"See here, Jerry, can't something be done to keep that Miss Farnham from
completely upsetting the cast?" Laurie Armitage's fine face was dark
with disapproval as he halted Jerry, who was hurrying by him toward
Constance's dressing room. "I just heard her telling one of the girls in
the chorus that her costume was 'frightfully unbecoming.' The poor girl
turned red and looked ready to cry. She's been circulating among the
chorus ever since she and Mignon landed in the theatre. Goodness knows
what else she has been saying. It won't do. This isn't Sanford, you
know. We hope to give a perfect performance here. I wish I had told
Mignon not to bring her. I hated to do it, though. She might have got
wrathy and backed out at the last minute. If ever I compose another
operetta, I'll let somebody else manage it. I'm through," Laurie
concluded in disgust.
"Why don't you ask Mignon to keep her in the dressing room?" suggested
Jerry. "She's the only one who can manage Row-ena. I doubt if _she_
can."
"Might as well touch a match to a bundle of firecrackers," compared
Laurie gloomily. "Can't you think of anything else?"
Jerry studied for a moment. As Laurie's helper she felt that she ought
to measure up to the situation. "It's almost time for the show to
begin," she said. "The chorus will soon be too busy to bother with her.
After the first act, she'll be in Mignon's dressing room. Then I'll slip
around among the girls and whisper to them not to mind her. She can't
bother the principals. She doesn't dare go near Constance or any of the
boys like Hal and the Crane."
"Please do that." Laurie sighed with relief. "It will help me a great
deal."
Unaware that she had become the victim of a needful strategy, Rowena was
serenely deriving huge enjoyment from the brutally frank criticisms she
was lavishing right and left among the unoffending choirsters. It was a
supreme happiness to her to see her carefully delivered shots strike
home. But her ambition to wound lay not entirely with the chorus. She
was yearning for a chance to nettle Constance Stevens, whom she hated by
reason of the impassable gulf that lay between Constance and herself.
Never, since she had come to Sanford, had Constance appeared even to
know that she existed. This galled Rowena beyond expression. As a leader
among the high school girls she had deemed Constance worth cultivating.
She might as readily have tried to bring down the North Star as to
ingratiate herself with this calm, lovely girl, and she knew it. Here
was something which she could not obtain. Failing, she marked her as a
victim for ridicule and scorn.
The first act over at last, Rowena posted herself in Mignon's dressing
room and proceeded to regale the latter with a derisive, laughing
account of her fruitful wanderings among the cast. Mignon listened to
her with indifference. As she opened the second act, her mind was on her
rôle. She was hardly aware that her tormentor had left the dressing room
until she became conscious that the high-pitched tones had suddenly
ceased.
Mignon proving altogether too non-committal to suit her difficult fancy,
Rowena had fared forth in search of fresh adventure. The star dressing
room, occupied by Constance, lay two doors farther down the corridor. In
passing and repassing it that evening, Rowena had vainly ransacked her
guileful brain for an excuse to invade it. Now as she left Mignon's
dressing room she decided to put on an intrepid front and pay Constance
a call. Her large, black eyes danced with pure malice as she doubled a
fist and pounded upon the closed door.
"Who is there?" came from within. The vigorous tattoo had startled
Constance.
For answer Rowena simply swung open the door and stepped into the room.
"I thought I'd pay you a call," she announced with cool complacence.
Seated before a low make-up shelf on which reposed a mirror, Constance
was engaged in readjusting her coiffure, which had become slightly
loosened during the first act. Her blue eyes showed wondering surprise
as she turned in her chair to face the intruder. From Jerry she had
already heard angry protests against this mischievous girl. Quiet
Constance now read fresh mischief in the intrusion. She resolved to
treat her uninvited guest civilly. If possible she would try to keep her
in the dressing room until the second act was called. Better that than
allow her to further annoy the other girls. As she had no change of
costume to make she was free to entertain her unbidden visitor.
"Sit down," she evenly invited, neither cordial nor cold. "How do you
like the operetta?"
Rather taken aback by this placid reception, Rowena dropped gracefully
into a chair, her dark eyes fixed speculatively on her hostess.
Shrugging her shoulders she gave a contemptuous little laugh as she
answered: "Oh, these amateur productions are all alike. _Some_, of
course, are more stupid than others."
"Do you include the poor Princess among the more stupid?" asked
Constance, smiling in spite of herself at this patent attempt to be
disagreeable.
"I don't include it in anything. I don't even know what it's all about.
