Newspaper Page Text
THE HILLMAN
GRAILLOT, THE PLAYWRIGHT, WARNS LOUISE THAT
BOTH THE PRINCE OF SEYRE AND JOHN LOVE HER,
AND THAT THE PRINCE WILL BE A DANGEROUS
ENEMY TO HIS RIVAL
Synopsis.—Louise Maurel, famous actress, was making a motor tour
of the English Cumberland district, when her car broke down late one
evening and she was forced to accept the overnight hospitality of Ste
phen and John Strangewey, recluse woman haters living in a splendid
old mansion on a great farm. Before she left next day she had capti
vated John and he had fascinated her. Three months later John, on a
sudden impulse, went to London and looked up Louise. She was de
lighted to see him and introduced him to her friends of the artistic and
dramatic world, among them Sophy, a light-hearted little actress, and
Graillot, a playwright of remarkable mental gifts. The prince of Seyre,
a wealthy French noble, whom he already knew, became his guide, and
he entered the gay bohemian life of the city.
CHAPTER Vlll—Continued.
The lights were lowered a few min
utes later, and John paid the bill.
“We’ve enjoyed our supper,” Louise
whispered, as they passed down the
room. “The whole evening has been
delightful 1”
As they drove from Luigi’s to
Knightsbridge, Louise leaned back in
her corner. Although her eyes were
only half closed, there was an air of
aloofness about her, an obvious lack of
desire for conversation, which the oth
ers found themselves instinctively re
specting. Even Sophy’s light-hearted
chatter seemed to have deserted her,
somewhat to John’s relief.
They were in the very vortex of
London’s midnight traffic. The night
was warm for the time of year, and
about Leicester square and beyond the
pavements were crowded with pedes
trians, the women lightly and gayly
clad, flitting, notwithstanding some sin
ister note about their movements, like
butterflies or bright-hued moths along
the pavements and across the streets.
The procession of taxicabs and auto
mobiles, each with its human freight
of men and women in evening dress on
their way home after an evening’s
pleasure, seemed endless.
Presently Sophy began to talk, and
Louise, too roused herself.
“I am only just beginning to realize,”
the latter said, "that you are actually
in London.”
“When I leave you,” he replied, “I,
too, shall find it hard to believe that'
we have actually met again and talked.
There seems to be so much that I have
to say,” he added, looking at her close
ly, “and I have said nothing.”
“There is plenty of time,” she told
him, and once more the signs of that
slight nervousness were apparent in
her manner. “There are weeks and
months ahead of us.”
“When shall I see you again?” he
asked.
“Whenever you like. There are no re
hearsals for a day or two. Ring me up
on the telephone—you will find my
number in the book —or come and lunch
with me tomorrow, if you like.”
“Thank you,” he answered; “that is
just what I should like. At what time?”
“Half past one. I will not ask either
of you to come in now. You can come
down tomorrow morning and get the
books, Sophy. I think I am tired
tired,” she added, with a curious little
note of self-pity in her tone. “I am
very glad to have seen you again, Mr.
Strangewey,” she said, lifting her eyes
to his. “Good night!”
He helped her out, rang the bell, and
watched her vanish through the swift
ly opened door. Then he stepped back
into the taxicab. Sophy retreated into
the corner to make room for him.
"You are going to take me home, are
you not?” she asked.
“Os course,” he replied, his eyes still
fixed with a shade of regret upon the
closed door of Louise’s little house.
“No. 10 Southampton street,” he told
the driver.
They turned round and spun once
• more into the network of moving ve
hicles and streaming pedestrians. John
was silent, and his companion, for a
little while, humored him. Soon, how
ever. she touched him on the arm. A
queer gravity had come into her dainty
little face.
“Are you really in love with Lou
ise?” she inquired, with something of
his own directness.
He answered her with perfect seri
ousness.
‘ “I believe so,” he admitted, “but I
should not like to say that I am abso
lutely certain. I have come here to
find out.”
Sophy suddenly rocked w’lth laugh
ter
“You are the dearest, queerest mad
man I have ever met!” she exclaimed,
holding tightly to his arm. “You sit
there with a face us long as a fiddle,
wondering whether you are in love
with a girl or not! Well, I am not go
ing to ask you anything more. Tell me,
are you tired?”
“Not a bit," he declared. “I never
had such a ripping evening in my life."
She held his arm a little tighter. She
was the old Sophy again, full of life
and gayety.
“Let’s go to the Aldwych,” she sug
gested, “and see the dancing. We can
just have something to drink. We
needn’t have any more supper.”
The cab stopped a few minutes later
outside what seemed to be a private
house. The door was opened at once.
