THE MOMENT OF TRIUMPH
It was a buzzing and excited assemblage of young men and women that
gathered in the gymnasium of Weston High School on Saturday morning for
the much-discussed try-out. As it had been strictly enjoined upon the
students of both high schools that unless they desired to take part in
the coming operetta their presence was not requested, nor would it be
permitted, on the momentous occasion, the great room was only
comfortably filled. Weston High School was represented by not more than
twenty-five or thirty ambitious aspirants for fame, but at least a
hundred girls from Sanford High cherished hopes of gaining admission to
the magic cast. After much discussion, Marjorie and her four friends had
decided to make a bold attempt at chorus celebrity, purely for the sake
of seeing what happened. Constance had earnestly urged them to do so,
declaring that she could not sing unless they were present to encourage
her.
"I wonder if all this crowd expects to be chosen," was Jerry Macy's
blunt comment, as the sextette of girls stood grouped at one side of the
room, waiting for the affair to begin. "I hope I'm not asked to sing
alone. Not so much for my own sake. I hate to make other people feel
sad. I practised 'America' and 'Marching through Georgia' last night,
just to see what I could do. One of our maids came rushing into the
living room because she said she wondered who was making all that noise.
Then Hal poked his head in the door and asked if I was hurt. So I quit.
It was time."
Jerry's painful experience as a soloist provoked a burst of laughter
from her friends. It had hardly died away when Professor Harmon, a
stout, little man, with a shock of bushy hair and an expression of being
always on the alert, bustled in. With him came Lawrence Armitage and a
tall, dark-haired young man, a stranger to those present. The professor
trotted to the piano, opened it, held a hurried conference with his
companions, then, stepping forward, ran a searching eye over the
assembled boys and girls. The more ambitious contestants of both sexes
carried music rolls containing the selections they intended to offer,
but the majority of that carefree congregation aspired to nothing higher
than the chorus, looking upon the whole affair as a grand lark.
Professor Harmon proceeded to make a short speech, briefly outlining the
plot of the opera and stating the nature of the try-out. "We shall ask
those who wish to try for principals to step to that side of the room,"
he said, indicating the left. "I wish to hear them sing, first.
Afterward, I shall select the chorus, and hear them sing together."
"That lets me out," was Jerry's relieved, inelegant comment to
Susan Atwell, as she moved to the right. Susan stifled an irrepressible
chuckle and sobered her face for what was to come.
Over among the groups of possible principals Constance became obsessed
with sudden shyness. The majority of the girls were of the upper
classes, and she felt lonely and ill at ease. She noted that she and
Mignon La Salle were the only representatives of the sophomore class.
Mignon, looking radiant self-possession in a smart old-rose suit and hat
to match, carried herself with the air of one whose success was already
assured. Her black eyes were snapping with excitement as they darted
from the professor to the two young men standing beside the piano. She
fingered her gray morocco music roll nervously, her thin fingers never
still.
Stepping over to the piano the professor seated himself. "That young
lady on the right, please come to the piano." The girl indicated, a
dignified senior, obeyed the summons, coolly handed the professor her
music, stationed herself at his side and awaited trial with the air of a
Spartan. After a short prelude she began to sing a popular air that was
at that time going the round of Sanford. She sang one verse, then the
professor dropped his hands from the keys, inquired her name, made a
memorandum on a pad, and, dismissing her, signaled another girl to take
her place.
The try-out proceeded with a business-like snap that bade fair to end it
with speedy commission. So far nothing startling in the way of voices
had been discovered. Constance listened to the various girl soloists and
wondered if she could do as well as they. Mignon leaned far forward with
breathless interest. She was firmly convinced that her singing would
create a sensation. When at last her turn came, she walked boldly
forward. Professor Harmon smiled approval and encouragement. He desired
particularly to see her carry off the honor of the leading rôle. She
darted a lightning glance at Lawrence Armitage as she approached the
piano, but in his impassive features she could read neither approval nor
indifference.
She had chosen a French song, full of difficult runs and trills, and it
may be set down here to her credit that she sang it well. As her clear,
but somewhat unsympathetic voice rang out, a faint murmur of
approbation swept the listeners. Her long training now stood her in good
stead. Professor Harmon allowed her to go on with her song, instead of
halting her in the middle of it, as he had in the case of the previous
aspirants. When she had finished singing, she was greeted with a round
of genuine applause, the first accorded to a singer since the beginning
of the try-out. The brilliancy of her performance could not be denied,
even by those who had reason to dislike her.
