The Price She Paid [115]
saw the lines, the underlying melancholy signs of strain, the heavy price he had paid for phenomenal success won by a series of the sort of risks that make the hair fall as autumn leaves on a windy day and make such hairs as stick turn rapidly gray. Thus, there were many who thought Crossley was through vanity shy of the truth by five or six years when he said forty.
In ordinary circumstances Mildred would never have got at Crossley. This was the first business call of her life where she had come as an unknown and unsupported suitor. Her reception would have been such at the hands of Crossley's insolent and ill-mannered underlings that she would have fled in shame and confusion. It is even well within the possibilities that she would have given up all idea of a career, would have sent for Baird, and so on. And not one of those who, timid and inexperienced, have suffered rude rebuff at their first advance, would have condemned her. But it so chanced --whether by good fortune or by ill the event was to tell--that she did not have to face a single underling. The hall door was open. She entered. It happened that while she was coming up in the elevator a quarrel between a motorman and a driver had heated into a fight, into a small riot. All the underlings had rushed out on a balcony that commanded a superb view of the battle. The connecting doors were open; Mildred advanced from room to room, seeking someone who would take her card to Mr. Crossley. When she at last faced a closed door she knocked.
``Come!'' cried a pleasant voice.
And in she went, to face Crossley himself--Crossley, the ``weak and soft,'' caught behind his last entrenchment with no chance to escape. Had Mildred looked the usual sort who come looking for jobs in musical comedy, Mr. Crossley would not have risen--not be- cause he was snobbish, 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 superstition. 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 superstitious 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
In ordinary circumstances Mildred would never have got at Crossley. This was the first business call of her life where she had come as an unknown and unsupported suitor. Her reception would have been such at the hands of Crossley's insolent and ill-mannered underlings that she would have fled in shame and confusion. It is even well within the possibilities that she would have given up all idea of a career, would have sent for Baird, and so on. And not one of those who, timid and inexperienced, have suffered rude rebuff at their first advance, would have condemned her. But it so chanced --whether by good fortune or by ill the event was to tell--that she did not have to face a single underling. The hall door was open. She entered. It happened that while she was coming up in the elevator a quarrel between a motorman and a driver had heated into a fight, into a small riot. All the underlings had rushed out on a balcony that commanded a superb view of the battle. The connecting doors were open; Mildred advanced from room to room, seeking someone who would take her card to Mr. Crossley. When she at last faced a closed door she knocked.
``Come!'' cried a pleasant voice.
And in she went, to face Crossley himself--Crossley, the ``weak and soft,'' caught behind his last entrenchment with no chance to escape. Had Mildred looked the usual sort who come looking for jobs in musical comedy, Mr. Crossley would not have risen--not be- cause he was snobbish, 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 superstition. 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 superstitious 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