DOYLE’S DEBUT.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVI, Issue 2122, 22 February 1908, Page 2 (Supplement)

DOYLE’S DEBUT.

(By Porter Emerson Browne.)

jjeadixig the girl to the corner of the crowded little parlor where a three-legged sofa leaned weakly against the wall, Doyle seated himself tentatively upon it and 1 motioned with spread palm to the vacancy beside him. . “Si’ down, Maggie,” he invited; and tho tall, siender-waisted, lnghpompadoured girl before him sat down. , “Aw, ‘ say, Maggie,” continued Doyle, as he endeavored unsuccess-fully-to hold her hand beneath a. fold of skirt, “why don’ yuh marry me an’ cut out sellin’ stockin’s to a bunch o’ fussy dames that don’ know what-they -wants, an’ wouldn’ buy it if they did? I’m gittin’ eighteen seventy-fie now; an’ two can «live on that. . . . Wfha’ d ’yuh wan’ tuh be- worryin’ yuliself with a job for?” •

-The girl' shrugged her shapely shoulders and carefully arranged a loose strand of golden hair. ‘■‘Don’t you lose any sleep over n:e, Martin,” .she advised. “I can take care of myself all right.” “I know that,” he returned* “An’ you can take care o’ that lazy cl gent o’ yours, too. But that ain’t the point. I need you an’ you oug’iter need me.” “Well, I don’t,” she replied independently. “I’ve got other things than marriage in view.” Doyle looked up in some surprise. '•"Marriage is all right- for some women'” said the girl. “But it isn’t for me. It’s a—a too constricted sphere.” Doyle scratched his head. “Come again wit’ that- last, w.ll yuh?” he requested. “It’s a too what?”

“It’s a too—a too constricted—ch —sphere,” returned the girl, a bit doubtfully. “There isn’t enough to it.” “Oil, they ain’t, ain’t they?” cried Doyle. “Well, you wait until ycu git breakfast an’ dinner an’ supper an’ wash the dishes an’ do the mend-, in’ an’ sweep an’ du6t an’ go marketin’. An’ if that ain’t enough to keep yuli busy, I’ll try to frame up a few more things.” “I don’t mean that,” replied the girl. “I mean that I’m made for greater things. I’m going to have reputation and fame and money and all that. . . . And you don’t get those when your’e married. , . . I’m going on the stage.” “What !” exclaimed Doyle. She nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Of course, I s’pose I’ll have to start in vaudeville. But it won’t be long before some of those big managers ’ll see me and have mo for' a prima donna in a musical comedy., or maybe even a grand opera soloist. . . I’ve got a future before me.”

“Well,” replied Doyle, “so has everyone else—a future of some kind or other.” Ho turned to face her. “But le’ me tel yuli one tiling, Maggie,” he said, slowly. “You may go on the stago an’ git all them things you’re out after, an’ be one of them ealcimined, store-winder peaches with a figger like a advertisement and hair like a load of hay. But you won’t be as happy as yuli would if yuli married me. . . Nor,” he added, ruefully, “will I.” She started to make reply. But just then her mother, who was the storm-centre of a conversational cyclone at the far end of the room, tore herself from the turbulent talk of a dozen other women. “Maggie! Maggie!” she called shrilly. “Come on over here to the planner an’ show the ladies ail’ gents what you can do.” And then to the assembled ladies and their respective “gents” she said: “You never in your life heard anyone who can tear oil them sentimental songs like Maggie can. It jes’ makes the tears come to my eyes every time she starts tub sing ‘Take a Message to Mother for Me’-—an’ when she goes after ‘Them Crool Woid.s Has Cut Me Deep’—” she stopped, powerless to express the utter melancholy that at such times obsessed her being. With the easy though somewhat artificial walk of her sort, the girl nonchalantly approached the piano, and, tossing over a pile of sheet music, carefully selected a song. Spreading ifc. onen. noon the rack of the

