"The Singer From the Hills,"

Wairarapa Daily Times, 19 June 1931, Page 7

"The Singer From the Hills,"

PUBLISHED BY SPECAL ARRANGEMENT.

(COPYRIGHT).

CHAPTER N. “Well, and how are the nerves?” Charles Wadcburn asked Sheila, when the final rehearsal of “ Golden Hours” morrow night, cli? Not that I’d have youji go on looking as though you did not care a hoot about anything or anybody. A touch of shyness in the manner will be all to the good so long as it does not affect the voice.” “It will not be allowed to do that,” she assured him laughingly. “I am not going to let you down, ’' “I’m sure you’re not,. But don t be too eager. Try to think that you re •still at rehearsal. I’m dead certain that you’re going to pull it oil, nij dear, and if you —” He paused and gazed musingly at the smoke drifting in a thin blue feather from his cigar. “Yes?” Sheila prompted.

“Well, if you do, then, after the run of this show, we will think about you for the biggest kind of concert platform. Way I’m beginning to see it, yo’ur voice is out of the musicalcomedy' class. Opera perhaps, but oh, anyway, “Golden Hours’ may go on for a year.”

“You do not mean, do you, that I’m hopeless as an actress’” Sheila asked. “You know I don’t,” lie returned. “But singing is your game, and you’re going to the top if you and I between us can get you there. And we "vvill. But there’s one thing—a thing I’ve mentioned casually lief ore now I don t want you to get fancying yourself in love with anybody, unless, of course, it is myself, which will be quite all right. I do not know if you will understand what I mean, but art should be enough for you for the next few

years. He smiled at her as he said that, but Sheila knew that the words had been meant. “Surely that is wrong, is it not.’” she asked. “I have always understood that no artist of any brand could be really great till lie or she had been in love, soared to the heights-, and plumbed the depths, and that sort of thing?” Wadcburn nodded. “That’s true enough, no doubt,” he 'admitted. “I put the thing badly. Fall in and out imm n« nft.pn ns vou like—but, for

heaven’s sake, don’t get married! Sometimes I am seared about you. “Why?” What does that mean exactly?” “I cannot tell you— ‘exactly. ’ But I might say that if you married you would be the sort who would let everything but your married life slide. You would forget this gift of yours; be content to sing to your husband and your children, and perhaps at meetings in the village hall. Don’t you do it, Sheila. How about that young doctor man of yours, for instance?” I-Ie felt that lie knew her sufficiently well to put that question—apart from the fact that he had a large money interest in her career —and, though the colour rose in Sheila’s cheeks, she did not feel in any way resentful. “Hew Kennedy?” she asked. “I wonder why you ask? He’s all right, and has quite recovered from his accident.”

“I was not referring to that—-and you know it. What I meant was—is there any danger of your hitching up with him? I know darn well that he is in love with you, though no one has ever told me so. But I’ve watched him while he has been watching you.” Sheila did not look at the impresario, but out to the busy street. Her eyes were wistful then, perhaps because she was recalling —and this against he,r will —the days when, as a young girl, she "had spent so many happy days up Invcrgarroch way in the company of Hew Kennedy. “You need not worry,” she said. “I like Hew better than any man I know, but I am not thinking of marrying him. I am thinking about only one thing now —my career.” “Good girl!” Wadcburn exclaimed, and patted one of her shoulders. “Keep that way. Sometimes I have had a fancy that the ,> doctor might make trouble of some sort. I am told he is a whale of a success at his job, but I would say that he has his hot-headed moments.” Within half an hour of parting from Wadcburn Sheila was with Kennedy, and listening to his enthusiastic good wishes for the morrow. “I do not suppose you’ll see me, for the only stall I could get is a fairish way back,” he said. “But I will be watching you every second you are on the stage, and hoping great things for you. You are not worried about yourself, Sheila?” He wanted to ask her if he might be permitted to see her after the performance was over; might have the joy of taking her to supper and thereafter to her rooms, but he hesitated. It had occurred to him that she might, for one reason or another, have to meet the request with a refusal, and such a refusal would have spoiled’his joy in watching her taking her first big

chance. Better, so he decided, to say nothing, but to be waiting at the stage-door ready with his congratulations and his offer of escort. It was because lie loved her so deeply that he made, this decision, and he was not to know that it was, what would have been called in the north, a “wrong-headed” one, and that it was fated to bear bittertasting fruit. With a gaiety of manner, which was no true reflection of what he was feeling at the moment, lie took her

(To to Continued').

