The Singer from the Hills

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 1075, 12 September 1930, Page 5

The Singer from the Hills

COPYRIGHT PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT

by

ROWAN GLEN

Author of “The Great Anvil,” "The Stronger Pssioo l'h e Romantic Road. - etc.

CHAPTER 1 It was not merely willingly but eag- j erly that Nurse Stewart went from her j ward in St. Cerf’s Hospital on that | afternoon. At three-thirty precisely j she was to meet Hew Kennedy out- i side Drummond’s Cafe in Prince's j Street, and the prospect pleased her — j perhaps more than she quite realised, j It was only when she was off duty ! and away from the place where that ! duty was done, that he and she could talk to each other as old friends should; only then that they were free to discuss matters having no relationship to “cases” or temperature charts. When he came through the wards, as he did morning after morning, she was “Nurse” to him and lie was "Doctor” to her, and, figuratively, if not actually, a very important person to whom by all the rules of her profession she had to show due respect. | Ouce the hospital had been left be- ! hind she became Sheila, and he be- j came Hew, and though meetings be- i tween doctors and nurses were sup- | posed to be frowned on, neither had I allowed that fact to hamper their goodfellowship. It was characteristic of Sheila that while she was changing from uniform into what she called mufti, her thoughts were of how good a friend the young doctor had been to her rather than of how good a friend she had been to him. She knew quite well that he admired her, but she did not consider herself to be in any way worthy of admiration. He, on the other hand, was brilliant, both socially and professionally. If hospital gossip meant anything, he was destined to j go to the highest heights in the medi- j cal world. That alone was enough to j win her admiration, but she admired j him more for his qualities of heart j than for his intellectual and surgical j ability. Hew was a man, so she as- j sured herself —one you could trust to j the uttermost, in the sure and certain | knowledge that your trust would never j be misplaced. Fair of hair and face, with wide-set \ eyes of a deep blue; graceful of fig- j lire and carriage and with that inde- j Tillable quality which we call charm, J Sheila was at her loveliest when, al- j most to the appointed second she reached the cafe, and found Kennedy waiting for her. He had been, smoking a cigarette, but when he saw her he dropped it to the pavement, put a heel on it, and, coming forward, held out a hand browned by that sunshine and wind which, whenever occasion offered, he sought on one of the many golf courses within easy reach of Edinburgh. “On time!” he said, hoping the while that he did not look nor sound so shy as he felt. “That’s like you, Sheila —always to be counted on, as I’ve told your matron more than once. And, how in the world do you manage to be so unfailingly alive, so very much on deck? Marvellous you

are! As to your appearance—well, you’re plain, of course, and you should start tinting your cheeks, but—”

She smiled as she drew her fingers from his, and the smile gave him an extra heart-jog or two. “Mad, as usual, Hew,” she commented. “How is it that a person of your inordinate brain-power should be mad when you meet me outside like this, and should be so very much the dignified doctor-man when we meet ill the ward? Can you explain?” “Yes,” he answered, clicking open his cigarette case. “I propose to do that presently. It will be both easy, and difficult. But I can tell you right away that if I'm mad when I meet you when we are Sheila and Hew, there's only one person to blame, and that’s not Hew, but Sheila.”

He was entirely unconcerned then by the fact that people were passing them, dawdlingly, or in a hurry, and that some of those people paused momentarily to glance at an unusually pretty girl of twenty-three, and at an unusually handsome man of twenty-eight. All he knew was that the girl of twenty-three was his visioned wife, his lifemate, whose companionship would make of that life a wonderful and blessed thing. But though hope was high in him, confidence was lacking. He was confident, indeed, about only one thing. He knew that he could do his job well, and that he was going to do it. better still in the years that lay ahead. Blessedly, perhaps, neither he nor the girl who stood facing him guessed that this was to be a day which was to be personally historic, a day to which they could look back and say, in effect: “That, was when everything started. We had gone along placidly till then, but that threw us both into life’s boiling-pot.” Slim, well-tended fingers were laid on one of his arms, and Sheila said: “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hew, but I know what I want to talk about—tea! If that sounds piggy, you can remember what tea in the nurses’ room is like. I don’t want you to be mad again, but if you must

be, please don’t let it happen till I’m half way through my second cup.”

“1 promise," he said. “Matter of tact, l think that I’d like a spot of old brandy in my second cup.” She did not know what he meant by that cryptic phrase, but though he did not have any brandy in his second cup of tea he dragged up sufficient courage to tell her two mightily important tilings. One was that within a matter of days he was to be leaving for London, and this as the result of a flattering offer which had been made to him. There was a definite and well-paid post waiting at the Piccadilly Hospital, and an opportunity to take “on the nod” as lie put it, specialised and intensified studies on diseases of the throat. The second thing was, from his viewpoint, even more important. It was to the effect that he loved Sheila; always had done so since the days when, as the son of a doctor in a West Perthshire village, he had romped with her among the hayricks on her father’s farm; that it was his life’s greatest ambition to have her for his wife, and that within a year she should cease to be a hospital nurse and should come to join him in London; should, in short, be his to hold, and to have, for ever and ever. “There it is then, my dear,” he ended, when the tea in his cup had grown cold and the stub of his third cigarette was sizzling to its death in that cold tea. “I cannot see my future life without 3’ou in it. I love voy! That’s all. 1 couldn’t say less I cannot say more. All I can do now is to wait for the verdict." There were tears in Sheila’s eyes; tears, too, in her wonderful voice, when she told him that what he longed for could not be. “I feel all hazy about you and me,” she said. “I can’t make it out. 1