instrument and played tho introduction through twice. Then she sang. Doyle listened raptly and with,min- “ gled emotions—admiration, disappointment, and hopelessness; and when, at leng% she had finished the three verses C'd six choruses of the ' song, he rid his burdened breast a sign that was long and loud and heartfelt. “Gee!” ho exclaimed with awe. “Ain’t that great! Ain’t that immense!” He sighed agaM/fa sigh that was even longer, louder, and more heartfelt than its predecessor. . “When them big managers hears her,” she thought dolefully, “.it’ll all he up wit’ me.' I won’t have no morn Y chanct- o’ marryin’ her ’n a rich man would o’ duckin’ through a camel s eye. . . . Grab’ opera an’ nuttin’ else f’r her—an’ a lemon f’r me,”, . and he sighed yet again. Most ot the others -ill the little audience were as .appreciative as Doyle;.and they gave themselves over heartily to expressing their admiration. “Ain't that singin’ jess’ grand?” inquired' Mrs. Malachi O’Grady, folding fat hands on a comfortable emgie had it in her!” She stopped to scowl unutterable . things at her much whiskered spouse, who was muttering something about being 1 ' glad “it was out of her at last,” and continued, “Why she’s got them gran’ operer singers skun ' a mile. I s’pose in a year or so we’ll ho goin’ down tuh the operer house tuh hear Maggie sing an’ then come home an ’tell each other how we use’ tub know her in them days when the di’n’ amount to nothin’ and’ her - father use’ tub make her rush the can,” and she beamed about, happy in her prophetic fancies. “She cer’nly is so’thin’ won’erful,” ' commented Mrs. Delia Slqttery en- : , thusiastically._- “Ain’t .she, Mi£e? u , and she turned for corroboration to her worse half, who was sitting on the middle of his spine with an unlit cigar between his lips. “I lias lioid woise,”- admitted her husband grudgingly. -- Mrs. Slattery scowled at him for an instant. “Men ain’t got no appreciation for reel music, anyhow” she commented caustically. “They don’ • know nothin’, about it an’ never will.” She beamed upon the girl. “I’ve hoid many a.-fine siiiger,” she 6aid sweetly, ‘fail’ I tell you, Maggie, dear, you’ve got’ ’em all beat a . block. They "ain’t-no '‘knowin’ tuh _ what heights you’ll climb nit’ that voice o’ vourn.” . ' “An’ tub think of her wastin’ all these year,; behind a counter!” cried Mrs’ Timothy Riordan indignantly.' It’s a shame, that’s waht it is, all right ,all r’ght! A homin’ shame!”

“Yes, ain’t it ” returned the mother cheerfully. “Many’s the time I told Mr Cassidy as we had a uuknowed genius in fam’ly.' ‘Patrick,’ says I, ‘Patrick,’ I says, ‘our darter ain’t none o’ this common clay, I says. ‘She’s destinated fer great things,’ says I,” She turned to her husband. “Di’n’ I, Patrick?” she demanded. Her hu;band_ opened one eye- “ Ain’t we got nothin ’to drink in de house?” he asked. His wife gave him a glance of withering scorn. But he was witherproof; “If wq-ain’t,” he continued, “put J, a dime in tIT big’pail, nlhsead Robert ■ Inimitt over to Shauglmessy’s. Maggie’ll lend youse do money.” And he closed his eye again. ilrs Cassidy surveyed him in deep and utter d : gust. * “That’s him,” she'cried tragically, “alius think in ’about his stummickl an’ forgettiu’ that he has a progeny f’r a darter! I—” with infinite selfrestraint she held herself from telling her husband for, the hundredth time that day what she thought of him, - and, remembering her duties as hostess, turned conversationally to her guests. “We got a gran’ costume 'f’r Maggie,” she said.- It’s jet gownd, cut decolletay. We got it at one o’ them stores where all them society women, sends their clothes which they don’t never wear more’n oncet an’ then throws away. An’ they’re jes’ as good as new. We’ve made the'skoit ' , short—Maggie’s goin’ Lull dance, t too, yuh know—an’ it cer’nly’s" a _/ dream.” “When is she goin’ tuh make her deebue?” inquired Mrs Riordan. She’s going on at the next amacliure night at the Pavillion,” replied the proud mother. “The manager’s give her a gran’ place on the bill.” • “What’s'a amachure night?” queried old Mrs Conolly. Mrs Cassidy gazed at her in patient pity. “Amachure night,” she explained painstakingly, “is when the boilesquo--'’ —"*- theayters shortens up their reg’iar. prefoimances an’ gives amaehures a chanct to go oh the stage au’ act before the aajience.”

