“MY LADY MELODY”

Wairarapa Daily Times, 29 September 1937, Page 7

“MY LADY MELODY”

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

(Continued). To ensure lier having the finest roses he could buy in London he placed a special order with a Bond Street florist’s and secured thirty exquisite blooms with stems almost as long as his arm. They were to be handed to Sheila at the end of the concert.

When he rang her up in the morning she was quite elated. “Thank you for your letter of good wishes, Howard,” she said. “It was kind of you to write. I have already had over thirty letters. I am so excited I can’t eat. But it will soon be over now. ’ ’

“Good luck, dear heart,” he answered. “I know you are going to make a great hit. You can’t help it.” An hour before lunch Sheila took her violin out of its case and tried to play it. To her dismay she could scarcely move her fingers and the same nervous agitation that had almost caused a breakdown at Garner Owen’s assailed her again. She put the violin away and looked at herself in the glass. Her face was like chalk. Dismayed, she dabbed some rouge on her cheeks, working it in cleverly. Supposing ,she were to fail? The thought terrified her. She would let Garner Owen down, Mario Casini, too, and everybody who had helped her. She went down to lunch looking like a ghost. But later, when she donned her new dress and her wrap and went out to the taxi which was waiting to drive her mother and father and herself to Bond Street, the colour was back in her cheeks and her step was firm. A smile curved her lips, her anxious frown had vanished. She talked brightly of the ordeal which faced her.

When they reached the hall they found a long line of cars and cabs in front of them, each of which discharged its passengers at the doors. They swept into the hall and up the steps, a distinguished throng, mostly women, who chattered as they went. Sheila’s father, as proud as a peacock, carried her violin. Her mother looked after her music. They found Garner Owen and Mario Casini waiting for them at the entrance to the hall. Mario Casini offered her a long box. “For you,” he -whispered. “Wear them for luck.”

Sheila raised the lid of the box. ■ How glorious. Thanks, Mario,” she said. The halT was almost packed already and echoed to an excited chatter. Sheila’s heart beat faster at the sight of the well-dressed women and the smart men.

“A complete success,” said Garner Owen, his eyes shining. “There will be a big profit. I congratulate you.”

She left him and made her way behind.

Soon it was time for the concert to begin and Sheila was to open the bill. She was sorry at the last moment that she had not arranged for Forsetti to start the programme with a pianoforte solo, but it was too late now. She must adhere to the programme as it was planned. Suddenly a loud outburst of applause startled her and on looking at the platform she saw Mario Casini standing there, bowing, as of old. It marked his re-entry into the musical world proper —but not as a player. In a few well chosen words he spoke about Sheila Huntley, and a moment later, bowing, he beckoned to her.

Sheila at once strode on to the platform and faced the applauding audience, wearing the orchids Mario had given her across her right breast, a charming contrast to the lilac dress she wore.

She used no music. A pause, a sign, and Forsetti began to play. The rich, full notes of the violin broke in and Sheila began with “Hymn to the Sun,” from “The Golden Cock,” by RimskyKorsoltov;

Sheila surprised herself. What had happened to her fears? Her nerves were highly strung, but she had never felt so confident.

Every touch was sure, masterful. Looking forward she saw Garner Owen lean forward; in his seat and stare at her in surprise. The audience "was lost in rapt attention. Among them all, the only man who seemed unmoved by her fine playing was a strikingly handsome person with a bush of deep brown hair, who lolled indolently in the seat next to Garner Owen. . Sheila ended to a torrent of applause. She then played Tchaikovsky’s “Humoresque,” trying harder to charm the apathetic stranger, who among them all seemed unimpressed by her playing.. As she finished, she saw him bring his hands together lazily and nod in appreciation. Again the applause was deafening. Forsetti, too, was in grand form. And later Mdm. Martitia charmed with her Spanish songs, little things that were vocal gems, difficult to render, which she sang delightfully. Later, as an encore, Sheila played the “Spanish Dance,” and then “Zapateado,” of Sarasate, wnth great refinement and ease.

By then she had conquered. The women in the audience were smiling happily and the men were exchanging eager comment, „,She saw the stranger turn to speak to Garner Owen. “Who is that man with Garner Owen, Forsetti?” she asked as the pianist was arranging on the rest of the piano the accompaniment to the Minuet in G, by Beethoven.

