THE ENTERTAINMENT
How the following day passed Dorothy did not want to remember. From the
early morning, when she sent the telegram to Mr. Travers, stating that
Tavia could not possibly leave, and that a letter to follow would explain,
until the hour set for the charity performance, the girl was in one
continuous whirl of excitement.
Ned's accident did not prove to be as serious as had been feared, although
there was no possibility of him being about for several days, at least.
In the excitement and emergency Tavia had marshaled all her individual
forces, and proved herself worthy to be a friend and chum of Dorothy Dale.
With her change of heart--her resolution to "stick to Dorothy"--there
seemed to come to her a new power, or, at least, it was a return of the
power with which she had previously been accredited.
So the final work of preparation was accomplished, and now it seemed to be
merely a matter of raising and lowering the curtain.
The characters which Ned was to have impersonated were divided among the
other young men, it being necessary of course, to "double up" on three or
four parts. Agnes Sinclair openly deplored her loss of a partner, but the
others smiled incredulously when she said she preferred to play with Ned
and "hated that big bear, Tom Scott."
Tom made this his excuse for being particularly "grizzly" with the pretty
Agnes, and at the afternoon rehearsal he nearly went through the big gilt
picture frame, in which the illustrations were posed, when he attempted to
introduce a little impromptu "business" in "The Maiden all Forlorn."
Then when Roland attempted to do "There was a Man in Our Town," another of
Ned's parts, his efforts were so absurd and so utterly unlike what the
tableau was expected to be, that it was decided to make it "I Had a Little
Husband, no Bigger than my Thumb." Roland certainly looked diminutive
enough to fit into a pint pot, and also seemed qualified to do as he might
be told with the drum.
Finally all was arranged, or rearranged, and the hour for the play was
almost at hand.
No more delightful weather could have been wished for. It was clear and
cold, while outside a big silvery moon threw a fairy-like illumination
over the scene, and filtered in through the big windows of the
drawing-room of the home of Mrs. Justin Brownlie.
Dorothy laughed her light, happy laugh. After all, perhaps everything
would come out right--it was such a relief to feel that Ned would soon be
better. The worry about him was the very worst part of her troubles. Then,
suddenly, like the recurrence of an unpleasant dream, the thought of Tom's
midnight visit flashed before her mind.
"Oh, I didn't tell you, Tavia," she said quickly. "I had the awfullest
scare the other night. I just stole downstairs to see how Ned was, when
all at once some one rapped at the vestibule door."
Tavia gazed upon Dorothy, pride and admiration beaming in her deep, hazel
eyes.
"Oh, you needn't tell me, Doro," she interrupted. "I saw the midnight
marauder, as the poets say. Lucky for him he stood directly under the
light."
"Wasn't it--wasn't it kind of him to be--so--so anxious?" went on Dorothy,
making fast her scarf picking up her pretty party-bag.
"Perhaps," assented Tavia, smiling broadly.
"Tom's the sort of fellow who dares to do right, no matter what happens.
He would as soon call at midnight as midday, if the occasion warranted
it. And that's saying a good deal for Tom--from me," she concluded.
Nat was waiting at the door. He took particular pains to be nice to Tavia.
In fact, most of the difficulties that had for some weeks been
accumulating about The Cedars seemed to take wings with the occurrence of
Ned's accident. The oft-quoted saying about an "ill wind" was once more
being verified, although it was hard for Ned to be left at home.
The house was already crowded when our friends arrived at Mrs. Brownlie's.
"We will have a good attendance," commented Dorothy with a smile of
satisfaction. "If we can only make our hundred dollars, and then get
little Bennie into the hospital, how lovely it will be!"
"There must be a hundred persons here now," Nat assured her, "and at a
dollar per--"
"Oh, do hurry along," interrupted Eva Brownlie. "We are all waiting for
you, Dorothy. We were worried to death for fear something else dreadful
might have happened."
Eva surely looked like an angel. She was entirely in white, her hair
hanging loosely over her shoulders, with a band of gold, in Roman style,
confining it at her brow.
Roland was dancing attendance on Eva--any one could see that he was
fascinated by the pretty twin. Tom came up to Dorothy as she entered the
broad hall.
