PAM'S SHADOW.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXV, Issue 20027, 17 August 1928, Page 5

PAM'S SHADOW.

BY E. G. GODDARD

1 SHORT STORY.

They were delighted to see me. Pamela was especially loud in her greeting. "Why, Cousin Mary, you don't look a day older!" It was very nice of her, but ten years does make a difference. It had in the girls, anyhow. Pam, now twenty, with blue eyes, fail', waving hair and pink cheeks, had developed a wildrose kind of beauty. Cynthia, two years older, was a darker edition of her sister. The eyes were a deeper blue, the hair a decided brown with burnished streaks, the mouth fuller and more serious. Pam would have attracted notice anywhere, still I could imagine those who would turn from her to Cynthia. " Have you come borne for good?" said the latter. "We were sorry to hear of uncle's death in Australia." I replied that 1 had found a lovely little flat in Westminster, where 1 hoped to settle down, and as Richmond was within easy roach, they might often expect to see me. Lunch was soon announced. Pam was lull of her " work," little water-colour sketches. The pictures were in evidence everywhere, and the dining room appeared to serve also for studio. It was, in truth, a delightful room, i recognised pictures of Richmond Bridge from the towing path, " White Lodge" through the trees, and an ambitious attempt of the hill view, with the glittering, winding river below. Near a window stood an easel with an unfinished painting. " That is my effort for the academy, remarked Pam. " Pam'paints beautifully," said Cynthia. Taking the tribute quite as a matter of course, Pam said carelessly. Oh, eveiyone admires my work." A few callers dropped in during the afternoon. 1 discovered that _ Pan. was the centre around which all revolved. Miss Sipsoti, their old governess, was "getting on" and content to let matters take their course- Cynthia lurked in the background, an effective foil to her animated, talkative sister. Among the visitors was a Mr. Geotfrey Clefford, a rising young architect. He showed no resentment at Pam's appropriation of himself| A Major Harding claimed mv attention, and I heard ior the fust time the sobriquet " Pam's shadow. We were sitting by one of the low windows. 1 admired the lovely old-world garden. " Yes—thanks to Pam s shadow,' the garden is pretty well kept Ul " Pam's shadow?" I echoed, puzzled. "Oh didn't you know? It's a nickname we give Cynthia—a kind of reflected glory. Ha, ha!—but all the same, she s a stunning girl." , I did not particularly care lor tlie major. About forty, he was inclined to be stout. His fair complexion was tanned by long residence in India. On rising to take my leave soon aftei tea Pam said: "You must really come and spend a few days. Can you manage a fortnight ?" n j I murmured that I should be delig.ited. A few days after, Cynthia met me at the station, "basket on arm.. "I had a a few little odd jobs on the way, she said apologetically. I found in the course of a day or two that all the " odd jobs fell to the share of "Pam's shadow.'' Pam was immersed in her work, " I make quite a nice little sum out of it, she remarked confidentially. " A whe.sea art shop sells the sketches on commission. 1 am saving up for a continental to\ir one of these days." - I sympathised with her object, especially as I knew she was a good linguist. But Geoffrey Clefford and Major Harding proved to be frequent visitors. Pam, in her imperious way, usually clciimed Goeffrey, and I often found myself paired witfc the major. " Cousin Mary," said Pam suddenly one day, " what do you think of Geoffrey ?" I remarked that he appeared a " really nice boy." " Yes, but he's so quiet," pursued Pam. " If we happen to be alone, he hasn't a word to say. I wish I did know," she added. * ~ . One thing puzzled me. Cynthia was alwavs invisible during the early part of the day. I asked Pam, at last, where she hid herself. . _ ! " Oil, up in her den, painting, I suppose," said Pam, laughingly. "Painting?" I gasped., " Oh, yes, didn't you know she paints as well? She gets up at some unearthly hour for the morning light." " Where does she do it ?" " Oh, said Pam carelessly, " she has turned one of the attics into what she calls a ' studio.' If you were to look out, you might see some models from her ' district' stealing along before you are up." " What is she doing ?" "Oh, I really couldn't- say. Some musty ' old subject, I expect, but she never lets anyone in there. Of course,, she has studied a good deal in her way. We were in Paris a whole two years to finish my languages, and I believe she went every day to some old atelier or other." "Oh!" I said, surprised, but Cynthia never referred to her own painting proclivities. It was on the very next day that 1 heard Geoffrey address Cynthia as "Pam's shadow," looking at her meanwhile with a glance which I could not fathom. Seizing my opportunity, I asked Miss Sipson quietly, the origin of the name. "It dates'from the time their father died. Then it was that Cynthia took upon herself the role of protecting goddess. She thinks np end of Pam,. arid eaves her from every little worry. In the town one morning I ran against Cynthia unexpectedly. With her inevitable basket she emerged from a row of poor cottages running at right angles to the river.

