The Hillman

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  IV

  The churchyard gate was opened and closed noisily. They both glanced up.Stephen Strangewey was coming slowly toward them along the flinty path.Louise, suddenly herself again, rose briskly to her feet.

  "Here comes your brother," she said. "I wish he wouldn't glower at meso! I really am not such a terrible person as he seems to think."

  John muttered a word or two of polite but unconvincing protest. Theystood together awaiting his approach. Stephen had apparently lost noneof his dourness of the previous night. He was dressed in gray homespun,with knickerbockers and stockings of great thickness. He wore a flannelshirt and collar and a black wisp of a tie. Underneath his battered felthat his weather-beaten face seemed longer and grimmer than ever, hismouth more uncompromising. As he looked toward Louise, there was nomistaking the slow dislike in his steely eyes.

  "Your chauffeur, madam, has just returned," he announced. "He sent wordthat he will be ready to start at one o'clock."

  Louise, inspired to battle by the almost provocative hostility of herelder host, smiled sweetly upon him.

  "You can't imagine how sorry I am to hear it," she said. "I don't knowwhen, in the whole course of my life, I have met with such a delightfuladventure or spent such a perfect morning!"

  Stephen looked at her with level disapproving eyes--at her slender formin its perfectly fitting tailored gown; at her patent shoes, soobviously unsuitable for her surroundings, and at the faint vision ofsilk stockings.

  "If I might say so without appearing inhospitable," he remarked, withfaint sarcasm, "this would seem to be the fitting moment for yourdeparture. A closer examination of our rough life up here might alteryour views."

  She turned toward John, and caught the deprecating glance which flashedfrom him to Stephen.

  "Your brother is making fun of me," she declared. "He looks at me andjudges me just as I believe he would judge most people--sternly andwithout mercy. After all, you know, even though I am a daughter of thecities, there is another point of view--ours. Can you not believe thatthe call which prompts men and women to do the things in life which arereally worth while is heard as often amid the hubbub of the city as inthe solitude of these austere hills?"

  "The question is a bootless one," Stephen answered firmly. "The citycalls to its own, as the country holds its children, and both do best intheir own environment. Like to like, and each bird to his own nest. Youwould be as much out of place here with us, madam, as my brother and Ion the pavements of your city."

  "You may be right," she admitted, "yet you dismiss one of the greatestquestions in life with a single turn of your tongue. It is given to noone to be infallible. It is even possible that you may be wrong."

  "It is possible," Stephen agreed grimly.

  "The things in life which are worth while," she continued, looking downinto the valley, "are common to all. They do not consist of one thingfor one man, another for another. To whom comes the greater share ofthem--the dweller in the city, or you in your primitive and patriarchallife? You rest your brains, you make the seasons feed you, you workenough to keep your muscles firm, and nature does the rest. She bringsthe food to your doors, and when your harvest is over your work is done.There are possibilities of rust here, Mr. Strangewey!"

  Stephen's smile was almost disdainful.

  "Madam," he declared, "you have six or seven million people in London.How many of them live by really creative and honorable work? How manyare there of polyglot race--Hebrews, Germans, foreigners of every type,preying upon one another, making false incomes which exist only onpaper, living in false luxury, tasting false joys? The sign-post of ourlives must be our personal inclinations. Our inclinations--my brother'sinclinations and mine--lead us, as they have led my people for hundredsof years, to seek the cleaner things in life and the simpler forms ofhappiness. If I do not have the pleasure, madam, of seeing you again,permit me to wish you farewell."

  He turned and walked away. Louise watched him with very real interest.

  "Do you know," she said to John, "there is something which I can onlydescribe as biblical about your brother, something a little like theprophets of the Old Testament, in the way he sees only one issue andclings to it. Are you, too, of his way of thinking?"

  "Up to a certain point, I believe I am," he confessed. "I do not think Icould ever have lived in the city. I do not think I could ever have beenhappy in any of the professions."

  "Certainly I could not imagine you as a stock-broker or a lawyer. I feelit hard to realize you in any of the ordinary walks of life. Still, youknow, the greatest question of all remains unanswered. Are you contentjust to live and flourish and die? Are there no compelling obligationswith which one is born? Do you never feel cramped--in your mind, Imean?--feel that you want to push your way through the clouds into someother life?"

