The Singer from the Hills

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 1076, 13 September 1930, Page 23

The Singer from the Hills

COPYRIGHT WBLISHF.P BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT

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ROWAN GLEN

Author of "Th* Great Anvil.” ‘ The Stronger P’-saion • • Hie Romantic Road.” etc.

CHAPTER 111. It was a mellow evening a fortnight or so later, and Sheila was sitting i alone outside the farm-house, her eyes gazing across the untidy garden and the farm fields to where she could j S ee the rose-light of the sunset on i Loch Gorm’s surface. I Half an hour previously old Dr. i Drummond who had replaced Hew i Kennedy's father in the village these j many years, had been with her and ! had done his best to lighten her mood of gloom. But, though she had hidden the fact from him, she had found I his talk irritating rather than helpful. It was true that she had youth, and health, and, as he had said tritely, “a ; profession at her finger ends.” But, as against that, the father who had loved her and whom she had loved, had been lying for more than a week i in the little cemetery on. the hill-side. ■ Her sense of terrible loss was growing less acute now, but it was never to leave her. Yet there were other things, willy-nilly, which had to be considered. Chief among them was ; this: What was she to do with her !future? . Old Drummond had taken it tor granted, naturally enough, that she would return to her duties in St. Cerf’s, but, though she would have been' unable to give any reason for the change, Sheila had ceased to think of St Cerf’s with affection; had been assuring herself pessimistically that the nursing profession no longer held any personal appeal. Bur of course, she would haie to :go back. Within a week at the ou.i Though lawyers and creditors

had been most kind, she would have to leave the farm house. It would no longer be her home. That svas what might be called the sordidly commercial part of her tragedy. When in the past she had thought about money, and she had done that very seldom, she had visioned herself as being in that sense, care-free. Malcolm Stewart had been one of the biggest farmers in the district, a noted breeder of pedigree cattle, and what was called a “solid” man. And now he was dead and the lawyer and (he banker had told her that when all the house furniture, and farm stock and implements had been sold, and the debts paid, there would perhaps be a matter of a hundred or two pounds which she could take with the knowledge that no creditor had been left unpaid. Well, one thing was certain; she would have to give half of that sum whatever it might be to elderly Meg Cameron, who bad been, her nurse and, of late years, her father’s housekeeper. Either that or she would need to take Meg with her wherever she, Sheila, might go. i Unaware that a man was standing : near to the gate of the kitchen gar- ! den —which he had mistaken for the main entrance —-and was watching her half-abstractedly, Sheila began to sing. She sang not because she had in her then anything of happiness, but rather because there was in her gentle heart so much of sadness. It was fitting that the ‘song she sang was a sad one, a Highland folk song in which a woman mourned the loss of someone dear to her. There were many verses, but Sheila sang on, half trance-like. j And the man by the gate of the kitchen garden listened with head side-tilted, hut nodded it every now and then as one who would say: j “Well done! Well done! The birds could put a sol) into their music if they would learn from you.’ Charles Wadeburn came to Sheila ! when her singing had ceased for some minutes. In the Edinburgh hosi pital where he had called he had learned of her bereavement, and

\ in the village hotel, where he had j booked a room tor the night, he had | learned of her father's money losses. ; He had walked out to the lonely, beau- | tifully situated farm, not quite cer- [ tain as to whether he would put forward the proposition at. which he had hinted to Hew Kennedy. But the song that he had heard in the gloaming had decided him. He knew that .he could “make” Sheila; knew, too, I that, having made her, his already! polite bankers- would become more I than ever polite. | “Well, there it is. Miss Stewart,” ihe said, when Sheila hdd recovered I from her first surprise, and he was j seated on the roughly-made garden j bench of birchwood. “I think I’ve explained everything, but to be dead honest —and with all my faults, accumulated through more than 40 years, I am that—l talked about just this sort of thing to your friend, Dr. Kennedy. I told him, though not, perhaps in these very words, that the quality of your voice had ‘got’ me. It’s been trained, but in an amateurish, schoolroom sort of way, if you'll forgive me for saying so. But if I know anything, it will not take many months to get it where it could have been years ago, and where it can be. if you’re willing, till you’ve collected a fortune for yourself and heard it ring around the world.” At first Sheila did not believe that he was in earnest. The whole situation seemed to be like something out of one of those plays which he proI duced and managed so skilfully in farj off London town. But he did convince her at last, and then her worI ried thinking started anew. She ! longed to bo able to discuss things ; i with Hew Kennedy. He had written | 1 such a wonderful letter after her j I father’s death, and was always so j I sane about everything and everybody, i except of course about her. At luvergarroch there was nobody who would understand. Dr. Drummond was hopeless, and Meg Cameron would merely look comical, and without meaning to do so, sound comical. The shadows were gathering about Ben Ard before Sheila said: “But I couldn’t possibly let you pay for my training and for my board and lodging and living expenses in London, Mr. Wadeburn. It seems that I’ll : have just a little money of my own. ! But then, there's Meg. I could bring | her along, I suppose, but ” I Wadeburn was swayed for the first ! time by the beauty, not of her voice, i but of iter face and body. She'd make

