THE PLAY.
It was the last week in March, and the time had finally come for
giving the long-discussed play, which had been delayed for some
weeks on account of Alan's illness. After the first acute attack
had passed, there followed, as a result of his drenching, a slow,
tedious form of rheumatism which kept him shut up in the house,
where he was forced to amuse himself as best he might. His sister
and cousins did what they could to make the time pass quickly and
pleasantly; but between school and their cooking club and their
frequent calls on Bridget, they had little time for the boy except
during the evenings, and he was mainly left to the society of his
mother. This had been the state of affairs for more than a week,
and Alan was becoming somewhat restless. He was not a saint, but
only one of the next best things, a bright, lovable boy; and
having rather exhausted his resources of reading, playing
solitaire, and talking to his mother, the evening usually found
him decidedly cross after his dull day, and he only half responded
to the girls' attempts to be entertaining.
"I don't see what's come over Alan," said Molly, one afternoon, as
the girls were walking home from school together. "Pie's always
been so jolly, and now he's cross as can be. He doesn't act as if
he wanted to have anything to say to us, and goes off to bed as
soon as he can, after supper. I told him last night I thought he'd
better be ashamed of himself."
As Molly spoke, they were just passing the Hapgood house. Polly
glanced up at Alan's window, in the wing, to see the back of a
yellow head, inside the glass. Molly followed the direction of her
eyes, and said, by way of explanation,--
"Alan's not down-stairs to-day. He said he didn't feel like it."
"He isn't?"
Polly paused irresolutely at the gate, then turned in.
"What are you going to do, Polly?" asked Florence.
"I'm going up to see Alan," responded Polly.
"But I thought we were all going down to see Bridget."
"Bother Bridget!" returned Polly, with some energy. "The rest of
you can go all the time, if you want to; but it's my impression
that charity begins at home. Here we've all of us had that
everlasting old Bridget on the brain, and let Alan get along as
best he can."
"But Alan has mamma, and Bridget hasn't anybody but us," said
Molly, in a virtuous tone of self-denial.
"I don't care if she hasn't," retorted Polly vehemently; "she has
five of you to coddle her, and you just go there because you like
the fun and think it sounds goody. There are enough of you without
me, and one of you can take my afternoon, till Alan gets better."
"That's just like Polly," said Molly teasingly. "She always has
liked boys better than girls."
Polly's face flushed.
"You know that's not so, Molly! I've done my fair share with
Bridget, but now I think it isn't just right to go chasing off
after her when we're leaving Alan all alone. If you knew--" Polly
checked herself abruptly, then added more quietly, "I'll tell you
what, girls, it isn't like Alan to be cross, and if he is, there's
some good reason for it, so I think it's our place to find out
what's the matter." And turning away, she went into the house,
leaving her companions to go on to the hospital discussing, as
they walked along, "Polly's last freak."
She stopped a moment to speak to Mrs, Hapgood, then ran directly
up-stairs and looked in at the partly open door. Alan was half
sitting, half lying on the sofa, with his book dropped, face
downward, on his knee, and his hands clasped at the back of his
head. Too much absorbed in his thoughts to notice her light step,
his face was turned away from the door, and he was scowling
moodily at a distant corner of the ceiling.
"May I come in, or are you making up a poem and don't want to be
disturbed?" inquired Polly gaily, pushing the door wide open.
The boy started up with quick enthusiasm.
"Poll! How jolly of you to come in to see a fellow!"
"Then I'm not in the way?" she asked, as she pulled off her coat.
"What an idea! I was desperately lonesome, and somehow you always
seem to fit in better than the others. Molly teases, and Jessie
tires me. Katharine is better, only she's a little given to
gushing, and boys don't like that sort of thing, you know,"
returned Alan frankly.
"I'm very glad if I suit you," said Polly, devoutly hoping she
could succeed in avoiding the sin of teasing on the one hand, and
of sentimentality on the other.
"Well, you do," replied Alan, with a heartiness which he did not
often show, for he was not much given to direct praise. "You're
first-rate company, Poll, and I'd been hoping you'd get time to
run in, for it's stupid in the house. I knew you would, when you
got round to it."
