AT REHEARSAL.
"Well, Bathalina," Mrs. Sanford said with despair in her voice, "if you
must go, I suppose you must; but this is the third Wednesday you've
been to that funeral, and I think that's plenty. It isn't lucky to put
off a funeral; and here's all these cucumbers to pickle, and I can't
possibly spare you, but I suppose I'll have to."
"Cousin Sam's child don't die every day," the maid retorted; "and of
course they couldn't bury her alive."
"Oh, dear, no!" her mistress assented. "That would be too awful; but
I want you to be sure she is really dead before you go to her funeral
again."
"Yes, she's dead," was the answer. "Peter Mixon came over last night
and told me."
"Peter Mixon had better mind his own business. You told me yourself,
Bathalina, that he was going to be married this very month to that West
girl."
"Yes, mum, of course. But it's a great cross to him. He asked me first,
and if it hadn't been for my sinful pride I'd a had him in the first
place."
"Sinful fire-shovels!" Mrs. Sanford exclaimed. "You turned him off
because he was after the money you've got in the bank, so don't
let me hear any more about him. If you are going to this protracted
funeral, go along; and I do hope the remains won't need a great deal
more burying. As for Peter Mixon, the less you have to do with him the
better."
"I feel confident," Bathalina answered, "that it's the last funeral the
child'll ever have; but in the midst of life we are in death."
"You may be," retorted her mistress bustling about; "but _I'm_ in the
midst of pickling, and can't stop to talk. Go along."
"Mother," Patty asked, appearing in the doorway, "what is the trouble?"
"Bathalina has gone traipsing off to her funeral again; and here are
these cucumbers to do, and the kitchen all in heaps. She's got fool in
the head worse than ever to-day."
"What awful slang, mother. Never mind, I'll help."
The next visitor to the kitchen was Flossy, who, having searched the
rest of the house for her cousin, at length discovered her with sleeves
rolled up, engaged in washing dishes.
"Goodness gracious, Patsy!" she exclaimed. "Are you here?"
"Mercy sakes, Flossy!" said her aunt. "Don't say 'goodness gracious,'
it sounds so."
"No: I'll say 'mercy sakes,' Aunt Britann," her niece returned saucily.
"Patty, what are you washing dishes for?"
"Somebody must do it; and Bathalina, the insane, has gone off."
"You are becoming a very model miss. Have you forgotten they are coming
this morning to read this play?"
"I had forgotten all about that. I'm sorry, marmee, but I don't see but
I must leave you in the lurch. Here comes somebody now."
The first thing concerning which a country audience is anxious is that
it "gets its money's worth;" and in amateur theatricals success depends
much upon the duration of the entertainment. Two plays had therefore
been chosen; one a melodramatic affair entitled, "The Faithful Jewess,"
and the other a jolly little comedy called "The Country Wooing." Patty,
who was "the favorite local actress," as Will put it, had been cast in
both plays. Clarence Toxteth was her Jewish lover, toward a union with
whom she struggled hopefully but vainly through the most heart-rending
situations. A pretended friend,
"With falsest heart though fairest seeming,"
endeavored to separate the betrothed, with fatal success. Mr. Putnam
had declined to take part; and the _rôle_ which had been offered him
had been given to the postmaster, one Sol Shankland.
The company assembled this morning in Mrs. Sanford's wide, low
sitting-room, numbered about a score; and Babel itself could scarcely
have been noisier. The girls talked of their parts, their dresses,
their hopes and fears, of this, that, and the other, until the general
effect was that of mill-wheels running ever faster and faster, quite
beyond the control of any regulator.
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Will at last. "'I would I were dead and worms
had eaten me, but not for love.' If there isn't silence here in three
seconds, there will be blood shed!"
By the most energetic measures in the way of pounding and shouting,
something like quiet was obtained, and the meeting proceeded to
business. The two plays were read, rehearsals appointed, and a great
deal said about the necessity of being letter-perfect before the next
meeting.
"By Monday," Patty said, "we ought to be able to rehearse without a
book."
"Mr. Blackfan is off," Sol Shankland said, "so we shall have nothing to
do Sunday but to study our parts."
"How immoral!" exclaimed Miss Sturtevant. "I shall lie in a hammock all
day and read."
"I suppose," Will Sanford said, "that I am the most unfortunate man
that ever happened. I sent to Uncle Christopher for his grandfather's
knee-breeches, and now I can't get into them."
"That is because they are small-clothes," suggested Ease Apthorpe.
"I think we have some at home," Toxteth said: "if you will come over,
I'll see."
When rehearsal was over, Clarence and Will accordingly walked off
together, accompanying Ease Apthorpe, who lived in the same direction.
Frank Breck showed some inclination to join the group as they moved
down the walk, but changed his mind, and accompanied Miss Sturtevant
towards Mrs. Brown's.
The Toxteth mansion lay halfway between Dr. Sanford's and Mullen House,
as was somewhat fancifully called the home of Ease. Will asked Ease to
wait for him, as he was going with her after an extra play-book. Mrs.
Toxteth was sitting upon the veranda, and invited Ease to a seat by her
side while the young men went into the house.
"It makes me think of old times when theatricals come up," Mrs.
Toxteth said. "I have always been extravagantly fond of acting and of
masquerades."
"I wish we could have a masquerade," remarked Ease. "We have only had
one in three years."
"Why not have one, then?"
"The girls say it is so much trouble to get up costumes. It is a
bother, it is so difficult to get things."
"But now when you have your costumes all made for the plays, why not
use them? You could arrange to exchange among yourselves."
"The very thing!" Ease exclaimed. "I am so glad you thought of it."
"As a reward," Mrs. Toxteth said, "I claim the privilege of giving the
party. But don't speak of it just yet until I've talked with Clarence."
"Will," Ease asked as they walked towards Mullen House, "how long does
Flossy mean to stay in Montfield? I am getting so fond of her that I
don't like to think of her going back to Boston."
"'It may be for years, and it may be forever,'" he replied. "The
case is just this. Flossy's father--you know there's nobody left in
the family but these two now--cares for nothing in the world but
his dinners and whist, as far as I can make out. I don't know Uncle
Christopher very well, but he has the reputation of giving the best
dinners of any man in his club. He had one once when I was there; and
such a set of red-nosed, blear-eyed, pottle-paunched"--
"Will!"
"I beg your pardon, but the old sinners that came to that dinner were
enough to disgust anybody. They were like the people Paul tells about,
each carrying his own individual god under his waistcoat. No wonder
Flossy doesn't care to stay at home to dine with those ogres."
"It can't be very nice for her."
"No more is it. She likes to stay here, and we certainly like to have
her. As for her father, if his soup and his wines are right he is
troubled by no concern for the whereabouts of his friends. So, on the
whole, I dare say she may remain indefinitely."
"Don't you think she and Burleigh Blood are getting to be very good
friends?"
"I hadn't noticed. I thought he was one of Patty's followers."
"He isn't so much so now," Ease answered. "To-day at rehearsal he
called her Flossy, and then colored and stammered and begged her
pardon. I don't believe he ever did it before."
She was right; for at that very moment Burleigh Blood was walking
along a sweet country road, saying softly over and over to his bashful
but happy self: "Flossy, Flossy. And she said I was always to call her
so. Flossy: what a pretty name it is too!"