a hit, he decided, not merely with the , music lovers, but with the young and ; elderly gentlemen who draped so i gracefully the stalls of his three j theatres. “No, listen, Miss Stewart.,” he said, j suddenly businesslike. “I’m off to London tomorrow by the first train and I j want a ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ from you before I go. Don't think I'm making the proposal to help you. I owe you some- 1 ; thing, hut I’m not paying it by seeing ( i you through your initiate. Not a bit : I of it! I’m going to make money out of. i you, lots of it. It is a tremendous op- ! portunity for you. A guaranteed six j j months’ training in London at my expense, with the chance that if, as l expect, you come up to things quickly, I you may go on in weeks instead of | months. Besides, you will be able to : see our friend Kennedy again.” He was sorry that he had said that, for Sheila winced and said: "Hew Kennedy? He would know. I —wonder!” “Don’t!” Wadeburn urged her, as be rose. “You have a gift which you should be handing ou to your brothers and sisters. Why! Think of the chance you’re getting. Think of it! Think that one of these days, when I can spare you from London, or you can spare yourself, you'll be aijje to hold up the whole of Edinburgh with the voice that used to say: ‘Yes, matron,’ or ‘No, matron!’ Think of it! I can see you being billed as 'The Singer from the Hills.” ” “The Singer from the Hills,” Sheila repeated, quietly. I rather like that. You mean all this, Mr. Wadeburn? T can trust you, the way I could trust Hew Kennedy?” “Absolutely,” he assured her. “Your j local lawyer and I can draw up a conj tract tomep’row before I leave.” I “Then —it’s ‘Yes,’ she said and held \ a hand out. While the pressure on his fingers was still warm on hers, Charles Wadeburn was going jauntily down the garden path and toward the village. Through dulled eyes, Sheila looked after Charles Wadeburn till he had disappeared behind a bend in the hedge. Then she settled herself into bodily comfort, though she could bring no I sort of comfort to her mind. As she realised that the dusk was | merging into darkness, and that some- j one was lighting the lamps in the j house, she found herself whispering: j ! “Am I doing the right thing, or am i i 1 a fool? It’s a great chance. I didn’t ] i know that I had a voice like that. If , i one has a gift, surely one should pass ! j it on? But I wonder what Hew would ■ : say? T wonder what lie will say when he knows? Yet, after all, why worry about Hew? I’m heart-whole still, and perhaps I’ll always be.” It was then that elderly Meg Cam-

. eron came to her with kindly words i of advice. i “Will you be knowing what time i i it is. Miss Sheila?” she asked. “Graci- J I ous me, it's near dork, an’ there's a j I chill in the air. Catching your death ' you’ll be if you sit on here. Come you j in. dearie. I've lighted the lamps, and j i there's a wee bit of fire in the par- j I lour.” i Sheila rose and followed the woman 'listlessly, the while she said: “You’re I right, Meg. I ought not to have : waited out so long. But then a gentleman came to coll on me, and I did ■ not think to ask him indoors. He’s been gone for only a minute or two. And. Meg—” i “Yes, Miss Sheila?” “I’ve something very important to j tell you. I expect you're tired, and wanting to get to your bed, but I’d like you to hear this news of mine j tonight. Come with me to the parlour, will you? I won't keep you for i long, but I'd like you to sleep over a \ question that I’m going to ask —yes, \ and over everything. You’re a far \ wiser person than I'll ever be, and i you'll be able to advise me on lots of I points.” : A half-smiie, half-grin came to the housekeeper's homely face. "That's just your bonny way of speaking,” she returned, but was well pleased nevertheless. “I'm older nor you by a heap of years, but I haven’t had a grand education, nor lived in a big city like Edinburgh.” “I hope,” Sheila said slowly, when they were in the comfortable room and seated by the fire, “that you’ll soon be living in a bigger city than I Edinburgh, Meg. Listen! I want you | to come with me to London when I jgo there. I’ll be doing that as soon as I can square things up here, and also with the authorities at St. Cerf’s Hospital.” The older woman was staring at her almost amazedly. “Now what in the world will the lassie be talking about?” she exclaimed. "Going to London? LeayI ing the hospital—and Scotland? Thb | is havers, surely! But you go on, Miss Sheila. I was just a thought I sleepy afore you started to speak, but 1 I’m not sleepy now.” ) So Sheila told her most of what j there was to be told, and did so with | an air of calm which was contrived only with difficulty. She explained ] what the lawj'er and the banker had j said about money matters: made it j clear that, in her view, her father ; would certainly have arranged some-

