BETTY VISITS THE CITY OF HER DREAMS.
Zalhambra was a vaudeville artist. His was the star act on each bill.
He was undeniably a genius; it needed but a few bars of fortissimo
plus crescendo to realize that he was a virtuoso of the first rank.
When he played a Rag the audience shouted with delight; but when he
sprinkled torrential cadenzas through the dizzying syncopation, like
some mighty giant tossing meteors into a handful of fire-crackers,
something like an electric shock stirred his hearers.
He sat by the table in his dressing-room with angry storm-swept
countenance. He had been capturing loud plaudits with his rag-time,
until intoxicated with success, he swept into a tornado of music by
Moskowski. The applause died away; two ladies in the front row began
chatting. The enraged artist jumped from the piano-stool, and shouting
“Pigs!” raced from the platform.
For five hundred dollars a week he had pranced to the admiring
vaudeville audience; but once let the artist lay bare his soul in real
music and whispering reaches his ear. But there was no use
complaining, no one could understand his disgust.
“Ugh! Confound their impudence, I’ll make them listen yet to something
else than rag.”
In the midst of these reflections, the trombone player of the
orchestra came to him.
“Come home to dinner with me, Mr. Zalhambra, you’ll p’raps find some
folks there that will appreciate the dope you hand out.”
The disgusted artist got up and with a huge hand wiped his
handkerchief across his perspiring brow. He was short and very thick
set, with prominent forehead, bulging black eyes, coarse nose, thick
red lips.
“Thank you Mr. Newman, you’re a prince.”
In his overcoat Mr. Zalhambra seemed to fill the doorway as Mrs.
Newman greeted him. A moment’s private talk and the hostess understood
the situation. From the drawing-room a ripple of childish laughter
reached their ears.
“Didn’t know you had a family, Mr. Newman.”
“Oh that is a little girl visiting us. My wife’s cousin is spending a
week in Calgary and has brought an animated bunch of Alberta
sage-brush with her.”
School having been closed a week for repairs Miss Gordon had brought
Betty to the shining city of her childish dreams.
Everything at the dinner table was in keeping to Betty’s eyes, from
the translucent china cups to the dainty blown bubbles of confection
served with ice-cream; all so fragile that even one of her small brown
fingers might crush them. She laughed as she thought of the
annihilating effect, should Moses appear. The ices and the angel cake
and the concocted kisses of whiteof-egg confirmed in her mind the
suspicion that her wonderful holiday was a dream. “So your name is
Betty Wopp?”
Betty gazed shyly at her inquisitor. Her brown eyes sparkled with the
adventure of meeting a real live piannerist, as she called him. Dinner
was over and Mr. Zalhambra stood before the fire in the drawing-room
grate. Stooping to warm his large white hands over the flame, his
hypnotic eyes reflected strangely the glow of the fire. He watched
Nell Gordon as she sat stroking the flowing fair tresses of Betty.
She was dressed in a simple velvet gown the color that the twilight
sky takes just before the stars come out, sapphire blue. Her red
pouting lips were curved in a caressing smile, and her eyes rimmed
with their black curling lashes were full of the joy of life. Betty’s
verdict, although punctuated by an interrogation point, had been
correct when she first put the question to Moses, “Aint our new
teacher lovely with her shinin’ blue eyes?”
Mr. Zalhambra’s gaze fell full on the girl and her color heightened
under his ardent look.
“Have you been to the show this week, Miss Gordon?” He turned from the
fire and stood with his back to the cheerful blaze.
“Not yet, but they must all go to-night.”
Al Newman arranged all the theatre parties for his wife and guests. He
opened up the piano as he spoke and turned to the musician.
“Some of the real stuff,” he requested, “just to make these folks
realize they haven’t begun to live yet.”
The pianist sat easily at the piano and began the Moskowski selection
that had failed to create the expected furore in the afternoon. A
cadenza that shivered down the spine like spray from a glacial torrent
wakened the room. Then he plunged into the first theme. His small
audience listened spell-bound. Betty’s eyes followed the fingers that
leaped over the ivory keys like white flame. A subtle current began to
play in the room. Steadily it grew in power. Magnetism to the nth
degree was being generated. A tremendous chord brought the music to a
close and the pianist to his feet. Something in Nell’s glance inspired
him. He whirled about the room whistling and imitating some of the
cadenzas and other passages from the selection just played. He
gesticulated wildly with his hands, the passion for dramatic music
oozing from his pores.
“Ah Miss Gordon, I see you love the music too,” he murmured in her
ear.
Al Newman took him by the arm, “We’ll have to leave for the show in
eight minutes old boy, just a little funeral of your own now.”
The pianist took a long look at Nell who had been visibly affected by
his playing. Misgivings that date back to Eden were leaping into life
in his breast. He had been in love more times than he could count, but
here was the girl after all. He began a Scherzo of his own
composition. Youth gathering flowers at the open mouth of a volcano.
The melody was born to live forever. He was a genius. Now Nell knew it
and her soul worshipped genius. Howard Eliot was far from her thoughts
as she listened to the enchanting chain of melodies that poured forth.
“Sit near the front so you can give me inspiration, Miss Gordon,” the
musician said in an undertone as he stood hat in hand ready to hurry
off for the first show.
“Mrs. Newman, may I come again,” he turned confidentially to his
hostess, “I am head over ears in love with your charming cousin.”
Mrs. Newman smiled knowingly; she was familiar with his type, here
to-day and gone to-morrow, with falling in love a convenient habit to
give zest to the round of vaudeville performances. Mr. Zalhambra
caught her smile of incredulity and murmured, “This time it is really
fatal.”
The theatre was entirely darkened long enough to arrange the grand
piano. The pianist approached the instrument to the plaudits of the
crowded house. The insult to his audience in the afternoon had
succeeded in spreading his fame and a packed house greeted his evening
performance. He turned and gazed intently toward the audience. He
caught Nell’s glance, who sat near the front as he had wished, and he
smiled an acknowledgment of her presence.
He outrivalled all his efforts of the week, being recalled again and
again. Betty was delighted with the nods and smiles that the great man
was directing towards Nell and herself and Mrs. Newman; but from his
attitude and the blushes of Nell, more than one in the audience knew
who was the fountain of his inspiration. The hopes of one stalwart
young man in particular rapidly fell to zero.
The green-eyed monster, always seeking prey, had at last found a
victim, and proceeded in true green-eyed fashion to wage ruthless
warfare.