The Hillman

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  XXXVII

  Before the wide-flung window of her attic bedchamber, Sophy Gerard wascrouching with her face turned westward. She had abandoned all effort tosleep. The one thought that was beating in her brain was too insistent,too clamorous. Somewhere beyond that tangled mass of chimneys andtelegraph-poles, somewhere on the other side of the gray haze which hungabout the myriad roofs, John and Louise were working out their destiny,speaking at last the naked truth to each other.

  Somehow or other, during those few minutes every thought of herself andher own life seemed to have passed away. John's face seemed alwaysbefore her--the sudden, hard lines about his mouth; the dull, smolderingpain in his eyes. How would he return? Louise had guarded the secret ofher life so well. Would he wrest it from her, or--

  She started suddenly back into the room. There was a knocking at thedoor, something quite different from her landlady's summons. She wrappedher dressing-gown around her, pulled the curtains around the little bedon which she had striven to rest, and moved toward the door. She turnedthe handle softly.

  "Who is that?" she asked.

  John almost pushed his way past her. She closed the door with nervelessfingers. Her eyes sought his face, her lips were parted. She clung tothe back of the chair.

  "You have seen Louise?" she exclaimed breathlessly.

  "I have seen Louise," he answered. "It is all over!"

  She looked a little helplessly around her. Then she selected the onechair in the tiny apartment that was likely to hold him, and led him toit.

  "Please sit down," she begged, "and tell me about it. You mustn'tdespair like this all at once. I wonder if I could help!"

  "No one can help," he told her grimly. "It is all finished and donewith. I would rather not talk any more about it. I didn't come here totalk about it. I came to see you. So this is where you live!"

  He looked around him, and for a moment he almost forgot the pain whichwas gnawing at his heart. It was such a simple, plainly furnished littleroom, so clean, so neat, so pathetically eloquent of poverty. She drewcloser together the curtains which concealed her little chintz-coveredbed, and came and sat down by his side.

  "You know, you are rather a silly person," she whispered soothingly."Wait for a time and perhaps things will look different. I know thatLouise cares. Isn't that the great thing, after all?"

  "I would like not to talk about it any more," said John. "Just now Icannot put what I feel into words. What remains is just this: I havebeen a fool, a sort of _Don Quixote_, building castles in Spain andbelieving that real men and women could live in them. I have expectedthe impossible in life. It is perhaps a good thing that I can see thetruth now. I am going to climb down!"

  She clasped her hands tighter around his arm. Her eyes sought hisanxiously.

  "But you mustn't climb down, John," she insisted. "You are so much nicerwhere you are, so much too good for the silly, ugly things. You mustfight this in your own way, fight it according to your own standards.You are too good to come down--"

  "Am I too good for you, Sophy?"

  She looked at him, and her whole face seemed to soften. The light in herblue eyes was sweet and wistful. A bewildering little smile curled herlips.

  "Don't be stupid!" she begged. "A few minutes ago I was looking out ofmy window and thinking what a poor little morsel of humanity I am, andwhat a useless, drifting life I have led. But that's foolish. Come now!What I want to persuade you to do is to go back to Cumberland for atime, and try hard--very hard indeed--to realize what it means to be awoman like Louise, with her temperament, her intense intellectualcuriosity, her charm. Nothing could make Louise different from what sheis--a dear, sweet woman and a great artist. And, John, I believe sheloves you!"

  His face remained undisturbed even by the flicker of an eyelid.

  "Sophy," he said, "I have decided to go abroad. Will you come with me?"

  She sat quite still. Again her face was momentarily transformed. All itspallor and fatigue seemed to have vanished. Her head had fallen a littleback. She was looking through the ceiling into heaven. Then the lightdied away almost as quickly as it had come. Her lips shook tremulously.

  "You know you don't mean it, John! You wouldn't take me. And if you did,you'd hate me afterward--you'd want to send me back!"

  He suddenly drew her to him, his arm went around her waist. She had lostall power of resistance. For the first time in his life of his owndeliberate accord, he kissed her--feverishly, almost roughly.

