MY LADY MELODY.

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 63, Issue 170, 30 April 1943, Page 6

MY LADY MELODY.

| SERIAL STORY. j H A Romantic Story, Moving to j§ = Sweet Music. =

= (Copyright). =

= By ARTHUR HARDY. = millllllllllllllllillllllllilllllllllllllllllllHllillllllHlUHiillllillOi

CHAPTER XIV. THE SHADOW. “Then yon did not send home for your violin and your music?” said her mother in surprise. “No, he did—Garner Owen.” Her father frowned. “A trick. I don’t know that I like that, Sheila. It is not exactly ” “It is not ci-icket, deal-,” she said with ia. happy laugh as she sat on the arm of his chair and gave him an affectionate kiss. “But it was clevei’. He knew me better than I knew myself.

“I could never have played so w-ell had I known I had to. I could never have made such a deep impression up on Calestrina and Mario Casini ” "And this man Casini wants to teach you for nothing? I don’t like that eithei-. I remember the concert you speak of, Sheila, deal', and I can recall his playing very vividly—the best, I think, I ever heard. But ” “There must be no huts,” she said. “I want him to teach me, dad. Mother, I am sure, won’t object. Ever since I began to play the violin I have longed for a master who could teach me the inner secrets which unlock the door of fame and make the great player. Up till now I have always been able to anticipate every move my tutor makes and leap ahead of most. Besides, if I find that it does not help me, I can always break off ” Her mother sighed, looking hard at her. “Poor Howard won’t like it. A fortnight ago I had pictured you soon starting, on your honeymoon. Since then Max Maurice has intervened through that enterprising agent and now Casini ”

Sheila smiled a little ruefully. “I too am sorry for Howard; mum. But isn’t it the best thing? We have always been great friends. But to marry him —I know how he feels about it, but I am not sui-e. I want to be sure. It is for the best that Howard should wait— —”

They put out the lights, locked the doors, and went upstaix*s to bed. Sheila showing more affection than she had done for a long time. Mrs Huntley took her husband’s arm as they stood together and watched Sheila cax-ry her violin and the music into the studio before seeking her bedroom.

“The way she looked at me just now, Waltex-,” she said in a whisper,” gave me quite a shock. My father used to look just like that. She has his eyes. They say talent skips one generation. Sheila is a true granddaughter of Nieolo Piatti.

Sheila’s father pressed the small white hand that gripped his gently. “But she has not his unstable? nature,” he answered as they turned away. “Sheila’s all right. She belongs to a different time, a different age. She is only a child. It is only natural when she has such a natural talent for playing the violin she should want to pursue it. But she cares for Howard. I know, for I have watched them closely for years. She does not realise it. He is too much about her, too considerate, he shows what he feels too much. One of these days the truth will dawn on her and then she will know.”

“But Howard might not wait. He meets so many clever and lovely girls.” The father laughed.

“Howax-d not wait? He’d wait for Sheila'until the cows come home. All the Ashleys are stickers. That’s why they have made money. I have absolute faith in Howard.” Sheila undressed as if in a dream. The events of the evening were spinning in her brain. She walked about her bedroom restlessly. She began to search through drawers land portfolios and a sketch book. She ransacked the volumes that lined her book-shelves. Her mind was so alert she knew she would not go to sleep if she went to bed.

At long last she found what she wanted, a three-quarter length portrait of Mario Casini as he was nine years ago, posed with violin and bow in hand.

She read something tragic in the expression of the handsome face which seemed to smile at her sadly. Taking some drawing pins from a box she had used ia.t school she pinned the portrait on the wall where she could see it from her bed. She tried to remember if Mai-io Casini had ever married. He was a bachelor, she believed. Women, she knew, used to make a great fuss of 'him. There had been an affair with a Russian Countess in Paris which was frequently referred to in biographies of famous musicians.

Poor Mario Casini, to be crippled by rheumatism at the very height of his fame and compelled to abandon his career.