BY ROWAN GLEN. [\ (Author of “The Great Anvil,” “The Stronger Passion,” “The Romantic Road,” etc).

hands and held them tightly for a moment or two. “What can I say to you, I wonder, on the eve of this great adventure of yours? Only that I wish you well with all my heart, and that heart will probably be skipping about on the lloor of the theatre like a demented thing.” Somehow Sheila felt very near to tears, then, and this though she believed that the same words spoken by anyone else would have affected her in much the same way.

“What queer things you say sometimes,” she remarked. “But —thanks, Hew. It’s line to know that there will be at least one old friend in tlpj audience. ’ ’

“Have you not found a corner for old Meg Cameron?” “Meg? She’s not coming. I asked her to, but she said she could not bear it. She thinks that I’m going to break down or do something silly. No! Meg will be waiting to welcome me home. Perhaps it is as well. Two of the socalled frocks I have to wear would worry her into all kinds of fits.”

“They won’t worry me,” Kennedy announced, and smiled. “I’ll be looking all the while at your eyes.”

When ho had gone from her Sheila said to herself: “How wonderful it would be if you loved him, for he loves you so!”

Having said that she frowned, called herself a fool, and greeted Meg Cameron, of whom she was beginning to grow a little weary. Meg had been all right in the farm, house in the Highlands, but here in London she was developing, or so it seemed,into a practically workless tyrant, who found fault with most things which her young employer did. Long before the first performance of “Golden Hours” was over Kennedy, who, though nothing of a. musical critic, loved music, and in particular the music of the human voice, knew that Sheila Stewart had taken the first big stride on the way to success.

■ For her sake lie was loyally glad. Her heart bad been set on' making what was called “a hit,” and undoubtedly that hit had been made. For his own sake, and the sellshness may surely be forgiven to him, he was sorry. There had always been the faintish' hope that, if she failed in this new career, she might not merely turn ,awhy from thjose 'persons •connected with it, she might -turn to him. II 9 had gone to the theatre in no happy mood, .for whisperings, coming in the beginning from the well-inten-tioned but foolishly-tongued Freddie Warren, had reached him concerning the episode when Sheila had been alone with Sir William Catterton in his cottage. That had been bad enough, but, during an interval, he- had heard a man—a critic lie presumed rightly—say:—

“Great person that Stewart girl. What a face and figure! And Lord! What a voice! Told she’s the wonderful Bill’s latest flame. May he all wrong, of course, hut you know what Bill is. Anyway, we would probably be the same if we had his money. But that girl could get away with things on her voice alone.” Kennedy had known a crazy impulse to put liis hands about the speaker’s whisky-gulping throat, but that spirit of craziness was crushed only to reawaken with fresh vigour later on. As on most first-nights, the play did not end at the time when it was supposed to end, but, though Kennedy realised that a restaurant supper with Sheila Avas no longer a possibility, he still hoped that he might be able to take her home. Perhaps, if she Avere as hungry as lie, they might, for the fun of the thing, and keeping in true touch Avitli her new-found bohemianism, eat sandwiches and drink something hot at a coffee stall. Then he Avould take her back to Meg Cameron. Thus, the big-brained, but, in someAvays, simple-minded Dr. Herv Kennedy. He had been standing by the dinghy stage-door for nearly half an hour be-1 fore there happened that incident Avliieli Avas to have so important a bearing on his immediate future. Man after man and girl after girl had come from the theatre, and though some of them had gone array alone and Aveary-looking, others had come out jaunty-Avise, to be met by someone else and to go off Avith joy-lighted eyes. But Sheila did, not appear. Then, and at a moment Avhcn Kennedy AA’as recalling again all that he had heard about Sir William Catterton, and Avas visioning Avhat he Avould do to that light-headed baronet if ever the opportunity came hi.s Avay, a bigform blundered into him. “Sorry,” said Kennedy. “Are you?” the other man said. “Then stand cleai\ of this doorway. Too many of your love-sick kind hanging round, anyway. Here! What are you doing?” “Nothing,” Kennedy ansAvered. “But avo’a’c met before, Sir William. My name’s Kennedy.” 7