Sophy wrote John’s name in a book,
and they were ushered by the manager,
who had come forward to greet them,
into a long room, brilliantly lit, and
filled, except in the center, with sup
per tables. John looked around him
wonderingly. The popping of cham
pagne corks was almost incessant. A
slightly voluptuous atmosphere of
cigarette smoke, mingled with the per
fumes shaken from the clothes and
hair of the women, several more of
whom were now dancing, hung about
the place. A girl in fancy dress was
passing a great basket of flowers from
table to table.
Sophy sat with her head resting upon
her hands and her face very close to
her companion’s, keeping time with her
feet to the music.
“Isn’t this rather nice?” she whis
pered. “Do you like being here with
me, Mr. John Strangewey?”
“Os course I do,” he answered heart
ily. “Is this a restaurant?”
She shook her head.
“No, it’s a club. We can sit here all
night, if you like.”
“Can I join?” he asked.
She laughed as she sent for a form
and made him fill it in.
“Tell me,” he begged, as he looked
around him, “who are these girls? They
look so pretty and well-dressed, and
yet so amazingly young to be out at
this time of night.”
“Mostly actresses.” she replied, “and
musical-comedy girls. I was in musi
cal comedy myself before Louise res
cued me.”
“Did you like it?”
“I liked it all right,” she admitted,
“but I left it because I wasn’t doing
any good. I can dance pretty well, but
I have no voice, so there didn’t seem
to be any chance of my getting out of
the chorus; and one can’t even pretend
to live on the salary they pay you, un
less one has a part.”
“But these girls who are here to
night?”
"They are with their friends, of
course,” she told him. “I suppose, if
it hadn’t been for Louise, I should have
been here, too—with a friend.”
“I should like to see you dance,” jje
remarked, in a hurry to change the
conversation.
“I’ll dance to you some day in your
rooms, if you like," she promised. “Or
would you’like me to dunce here?
There is a man opposite who wants me
“If We Were Alone,” She Whispered,
“I Should Want You to Kiss Me!”
to. Would you rather I didn’t? I want
to do just which would please you
most.”
"Dance, by all means,” he insisted.
“I should like to watch you.”
She nodded, and a minute or two
later she had joined the small crowd in
the center of the room, clasped in the
arms of a very immaculate young man
who had risen and bowed to her from a
table opposite. John leaned bock in
his place and watched her admiringly.
Her feet scarcely touched the ground.
THE BULLETIN, IRWINTON, GEORGIA.
She never once glanced at or spoke to
her partner, but every time Mie passed
the corner where John was sitting,
she looked at him and smiled.
His eyes grew brighter, and he
smiled back at her. She suddenly re
leased her hold upon her partner and
stretched out her arms to him. Her
body swayed backward a little. She
waved her hands with a gesture in
finitely graceful, subtly alluring. Her
lips were parted with a smile almost of
triumph as she once more rested her
hand upon her partner’s shoulder.
“Who Is your escort this evening?”
the latter asked her, speaking almost
for the first time.
“You would not know him,” she re
plied. “He is a Mr. John Strangewey,
and he comes from Cumberland.”
“Just happens that I do know him,”
the young man remarked. “Thought
I’d seen his face somewhere. Used to
be up at the varsity with him. I’ll
speak to him presently.”
“I expect he’ll be glad to meet you
again,” Sophy remarked. “He doesn’t
know a soul in town.”
The dance was finished. They re
turned together to where John was
sitting, and the young man held out a
weary hand.
“Amerton, you know, of Magdalen,”
he said. “You’re Strangewey, aren’t
you?”
“Lord Amerton, of course!” John ex
claimed. “I thought your face was fa
miliar. Why, we played in the rackets
doubles together!”
“And won ’em, thanks to you,” Amer
ton replied. “Are you up for long?”
“I am not quite sure,” John told him.
“I only arrived last night.”
“Look me up some time, if you’ve
nothing better to do,” the young man
suggested. “Where are you hanging
out?”
’ “The Milan.”
“I am at the Albany. So-long! Musi
get back to my little lady.”
He bowed to Sophy and departed.
Shq sank a little breathlessly into her
chair and laid her hand on John’s arm.
Her cheeks were flushed, her bosom
was rising and falling quickly.
“I am out of breath,” she said, her
head thrown back, perilously near to
John’s shoulder. “Lord Amerton dances
well. Give me some champagne!”
“And you—you dance divinely,” he
told her, as he filled her glass.
“If we were alone,” she whispered,
“I should want you to kiss me!”