"Oh, Alan, you just make me ashamed!" said Polly contritely. "I
ought to have been here before, and 'specially when I was the one
to blame for all this, too."
"No use crying over spilt milk," answered Alan candidly. "I did
think you'd come before this; but you're here now, and so it's all
right. I've grown meek and am glad of small favors," he added,
with a merry, sidelong glance from his gray eyes.
After that, not a day passed without a call from Polly. Now that
her conscience was awakened, she realized that she had rather
neglected her friend, and did all that lay in her power to make
amends for her past forgetfulness. Her mother encouraged her
visits, for she had learned from Mrs. Hapgood that they were a
benefit to Alan and a help to herself, so Polly dropped in at her
will, morning, noon, or night, and never failed to find a hearty
welcome. The other girls laughed a little at her devotion, but it
had no effect, so they went on their way, giving the boy the odds
and ends of their time, while Polly and Alan spent long, cosy
hours together, reading or playing games, with a perfect enjoyment
of each other's society which left them no opportunity to miss
their absent friends. Damon and Pythias, the girls called them,
and never were two friends more closely united, with a simple,
true affection, which, however, had no trace of the consciousness
that one was a boy, the other a girl. Two boys could not have been
more free from sentimentality, two girls were never farther from
any suggestion of budding flirtation. They were just well-tried
friends of long standing; and when, after four weeks, Alan went
back into school again, his loyalty to Polly was, if possible,
increased by the knowledge of the good times she had given up for
his sake.
Aside from Alan's illness, the past weeks had brought to light
another cause for excitement. Aunt Jane was about to become the
second Mrs. Solomon Baxter. How, when, or where the fateful words
were spoken was never known. What powerful arguments Mr. Baxter
had brought to bear upon her, to overcome her aversion, to
domestic life, was never revealed. However, a week after Miss
Roberts had, in the presence of the children, addressed her guest
as "Solo--Mr. Baxter," she had taken her sister into her
confidence, and long before Alan was in school again, the matter
was publicly announced by Mr. Baxter's escorting her to church,
one Sunday morning, and marching up the aisle by her side, in full
view of the assembled congregation.
This was the reason that, on the night of the play, Miss Roberts
and Mr. Baxter occupied two armchairs placed side by side in the
very front row of spectators, and that the captain's opening
speech was interrupted by a little giggle, as his eyes fell on the
faces before him.
The curtain, rose on a "glade in the forest primaeval," as was
announced by the dozen playbills which did duty for the audience.
Evergreen boughs, a few potted plants, and a dingy, greenish
carpet were supposed to transform the stage into the glade in
question; but the audience had little time to study the scenery,
for the prompt entrance of the captain and a chosen companion
called up a hearty burst of applause. The over-critical might have
objected that English sailors do not, as a rule, have braids of
brown hair escaping from their hats, and that the brave captain
and explorer walked with some difficulty; but the speech and
action of the sailor were spirited, and the captain's halting step
was doubtless owing to temporary fatigue. Moreover, one glance at
the boyish face under the great cocked hat was enough to make the
most carping critic forget all other defects while, in strangely
modern idioms and with a lofty disregard for dates, the old-time
hero reminded his comrade of their long and perilous voyage over
the sea, of the great wilderness which lay before them, and of the
glory of reclaiming that wilderness to the civilization of the
Virgin Queen. The sailor resisted his eloquence and refused to
proceed, uttering mutinous threats. against his leader's life. But
even in this crisis, the captain's presence of mind did not fail
him, and, seeing that his persuasions and commands were of no
avail, he promptly bound the sailor, hand and foot, and was
preparing to carry him forward on his shoulders, when a fierce
war-whopp was heard, and three ferocious savages rushed in upon
them, just as the curtain fell.