"How's the boy?" he inquired kindly. "Has he forgiven me yet?"
"Of course," replied Dorothy, smiling. "He's getting better. But it was
hard to leave him alone with his hurt--and Norah. Not that Norah is to be
classed with the injuries," she hurried to add, laughing merrily.
"They are waiting for the orchestra," Tom reminded her, taking her music
and escorting her to the piano.
The girls, with their violins, were already in place. Dorothy felt some
embarrassment in facing a room filled with those she considered critical
spectators, for the best society of all the Birchlands, as well as
cultured persons from Ferndale near by, had come to the entertainment.
The Brownlie girls played the violins. Dorothy gave them the "A" note, and
they put their instruments in tune, with that weird, fascinating
combination of chords which prelude the opening strains of enthralling
music. Then they began.
The first number received a generous encore, and the girls played again.
Then there was a suppressed murmur of expectancy--a picture was about to
be presented.
Slowly the curtains were drawn aside. The lights had been "doused" as Nat,
the acting stage manager, expressed it, and only a dim glow illuminated
the tableau.
An immense gilt frame, containing a landscape as a background. In front of
that the living pictures were posed. It was Jack Spratt and his
Wife--presented by Tavia and Roland.
The audience instantly recognized the illustration, and vigorous applause
greeted the tableau. Tavia was surely funny--so fat, and so comical, while
Roland looked like a human toothpick. The clean platter was cleaner than
even Mother Goose could have wished it, and, altogether, the first picture
was an unqualified success.
Tavia was shaking with nervousness when the curtain was pulled together,
and when, in response to an imperative demand from the audience, it was
parted again, Tavia could scarcely keep from laughing outright. It was one
of the difficult pictures, but the girl's talent for theatricals stood her
in good stead, while, as for Roland, he seemed too lazy to make any
blunders.
Tom, as "Jack Horner," came next. Fat! Numbers in the audience insisted
that he was the original "Roly-poly," but the big paper-covered pie
precluded all further argument. Tom held his thumb in that pie as
faithfully as ever a real, picture Jack Horner did. He had to pose for a
second view, and at that the throng was not satisfied, but Nat declared
that one encore was enough.
Then Little Bo-Peep appeared--fast asleep, lying on some fresh hay from
the Brownlie barn. And what a charming picture Dorothy did make!
She wore a light-blue skirt, with a dark bodice, and a big, soft straw
hat, tossed back on her head, did not hide the beauty of her abundant
locks. Her crook had fallen from her hand, and rested at the bottom of the
little mound of hay. It was a delightful representation, and Dorothy
seemed actually painted upon the canvas, so naturally did she sleep. Mrs.
Brownlie nodded approvingly to Mrs. White. Dorothy's picture was not only
pretty, but it artistically perfect.
The audience seemed loath to disturb the little scene by applause, and
instead of answering to an encore Dorothy was obliged to keep her Bo-Peep
attitude for the length of time that it would have required to present her
tableau a second time.
Tom grasped Dorothy's hand as she left the frame.
"Great!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "I wish Ned could have seen you!"
Dorothy was glad--pardonably glad. She had thought a "solo" difficult, and
had doubted her ability to make it attractive, but now she was quite
satisfied.
There was some delay in presenting the next number, but the wait was
forgotten when the curtains were pulled apart.
It was a depiction of "Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater," with Eva's fair head
sticking out of an immense paper pumpkin shell. Nat's face, in the
character of Peter, was in a most satisfactory smile, consequent,
probably, upon his ability to "keep her very well," and it was surely a
very funny picture. Eva assumed a distressed look, and was thankful that
only her face had to act, for the quarters of the pumpkin shell were
rather limited.
Other tableaux followed, each one more or less well impersonated, until
Tom and Agnes went at "The Maiden all Forlorn."
As the "Man all Tattered and Tom," Tom was a veritable scarecrow, with a
fringe of rags all over him, and the familiar battered hat well turned
down to conceal any accidental smile that might detract from his serious
pose. He was bending over Agnes in the regulation picture-lover attitude,
and as the curtains were pulled together Tom did what any other young man
on earth might have done--he kissed the Maiden all Forlorn.