  "I feel nearer the clouds here," he answered simply.

  "I suppose you are sure of content--that is to say, if you can keep freefrom doubts. Still, there is the fighting instinct, you know; thecraving for action. Don't you feel that sometimes?"

  "Perhaps," he admitted.

  They were leaving the churchyard now. She paused abruptly, pointing to asingle grave in a part of the churchyard which seemed detached from therest.

  "Whose grave is that?" she inquired.

  He hesitated.

  "It is the grave of a young girl," he told her quietly.

  "But why is she buried so far off, and all alone?" Louise persisted.

  "She was the daughter of one of our shepherds," he replied. "She wentinto service at Carlisle, and returned here with a child. They are bothburied there."

  "Because of that her grave is apart from the others?"

  "Yes," he answered. "It is very seldom, I am glad to say, that anythingof the sort happens among us."

  For the second time that morning Louise was conscious of an unexpectedupheaval of emotion. She felt that the sunshine had gone, that the wholesweetness of the place had suddenly passed away. The charm of itssimple austerity had perished.

  "And I thought I had found paradise!" she cried.

  She moved quickly from John Strangewey's side. Before he could realizeher intention, she had stepped over the low dividing wall and was on herknees by the side of the plain, neglected grave. She tore out the sprayof apple-blossom which she had thrust into the bosom of her gown, andplaced it reverently at the head of the little mound. For a moment hereyes drooped and her lips moved--she herself scarcely knew whether itwas in prayer. Then she turned and came slowly back to her companion.

  Something had gone, too, from his charm. She saw in him now nothing butthe coming dourness of his brother. Her heart was still heavy. Sheshivered a little.

  "Come," she said, "let us go back!"

  They commenced the steep descent in silence. Every now and then Johnheld his companion by the arm to steady her somewhat uncertainfootsteps. It was he at last who spoke.

  "Will you tell me, please, what is the matter with you, and why youplaced that sprig of apple-blossom where you did?"

  His tone woke her from her lethargy. She was a little surprised at itspoignant, almost challenging note.

  "Certainly," she replied. "I placed it there as a woman's protestagainst the injustice of that isolation."

  "I deny that it is unjust."

  She turned around and waved her hand toward the little gray building.

  "The Savior to whom your church is dedicated thought otherwise," shereminded him. "Do you play at being lords paramount here over the soulsand bodies of your serfs?"

  "You judge without knowledge of the facts," he assured her calmly. "Thegirl could have lived here happily and been married to a respectableyoung man. She chose, instead, a wandering life. She chose, further, tomake it a disreputable one. She broke her mother's heart and soured herfather's latter years. She brought into the world a nameless child."

  Louise's footsteps slackened.

  "You men," she sighed, "are all alike! You judge
only by what happens.You never look inside. That is why your justice is so different from awoman's. All that you have told me is very pitiful, but there is anotherview of the case which you should consider. Let us sit down upon thisboulder for a few moments. There is something that I should like to sayto you before I go."

  They sat upon a ledge of rock. Below them was the house, with its walledgarden and the blossom-laden orchard. Beyond stretched the moorland,brilliant with patches of yellow gorse, and the hills, blue and meltingin the morning sunlight.

  "Don't you men sometimes realize," she continued earnestly, "the many,many guises in which temptation may come to a woman, especially to theyoung girl so far from home? She may be very lonely, and she may care;and if she cares, it is so hard to refuse the man she loves. The verysweetness, the very generosity of a woman's nature prompts her to give,give, give all the time. There are other women, similarly circumstanced,who think only of themselves, of their own safety and happiness, andthey escape the danger; but are they to be praised and respected, whileshe that yields is condemned and cast out? I feel that you are not goingto agree with me, and I do not wish to argue with you; but what I sopassionately object to is the sweeping judgment you make--the sheep onone side and the goats on the other. That is how man judges; God looksfurther. Every case is different. The law by which one should be judgedmay be poor justice for another."

  She glanced at him almost appealingly, but there was no sign of yieldingin his face.

