A PROFESSIONAL LESSON
Sybil, hurried by a message from Leslie Galt, had come flying back from
the city to the aid of her injured sister; and, as she dropped upon her
knees beside the bed, she cried, breathlessly: "Oh, Dorrie! what an
unfortunate, lucky, lucky girl you are!"--a bull that scattered
threatening tears and set them both laughing.
As Sybil tossed off her street garments and prepared to make Dorothy
more comfortable, she said, heedlessly: "No wonder you believe so in
your God, when He never fails to save you from danger. Let me put myself
behind a vicious, bolting brute of a horse, and the Supreme Power would
leave me to the broken neck appropriate to the situation; and a good
diamond and a lover saved for--why! why! silly girl! I meant no harm!
Did I say something irreverent? Oh, don't you understand? My heart's so
full of gratitude for your safety, dear, that my head is turning a bit
silly. You would trust Him anyway? Of course you would, you loyal little
Christian! I have known your prayers unanswered many a long month, and
that you thought the fault was somehow yours. You are one of those
wonderful beings who could wring joy out of sorrow, believing that
'whom God loveth, He chasteneth'! I am not saint enough for that, but at
this moment my very heart is beating out the triumphant old Doxology,
'Praise God from whom all blessings flow!' because you were not killed
yesterday; but are here at home only a little chipped and scratched, and
because you have a promised husband and I have a strapping big-promised
brother. And I do pray, I honestly do! on my knees, dear! that God will
bless you both, and so renew your love each day that it may never grow
old. And there's a kiss for _you_ [kissing her on the lips], and here's
a kiss for _him_ [kissing Dorothy's cheek], and, ah! you simpleton--
you--you boiled beet! Oh, why have you an arm in splints? To blush so
idiotically before just _me_! Oh, what joy it would be to pound you with
a pillow! But sit up instead, and let me brush that tangled hair. The
idea of poor papa trying to arrange it for the night, and yet his
efforts were to be preferred to Lena's. Now, miss, while I am engaged
behind you with the brush, you may proceed to explain how it feels to
wear a solitaire--such a solitary solitaire! Poor little
ringless-fingers girl! And you may also throw some light upon the
feelings of a young person who engages herself to be married over her
elder sister's head."
But Dorothy had groaned a little from pain, and Sybil silenced her
teasing tongue, made Dorothy all orderly and comfortable, cast hemp-seed
recklessly before noisy Dick to buy his quiet; and then, seating herself
by the bed, was studying Juliet's lines while Dorothy dozed, until
awakened by the arrival of a big bunch of flowers and a note.
For several days there seemed to be an odd constraint upon the
household. John Lawton, always rather silent, now became fairly dumb. He
never entered the sitting-room, but remained out of doors nearly all the
time.
Mrs. Lawton looked heavy-eyed and nervous, and evidently greatly missed
Dorothy's care and gentle coddling. Lena she had attempted to ignore;
but, alas, she depended too utterly upon that sole servitor for food and
drink and warmth and order. So she had to content herself with giving
commands in a very cold voice, using very large words, and averting her
face during their delivery. Her manner during her short visits to the
girls' room was one of poorly restrained anger. She had not seen Dorothy
alone since her attempted lecture on the day of the accident; and, as
John Lawton had never resumed the interrupted subject of the hated
engagement, she remained uninformed as to Leslie Galt's bright prospects
until that day when, with nerve worthy of respect, he had presented
himself before the irate mother of his sweetheart, and, remembering her
contemptuous disregard of the famous warning against "Greeks bearing
gifts"--knowing, indeed, that she really had no use for Greeks otherwise
engaged--he kept some suggestive small packages in evidence as he
entered the sitting-room.
And as he brought himself a chair and placed it close to her
never-resting "rocker," he recognized in the buzzing swarm of verbal
wasps she turned loose upon him the words "disrespectful--unnerved--
paralysed--disingenuous--stealthy--infringing--intruding--inveigling,"
and with failing breath the last warning injunction: "And let me hear no
panegyrical eulogy on poverty, if you please, sir!"