thing for Meg had he been able to; foresee his sudden end; mentioned briefly her (Sheila's) friendship with Hew Kennedy, and ended by speaking about Charles Wadeburn. and the offer which he had nxide to her, and which she had accepted. “So there you are, Meg.” she said, as, leaning forward, she lifted a poker and thrust it this way and that mechanically among the crumbling coals. “I could give you enough to keep you for, say, *a year, or it might be two, for you’re the careful sort; I but the way I see it, it would be much j better for you if you came away south with me. I know that I*cL like that : better.” Ten or fifteen seconds passed be-' fore Meg Cameron answered. Ther { she lifted podgy, work-roughened j hands, held them against her fore- j head, puckered her brow, and said:—' “Going to stop being a nurse, an’ going to be a singer instead. Going to leave the country you was born an’ , bred in an’ go to that awful place, \ London, where there’s nothing but wickedness an’ fast-living, if you can believe the papers. An’ wanting me to go with you! It’s a fearful thing this that you’ve told me. dearie. Aye. it is , that! I've got to think. I won’t be saying anything the night. Mebbe I’il ! c-ome wi’ you, but I won’t say a cheep j till the morn's morn. Except this — j God bless you for having thought of ' me the way you have done.” Toward noon on the following day, * Sheila had signed the contract which Charles Wadeburn had drawn up and to which, after many headshakings, her lawyer had given his : rather dolorous approval. “You are of age. Miss Stewart, and —leaving on one side legal intricacies —as competent to understand the terms of this agreement as I am.” he had said. “But personally I shall be sorry to see you sign. You are throwing aside a certain income and a noble career in order to Sheila had stopped him there, but had done so not ungently. She appreciated the services which he had rendered to her father, but she did not appreciate his brain-power. She ranked him, not without justice, as being among those who, having lived narrow lives, have narrow views. An hour or two after she had said “au revoir” to Charles Wadeburn, she wrote a letter to Hew Kennedy in ! which she told him what had happened and indicated optimistically what was j likely’ to happen. “So you'll be seeing me before so very long. Hew.” she ended. “I know that you will do what you can about finding cheap but comfortable lodgings for me and Meg. who’s promised to ‘give London a trial,’ as she puts it. But Mr. Wadeburn says that wherever t go there must be a telephone in the

house. You'll remember, won't you?” When she had posted the letter . Sehila sighed, though she did not knov. ! that she had sighed. Then she turned about and walked slowly toward the farm-house to which so soou she was ! to say good-bye. On ail evening when Sheila, com ; panioned by Meg Cameron, had beei. | in London for nearly a fortnight and had. as Meg put it, got “comfortably settled in” in their modest quarters i in Kensington, Sheila announced thaj she would not be having supper ai home, but was to be meeting CharleI friends at a famous, and very ex- ! pensive. West Bnd hotel, j “There you go!” Meg exclaimed, j shrugging her plump shoulders. “GalaI vanting about with them stage bodies j when if you'd stayed in Scotland you ,! have known nothing about them. I don't hold wi’ London, I don’t, an’ there | you have it plump an' plain. Miss ; Sheila. You’ve changed since you | came here, an’ I'll say that, even if ! you do frown at me.” “Steady, Meg. steady!” Sheila id monished. You know the bargain we made? You know that I want you to 1 wait with me till success comes along j and I'm able to share it with you. but i you know, too, that there is to be no i lecturing on your part. I can't stand I that. I’m here trying my hardest to • do a new job so well that the man who had laith in my voice will be , pleased. I've got to please him :n ! other ways, as a matter of business — like going out this evening, for !n----i stance. And—” She halted there, for a weary-look-ing maidservant had come to announce the fact that a Dr. Kennedy had called to see Miss Stewart, and ; that he was waiting in the room which | Sheila’s landlady had thoughtfully pu | asido for the use of her boarder's visij tors. j “So you understand, don't you?” ! Sheila said, when the girl had gone i from the room. “We’re such good . ! friends, you and I. Meg, that we must . i not start quarrelling about trifles. We | don’t know what London is going to i i hold for either of us, but we do know : that we must change some of the : : views that were all right for Inver - i garroch, but would handicap us here i | And now I'll go down to Dr. Kennedy.” : ; (To be continued ou Monday.) i i i;