A GLIMPSE BEHIND THE SCENES.
At half-past seven that evening Marion Marlowe was at the theatre. She
was a trifle apprehensive of what was coming. As she tripped around
to the stage door every person on the street turned to look at her,
for New York was almost mad at the moment with admiration for “Ila de
Parloa.” It was not altogether the girl’s magnificent voice that had
charmed them, but her beautiful face and natural, unaffected manner on
the stage had been a great treat after a long siege of conceited actors
and airy prima donnas.
During her engagement so far she had sang only simple ballads, which
were sandwiched in between the regular scenes in a manner known only to
comic operas and vaudeville.
But the quaint, modest dress of the charming singer, and, best of all,
her freedom from conceit, had won the respect of even the critics,
which is a thing not easily done by any singer.
Marion felt strange in the atmosphere of the monstrous theatre, yet
she was fast becoming accustomed to its shallow mockeries, and deep
down in her soul there had always been a desire for fame, which now,
for the first time in her short life, was within some possibility of
gratification.
“If it was not for Carlotta’s jealousy,” she whispered to herself, as
she climbed the narrow stairs behind the scenes—“but what can I do if
she chooses to injure me?”
“Howdy, signorita!” called a voice as she reached the top of the
stairs. “You are early, as usual, and yet you don’t ‘make up’ much,
either. If it wasn’t for my everlasting complexion, I wouldn’t be
here, you bet. I’d have spent another hour in bed wouldn’t you, Miss
Kingsley?”
The speaker was a chorus girl, whose name Marion did not know. She was
standing in the doorway of a big dressing-room, which she shared with
a dozen others.
“Do you think so much ‘make-up’ is necessary?” asked Marion,
pleasantly. “Somehow, I am always afraid of getting my nose too white
and my ears too red. I do wish there wasn’t such a thing as having to
use it!”
“Oh, we’d all look like ghosts if we didn’t,” said the girl. “Those
footlights make you ghastly if your face isn’t painted.”
“It makes some people look like frights, anyway,” called another voice,
shrilly. “It is just too funny to see some folks prink when they can’t
be anything but scrawny and ugly, no matter how much they paint and
whitewash!”
The girl in the doorway glanced over her shoulder scornfully.
“You wear ‘symmetricals’ yourself, Miss Impudence,” she said,
tauntingly. “I may be scrawny around the shoulders, but my legs are all
right, and legs are all that is wanted in the chorus nowadays.”
“I thought it was voices that were desired,” said Marion, dryly; “but,
then, I am new; I don’t know much about requirements.”
“I notice you are mighty careful not to wear your dress short at either
end,” called another voice. “What is the matter with your shape,
Signorita Ila?”
Marion Marlowe flushed a little, but did not reply, so the girl in the
doorway promptly answered for her.
“Oh, she’s too modest and shy, don’t you understand! But just wait a
week, girls—then you may have to look to your laurels. Can’t make me
believe that the little ‘greeny’ isn’t all right! She’s fresh from the
country, and ought to be as plump as a partridge.”
“You are the only girl in the chorus that ain’t jealous, Jennie,”
called a coarse masculine voice, as Jack Green, the “property man,”
came by at that minute.
Jennie was just stepping into her slippers when she caught sight of
Jack. In an instant one of them went spinning in his direction.
Jack caught it deftly and held it in his hand.
“Out on first,” he said, with a grin. “Now, when you want it back
you’ll have to kiss me.”
“Oh, I don’t mind doing that a little bit,” cried the girl,
unhesitatingly, and in a second she had both arms over the property
man’s shoulders.
“You’re a daisy, Jack, and I’m awfully mashed on you,” she said,
candidly; “but you haven’t got enough wealth, so, you see, I must stick
to the Johnnies.”
“Oh, I don’t want you,” was the fellow’s equally honest answer. “I’m
stuck on the new beauty, the charming Ila. I wonder if she would give
me a kiss if I asked her.”
Marion was standing right in front of him as he made the remark, and in
an instant all of the chorus girls came out to see how she took it.
“No use to play the prude,” thought Marion, with a shudder. “These
people see no harm in kissing, so I must try and get out of it nicely.”
“No, Mr. Green,” she said, with a half smile, “I would not dream of
kissing you before all these young ladies! Why, they would scratch my
eyes out, and I am sure I would deserve it.”
“That’s not so bad for a ‘greeny,’” said Jennie. She had got her
slipper back now, and was adjusting it carefully.
“Make less noise up there, girls!” called out the stage manager from
the stairs.
The girls scampered back into their dressing-room, leaving Marion and
the property man together.
“Won’t you kiss me, sweetie?” said Jack Green, in an undertone, as he
came closer to her. “I wasn’t joking a little bit, Ila. I’m just dying
to kiss you.”
Marion looked up at the burly fellow and tried to read his face. She
had disliked him from the first, but had always tried not to show it.
“I don’t think you mean to insult me, Mr. Green,” she said, after a
second. “You professionals do not look upon kisses as a very serious
matter, but, you see, I am a country girl, and I have been taught
differently. I am saving my lips for the man whom I shall marry.”
Jack Green gave a whistle of genuine surprise, for he saw by the girl’s
face that she was sincere and honest.
“Well, you are a novelty,” he said, after a minute. “Been on the stage
nearly a week and don’t believe in kissing.”
“That is one reason why I shall never be an actress,” said Marion,
sadly. “It does seem awful to me to be kissing and hugging so
indiscriminately.”
“You’d like it if you tried it,” said Green, with a wicked leer. “Your
lips were made to kiss; they are just like cherries—it’s mighty mean of
you, I think, to be so stingy with them.”
“I shall kiss the man that I love,” said Marion, softly, as she
attempted to quietly pass the fellow and go to her dressing-room.
“Well, I’m a chump if I let you go that way,” said the big brute,
suddenly. “You’re bound to kiss somebody if you stay in this business,
and, by the powers, I’m going to be the first one!”
His face had reddened with passion as he spoke, and as Marion glanced
at him quickly she found his eyes almost devouring her.
“Let me pass! It is late!” she commanded, sternly.
“Not until I have tasted of those red lips, Ila,” said the fellow. The
next second he had caught her in his arms and was pressing her roughly
to his bosom.