"Veronica Browning!" Marjorie cried out admiringly. "You magnificent
person. Where, oh where, did you get that wonderful, I won't say gown,
I'll say robe? Certainly you never walked through the streets of Sanford
in _that_."
"Oh, no, I ordered a----" Veronica checked herself, looking vexed. "Miss
Archer insisted that I should come in a taxicab," she explained shortly.
"It's a marvelous robe." Noting Veronica's abrupt chopping off of her
first sentence, and the frown that accompanied it, Marjorie hastily
returned to the exquisite garment Veronica was wearing. It was of soft,
dead black crêpe de chine, and fell away from her dazzlingly white
throat and shoulders in long, graceful lines. Very full, it swept the
floor ending in a border of stars and crescent moons, outlined in dull
silver. The ample sleeves, edged in the same silver design, dropped away
from her round white arms, giving a wing-like effect. Over her golden
brown hair was banded a fillet of silver. A quaintly-wrought pendant in
the form of a crescent depended from it and lay directly on the center
of her forehead.
"You look like--let me see--a painting of 'Night' that I once saw!" cried
Marjorie, triumphantly recalling it in time to make the comparison. "But
what are you going to do with those black and orange wings?" Marjorie
was intently eyeing a small pair of black and orange wings that dangled
from Veronica's arm.
"I am the Night, the silvery, shadowy Night," declaimed Veronica gaily,
one white arm raised aloft. "I am going to give you a dance called
'Night.' Hence this somber robe. No, the wings don't belong to Night.
Underneath this black pall, I am a glorious black and orange butterfly.
I am to do two dances; 'Butterfly' will follow 'Night.' I can rid myself
of this black thing in about one minute or even less. As I come next to
you on the program, Connie, I will ask you to wait after your song and
fasten on my wings. Here they are."
"Where did you learn to dance, Veronica?" queried Marjorie
thoughtlessly. Instantly she regretted having asked the question.
Hastily she added: "That was rather a personal question. Perhaps I
shouldn't----"
"Oh, I don't object to telling _you_, Marjorie." A faintly amused smile
dawned upon Veronica's lips. "I have known how to dance ever since I was
a child. Most of my dances like 'Night' and 'Butterfly' I made up. The
Shadow dance I learned from seeing it done by another person. I used
to----" Again the provoking break in her speech occurred.
Marjorie's face fell. Why did Veronica always pause in the middle of
what promised to be an interesting revelation? What an extremely
peculiar girl she was. She could not refrain from wondering, too, at the
beautiful robe that this charming but tantalizing young person wore. It
must have cost a considerable sum of money. Yet Veronica appeared to
regard it with the carelessness of one who was accustomed to the best of
everything. Perhaps she had at one time been possessed of wealth and had
met with sudden reverses. Still, it was hardly likely that, given such a
contingency, she would now be so humbly earning her living and
education. Marjorie's swift cogitations ended in a sigh of defeat at her
inability to reconcile lowly Veronica with her handsome dancing dress.
Veronica's voice, quivering with suppressed laughter, broke in upon her
perplexed meditations. "Now you are wondering all sorts of things about
me," she guessed, flashing a tender glance at Marjorie. "Never mind.
Some day I may be able to set all your doubts at rest."
"It isn't a question of doubts, Ronny." Marjorie returned the other
girl's glance with one of equal affection. "I haven't a single doubt
about you. It's only that sometimes you puzzle me."
"I know I do. There are certain things----"
The arrival of Constance cut short what bade fair to have been a
confidence on Veronica's part. Directly behind Constance came Mignon La
Salle. Her black eyes widened as she caught sight of Veronica. As
Constance warmly greeted the latter the French girl continued to stare
at the black-garbed figure as though unable to believe her own eyesight.
"Good evening," she said stiffly, inclining her haughty head very
formally to Veronica. "Sorry to intrude. I thought I might find
Geraldine here."
"Didn't you see her when you came in?" asked Marjorie in surprise.
"Oh, yes. I saw her then, but I wish to tell her something." Mignon
tossed her head. Unable to keep her grievance to herself she continued
angrily: "I must have the lemonade bowl moved to one of the booths. I
don't like the present location of it. When Geraldine," she loftily
refused to shorten it to Jerry, "mentioned it to me, I didn't pay any
particular attention to what she was saving. I wish I had. At any rate,
it will have to be moved."
Blank silence succeeded this declaration. Veronica was not in touch with
the situation and therefore had nothing to say. Constance and Marjorie
knew only too well that stolid Jerry would not yield to Mignon's whim.
This knowledge robbed them both of ready speech.
The sonorous voice of Colonel Dearborn raised in an address of welcome
was borne to their ears as a timely bridge over the embarrassing
situation.
"The Campfire has begun," snapped Mignon. "I must find Geraldine." She
flaunted from the room, a disgruntled flash of yellow.
"I must go, too." Marjorie walked to the open door. "I'll see you both
later. Are you going to stay for the dance, Ronny?"
"No." Veronica shook her head. "Like Cinderella, I must flit away from
the ball as soon as I have danced." She breathed a faint sigh of regret,
then smiled mockingly. "Such social pleasures are not for a poor servant
girl."
Marjorie left the dressing room with these words still in her ears.
Taking up her position in the booth she forced herself to forget
puzzling Veronica for the moment and gave herself over to listening to
the speeches. She had missed the most of the old Colonel's brief,
soldier-like address, so she paid strict heed to those of Captain Baynes
and Miss Archer.