The stem of the wine glass In John’s
fingers snapped suddenly, and the wine
trickled down to the floor. A passing
waiter hurried up with a napkin, and a
fresh glass was brought. The affair
was scarcely noticed, but John re
mained disturbed and a little pale.
“Have you cut your hand?” Sophy
asked anxiously.
“Not at all,” he assured her. “How
hot it is here! Do you mind if we go?”
"Go?” she exclaimed disconsolately.
“I thought you were enjoying yourself
so much!”
“So I am,” he answered, “but I don’t
quite understand —”
He paused.
“Understand what?” she demanded.
"Myself, if you must know.”
She set down the glass which she
had been In the act of raising to her
lips.
“How queer you are!” she mur
mured. “Listen. You haven’t got a
wife or anything up in Cumberland,
have you?”
“You know I haven’t,” he answered.
“You're not engaged to be married,
you have no ties, you came up here per
fectly free, you haven’t even said any
thing yet—to Louise?”
“Os course not.”
“Well, then —” she began.
Her words were so softly spoken
that they seemed to melt away. She
leaned forward to look in his face.
“Sophy,” he begged, with sudden and
almost passionate earnestness, "be
kind to me, please! I am just a sim
ple, stupid countryman, who feels as
if he had lost his way. I have lived a
solitary sort of life —an unnatural one,
you would say—and I’ve been brought
up with some old-fashioned ideas. I
know they are old-fashioned, but I
can’t throw them overboard all at once.
I have kept away from this sort of
thing. I didn't think it would ever at
tract me —I suppose because I didn’t
believe it could be made so attractive.
I have suddenly found out —that it
does!”
“What aie you going to do?” she
whispered.
“There is only one thing for me to
do,” he answered. “Until I know what
• I have come to London to learn, I shall
fight against it.”
“You mean about Louise?”
“I mean about Louise,” he said
gravely.
Sophy came still closer to him.
“Why are you so foolish?” she mur
mured. “Louise Is very wonderful, in
her place, but she Is not what you want
in life. Has it never occurred to you
that you may be too late?”
"What do you mean?” he demanded.
“I believe what the world believes,
what some day I think she will admit
to herself —that she cares for the
prince of Seyre.”
“Has she ever told you so?”
“Louise never speaks of these tnftigs
to any living soul. I am only telling
you what I think. lam trying to save
you pain—trying for my own sake as
well as yours.”
He paid his bill and stooped to help
her with her cloak. Her heart sank,
her lips quivered a little. It seemed
to her that he had passed to a great
distance.
“Very soon,” John said, “I shall ask
Louise to tell me the truth. I think
that I shall ask her, if I can, tomor
row !”
CHAPTER IX.
John's first caller at' the Milan was,
in away, a surprise to him. He was
sitting smoking an after-breakfast
pipe on the following morning, and
gazing at the telephone directory, when
his bell rang. He opened the door, to
find the prince of Seyre standing out
side.
“I pay you a very early visit, I fear,”
the latter began.
“Not at all,” John replied, taking the
pipe from his mouth and throwing
open the door. “It is very good of you
to come and see me.”
The prince followed John into the
little sitting room. He was dressed, as
usual, with scrupulous care. His tie
was fastened with a wonderful pearl,
and his fingers were perhaps a trifle
overmanicured. He wore a bunch of
Parma violets in his buttonhole, and he
carried with him a very faint but un
usual perfume, which seemed to John
like the odor of delicate green tea.
It was just these details, and the slow
ness of his speech, which alone ac
centuated his foreign origin.
“It occurred to me,” he said, as he
seated himself in an easy chair, “that
if you are really intending to make this
experiment in town life of which Miss
Maurel spoke, I might be of some as
sistance to you. There are certain
matters, quite unimportant in them
selves, concerning which a little ad
vice in the beginning may save you
trouble.”
“Very good of you, I am sure,” John
repeated. “To tell you the truth, I
was just looking through the telephone
directory to see if I could come across
the name of a tailor I used to have
some things from.”
“If it pleases you to place yourself
in my hands,” the prince suggested, “I
will introduce you to my own trades
people. I have made the selection with
some care. I have, fortunately, an
idle morning, and it is entirely at your
disposal. At half past oijp I believe
we are both lunching with Miss Mau
rel.”
John was conscious of a momentary
sense of annoyance. His tete-a-tete
with Louise seemed farther off than
ever. At the prince’s suggestion, how
ever, he fetched his hat and gloves and
entered the former's automobile, which
was waiting below.
They spent the morning in the neigh
borhood of Bond street, and John had
the foundations of a wardrobe more
extensive than any he had ever
dreamed of possessing. At half past
one they were shown into Louise’s
little drawing room. There were three
or four men already present, standing
around their hostess and sipping some
faint yellow cordial from long Vene
tian glasses.