The second scene, was regarded by the actors as being their most
elaborate attempt. The room was darkened, and at the back of the
stage, three or four dusky braves were crouched about their camp
fire which, for the moment, had taken the form of an oil stove;
while in the foreground lay Alan and Jessie, bound and motionless,
awaiting the death which seemed inevitable. Jean had expended all
her energies on this scene, and the warriors smoked the peace-
pipe, inspected their medicines, and danced a war-dance with
befitting solemnity, while the captain writhed uneasily, not so
much with mental anguish as on account of the rheumatic twinges
which his cramped position had set to running up and down his legs
and back. Then, with a close fidelity to the old histories, an
imposing throne was brought in, and Jean, as Powhatan, mounted the
insecure structure; two stones were rolled into place at her feet,
the captives' heads were arranged on these comfortless pillows,
and a brave, ball-club in hand, took his place beside each. The
sailor proved himself a coward, but the captain was bold to the
last, and alternately defied the king and encouraged his weaker
companion, who was whimpering by his side. Then, in one long
speech which, absurdly out of keeping with the surroundings as it
was, yet had the ring of true pathos, the captain bade farewell to
home, wife, and children, and welcomed death in the name and for
the honor of queen and country. Even Aunt Jane's face grew a
little gentler as the boy voice went on to the close, and there
was a momentary hush, followed by a hearty burst of applause,
while Mrs. Adams, at the side, held Polly back, that her too hasty
entrance should not mar the scene. Then Pocahontas dashed wildly
in and, regardless of consequences, cast herself down on the
captain's prostrate body with a force that elicited a sudden "Ow!"
from the hero who had just dared to defy a savage king. But his
anguish was quickly repressed, and the scene went finely to its
close, when the fair Pocahontas herself loosed his fetters, raised
him to his feet, and once more threw herself into his arms, while
Powhatan embraced them both, with many paternal remarks uttered in
the choicest Indian gutterals. While the stage was being arranged
for the next scene, John and his Pocahontas were called before the
curtain to receive the applause they had fully earned.
In the next two scenes, Jean had departed widely from the
traditional story. In the former one, the captain took the stage
alone and told over the story of his past life, dwelling with
especial emphasis on his charming wife and thirteen beautiful
children at home in mother England. His soliloquy was interrupted
by the entrance of a messenger from a ship just landed, and, after
a little political discussion, the messenger incidentally told him
of a cyclone which had blown down his house and destroyed his
entire family. The agony of the captain was tragic to behold, and
moved Mr. Baxter to wipe his eyes sympathetically, and then cast a
furtive glance at Aunt Jane who was apparently unmoved by this
strange similarity of fate. Perhaps she was reserving her sympathy
for Pocahontas. However, the captain's grief spent itself, and he
finally recovered himself with the novel consolation that
"thirteen always was an unlucky number." Then, dismissing the
messenger, he proceeded to walk up and down his cabin and take
counsel with his heart, how best to comfort himself in the future.
After suggesting many a plan and rejecting it as soon as
suggested, he resolved to set off immediately to Powhatan and ask
for the fair hand of Pocahontas. As the curtain fell on this third
scene, no one applauded more enthusiastically than Mr. Baxter.
The next scene opened with the preparations for the marriage of
Pocahontas to the young planter, John Rolfe, which were
interrupted by the sudden appearance of the captain, who bent on
one knee before Powhatan, to ask his daughter's hand. Powhatan
consented joyfully, and when Rolfe quite naturally objected, the
captain proposed a duel, and killed his rival, under the very eyes
of Pocahontas, who smiled rapturously as she watched the expiring
agonies of her former lover. Then, turning to the captain, she
said confidingly,--
"And now, dear John, everything is all prepared, so what if we get
married at once?"
Accordingly, the marriage was at once solemnized, with the
warriors as witnesses, while Powhatan descended from the throne to
give the bride away, and Rolfe opportunely came back to life in
time to serve as the clergyman who performed the ceremony.
There was a long delay between the marriage and the closing scene
of the play; and while the audience discussed the past scenes,
there went on a great commotion behind the curtain, sounds of
murmuring and of moving furniture, mingled with excited whispers,--
"Where is my crown?"
"Do somebody see if my train is all right!"
"Where is my sword?"
"Hush! Hush!"
