money my uncle left me; and when I
came at last, I arrived like a pauper.
He went out himself and bought my
shirt.”
“And a very nice shirt, too,” Sophy
declared, glancing at the pattern. “Do
tell us what else happened 1"
“Well, not much more,” John re
plied. “Mr. Appleton stuffed me full
of money and made me take a little
suite of rooms at what he called a
more fashionable hotel. He stayed to
lunch with me, and I have promised to
see him on business tomorrow morn
ing.”
The two girls sat up and wiped their
eyes.
"Oh, this is a wonderful adventure
you have embarked upon!” Louise ex
claimed. “You have come quite in the
right spirit. It is your first night here,
Mr. Strangewey, so I warn you that
.Sophy is the most irresponsible and
.capricious of all my friends."
By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
Sophy made a grimace.
“Mr. Strangewey,” she begged ear
nestly, “you won’t believe a word she
says, will you? All my life I have
been looking for a single and stead
fast attachment. Os course, if Louise
wants to monopolize you, I shall fall
into the background, as I usually do;
but if you think that I am going to ac
cept hints and let you go out to dinner
alone, you are very much mistaken.
Tonight, at any rate, I insist upon com
ing!”
Louise shook her head.
“We shall have to put up with her,”
she told John with a little grimace.
The door of the room was suddenly
opened. The parlor maid stood at one
side.
"The prince of Seyre, madam,” she
announced.
Louise nodded. She was evidently
expecting the visit. She turned to
John.
“Will you come back and call for us
here —say at seven o’clock? Mind, you
are not to bother about your clothes,
but to come just as you are. I can’t
tell you,” she added under her breath,
“how much I am looking forward to
our evening!”
Sophy sprang to her feet.
"Won’t you drop me, please, Mr.
Strangewey?” she asked. “Then, if you
will be so kind, you can pick me up
again on your way here. You’ll have
to pass where I live, if you are at the
Milan. I must go home and do my lit
tle best to compete.”
Louise’s frown was so slight that
even John failed to notice it. Upon
the threshold they encountered the
prince, who detained John for a mo
ment.
“I was hoping that I might meet you
here, Mr. Strangewey,” he said. “If
you are in town for long, it will give
me great pleasure if I can be of any
service to you. You are staying at a
hotel?”
“I am staying at the Milan,” John
replied.
“I will do myself the pleasure of
calling upon you,” the prince con
tinued. “In the meantime, if you need
188
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"We Shall Have to Put Up With Her,” [
She Told John With a Little
Grimace. , ~ {
any service that a Londoner can offer ।
you, be sure to let me know. You will
easily find my house in Grosvenor
square.”
“It is very kind of you indeed,” John
said gratefully.
Sophy made a wry face as the prince
entered the drawing-room.
“Didn’t some old Roman once write
something about being afraid of Greeks
who brought gifts?” she asked, as they
descended the stairs together.
“Quite right,” John assented.
“Well, be careful!" she advised him.
“That’s all.”
John handed Sophy into the taxi and
took his place beside her.
“Where shall I put you down?” he
asked.
"It’s such a terribly low neighbor
hood! However, it’s quite close to the
Milan —10 Southampton street.”
John gave the address to the man,
and they started off. They were
blocked in a stream of traffic almost as
soon as they reached Hyde Rirk Cor
ner. John leaned forward all the time,
THE BULLETIN, IRWINTON, GEORGIA.
immensely interested in the stream of
passers-by.
“Your interest in your fellow crea
tures,” she murmured demurely, “is
wonderful, but couldn’t you concen
trate it just a little?”
He turned quickly around. She was
smiling at him most alluringly. Un
consciously he found himself smiling
back again. A wonderful light-hearted
ness seemed to have come to him dur
ing the last few hours.
“I suppose I am a perfect idiot,” he
admitted. “I cannot help it. lam used
to seeing, at the most, three or four
people together at a time. I can’t un
derstand these crowds. Where are
they all going? Fancy every one of
them having a home, every one of
them struggling in some form or an
other toward happiness!”