" Been to see some of her proteges, no doubt," laughed Pam, when I mentioned the circumstance; " and a very ungrateful set they are, too." Sending-in day drew on apace. Pam's work was a beautiful bit of Kew Garden!?. Snaky larch trees, with their tender green outlined against a blue sky, while on the grassy slopes wn masses of golden daffodils. " They look so real, I feel as though 1 could pick them," commented Miss Sipson, enthusiastically. Coming out into the dimly-lighted hall, T saw an immense package. " What is this?" I asked. " Oh, only my little effort," replied Cynthia, who was standing by. I looked again at the bulky package and wondered whether it wasn't a waste of canvas. . The next day I returned to town, and in my eagerness to do the round, had almost forgotten the pictures. The subject. was forcibly recalled to mv mind by the heading " Academy Notes, ' oiri opening the paper one morning. Hastily I scanned the column and read: — " The wonderful mystical painting by Mi ss 0- Thomson is attracting much attention, and shows wonderful promise." Pam was not mentioned. 1 set out for the academy, and found a group gathered in front of Cynthia's picture. "Marvellous!" "How original!" were two of the comments I heard, while one lady was explaining the picture in detail. For me the meaning was evident at a glance. A young girl, just breathing her last, Jay on a wretched pallet. Beside the bed sat an old man, the father, with bowed head. The mother knelt, holding the girl's hand, with anguished gaze directed to her countenance. Just beyond the girl, on the right, was the majestic guardian angel, bright with the look of final triumph, while in the background to the left was the handsome, malignant I face of the fiend, who, realising that whatever hopes he had entertained of that young soul, were now for ever past, was turning to depart.

(COPTIUGBT.)

The picture was labelled "The Triumph." 1 stood spellbound, but at last started to look for Pain's picture. As I turned i noticed one poor woman in deep mourning, a little .'ipart, who seemed rooted to the spot. The other picture was rather " skied" among the water colours. The early part of May was very warm, and tea was being served on the lawn when 1 arrived with my congratulation. Isn't Cyn's success wonderful V said Pam, as she poured out my tea. She glanced toward Cynthia, who, smiling, but evidently nervous, was the centre of an animated group of callers. " She has had a big price offered for it, too, but I'm not sure she will take it. C.yn is so odd over some things. Oh, here she comes." ; - • " I must congratulate you," I said. "How proud you must feel." A look of sadness came over her as she answered. "It was the Griggs. I really did it to comfort them about their daughter, you know. The poor girl caught cold on top of 'flu' and went into a rapid consumption. She was realy a great friend of mine and a fine character. Well, at last I went in one day and saw what I pafhted."' " But surely you did not see it all," I cried. . " Yes, I visualised it just as I have painted it. I did not intend to exhibit it at first, but thought afterwards there might be other Mrs. Griggses whom it would comfort." Geoffrey had joined us, but seemed very silent and abstracted. After tea I wandered about the oldfashioned garden. Most of the company had departed. Crossing the grass noiselessly, I stood by the box hedge, watching fascinatedly the g'prious red and gold tints of the setting sun reflected in the gleaming river. All at once, I became conscious of voices in the little arbour just above. Formed in thick yew bushes, it was raised up a step or two and the occupants were unseen.

I distinguished Geoffrey's voice, but to my surprise, the voice which answered was not Pam's. but Cynthia's. The next words, in rather higher tones, riveted my attention " Oh, don't say ' no,' Cynthia: I will wait. Think it over." I did not catch the response, but Geoff's voice broke iu again eagerly. "Oh, no, it was never Pamela, it has been you, it will be you, always." Then, hurriedly, breathlessly, Cynthia burst out, "No, Geoff, no, I cannot! Think of poor Pam, the picture, and now this! No, I could not, leave her. Do not ask me, it is useless! Quite useless !" Realising my guilty position as eavesdropper, I turned and fled across the lawn as noiselessly as I had come. Making my adieux rapidly, I departed. As I turned out the little gate, I saw Geoffrey striding on a few yards before me. My heart misgave me for the part I had unwillingly played. On the impulse of the moment. I called after him. He turned and waited. But at sight of his white, set face, I faltered. " Just now—in the summerhouse—l overheard—oh, I. am sorry—" He broke in harshly.: " Don't Cousin Mary! Don't!" And bolting off, was lost iu the darkness. All this happened last year. I never saw Geoffrey among the guests on my later visits, but I noticed -Cynthia looked pale and out of sorts. In the autumn I started off for the south and only returned this week. I had heard littla from the Thomsons, but on my arrival found a note from Pam. I was struck by one sentence: " You will be interested to know I have become engaged to Major Harding." "And what now ?" I asked myself. I . hurried to Richmond with my felicitations. "What has become of Geoffrey Clefford?" I asked Miss Sipson as casually as possible. "Oh, he's doing splendidly. Been taken into partnership by his firm. Pam met him one day with a very pretty girl, but we have heard nothing definite." Cynthia's pale face, bent- over some bazaar work, slightly flushed, then paled

again. After thinking hard for a moment- or two, I departed and made for Geoffrey's people's residence up Putney way. " Yes, Mr. Geoffrey is in, and will see you." It is not necessary to go into all details of that interview; Suffice it to say that he had not heard of Pam's engagement, -being head over ears on important designs. A deft query about " a pretty girl" brought a look of surprise to his face. She turned out to be a country cousin, whom he had escorted to one or two affairs. He looked still more surprised when I pointedly asked him whether he knew Cynthia had been looking pale for some time and not herself at all, and started when I hinted that he might supply the reason. Then—comprehension dawning upon him—" No, sha would not have sent me off like that if she had really cared for me." I smilingly advised him to try Within the hour he set off while I returned home. And this morning I received another note: " I believe we shall make a double wedding of it. You are an old dear! Do come and help with the preparations.— Cynthia." "P.S.: I expect Major Harding will carry t>ff Pam and Miss Sipson remain with us inthe old house."