The Money-makers
"All Saints'" brought a brief spell of golden weather, a snatch of
Indian summer, as if Persephone, loth to go down into the Underworld,
had managed to steal a few days' extra leave from Pluto, and had
remained to scatter some last flowers on earth before her long
banishment from the sunshine. Under the sheltered brick wall in the
kitchen-garden Czar violets were blooming, sweet and fragrant as those
of spring; the rose trees had burst out into a second crop, and the
chrysanthemums were such a special show that Miss Walters almost shook
hands with Jones the gardener over them. Little wild flowers blossomed
on in quiet nooks at the edge of the shrubbery, and butterflies, brought
out by the bright days, made a last flutter in the sunshine. The leaves,
which Carmel had grieved so much to see fall, lay crisp and golden on
the ground, but the bare boughs of the trees, somewhat to her surprise,
held a beauty of form and tint quite their own.
"They are all sorts of lovely soft delicate colors," she remarked.
"Quite different from trees in Sicily. I think it must be the damp in
the air here that does it; everything seems seen through a blue haze--a
kind of fairy glamour that makes them different from what they are!"
"Wait till you see them on a sousing wet December morning!" declared
Gowan. "You won't find much romance about them then!"
"But in the meantime we'll enjoy them!" said Miss Walters, who happened
to overhear. "Who votes for a walk this afternoon? Anybody who prefers
to stop at home and write French translation may do so!"
The girls grinned. Miss Walters did not often give them an unexpected
holiday, so such treats were appreciated when they came. Twenty-one
enthusiasts donned strong boots, jerseys, and tam-o'-shanters, and
started forth for a ramble on the hill-side. They had climbed through
the wood, and were walking along the upper road that led to the hamlet
of Five Stone Bridge, when they came face to face with a very curious
little cavalcade. Two large soap boxes, knocked together, had been
placed on old perambulator wheels, and in this roughly fashioned
chariot, on a bundle of straw and an old shawl, reclined a little, thin,
white-faced girl. One sturdy boy of ten was pushing the queer
conveyance, while a younger pulled it by a piece of rope, and the small
occupant, her lap full of flowers, smiled as proudly as a queen on
coronation day. Against the background of green hedgerow and red village
roofs, the happy children made a charming picture; they had not noticed
the approach of the school, and were laughing together in absolute
unconsciousness. The sight of them at that particular moment was one of
those brief glimpses into the heart of other folks' lives that only come
to us on chance occasions, when by some accident we peep over the wall
of human reserve into the inner circle of thought and feeling. Almost
with one accord the girls stopped and smiled.
"I wish I'd brought my camera!" murmured Dulcie.
"They're too sweet for words!" agreed Prissie.
Miss Walters spoke to the children, asked their names, and ascertained
that the little girl had been ill for a long time, and could not walk.
They were shy, however, and all the spontaneous gladness that had made
the first snapshot view of them so charming faded away in the presence
of strangers. They accepted some pieces of chocolate, and remained by
the hedge bank staring with solemn eyes as the line of the school filed
away. The chance meeting was no doubt an event on both sides: the
children would tell their mother about the ladies who had spoken to
them, and the girls, on their part, could not forget the pretty episode.
They urged Miss Walters to make some inquiries about the family, and
found that little Phyllis was suffering from hip disease, and had been
for a short time in the local hospital. Then an idea sprang up amongst
the girls. It was impossible to say quite where it originated, for at
least five girls claimed the honor of it, but it was neither more nor
less than that Chilcombe School should raise a subscription and buy an
adequate carriage for the small invalid.
"That terrible box must shake her to pieces, poor kid!"
"It had no springs!"
"She looked so sweet!"
"But as white as a daisy!"
"Wouldn't she be proud of a real, proper carriage?"
"Can't we write off and order one at once?"
"What would it cost?"
"Let's get up a concert or something for it."
"Oh, yes! That would be ever such sport!"
Miss Walters, on being appealed to, was cautious--caution was one of her
strong characteristics--and would not commit herself to any reply until
she had consulted the doctor who attended the child, the clergyman of
the parish, and the local schoolmaster. Armed with this accumulated
information, she visited the mother, then gave a report of her
interview.
