“MY LADY MELODY”

Wairarapa Daily Times, 8 September 1937, Page 7

“MY LADY MELODY”

BY ARTHUR HARDY. (Author of “The Merry Masquerade,” etc.)

Sheila Iluntley lowered her violin from her chin, feeling suddenly afraid. For more than an hour she had played almost without a pause, executing perfectly passages of music so difficult they might have tested the skill of a Paganini. Her fingers ached from the strain. Her sensitive musical ear had told her her tone was perfect. At times she had varied the difficult exercises with strains of haunting melody.

She liad played some of the intricate passages from Bazzini's scherzo “Dance of the Goblins” to perfection, she felt sure. She had with astonishing speed and flawless tone run through parts of Paganini’s “Moto Perpetuo,” overcoming its fiendish difficulties with the skill of a master. And yet— She felt tired. Placing the violin upon a covered table, and the bow beside it, she advanced to a small grand piano, which stood in a corner near the window, and gazed upon a portrait that smiled at her from a broad wooden frame. With pursed lips she studied the face. Poor Howard. He had professed to

love her for—how many years was it now? Eleven surely. And she was not yet twenty-one. He was thirty, and for the last three years he had given her no peace. She could marry him to-morrow, if she wanted to, but if she did it would mean the sacrifice of her career.

She flexed her tired fingers and frowned. Until now she had never faltered in her choice. But she was beginning to wonder, despite many minor successes, whether playing the violin was really worth while. There were such big gaps between engagements. The promise born of subscription concerts had been in part fulfilled, though she had failed to achieve the fame for which her soul hungered. She had made profit out of her playing, she had earned bounteous applause, she had made herself known in a small way; but she was nearly twenty-one, and her chance was slipping by. She sighed as she remembered how her mother had tried to wean her from the love of music, which seemed born in her. The effort had failed. At ten Sheila had known more than her music master. At twelve her precocity had made her friends wonder. With avid musical hunger she had devoured violin concertos, ancient and modern— Viotti, Ernst, Vieuxtemps, some of Paganini’s works, Wienawski, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Casiiii. On her fifteenth birthday her father had given her the comparatively modern yet splendid violin she had used just now. It was made in Birmingham, but she had never been able to produce such full fine tone from any other instrument. It had cost her father fifty pounds—a sum negligible to him. Her sound-proof studio had been built for her; it had been furnished to her taste. All that she needed, or even desired, was readily provided for her. Yet she looked with intense satisfaction on the few guineas she earned from time to time. They suggested success. To-day her enthusiasm seemed dulled; she found herself wondering if she would ever achieve fame in the musical world. It was five weeks .since she had played in public. Howard had been more than kind. His position at Lloyds was assured. She liked him, even though she knew he despised her musical and artistic friends. . . . He had asked her to answer him “Yes” or “Ho” to-day. Lifting up the frame which contained, the portrait, she looked long into the , eyes that smiled at her. Could she I make him happy if she married him, : cotild she? Was she strong enough to i set aside the career she had planned, and which with all her patience seemed j as elusive as ever? I

A gentle knocking at the door caused her to put down the portrait. The door handle turned and her mother bustled into the sunlit music parlour.

Mrs Huntley was forty-seven, a happy looking buxom woman with slightly silvered hair. She carried in her arms a long cardboard box.

"It’s from Howard,” she said, her eyes shining as Sheila took the package from her.

The box contained twenty-four exquisite roses with fresh green powdered stems a full yard long.

1 ‘How beautiful.” Sheila opened and read the letter Howard had sent with them.

"For my dearest, —With all my love. Remember, you are'to give mo my answer to-night. I would the roses were more beautiful for you, though none more beautiful are grown. Howard. ’ ’ ‘‘How sweet of him.” Sheila gave the letter to her mother. From the window she looked out over a perfectly kept garden. Butterflies and bees were swarming in the sunshine above a range of lavender bushes. "Sheila, my dear, are you going to say yes to Howard?” 0 The girl faced about, and picking up her violin replaced it in its case. She was frowning thoughtfully. "I do not know.” "Listen dearest.” Sheila looked up sharply, for her mother’s voice held a plaintive note. "You know you inherit your talent from your worthless grandfather don’t you?” Sheila smiled indulgently. "From Nicolo Piatti—yes.” "He was an Englishman and his real name was Norman Patterson. He assumed the name of Nicolo Piatti. Like most things about him except his marvellous gift, it was a sham. Sheila, dear, although he was my father I always hated and feared him.”