All this was enough to rouse the expectations of the audience, but
even they were not prepared for the blaze of glory which met their
eyes as the curtain rose on the court of England. Katharine and
Florence sat on the throne, as pretty and dainty a royal couple as
could be imagined. The play-bills had announced it as the court of
Queen Elizabeth, and Florence looked the queen to perfection, in
her trailing white silk gown, and with her mother's diamonds
blazing in her golden hair; but opinions varied as to the identity
of the haughty king by her side, for no one present was aware that
Elizabeth's kingdom had any such lordly appendage. Still, it was
all very picturesque and, as Polly had said, a great deal could be
attributed to poetical license, so nobody complained, if the
throne was a little overcrowded. Back of the queen were grouped
three maids of honor, elaborately and richly dressed in gowns that
rivalled the rainbow in variety and brilliancy of color; while at
the king's left, as a fitting symbol of the British Lion, crouched
old Leo, the Langs's great Saint Bernard. After a long pause to
allow the audience to study this gorgeous scene, Pocahontas and
her captain swept in and knelt at the foot of the throne. The
queen bowed gracefully, in recognition of their homage, and bade
them rise. Then, addressing the Lion and the maids, she called
them "the free men of England" and, bidding them recall the
captain's services to her realm, she announced her determination
to knight him on the spot. The captain and his bride knelt again,
while the queen not only gave him the royal accolade and dubbed
him Sir John, but went on to extend the ceremony to his devoted
wife, and saluted her as "My Lady Pocahontas, the fairest savage
in all London town." Then the royal pair stepped down from the
throne and, joining hands with My Lord, My Lady, and the maids,
and escorted by the British Lion who amiably wagged his tail in
token of approval, they advanced and bowed low to the audience as
the curtain fell on the play. The applause was enthusiastic and
prolonged, and the actors were rejoicing in their success when, as
the clapping of hands died away, Aunt Jane's voice was heard,
solemnly remarking,--
"Well, I do hope those children realize that all this story about
Pocahontas has been proved to be entirely without foundation. It
seems to me a great waste of time to get up a play that hasn't a
word of truth in it."
"Isn't that just like Aunt Jane!" whispered Pocahontas in disgust.
"I wonder if she'd have liked it any better, if we'd acted out all
about her and her Mr. Baxter."
A few moments later, the actors appeared, all in costume, to bring
small trays laden with good things for the refreshment of their
guests, and to receive congratulations on their play. Then they
gathered in the dining-room to have their share of the goodies and
discuss the evening, feeling that the best part of the whole was
the merry time of talking it over afterwards.
"Oh," groaned Alan, taking off his hat as he helped himself to a
macaroon; "I didn't much think I should ever breathe again, to say
nothing of eating, after Pocahontas came down on me. Polly, I do
wish you'd go and get weighed, in the morning." "There's one favor
I'd like to ask," said Jessie. "If we ever play it over again, I
wish that when you get ready to kill us, you'd put us inside the
curtain. You were so eager about untying Alan that you forgot all
about me, and when the curtain came down, I was half inside it and
half outside, so that Mrs. Adams had to come and pull me back,
before I could get up."
"If we ever play it again!" echoed Jean. "But you never will, with
my consent. I thought 'twas splendid, while I was writing it; when
we were rehearsing it, I thought 'twas pretty good; but while we
were playing it to-night before all those people, I thought it was
simply dreadful, and I was ashamed of myself for ever trying to
write such trash."
"If you don't like it, you can write us another," said Jessie;
"but, for my part, this is good enough for me."
"Are you through eating, children?" asked Mrs. Adams, putting her
head in at the door. "Mrs. Hapgood wants you all to sing
something, just to finish up the evening."
It was an unexpected request, and for a moment, the actors
demurred, then held a hasty consultation. A few minutes later,
they appeared in Indian file, John Smith and his sailor leading
the way, and the rest following in their Indian costumes.
Katharine sat down at the piano and played a few solemn, slow
chords, then the others took up the chorus, the words of which
they had adapted for the occasion:
"John Smith had a little Injun,
One little Injun girl."