"FREEDOM FOR TWO"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 22 April 1940, Page 10

"FREEDOM FOR TWO"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

By

MARGARET WATSON.

CHAPTER 11. (Continued). She thought, putting down the receiver: "It isn’t good-bye. it's only au ’voir!’’ And she was glad. It was a crazy kind of day. She sang better than she had ever sung, and with her mind only half upon what she was singing. Dr Manton said, swinging round from nis piano as she closed what should have been the most common-place of scale with a trill like a prima donna: “What has happened to you today, Erica?'’ “I don’t know. It’s just that I feel like that.” She laughed at his always laughable, sometimes inspired round face. The end of her lesson left him still puzzled about the latest development in his most puzzling pupil. Erica spent the afternoon in purchasing a wave, as she had intended, I and, what she had certainly not in- 1 tended, a new dress to go with it. When she was ready and dressed for , the concert that night she surveyed i herself from head to toe with unusual , care. Erica as a rule was content to be Erica, whether people liked or disliked her so; but tonight she had an ambition to be dazzling. The result gave her a little thrill of instinctive pleasure for its own sake. She went to the concert alone, but seh was not alone for long. In the vestibule of the Town Hall, while she stood looking round her vainly for a glimpse of Martin Hirst, Michael came pushing an eager way towards her through the throng of Brandford's leaders of fashion. “Erica! So you changed your mind after all —I mean about coming.” “Yes, I changed my mind.” She had suddenly remembered the existence of Michael. Her neglect of him made her feel mean. She thought rebelliously: "I should hate a husband who was always making me feel mean. “You look great! Mind if I tell you so? Shall we sit together? You remember I said I had something to tell you.”

"Afterwards, please Michael. I —l don’t want to spoil the music by talking of anything serious now.” By all the laws of logic that was a very poor subterfuge; but Michael was the simplest of men. They slat together. It was terribly hot in the Town Hall. Every cloak in the room, many of them fondly retained in case of cold draughts, was soon dispatched back to the cloakroom; and before one item was over the members of the orchestra, in ceremonial array for the last of their four annual occasions, were visibly suffering.

She looked round carefully for Martin Hirst. He had said he might be late, but this was being very late. Supposing he did not come at all? She was astonished at the reluctance she felt to believe in that possibility. She could see nothing of him, however, though her chin was still on her shoulder when a salvo of applause made it clear that Olaf Elson had appeared upon the platform. She listened rather listlessly to Michael’s voice saying with enthusiasm: "I wonder if this man really is a Scandinavian? Grand-looking sort of person, anyhow.” She looked up and saw Olaf Elson just seating himself at the piano, spreading his broad shoulders, flexing his long lingers one or twice, and raising thoughtfully to the flood of light which poured over him the dark, whimsical finely-modelled face of Martin Hirst. Erica’s later memories of Olaf Elson’s performance were of the vaguest, for she was thinking angrily and humorously how completely he.had made a fool of her. It seemed to Erica, as he took his perfunctory bow after the storm of applause that rewarded his first appearance, that his eyes were roving rather widely over the body of the hall, almost as if he was looking for some one palticular person. She sank lower in her seat against Michael’s .shoulder, and made no sign; and she had the undoubted satisfaction of seeing Martin’s face cloud in a frown as he left the platform. It was the merest contortion of the dark brows, and the slightest lift of the shoulders, but she saw it, and could not choose but be mollified.

Until he came into sight again the concert was undeniably dull. When at last the orchestra sat back with a second concerted sigh of relief, more unanimous than their instrumental efforts, Erica sat forward eagerly, as if moved by the same charm. In came Martin for the second time, and agai,n there was that questing glance across the array of heads, with keen eyes narrowed to miss no sign which might identify—-dared she say herself—at any rate the person ho was seeking. She lilted her programme so that for a moment it made a patch of white beside he) 1 head. She was not sure that he had seen it, but she could not, and for her own dignity she would not, make any plainer sign. This time he played Mozart’s Sonata in A., and she had leisure, now that the first surprise was over, to realise that he played it uncommonly well. The long hands as fluent upon a keyboard as they had been among the mysterious intricacies of the ear’s engine on the previous night. He was applauded she joined in the applause with enthusiasm. She was not sure that he would not have been well worth a visit to the concert on his playing'alone. ’’Fine, isn’t he?" said Michael in her j ear. flushed with pleasure that she' should be pleased. “I wonder what I he’ll give us?" • 1 Across the hot, crowded room the! artist looked for one second full al.

