Anna the Adventuress

There was a strange and ominous murmur of voices, a shuffling of feet

in the gallery, a silence, which was like the silence before a storm.

Anna, who had sung the first verse of her song, looked around the

house, a little surprised at the absence of the applause which had

never yet failed her. She realized in a moment what had happened. Even

though the individual faces of her audience were not to be singled

out, she had been conscious from the first moment of her appearance

that something was wrong. She hesitated, and for a moment thought of

omitting her second verse altogether. The manager, however, who stood

in the wings, nodded to her to proceed, and the orchestra commenced

the first few bars of the music. Then the storm broke. A long shrill

cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. Then a roar of

hisses. They came from every part, from the pit, the circle and the

gallery, even from the stalls. And there arose too, a background of

shouts.

"Who killed her husband?"

"Go and nurse him, missus!"

"Murderess!"

Anna looked from left to right. She was as pale as death, but she

seemed to have lost the power of movement. They shouted to her from

the wings to come off. She could not stir hand or foot. A paralyzing

horror was upon her. Her eardrums were burning with the echoes of

those hideous shouts. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery

hit her upon the cheek. The stage manager came out from the wings, and

taking her hand led her off. There was more shouting.

The stage manager reappeared presently, and made a speech. He

regretted--more deeply than he could say--the occurrence of this

evening. He fancied that when they had had time to reflect, they would

regret it still more. ("No, no.") They had shown themselves grossly

ignorant of facts. They had chosen to deliberately and wickedly insult

a lady who had done her best to entertain them for many weeks. He

could not promise that she would ever appear again in that house.

("Good job.") Well, they might say that, but he knew very well that

before long they would regret it. Of his own certain knowledge he

could tell them that. For his own part he could not sufficiently

admire the pluck of this lady, who, notwithstanding all that she had

been through, had chosen to appear this evening rather than break her

engagement. He should never sufficiently be able to regret the return

which they had made to her. He begged their attention for the next

turn.

He had spoken impressively, and most likely Anna, had she reappeared,

would have met with a fair reception. She, however, had no idea of

doing anything of the sort. She dressed rapidly and left the theatre

without a word to any one. The whole incident was so unexpected that

neither Courtlaw nor Brendon were awaiting. The man who sat behind a

pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment

absent. Anna stood on the step and looked up and down the street for a

hansom. Suddenly she felt her wrist grasped by a strong hand. It was

Ennison, who loomed up through the shadows.