Louise came forward to meet them,
and made a little grimace as she re
marked the change in John’s appear
ance.
"Honestly, I don’t know you, and I
don’t believe I like you at all!” she ex
claimed. “How dare you transform
yourself into a tailor’s dummy in this
fashion?”
“It was done entirely out of respect
for you,” John said.
“In fact,” the prince added, “we con
sidered that we had achieved rather
a success.”
“I suppose I must look upon your ef
fort as a compliment,” Louise sighed,
"but it seems queer to lose even so
much of you. Shall you take up our
manners and our habits, Mr. Strange
wey, as easily as you wear oar
clothes?”
"That I cannot promise,” he replied.
"The brain should adapt itself at
least as readily as the body,” the
prince remarked.
M. Graillot, who was one of the three
men present, turned around.
“Who is talking platitudes?” he de
manded. "I write plays, and that is
my monopoly. Ah, it is the pripce, I
see! And our young friend who inter
rupted us at rehearsal yesterday.”
Graillot held out his left hand to the
prince and his right to John.
“Mr. Strangewey.” he said, "I con
gratulate you! Any person who has
the good fortune to interest Miss Mau
rel is to be congratulated. Yet must I
look at you and feel rayself puzzled.
You are not an artist —no? You do
not paint or write?”
John shook his head/
“Mr. Strangewey’s claim to distinc
tion is that he is just an ordinary
man,” Louise observed. “Such a relief,
you know, after all you clever people!”
John shook hands with everybody
and sipped the contents of the glass
which had been handed to him. Then
a butler opened the door and un-
An Unusual Love Story
By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
nounced luncheon. Louise offered her
hand to the prince, who stepped back.
“It shall be the privilege of the
stranger within our gates,” he decided.
Louise turned to John with a little
smile.
“Let me show you, then, the way
to my dining room. J ought to apolo
gize for not asking some women to
meet you. I tried two on the tele
phone, but they were engaged.”
“I will restore the balance,” the
prince promised, turning from the con
templation of one of the prints hang
ing in the hall. “I am giving a supper
party tonight for Mr. Strangewey, and
I will promise him a preponderance of
your charming sex.”
"Am I Invited?” Louise inquired.
The prince shook his head.
“Alas, no!”
They passed into a small dining
room and here again John noticed that
an absolute simplicity was paramount.
“I Want to See You Alone ” He Said.
“When Can I?"
The round table, covered with an ex
quisitely- fine cloth, was very simply
laid. There was a little glass of the
finest quality, and a very little silver.
For flowers there was only one bowl, a
brilliant patch of some scarlet exotic,
in the center.
“A supper party to which I am not
invited,” said Louise, as she took her
place at the table and motioned John
to a seat by her side, “fills me with
curiosity.. Who are to be your guests,
prince?”
“Calavera and her sprites,” the
prince announced.
Louise paused for a moment in the
act of helping herself to hors d’oeuvres.
She glanced toward the prince. For a
moment their eyes met. Louise’s lips
were faintly curled. It was almost as
if a challenge had passed between
them. Louise devoted her attention to
her guest.
“First of all,” she asked, “tell me
how you like my little friend?”
“I think she is charming,” John an
swered without hesitation. “We went
to a supper club last night and stayed
there till about half past three.”
"Really,” said Louise, “I am not sure
that I approve of this! A supper club
with Sophy until half past three in
the morning!”
He looked at her quickly.
“You don't mind?”
“My dear man, why should I mind?”
she returned. “It is exactly what I
hoped for. You have come up to Lon
don with a purpose. You have an ex
periment to make, an experiment in
living.”
“The greater part of my experi
ment,” he pointed out, “needs the help
of only one person, and that person is
you.”
She moved a little uneasily in her
chair. It might have been his fancy,
but he imagined that she glanced un
der her eyelids toward the prince of
Seyre. The prince, however, had
turned almost ostentatiously away
from her. He was leaning across the
table, talking to Faraday.
“You have not lost your gift of
plain speech,” she observed. “So de
lightful in Cumberland and Utopia,
so impracticable here!”
“Then since we can’t find Utopia,
come back to Cumberland,” he sug
gested.
A reminiscent smile played for a
moment about her lips.
“I wonder,” she murmured, "whether
I shall ever again see that dear, won*
derful old house of yours, and the mist
on the hills, and the stars shining here
and there through it, and the moon
coming up in the distance!”
“All these things you will see again,”
he assured her confidently. “It is be
cause I want you to see them again
that I am here.”