Then with a wisdom far beyond his years he retired to the background his
lover's raptures, his glowing admiration for her daughter's beauty; and
bringing forward the thrilling question of "pounds, shillings, and
pence," they soon resolved themselves into a "ways and means committee."
And presently Letitia's wasps turned to bees, and the bees began to bear
the honey of sweet words.
Then she accepted most graciously these offerings, and bridled and
declared she "already felt quite old at the prospect of mothering such a
great wicked man!" And when he made the usual complimentary rejoinder,
she pronounced him "saucy," and "wondered, if he talked in that fashion
to her, what on earth he would not say to Dorothy!" and was full of
regret when he insisted upon going out to look for Mr. Lawton. Then up
she went to the room above, where Dorothy was holding the play-book in
her free hand and giving the cues, while Sybil repeated her lines to see
how nearly letter perfect she was.
Both girls exclaimed: "Why, mamma!" Her expression had changed so
completely and her walk was so important--quite her old-time society
movement. And then as she approached the bed they caught the first
glimpse of a long fine chain of exquisite workmanship, strung at
intervals of five or six inches with pale pink coral beads that were in
turn girdled with a circle of tiny diamonds.
Mrs. Lawton ostentatiously lifted her lorgnon, and again the girls
exclaimed: "Why, mamma!" And then, as she stooped over to kiss Dorothy,
she remarked, quite patronizingly: "Yes, our Leslie is very generous and
thoughtful. He wanted me to have a little memento of your engagement,
dear fellow!"
She did not add that the other memento was a large Strasbourg pate. She
kept that fact, like the pate, to herself.
* * * * *
Some weeks slipped by, and early winter was turning the old white house
into a very Franz Joseph Land. "Oh!" cried Dorothy one day, "to think of
your having to buy all the coal, Sybil! What stupid things the
conventions are! I may accept any extravagant outlay of money in flowers
or candy or fruit, but the entire family would be under the grand taboo
if I received a ton of coal or a barrel of flour."
"Is the flour out, dear?" quickly asked Sybil, laying down her
play-book. "Have you been worrying your poor little head? Don't hide
things from me, Dorrie! If I have the money, I love to spend it for
home. Of course my salary is small, but, dear heaven! what should we
have done without it in this old sieve of a building, where fuel simply
melts away, and the grate or stove is always calling out for more? Oh,
Dorrie, if I could only make a hit in Juliet! Mr. Thrall would surely
raise my salary; yes, in spite of the cost of those costumes that fall
upon him, poor man! Are they not a wonderful people--Claire Morrell and
Stewart Thrall? Think of the kindness of that woman to me, a nobody! And
think of such an actor as Thrall--Stewart Thrall--taking the trouble to
teach me the business of Juliet, his very self. Oh, I shall be so
frightened! Dorrie, Mr. Roberts has been very patient, going over and
over the scenes with me; telling me where I am to stand and where the
other people will be, and what they will do, but he never has taught me
anything about the actual acting of Juliet. And now to think that I am
to be coached at God-mother Van Camp's house by Mr. Thrall in person! I
only hope and pray he may not light up as he does sometimes when he is
acting, for, if he does, I shall forget my own lines in rapturously
listening to him. Do you know, Mr. Roberts is sorry that Mr. Thrall ever
undertook the management of a theatre?"
"Why?" asked Dorothy, "he is successful--he must make a great deal of
money?"
"That is the very thing poor Mr. Roberts bemoans. He says the artist in
him has been suffocated by his commercially won money. He says that Mr.
Thrall will himself admit that his acting to-day is not as convincingly
true and fine as it was five years ago. Because then he was all
enthusiasm, and believed in the dignity and beauty of the art of acting,
while to-day he regards it as a means to an end--and that end, money.
