MAKING RESTITUTION
Greatly to Mr. Ronald Atwell's chagrin, Constance Stevens began suddenly
to show a marked improvement in her work that did not in the least
coincide with his plans. Influenced by Mignon's tale of her wrongs, laid
principally at Constance's door, albeit Marjorie, too, came in for her
share of blame, he had taken a dislike to the gentle girl and lost no
opportunity to humiliate her. Privately, he regarded the entire cast,
Mignon included, as a set of silly children, and his only regard for
Mignon lay in a wholesome respect for her father's money. At heart he
was not a scoundrel, he was merely vain and selfish, and imbued with a
profound sense of his own importance. It had pleased his fancy to assume
the charge of the staging of the operetta, but now he was growing rather
tired of it and wished that it were over.
Long before this he and Mignon had come to a definite understanding
regarding the operetta. Mignon had informed him boldly that she wished
to sing the part of the Princess, and he had assured her that he would
arrange matters to her satisfaction. It, therefore, became incumbent
upon him to keep his word. He had begun his persistent annoying of
Constance, convinced that, unable to endure it, she would resign and
leave the field of honor free to the French girl. But Constance did
nothing of the sort. She stood her ground, half-heartedly at first, but
afterward, with Marjorie's words ringing in her ears, she exhibited a
steadiness of purpose that he could not shake.
At the dress rehearsal, the last before the public performance, she was
a brilliant success, compelling even his reluctant admiration. It was
now too late even to consider the possibility of Mignon replacing her,
and he informed the latter rather sheepishly of this, as he rode home
with her in her electric runabout.
For the first and last time he had the pleasure of seeing Mignon in a
royal rage, and when they reached her home, he declined her sullen offer
to send him home in her automobile, and made his escape with due speed.
Deciding he had had enough of amateurs and amateur operettas, he mailed
a note to Professor Harmon excusing himself from further service on the
plea of a telegram summoning him to New York. Whether the telegram were
a myth, history does not record. Sufficient to say that he actually went
to New York the following afternoon. And thus "The Rebellious Princess"
lost a stage manager and Mignon the hitherto chief factor in her plans.
She was also the recipient of an apologetic note from the actor, which
caused her to clench her hands in rage, then shrug her thin shoulders
with a gesture that did not spell defeat. Somehow, in some way, she
would accomplish her purpose. Even at the eleventh hour she would not
acknowledge herself beaten. Yet as the day wore on toward evening she
could think of nothing to do that would bring her her unreasonable
desire.
The operetta was to be sung in the Sanford Theatre, where the dress
rehearsal had been held. Furious almost to tears at her inability to
bring about the impossible, Mignon at last ordered her runabout and made
sulky preparations to start for the theatre. The possession of an
automobile gave her the advantage of being able to don her first act
costume at home, but her really attractive appearance in the fanciful
gown of the heartless step-sister afforded her no pleasure. She hooked
it up pettishly, made a face at herself in the mirror of her dressing
table, and, drawing her evening cloak about her, flounced downstairs to
her runabout, completely out of humor with the world in general.
She drove along recklessly, as was her custom, and when half way to the
theatre narrowly missed running down a small, sturdy figure that was
marching across the street.
"Naughty old wagon," screamed a familiar voice after her.
At sound of that piping voice, Mignon stopped her car and peered out.
Trotting along the sidewalk a little to her rear was a small boy with a
diminutive violin case tucked under his arm. Little Charlie Stevens had
come forth once more to see the world. In a flash wicked inspiration
came to Mignon. The Stevens child was running away again, but this time
he had chosen an evening exactly to her liking. Slipping out of her car
she ran toward the boy. "Why, good evening, little boy," she called
pleasantly. "Where are _you_ going?"
"I know you. You're a naughty girl!" observed Charlie with more truth
than courtesy. He braced himself defiantly and regarded Mignon with
patent disapproval.
"I am so sorry you think so." Mignon affected a sadness which she was
far from feeling at this unvarnished statement. "I was going to take you
for a ride and buy you some ice cream."
Charlie considered this astonishing offer in silence. He stared
frowningly at Mignon. "Is it chok'lit ice cream?" he asked, eyeing her
in open disbelief.
"Of course it is. As much as you can eat."
"All right. I want some. But you're a naughty girl, just the same. Mary
said so."
Mignon shrugged indifferently. She was not greatly concerned at either
his or Mary's opinion of her. "Come on, if you want a ride," she urged.
