THE CONQUEST OF A CRITIC.
As Marion made her way across the scene-room she was almost trembling
with alarm, for her keen intuition had told her that she was right in
her surmise and that there must be no delay if she wished to prevent a
tragedy. She peered here and there, looking for Mr. Graham, and then
it suddenly occurred to her that he would be in the front of the house
rather than behind the scenes during a performance, and that she must
look for Mr. Brown, the stage manager, instead.
She had just caught sight of him in the distance, talking to the
“calcium man,” when the awful thing happened.
It seemed to Marion that she had been listening for it all the time,
yet she stood perfectly still for a moment, her nerves tense with agony.
The chorus was going through a sword drill at the time, and everything
was moving rhythmically, when there came a sharp scream.
Marion heard an order given, the curtain was rung down, and then Mr.
Brown’s voice came to her as if from some great distance. He was
talking calmly to the audience, telling them what had happened. There
was a dim murmur of applause from the front of the house, then Marion
heard no more, for she had suddenly come to her senses just as two of
the “supers” came “behind,” carrying one of the chorus girls between
them.
“Quick!” cried Marion, as she instantly knelt by the wounded girl’s
side. “Give me a piece of ribbon or a big handkerchief, someone. She
will bleed to death if we don’t prevent it. Now, a stick of some kind!”
she added, as some one handed her a piece of ribbon. As deftly as
possible Marion wound the ribbon around the girl’s bleeding arm, and
then, thrusting a stick through it, she began twisting it gently.
The stage manager had already sent for a physician, but before he
arrived Marion had stopped the flow of blood.
“Well done, my brave girl,” said the doctor, smiling at her. “You have
saved this girl’s life. It is a pity there are not more women like you.”
“Oh, but I have had experience as a nurse,” said Marion, quickly. “I
was in Charity Hospital for awhile this winter.”
“That accounts for it, then,” said the doctor, as he applied a ligature.
Marion helped him deftly, all the time listening for her cue.
Fortunately there was a good deal for the other performers to do before
she was needed.
For in less than five minutes the curtain had gone up again, showing
the sword drill exactly where the momentary tragedy had left it.
“One of the chorus girls has pricked herself with her sword,” the
audience was told. No one, except a few of her companions, dreamed that
the injury was serious.
When Marion’s turn came at last, Miss Lindsay’s arm was all bandaged
and she had just opened her eyes with a return of consciousness.
As Marion rose from her place beside her on the dusty floor of the
scene-room she caught a glance from Jack Green’s eyes as he stood a
little way from them.
The fair girl shuddered as she saw his look; it was so full of an ugly,
brooding hatred.
“He hates her and she loves him,” was her whispered comment. The next
moment she was out on the stage, and everything else was forgotten.
“Ila de Parloa’s” appearance was always the signal for great applause,
but to-night the audience fairly outdid themselves. It seemed as though
they were determined to give her an unusual welcome. Once, as she
sang, Marion glanced suddenly into the wings. Carlotta stood there
watching her, with a face that was almost ashen.
When the song was ended there was tremendous applause. Marion had never
sung better, and her audience appreciated the effort.
She was encored until she was obliged to go back, and this time, just
as she stepped on the stage, she caught sight of Mr. Graham in the rear
of a box, talking to a gentleman.
A curtain call followed, which Marion took gracefully and modestly. It
was the crowning whisp of fuel to Carlotta’s already flaming fire of
jealousy.
“I tell you, she shall not sing in this company another week,” she
said, with choking voice, as Clayton Graham passed her.
Graham had gone behind the scenes to congratulate Marion, as well as
to present his friend, Howard Everett, who had for a week past been
begging for an introduction.
“How are you going to prevent it?” asked Graham, carelessly, as both he
and Everett, who was a newspaper critic, paused for a moment.
“I’ll find a way!” was Carlotta’s answer as, with a disdainful glance
at Everett, she flounced out upon the stage.
“She hates you almost as badly as she does me,” said Graham, chuckling.
“She’d knock our heads together this minute if she dared.”
“It isn’t always a critic’s lot to be loved,” said Everett, shrugging
his shoulders, “but, then, I am not ambitious to be loved by a creature
like Carlotta.”
“You prefer a dainty maid like Ila, I suppose,” said Graham, laughing.
“‘Signorita de Parloa’ is glorious!” was the critic’s answer, and
strangely enough, his words were honest—he felt them as he spoke them.
Marion was greatly pleased to make the acquaintance of the critic, for
he had been the kindest of them all in his daily reviews. As she stood
chatting with him pleasantly, Miss Lindsay came up to her. She looked
pale and scared, and her arm was carried painfully.
“I thank you for what you did,” she said, in a tremulous voice, “but
it would have been better if you hadn’t done it, Ila. I cut myself on
purpose—is it possible that you did not guess it?”
“Hush!” said Marion, sternly. “Don’t say that, Miss Lindsay. I am glad
I was able to help you, dear, but you look sick and weak. Can I do
anything more for you?”
“No, thank you,” said the girl, and then she blushed furiously and
added:
“Jack is going home with me. He is sorry, he says. Please don’t tell
any one what happened this evening, will you?”
“I certainly will not,” said Marion, kissing her.
She would have liked to warn the girl about Green, but another look at
the wan, white face quickly silenced the desire.
“She loves him, and it would kill her if she knew,” she thought. “Oh,
why is it that some men are so treacherous to those who love them!”
She turned back to Mr. Everett with a saddened heart. The sorrow in
this young girl’s face had destroyed Marion’s happiness for the evening.
“You are very sympathetic, signorita,” said the critic, as he watched
her.
“Too much so for my own good,” was the fair girl’s answer. “It was
because of my intense sympathy that I was obliged to resign my position
as a nurse. I do hope that it will not also ruin my career as a singer.”
“Nothing must ruin that,” was Howard Everett’s quick answer. “You will
be great some day, both great and famous. There is a wide difference in
those words, although many do not seem to know it. A woman with a face
and voice like yours should have the world at her feet, and you can,
signorita; you have only to think so.”
He spoke softly and tenderly, yet with a masterful tone, and Marion
felt the thrill of his words through every fibre of her being.
As she glanced up suddenly, their eyes met for a moment; then Marion,
with an unaccountable blush, held out her white hand and bade him
“good-evening.”