  "Sophy," he declared, "I have been a fool! I have come an awful cropper,but you might help me with what's left. I am going to start afresh. I amgoing to get rid of some of these ideas of mine which have brought menothing but misery and disappointment. I don't want to live up to themany longer. I want to just forget them. I want to live as other menlive--just the simple, ordinary life. Come with me! I'll take you to theplaces we've talked about together. I am always happy and contented withyou. Let's try it!"

  Her arms stole around his neck.

  "If only you cared, John!" she sobbed.

  "But I do," he insisted. "I love to have you with me, I love to see youhappy, I shall love to give you pretty things. I shall be proud of you,soothed by you--and rested. What do you say, Sophy?"

  "John," she whispered, hiding her face for a moment. "What can I say?What could any poor, weak, little creature like me say? You know I amfond of you--I haven't had the pride, even, to conceal it!"

  He stood up, held her face for a moment between his hands, and kissedher forehead.

  "Then that's all settled," he declared. "I am going back to my roomsnow. I want you to come and dine with me there to-night, at eighto'clock."

  Her eyes sought his, pleaded with them, searched them.

  "You are sure, John?" she asked, her voice a little broken. "You wantme really? I am to come? You won't be sorry--afterward?"

  "I am sure," he answered steadfastly. "I shall expect you at eighto'clock!"

  * * * * *

  John went back to his rooms fighting all the time against a sense ofunreality, a sense almost of lost identity. He bought an eveningnewspaper and read it on the way. He talked to the hall-porter, hetalked to a neighbor with whom he ascended in the lift--he dideverything except think.

  In his rooms he telephoned to the restaurant for a waiter, and with themenu in his hand, a few minutes later, he ordered dinner. Then heglanced at his watch--it was barely seven o'clock. He went down to thebarber-shop, was shaved and had his hair cut, encouraging the barber allthe time to talk to him. He gave his hands over to a manicure, and didhis best to talk nonsense to her. Then he came up-stairs again, changedhis clothes with great care, and went into his little sitting room.

  It was five minutes to eight, and dinner had been laid at a little roundtable in the center of the room. There was a bowl of pink roses--Sophy'sfavorite flower--sent in from the florist's; the table was lighted by apink-shaded lamp. John went around the room, turning out the otherlights, until the apartment was hung with shadows save for the littlespot of color in the middle. An unopened bottle of champagne stood in anice-pail, and two specially prepared cocktails had been placed upon thelittle side-table. There were no more preparations to be made.

  John walked restlessly to the window and gazed at the curving line oflights along the Embankment. This was the end, then--the end of hisstrenuous days, the end of his ideals, the end of a love-story which hadmade life for a time seem so wonderful! He could hear them talking abouthim in a few days' time--the prince's subtle sneer, the jests of hisacquaintances. And Louise! His heart stopped for a moment as he tried tothink of her face when she heard the news.

  He turned impatiently away from the window and glanced at the clock. Itwas almost eight. He tried to imagine that the bell was ringing, thatSophy was standing there on the threshold in her simple but daintyevening dress, with a little smile parting her lips. The end of it all!He pulled down the blind. No more of the window, no more looking out
atthe lights, no more living in the clouds! It was time, indeed, that helived as other men. He lifted one of the glasses to his lips and drainedits contents.

  Then the bell rang. He moved forward to answer its summons with beatingheart. As he opened it, he received a shock. A messenger-boy stoodoutside. He took the note which the boy handed him and tore it openunder the lamp. There were only a few lines:

  John, my heart is breaking, but I know you do not mean what you said. I know it was only a moment of madness with you. I know you will love Louise all your life, and will bless me all your life because I am giving up the one thing which could make my life a paradise. I shall be in the train when you read this, on my way to Bath. I have wired my young man, as you call him, to meet me. I am going to ask him to marry me, if he will, next week.

  Good-by! I give you no advice. Some day I think that life will right itself with you.

  SOPHY.

  The letter dropped upon the table. John stood for a moment dazed.Suddenly he began to laugh. Then he remembered the messenger-boy, gavehim half a crown, and closed the door. He came back into the room andtook his place at the table. He looked at the empty chair by his side,looked at the full glass on the sideboard. It seemed to him that he waspast all sensations. The waiter came in silently.

  "You can serve the dinner," John ordered, shaking out his napkin. "Openthe champagne before you go."

  "You will be alone, sir?" the man inquired.

  "I shall be alone," John answered.