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MY QUEEN
A WEEKLY JOURNAL FOR YOUNG WOMEN
No. 5. PRICE, FIVE CENTS.
MARION MARLOWE ENTRAPPED
OR
THE VICTIM OF PROFESSIONAL JEALOUSY
BY GRACE SHIRLEY
PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY STREET & SMITH, 238 William Street, New York City.
_Copyright, 1900, by Street & Smith. All rights reserved. Entered at New
York Post-Office as Second-Class Matter._
MY QUEEN
A WEEKLY JOURNAL FOR YOUNG WOMEN
_Issued Weekly. By Subscription $2.50 per year. Entered as Second Class
Matter at the N. Y. Post Office, by STREET & SMITH, 238 William St., N. Y._
_Entered According to Act of Congress in the year 1900, in the Office of
the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C._
No. 5. NEW YORK, October 27, 1900. Price Five Cents.
Marion Marlowe Entrapped;
OR,
THE VICTIM OF PROFESSIONAL JEALOUSY.
By GRACE SHIRLEY.
CHAPTER I.
“ILA DE PARLOA.”
Howard Everett, musical critic for the New York _Star_, was just
entering the office of his friend, Manager Graham, when he stopped
and almost stared at the young lady who was emerging. She was by far
the most beautiful girl that Everett had ever seen, and that was
saying much, for the critic had traveled extensively. She was not over
seventeen, a trifle above medium height, with a brilliant complexion,
luxuriant chestnut hair and large gray eyes, that flashed like diamonds
as she glanced at him carelessly.
Everett gave a long, low whistle to relieve his feelings, then threw
open the door and rushed into the office.
“Who the mischief is she?” he blurted out, instantly.
Clayton Graham, manager of the Temple Opera Company, turned around
from his desk and smiled good-naturedly.
“So she’s bewitched you, too, has she?” he asked, jovially. “Well,
she’s the first woman I ever saw that could rattle the cold-blooded,
cynical Howard Everett!”
“But, good Heavens, man, she’s a wonder! I never saw such a face. It is
a combination of strength, poetry, beauty; and, most wonderful of all,
goodness! Why, that girl is not only worldly, but she is heavenly, too!
Quick, hurry, old man, and tell me what you know about her.”
“That won’t take me long,” said Graham, as he passed his friend a
cigar. “Sit down, Everett, and have a smoke. Perhaps it will calm your
nerves a little.”
“Pshaw! I’m not as much rattled as I look,” said the critic, laughing,
“but for once in my life I am devoured by curiosity, as the novelists
say—I want to know where you discovered that American Beauty.”
“Well, you want to know too much,” was Graham’s answer; “but, seeing
it is you, I suppose I’ll have to forgive you. But here’s her story,
as much as I know of it—and that, as I said, is mighty little. She
came here from the country about six months ago. Was poor as poverty,
and had not a friend in the city. Well, one night Vandergrift—you know
him, the manager of the Fern Garden—heard her singing on the street in
behalf of one of those preacher fellows. Her voice was wonderful, and,
of course, he stopped to listen. It was just before his opening and
he needed a singer, inasmuch as my present prima donna, ‘Carlotta,’
was engaged to sing at the opening of the Olio, the rival garden just
across the street from his place. Well, to make a long story short,
he made terms with this girl at once—offered her a big price for one
night, thinking that the offer would dazzle her so that she would feel
too grateful and all that sort of thing to listen to any future offers.
Well, he billed her that night as ‘Ila de Parloa,’ and her song was
great; she was the hit of the evening. The very next morning, what do
you think she did? Took her money and bolted, and Vandergrift lost
track of her entirely.”
“What, didn’t she go over to the Olio or to some other concert hall?”
“Nit! She just disappeared, leaving no address behind, after politely
informing Vandergrift that his place wasn’t respectable.”
“But didn’t she know that before she sang there?” asked the critic, in
amazement.
“It seems not,” was the answer. “She was as green as grass. She thought
she was to sing in some Sunday-school concert or something of that
sort, I fancy.”
Clayton Graham chuckled over what he thought was a good joke, but his
face looked somewhat serious, in spite of his laughter.
“I made her sit in front and see my show before I talked to her,” he
added, shrewdly, “and the little Puritan told me, gravely, that she
quite approved of it, and was willing to sing for me a week on trial.”
“But where in the world has she been hiding since that night at the
Fern Garden? If her voice is so wonderful, I should certainly know if
she had been singing.”
“Oh, she tells me that at just that time she decided to be a nurse—went
up to Charity Hospital, on Blackwell’s Island, for a time, but the
sights up there upset her so she had to give it up and look for
something different.”
“Good Heavens! The idea of that face being hidden in a hospital ward!”
cried Everett in horror. “Why, if her voice is half as beautiful as her
face, I’ll give her a column and make Carlotta green with envy.”
“She’s that already,” said Graham, laughing. “You just ought to see
her! Why, that woman would kill her, I believe, if she dared.”
“Strange how jealous these professionals are,” said Everett, soberly,
“and particularly after they get a bit old and their voices are not
quite up to the standard.”
“Well, Carlotta is unusually jealous,” said Graham, with a little
chuckle. “I suppose it is because she is suspicious of me. Thinks I may
get stuck on the new face, you understand, old fellow.”
“Carlotta should know the world by this time, if any woman ever knew
it,” said Everett, scowling. “Does she imagine you are going to dance
attendance upon her forever?”
“If she does, she’ll be mistaken,” said Graham, decidedly, “and as for
my new singer, Ila de Parloa, she had better not meddle with her. The
girl is as pure and unsophisticated as she is beautiful, and, bad as I
am, I admire virtue in a woman.”
“The most of us can,” said Everett, slowly; “but, by the way, what is
the beautiful Ila’s right name? ’Pon honor, Clayte, I’ll never tell it.”
“Her name is Marion Marlowe,” was the manager’s answer, “but, of
course, for business purposes, we shall stick to ‘Ila.’”