“Do you know,” she pronounced se
verely, “for a young man of your age
you are much too serious? lam quite
sure you could be nice if you wanted
to,” she continued. “How much are
you in love with Louise?” -
“How much am I what?”
“In love with Louise?” she repeated.
“All the men are. It is a perfect cult
with them. And here am I, her humble
companion and friend, absolutely neg
lected !”
“I don’t believe you are neglected at
all,” he replied. “You are much too —”
He turned his head to look at her.
She was so close to him that their hats
; collided. He was profuse in his apolo
gies.
“Too what?” she whispered.
“Too attractive,” he ventured.
“It’s nice to hear you say so,” she
sighed.
She was unlike any girl John had
ever known. Her hair was almost
golden, her eyes a distinct blue, yet
some trick of the mouth saved her face
from any suggestion of insipidity. She
was looking straight into his eyes, and
her lips were curled most Invitingly.
“I wish I knew more about certain
things,” he said.
“Oh, why didn’t you come before?”
she exclaimed; “Fancy Louise never
telling me about you. I hope you’ll ask
me to lunch some time.”
“I’ll have a luncheon party tomor
row, if you like —that is, if Louise will
come.”
She looked up at him quickly.
“Isn’t Louise going to Paris?” she
asked.
“Paris? I didn’t hear her say any
thing about it.”
“Perhaps it is my mistake, then,”
Sophy went on hastily. "I only fancied
that I heard her say so.”
There was a moment’s silence. John
had opened his lips to ask a question,
but quickly closed them again. It was
a question, he suddenly decided, which
he had better ask of Louise herself.
“If Louise goes to Paris,” Sophy
whispered disconsolately, “I suppose
there will be no luncheon-party?”
For a single moment he hesitated.
She was very alluring, and the chal
lenge in her eyes was unmistakable.
“I think,” he said quietly, “that if
Miss Maurel goes to Paris, I shall re
turn to Cumberland tomorrow.”
For a time there was a significant
silence. Then Sophy raised her veil
once more and looked toward John.
“Mr. Strangewey,” she began, “you
won’t mind if I give you just a little
word of advice? You are such a big,
strong person, but you are rather a
child, you know, in some things.”
“This place does make me feel igno
rant,” he admitted.
“Don’t idealize anyone here,” she
begged. “Don’t concentrate all your
hopes upon one object. Love is won
derful and life is wonderful, but there
is only one life, and there are many
loves before one reaches the end. Peo
ple do such silly things sometimes,”
she wound up, “just because of a little
disappointment. There are many dis
appointments to be met with here.”
He took her hand in his.
“Little girl,” he said, “you are very
good to me, and I think you under
stand. Are you going to let me feel
' that I have found a friend on my first
' evening in London?”
“If you want me,” she answered sim
i ply. “I iike you, and I want you to be
’ happy here; and because I want you
i to be happy, I want you to come down
from the clouds and remember that
you have left your hills behind and
that we walk on the pavements here.”
“Thank you,” he whispered, “and
thank you for what you have not said.
If I am to find sorrow here instead of
joy,” he added, a little grimly, “It is
better for me to stumble into the
knowledge of it by myself.”
“Your hills have taught you just that
much of life, then?” Sophy murmured.
« « • * • • •
The prince of Seyre handed his hat
and stick to the parlor maid and seated
himself upon the divan.
“I should be very sorry,” he said po
litely, as the maid left the room, "if
my coming has hastened the departure
of your visitors.”
"Not in the least," Louise assured
him. “They were leaving when you
were announced. Sophy and I are tak
ing Mr. Strangewey to a Bohemian res
taurant and a music hall afterward.”
“Fortunate Mr. Strangewey I” the
prince sighed. “But, forgive me, why
not a more dignified form of entertain
ment for his first evening?”
“The poor man has no clothes,” Lou
ise explained. “He came to London
quite unexpectedly.”
“No clothes?” the prince repeated.
“It is a long journey to take In such a
fashion. A matter of urgent business,
perhaps?”
Louise had risen to her feet and was
busy rearranging some roses in the
bowl by her side. She crushed one of
the roses to pieces suddenly in her
hands and shook the petals from her
long, nervous fingers.