I only came to rehearsals and here to amuse myself. Sanford is the
deadest town I was ever in and Sanford High School is a regular
kindergarten. I suppose you know who I am, don't you?" Rowena crested
her auburn head a trifle.
"Yes. You are Miss Farnham." Constance made reply in an enigmatic tone.
A threatening sparkle leaped to the other's eyes. She was beginning to
resent Constance's quiet attitude. "If you knew who I was, why didn't
you speak to me at the first rehearsal?" she sharply launched.
"I merely knew you by sight. There are many girls in Sanford High whom I
do not know personally."
"But _I'm_ different," pursued Rowena. "My father is very rich and I can
have whatever I like. You must know that. You ought to associate with
girls of your own class. Your aunt has lots of money and can give you
social position. That Geraldine Macy is the only rich girl you ever go
with. All the others are just middle class. You're foolish to waste your
time on Marjorie----"
Constance had received Rowena's first words with secret amusement. As
she continued to listen her inward smile changed to outward, rather. At
mention of Marjorie her self-imposed placidity flew to the winds.
"Kindly leave my dressing room," she ordered, her voice shaking with
indignation. "Marjorie Dean is my dearest friend. No one can belittle
her to me. Least of all, _you_." Constance had slowly risen, her blue
eyes dark with the injury to one she loved.
"I thought that would bring you to life," laughed Rowena, making no move
to rise. As she sat there, the light playing on her ruddy hair, her
black eyes agleam with tantalizing mirth, Constance could not but wonder
at her tigerish beauty. To quote Muriel, she did resemble "a big,
striped tiger."
Without answering, Constance moved to the door and opened it. She was
about to step into the corridor when Rowena sprang forward and clutched
her by the arm. "You milk-and-water baby, do you think----" She did not
finish. As Constance stepped over the threshold she came almost into
collision with Lawrence Armitage. His keen glance immediately took in
the situation. He saw Rowena's arm drop to her side. Brushing past
Constance like a whirlwind, she gained the shelter of Mignon's dressing
room and disappeared.
"Hurry. You'll miss your cue. I didn't see you in the wings and came to
warn you. Run along. I'll see you later," uttered Laurie rapidly. His
words sent Constance moving rapidly toward the stairway. His lips
tightened as he watched her disappear. For a moment he stood still,
then, turning, took the same direction.
"Just a moment, Miss La Salle." Seeking the stairway at the close of the
second act, Mignon was halted by a troubled young man. "I don't wish to
be disagreeable, but--Miss Farnham must either remain in your dressing
room during the third act or go out in the audience. I am not blaming
you. You've sung your part splendidly to-night and I appreciate your
effort. Will you help me in this? We don't wish anything to occur to
spoil the rest of the operetta. I am sure you understand." Appeal looked
out from his deeply blue eyes.
"Of course I'll help you." Mignon experienced a sudden thrill of
triumph. Lawrence Armitage was actually asking her to do him a favor.
Valiance rose within her. She quite forgot her dread of Rowena's
bluster. Flashing him her most fascinating smile, she held out her hand
in token of good faith. Inwardly she was hoping that Constance might
happen along to witness the tableau. Laurie clasped it lightly. He was
not in the least impressed. "Thank you." He wheeled abruptly and turned
away.
Mignon ran lightly down the stairs and to her dressing room. Inspired by
the recent interview, she promptly accosted the ubiquitous Rowena, as
she lounged lazily in a chair. "You mustn't go out of the dressing room
or upstairs again until the operetta is over," she dictated. "Laurie
doesn't want you to. He just spoke to me about it. He has allowed you a
lot of liberty already, so I think you'd better do as he says. It won't
be long now until----"
"So _Laurie_ thinks he can order me about, does he?" Rowena sprang to
her feet in a rage. "_That_ for Laurie!" She snapped contemptuous
fingers. "This is your work. You've been talking about me to him. But
you'll be sorry. I know a way----"
Her mood swiftly changing she threw back her head and laughed. Resuming
her chair she sat silently eyeing Mignon with a mirthful malevolence
that sent a shiver of apprehension up and down the French girl's spine.
Rowena had undoubtedly been inspired with an idea that boded no good to
her. As she dressed for the third act she cast more than one nervous
glance at the smiling figure of insolence in the chair.
Not a word further had been exchanged between the two when the third act
was called. Mignon half expected to see Rowena rise and follow her up
the stairs, there to create a scene with Laurie that would delay the
rise of the curtain. Nothing of the kind occurred, however, and the last
act began and went on to a triumphant end.