Poor Mr. Roberts, he seems to know so much about the profession, and
yet only plays such small parts. It must be very humiliating. His lip
curled so contemptuously when he told me he was going to play the
Apothecary. Do you know, Dorrie, I have a suspicion about him, poor man!
He always, always smells of cloves, and twice yesterday when he pulled
out his handkerchief some cloves fell to the floor, and I said: 'I
believe you have a corner on cloves, Mr. Roberts.' And, oh, his poor
face turned so red, and I added, hurriedly, 'Don't you think the
excessive use of cloves may be injurious to the digestion?' 'Possibly,'
he answered, satirically, 'and doubtless still more injurious to the
reputation.' I saw his trembling hands; I recalled the watery look his
eyes sometimes have; his rapid, almost incoherent speech as opposed to
his long silences; and, all at once, I suspected him of drinking."
"Sybil!" exclaimed Dorothy in a shocked voice, "and you have been under
his care, and may be again, and he----"
"Has acted like some kind and patient old relative or friend of the
family; don't let us forget that. Besides, I may be wrong and ungrateful
in suspecting such a thing, but--but it would explain why Mr. Thrall,
whom he so admires, only trusts him with such poor, small parts."
Sybil had been nursing her right elbow in her left hand while speaking,
and now suddenly exclaimed: "Oh, where's the arnica bottle? I can't bear
this last bruise--it's the worst one yet!"
"The bottle is on the wash-stand behind the ewer, but I'm afraid it's
nearly empty, for Lena fairly baptized me with it that day of the----"
"Circus?" put in Sybil. "Just look, Dorrie." She pushed up her loose
sleeve, and her sister gave a cry of pity at sight of a cruel black
bruise on that most sensitive spot--the elbow.
"And your poor shoulder only yesterday?"
"And my poor knees only last week!" ruefully groaned Sybil, tenderly
sopping some arnica dregs upon the bruised member.
"Oh, those black knees!" giggled Dorothy, "they looked as if you had
knelt in the coal cellar!"
"You heartless little beast!" cried Sybil. "See here, if you laugh at my
professional troubles and ensuing physical pains--I'll----"
"You can't pound me," triumphed Dorothy, "my arm is too weak!"
"No, but I can do worse! Lena has fully informed you of the horrors that
follow upon 'calling a maid by a married name,' and the certainty that
said maid will never have a married name to be called by, so
Mrs.--Mrs.----"
"Oh, Syb! Syb! don't!" pleaded the repentant one. "Syb, I'm awfully
sorry for your knees--honestly I am! And if I could fall for you, I
would--gladly; though how in mercy's name actresses tumble down in
faints or in death-scenes, without either breaking their bones or
getting laughed at, is more than I can understand."
"Oh, it's the fear of being laughed at that tortures me, Dorrie. I could
never, never face an audience again. Why, last summer out at the
Soldiers' Home theatre, a woman had to fall in the play and the people
fairly screamed with laughter, and a newspaper said that 'Miss ---- had
not fallen, but had tumbled down in sections.' Ever since I have been
studying this part, I have agonized over my fall, and with what result?
I've bruised myself from head to foot; shaken mamma's nerves--crumbled
the ceiling--frightened papa out of the house at each crash,
and"--actually tears were in Sybil's dark eyes--"and I always land in a
hunched-up heap that would arouse scornful merriment in the very
supers."
"Poor Sybbie!" condoled Dorothy. Then more brightly: "As you can't ask
Mr. Thrall or Mr. Roberts to help you, why don't you go over to
Brooklyn; make papa take you--Claire Morrell's playing there this week.
Ask for just a moment's interview, and make a clean breast of your
trouble to her. I'm sure she would help you--she's so kind."
"Oh, I hate to trouble her when she is working so hard; and, besides, I
am afraid falling is a thing that can't be taught, Dorothy. But, oh, do
you remember her lovely fall in 'Camille'--the ballroom one I mean--all
stretched out so long and smooth, and yet falling with a crash that made
you nearly leap from your chair? It's a mystery beyond my solving."
