CHAPTER I.

“ILA DE PARLOA.”

Howard Everett, musical critic for the New York _Star_, was just entering the office of his friend, Manager Graham, when he stopped and almost stared at the young lady who was emerging. She was by far the most beautiful girl that Everett had ever seen, and that was saying much, for the critic had traveled extensively. She was not over seventeen, a trifle above medium height, with a brilliant complexion, luxuriant chestnut hair and large gray eyes, that flashed like diamonds as she glanced at him carelessly.

Everett gave a long, low whistle to relieve his feelings, then threw open the door and rushed into the office.

“Who the mischief is she?” he blurted out, instantly.

Clayton Graham, manager of the Temple Opera Company, turned around from his desk and smiled good-naturedly.

“So she’s bewitched you, too, has she?” he asked, jovially. “Well, she’s the first woman I ever saw that could rattle the cold-blooded, cynical Howard Everett!”

“But, good Heavens, man, she’s a wonder! I never saw such a face. It is a combination of strength, poetry, beauty; and, most wonderful of all, goodness! Why, that girl is not only worldly, but she is heavenly, too! Quick, hurry, old man, and tell me what you know about her.”

“That won’t take me long,” said Graham, as he passed his friend a cigar. “Sit down, Everett, and have a smoke. Perhaps it will calm your nerves a little.”

“Pshaw! I’m not as much rattled as I look,” said the critic, laughing, “but for once in my life I am devoured by curiosity, as the novelists say—I want to know where you discovered that American Beauty.”

“Well, you want to know too much,” was Graham’s answer; “but, seeing it is you, I suppose I’ll have to forgive you. But here’s her story, as much as I know of it—and that, as I said, is mighty little. She came here from the country about six months ago. Was poor as poverty, and had not a friend in the city. Well, one night Vandergrift—you know him, the manager of the Fern Garden—heard her singing on the street in behalf of one of those preacher fellows. Her voice was wonderful, and, of course, he stopped to listen. It was just before his opening and he needed a singer, inasmuch as my present prima donna, ‘Carlotta,’ was engaged to sing at the opening of the Olio, the rival garden just across the street from his place. Well, to make a long story short, he made terms with this girl at once—offered her a big price for one night, thinking that the offer would dazzle her so that she would feel too grateful and all that sort of thing to listen to any future offers. Well, he billed her that night as ‘Ila de Parloa,’ and her song was great; she was the hit of the evening. The very next morning, what do you think she did? Took her money and bolted, and Vandergrift lost track of her entirely.”

“What, didn’t she go over to the Olio or to some other concert hall?”

“Nit! She just disappeared, leaving no address behind, after politely informing Vandergrift that his place wasn’t respectable.”

“But didn’t she know that before she sang there?” asked the critic, in amazement.

“It seems not,” was the answer. “She was as green as grass. She thought she was to sing in some Sunday-school concert or something of that sort, I fancy.”

Clayton Graham chuckled over what he thought was a good joke, but his face looked somewhat serious, in spite of his laughter.

“I made her sit in front and see my show before I talked to her,” he added, shrewdly, “and the little Puritan told me, gravely, that she quite approved of it, and was willing to sing for me a week on trial.”

“But where in the world has she been hiding since that night at the Fern Garden? If her voice is so wonderful, I should certainly know if she had been singing.”

“Oh, she tells me that at just that time she decided to be a nurse—went up to Charity Hospital, on Blackwell’s Island, for a time, but the sights up there upset her so she had to give it up and look for something different.”

“Good Heavens! The idea of that face being hidden in a hospital ward!” cried Everett in horror. “Why, if her voice is half as beautiful as her face, I’ll give her a column and make Carlotta green with envy.”

“She’s that already,” said Graham, laughing. “You just ought to see her! Why, that woman would kill her, I believe, if she dared.”

“Strange how jealous these professionals are,” said Everett, soberly, “and particularly after they get a bit old and their voices are not quite up to the standard.”

“Well, Carlotta is unusually jealous,” said Graham, with a little chuckle. “I suppose it is because she is suspicious of me. Thinks I may get stuck on the new face, you understand, old fellow.”

“Carlotta should know the world by this time, if any woman ever knew it,” said Everett, scowling. “Does she imagine you are going to dance attendance upon her forever?”

“If she does, she’ll be mistaken,” said Graham, decidedly, “and as for my new singer, Ila de Parloa, she had better not meddle with her. The girl is as pure and unsophisticated as she is beautiful, and, bad as I am, I admire virtue in a woman.”

“The most of us can,” said Everett, slowly; “but, by the way, what is the beautiful Ila’s right name? ’Pon honor, Clayte, I’ll never tell it.”

“Her name is Marion Marlowe,” was the manager’s answer, “but, of course, for business purposes, we shall stick to ‘Ila.’”