“Ail’ I shall cer’nly be there nextWen’sday evenin’ tub see Maggie,” announced Mrs. Slattery. “vVou’t we, Alike?” And then, w'iiioefc awaiting the response of her husband, she turned to'her hostess. “Good night. Mis’ Cassidy,'* she; said. “I’ve had a perf’ly gran.’ «v----enin’. Good night, Air. Cass’dj-_V" \ Good night, Alaggie. The best .of luck to yuli, my dear. Come, Alike,' ’ and, leading an overwilling liusbuvid, she made her exit, the rest following suit. Doyle, who had dwelt in his corner, the victim of a deep, dark, deadly depression, waited for a word alone with the girl. “Ain’ there no show f’r me, Alaggie?” he asked pleadingly. “I’m afraid not, Alarty,” she replied slowly. “You see how it is.. You see what they think of me and-, my singing.” He sighed. “It’s grand,”

niented. “Grand!” She held out her hand. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, as lie took it in. his. “So 'in I,” he returned lugubriously. “You’ll be there—at the Pavilion -. —AVednesday night?” she asked. “At my own funeral?” He nodded. “Yes,” he answered, “I’ll be there.” \ He clasped her hand a little closer. “Good-bye, Maggie,” lie said. “Oh, it isn’t good-bye,” she, returned, smiling a little. “It’s only an revoir.” , “I muff that last one," lie retya^i—cd, “but l do know that A>&ion f7V , go on the stage, the best I’ll get -*l be a chance tuli look at your unature on a fence.” He turned. “Ain’ there no show f’r me?” he asked, hesitating at the door. “No show at all?” Again she shook hwr cad. “I’m afraid not# s replied. j “But then, you nevSr oan“foi?.” | Which is very true, for yon V“J' j

11. Doyle mado up liis mind that it ho must attend his own funeral he would at least be a corpse do rig.nur in i .- cry respect. So, on the follow, ng Wednesday evening, he wriggled himself into a hired dress suit, spent half an hour in trying to make his wet hair repose at something less than uu .angle of 90 degrees, and aitothei half hour in tying a resplendent scarf of red satin. And then he set forth for the theatre. His mind was on Maggie; and Maggie was on his mind. And there was room for but her alone. He shifted nervously, impatiently, in his sent. Every voice, every form, every face ho-compared with the voice, form, and face of his divinity, and disparagingly —infinitely so. If a performer won applause he was jealous. If a performer tailed to win applause it pleased him as much as his mood would permit aught to please him. Thus the bad parts of the performance bo found less displeasing than the good; ' and . the good more distressing than the had. A hundred times he turned in h s front row seat to look at the audience and say to himself: “Just youse guys wait till Maggie comes out. She’ll show vuh ! At last the curtain descended on the shortened burlesque performance, and the manager stepped fdrth before ft.

Ho was a small man with a ba’d head and a moustache of the color and lustre.of a newly polished stove. •Diamonds (for wo will be charitable) decorated him in every possible, and some impossible places, and be wo"c an air of self-esteem that fitted b m as oppressively as a fur coat on tin? Fourth of July.

•‘Ladies an’ gents.” lie slid, iv t’n throaty impressiveness, “ive will now bo entertained by a talented buueli of performers who will compete for the magnificent prizes which the management offers to them as is. most ; u*'cessful in their efforts to please IN: aujience, as showed by the amount of applause they receives. A gold watch goes to the most pop’lar gent an’ mi- ' other to the moist pop’lar lady. 1 will announce the acts as they comes on; an’ I wish to request that - the aujience Ictn’ly refrain from throwin’ things at the perfoimers, as last week a guy who was tryin’ to play a banjo wit’ one hand an’ a acorjeen wit’ the other got hit on the block wit’ a beer bottle an’ had to be took home in "a amb’lance an’ .the p’lice made some ( trouble fer us an’ we don’ wan’ it to occur again. I thank youse fer yer kin’ indulgence.” And after bowing, the impressive manager Announced the first act of the programme, bowed again ,aml withdrew, leaving the stage in- full possession of a bicycle rider whose principal trick seeeined to bo falling off in the footlights, which proved so* - expensive for the management that it summarily withdrew the bicycle rider from the stage, and announced the next performer. “Aliss 'Margaret Cassidy, dansoose,” was the verbal label; and Doyle utterly failed to. recognise it as designating MaggiC until he saw her before him on the stage. She looked extremely pretty; there could be no doubt of that. Her liigjipompadoured hair glowed richly in the brilliant glare. Her eyes shone brightly, and her lips and cheeks were of a red that no rouge could give. And her lithe, supple figure, with its perfect lines, flowed to i.ecided advantage in the jet gov". Doyle was,so lost in admiration that it was not until after she had bqgun to sing that he awoke to a sense o. his obligations as a friend and ueli wisher, and- started to appiamt; whereupon- lie was met bj sum C le quests from those about him to . r> tip,” and “Fergit it,” and * Cut it.