Charlie obeyed with some show of reluctance. He was not sure that even
the prospect of ice cream warranted his surrender. Mignon caught him up
and swung him into the runabout. Her wrist watch pointed to fifteen
minutes past seven. She had no time to lose. She drove rapidly through
the town to a small confectioner's store at the other end. Charlie kept
up a lively chatter as they rolled along. Stopping before it she lifted
the boy from the automobile, and, taking his hand, hurried him into the
brightly lighted store. Seating him at a table, she ordered two plates
of chocolate ice cream and sat down opposite the boy, her black eyes
glittering as she watched him eat. From time to time she glanced at her
watch. When the child had finished his plate of cream, she pushed her
own toward him. "Eat it," she commanded.
Charlie responded nobly to the command. When she saw the last spoonful
vanish, she smiled elfishly. It was eight o'clock. The operetta began at
half past eight. Allowing herself fifteen minutes to reach the theatre
and carry out the last step in her plan, she would arrive there at
fifteen minutes past eight.
The wandering musician made strenuous objection, however, to leaving the
ice cream parlor. "I could eat more chok'lit cream," he informed her.
"You are a greedy boy," she said, her former friendliness vanishing into
angry impatience. "Come with me this minute."
"You're a cross old elefunt," was Charlie's crushing but inappropriate
retort.
Mignon was in no mood for an exchange of pleasantries. Seizing Charlie
by the arm she hustled him out of the shop into her runabout, and was
off like the wind. When half way between the shop and the theatre, she
halted her car. Lifting the boy out she set him on the sidewalk before
he had time to protest. "Now go where you please. I'll tell Connie to
come and find you," was her malicious farewell. Stepping into the
runabout she drove away, leaving Charlie Stevens to take care of himself
as best he might.
Although Mignon was unaware of the fact, there had been an amazed
witness to the final scene in her little drama. A fair-haired girl had
come up just in time to hear her heartless speech and see her drive
away, leaving a small, perplexed youngster on the sidewalk. That girl
was Mary Raymond. She had steadily refused Marjorie's earnest plea that
she attend the much-talked-of performance of "The Rebellious Princess,"
and directly after dinner that evening, on the plea of mailing a letter,
had slipped from the house on one of her melancholy, soul-searching
walks which she had become so fond of taking. Convinced that she was an
utter failure, imbued with a daily growing sense of her own unfitness to
be the friend of a girl like Marjorie Dean, Mary was plunged into the
depths of humiliation and unhappiness. This alone had been the cause of
the marked change in her that Marjorie had innocently attributed to
Mignon's defection. In her sad little soul there was now no bitterness
against Constance Stevens. Quite by chance she had one day not long past
encountered Jerry Macy in Sargent's, alone. Touched by her woe-begone
air, Jerry had taken pains to draw her out. With her usual shrewdness
the stout girl had discovered the real cause of Mary's depression, and
kindly advised her to have a heart-to-heart talk with Marjorie. Jerry
had also made it a point to inform Mary, so far as she knew the details,
of the trouble over the butterfly pins during Marjorie's freshman year,
and of Mignon's cruel treatment of Constance. Distinctly to Jerry's
credit, she told no one afterward of that chance meeting, yet she
secretly hoped that what she had said would have its effect upon Mary.
Overwhelmed with shame, Mary had left the talkative, stout girl and
dragged herself home, in an agony of humiliation that can be better
imagined than described. She felt that she could never forgive herself
for the ignoble thoughts she had harbored against innocent Constance
Stevens, and she was still more certain that she could never ask either
Marjorie or Constance to forgive _her_. Again and again she had tried to
bring herself to approach Marjorie and humbly sue for pardon. The weight
of her own troubled conscience prevented her from yielding, and thus she
kept her sorrow locked in her aching heart and waited dejectedly for the
day when she must leave the Deans' pleasant home, taking with her
nothing but bitter self-reproach for her own folly.
It was in this black mood that Mary had wandered forth that evening and
straight into the path of the very thing that was destined to bring her
peace. Mignon had hardly driven away when Mary caught the venturesome
youngster in her arms. The boy gave a jubilant little shout as he saw
who held him. Mary, however, was still at a loss regarding the meaning
of what she had seen.
"Every time the cross girl scolds Charlie, you come and get him," was
the joyful exclamation. "She wasn't cross all the time. She gave Charlie
a ride and lots of ice cream. Then she wented away. She said she'd tell
Connie to come and find me. Connie's gone to the the'tre. I wented, too,
but the naughty girl got Charlie."
"Charlie boy, try to tell Mary, where was he when the cross girl got
him?"
"Way over there." Charlie waved an indefinite hand in the wrong
direction.
