Part 43 (1/2)

Had Mildred looked the usual sort who come looking for jobs in musical comedy, Mr. Crossley would not have risen--not because he was sn.o.bbish, but because, being a sensitive, high-strung person, he instinctively adopted the manner that would put the person before him at ease. He glanced at Mildred, rose, and thrust back forthwith the slangy, offhand personality that was perhaps the most natural--or was it merely the most used?--of his many personalities. It was Crossley the man of the world, the man of the artistic world, who delighted Mildred with a courteous bow and offer of a chair, as he said:

”You wished to see me?”

”If you are Mr. Crossley,” said Mildred.

”I should be tempted to say I was, if I wasn't,” said he, and his manner made it a mere pleasantry to put her at ease.

”There was no one in the outside room, so I walked on and on until your door stopped me.”

”You'll never know how lucky you were,” said he. ”They tell me those fellows out there have shocking manners.”

”Have you time to see me now? I've come to apply for a position in musical comedy.”

”You have not been on the stage, Miss--”

”Gower. Mildred Gower. I've decided to use my own name.”

”I know you have not been on the stage.”

”Except as an amateur--and not even that for several years. But I've been working at my voice.”

Crossley was studying her, as she stood talking--she had refused the chair. He was more than favorably impressed. But the deciding element was not Mildred's excellent figure or her charm of manner or her sweet and lovely face. It was superst.i.tion. Just at that time Crossley had been abruptly deserted by Estelle Howard; instead of going on with the rehearsals of ”The Full Moon,” in which she was to be starred, she had rushed away to Europe with a violinist with whom she had fallen in love at the first rehearsal. Crossley was looking about for someone to take her place. He had been entrenched in those offices for nearly five years; in all that time not a single soul of the desperate crowds that dogged him had broken through his guard. Crossley was as superst.i.tious as was everyone else who has to do with the stage.

”What kind of a voice?” asked he.

”Lyric soprano.”

”You have music there. What?”

”'Batti Batti' and a little song in English--'The Rose and the Bee.'”

Crossley forgot his manners, turned his back squarely upon her, thrust his hands deep into his trousers pockets, and stared out through the window. He presently wheeled round. She would not have thought his eyes could be so keen. Said he: ”You were studying for grand opera?”

”Yes.”

”Why do you drop it and take up this?”

”No money,” replied she. ”I've got to make my living at once.”

”Well, let's see. Come with me, please.”

They went out by a door into the hall, went back to the rear of the building, in at an iron door, down a flight of steep iron skeleton steps dimly lighted. Mildred had often been behind the scenes in her amateur theatrical days; but even if she had not, she would have known where she was. Crossley called, ”Moldini! Moldini!”

The name was caught up by other voices and repeated again and again, more and more remotely. A moment, and a small dark man with a superabundance of greasy dark hair appeared. ”Miss Gower,” said Crossley, ”this is Signor Moldini. He will play your accompaniments.”

Then to the little Italian, ”Piano on the stage?”

”Yes, sir.”

To Mildred with a smile, ”Will you try?”

She bent her head. She had no voice--not for song, not for speech, not even for a monosyllable.