"A damn shame to waste her on these yaps," said Eshwell.
Connemora embraced her with tearful eyes."And as sweet as you are lovely, you dear!" she cried."You simply can't help winning."The two women thought her greatest charms were her form and her feet and ankles.The men insisted that her charm of charms was her eyes.And certainly, much could be said for that view.
Susan's violet-gray eyes, growing grayer when she was thoughtful, growing deeper and clearer and softer shining violet when her emotions were touched--Susan's eyes were undoubtedly unusual even in a race in which homely eyes are the exception.
When it was her turn and she emerged into the glare of the footlights, she came to a full stop and an awful wave of weakness leaped up through legs and body to blind her eyes and crash upon her brain.She shook her head, lifted it high like a swimmer shaking off a wave.Her gaze leaped in terror across the blackness of the auditorium with its thick-strewn round white disks of human faces, sought the eyes of Burlingham standing in full view in the center of the rear doorway--where he had told her to look for him.She heard Pat playing the last of the opening chords; Burlingham lifted his hand like a leader's baton.And naturally and sweetly the notes, the words of the old darkey song of longing for home began to float out through the stillness.
She did not take her gaze from Burlingham.She sang her best, sang to please him, to show him how she appreciated what he had done for her.And when she finished and bowed, the outburst of applause unnerved her, sent her dizzy and almost staggering into the wings."Splendid! Splendid!" cried Mabel, and Anstruther embraced her, and Tempest and Eshwell kissed her hands.They all joined in pushing her out again for the encore--"Blue Alsatian Mountains." She did not sing quite so steadily, but got through in good form, the tremolo of nervousness in her voice adding to the wailing pathos of the song's refrain:
Ade, ade, ade, such dreams must pass away, But the Blue Alsatian Mountains seem to watch and wait alway.
The crowd clapped, stamped, whistled, shouted; but Burlingham defied it."The lady will sing again later," he cried."The next number on the regular program is," etc., etc.The crowd yelled;Burlingham stood firm, and up went the curtain on Eshwell and Connemora's sketch.It got no applause.Nor did any other numbers on the program.The contrast between the others and the beauty of the girl, her delicate sweetness, her vital youth, her freshness of the early morning flower, was inevitable.
The crowd could think only of her.The quality of magnetism aside, she had sung neither very well nor very badly.But had she sung badly, still her beauty would have won her the same triumph.When she came on for her second number with a cloud-like azure chiffon flung carelessly over her dark hair as a scarf, Spanish fashion, she received a stirring welcome.It frightened her, so that Pat had to begin four times before her voice faintly took up the tune.Again Burlingham's encouraging, confident gaze, flung across the gap between them like a strong rescuing hand, strengthened her to her task.This time he let the crowd have two encores--and the show was over; for the astute manager, seeing how the girl had caught on, had moved her second number to the end.
Burlingham lingered in the entrance to the auditorium to feast himself on the comments of the crowd as it passed out.When he went back he had to search for the girl, found her all in a heap in a chair at the outer edge of the forward deck.She was sobbing piteously."Well, for God's sake!" cried he."Is _this_the way you take it!"
She lifted her head."Did I do very badly?" she asked.
"You swept 'em off their big hulking feet," replied he.
"When you didn't come, I thought I'd disappointed you.""I'll bet my hand there never was such a hit made in a river show boat--and they've graduated some of the swells of the profession.We'll play here a week to crowded houses--matinees every day, too.And this is a two-night stand usually.I must find some more songs." He slapped his thigh."The very thing!"he cried."We'll ring in some hymns.`Rock of Ages,' say--and `Jesus, Lover of my Soul'--and you can get 'em off in a churchy kind of costume something like a surplice.That'll knock 'em stiff.And Anstruther can dope out the accompaniments on that wheezer.What d'you think?""Whatever you want," said the girl."Oh, I am so glad!""I don't see how you got through so well," said he.