to remember him when Martin was in sight. She held out her hand. “I don’t know to whom I owe the apology—Martin Hurst or Olaf Elson.” "Neither of them deserves one,” he said, smiling. “But I do think you might have told ■me. Supposing I'd said something much, much worse?” "Martin Hirst doesn't usually go about claiming to be the pianist Olaf Elson. As a matter of fact, except when he's on the concert platform ne doesn't resemble him in the least.” His self-assurance, seen so closely, was much too vast and stable for her to question. She looked round, instead. for Michael, and found him trying not lo stare at them both, and failing. "I’m sorry, Michael. I should have told you that 1 met Mr Elson, quite by chance, last night. Only as a matter of fact, I didn't know that he was Mr Elson. This is Michael Dunn.” She added maliciously: "He enjoyed 'Minstrels’ so much that I’m sure he’d like to tell you so.” Michael stammered something obvious but characteristically kind. Erica |

stood back and looked at them both. Yes, he was the taller of the two. He topped Michael by two or three inches and contrived to be equally broad in the shoulders without the suggestion of bulkiness which Michael’s figure undoubtedly had. And there was no comparing the, two faces. They were from different worlds; the one so entirely static, the other so frighteningly dynamic. Michael was in eclipse. In. a few minutes more he was in still more certain eclipse; for his mother came panting through the throng with a lament that she had lost her bag, and hauled him away to find it for her. and only the briefest and vaguest of glances for Erica and Martin. Michael said hurriedly: "You’ll excuse me, won’t you, Erica? I’ll be back in a moment. It’s sure to be where she left it —it always is." "I’ll look after Miss Manning." said Martin coolly, and looked after her to such good effect that within two minutes they wore out of (he hall, and walking al a leisurely pace along the dark street, past the unwonted array of cars awaiting their owners. It was a line night, full of stars, and the rectory was almost distressingly near. Erica had stored up so much to say in tins moment that now that she had it she found it slipping by without a word from her. She turned ' her head and looked up at him as they , strolled, at the dark profile which seemed so high above the level of her I eyes, at the lips which had an almost vivacious curve as he talked, with complete un-selfconsciousness and absolute self-reliance about himself. "You see. 1 didn't want you to come to the concert just because I was Olaf, | Elson. That sounds conceited. 1 know, I but to some people—not Io you—Olaf Elson would be a matter for conceit. 1| wanted you, if you came at all. to comei because 1 was Martin Hurst. And you 1 did. I should thank you. Well, what’s < your opinion of my playing?" (To be Continued).

, Erica. There was no doubt that he had I seen her, then no. do doubt at all; but she failed to see the significance of his u I brief, sly smile until he began to play. He gave them "Minstrels." Erica was IS startled. No one else, surely, no one else in the world, would have examin--11 ed a typical Brandford audience and n offered them Debussy. Or was it, inIS directly an offering to her. Erica was ie very much afraid to flatter herself by a thinking so. Instead, she turned inward every sense but hearing, the better to enjoy the brief pleasure of "Minstrels.” :1 , s The soft plucking of invisible guid tars slipped out from under Martin’s fingers, and broke into the elusive [j gaiety of trouvere song. For her there (. | was a sort of wistful, kind nostalgia in I it for the strange days of Melicent and .. I Melusine. She loved him for playing I I it. Brandford could have its Handel j i and its Chopin; but what this man [ liked playing was Debussy. r I When he brought the encore to a .] ; close, with the wanderers jingling i gaily on their way in the distance, all 3 I Brandford clapped decorously. "Rum piece, that, wasn't it?” said 1 Michael. "What was it?” I " 'Minstrels' —Debussy. Like it?” 3 “Well, not very much. I'm afraid. Too deep for me.’ t She sat with impatience through the , anti-climax the Society provided. No , sooner did they end their last item bej fore the finale than the tall figure of Martin came sauntering inconspicur ously from the artists' room beyond , the stage, and slipped quietly down towards her. He had not reached her ] when the audience rose to the National Anthem; and immediately after inat ) they were dissolving into little chat- [ tering groups which eectively blocked . every gangway, though they were con- . tinually changing their formation and moving on from one position to another. This phase of the evening made i no appeal to Erica. She stood under . one of the lamps, its yellow light scinI dilating over her green dress, and waited for them to grow tired of talk- [ ing and let her out. Michael was saying something to her on one side, but her attention was , not with him. She heard Mrs Ben- . thorne saying to Miss Riley: “I wonder if our rolling stone will ever settle down.” That was herself, she knew, though she was not supposed to know it. Then Michael’s voice, which could . not draw her thoughts by speaking, drew them at last by ceasing to speak. . She looked up, and found him staring < at Martin Furst, who was bearing down upon her with the slight smile of an old friend. She forgot Michael; it was impossible