When they had retired, to the sound of hearty applause from the
overflowing gallery, the Weston High Glee Club lifted up their tuneful
voices in the first number of the revue. Danny Seabrooke followed them
with a clever juggling act. Marjorie's heart beat high with love and
pride as Connie stepped serenely onto the stage, with the quiet
composure that so individualized her, and awaited the prelude to her
song played by Professor Harmon. To Marjorie it seemed as though she had
never heard Connie sing more sweetly. The song she had chosen was
particularly beautiful and her clear, pure notes held a world of pathos
that went straight to the heart. Abiding by Laurie's mandate she refused
to respond to an encore, though the audience clamored persistently for
it.
Unknown to Marjorie, a curious bit of drama had preceded the dance by
Veronica, to which she was impatiently looking forward. Lawrence
Armitage had met Veronica when she entered the Armory, enveloped in a
long black cloak, and courteously conducted her to the girls' dressing
room. It being his duty to call each act, he was kept busy between the
two dressing rooms. As Constance was finishing her song, he hurried to
the left-hand dressing room and rapped on the half-open door. From
within he heard the sound of cheerful voices and light laughter. Muriel,
Susan and Rita, the feminine half of the sextette which was to follow
Veronica's dance, had gathered there and were chatting gaily with the
pretty dancer.
"Come," called Muriel Harding.
Entering, Laurie's eyes became suddenly riveted on Veronica. A perplexed
frown sprang to his brow. He was again obsessed with the conviction that
he had previously seen her in this very costume. His puzzlement deepened
as he stepped to the door and held it open for her. Catching up a fold
of her voluminous robe, she smiled and made him a saucy little curtsey
of thanks. Only a few feet intervened between the door and the three
steps leading up to the platform. A row of tall potted palms had been
set on each side of it, so as to partially conceal the entrance and exit
of each performer. The quaint curtsey of the black-garbed girl caused
truant recollection to sweep over Laurie in a flood. "Now I know where I
first saw you!" he exclaimed in a low, triumphant tone. Like a flash
Veronica laid a warning finger to her lips. "Keep it a secret," she
breathed as she flitted by him. The next instant she had scurried up the
three steps and onto the platform, leaving behind her a most amazed
young man.
A subdued breath of wondering admiration stirred the audience upstairs
and down as this lovely apparition of Night glided to the center of the
stage. For a brief instant she tarried there, raising her white arms and
lowering them with a slow, sweeping gesture that gave the effect of
darkness suddenly dropping down upon the earth. Then the orchestra
sounded a soft sighing prelude and the black and silver figure circled
the stage like a floating, elusive shadow. Few persons in that
assemblage had ever before witnessed an interpretative dance such as
Veronica performed. It was as though she had become embued with the very
spirit of Night and sought to impress it upon her audience. Every
movement and gesture was replete with meaning. She brought to the
imagination that stir of supreme mystery with which one often watches
the darkness gather and the first stars of the evening begin to twinkle
in the firmament. At the end of it she exited with a quick, gliding run,
arms horizontally outstretched, hands holding up the loose folds of her
robe, a veritable winged Night itself rushing swiftly on toward dawn.
Before the first wild echo of applause had spent itself, she was back on
the stage, miraculously metamorphosed into a gorgeous black and orange
butterfly. She proceeded to give the Sanfordites a spectacle in toe
dancing worthy a premiere. Even as she had put the soul of the Night
itself into her previous dance, now she truly resembled a huge
butterfly, sailing joyously about in the sunshine. The perfection of her
interpretation took the audience by storm. When she disappeared, or
rather fluttered from the stage, a tumult of approbation set in. Laurie
was obliged to mount the platform and explain that Miss Browning would
not respond to an encore, before quiet was again restored and the
sextette made its appearance.
Although the remaining numbers of the revue each received a generous
mead of approval, the honors of the performance were decidedly
Veronica's. Even Constance, for once, held second place. The grace and
originality of the former's interpretations had aroused enthusiasm on
all sides.
There was one person, however, who had not been pleasantly impressed by
Veronica's dancing. Mignon La Salle was enraged beyond measure at the
triumph of "that servant girl." Her own solo, as usual a difficult
French song which few present had understood and could therefore only
mildly appreciate, had been received with a far lesser degree of
enthusiasm than she had confidently expected. She blamed Marjorie Dean,
who had helped Laurie arrange the program, for placing her song so near
to the end of the revue. She was also furious with Jerry Macy. The stout
girl had calmly refused to place the lemonade bowl in one of the booths,
explaining that, as it in itself was a feature, its present position
would not be bettered by moving it to a booth.
Completely out of sorts with the world in general, Mignon cherished a
lawless desire to swoop down upon the big cut glass lemonade bowl,
overturn it, send it crashing to the floor and fling the cups that
surrounded it, after it. Her second thought was to go to Jerry, refuse
to become a purveyor of lemonade and shake the dust of the Armory from
her disdainful feet. Crafty reflection whispered to her that this course
would be folly. Jerry would take her at her word and show little sorrow
at being thus deprived of her services. It behooved her to hit upon some
new method of retaliation which would doubly repay these hateful girls
for the fancied wrongs she had suffered at their hands. She vowed that
before the third and last evening of the bazaar had ended she would find
a way to do it.