out iJ He was slowly deliberating as whether tlie ethics of good breeding demanded that he should, fly. m tl e face of popular sentiment and continue to applaud, or remain ipnot an give Maggie a chance to be heard, uhen circumstances suddenly madethe decision for him. . There is 'a great difference, you know, between facing a parloriul of amiable friends who expect you to entertain them, and a thcatrehil ol dour enemies who dare you to entertain them, and this, Maggie nas finding out. The soul-freezing thing known as “stage-fright” had obsessed her. The first few notes of her song left her lips; and suddenly she found that her voice had kept them company. Her face grew white- Her hands trembled. She stood there before. the footlights, motionless, helpjess, incapable- of speech or action. The captious, fickle, amateur-night ■audience,' which at first, because of her dainty prettinoss, had been inclined to welcome her with open, arms, 21 ow became cold and repelling. The manager stuck his glossy scalp out from the wings. ‘•‘Go on,” ho adjured. Make a itidise. You a ilk waitin’ for a car ■>i nothin’ like that. Do tli’ canary. iDo th* canary.” Game a shrill voice from the ga - , erv ' “What is dls?” it' demanded, caustically, “a deef an’ dumb asyU The manager turned to the orchestra, which was insouciantly lighting a cigarette. „ , “Play her dance for her, Bill, ho ordered. “Maybe her feet ain’t paralyzed yet.” . '. Obediently the orchestra laid its cigarette on on of the scorched and (blacked upper keys of the piano .and turned to its task; and the l at tie ; and bang of a buck-and-wing resounded through tfv* house. But tho girl stood helpless, self-pos-sesfoP gene, fear gripping her very marrow. Tho audience grew more impatient’. Throughout the. house feet began to shufilo uneasily, and voices commented freely and sarcasti-

cally- . , , L ... Across the footlights the gin still stood immovable. But her terror was now giving way bolero surging seas of humiliation and shame. Her lijis quivered. Her .dim throat trembled. And the staring eyes grew wet beneath tho fluttering lids. But tho audience of amateur night is merciless; and for Maggie, -thumbs were down. . .“To tli’ trees, vouse! To tli’ -trees!” came a shrill, piercing voico from the gallery. “Go home an’ pull th’ plugs out <y y L , r pipes,” advised another “Bade to th’ kitchen! You and no singer. ‘A stack o bucks, an draw oneT is the best yuu.se can handle,” came a third, gj. Incited by these stingin" sbrfts th© homo of the gods, the rest Of the house only too willingly broke into a roar, of scornful abuse and

above all the tumult emuo the shrill cry so dreaded of amateur-night performers :

“Git th’ hook! Gil tli’ hook!”

The ho A. be it known, is a sort of siiepnem’s ere;A with which the unpopular entertainer of the night is removed from the stage.

Obedient to the demands of his insistent clientele, the management

“got the hook.” and a largo, lumpy stago-hnnd, with a jaw like a, cobblestone, came forth Iroin the wings to apply it to the helpless girl now beginning to sob in weak hysteria. Throughout it all Doyle had been sitting clutching the arms of his chair. That anyone could tail to admire Maggie was utterly beyond his comprehension. That anyone could speak unkindly to her or criticize her was unthinkable. And that an entire audience could abuse and revile and torture one in whom he could see no flaw—one who was to him in every way the absolute perfection of womanhood—left him stupefied, bewildered, helpless. But when he saw the hook, his selfpossession returned to him, and that far more suddenly than it had loft him. The hook was as a red rag to a bull; and, with a deep, choking bellow of rage, Doylo leaped from his chair, AYith one swing of his arm he drove the orchestra into n scared heap besido the piano. In another instant his foot was on tho. keyboard, his heavy hand on tho piano top, and ho had vaulted on to tho stage.

The largo stage hand had just timo to swing at him onco with the hook when Doyle’s fist struck on one ear and lie tumultuously joined the orchestra in a heap beside the piano.

” A second later Doyle had his anus’ about the girl and she was sobbing bitterly, brokenly, upon tho shoulder of tho hired dress suit .' Tho audience., at the sudden turn of affairs, had stopped its wild shriekings for the hook, and was watching with silent intentness the unexpected happenings taking place before it. Tho way in which Doylo had handled the stage-hand had won its admiration.. The bit of romaneb had won its sympathies. It was tho psyehqlogical moment, for the strategist to rise to unknown heights of public favor. But, Doylo was no strategist. - He was a man, and a lover. He was mad—mad through and through. He turned to tho audience. Holding the girl to his breast with his left arm, ho clenched his right fist and shook it at the ,dusky mass of indistinct faces across tho footlights. ‘Dam’ yer!” ho cried from between clenched teeth. “Dam’ yer! Ye’re a_ crowd o’ cowards an’ fourflushers! They ain’t a man among yer. Ye’re all right to set there an’ roast a poor girL that- ain’t got no way tub git back at yuh, but’ they ain’t- one of yer dares tub come lip here an’ face a guy,that’s big enough tub take care of himself.”