Forsetti flashed a quick glance at the rows of seats.

“Him? Oh, that is Cezanne.” Sheila’s heart seemed to expand. Cezanne! He had come to hear her

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of his own accord, if Garner Owen had brought him. The knowledge only spurred Sheila to higher things and she played to perfection. This time Cezanne did not stint his applause. And then all was over and the concert ended, the floral gifts were brought to her, great bouquets and baskets of flowers, which were grouped about her. A gorgeous bunch of sweet-scented roses, which she knew had come from Howard. She held these in her arms as she bowed again and again to the. tumult of applause. And then they came swarming about her. Mario Casini, radiant, looking years younger, laughing. “Magnificent. It was a triumph, Sheila. ’ ’

Jack Clayton elbowed his way to her.

'“You chose right, lady,” he said graciously. “You’re there. Another hit before a larger public and the world will bow before you.” Through a press of women Eddie Hales approached her. A sad smile curved his lips and his eyes were soft. “After what you’ve shown us, I’m a lemon, Sheila,” he said. “I shan’t have the heart to conduct my band tonight. ’ ’ Howard hovered in the background, hoping to get near her, but it was impossible. The women were like wasps in their greediness to meet the new star. He waved to Sheila and she beckoned to him.

But the next moment Cezanne was by her side. At his‘ shoulder towered Garner Owen, looking as proud as a conqueror.

“May I introduce myself, Miss Huntley?” said Cezanne, bending a piercing glance at her that thrilled. “I am Paul Cezanne. I could not have believed that an unknown violinist, and a lady at that, I mean unknown to me, could possess such talent. Yojir playing was perfection.” Sheila laughed happily and coloured warmly. His praise delighted her. “You must give the credit to Mario Casini, who coached me,” she answered. “Casini did not give you your great gift, Mademoiselle. Garner Owen informs me that you are a grand-daugh-ter of the groat Nicolo Piatti. That explains everything. I should like to see you again, if I may.” '“Of course.” Howard gave up trying to get near to Sheila. He hated the fuss, the pushing about and the musical jargon. He waved to Sheila, who this time did not see him, and then went away. The great ordeal was over and she had triumphed. It was late in the evening when Sheila returned to Pleasant Place, her mother sharing her taxi, her father following in a second hired cab with the bulk of the floral presentations. The Huntleys dined at home alone that night. Her father had wanted to celebrate with a dinner to which special friends wmuld have been invited, but Sheila had objected on the ground of possible failure. “If I were to go off like a damp squib I should not be able to face it,”, she had said.

But she had triumphed, and that night they talked over a celebration dinner and the next day invitations were sent out to Mario Casini, Max Maurice, Mdm. Martitia, Forsetti, Garner Owen and Eddie . Hales. Howard and his father and mother were included as a matter of course and were invited by telephone. In the morning a great number of letters arrived for Sheila. With sparkling eyes she read the congratulations that her friends showered upon her. She had arranged with a press cutting agency to have al notices of the concert sent on to Pleasant Place, and the first batch of criticisms arrived that night. To Sheila’s delight there was hardly a dissentient note amidst the general chorus of praise.

The telephone bell was ringing constantly. Sheila found herself wanted. She was mounting the ladder of fame, and a bright future was opening out before her. “I must keep my balance,” she told herself, as she rested, for the strain had been greater than she had thought. “I must not let my head swell. To-morrow I will talk over my plans with Mario, and when we haae decided the . next move, I shall submit them to Garner Owen. ’ ’ It was not until the end. of the week that she went again to Gloucester Road. The sour-faced woman, Mita Vaseari, admitted her grudgingly. Sheila found it impossible to approach this frozen and antagonistic personality. She had never seen Mario in such a happy mood, and Sheila was more than ever struck by the truly remarkable change in him. He welcomed her with both hands outstretched, then motioned Mita away, who stayed frowning at the door of the music room until he shut her out.

. “We are not going to work this morning,” he told her gaily. “You have earned a rest, Sheila. Let us sit down and talk.”

He had made plans and considered the advisability of her making a star appearance at the Albert Hall or, failing that, at Queen’s Hall.

“We must make it a great occasion,” he said. “You have arrived. The thing is to aim at the highest.” He had aready been in communication with old friends in Paris and Berlin, for later Sheila must make her bow abroad, Mario said. (To be Continued.)