"Excellent, Miss La Salle," was Professor Harmon's tribute, as he handed
her her music. Flushing with pride of achievement, the French girl
returned to her place among the others, tingling with the sweetness of
her success.
There now remained not more than half a dozen untried soloists.
Constance Stevens was among that number. By this time Marjorie was
becoming a trifle anxious. There was just a chance that Connie might be
overlooked. Naturally retiring, she would be quite likely to make no
sign, were Professor Harmon to pass her by, under the impression that
she had already sung. But Marjorie's fears were needless. Constance had
a staunch friend at court. During the try-out Lawrence Armitage's blue
eyes had been frequently directed toward the quiet, fair-haired girl of
his choice. Locked in his boyish heart was a secret knowledge that he
had composed the operetta chiefly because he had wished Constance to
have the opportunity of singing the part of the Princess. He had
consented to the try-out merely to please Professor Harmon. He was
convinced that no other girl could compare with Constance in the matter
of voice. He was glad that she was to sing last, and a smile of proud
expectation played about his mouth as Professor Harmon abruptly cut off
an enterprising senior, the last contestant before Constance, in the
midst of a high note.
The smile quickly faded to an expression of dismay as he saw the
professor rise from the piano, his eyes on his memorandum pad. At the
same instant a faint ripple of consternation was heard from a group of
girls of which Marjorie formed the center. The latter took a hurried
step forward. Marjorie was determined that Connie must not be cheated of
her chance. She had caught a glimpse of Mignon, her black eyes blazing
with insolent triumph and positive joy at the possibility of this
unexpected elimination of the girl she hated.
But Marjorie's intended protest in behalf of her friend was never
uttered. Laurie Armitage had come to the rescue. She saw him halt
Professor Harmon, as he was about to address the company. She saw the
little man's eyebrows elevate themselves in a glance toward Constance,
following Laurie's low, energetic communication. Then she felt herself
trembling with relief as Professor Harmon announced apologetically, "I
understand that I almost made the mistake of overlooking one of
Sanford's promising young singers. Will Miss Stevens please come
forward?"
Pink with the embarrassment of the professor's words, Constance made no
move to comply with the request. Good-natured Ellen Seymour, who was one
of the contestants, pushed her gently forward. Ellen's light touch awoke
Constance to motion. She walked mechanically toward the piano, as though
propelled against her will by an unseen force. The humiliation of being
even accidentally passed by looked forth from her sensitive features.
Quick to note it, Lawrence Armitage advanced toward her, took her
tightly rolled music from her hand, and, conducting her to the piano,
introduced her to Professor Harmon, apparently unmindful of the many
pairs of eyes intently watching the little scene.
"Now we are ready." The professor nodded to Constance, who stood with
her small hands loosely clasped, her grave eyes fastened upon him. He
half smiled, as his experienced fingers began the first soft notes of
Mendelssohn's Spring Song. Long ago her foster father had written a set
of exquisitely tender words that had exactly seemed to fit those
unforgettable strains, so familiar to every true lover of music.
Constance had sung them so many times that she knew them by heart. Now
she fixed her eyes on the east wall of the gymnasium, and, leaving the
world behind her, rendered the beautiful selection as though she were in
her own home, with only her dear ones to listen to the flood of
ravishing melody that issued from her white throat.
Marjorie Dean felt a swift rush of tears flood her brown eyes as she
listened to her friend. She recalled the time when she had halted at the
door of the little gray house, in wonder at that glorious voice.
Conquering her emotion, she began to take stock of the effect of the
song upon those assembled. She saw the proud flash of gladness that
leaped to Laurie's fine face. His faith in Connie's powers was being
amply fulfilled. She read the profound surprise and admiration of
Professor Harmon, as he accompanied the singing girl. She glimpsed
enthusiastic admiration in the countenances of the spell-bound students,
many of whom had never before heard Constance sing. Then her gaze
centered upon Mignon. Anger, surprise and chagrin swept the elfish face
of the French girl. She read vocalization more flawless than her own, as
well as greater sweetness and an intense sympathy, which she lacked, in
the full, sweet, rounded tones that issued from her rival's lips. This
was the voice of a great artist.
Professor Harmon turned from the piano as the last golden note died away
and held out his hand. "Allow me to congratulate you, Miss Stevens.
You----" His voice was drowned in tumult of noisy and fervent
approbation on the part of the delighted audience. Boys and girls forgot
the dignity of the occasion, and the next instant the surprised
Constance found herself surrounded by as admiring a throng as ever did
honor to a triumphant basket-ball or football star. If signs were true
presagers of victory, if the united acclamation of the majority counted,
then Constance Stevens had, indeed, come into her own.