Mary stood still, in a perplexed endeavor to read meaning in the nature
of Mignon's strange action. Suddenly the light burst upon her. "Oh!" she
cried, dismay written on every feature. "Now I begin to understand!" She
glanced wildly about her. Far up the street shone the light of an
oncoming street-car. Seizing Charlie by the hand she hurried him to the
corner. It was not more than two minutes until the car came to a
creaking stop before them. Mary helped Charlie into it and fumbled in
her purse. She had just two nickels. Breathing her relief, she paid the
fares, deposited Charlie on a seat beside her, then stared out the
window in an anxious watch of the streets.
But while Mary Raymond was making a desperate attempt to redeem herself
by at least one kind act, Mignon La Salle had reached the theatre.
Dropping all appearance of haste, she strolled past the groups of gaily
attired boys and girls, nodding condescendingly to this one and that,
and switched downstairs to the dressing room which she occupied with
several other girls. Leisurely removing her cloak, she plumed herself
before the mirror. Her black eyes constantly sought her watch, however.
At last she turned from the mirror with a peculiar smile and abruptly
left the room. Straight to the star's dressing room she walked. Her thin
fingers beat a sharp tattoo on the door. It opened, and she stood face
to face with Constance Stevens, who was just about to take her place in
the wings, preparatory to the beginning of the opera. She was to make
her first entrance directly after the opening chorus.
"I came to tell you, Miss Stevens," said Mignon with an indescribable
smile of pure malice, "that I saw your brother, Charlie, wandering along
the street as I drove to the theatre. I suppose he has run away."
With a frightened cry, Constance dashed past her and up the stairs.
Mignon laughed aloud as she watched the vanishing figure. "That settles
her," she muttered. "Harriet Delaney can sing my part. She has
understudied it." Springing into sudden action she ran to her dressing
room, eluding a collision with the feminine portion of the chorus who
were scurrying for the stage in obedience to a gong that summoned them
to the wings. Reaching to a hook in the wall, from which depended her
several costumes, hung over one another, she took from under them an
almost exact copy of the gown Constance Stevens was wearing in the first
act and held it up with a murmur of satisfaction. Stripping off the gown
she wore she hastily donned this other costume. Then she sat down to
await what she believed would happen.
But while Mignon busied herself with her own affairs, Constance was
making a hurried search for Laurie Armitage. Unluckily, he had gone, for
the moment, to the front of the house. Professor Harmon, too, was not in
sight. He also had gone to the front to take his place in the orchestra
pit. What could she do? The performance was about to begin. To leave
the theatre on a search for Charlie meant disaster to Laurie's operetta.
To leave Charlie to wander about the streets alone was even more
terrifying. She flitted past the waiting choristers, drawn up for
action, without a word of explanation. Marjorie Dean caught one look at
her friend's terrified face. It was enough to convince her that
something unusual had happened. Slipping out of her place in the line
she followed Constance, who was making directly for the stage door.
Marjorie saw her fling it open and glance wildly into the night. She ran
toward Connie, calling out, "What is the matter?"
As the question crossed her lips both girls saw a familiar girlish
figure, strangely burdened, running toward them as fast as the weight
she carried would permit her to run. With a cry which rang in Marjorie's
ears for days afterwards Constance darted forward. She wrapped the girl
and her burden in a tumultuous embrace, laughing and crying in the same
breath.
"The cross girl got Charlie, then she runned away and Mary comed and
found him. Charlie's goin' to the the'tre to play in the band. Mary said
so." He wriggled from the tangle of encircling arms to the stone walk.
"Hello, Marj'ry," he greeted genially.
Marjorie turned from the marvelous sight of the two she loved best in
each other's arms. It was too wonderful for belief. Tardy remembrance
caused her to utter a dismayed, "You'll be late, Connie! Hurry in. Mary
and I will take care of Charlie. It doesn't matter if I do miss the
opening number."
With a swift glance at Mary that contained untold gratitude, Constance
faltered, "I--love--you--Mary, for taking care of Charlie! I'll see you
again as soon as I can. Good-bye!"
She was gone in a flash, leaving Mary and Marjorie to face each other
with full hearts.
"You are my own, dear Mary again." Marjorie's clear voice was husky with
emotion, "and my very first and best chum, forever!"
Mary nodded dumbly, her blue eyes overflowing.
"I've--come--back--to--you--to stay," she whispered. And on the stone
steps, worn by the passing of the feet of those who had entered the
theatre to play many parts, these two young players in Life's varied
drama enacted a little scene of love and forgiveness that was entirely
their own.