Our Short Story. WHEN THE WOMAN WOOS.

Taranaki Herald, Volume LX, Issue 143773, 23 April 1912, Page 8

Our Short Story. WHEN THE WOMAN WOOS.

By EDWIN PUGH.

The famous author of “The Enchantress/* “Broken Honeymoon/* etc., etc. i . ; CHAPTER I—(Continued.) I wonder/ 5 Blyth remarked, carelessly, in response to her last outburst, “that with your gifts’*—he might have added “and with your high opinion of them”—“l wonder.” said ho, “that you condescend to sing at all in such a one-horse place as this, Miss Conti.” “Ah, no. no!” sho cried, with a sudden note of huskiness sounding through the mellow cadences of her magnificent voice. “Nofthat! Not ‘Miss Conti* any more. Viola! Call me Viola. You said you would—that night.” “Oh, ah, yes, of course,” he said, rather shamefacedly. “But—my question, you know—why have you come here to sing ?” “Mv dear boy,” she answered him, gravely, “there are—what do you call it?—-wheels within wheels. Landborough is nothing. It is a detestable place. But its week—its musical festival—ah! that is famous. Patti has suog here, and Melba. Where they have been I must follow. It is the tradition—it makes for greatness.’* “I see,” he said, though obviously he did not see. “And so you don’t think much of Landborough in itself?” “1 think nothing of it. I have not seen it. Your climate—this beastly English weather—it is so vile. It is like the English people—some of them.” “Changeable P” “Ah, no! Cold and dull. There is no warmth in you English. No fire. No fizz. No sparkle. You ajc—most of you—half dead all your lives. You—even you—how cold you are!” “On the "contrary,” said he, “I am rather hot. I walked here, you know, and it’s all up-hill.” “I was not speaking of that kind of warmth. That is a mere warmth of the body. It is a warmth of the heart that you lack.”

He eyed her a little askance. He was beginning to wish that he had /never promised to escort her to the Town Hall to-night. He foresaw trouble in this renewal of the pleasant idle friendship that had sprung up between him and the diva on board the liner which had brought them both across the Atlantic, and had landed them in Liverpool a week ago. It seemed to him that if he had parted from her on the quay, with just a handshake and the usual good wishes, and then had firmly resolved never to see her again, he would have been acting very much more wisely. For though no had been, and was still, in a sense, fascinated by her, her arts did not deceive him -—never had deceived him.. He knew that in all sho said and did she was as fake as painted canvas. She could do nothing, say nothing, without an eye to effect. Alike upon the stage and off, she was always playing a part. And the worst of it was, he always knew she was playing a part. Her simulation of sljcp on his arrival, for 1 instance, had not deluded him for an 1 instant.

So, he stood before her, feeling very uncomfortable, almost hating her; and yet in his own despite so obsessed by the grace and the witchery and the charm of her magnetic personality, that ho was, even now, tempted to throw discretion to the winds, and meet her loving overtures half-way. It did seem to him that to fold her in his arms and 'kiss those ripe lips would be te taste unutterable bliss—if only for a.moment; and yet ho knew very well that afterwards the savour of that delight would bo exceedingly bitter. And so he restrained himself. “Come,” he said, almost harshly, “if you’re ready, wo’ll be off.” “But first help me with my cloak,” she said. He took the dainty garment that she handed to him, and held it up at arm’s length. “Thank you,” she said, demurely. “A little higher, please. Thank you, so much.” Sho slipped her arras into the wide, loose sleeves. Then—her beautiful face was within a few inches of his face, her languorous, soft, dark eyes were challenging his eyes, her red lips were pouting. He let his two hands drop to his sides. “Get into your furs and things as quickly as possible,” said ho. “I’ll just run down before you start, if you don’t mind, and see that my motor is there all right.” And without awaiting her permission he hurried from the room.

When he had gone her face darkened

and then grew pale, as she stood there, clenching her hands and shuddering, quivering from head to foot under the stress of her tumultuous emotions. “So big, so strong, so fine!” she whispered aloud in her native Italian, gazing at the open doorway through which he had disappeared. “Such a man!—and yet such a simpleton!” The big tears swam in her sorrowful eyes as she choked down a rending sob. “And I—l am a fool, too. Or is it that I am learning true wisdom at last —the wisdom of love? For oh, how I love him! How I love him! What would I not do, what would I not suffer, to make him mine? To kiss those stern, cold lips into softness and warmth! To melt the ice in his veins! To make him love me as I love him!” There came another knock at the door. She composed leririf V'ti a prodigious effort, and, turning, fared her maid. “What is it, Annette?” “If you please, ntad.ime,” said the

girl, “Mistaire Bly’: He sen;. up vid that everything is ready new. andUiav he is waiting for you to come uuu below,” , . “So!” muttered Vio’a Ccn'i. ccmmiming with herself as she p'eirico to go downstairs. “Ah, but that is a very good sign, I think. He is afraid lest he should grow fond of me. Oh, certainly it is a very good sign! And she laughed. The rich notes of her laughter rang out and resounded through the long, empty corridors like an echo of some celestial music. “I shall be at my best, at my most glorious, to-night,” she said. "‘I am always most irresistible when things go well with mo.” CHAPTER 11. THE ECLIPSE. It was nearly nine o’clock when they arrived at the Town Hall, and already some three or four items of the programme had been performed. Their

car pulled up at a private side-entrance in a dark, narrow by-way. A famous impresario—specially engaged at great expense for that week by the Landborongh T own Council—bustled out to receive Conti, with many profound hows, and with much fluttering of his white-gloved hands. “This way, madame,” he said, fussily. “And m’sien ?” He looked inquiringly at Blyth. “I’ll go round to the front and sit with the crowd,” said Stephen. “Oh, no!” cried Viola. “Really, I'd rather,” he said, curtly. “I should feel so utterly out of it among all you musical geniuses. Ordinary vulgar folk suit me much better. It’s all right,” he added. “I’ll come round ana pick yon up when you’ve done your second show.” “But, Stephen ” For a moment he seemed to hesitate, then his jaws came together slowly like the two halves of a steel vyce. He laughed lightly, waved his hand above his head, said “Au re voir,” and got

back into the car and hurtled, away. “M‘sieu,” suggested the _ impresario, “is perhaps a little eccentric?” “Not at all,” said Viola. r ? n ,, e contrary, he is extremely English. The impresario shrugged his shoulders. He had long ago given up trying to understand these queer singing folk. “This way,” he said. “You have the room to yourself—as you desired. You have the roses and the lilies and the other flowers. You have the four pier-glasses facing one another, and the several tall wax candles that you ordered to be placed upon your dressing table. Everything, I hope—l think —as vou would have it.” “Ah! What does it matter?” she exclaimed, peevishly. “I am not sure that I shall sing at your foolish concert after all.” The impresario looked frightened. “Oh, but, madame, consider!” he wailed, wringing his hands. “Yoji are already an item late. The audience grow restive. They shout for you. They will listen to nobody else. You must sing. It is ruin—it is disgrace for me—if you don’t.” (To be continued.)