"They're not well off, but we mustn't on any account pauperize them,"
was her verdict. "Dr. Cranley says an invalid carriage would be a great
boon to the child, but suggests that the parents should pay half the
expense. They would value it far more if they did so, than if it were
entirely a gift. He knows of a second-hand wicker carriage that could
be had cheap. It belongs to another patient of his, and he saw it at
their house only the other day. If you girls can manage to raise about
£2, 10s., the parents would do the rest. He was mentioning the subject
of a carriage to them a short time ago, and they said they could afford
something, but not the full price. He thinks this would settle the
matter to everybody's satisfaction."
Dr. Cranley's proposal suited the girls, for £2, 10s. was a sum that
seemed quite feasible to collect among themselves. They determined,
however, to get as much fun out of the business as possible.
"Don't let's have a horrid subscription list!" urged Lilias. "It's so
unutterably dull just to put down your name for half a crown. I hoped we
were going to give a concert."
"What I vote," said Gowan, "is that each bedroom should have a show of
its own, ask the others to come as audience, charge admission, and
wangle the cash that way."
"There'd be some sport in that!" agreed Lilias.
"It's great!" declared Dulcie.
"You bet it will catch on!" purred Prissie.
Gowan's scheme undoubtedly caught on. It was so attractive that there
was no resisting it. Even the occupants of the Gold bedroom, who as a
rule were not too ready to receive suggestions from the Blue Grotto,
could not find a single fault, and plumped solidly for a dramatic
performance. Each dormitory was to give any entertainment it chose, and
while the Brown room decided on Nigger Minstrels, and the Green room on
a general variety program, the Blue, Gold and Rose were keen on acting.
Miss Walters, who, of course, had to be consulted, not only gave a
smiling permission, but seemed on the very verge of suggesting a
personal attendance, then, noticing the look of polite agony which swept
over the faces of the deputation, kindly backed out from such an
evidently embarrassing proposal, and declared that she and the
mistresses would be too busy to come, and must leave the girls to manage
by themselves.
"Thank goodness!" exclaimed Gowan, when they were safely out of earshot
of the study door. "I never dreamt of such an awful thing as Miss
Walters offering to turn up! Why, we couldn't have had any fun at all!"
"We'd have had to act Shakespeare, or something stilted out of a book!"
shuddered Edith.
"I should simply shut up if any of the mistresses were looking on,"
protested Dulcie.
"And I should shut down, and crawl under a bed, I think," laughed
Noreen. "I say, I hope Miss Walters wasn't offended. We certainly looked
very blank when she began asking us the price of 'stalls.' I suppose it
wasn't exactly what you'd call polite!"
"Perhaps it wasn't, but it can't be helped," groaned Gowan. "It would
wreck everything to have an audience of mistresses. I feel we've escaped
a great danger. We must warn the others not to be too encouraging, or
give the mistresses any loophole of an excuse to butt in. This
particular show is to be private and confidential."
It was decided to hold each performance on a separate day, during the
evening recreation time.
"_Matinées_ are no good!" decreed Prissie. "Everybody feels perfectly
cold in the afternoon. It's impossible to get up any proper enthusiasm
until the lamps are lighted."
"I feel a perfect stick at 4 P. M.," admitted Carmel.
"What will you feel later on?"
"A sort of combination of Mary Pickford and Charlie Chaplin thrown
together, I hope!" twinkled Carmel. "It depends whether you put me on a
comic turn or a romantic scene."
"I vote we have a little bit of both," said Gowan. "We'll harrow their
feelings first, and end in comedy."
The five bedrooms drew lots for the order of their performances, and the
honor of "first night" fell to the Blue Grotto. Its occupants (including
Carmel, whose dressing-room was considered an annex) held a rejoicing
committee to plan out their play. Squatting on Gowan's bed, they each
contributed portions of the plot.
"Shall we write it out and learn our parts?" asked Lilias.