never felt this way before. I’m tremendously fond of you, Hew, 1 always have been. But as for love, or mar riage, which should mean the same thing—l don’t know. Honestly I do not. I suppose .1 would know if I were in love?” “Yes,” he said very solemnly. “You would certainly know about that. Let’s leave it then, Sheila, I can say a 'Thank Cod’ for your friendship, any way. And—you won’t forget me when I’m away down in the south? I love Scotland, but a man’s work should not be bound by any country—not work like mine. You will give me your blessing, Sheila?”

“With all my heart, and with all the things that are trying to crowd into my heart,” she told him. “My blessing, Hew? Oh, don’t think m.\ friendship is a poor thing! It’s the best part of me. I’ll never forget today—this hour of ours. I wish I could say that I’d be your wife. One thing I know —I'll never be the wife of a better man.”

“But—you do not love me?” “I—l don’t know. [ cannot, can I? We’ve just agreed about that. But l will hope great things for you and will think about you and pray for you. You won’t laugh at that, will 3*ou ?”

“Laugh?” he repeated. “As though I would laugh at something sacred.” So the3 r left it. When they went from the tea-room it was on the un-

derstanding that the rest of the day, till eleven o’clock, when Sheila was duo back in the ward, should hold no word of love-making or love-refusing. But Fate was busying itself aud, though neither Sheila nor Kennedy realised it, the first beat of it was thrust at them when they came from the theatre to which they had gone, provincially elated, to see the try-out of famous Charles Wadoburn’s newest musical comedy. It had been a good show, but marred to a small extent by the announced fact that the great Wadeburn was not in the house; that, on the contr. tit, he had been taken as the result of a minor accident to St. Cerf’s Hospital. “Well, there 3*oll are!” exclaimed Kenned3 f . ‘‘lt may be 3'our luck to nurse this theatrical lord of London.” In saying that he was prophetic, for when Sheila returned to the hospital a sister said to her yawningl3 r : “Got an interesting job for you in the morning, Nurse. You needn’t bother about him tonight, but we’ve collected a notability at last. He is a man called Charles Wadeburn, who j came up for one night to see the first performance of that show at The Royalty. Ever heard of him?” Sheila nodded. “Yes, Sister,” she said. “I’ve just come from the theatre, and I heard that Mr. Wadeburn had been brought here. Queer, isn’t it?” “Oh, very," the other said wearily.

“All right, then, Nurse. You slip along to bed. This great person is in private room number three. There’s nothing broken about him, but lie’s in pain, and swearing beautifully. Matron will tell you all about him in the morning. ’Night.” “Good night,” Sheila said, and went soft-footed to her own quarters. She was longing for bed, and for sleep, but when sleep did come it was fitful and held a succession of dreams. And in every one of these dreams Hew Kennedy figured. CHAPTER 11. “Well, I’m not going to say that I’m sorry to leave hospital, but I am going to say that I’m sorry to be leaving 3 r ou, Nurse Stewart," Charles Wadeburn said, when, on his feet once more but forced to support himself by a stout stick, he was only some few hours away from what he had come to regard as freedom. “You have been perfectly splendid, and, if ever I can do anything for 3*ou, well, I’m right in the picture, and no questions asked! Your doctor friend, too, for I’ve gathered that he is your friend. Remember that night when I indulged in a bit of fever and you soothed me off by talking about that Highland home of 3 r ours, and about how Kennedy used to visit you there? Oh, don’t worry*! I’m a human clam when it comes to keeping tight-shut about secrets. Invergarroch you come from, eh? I’ve heard of it. A beauty spot, so I’m told. It is, isn’t it?" Sheila had listened to the long speech patiently and not without interest. She had been impressed by the knowledge that, in that great city to which Hew Kennedy was going so soon, Charles Wadeburn was a wellknown and, in his way, a distinguished figure. But quite apart from that, she liked him. He had about him a mati-of-the-world, don’t-care-a-hang-about-anbody air, which appealed to her, though she would have been unable to explain why. “Yes," she said to him now. “Inver-