“Today,” she said, “this afternoon —
now—you have come to me with some
thing in your mind, something you wish
to say, something you are not sure how
to say. That is, you see, what Henri
Graillot calls my intuition. Even you,
who keep all your feelings under a
mask, can conceal very little from me.”
“My present feelings,” the prince de
clared, “I do not wish to conceal. I
would like you to know them. But as
words are sometimes clumsy, I would
like, if it were possible, to let you see
into my heart.”
She came over and seated herself
by his side on the divan. She even
laid her hand upon his arm.
“Eugene,” she expostulated, “we are
too old friends to talk always in veiled
phrases. There is something you have
jjl] i Tn n
H 111
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"Eugene,” She Expostulated, "We Are
Too Old Friends to Talk Always in
Veiled Phrases.”
to say to me. You are displeased be
cause I have changed my mind —be-
cause I feel that I cannot take that lit
tle journey of ours?”
“You mean that you cannot now, or
that you cannot at any time?”
“I do not know,” she answered. “You
ask me more than I can tell you. Some
times life seems so stable, a thing one
can make a little chart of and hang
up, on the wall, and put one’s finger
here and there —‘Today I will dq this,
tomorrow I will feel that’ —and the
next morning comes and the chart is
in the fire. I wish I understood my
self a little better, Eugene!”
“I believe that I understand you bet
ter, far better, than you understand
yourself,” he declared. “That is why
I also believe that I am necessary to
you. I can prevent your making mis
takes.”
“Then prevent me,” she begged.
“Something has happened, and the
chart Is in the fire today.”
“You have only,” he said, “to give
me this little hand, and I will draw
out a fresh one which shall direct to
the place in life which is best for you.
It is not too late.”
She rose from beside him and walked
toward the fireplace, as if to touch the
bell. He watched her with steady eyes
but expressionless face. There was
something curious about her walk. The
spring had gone from her feet, her
shoulders were a little hunched. It was
the walk of a woman who goes toward
the things she fears.
“Stop!” he bade her.
She turned and faced him, quickly,
almost eagerly. There was a look in
her face of the prisoner who finds re
spite.
“Leave the bell alone,” he directed.
“My own plans are changed. I do not
wish to leave London this week.”
Her face was suddenly brilliant, her
eyes shone. Something electric seemed
to quiver through her frame. She al
most danced back to her place by his
side.
“How foolish!” she murmured. “Why
didn’t you say so at once?”
“Because,” he replied, “they have
only been changed during the last few
seconds. I wanted to discover some
thing which I have discovered.”
“To discover something?”
“That my time has not yet come.”
She turned away from him. She was
oppressed with a sense almost of fear,
a feeling that he was able to read the
very thoughts forming in her brain;
to understand, as no one else in the
world could understand, the things
that lived in her heart,
“I must not keep you,” he remarked,
glancing at the clock. “It was very
late for me to call, and you will be
wanting to join your friends.”
“They are coming here for me,” she
explained. “There is really no hurry
at all. We are not changing anything.
It is to be quite a simple evening.
Sometimes I wish that you cared about
things of that sort, Eugene.”
He blew through his Ups n little
cloud of smoke from the cigarette
which he had just lit.
“I am not of the people," he said,
“and I have no sympathy with them. I
detest the bourgeoisie of every country
in the world—my own more particu
larly.”
“If you only knew how strangely
that sounds!" she murmured.
“Does it?” he answered. ‘'You should
read my family history, read of the
men and women of my race who were
butchered at the hands of that drunk
en, lustful mob whom lying historians
have glorified. lam one of those who
do not forget injuries. My estates are
administered more severely than any
others in France. No penny of my
money has ever been spent in charity. I
neither forget nor forgive.”
She laughed a little nervously.
“What an unsympathetic person you
can be, Eugene!”
“And for that very reason,” he re
plied, “I can be sympathetic. Because
I hate some people, I have the power
of loving others. Because it pleases
me to deal severely with my enemies,
it gives me joy to deal generously with
my friends. That is my conception of
life. May I wish you a pleasant eve
ning?”