"Certainly not. It would quite spoil it if you were just reeling off
speeches by heart, with one ear open to the prompter. I know you! I
shall never forget Lilias when we did 'The Vanity Bag.' She said her
bits as if she were repeating a lesson, and Bertha----"
"Are we to say anything we like, then?" interrupted Carmel, for Gowan's
reminiscences were becoming rather too personal for purposes of harmony.
"We'll map the whole thing out beforehand, of course, but you must just
say what comes into your head at the moment. It will be ever so much
fresher and funnier. All you've got to do is to get into the right
spirit and play up!"
"All serene! As long as no mistresses are sitting looking on, I don't
mind."
The Blue Grotto, being the first on the list of performances, was
determined to do the thing in style. Bertha and Carmel between them
evolved a poster. It was painted in sepia on the back of one of Dulcie's
school drawings, sacrificed for the purpose. It represented the profile
of a rather pert looking young person with a tip-tilted nose and an eye
several sizes larger than was consistent with the usual anatomy of the
human countenance. Lower down, in somewhat shaky lettering, was set
forth the following announcement:
[Illustration:
Come to the blue Grotto!
GRAND DRAMA
"THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE"
·FEATURING·
THE SISTERS INGLETON..........The Cheverley Favourites
SIGNORINA CARMEL LESLIE....The famous Sicilian Comedienne
MISS GOWAN BARBOUR..............The Daisy of Chilcombe
MISS BERTHA CHESTERS...................(Our Bert)
Have half an hour of Fun and Pathos
It will do you good to laugh and cry
SILVER COLLECTION]
This they placed temporarily in the passage, but when the girls had
giggled over it sufficiently they removed it, for fear its attractions
might tempt some of the mistresses into asking permission to attend, a
fatality which must at all costs be avoided.
The performers spent a hectic day making arrangements. The time allowed
in their dormitory was necessarily limited, so preparations were a
scramble. The four beds were moved and placed as seats, and one corner
of the room was reserved as the stage. Carmel's dressing-room made an
excellent "green room," and gave the Blue Grotto a substantial
theatrical lift over other dormitories.
Ten minutes before the hour, five distracted actresses were struggling
to complete their impromptu toilets.
"I'm so rocky, I know I shan't be able to say anything at all!"
fluttered Dulcie.
"Nonsense! Pull yourself together, child!" urged Gowan. "Get some
stiffening into you, can't you?"
"I'm going to have umpteen dozen fits!"
"You've got to reckon with me if you spoil the play, so there! Don't be
a silly cockchafer!"
"Are we downhearted?" twittered Bertha.
"No!" answered a stalwart chorus of three, hauling up Dulcie, who was
sitting on a chair shivering in the agonies of an acute attack of stage
fright.
By this time the audience was trooping in, and seating itself upon the
beds, and by frantic clapping clamored for the entertainment to begin.
Gowan opened the show, and took the stage in the character of Miss
Monica Morton, an elderly spinster. Her make-up was very good,
considering the limited resources of the company. Some cotton wool did
service for white hair neatly arranged under a boudoir cap; her dress
(borrowed from Noreen, who was a head taller than Gowan) fell to her
ankles; she wore spectacles, and wrinkles had been carefully painted
across her forehead. Bertha, a forward chit of a maidservant (servants
on the stage invariably assume a cheekiness of manner that would never
be tolerated by any employer in private life), bounced in and handed her
a letter, and stood making grimaces to the audience while her
mistress--very foolishly--read its contents aloud. It ran thus:
"11 PARK LANE,
"MAYFAIR.
"DEAREST MONICA,
"We are sending Dorothea down to you by the first train in the
morning, and we beg you will keep a strict eye on her. An
individual named Montague Ponsonby has been paying her great
attentions, and we wish to break off the attachment. He is well
born, but absolutely penniless, and as Dorothea will some day
be an heiress, we do not wish her to throw herself away upon
him. Please do your best to prevent any such folly.
"Your affectionate sister,
"ELIZABETH STRONG."