  "Laws," he reminded her, "are made for the benefit of the whole humanrace. Sometimes an individual may suffer for the benefit of others. Thatis inevitable."

  "And so let the subject pass," she concluded, "but it saddens me tothink that one of the great sorrows of the world should be there like amonument to spoil the wonder of this morning. Now I am going to ask youa question. Are you the John Strangewey who has recently had a fortuneleft to him?"

  He nodded.

  "You read about it in the newspapers, I suppose," he said. "Part of thestory isn't true. It was stated that I had never seen my Australianuncle, but as a matter of fact he has been over here three or fourtimes. It was he who paid for my education at Harrow and Oxford."

  "What did your brother say to that?"

  "He opposed it," John confessed, "and he hated my uncle. He detests thethought of any one of us going out of sight of our own hills. My unclehad the wander-fever."

  "And you?" she asked suddenly.

  "I have none of it," he asserted.

  A very faint smile played about her lips.

  "Perhaps not before," she murmured; "but now?"

  "Do you mean because I have inherited the money?"

  She leaned a little toward him. Her smile now was more evident, andthere was something in her eyes which was almost like a challenge.

  "Naturally!"

  "What difference does my money make?" he demanded.

  "Don't you realize the increase of your power as a human being?" shereplied. "Don't you realize the larger possibilities of the life that isopen to you? You can move, if you will, in the big world. You can takeyour place in any society you choose, meet interesting people who havedone things, learn everything that is new, do everything that is worthdoing in life. You can travel to the remote countries of the globe. Youcan become a politician, a philanthropist, or a sportsman. You canfollow your tastes wherever they lead you, and--perhaps this is the mostimportant thing of all--you can do everything upon a splendid scale."

  He smiled down at her.

  "That all sounds very nice," he admitted, "but supposing that I have notaste in any of the directions you have mentioned? Supposing my lifehere satisfies me? Supposing I find all that I expect to find in lifehere on my own land, among my own hills? What then?"

  She looked at him with a curiosity which was almost passionate. Her lipswere parted, her senses strained.

  "It is not possible," she exclaimed, "that you can mean it!"

  "But why not?" he protested. "I have not the tortuous brain of themodern politician. I hate cities--the smell of them, the atmosphere ofthem, the life in them. The desire for travel is only half born in me.That may come--I cannot tell. I love the daily work here; I am fond ofhorses and dogs. I know every yard of land we own, and I know what itwill produce. It interests me to try experiments--new crops, a newdistribution of crops, new machinery sometimes, new methods offertilizing. I love to watch the seasons come and reign and pass. I loveto feel the wind and the sun, and even the rain. All these things havebecome a sort of appetite to me. I am afraid," he wound up a littlelamely, "that this is all very badly expressed, but the whole truth ofit is, you see, that I am a man of simple and inherited tastes. I feelthat my life is here, and I live it here and I love it. Why should I goout like a _Don Quixote_ and search for vague adventures?"

  "Because you are a man!" she answered swiftly. "You have a brain and asoul too big for your life here. You eat and drink, and physically youflourish, but part of you sleeps because it is shut away from the worldof real things. Don't you sometimes feel it in your very heart thatlife, as we were meant to live it, can only be lived among your fellowmen?"

  He looked upward, over his shoulder, at the little cluster offarm-buildings and cottages, and the gray stone church.

  "It seems to me," he declared simply, "that the man who tries to livemore than one life fails in both. There is a little cycle of life here,among our thirty or forty souls, which revolves around my brother andmyself. You would think it stupid and humdrum, because the people arepeasants; but I am not sure that you are right. The elementary things,you know, are the greatest, and those we have. Our young people fall inlove and marry. The joy of birth comes to our mothers, and the tragedyof death looms over us all. Some go out into the world, some choose toremain here. A passer-by may glance upward from the road at our littlehamlet, and wonder what can ever happen in such an out-of-the-waycorner. I think the answer is just what I have told you. Love andmarriage, birth and death happen. These things make life."

  Her curiosity now had become merged in an immense interest. She laid herfingers lightly upon his arm.