It was because of this speech that, when the lump- stage-hand with the hook unsnarled himself from the orchestra, a part of the audience was with him instead of against him as it undoubtedly would have been had Doyle kept silent. On the other hand, .as great a part 'was ■ still in sympathy with Doyle; for it accep- ; ted his views, and admitted his provocation.

“Tnm.de fresh guy out!” yelled a party of the first part. ' “Aw, what’s eatin’ youse?” queried a shrill voice from the party of the second part. “It was his goil we was roastin’. Geo! N<) won’er he-got sore.” , • ■

But suddenly all discussion was suspended, that eyes might uninterruptedly watch the movements of tho 'lumpy stage, hand, who Mvas now scramblingly endeavoring to securo foothold on the stage. Doyle was not unobservant; and before the lumpy, stage-hand could gain his vantage ground, he of the hired dress suit gently seated the girl in a gilt chair that chanced to be at hand, and then hastening to the front of the “apron,” landed a deft 'kick that sent the stage-hand back -into the lap of a porcine and stertorous gentleman, who, in a front row seat;, was nervously combing his whiskers with his fingers. Next he turned to face-the manager, tho electrician, the stage doorman, and two more stagehands,

"With a bowl of rage, for his fighting blood was scorching his veins, Doyle charged them. The impressive manager did not wait, but took a‘running jump over the footlights and lighted upon th© same stertorous individual whoso lap the lumpy stage-hand had just then vacated in his favor; wherat tho stertorous individual showed his irritation by deftly planting a forceful blow just below the diamond “headlight’ ’that twinkled from tho managerial shirt-front. While the manager and the stertorous individual continued the argil ment under an orchestra chair, Doyle with a well-directed blow, sent tho electrician sliding across! the stagy like a member of the home team trying to get to third in the ninth witti two out and none on bases. And beloro the electrician had settled himself to pick pieces of footlight out of his hair, Doyle had caused the stage’ doorman to fly frantically back to bis post, and had stretched tho two stage-hands jauntily over a Louis Quinze divan. At this, the conflicting sentiment in the house grew frenzied. With such examples before them, there was no one with soul so dead as not in become actively partisan. Tho supporters of Doylo, including Mr Cassidy, who loved a fight only second to *a drink, and a drink only second to his daughter, and Mr Slattery, in whose mind a fight preceded all else, rose to their feet and would have thronged to tho standard of their, leader had it not been that they were separated from him by stairways and balcony rails and footlights. And then again, rallying takes time; and wlnjn there is a row in progress, time is precious. Thus it was that each picked out tho man nearest to him, whose senti* monts had declared him to be an opj ponont, or whose appearance seemed to indicate that he might he an opponent, or looked as though he enjoyed a good fight, and started at iff Dovle, victor of the stage, looked about him Alexander-like, for more worlds to conquer. There were none; except, that is, the surging, chaotic, howling one beyond the footlights.

Ho had not been born in Kilkenny; for nothing. He gazed at the seeth- ( ing mass of howling humanity and hands clenched and unclenched itch—ingly. But the love of woman wagj stronger than the lust of battle. He turned to tho girl beside him a nek placing his arm about her, raised her to her feet. . ■ , J

And they did . As the sound of a clanging gong came to them, Doylo arose and, going to tho window of tho tiny parlor of the flat, looked down upon tho street below. “Eight,” ho counted. “Gee! Eight patrol-wagon loads of ’cm’s went by so far, an’ more cumin , and me not in on the fun at all!” Ho sighed wistfully. But tho sigh was broken, and the fight forgotten a.s ho turned, suddenly, to find the girl at his side.

Quickly, impulsively, he took her ii\ his arms, and drew her to him. “There is a chance f’r me, Maggie, girl, ain’t they?” ho asked pleadingly. She shook her head, lie released her and started hack, aghast. ‘Not a chance,” she said slowly and very softly, 'but a—a-—-certainty.” And the other seven patrol-waggons passed unnoticed.