"Lena's mash-man told her--Miss Morrell's coachman told _him_--she was
coming over home one day this week, and perhaps----"
Jangle-jangle interrupted the bell at the front door, followed by the
peculiarly business-like tread of Lena that ever indicated a suspicion
of pedler or tramp, and a shuffling, slippered flight by Mrs. Lawton,
who hissed over the banisters: "Say I'm lying down, resting, but will
descend--that is, if she has sufficient knowledge of the amenities of
social life to ask for me instead of my offspring."
Then as the girls gazed wonderingly at each other Lena appeared, smiling
broadly, but somewhat puzzled too, saying: "The big actor voman's com'
und ask for der mudder und for der miss ladies. Und I say ja, dey all
com' by der house, und blease com' in by der sittin'-rooms, 'cause we
didn't ever make of der fire in der parlor. Und she say dat vas right,
der parlor never com' like a home, und I com' up to tell. Und she leave
all dose visitin' tickets on der hall table. Und I don't know for vy."
And she held out five cards, adding, distressedly, "Und von of 'em has a
man's name on it. Dat com' by mistake, eh? I take dat back to her?"
"No, no! Lena!" laughed the girls, "that's the card of her husband!"
"Vell, shall I take back of der extra tickets? She com', a nice voman,
und it is too bad to have of der tickets vasted?"
"Oh, Lena! do go and tell mamma Miss Morrell is waiting, and leave the
cards alone," said Dorothy, "and we will explain about them to you by
and by!"
And after Mrs. Lawton had attempted to crush her caller by explaining
the "wait" for her descent by the statement that she "hardly expected
callers before three," Miss Morrell, with a gracious ignoring of the
intended snub that the girls adored her for, proceeded to explain the
necessity of calling early or not at all, as she had to return to
Brooklyn in time for her play. Whereupon Mrs. Lawton found herself, to
her own surprise be it stated, descending from her high horse and
eagerly discussing the probabilities of English five-o'clock teas ever
becoming really domesticated in America. And presently she went in
search of Mr. Lawton (whom she knew to be in the kitchen whittling
kindlings for the quick lighting of Lena's fire in the arctic-like
morning).
And then Miss Morrell, happening to press Sybil's arm, brought forth a
whimper of pain and an exhibition of bruises the cause of which she
comprehended in a moment. "Oh, you poor mottled child--what a state you
must be in? Have you been falling on the bare floor, then?"
"I've tried to fall on a mattress," confessed Sybil, "but some part of
me always flies over on the floor."
Miss Morrell threw back her head and laughed till the tears stood in her
eyes. "Then you must let me help you," she said, "it is very, very
easy." She was drawing off her gloves as she spoke, and, tossing them to
the piano, she stepped toward the centre of the room, saying, "You see,
now--" She raised her hands toward her head, and without further
preparation, without a warning word, she fell suddenly face downward
with a crash that made things jingle on the mantel, and brought two
startled screams from the girls and Mr. Lawton rushing to her
assistance. That gentleman, bending over to lift her, was stricken
helpless by her raising her head and asking, pleasantly: "My skirts are
lying all right, aren't they?" Then she added: "Oh, how do you do, Mr.
Lawton? Just give me your hand, will you? This dress is a little tight
for falling in, and I can't get up." Then, turning to Sybil, she laughed
at her astonished face: "I'm afraid you did not catch the trick, did
you?"
"Oh!" answered the girl with her hand on her heart, "I never got such a
scare in my life! How, oh, how do you do it? Just look at Dorothy! She's
quite white."
And it was difficult for the girl to believe that Miss Morrell had not
suffered in the least from such a fall.