“You are going now?” she asked, a
little surprised. “When shall I see you
again?”
“A telephone message from your
maid, a line written with your own fin
gers,” he said, “will bring me \o
within a few minutes. If I he»r vein
ing, I may come uninvited, but it will
be when the fancy takes me. Once
more, Louise, a pleasant evening!”
He passed out of the door, which the
parlor maid was holding open for him.
Crossing to the window, Louise
watched him leave the house and enter
his waiting automobile. He gave no
sign of haste or disappointment. He
lit another cigarette deliberately upon
the pavement and gave his orders to
the chauffeur with some care.
As the car drove off without his hav
ing once glanced up at the window, she
shivered a little. There was a silence
which, it seemed to her, could be more
minatory even than accusation.
CHAPTER VIII.
The little room was gaudily decorat
ed and redolent with the lingering
odors of many dinners. Yet Louise,
who had dined on the preceding eve
ning at the Ritz and been bored, whose
taste in food and environment was al
most hypercritical, was perfectly
happy. She found the cuisine and the
Chianti excellent.
“We are outstaying everyone else,”
she declared; “and I don’t even mind
their awful legacy of tobacco smoke.
Do you see that the waiter has brought
you the bill, Mr. Strangewey? Prepare
for a shock. It is fortunate that you
are a millionaire!”
John laughed as he paid the bill and
ludicrously overtipped the waiter.
“You are so convincing!” Sophy mur
mured. “But remember that your fu
ture entertainment is in the hands of
two women, one of whom is a deserv
ing but struggling young artist without
the means of gratifying her expensive
tastes.”
“My children,” said Louise, rising,
“we must remember that we are going
to the Palace. It is quite time we
started.”
They made their way down two
flights of narrow’ stairs into the street.
The commissionnaire raised his whis
tle to his lips, but Louise stopped him,
“We will walk,” she suggested. “This
way, Mr. Strangewey!”
They passed down the long, narrow
street, with its dingy foreign cases and
shops, scarcely one of which seemed to
be English. The people who thronged
the pavement were of a new race to
John, swarthy, a little furtive, a class
of foreigner seldom seen except in
alien lands. Men and women in all
stages of dishabille were leaning out
of the windows or standing on the door
steps. The girls whom they met occa
sionally—young women of all ages,
walking arm in arm, with shawls on
their heads in place of hats —laughed
openly in John’s face.
“Conquests everywhere he goes!”
Louise sighed. “We shall never keep
him, Sophy!”
“We have him for this evening, at
any rate,” Sophy replied contentedly;
“and he hasn’t spent all his fortune
yet. I am not at all sure that I shall
not hint at supper when we come out
of the Palace.”
“A pity he fell into bad hands so
quickly.” Louise laughed. “Here we
are! Stalls, please, Mr. Millionaire. I
wouldn’t be seen tonight in the seats
of the mighty.”
John risked a reproof, however, and
was fortunate enough to find a disen
gaged box. They devoted their atten
tion to the show, Louise and Sophy at
first with only a moderate amount of
interest, John with the real enthusiasm
of one to whom everything is new. His
laughter was so hearty, his apprecia
tion so sincere, that his companions
found it infectious, and began to ap
plaud everything.
“The bioscope,” Louise at last de
cided firmly, “I refuse to have anything
to do with. You have had all the en
tertainment you are going to have this
evening, Mr. Countryman.”
“Now for supper, then,” he proposed.
“Luigi’s,” Sophy declared firmly.
“The only place in London.”
They drove toward the Strand. John
looked around him with interest as
they entered the restaurant. Luigi,
who came forward to welcome Sophy,
escorted them to one of the best tables.
“You must be very nice to this gen
tleman, Luigi,” she said. “He is a very
great friend of mine, just arrived in
London. He has come up on purpose
to see me, and we shall probably de
cide to make this our favorite restau
rant."
“I shall be vniry happy,” Luigi de
clared, with a bow.
“I am beginning to regret, Mr.