He must be very lonely, she decided, and he looked unhappy. Perhaps it would be a good thing for him to have something to do in teaching her. It might mean the beginning of a new life. Why should lie hide his fame in obscurity, even if he could not play?

He must resume the use of his proper name and emerge from his retirement. Music was his life. He must court contact with his fellow musicians again. She would try her best to persuade him and she would also use Garner Owen’s influence to that end.

Feeling sleepy at last she turned off all the lights save that at the bed head. She threw off her wrap and slipped between the cool sheets. Suddenly she remembered Howard’s letter and getting out of bed retrieved it from the dressing-table. But she did not tear open the envelope, hiding it beneath her soft pillow instead. Turning off the bed-light,

she snuggled down and wriggled her head into a comfortable position.

Howard —poor Howard, she thought, sleepily—he must wait —until —the morning Sheila was awakened from a peaceful and dreamless sleep by a gentle tapping at the door. A moment later her mother entered the room with the morning cup of tea. She set the tray upon a table beside the bed and drew back the window curtains to admit the sunshine, little self-imposed duties which she liked to fulfil. Sheila looked radiant, she noticed. “Breakfast will be ready in half-an-hour, dear,” she said. Sheila produced her letter from Howard and read it, a frown marring the evenness of her broad forehead. Her mother regarded her with a wistful smile. Her hopes had been frustrated, but all was not lost yet. “It is a nice letter, I hope,” she said.' Sheila flashed an affectionate smile at Mrs Huntley. “Howard is always nice. He is a dear.” She kissed the notepaper. “It is a shame I don’t like him well enough to marry him.” Remembrance of last night’s triumph haunted her pleasingly. Immediately after breakfast she hurried to the studio and commenced to practise and to study with an eagerness she had not,known for a long time. She was interrupted by a telephone call from Garner Owen, who again begged forgiveness for the trick he had played on her, and vowed she would never regret the bargain she had made with Mario Casini.

Then Clayton, the agent, called her up. At lunch time Howard Called he'' to the telephone to remind her not to forget that she had arranged to go with him for a motor picnic on Sunday. Poor Howard. She had forgotten, but she did not tell him so. She would tell him all about Garner Owen and Mario Casini on Sunday, she decided. In the meantime her wdrk absorbed all her thoughts. She dug out music she had set aside and not looked at for a long time. Easy flowing melodies, difficult test pieces cluttered • with fiendish technicalities which she mastered with surprising ease. She played-over the music she would have to interpret at Max Maurice’s next broadcast, and in the afternoon she rested for a pouple of hours before leaving for Broadcasting House.

Max Maurice was again startled by her proficiency and enthusiasm. He hardly ever took his eyes off her whilst he was conducting. He had heard all about her playing at Ronald Garner Owen’s and was more than ever convinced that she possessed an exceptional talent. That night after the broadcast was finished he asked her to wait awhile. “I would like you to sign an agreement to play as leader in my orchestra for, let us say, the next three years, Miss Huntley,” he said, as soon as they were alone. She had expected some sort of offer and was prepared. “I cannot do that,” she answered, “although it is nice of you to ask me,” “You can name your own terms.” But Sheila had made up her mind. Her visit to Garner Owen’s had made all the difference, and her bargain with Mario Casini might lead to un-dreamt-of triumphs. She must not bind herself down.

“I am sorry,” she told Max Maurice, “but I can’t. Still, I’ll play for you as long as possible and give you ample notice when I want to leave. I’ll stay on until Simmons is well enough to come bafk, if I can.” He thanked her, fascinated by the bright eager gleam in her eyes and the constantly changing expression of her pretty face. For she was pretty, with a prettiness that grew on one, he told himself. He could scarcely hide his disappointment, and watched her go with a strange hungry yearn'ing in his heart. Was it her youth and freshness that appealed to him, he wondered, or her wonderful talent, or what? It was his habit to look.upon women with contempt. He went home absent-mindedly, lost in thought.

(To be continued.)