The Hillman

  XII

  As they drove from Luigi's to Knightsbridge, Louise leaned back in hercorner. Although her eyes were only half closed, there was an air ofaloofness about her, an obvious lack of desire for conversation, whichthe others found themselves instinctively respecting. Even Sophy'slight-hearted chatter seemed to have deserted her, somewhat to John'srelief.

  He sat back in his place, his eyes fixed upon Louise. He was so anxiousto understand her in all her moods and vagaries. He was forced to admitto himself that she had deliberately chosen not to take any portion ofthat drive home alone with him. And yet, as he looked back through theevening, he told himself that he was satisfied. He declined to feel evena shadow of discouragement.

  After a time he withdrew his eyes from her face and looked out upon thehuman panorama through which they were passing.

  They were in the very vortex of London's midnight traffic. The night waswarm for the time of year, and about Leicester Square and beyond thepavements were crowded with pedestrians, the women lightly and gailyclad, flitting, notwithstanding some sinister note about theirmovements, like butterflies or bright-hued moths along the pavements andacross the streets. The procession of taxicabs and automobiles, eachwith its human freight of men and women in evening dress on their wayhome 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 areactually in London."

  "When I leave you," he replied, "I, too, shall find it hard to believethat we have actually met again and talked. There seems to be so muchthat I have to say," he added, looking at her closely, "and I have saidnothing."

  "There is plenty of time," she told him, and once more the signs of thatslight nervousness were apparent in her manner. "There are weeks andmonths ahead of us."

  "When shall I see you again?" he asked.

  "Whenever you like. There are no rehearsals for a day or two. Ring me upon the telephone--you will find my number in the book--or come and lunchwith me to-morrow, if you like."

  "Thank you," he answered; "that is just what I should like. At whattime?"

  "Half past one. I will not ask either of you to come in now. You cancome down to-morrow morning and get the books, Sophy. I think I amtired--tired," she added, with a curious little note of self-pity in hertone. "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 theswiftly opened door. Then he stepped back into the taxicab. Sophyretreated into the corner to make room for him.

  "You are going to take me home, are you not?" she asked.

  "Of course," he replied, his eyes still fixed with a shade of regretupon the closed door of Louise's little house. "No. 10 SouthamptonStreet," he told the driver.

  They turned round and spun once more into the network of moving vehiclesand streaming pedestrians. John was silent, and his companion, for alittle while, humored him. Soon, however, she touched him on the arm.

  "This is still your first night in London," she reminded him, "and thereis to-morrow. You are going to lunch with her to-morrow. Won't you talkto me, please?"

  He shut the door upon a crowd of disturbing thoughts and fantasticimaginings, and smiled back at her. Her fingers remained upon his arm. Aqueer gravity had come into her dainty little face.

  "Are you really in love with Louise?" she inquired, with something ofhis own directness.

  He answered her with perfect seriousness.

  "I believe so," he admitted, "but I should not like to say that I amabsolutely certain. I have come here to find out."

  Sophy suddenly rocked with laughter.

  "You are the dearest, queerest madman I have ever met!" she exclaimed,holding tightly to his arm. "You sit there with a face as long as afiddle, wondering whether you are in love with a girl or not! Well, I amnot going to ask you anything more. Tell me, are you tired?"

  "Not a bit," he declared. "I never had such a ripping evening in mylife."

  She held his arm a little tighter. She was the old Sophy again, full oflife and gaiety.

  "Let's go to the Aldwych," she suggested, "and see the dancing. We canjust have something to drink. We needn't have any more supper."

  "Rather!" he assented readily. "But where is it, and what is it?"

  "Just a supper club," she told him. "Tell the man No. 19 Kean Street.What fun! I haven't been there for weeks."

  "What about my clothes?" he asked.

  "You'll be all right," she assured him. "You're quite a nice-lookingperson, and the manager is a friend of mine."

  The cab stopped a few minutes later outside what seemed to be a privatehouse except for the presence of a commissionnaire upon the pavement.The door was opened at once, and John was relieved of his hat and stickby a cloak-room attendant. Sophy wrote his name in a book, and they wereushered by the manager, who had come forward to greet them, into a longroom, brilliantly lit, and filled, except in the center, withsupper-tables.

  They selected one near the wall and close to the open space in which, atthe present moment, a man and a woman were dancing. The floor was ofhardwood, and there was a little raised platform for the orchestra. Johnlooked around him wonderingly. The popping of champagne corks was almostincessant. A slightly voluptuous atmosphere of cigarette-smoke, mingledwith the perfumes shaken from the clothes and hair of the women, severalmore of whom were now dancing, hung about the place. A girl in fancydress was passing a great basket of flowers from table to table.

  Sophy sat with her head resting upon her hands and her face very closeto her companion's, keeping time with her feet to the music.

  "Isn't this rather nice?" she whispered. "Do you like being here withme, Mr. John Strangewey?"

  "Of course I do," he answered heartily. "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 bent 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 beout at this time of night."

  "Mostly actresses," she replied, "and musical-comedy girls. I was inmusical comedy myself before Louise rescued me."

  "Did you like it?"