Miss Morton, on grasping the drift of this epistle, exhibited symptoms
of distress. She flung out her arms in a dramatic attitude, and confided
to the audience her disinclination to take over the unwelcome task of
becoming duenna to her niece. There was no other course open to her,
apparently; the idea of sending the girl home by the next train, or of
hastily packing her own box and departing somewhere on urgent business
did not seem to occur to her. She grumbled, but accepted the
responsibility, and Jemima, the pert maidservant, made faces behind her
back, till summoned by a violent knocking, when she flew to the door and
admitted Dorothea, with bag and baggage.
Lilias, as the fashionable niece, was "got up regardless." Her hair was
done in a Grecian knot, a veil was twisted round her picture hat, and
she sailed into the room with the assurance of a Society beauty.
Aunt Monica, suppressing the letter of warning, gave the customary
greetings, then--with the imprudence characteristic of a stage
aunt--announced her intention of going out to do shopping while her
niece unpacked her possessions.
Instead of doing anything so sensible as to unpack, Dorothea sank into a
chair, and in an attitude of great languor and despair confided her love
affairs to the sympathetic and interested servant, who swore fealty and
offered all possible assistance. Her kind intentions were put at once to
the test, for immediately another violent knocking was heard, she flung
open the door, and after a whispered colloquy announced "Mr. Montague
Ponsonby."
The entrance of Carmel, as hero of the drama, created quite a sensation.
Materials for masculine attire were scanty at Chilcombe Hall, and, as
the girls felt rather mean for not having invited the mistresses to
their performance, they had not dared to ask for the loan of any
theatrical properties, and had been obliged to concoct costumes from
anything that came to hand. Carmel had put her feet through the sleeves
of her brown knitted jumper, and drawn it up so that the cuffs fitted
just below her knees, and made a really striking resemblance to a pair
of gentleman's sporting breeches. A coat covered any deficiencies at the
waist, a paper collar and a scarlet tie encircled her throat,
india-rubber waders did service for top-boots, her hair was tucked under
a felt hat (with the trimming wrenched off), and last, but not least,
her lip was adorned with the black mustache which Prissie had used on
Hallowe'en. She looked such a magnificent and sporting object, that it
was no wonder the fashionable Dorothea fell into her arms.
It is perhaps unusual for a gentleman to conduct his love-making with
his hat on, but the audience was not "viper-critical" and allowed some
latitude to Mr. Montague Ponsonby. They admired the ardor with which he
pressed his suit, the fervor of his protestations of fidelity, the
dramatic roll of his dark eyes, and the tender tone of his voice. His
entrance was considered a very brisk bit of acting, and when he paused
for breath, in a graceful stage attitude, sixteen pairs of hands gave a
hearty clap.
The lovers, possibly a little sated with the ecstacies of their
affection, turned to the sordid details of life, and sitting hand in
hand upon the sofa (improvised out of four bedroom chairs and an
eiderdown) planned an immediate elopement. They had decided to hire a
car and make for Scotland, and were discussing which hotel to stay at,
and what they should order for dinner, when the inevitable happened. The
pert maidservant rushed in, and in a voice squeaky with tragedy, warned
them of the immediate approach of Miss Monica Morton.
Of course, they ought to have expected it. Nobody except two utter
idiots would have sat philandering upon the sofa in what might be termed
"the lion's den," knowing that "the lion" might at any moment walk in
with her shopping-basket and catch them. The surprise and horror
depicted on their countenances would have commanded a good salary at a
cinema studio. Mr. Montague Ponsonby was for bluffing it, but Dorothea's
astute female brains seized a readier way out of the situation. She laid
her lover flat upon the sofa, and covered him hastily with her traveling
rug, then, opening her suitcase, flung its contents on the floor, and
knelt down in the midst of a muddle of shoes, nightdresses, and other
paraphernalia.
Aunt Monica exhibited a natural amazement at finding her niece
conducting her unpacking in the sitting-room, instead of upstairs, but
accepted her explanations with wonderful indulgence. She professed
herself tired with shopping, and moved towards the sofa to rest.
