The Hillman

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  VI

  Once more that long, winding stretch of mountain road lay empty underthe moonlight. Three months had passed, and none of the mystery of theearlier season in the year remained. The hills had lost their canopy ofsoft, gray mist. Nature had amplified and emphasized herself. The wholeoutline of the country was marvelously distinct. The more distantmountains, as a rule blurred and uncertain in shape, seemed now topierce with their jagged summits the edge of the star-filled sky.

  Up the long slope, where three months before he had ridden to findhimself confronted with the adventure of his life, John Strangeweyjogged homeward in his high dog-cart. The mare, scenting her stable,broke into a quick trot as they topped the long rise. Suddenly she felta hand tighten upon her reins. She looked inquiringly around, and thenstood patiently awaiting her master's bidding.

  It seemed to John as if he had passed from the partial abstraction ofthe last few hours into absolute and entire forgetfulness of thepresent. He could see the motor-car drawn up by the side of the road,could hear the fretful voice of the maid, and the soft, pleasant wordsof greeting from the woman who had seemed from the first as if she werevery far removed indeed from any of the small annoyances of theiraccident.

  "I have broken down. Can you help?"

  He set his teeth. The poignancy of the recollection was a torture tohim. Word by word he lived again through that brief interview. He sawher descend from the car, felt the touch of her hand on his arm, saw theflash of her brown eyes as she drew close to him with that pleasantlittle air of familiarity, shared by no other woman he had ever known.

  Then the little scene faded away, and he remembered the tedious present.He had spent two dull days at the house of a neighboring landowner,playing cricket in the daytime, dancing at night with women in whom hewas unable to feel the slightest interest, always with that far-awayfeeling in his heart, struggling hour by hour with that curiousrestlessness which seemed to have taken a permanent place in hisdisposition. He was on his way home to Peak Hall. He knew exactly thewelcome which was awaiting him. He knew exactly the news he wouldreceive. He raised his whip and cracked it viciously in the air.

  Stephen was waiting for him, as he had expected, in the dining room. Theelder Strangewey was seated in his accustomed chair, smoking his pipeand reading the paper. The table was laid for a meal, which Jennings waspreparing to serve.

  "Back again, John?" his brother remarked, looking at him fixedly overhis newspaper.

  John picked up one or two letters, glanced them over, and flung themdown upon the table. He had examined every envelope for the last fewmonths with the same expectancy, and thrown each one down with the samethrob of disappointment.

  "As you see."

  "Had a good time?"

  "Not very. We were too strong for them. They came without a bowler atall."

  "Did you get a good knock?"

  "A hundred and seven," John replied. "It was just a slog, though.Nothing to eat, thank you, Jennings. You can clear the table so far as Iam concerned. I had supper with the Greys. Have they finished thebarley-fields, Stephen?"

  "All in at eight o'clock."

  There was a brief silence. Then Stephen knocked the ashes from his pipeand rose to his feet.

  "John," he asked, "why did you pull up on the road there?"

  There was no immediate answer. The slightest of frowns formed itselfupon the younger man's face.

  "How did you know that I pulled up?"

  "I was sitting with the window open, listening for you. I came outsideto see what had happened, and I saw your lights standing still."

  "I had a fancy to stop for a moment," John said; "nothing more."

  "You aren't letting your thoughts dwell upon that woman?"

  "I have thought about her sometimes," John answered, almost defiantly."What's the harm? I'm still here, am I not?"

  Stephen crossed the room. From the drawer of the old mahogany sideboardhe produced an illustrated paper. He turned back the frontispiecefiercely and held it up.

  "Do you see that, John?"

  "I've seen it already."

  Stephen threw the paper upon the table.

  "She's going to act in another of those confounded French plays," hesaid; "translations with all the wit taken out and all the vulgarityleft in."

  "We know nothing of her art," John declared coldly. "We shouldn'tunderstand it, even if we saw her act. Therefore, it isn't right for usto judge her. The world has found her a great actress. She is notresponsible for the plays she acts in."

  Stephen turned away and lit his pipe anew. He smoked for a minute or twofuriously. His thick eyebrows came closer and closer together. He seemedto be turning some thought over in his mind.

  "John," he asked, "is it this cursed money that is making you restless?"

  "I never think of it except when some one comes begging. I promised athousand pounds to the infirmary to-day."

  "Then what's wrong with you?"

  John stretched himself out, a splendid figure of healthy manhood. Hischeeks were sun-tanned, his eyes clear and bright.

  "The matter? There's nothing on earth the matter with me," he declared.

  "It isn't your health I mean. There are other things, as you well know.You do your day's work and you take your pleasure, and you go throughboth as if your feet were on a treadmill."

  "Your fancy, Stephen!"

  "God grant it! I've had an unwelcome visitor in your absence."

  John turned swiftly around.

  "A visitor?" he repeated. "Who was it?"

  Stephen glowered at him for a moment.

  "It was the prince," he said; "the Prince of Seyre, as he calls himself,though he has the right to style himself Master of Raynham. It's onlyhis foreign blood which makes him choose what I regard as the lessertitle. Yes, he called to ask you to shoot and stay at the castle, ifyou would, from the 16th to the 20th of next month."

  "What answer did you give him?"

  "I told him that you were your own master. You must send wordto-morrow."