  "I liked it all right," she admitted, "but I left it because I wasn'tdoing any good. I can dance pretty well, but I have no voice, so theredidn't seem to be any chance of my getting out of the chorus; and onecan't even pretend to live on the salary they pay you, unless one has apart."

  "But these girls who are here to-night?"

  "They are with their friends, of course," she told him. "I suppose, ifit hadn't been for Louise, I should have been here, too--with a friend."

  "I should like to see you dance," he remarked, in a hurry to change theconversation.

  "I'll dance to you some day in your rooms, if you like," she promised."Or would you like me to dance here? There is a man opposite who wantsme to. Would you rather I didn't? I want to do just which would pleaseyou 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 inthe center of the room, clasped in the arms of a very immaculate youngman who had risen and bowed to her from a table opposite. John leanedback in his place and watched her admiringly. Her feet scarcely touchedthe ground. She never once glanced at or spoke to her partner, but everytime she passed the corner where John was sitting, she looked at him andsmiled.

  He, for his part, watched her no longer with pleasant interest, but withalmost fascinated eyes. The spirit of the place was creeping into hisblood. His long years of seclusion seemed like a spell of time lyingcuriously far away, a crude period, mislived in an atmosphere which,notwithstanding its austere swe
etness, took no account of the human cry.He refilled his glass with champagne and deliberately drank itscontents. It was splendid to feel so young and strong, to feel the winein his veins, his pulse and his heart moving to this new measure!

  His eyes grew brighter, and he smiled back at Sophy. She suddenlyreleased her hold upon her partner and stretched out her arms to him.Her body swayed backward a little. She waved her hands with a gestureinfinitely graceful, subtly alluring. Her lips were parted with a smilealmost of triumph as she once more rested her hand upon her partner'sshoulder.

  "Who is your escort this evening?" the latter asked her, speaking almostfor the first time.

  "You would not know him," she replied. "He is a Mr. John Strangewey, andhe comes from Cumberland."

  "Just happens that I do know him," the young man remarked. "Thought I'dseen his face somewhere. Used to be up at the varsity with him. We onceplayed rackets together. Hasn't he come into a pile just lately?"

  "An uncle in Australia left him a fortune."

  "I'll speak to him presently," the young man decided. "Always make apoint of being civil to anybody with lots of oof!"

  "I expect he'll be glad to meet you again," Sophy remarked. "He doesn'tknow a soul in town."

  The dance was finished. They returned together to where John wassitting, and the young man held out a weary hand.

  "Amerton, you know, of Magdalen," he said. "You're Strangewey, aren'tyou?"

  "Lord Amerton, of course!" John exclaimed. "I thought your face wasfamiliar. Why, we played in the rackets doubles together!"

  "And won 'em, thanks to you," Amerton 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 mansuggested. "Where are you hanging out?"

  "The Milan."

  "I am at the Albany. So-long! Must get back to my little lady."

  He bowed to Sophy and departed. She sank a little breathlessly into herchair and laid her hand on John's arm. Her cheeks were flushed, herbosom was rising and falling quickly.

  "I am out of breath," she said, her head thrown back, perilously near toJohn's shoulder. "Lord Amerton dances so 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 thewine trickled down to the floor. A passing waiter hurried up with anapkin, and a fresh glass was brought. The affair was scarcely noticed,but John remained 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 wego?"

  "Go?" she exclaimed disconsolately. "I thought you were enjoyingyourself 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 herlips.

  "How queer you are!" she murmured. "Listen. You haven't got a wife oranything 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 hereperfectly free, you haven't even said anything yet--to Louise?"

  "Of course not."

  "Well, then--" she began.

  Her words were so softly spoken that they seemed to melt away. Sheleaned forward to look in his face.

  "Sophy," he begged, with sudden and almost passionate earnestness, "bekind to me, please! I am just a simple, stupid countryman, who feels asif he had lost his way. I have lived a solitary sort of life--anunnatural one, you would say--and I've been brought up with someold-fashioned ideas. I know they are old-fashioned, but I can't throwthem overboard all at once. I have kept away from this sort of thing. Ididn't think it would ever attract me--I suppose because I didn'tbelieve it could be made so attractive. I have suddenly found out--thatit does!"

  "What are you going to do?" she whispered.

  "There is only one thing for me to do," he answered. "Until I know whatI 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. Her voice was as soft as the lightest,finest note of music, trembling a little with that one thread ofpassion. She seemed so dainty, so quiet and sweet, that for a moment hefound himself able to imagine that it was all a dream; that hers wasjust one of those fairy, disquieting voices that floated about on thesummer breeze and rippled along the valleys and hillsides of hisCumberland home. Then, swift as the fancy itself, came the warm touch ofher hand upon his, the lure of her voice once more, with its tremblingcadence.

  "Why are you so foolish?" she murmured. "Louise is very wonderful in herplace, but she is not what you want in life. Has it never occurred toyou 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 admitto herself--that she cares for the Prince of Seyre."

  "Has she ever told you so?"

  "Louise never speaks of these things to any living soul. I am onlytelling you what I think. I am trying to save you pain--trying for myown 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 agreat distance.

  "Very soon," John said, "I shall ask Louise to tell me the truth. Ithink that I shall ask her, if I can, to-morrow!"