Beth Norvell
Page 45The far from gentle orchestra at the Gayety was playing with a vivacity
which set the pulses leaping, while the densely packed audience,
scarcely breathing from intensity of awakened interest, were focussing
their eager eyes upon a slender, scarlet-robed figure, an enveloping
cloud of gossamer floating mistily about her, her black hair and eyes
vividly contrasting against the clear whiteness of her skin, as she
yielded herself completely to the strange convolutions of her weird
dance. The wide stage was a yellow flood of light, and she the very
witch of motion. This was her third encore, but, as wildly grotesque
as ever, her full skirts shimmering in the glare of the foot-lights,
her tripping feet barely touching the sanded floor, her young, supple
figure, light as a fairy, weaving in the perfect rhythm of music, the
tireless child of Mexico leaped and spun, wheeled and twirled,--at
times apparently floated upon the very air, her bare white arms
moment of supreme triumph.
Beth Norvell, neatly gowned for the street, her own more sedate
performance already concluded, had paused for a single curious instant
in the shadow of the wings, and remained looking out upon that scarlet
figure, flitting here and there like some tropical bird, through the
gaudy glare of the stage. Winston, waiting patiently for twenty
minutes amid the denser gloom just inside the stage door, watched the
young girl's unconsciously interested face, wondering alike at both
himself and her. This entire adventure remained an unsolved problem to
his mystified mind--how it was she yet continued to retain his
interest; why it was he could never wholly succeed in divorcing her
from his life. He endeavored now to imagine her a mere ordinary woman
of the stage, whom he might idly flirt with to-night, and quite as
respond to such suggestion. There was something within the calm,
womanly face as revealed beneath the reflection of garish light,
something in the very poise of the slender figure bending slightly
forward in aroused enthusiasm, which compelled his respect, aroused his
admiration. She was not a common woman, and he could not succeed in
blinding himself to that fact. Even the garish, cheap environments,
the glitter and tinsel, the noise and brutality, had utterly failed to
tarnish Beth Norvell. She stood forth different, distinct, a perfectly
developed flower, rarely beautiful, although blooming in muck that was
overgrown with noxious weeds. Winston remained clearly conscious that
some peculiar essence of her native character had mysteriously perfumed
the whole place--it glorified her slight bit of stage work, and had
already indelibly impressed itself upon those rough, boisterous Western
thoroughly mastered them, the innate purity of her perfected womanhood,
the evident innocence of her purpose, shielding her against all
indecency and insult. The ribald scoffing, the insolent shuffling of
feet, the half-drunken uneasiness, ceased as if by magic; and as her
simple act proceeded, the stillness out in front became positively
solemn, the startled faces picturing an awakening to higher things. It
was a triumph far exceeding the noisy outburst that greeted the
Mexican--a moral victory over unrestrained lawlessness won simply by
true womanliness, unaided and alone. That earlier scene had brought to
Winston a deeper realization of this girl's genius, a fresher
appreciation of the true worth of her esteem. No struggle of heart or
head could ever again lower her in his secret thought to the common
level.