Everybody behind the scenes saw it.
"I never want to act with him again!" declared Agnes loudly and
scornfully, as she scrubbed her offended cheek with her handkerchief. "Ned
White is always a gentleman."
Dorothy was sorry, but it seemed a natural joke. Every one but Agnes
thought the same thing, but somehow the forlorn maiden could not be
convinced that Tom was simply thoughtless in his joking.
The incident, trifling as it was, somewhat marred the good humor of the
players. Roland came near falling for a second time in his "Jack be
Nimble." As it was, the big candlestick did topple over just as the
curtain bell sounded. Then Edith Brownlie looked decidedly miserable as
"The Queen was in the Kitchen, Eating Bread and Honey." She liked Tom
Scott--everybody knew that--and now Tom, in addition to having lately
favored Dorothy, had kissed Agnes! Of course, the girls, and boys too,
teased the sensitive Edith, and she lost interest in her picture.
Dorothy breathed a sigh of relief when Mary Mahon's number was announced.
Mary was actually quivering with excitement. She wanted to act, and
Dorothy was confident that she would do well.
Her recitation was entitled "Guilty or Not Guilty?" and as she stepped out
and made her bow, the house was hushed in silence. In a plaintive voice
she began that well-known poem:
"She stood at the bar of justice,
A creature wan and wild,
In form too young for a woman,
In feature too old for a child."
How the lines seemed to suit her! Surely the features of Mary were too old
for those of a child. Her face had a drawn, pinched look, and her eyes
were so deeply set.
But the pathos of her voice! When she pleaded with the judge for mercy
against the charge that she was a thief she mentioned the starving
children.
"I took--oh, was it stealing?--
The bread to give to them!"
The women pressed their handkerchiefs to their eyes. There was something
almost too real in the child's plea. Who was she? they asked. A
professional?
Dorothy was delighted at Mary's success. The girl was her "find," and it
was she who had taught her how to use her voice so well in the pathetic
lines. True, she found an apt pupil in Mary, and Dorothy was but too glad
to accord her the entire triumph, when the recitationist bowed again in
response to the hearty applause and retired.
A gentleman in the audience left his chair, and, walking over, spoke to
Mrs. White. He was Dr. Baker, one of the hospital staff.
"I think I know that child," he said. "Does she not live with an aged
couple named Manning?"
"I believe she does," replied Mrs. White, making a place for Dr. Baker to
sit down beside her. "My niece Dorothy is much interested in the
child--she seems to have a faculty for discovering genius, has Dorothy."
"Well, I have not seen little Mary for some years, but there is no
mistaking her. Her mother, an actress, died in one of the charity wards of
the hospital, and I am afraid the child has inherited the fatal malady
from her mother. She looks now like a consumptive."
Mrs. White was startled. Certainly Mary was delicate in appearance, but
she had not thought of her as having a disease.
"There's no time to spare in her case," said the physician in a low
voice. "Bring her to me as soon as you can."
"Dorothy did not expect to have a real case assisted so promptly,"
remarked Mrs. White. "It is rather out of the ordinary--a patient playing
for her own benefit."
"I suspect that your pretty niece brought this child out with the sole
purpose of making her happy," said Dr. Baker, "and she evidently has no
idea how much real happiness she is destined to confer on her. Perhaps a
month later it would have been too late to save her. Now I think we can,
though there is a flush on her cheeks that I do not like."
The curtains were separated to disclose the last number. It was a tableau
of all the girls and boys, posing as the "Haymakers." It made a beautiful
picture, the girls in their gaily-colored dresses, with great,
broad-brimmed hats, and the boys dressed in equally rural costumes.
Dorothy was so glad that it was all over--that this was the last picture.
Agnes stood next to her. The curtains were drawn, and then separated again
in response to insistent applause. There was a moment more of posing, and
then it was all over.
As the curtain shut out the sight of the audience, Agnes slipped her arm
around Dorothy's waist. Then she leaned over and whispered in her ear.
"I am sorry to have made all that fuss about--about him kissing me. But,
Doro, dear, I do hate a flirt, and everybody knows Tom Scott is in love
with you."