Papurau Newydd Cymru

Chwiliwch 15 miliwn o erthyglau papurau newydd Cymru

Cuddio Rhestr Erthyglau

30 erthygl ar y dudalen hon

To-day's Short Story.

Newyddion
Dyfynnu
Rhannu

To-day's Short Story. A LOCAL COLOUR TRAGEDY. When Violet Lingaxd announced she waa going in for literature there were thoee among = who scoffed. Vioiefc waa so alarmingly pretty, one would, nerver suspect her of possessing brains. Her first novel Attracted more than passing notice. She was commended for her original and audacious style, her ckwer plot, and a. certain dainty feminine touch. She was written about. interviewed, her beauty and talent were praised by the paragraphera, and all the details of her luxurious life were brandished about the country. This spasmodic adulation pleased Violet. She had always feasted upon flattery, but now she revelled in it. She threw herself into a life of feverish emotion, became cynical, disdainful, and thought of nothing but her miserable ambition. Local colouring came to be an absolute mania with her. She was always prating of "atmosphere and "realism." One can stand a lot of nonsense from a pretty woman, but really poor Violet often grew actually tire- some with her endless rhapsodies about the divinity of realism. It was just after publishing her second novel-a combination of ingenuity and wickedness, a smartish, brackish story you wouldn't have liked your siBter to write—that the girl docid-ed to go to the Far East in search, of "local colour" for the next attempt. "Yes," she drawled, with the fine la-dy air of disdain she had assumed since her success; "yes, I am going in search of looaJ colour and a hero. I may take a cowboy for the laItter-who knows? They tell me those feilows are delightfully original and as breezy as the winds from the Booties." She made up her mind she bad not been misinformed when a month, later she met Jack Weatherby. Weatherby was a child at the plains. He had never been east of tihe Mississippi, and had an infinite contempt for the land of the rising sun. He had hunted for a living; he had been a cowboy and raised as much of a rumpus in mining camps as the next fellow. He was a handsome fellow, as fiery as the mustang he rode, and as teanieir-hesarted as a woman—some women. His ranch lay in the shadow of the Stangre de Ohristo range, next to that of the Athertons, whero the .New York girl was stopping. Its acres stretched to the shadowy foot hills, and over them roamed the sleek, well-fed oreaitures of which he was so proud. It was two days after her arrival that he, saw -her first. He had ridden over to see Tom Athertau, the big, muscular Ungikhmans who was his particular crony, and had. oome down the trail with his customary "Ha.rk!" and "Whoop!" Aa though riding1 the sight- less couriers of the air, he dashed up the little gwdea4 spurs and f>.h joins jinglmc, sombrero flapping, and letting out a yell winch could have been heard in Denver. AtiH there, by the side of pretty Mrs. Atherton, eat a stranger-a vision, an angel. The astonished ranchman blushed and stammered like a schoolboy as he bowed awkwardly and apologised for his Apache-like descent. Who was this divinity in palest i)-ink-this radiant creature with hair like gold, and eyes of heaven's own blue? "My friend, Miss lingard, from New York." Mrs. Atherton had said. Pshaw, she was B. celestial beimg straight from Paradise! I have always pitied Weatherby. Never for one moment could I blame him. He was a primitive man with savage instincts lurk- ing in his breast. Brave, loyal, straightforward himself, how could he dream of the treacherous, cruel blows one little soft white hand was cap- able of dealing. Violet found thfs sturdy, brawny ranchera a delightful study, and decided he should be the hero of her next novel. His quaint wit and poetic fancies born of the mesas and the mountains, his forcible and often ungram- matical speech were faithfully noted; his emotion was played upon; his heart was probed. And he never dreamed he was being experimented on. He loved this exquisite creature, this dainty, soft purring beauty as he loved his life. He coveted her, and longed to shut her close to his big, faithful, honest heart. At last came the night when Violet carried her passion for atmosphere and local colour- ing to its climax. They had gone for their customary evening stroll, and had climbed up a lofty butte to a broad ledge of rocks. At their feet yawned the canyon, tremendous, awful black, save where the moonlight touched the opposite aide of the wail with ghostly fingers. Baok of them loomed the range like the battlements of a phantom city. Through the pines in the canyon the wind came sighing in mournful j cadence. While far, far below somended the faint Tushin-g of water-the river tumbling and foaming along over its rocky bed. What a weird place," cried Violet, with a pretty little shudder, and what a ghost- like night! Why did we never come up here before, Jack? What a wxme!" Weatherby was lying at her feet, where lM had thrown himself to rest after tdeir climb. He turned his face, white in the moon- light, towards her, and fixing his dusky, unfathomable eyas upon her, said: I kept this place for this hour. I meant to bring you here when I got my courage to the point where I oould aay all that is in my heart. Many a time down there," pointing to the ranch below, I have looked nip here and thought of the time I would bring you to tell you how I love you." For one instant Violet felt & queer Mttle thrill. The simple dignity of his declaration almost moved the worldly, oold- blooded girl. Then she thought of her local colouring. What a situation for my novel," she said to herself; then, aloud, gently: "So you really love me, Jack?" Love you?" he echoed, paaricma.te, as he rose and sat down beside her. Violet, look," taking her hand, my heart lies here in this dear little hand." Then, throwing all reserves to the winds, he seized her and kissed her madly, tempestuously. She struggled to free herself, and at length succeeded., "How dare you?" she d-amded; how dare- How dare I ?" he cried. "Why, dearest, I love you-I love you, do you hear? And you— you love me a little, do you not?" He was approaching her again, when She said con- temptuously, No, not a bit. I bave simply been studying you." He stood ae if turned to stone- Studying me," he said, in a queer voice, Studyin.g- why—why?" he savagely demanded, as he caught her wrist and held it in an iron grip. You were so different," she faltered, a bit frightened at his sudden ferocity. I wanited a new type for my new book, you know. I suppose Tom told you I write books?" An absolutely murderous look swept over Weatherby's fiace. "No," he said, "no one told me that. So you write books? And you wanted to put me in it? Is that it? Answer me--answer me." "Yes," she murmured faintly. "And that was all. You never loved me— Abover meant to marry me?" "Why, no, how could I? I am to be Baffled in the fall to a man in New York." A snarl like that of an infuriated beast .Interrupted her. Livid with rage, he spraag towards her. Onoe again he crushed her, sinking and trembling, to his breast, then dragged her to the very edge of the oamyon, gaping like the bottomless pit to receive them. And as her agonised screams pierced the soft summer might, Weatherby, still hold- ing her against his outraged heart, stepped off. They found them next day in the bottom of the canyon. Violet's lovely face was past xeoogniton, but Weatherby's lingered a smile of such awful triumph as would have pleased the axoh-fiend himself.

- Passing Pleasantries. I

[No title]

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