  "He did not mention the names of any of his other guests, I suppose?"

  "He mentioned no names at all."

  John was silent for a moment. A bewildering thought had taken hold ofhim. Supposing she were to be there!

  Stephen, watching him, read his thoughts, and for a moment lost controlof himself.

  "Were you thinking about that woman?" he asked sternly.

  "What woman?"

  "The woman whom we sheltered here, the woman whose shameless picture ison the cover of that book."

  John swung round on his heel.

  "Stop that, Stephen!" he said menacingly.

  "Why should I?" the older man retorted. "Take up that paper, if you wantto read a sketch of the life of Louise Maurel. See the play she made hername in--'La Gioconda'!"

  "What about it?"

  Stephen held the paper out to his brother. John read a few lines anddashed it into a corner of the room.

  "There's this much about it, John," Stephen continued. "The woman playedthat part night after night--played it to the life, mind you. She madeher reputation in it. That's the woman we unknowingly let sleep beneaththis roof! The barn is the place for her and her sort!"

  John's clenched fists were held firmly to his sides. His eyes wereblazing.

  "That's enough, Stephen!" he cried.

  "No, it's not enough!" was the fierce reply. "The truth's been burningin my heart long enough. It's better out. You want to find her a guestat Raynham Castle, do you?--Raynham Castle, where never a decent womancrosses the threshold! If she goes there, she goes as his mistress.Well?"

  An anger that was almost paralyzing, a sense of the utter impotence ofwords, drove John in silence from the room. He left the house by theback door, passed quickly through the orchard, where the tangledmoonlight lay upon the ground in strange, fantastic shadows; across thenarrow strip of field, a field now of golden stubble; up the roughascent, across the road, and higher still up th
e hill which looked downupon the farm-buildings and the churchyard.

  He sat grimly down upon a great boulder, filled with a hateful sense ofunwreaked passion, yet with a queer thankfulness in his heart that hehad escaped the miasma of evil thoughts which Stephen's words seemed tohave created. The fancy seized him to face these half-veiled suggestionsof his brother's, so far as they concerned himself and his life duringthe last few months.

  Stephen was right. This woman who had dropped from the clouds for thosefew brief hours had played strange havoc with John's thoughts and hiswhole outlook upon life. The coming of harvest, the care of his people,his sports, his cricket, the early days upon the grouse moors, had allsuddenly lost their interest for him. Life had become a task. The echoof her half-mocking, half-challenging words was always in his ears.

  He sat with his head resting upon his hands, looking steadfastly acrossthe valley below. Almost at his feet lay the little church with itsgraveyard, the long line of stacks and barns, the laborers' cottages,the bailiff's house, the whole little colony around which his lifeseemed centered. The summer moonlight lay upon the ground almost likesnow. He could see the sheaves of wheat standing up in the most distantof the cornfields. Beyond was the dark gorge toward which he had lookedso many nights at this hour.

  Across the viaduct there came a blaze of streaming light, a serpentliketrail, a faintly heard whistle--the Scottish Express on its waysouthward toward London. His eyes followed it out of sight. He foundhimself thinking of the passengers who would wake the next morning inLondon. He felt himself suddenly acutely conscious of his isolation. Wasthere not something almost monastic in the seclusion which had become apassion with Stephen, and which had its grip, too, upon him--a waste oflife, a burying of talents?

  He rose to his feet. The half-formed purpose of weeks held him now,definite and secure. He knew that this pilgrimage of his to the hilltop,his rapt contemplation of the little panorama which had become so dearto him, was in a sense valedictory.

  * * * * *

  After all, two more months passed before the end came, and it came thenwithout a moment's warning. It was a little past midday when John droveslowly through the streets of Market Ketton in his high dogcart,exchanging salutations right and left with the tradespeople, withfarmers brought into town by the market, with acquaintances of all sortsand conditions. More than one young woman from the shop-windows or thepavements ventured to smile at him, and the few greetings he receivedfrom the wives and daughters of his neighbors were as gracious as theycould possibly be made. John almost smiled once, in the act of raisinghis hat, as he realized how completely the whole charm of the world, forhim, seemed to lie in one woman's eyes.

  At the crossways, where he should have turned up to the inn, he pausedwhile a motor-car passed. It contained a woman, who was talking to herhost. She was not in the least like Louise, and yet instinctively heknew that she was of the same world. The perfection of her white-sergecostume, her hat so smartly worn, the half-insolent smile, the littlegesture with which she raised her hand--something about her unlocked thefloodgates.

  Market Ketton had seemed well enough a few minutes ago. John had felt ahealthy appetite for his midday meal, and a certain interest concerninga deal of barley upon which he was about to engage. And now anotherworld had him in its grip. He flicked the mare with his whip, turnedaway from the inn, and galloped up to the station, keeping pace with thetrain whose whistle he had heard. Standing outside was a localhorse-dealer of his acquaintance.

  "Take the mare back for me to Peak Hall, will you, Jenkins, or send oneof your lads?" he begged. "I want to catch this train."

  The man assented with pleasure--it paid to do a kindness for aStrangewey. John passed through the ticket-office to the platform, wherethe train was waiting, threw open the door of a carriage, and flunghimself into a corner seat. The whistle sounded. The adventure of hislife had begun at last.