Joe Cone
Cambridge, Mass.
The little soubrette with
the dainty blue skirt, blue stocking and shapely legs came on and did her turn
satisfactorily. The house was crowded with S.R.O., and the audience was
unusually warm and appreciative. The front roll was exceptionally kind to her
of the blue skirt and blue stockings, as was determined to hold her the full
time limit. Turn after turn was enthusiastically encored, and every artist from
the Arab baby tumbler to Mon. Loranni, the heavy top liner, was in a state of
happy excitement. It was one of those nights long remembered and dwelt upon by
the performers over the beer mugs.
One man alone of the vast
audience remained impassive. He sat in the front row of the orchestra,
occupying the outside chair in the right aisle, and remained stoic throughout
the entire evening. Not even the lightning express, thundering through the
glittering biograph, engaged his earnest attention. The last picture on the
screen was to be a wedding party emerging from one of the fashionable churches
of New York City.
The theatre darkened and the
great calcium light spread its rays over the white curtain. Henderson, the man
in the front row, buttoned his coat and seized his hat preparatory to leaving
the theatre. Wedding scenes or wedding marches held no interest for him. A long
time ago he had lived in a dream, but now his life was all a nightmare. The
front of the church was thrown upon the screen, and sweet, stirring strains
from Mendelssohn floated through the auditorium. The heavy, carved doors swung
open and the bride and groom appeared. Henderson gave one searching look at the
beautiful vision in white and a triumphant cry burst from his lips. Two
attendants sprang toward him but like a wildcat he leaped upon the stage and
tried to seize the radiant bride.
“At last, at last!” he
shrieked wildly. “For ten years have I searched the city over for you, and now –
”
Here the picture vanished in
a twinkling, and Henderson dazed and shattered, vainly trying to clutch his lost
sweetheart, sank to the floor of the stage.
“There are glimpses of
Heaven even in hell,” he was heard to mutter, as they bore him behind the
scenes for the last time.
Joe
Cone
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