gavrocli, or the countryside round about, is supposed to be wonderful.” “Then before I leave I’ll get your address, and one of these days soon I’ll look in at the farm, and tell your father just what a wonderful daughter he’s got. That’s a true bill, Nurse. If I say a thing I mean it.” He was sincere in that, but his sincerity increased when, some hours later, he was a unit of the company* who listened to the concert given annually by the hospital staff to the ! patients and their friends. It was when he had heard Sheila | sing her second song that lie pressed j his softly-padded hands together and I said to himself: | “Lord! What a voice! Wasted! j Working in a hospital when she | could be —oh, something lias got to be ! done! It’s gold that only wants pol- } isliing up. Gold of all kinds. Gold I for the people who will listen. Gold jof a different kind for her. Gold for I you, Charles!” To Hew Kennedy he spoke discreetly, while the taxicab that was to bear him to the station was still ticking up the pence and the shillings. “See you in London before so very long, doctor,” he said. “Don’t think I’m going to forget what you’ve done for me. Oh, I’m paying, I know, but that’s got nothing to do with it. And about that girl, Nurse Stewart. I’m making no promises, but she’s got a wonderful voice; that is how it seems to me—and 1 should know. What would you be saying if, later on, l persuade her to come to London. : Make 3*oll glad, would it not, to know ! that she was around?" ! Kennedy’s mouth tightened, j “Frankly, it would not,” he answered. “I think that Sheila —Nurse Stewart, I mean—is best left in Scotland. She belongs here." “Do you not?"

Tile question was put swiftly, and Kennedy hesitated before he answered. Then:

“I suppose 1 do,” he said. “But it's different, somehow.” “Not a bit of it,” he was told. “You nave great gifts, doctor, and you’re right to give them every chance, but 3 r ou can take it from me that Sheila Stewart lias a gift which is bigger, in its way, than yours. I’m forty-two, and for nearly half my life I’ve been searching for theatrical stars and sensations —and have found a few. I may be wrong in thinking that Nurse Stewart has a fortune of sorts in that throat of hers, but I’m almost ready to back my opinion. Of course, she might not listen to me.” “Do not think me ungracious, but I hope that she won’t,” the doctor returned. “You have not said anything to her about this?” “Not a word. I don’t intend to for a little while. I may stay on in Scotland for a bit, and, if so, I may see her again. But 3’ou’d better not repeat what I’ve told you. No sense in setting her thinking about something that may not come off.” “I agree,” replied Kennedy. “I’ll say nothing. And, by the way, Mr. Wadeburn, in case you think I’m acting selfishly, I’d better explain that I’m thinking about Nurse Stewart’s happinoss. I’ve an idea that she’d have less of that as a professional singer in London than she has as a professional nurse up here.” They let the matter drop then, and when, forty-eight hours later, Sheila stood on one of the platforms at Waverley Station, bidding good-bye to Hew Kennedy, he made no reference to those things which Wadeburn had said about her voice, and which he, Kennedy, had found disturbing, though, to be sure, in a very va_gue way. “Only about three minutes more, Sheila, and then the train, will be sliding out,” he said, “and after that, every minute that passes will mean that I’m another mile or so away from you. Do >*ou know, I feel at the moment though I could jack the whole business up. One thing 1 am giud about —I fixed things so that you would be the only one to say good-bye to me here."

She was picking an imaginary piece of fluff from the lapel of his overcoat. “Saying good-bye is horrible,” she murmured. “I hate it, too, but it is not as though you were going to Australia, as you once thought of doing. You will probably be up here on holiday in a few months’ time, or I might be in London. Anyway, it’s your career that 3*ou have to thiijk about. Hew, not about me. You’re going right to the top, I know. I’ll be. even more proud of you than I am now, if that’s possible. And don’t forget the things I said that last time we had tea together.” “I won’t forget,” he answered, and took both her hands. “I suppose I should hope that you would forget what 1 said. But I do not. I’m not going to worry >*ou again, yet awhile, but some day I’m coming back to try my luck once more."

She wanted to tell him that when he had settled down in London, and j had made hosts of friends there, as, of course, he would, he might forget j her. He. might discover that what he had thought to be love had been some- i thing less lasting. But somehow she j could not add extra pain to that which he was suffering. Porters were closing compartment doors now, and the nearby guard was gla.ncihg at his big silver watch. “Good-bye, Hew, and God bless you,” Sheila said softly. Then, scarcely knowing that she did so, she lifted her face and kissed him once on the cheek. He looked at her almost amazedly. “Thank you for that, my dear,” he said. “It’s a memory I had not hoped for. Good-bye, good-bye.” She waited on the platform till the tail of the long train had swung out of sight; then, blinking her eyelids once or twice, she turned about and went slowly toward the stairs that would head her to the street. When she reached St. Cerf’s it was to find that a telegram had been delivered there for her, a telegram which the Matron had opened and which read: “Come home immediately. Your father very ill and needing you. Cai will meet each train, Invergarroch Drummond.” For perhaps ten seconds Sheila stared at the flimsy bit of paper, then she looked at the kindly-eyed matron. “You’ve read this, Matron,”' she whispered. “My father—dying, perhaps. Drummond! That’s our doctor. Oh, I ” “Come, Nurse,” the older woman comforted. “You can be brave, I know, and you must be brave now. It may not be so bad as you fear. Anyway, this is a time for being really busy. I’ve looked up the trains myself, and, if you hurry with your packing you can catch one that leaves Prince’s Street in just under threequarters of an hour from now.” “Yes,” Sheila answered dully. “Yes, Matron. Thanks.” (To be continued tomorrow)