COPYRIGHT. PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

“You should know best, Sheila.”

standing and he really is fond of you.”

The girl had never known her mother to be so deeply moved. “I had good reason to. He was a drunken worthless wretch. I was brought up in a beggarly home, Sheila, 1 in which the one bright spot was my ' mother. Sometimes your grandfather ! made a lot of money, but ho squander- ■ ed it all. With some exceptions we of--1 ten went short of necessaries. My 1 Uncle Charlie paid my school fees. My mother had no money of her own. Half ! the time my father was away from home. I saw my mother decline slowly to death while she was still young. She never complained. “She loved your grandfather, bad though he was. Even when he left her she counted the days, believing that he would come back. At odd times my father sent money from abroad, but mostly he . . . forgot. “Suddenly his end came. Your grandfather was playing at Buenos Ayres. As usual, women made a fuss of him. They always spoilt him. But this time he made a mistake, and one night as he left the concert hall after achieving perhaps his greatest triumph, a jealous husband, who was waiting, shot him dead. He was buried out there and somebody stole his famous violin.” “He was a wonderful player, wasn’t he?” Sheila spoke wistfully. “He was a superb violinist, Sheila. When he used to play all the world seemed to dance. He was a handsome man and he had very fascinating ways. He had also a fine singing voice and was a splendid conductor. But he ought never to have married. From the moment the news of his death arrived your grandmother’s health began to fail and before the winter came she was dead.” The girl looked at her mother with troubled eyes. “Why do you remind me of all this dear?” she asked. “I did not know my grandmother, but you make me see and feel all she suffered.”

Mrs Huntley drew her daughter into her arms and held her close whilst she kissed her and smoothed her hair. “It is because you have inherited a large measure of your grandfather’s talent, and I am sometimes afraid of what may happen to you if ever you become great, and I believe you could become great. “After my mother died, I met your father. I was then a clerk in the office at Huntley and Cooper’s, which is now your father’s business. He had just come down from Oxford. He always says he fell in love with me at first sight. Within a year, we were married, and I have never had a moment’s anxiety since. Every night for years I offered up thanks because I had little love of music. I felt that I had escaped some taint in the blood. Sheila, when I first realised that you had inherited your grandfather’s pas-, sion for music I felt afraid.” “Of what? You poor dear!”

Sheila broke away. “I am a girl, not a male genius bitten with a wander-lust,

. . . Would it please you if I said ‘yes’ to Howard to-night and married him? It would mean, of course, that I should have to give up my career. ” Mrs Huntley smiled.

“Howard is a charming boy. He is, so unspoilt. He loves you dearly. You really do like him, don’t you?” Sheila frowned over her mother’s shoulder.

“I have always been fond of Howard, but I have had doubts about myself. Would it be right of me to marry a man with those doubts unsatisfied?”

j "I shall always love my violin, I shall always be musical. Sometimes I jfqel that Howard despises music and ‘perhaps my talent.” j "I am sure not. He would not. He |is so broad-minded. He is not over fond of music, I know, but you must remember his sporting side—his rugger and golf. He loves the open air. 1 have seldom known a. man drive a car so well. He is a splendid swimmer. And a good business-man. But his talents do not run to music.”

"Yes, I know.” Sheila still frowned at the open sunlit window.

"Soon, so I understand, his father is to take him into partnership. He is doing very well, Sheila.” “But if he should really despise my art, if he should flout my friends; supposing I married him and then found we disagreed?” "I cannot think he would. But I’ll not try to persuade you. I will only say that he is most tolerant and under-

Sheila went to the window, and leaning on the sill looked out. Then she walked slowly round the beautiful studio, frowning at the stacks of large leather bound books that filled the shelves. Here were to 4 be found works of all the world’s most famous musicians, books of reference, monographs and histories of the violin and its players and biographies of great composers'. Could she give it all up, forget it all? Would she have the strength of mind to put away her violin and its bow for ever if she married Howard? Had he the power to make up for all she would sacrifice ? Her violin and music had always meant so much to her. They satisfied her emotions and eased the strange yearnings of her heart.

Only to-day, for the first time, she had begun to doubt. She was tired, she supposed. She had grown stale. Beyond a question she was disappointed. Much praise had be n lavished upon her playing, yet in spite of the golden promise with which the year had opened, she had slipped back rather than gone forward. (To be Continued.)