The Conjurer
Certainly the audience was restive. In the first place it felt thatit had been defrauded, seeing that Cissie Bradford, whose smilingface adorned the bills outside, had, failed to appear, and secondly,it considered that the deputy for that famous lady was more thaninadequate. To the little man who sweated in the glare of thelimelight and juggled desperately with glass balls in a vain effortto steady his nerve it was apparent that his turn was a failure. Andas he worked he could have cried with disappointment, for his was atrial performance, and a year's engagement in the Hennings' group ofmusic-halls would have rewarded success. Yet his tricks, things thathe had done with the utmost ease a thousand times, had been asuccession of blunders, rather mirth-provoking than mystifying tothe audience. Presently one of the glass balls fell crashing on thestage, and amidst the jeers of the gallery he turned to his wife,who served as his assistant.
"I've lost my chance," he said, with a sob; "I can't do it!"
"Never mind, dear," she whispered. "There's a nice steak and onionsat home for supper."
"It's no use," he said despairingly. "I'll try the disappearing trickand then get off. I'm done here." He turned back to the audience.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said to the mockers in a wavering voice,"I will now present to you the concluding item of my entertainment. Iwill cause this lady to disappear under your very eyes, without theaid of any mechanical contrivance or artificial device." This was themerest showman's patter, for, as a matter of fact, it was not a verywonderful illusion. But as he led his wife forward to present her tothe audience the conjurer was wondering whether the mishaps that hadruined his chance would meet him even here. If something should gowrong--he felt his wife's hand tremble in his, and he pressed ittightly to reassure her. He must make an effort, an effort of will,and then no mistakes would happen. For a second the lights dancedbefore his eyes, then he pulled himself together. If an earthquakeshould disturb the curtains and show Molly creeping ignominiouslyaway behind he would still meet his fate like a man. He turned roundto conduct his wife to the little alcove from which she shouldvanish. She was not on the stage!
For a minute he did not guess the greatness of the disaster. Then herealised that the theatre was intensely quiet, and that he would haveto explain that the last item of his programme was even more of afiasco than the rest. Owing to a sudden indisposition--his skintingled at the thought of the hooting. His tongue rasped uponcracking lips as he braced himself and bowed to the audience.
Then came the applause. Again and again it broke out from all overthe house, while the curtain rose and fell, and the conjurer stood onthe stage, mute, uncomprehending. What had happened? At first he hadthought they were mocking him, but it was impossible to misjudge thenature of the applause. Besides, the stage-manager was allowing himcall after call, as if he were a star. When at length the curtainremained down, and the orchestra struck up the opening bars of thenext song, he staggered off into the wings as if he were drunk. Therehe met Mr. James Hennings himself.
"You'll do," said the great man; "that last trick was neat. You oughtto polish up the others though. I suppose you don't want to tell mehow you did it? Well, well, come in the morning and we'll fix up acontract."
And so, without having said a word, the conjurer found himselfhustled off by the Vaudeville Napoleon. Mr. Hennings had somethingmore to say to his manager.
"Bit rum," he said. "Did you see it?"
"Queerest thing we've struck."
"How was it done do you think?"
"Can't imagine. There one minute on his arm, gone the next, no trap,or curtain, or anything."
"Money in it, eh?"
"Biggest hit of the century, I should think."
"I'll go and fix up a contract and get him to sign it tonight. Geton with it." And Mr. James Hennings fled to his office.
Meanwhile the conjurer was wandering in the wings with the droopingheart of a lost child. What had happened? Why was he a success, andwhy did people stare so oddly, and what had become of his wife? Whenhe asked them the stage hands laughed, and said they had not seenher. Why should they laugh? He wanted her to explain things, and heartheir good luck. But she was not in her dressing-room, she was notanywhere. For a moment he felt like crying.
Then, for the second time that night, he pulled himself together.After all, there was no reason to be upset. He ought to feel verypleased about the contract, however it had happened. It seemed thathis wife had left the stage in some queer way without being seen.Probably to increase the mystery she had gone straight home in herstage dress, and had succeeded in dodging the stage-door keeper. Itwas all very strange; but, of course, there must be some simpleexplanation like that. He would take a cab home and find her therealready. There was a steak and onions for supper.
As he drove along in the cab he became convinced that this theory wasright. Molly had always been clever, and this time she had certainlysucceeded in surprising everybody. At the door of his house he gavethe cabman a shilling for himself with a light heart. He could affordit now. He ran up the steps cheerfully and opened the door. Thepassage was quite dark, and he wondered why his wife hadn't lit thegas.
"Molly!" he cried, "Molly!"
The small, weary-eyed servant came out of the kitchen on a savourywind of onions.
"Hasn't missus come home with you, sir?" she said.
The conjurer thrust his hand against the wall to steady himself, andthe pattern of the wall-paper seemed to burn his finger-tips.
"Not here!" he gasped at the frightened girl. "Then where is she?Where is she?"
"I don't know, sir," she began stuttering; but the conjurer turnedquickly and ran out of the house. Of course, his wife must be at thetheatre. It was absurd ever to have supposed that she could leave thetheatre in her stage dress unnoticed; and now she was probablyworrying because he had not waited for her. How foolish he had been.
It was a quarter of an hour before he found a cab, and the theatrewas dark and empty when he got back to it. He knocked at the stagedoor, and the night watchman opened it.
"My wife?" he cried. "There's no one here now, sir," the man answeredrespectfully, for he knew that a new star had risen that night.
The conjurer leant against the doorpost faintly.
"Take me up to the dressing-rooms," he said. "I want to see whethershe has been, there while I was away."
The watchman led the way along the dark passages. "I shouldn't worryif I were you, sir," he said. "She can't have gone far." He did notknow anything about it, but he wanted to be sympathetic.
"God knows," the conjurer muttered, "I can't understand this at all."
In the dressing-room Molly's clothes still lay neatly folded as shehad left them when they went on the stage that night, and when he sawthem his last hope left the conjurer, and a strange thought came intohis mind.
"I should like to go down on the stage," he said, "and see if thereis anything to tell me of her."
The night watchman looked at the conjurer as if he thought he wasmad, but he followed him down to the stage in silence. When he wasthere the conjurer leaned forward suddenly, and his face was filledwith a wistful eagerness.
"Molly!" he called, "Molly!"
But the empty theatre gave him nothing but echoes in reply.