  "You speak for your people," she said. "That is well. I can understandtheir simple lives being as absorbing to them as ours are to us. I canimagine how, here among your hills, you can watch as a spectator a cycleof life which contains, as you have pointed out, every element oftragedy and happiness. But you yourself?"

  "I am one of them," he answered, "a necessary part of them."

  "How you deceive yourself! I am sure you are honest, I am sure youbelieve what you say, but will you remember what I am going to tell you?The time will come, before very long, when you will feel doubts."

  "Doubts about what?"

  She smiled enigmatically.

  "Oh, they will assert themselves," she assured him, "and you willrecognize them when they come. Something will whisper to you in yourheart that after all you are not of the same clay as these simplefolk--that there is a different mission in the world for a man like youthan to play the part of feudal lord over a few peasants. Sooner orlater you will come out into the world; and the sooner the better, Ithink, Mr. John Strangewey, or you will grow like your brother hereamong your granite hills."

  He moved a little uneasily. All the time she was watching him. It seemedto her that she could read the thoughts which were stirring in hisbrain.

  "You would like to say, wouldn't you," she went on, "that your brother'sis a useful and an upright life? So it may be, but it is not wide enoughor great enough. No one should be content with the things which he canreach. He should climb a little higher, and pluck the riper fruit. Someday you will feel the desire to climb. Something will come to you--inthe night, perhaps, or on the bosom of that wind you love so much. Itmay be a call of music, or it may be a more martial note. Promise me,will you, that when you feel the impulse you won't use all thatobstinate will-power of yours to crush it? You will destroy the bestpart of yourself, if you do. You will give it a chance? Promise!"

  She
held out her hand with a little impulsive gesture. He took it in hisown, and held it steadfastly.

  "I will remember," he promised.

  Along the narrow streak of road, from the southward, they both watchedthe rapid approach of a large motor-car. There were two servants uponthe front seat and one passenger--a man--inside. It swung into the levelstretch beneath them, a fantasy of gray and silver in the reflectedsunshine.

  Louise had been leaning forward, her head supported upon her hands. Asthe car slackened speed, she rose very slowly to her feet.

  "The chariot of deliverance!" she murmured.

  "It is the Prince of Seyre," John remarked, gazing down with a slightfrown upon his forehead.

  She nodded. They had started the descent, and she was walking in veryleisurely fashion.

  "The prince is a great friend of mine," she said. "I had promised tospend last night, or, at any rate, some portion of the evening, atRaynham Castle on my way to London."

  He summoned up courage to ask her the question which had been on hislips more than once.

  "As your stay with us is so nearly over, won't you abandon yourincognito?"

  "In the absence of your brother," she answered, "I will risk it. My nameis Louise Maurel."

  "Louise Maurel, the actress?" he repeated wonderingly.

  "I am she," Louise confessed. "Would your brother," she added, with alittle grimace, "feel that he had given me a night's lodging under falsepretense?"

  John made no immediate reply. The world had turned topsyturvy with him.Louise Maurel, and a great friend of the Prince of Seyre! He walked onmechanically until she turned and looked at him.

  "Well?"

  "I am sorry," he declared bluntly.

  "Why?" she asked, a little startled at his candor.

  "I am sorry, first of all, that you are a friend of the Prince ofSeyre."

  "And again why?"

  "Because of his reputation in these parts."

  "What does that mean?" she asked.

  "I am not a scandalmonger," John replied dryly. "I speak only of what Iknow. His estates near here are systematically neglected. He is theworst landlord in the country, and the most unscrupulous. His tenants,both here and in Westmoreland, have to work themselves to death toprovide him with the means of living a disreputable life."

  "Are you not forgetting that the Prince of Seyre is a friend of mine?"she asked stiffly.

  "I forget nothing," he answered. "You see, up here we have not learnedthe art of evading the truth."

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  "So much for the Prince of Seyre, then. And now, why your dislike of myprofession?"

  "That is another matter," he confessed. "You come from a world of whichI know nothing. All I can say is that I would rather think of you--assomething different."

  She laughed at his somber face and patted his arm lightly.

  "Big man of the hills," she said, "when you come down from your frozenheights to look for the flowers, I shall try to make you see thingsdifferently!"