Dorothea, with sudden solicitude, sprang up to offer her a chair, and
made every human effort to lead her away from the couch. She was a
persistent, not to say obstinate, old lady, however, and she meant to
have her own way in her own house. Waving her niece aside, and
proclaiming her weariness, she sank down heavily upon the sofa. The
result was tragic, for a stifled groan resounded through the room, and
the top-boots of the luckless Montague Ponsonby kicked wildly in the
air. Miss Morton, naturally alarmed, and instantly jumping to the
conclusion that he was a burglar, screamed loudly for assistance, and a
passing policeman hastened to her call.
It is wonderful how efficient and handy the police always are on the
stage. They are invariably at the right place at the right moment, and
always step in just in time to stop a murder, prevent an explosion, or
rescue the heroine. Dulcie, who in a long blue coat, with a paper helmet
and a strap under her chin, represented the majesty of the law, hauled
the squirming Montague from the couch, and secured his wrists tightly
with a piece of clothes line supplied by the pert servant, who ought to
have been ashamed of herself for going back on her promise to help the
lovers, but probably felt a deeper obligation to the policeman, who was,
no doubt, her sweetheart, which accounted for his very convenient
presence on the doorstep.
"I arrest you in the King's name!" declared that officer, when the
clothes line was sufficiently knotted, and Montague had ceased
struggling. "You will be brought up on trial before the court, and
charged with house-breaking and resisting the police."
It was only then that the wretched man began to protest his innocence,
and that Dorothea, falling on her knees, explained his name, errand, and
intentions, and entreated her aunt to overlook the matter.
Miss Morton wavered visibly. It was evident that her natural kindness of
heart gave her a bias towards the lovers--she had, perhaps, been through
an affair of the same sort herself in her youth--yet on the other hand
her duty to her sister urged her to take stern measures. She drew the
letter from her pocket with the seeming intention of strengthening her
resolution against the hopes of Montague, and was shaking her head
sadly over it, when the obstreperous servant, who had rushed for no
apparent reason, except habit, to the door, bounded back, waving a
yellow envelope. A well-trained maid usually presents a telegram upon a
tray, but Miss Morton must have been accustomed to Jemima's rough ways,
or was too agitated to rebuke her; she tore open the missive, glanced at
its contents, and with a scream of joy sank fainting into her domestic's
faithful arms.
Of course, somebody had to read the telegram aloud. The policeman seemed
to think it was his business. He picked it up, and proclaimed it in the
manner of a town crier. It was short, but much to the point.
"Please encourage Montague Ponsonby. Uncle has died and
left him vast fortune.
"ELIZABETH."
Everybody recovered at the good news. Miss Morton rose from the arms of
Jemima, apologized to Mr. Ponsonby for having mistaken him for a
burglar, and invited him to stay to lunch. He begged her not to mention
the matter, and as soon as his wrists had been released by the
policeman, he shook hands cordially with his prospective aunt, and made
a pretty speech expressing his desire to become a member of the family.
This was undoubtedly the moment for the curtain to descend, but as that
most useful of stage adjuncts was conspicuous by its absence, the actors
lined up instead, and made their parting bows with much éclat, Dorothea
leaning elegantly upon her lover's shoulder, Aunt Monica holding aloft
the telegram, the policeman saluting, and the maidservant blowing
kisses.
The applause was so thunderous that the performers were obliged to beg
the audience to use self-restraint and limit the noise, for fear one of
the mistresses should feel in duty bound to pay a surprise visit, and be
scandalized at the costumes. Moreover, a clanging bell warned them that
the recreation hour was over, so there was a hasty exit and a quick
change into normal garments. Miss Hardy was kind that evening, and
turned a blind eye to deficiencies of order. She was seen
surreptitiously reading the program, and it was the general opinion in
the dormitory that she and the other mistresses were much disappointed
at having been excluded from the entertainment.
"It did seem rather mean not to ask them," said Gowan,
self-reproachfully, "though they'd have spoilt the whole show. I vote we
give another some time--a prunes and prism affair without any lovers in
it--and let them all come."
"Right you are! But it will be a tame business after this!" agreed
Bertha.