Strangewey, that I ever introduced you
to Sophy,” Louise remarked, as she
sank back Into her chair. “You won’t
believe that all my friends are us
frivolous as this, will you?”
“They aren’t,” Snphy proclaimed con
fidently. “I am the one pqrson who
succeeds in keeping Louise with her
feet upon the earth. She has never
had supper here before. Dry biscuits,
hot milk, and a volume of poems ar&
her relaxation after the theater. She
takes herself too seriously.”
“I wonder if I do!” Louise mur
mured, as she helped hertieif to caviar.
She was suddenly pensive. Her eyes;
seemed to be looking out of the res
taurant. Sophy was exchanging ameni
ties with a little party of friends at
the next table.
“One must sometimes be serious,”’
John remarked, “or life W’ould have no
poise at all.”
“I have a friend who scolds me,” she
confided. "Sometimes he almost loses
patience with me. He declares that
my attitude toward life is too analyti
cal. When happiness comes my way, I
shrink back. I keep my emotions in.
the backgrqund, while my brain works,
dissecting, wondering, speculating. Per
haps what he says is true. I believe
that if one gets into the habit of an
alyzing too much, one loses all elas
ticity of emotion, the capacity to recog
nize and embrace the great things
■when they come.”
“I think you have been right,” John
declared earnestly. “If the great things
come as they should come, they are
overwhelming, they will carry you off
your feet. You will forget to speculate
and to analyze. Therefore, I think you
have been wise and right to wait. You
have run no risk of having to put up
with the lesser things.”
She leaned toward him across the
rose-shaded table. For those few sec
onds they seemed to have been brought
into a wonderfully intimate communion
of thought. A wave of her hair almost
touched his forehead. His hand boldly
rested upon her fingers.
“You talk,” she whispered, “as if we
were back upon your hilltop once
more!”
He turned his head toward the little
orchestra, which was playing a low and
tremulous waltz tune.
“I want to believe,” he said, “that
you can listen to the music here and
yet live upon the hilltops.”
“You believe that it is possible?”
“I de indeed,” he assured her. “Al
though my heart was almost sick with,
loneliness, I do not think that I should
be here if I did not believe it. I have
not come for anything else, for any
lesser things, but to find —”
For once his courage failed him. For
once, too, he failed to understand her
expression. She had drawn back a lit
tle, her lips were quivering. Sophy
broke suddenly in upon that moment of
suspended speech.
“I knew how it would be!” she ex
claimed. “I leave jvu both alone for
less than a mini’te, and there you sit,
as grave as two owls. I ask you, now,
is this the place to wander off into the
clouds? When two people sit looking
at each other as you were doing a min
ute ago, here in Luigi’s, and a supper,
ordered regardless of expense, on the
table before them, they are either with
out the least sense of the fitness of
things, or else —”
“Or else what?” Louise asked.
“Or else they are head over heels In
love with each other!” Sophy con
! eluded.
“Perhaps the child is right,” Louise
assented tolerantly, taking a peach
J from the basket by her side. “Evident
: ly it is our duty to abandon ourselves
to the frivolity of the moment. What
shall we do to bring ourselves into ac
cord with it? Everybody seems to be
behaving most disgracefully. Do you
think it -would contribute to the gayety
of the evening if I were to join in the
chorus of ‘You Made Ma Love You/
and Mr. Strangewey were to imitate
the young gentleman at the next table
and throw a roll, say, at the portly old
gentleman with the highly polished
shirt-front?”
“You ought to be thankful all your
life that you have met me and that I
CSH
WWW
\ 4
“You Talk,” She Whispered, “as if We
Were Back Upon Your Hilltops
Once More!”
am disposed to take an interest in you,”
Sophy remarked, as she moved her
chair a little nearer to John’s. “I am
quite sure that in a very short time
you would have become —well, almost
a prig. Providence has selected me te
work out your salvation.”
“Providence has been very kind,
then,” John told her.
“I hope you mean It," she returned.
“You ought to, if you only understood'
the importance of light-heartedness.”
John finds himself in love with
the actress and discovers that he
has a powerful rival in the
prince of Seyre.
(TO BE CONTINUED.}