"Why, it's just a trade secret," laughed the actress. "Some people never
fall well because their nerve fails them at the last moment, but all
their lives long are content with a sort of jointed fall--they drop on
their knees and then forward on their faces. If it is done very quickly
it passes, but one never looks graceful, and the immense effect of the
crash of the fall is missing. Then, too, an actress who goes down in
that manner not only runs the risk of being made fun of, but the
bruising over and over again of the same spot may produce a lump with a
very ugly and alarming name.
"But here is the whole wonderful secret." She held out her open hands,
and both girls saw their palms were slightly reddened. "Always throw out
your hand, both of them in beginning; keep your knees nearly stiff, and
just topple over like a great tree, but strike on the flats of your open
hands. The blow won't hurt them beyond making them sting a little. Your
knees, elbows, head, shoulders, are all safe--yet you have fallen with
immense force."
Sybil lifted her hands and made a movement as if about to try the trick,
but stopped, looking rather frightened.
"No, no--not here!" said Miss Morrell. "Try on your mattress first, and
close your eyes when you have marked where you want to strike, and then
the distance won't frighten you so. The bolder you get, the less you
will extend your hands. It requires nerve, but I'm sure that is a
quality you possess, my dear. Besides, you may not play a part requiring
a fall for a year or two yet."
And Sybil blushed hotly because she had been so charged to secrecy that
she dared not tell even this woman who was so good to her that she was
the girl about whom all the newspaper stories were appearing, and that
she was being coached for Juliet.
After a few moments of general conversation the caller rose to go, and,
while Mr. Lawton stepped to the door to signal the coachman, who had
been keeping his horses moving, Mrs. Lawton explained that in former
years the "porte cochere of her old home would have made such action
needless, but this," waving her hand condemningly, "was not a home,
but--er--er a mere shelter."
"Ah!" graciously responded the actress, "but you know there are people
who have the gift of carrying the home atmosphere with them even to
a--mere shelter."
And Mrs. Lawton really looked very handsome and quite impressive, for
she felt she was receiving her due, and all the time Sybil was secretly
squeezing the fingers of her friend, and in the hall, while her father
gallantly opened the carriage door, she whispered: "I love you so for
having helped me! And Dorothy prays for you!"
With quick anxiety in eye and voice the woman questioned: "Why not do it
yourself, my child?" But good-byes were being repeated, and with that
slight sense of dissatisfaction upon her she had to take her departure.
Then the floodgates of Mrs. Lawton's eloquence were opened, and Dorothy
and John Lawton were caught in the swirl of eulogy and reminiscence
until suddenly a heavy jar overhead and a rattling of mortar between the
partitions was followed by a shrill cry of: "I've done it! I've done it!
Dorothy! Papa! Mamma! Come here, quick! quick!"
They all fled up the stairs to find Sybil stretched out on her face on a
mattress, kicking her slippers impatiently for their coming: "Look at
me!" she cried. "See my skirts--they are just exactly as I fell! I
haven't moved an inch!"
John said, slowly: "I-t wasn't an accident, was it, daughter? Are you
sure you can do it again?"
"Oh, Sybbie!" cried Dorothy, "do try it once more--only be very careful
not to fly over and get bruised!"
And willingly enough up scrambled Sybil, and, standing at the foot of
the mattress, she threw up her hands and with closed eyes pitched
recklessly forward, and arrived in good order to cries of admiration and
wonder from the lookers-on when, suddenly, Lena appeared, saying: "Miss
Sybbils, uf you blease, do dose yumps und tumbles in der odder room. Der
ceilin's too tender under here, und a chunk com' by der floor down youst
now."
And while Mr. and Mrs. Lawton went below to measure the disaster, Sybil
threw her arm about Dorothy's waist, crying: "Oh, won't Mr. Thrall be
surprised and delighted with me when he finds I can make a real Morrell
fall!"
Then to the tune of "Take back the heart that thou gavest!" she burst
into singing:
Take back the bottle thou gavest
What are my bruised knees to thee!
and tossed the arnica bottle at Dorothy, and renewed her everlasting
study of Juliet.