"Just now, at this minute, I feel a
longing for them,” she whispered, look
ing across the table, out of the win
dow, to the softly waving trees.
At the close of the luncheon for a
moment she and John were detached
t from the others.
“I want t > see you alone,” he said
under his b;£ath. “When can I?”
She hesit’^ed.
“I am s ’ busy!” she murmured.
“Next week ‘here are rehearsals nearly
every minute of the day.”
“Tomorro' ,” John said insistently.
“You have li b rehearsals then. I must
see you. I ; must talk to you without
this crowd.’
It was >ls moment. Her half
formed res* buttons fell away before
the compel! hg ring in his voice and
the earnest' Mending in his eyes.
“I will be- 'n,” she promised, “tomor
row at six * clock.”
After the departure of her guests,
Louise stoo< before the window of her
drawing rot'a, looking down into the
street. She’ :aw the prince courteously
motion Johi to precede him into hl»
waiting aut* nobile. She watched un
til the car t‘bk its place in the stream
of traffic an'' disappeared. The sense
of uneasiness which had brought her
to the windc k was unaccountable, but
it seemed iz some way deepened by
their depart: re together. Then a voice
from just behind startled her. It was
Graillot, wh had returned noiselessly
into the
“I retUMie he explained. “An im
pulse broug jt me back. A thought
came into nr mind. I wanted to share
it with you i 3 a proof of the sentiment
which I feel exists between us. It is
my firm be! f that the same thought,
in a differ 'ht guise, was traveling
through you/ mind, as you watched the
departure of your guests."
• She motiot _>d him to a place upon the
couch, close !o where she had already
seated hers* ‘f.
“Come,” te invited, “prove to me
that you are' a thought reader!”
He sank jack in his corner. His
hands, with heir short, stubby fingers,
were claspec in front of him. His eyes,
wide open a-:! alert, seemed fixed upon
her with the ingenuous inquisitiveness
of a child.
“To begin, .hen, I find our friend, the
prince of St re, a most interesting, I
might almos; ,say fascinating, study.”
Louise dit^not reply. After a mo
ment’s pause he continued.
“Among tie whole aristocracy of
France there was no family so loathed
and detested as the seigneurs of Seyre
at the time f the revolution. Those
at the chateau in Orleans and others
who were arrested in Paris, met their
death with si gular contempt and calm.
Eugene of Sjyre, whose character in
my small w:,y I have studied, is of
the same bre,^.”
Louise t 00,,, up a fan which lay on
the table by her side, and waved it
carelessly in iront of her face.
“One dobs,w love,” she murmured,
“to hear ont^ friends discussed in ft
friendly spir l t !”
“It is beca se Eugene of Seyre is a
friend of yo rs that I am talking to
you in this ,nshion,” Graillot contin
ued. “You h ve also another friend—
this young n. n from Cumberland.”
“Well?” a
“In him,” (craillot went on, ‘one per
ceives all the/primitive qualities which
go to the mal ing of splendid manhood.
Physically b. is almost perfect, for
which alone <!we owe him a debt of
gratitude. I e has, if I judge him
rightly, all 0 e qualities possessed by
men who ha e been brought up free
from the tain- >of cities, from the smear
of our spurios s overcivilization. He is
chivalrous and unsuspicious. He is
also, unfortui ately for him, the enemy
of the prince.'
Louise laiddown her fan. She no
longer tried o conceal her agitation.
“Why are y u so melodramatic?” she
demanded, ‘“they have scarcely spo
ken. This is, Ithink, their third meet
ing.”
“When tw.' friends,” Graillot de
clared, “desir 1 f 'the same woman, then
all of friends ip that there may have
been between them is buried. When
two others, w ‘o are so far from being
friends that' they possess opposite
qualities, opp/ site characters, opposite
characteristic,' 1 also desire the same
woman —” ''
“Don’t!” L< ilse interrupted, with a
sudden little Scream. “Don’t! You
are talking w idly. You must not say
such things!”.
Graillot lea ed forward. He shook
his head very slowly; his heavy hand
rested upon ! t shoulder.
Do you jink that Louise has
been too ,ose a friend to the
prince? /id is John Strange
wey, with I s old-fashioned ideas
of rectitud . a fool to be letting
himself faj head over heels in
love with h fl
_____________
। ’
(TO B ' CONTINUED.)
Ri igh Stough.
To Indicate wine of the difficulties
that our lang' ge presents to foreign
ers, a subscri ier sends us this: "I
sat on the boi' th of a tree and began
to cough, half hg some dough in my
mouth and my :eet in a trough. ' I was
not thorough^ tired, though roughly
used. Wasn't that tough?”—Youth’a
Companion,