After the curtain had been rung down on the final tableau, she made a
dash for the stairs to encounter Rowena ascending them. She had already
donned her evening cape and scarf. At sight of Mignon she called out in
the careless, good-humored fashion she could assume at will: "Hurry up.
I'm going on out to the limousine. I need a breath of fresh air."
Partially convinced that Rowena had recovered from her fit of temper,
Mignon gladly hastened to do her bidding. It was not until she began to
look about for her high-laced boots that she changed her mind concerning
her companion. They were nowhere to be seen. "Rowena has hidden them,
just to be aggravating!" she exclaimed angrily. "That was her revenge.
But I'll find them."
After a frantic ten-minutes' search she managed to locate them, tucked
into either sleeve of the long fur coat she had worn. Thankful to find
them, she laced them in a hurry and proceeded to dress with all speed. A
repeated receding of footsteps and gay voices from the direction of the
stairway warned her that the dressing rooms were being rapidly deserted.
Those who had come to Riverview by railway had only a short time after
the performance in which to catch the last train for the night.
Taking the stairs, two at a time, Mignon made a rush for the stage door
and on out into the cold, starlit night. The first thing she noted was a
large part of the cast hurriedly boarding a street car for the station.
But where was the Farnham limousine and Rowena? Where was the little
line of automobiles she had seen parked along the street when she
entered the theatre? Only one now remained, almost a block farther up
the street. Her heart beat thankfully as she observed it. It looked like
the Farnham limousine. It was just like Rowena to thus draw away a
little distance in order to scare her into thinking she had been left
behind.
Racing toward it she saw that the chauffeur was engaged in examining one
of its tires. She heard a cheery voice call out, "All right, Captain,"
and her knees grew weak. The voice did not sound like that of James, the
Farnhams' chauffeur. Hoping against hope she came abreast of it. Then
her elfin eyes grew wide with despair. It was not the Farnhams' car. It
belonged to none other than the Deans.
Heartsick, she was about to turn away when a fresh young voice called
out, "Mignon La Salle!" Forgetting everything except that she was in
difficulties, she halted and managed to articulate, "Have you seen Miss
Farnham's car?"
"Why, no," came the wondering reply. "Have you missed her?"
"I saw her go by in a limousine," stated Constance Stevens, from the
tonneau of the Deans' car. "She was driving and the chauffeur was
sitting beside her."
A belated light now dawned upon Mignon. She understood that this was the
fruition of Rowena's threat. She had purposely run off and left her,
knowing that she could not hope to catch the last train.
In the dark of the tonneau, Constance gave Marjorie's hand a quick
pressure. Its instant return signified that her chum understood. Without
hesitation she called to the tragic little figure on the sidewalk,
"We'll take you home, Mignon. It's lucky that General stopped to examine
that tire." Then to her father, "This is Mignon La Salle, Father. You
know her, Mother."
"Yes." Mrs. Dean bowed in reserved fashion. "Get into the tonneau with
the girls, Miss La Salle. We will see that you arrive safely at your own
door."
The unexpected courtesy very nearly robbed the stranded girl of speech.
Stammering her thanks, Mignon climbed ruefully into the tonneau and
seated herself by Marjorie. As the car began a loud purr, preparatory to
starting, her outraged feelings overcame her and she burst into tears.
"It was hateful in her," she sobbed, "perfectly hateful."
"It was," agreed Marjorie positively. "But I wouldn't cry about it. You
are all right now." Then with a view to cheering the weeper, she added:
"You sang your part beautifully both nights, Mignon. That's something to
be glad of. This little trouble doesn't really matter, since everything
turned out well."
"It's nice in you to say it," quavered Mignon. "But, oh, how I despise
that hateful, hateful girl. I'll never, never speak to her again as long
as I live."
Marjorie might easily have assured her that this was a wise decision.
Instead, she prudently refrained from committing herself. Mignon's mind
continued to dwell on her wrongs. She cried and raged against her
treacherous companion during most of the ride home. Constance and
Marjorie were obliged to listen and administer judicious consolation. It
did not appear to sink deep. Mignon was too self-centered to realize
their generosity of spirit. When they left her at the La Salle's gate
she tried to put graciousness into her thanks, but her thoughts were too
firmly fixed upon faithless Rowena and herself to appreciate the
kindness she had received.
"For once Mignon had to swallow a dose of her own medicine," commented
Constance grimly, as the Deans' car sped away toward their home, where
Connie was to spend the night with Marjorie.
"She found it pretty hard to take," mused Marjorie. "It's a good thing,
though. This will end Mignon's friendship with Rowena, but it won't
change her one little bit. I don't believe she'll ever change."